The Diary and Collected Letters of Madame D'Arblay, Frances Burney. Frances Burney
pursuing his favourite topic, he began to inquire into the particulars of Mr. Crutchley’s late illness—but that gentleman, who is as much in the opposite extreme, of disdaining even any decent care of himself, as Mr. Seward is in the other, of devoting almost all his thoughts to his health cut the matter very short, and would not talk upon it at all.
“But, if I had known sooner,” said Mr. Seward, “that you were ill, I should have come to see you.”
“Should you?” cried Mr. Crutchley, with a loud laugh; “very kind, indeed!—it would have been charming to see you when I am ill, when I am afraid of undertaking you even when well!”
Some time after Sophy Streatfield was talked of,—Oh, with how much impertinence as if she was at the service of any man who would make proposals to her! Yet Mr. Seward spoke of her with praise and tenderness all the time, as if, though firmly of this opinion, he was warmly her admirer. From such admirers and such admiration heaven guard me! Mr. Crutchley said but little; but that little was bitter enough.
“However,” said Mr. Seward, “after all that can be said, there is nobody whose manners are more engaging, nobody more amiable than the little Sophy; and she is certainly very pretty; I must own I have always been afraid to trust myself with her.”
Here Mr. Crutchley looked very sneeringly.
“Nay, squire,” cried Mr. Seward, “she is very dangerous, I can tell you; and if she had you at a fair trial, she would make an impression that would soften even your hard heart.”
“No need of any further trial,” answered he, laughing, “for she has done that already; and so soft was the impression that it is absolutely all dissolved!—melted quite away, and not a trace of it left!”
Mr. Seward then proposed that she should marry Sir John Miller,113 who has just lost his wife and very gravely said, he had a great mind to set out for Tunbridge, and carry her with him to Bath, and so make the match without delay!
“But surely,” said Mrs. Thrale, “if you fail, you will think yourself bound in honour to marry her yourself?”
“Why, that’s the thing,” said he; “no, I can’t take the little Sophy myself; I should have too many rivals; no, that won’t do.”
How abominably conceited and sure these pretty gentlemen are! However, Mr. Crutchley here made a speech that half won my heart.
“I wish,” said he, “Miss Streatfield was here at this moment to cuff you, Seward!”
“Cuff me!” cried he. “What, the little Sophy!—and why?”
“For disposing of her so freely. I think a man deserves to be cuffed for saying any lady will marry him.”
I seconded this speech with much approbation.
Garrulous Mr. Musgrave
August, Monday.—We were to have Mr. Cator and other company to dinner; and all breakfast Mr. Seward kept plaguing poor Mr. Musgrave, who is an incessant talker, about the difficulty he would have in making his part good with Mr. Cator, who, he assured him, would out-talk him if he did not take care. And Mr. Crutchley recommended to him to “wait for a sneeze,” in order to put in; so that he was almost rallied into a passion, though, being very good-natured, he made light of it, and it blew over.
In the middle of dinner I was seized with a violent laughing fit, by seeing Mr. Musgrave, who had sat quite silent, turn very solemnly to Mr. Seward and say in a reproachful tone,—
“Seward, you said I should be fighting to talk all the talk, and here I have not spoke once.”
“Well, sir,” cried Mr. Seward, nodding at him, “why don’t you put in?”
“Why, I lost an opportunity just now, when Mr. Cator—talked of climates; I had something I could have said about them very well.”
After this, however, he made himself amends; for when we left the men to their wine, he began such a violent dispute with Mr Cator, that Mr. Jenkinson and Mr. Crutchley left the field of battle, and went out to join the ladies in their walk round the grounds; and that breaking up the party, the rest soon followed.
By the way, I happened not to walk myself, which was most ludicrously noticed by Mr. Musgrave; who, while we were at tea, suddenly crossed the circle to come up to me, and say,—
“You did not walk, Miss Burney?”
“No, sir.”
“Very much in the right—very much in the right, indeed! You were studying? Oh, very right! never lose a moment! Such an understanding as yours it would be a shame to neglect; it ought to be cultivated every moment.”
And then he hurried back to his seat.
In the evening, when all the company was gone but our three gentlemen, Seward, Crutchley, and Musgrave, we took a walk round the grounds by moonlight—and Mr. Musgrave started with rapture at the appearance of the moon, now full, now cloudy, now clear, now obscured, every three yards we moved.
A Parting Shot at Mr. Crutchley
Friday, Sept. 11.—And now, if I am not mistaken, I come to relate the conclusion of Mr. Crutchley’s most extraordinary summer career at Streatham, which place, I believe, he has now left without much intention to frequently revisit. However, this is mere conjecture; but he really had a run of ill-luck not very inviting to a man of his cold and splenetic turn to play the same game.
When we were just going to supper, we heard a disturbance among the dogs; and Mrs. and Miss Thrale went out to see what was the matter, while Dr. Johnson and I remained quiet. Soon returning.
“A friend! a friend!” she cried, and was followed by Mr. Crutchley. He would not eat with us, but was chatty and in good-humour, and as usual, when in spirits, saucily sarcastic. For instance, it is generally half my employment in hot evenings here to rescue some or other poor buzzing idiot of an insect from the flame of a candle. This, accordingly, I was performing with a Harry Longlegs, which, after much trial to catch, eluded me, and escaped, nobody could see how. Mr. Crutchley vowed I had caught and squeezed him to death in my hand.
“No, indeed,” cried I, “when I catch them, I put them out of the window.”
“Ay, their bodies,” said he, laughing; “but their legs, I suppose, you keep.”
“Not I, indeed; I hold them very safe in the palm of my hand.”
“Oh!” said he, “the palm of your hand! why, it would not hold a fly! But what have you done with the poor wretch! thrown him under the table slily?”
“What good would that do?”
“Oh, help to establish your full character for mercy.”
Now was not that a speech to provoke Miss Grizzle herself? However, I only made up a saucy lip.
“Come,” cried he, offering to take my hand, “where is he? Which hand is he in? Let me examine?”
“No, no, I thank you; I sha’n’t make you my confessor, whenever I take one.”
He did not much like this; but I did not mean he should.
Afterwards he told us a most unaccountably ridiculous story of a crying wife. A gentleman, he said, of his acquaintance had married lately his own kept mistress; and last Sunday he had dined with the bride and bridegroom, but, to his utter astonishment, without any apparent reason in the world, in the middle of dinner or tea, she burst into a violent fit of crying, and went out of the room, though there was not the least quarrel, and the sposo seemed all fondness and attention.
“What, then,” said I, somewhat maliciously, I grant, “had you been saying to er?”
“Oh, thank you!” said he,