The Diary and Collected Letters of Madame D'Arblay, Frances Burney. Frances Burney
use of pen and ink, he deserves not to hear of my having suppressed my play, or of anything else that can gratify so illiberal a disposition.
Dr. Johnson, Mr. Cholmondeley, and Mr. and Mrs. Thrale have all repeatedly said to me, “Cumberland no doubt hates you heartily by this time;” but it always appeared to me a speech of mingled fun and flattery, and I never dreamed of its being possible to be true.
A few days since, after tea at Mrs. Dickens’s, we all went to the rooms. There was a great deal of company, and among them the Cumberlands. The eldest of the girls, who was walking with Mrs. Musters, quite turned round her whole person every time we passed each other, to keep me in sight, and stare at me as long as possible; so did her brother.
I never saw anything so ill-bred and impertinent; I protest I was ready to quit the rooms to avoid them—till at last Miss Thrale, catching Miss Cumberland’s eye, gave her so full, determined, and downing a stare, that whether cured by shame or by resentment, she forbore from that time to look at either of us. Miss Thrale, with a sort of good-natured dryness, said, “Whenever you are disturbed with any of these starers, apply to me,—I’ll warrant I’ll cure them. I dare say the girl hates me for it; but what shall I be the worse for that? I would have served master Dickey79 so too, only I could not catch his eye.”
Oct. 20—We have had a visit from Dr. Delap. He told me that he had another tragedy, and that I should have it to read.
He was very curious to see Mr. Cumberland, who, it seems, has given evident marks of displeasure at his name whenever Mrs. Thrale has mentioned it. That poor man is so wonderfully narrow-minded in his authorship capacity, though otherwise good, humane and generous, that he changes countenance at either seeing or hearing of any writer whatsoever. Mrs. Thrale, with whom, this foible excepted, he is a great favourite, is so enraged with him for his littleness of soul in this respect, that merely to plague him, she vowed at the rooms she would walk all the evening between Dr. Delap and me. I wished so little to increase his unpleasant feelings, that I determined to keep with Miss Thrale and Miss Dickens entirely. One time, though, Mrs. Thrale, when she was sitting by Dr. Delap, called me suddenly to her, and when I was seated, said, “Now let’s see if Mr. Cumberland will come and speak to me!” But he always turns resolutely another way when he sees her with either of us; though at all other times he is particularly fond of her company.
“It would actually serve him right,” says she, “to make Dr. Delap and you strut at each side of me, one with a dagger, and the other with a mask, as tragedy and comedy.”
“I think, Miss Burney,” said the doctor, “you and I seem to stand in the same predicament. What shall we do for the poor man? suppose we burn a play apiece?”
“Depend upon it,” said Mrs. Thrale, “he has heard, in town, that you are both to bring one out this season, and perhaps one of his own may be deferred on that account.”
On the announcement of the carriage, we went into the next room for our cloaks, where Mrs. Thrale and Mr. Cumberland were in deep conversation.
“Oh, here’s Miss Burney!” said Mrs. Thrale aloud. Mr Cumberland turned round, but withdrew his eyes instantly; and I, determined not to interrupt them, made Miss Thrale walk away with me. In about ten minutes she left him and we all came home.
As soon as we were in the carriage,
“It has been,” said Mrs. Thrale, warmly, “all I could do not to affront Mr. Cumberland to-night!”
“Oh, I hope not,” cried I, “I would not have you for the world!”
“Why, I have refrained; but with great difficulty.”
And then she told me the conversation she had just had with him. As soon as I made off, he said, with a spiteful tone of voice,
“Oh, that young lady is an author, I hear!”
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Thrale, “author of ‘Evelina.’”
“Humph,—I am told it has some humour!”
“Ay, indeed! Johnson says nothing like it has appeared for years!”
“So,” cried he, biting his lips, and waving uneasily in his chair, “so, so!”
“Yes,” continued she, “and Sir Joshua Reynolds told Mr. Thrale he would give fifty pounds to know the author!”
“So, so—oh, vastly well!” cried he, putting his hand on his forehead.
“Nay,” added she, “Burke himself sat up all night to finish it!”
This seemed quite too much for him; he put both his hands to his face, and waving backwards and forwards, said,
“Oh, vastly well!—this will do for anything!” with a tone as much as to say, Pray, no more!
Then Mrs. Thrale bid him good night, longing, she said, to call Miss Thrale first, and say, “So you won’t speak to my daughter?—why, she is no author.”
An Amusing Character: his Views on Many Subjects
October 20.—I must now have the honour to present to you a new acquaintance, who this day dined here.
Mr. B——y,80 an Irish gentleman, late a commissary in Germany. He is between sixty and seventy, but means to pass for about thirty; gallant, complaisant, obsequious, and humble to the fair sex, for whom he has an awful reverence; but when not immediately addressing them, swaggering, blustering, puffing, and domineering. These are his two apparent characters; but the real man is worthy, moral, religious, though conceited and parading.
He is as fond of quotations as my poor Lady Smatter,81 and, like her, knows little beyond a song, and always blunders about the author of that. His whole conversation consists in little French phrases, picked up during his residence abroad, and in anecdotes and story-telling, which are sure to be retold daily and daily in the same words.
Speaking of the ball in the evening, to which we were all going, “Ah, madam!” said he to Mrs. Thrale, “there was a time when—fol-derol, fol-derol (rising, and dancing and Singing), fol-derol!—I could dance with the best of them; but now a man, forty and upwards, as my Lord Ligonier used to say—but—fol-derol!—there was a time!”
“Ay, so there was, Mr. B——y,” said Mrs. Thrale, “and I think you and I together made a very venerable appearance!”
“Ah! madam, I remember once, at Bath, I was called out to dance with one of the finest young ladies I ever saw. I was just preparing to do my best, when a gentleman of my acquaintance was so cruel as to whisper me—‘B——y! the eyes of all Europe are upon you!’ for that was the phrase of the times. ‘B——y!’ says he, ‘the eyes of all Europe are upon you!’—I vow, ma’am, enough to make a man tremble!-fol-derol, fol-derol! (dancing)—the eyes of all Europe are upon you!—I declare, ma’am, enough to put a man out of countenance.”
I am absolutely almost ill with laughing. This Mr. B——y half convulses me; yet I cannot make you laugh by writing his speeches, because it is the manner which accompanies them, that, more than the matter, renders them so peculiarly ridiculous. His extreme pomposity, the solemn stiffness of his person, the conceited twinkling of his little old eyes, and the quaint importance of his delivery, are so much more like some pragmatical old coxcomb represented on the stage, than like anything in real and common life, that I think, were I a man, I should sometimes be betrayed into clapping him for acting so well. As it is, I am sure no character in any comedy I ever saw has made me laugh more extravagantly.
He dines and spends the evening here constantly, to my great satisfaction.
At dinner, when Mrs. Thrale offers him a seat next her, he regularly says,
“But where are les charmantes?” meaning Miss T. and me. “I can do nothing till they are accommodated!”
And, whenever he drinks