CHAPTER VIII

Fanny Burney had been forced, for the first time, to make her sister aware of the fact that she knew she was looked on as the dunce of the brilliant Burney family. She could see that her doing so had startled her sister, for neither Esther nor any of the other girls had ever suggested to her that they thought of her as being on a different level from themselves, though it was tacitly allowed that it was a great pity that Fanny did not emulate them in taking pains to shine as it was expected the children of that estimable master of music, Dr. Burney, should shine, so as to make the house in that narrow little street off Leicester Fields attractive to its many distinguished visitors.

Fanny had truly defined her place in the household. She had recognized her place for several years; but there was not the least suggestion of rancour in her tone when talking to her brilliant elder sister, for the simple reason that there was no bitterness in her heart against any member of the family for being cleverer than herself. Fanny took pride in the accomplishments of her sisters, and was quite content with her position in relation to them. She got on well with all of them, because she was fond of them all, and they were all fond of her. She had not rebelled when her father had sent her younger sisters to be educated in Paris, and had allowed her to pick up her own education as best she might in his own library; and it had been a great happiness to her to be allowed the privilege of copying out for the press the first volume of her father’s “History of Music.” It was her stepmother who, finding out that Fanny had what Mrs. Burney called “a taste for writing,” had suggested that that was the legitimate channel in which such a taste should flow; and it was her stepmother who had induced her to make a bonfire of all her own writings—the scribblings of her girlhood that represented the foolish errant flow of her “taste for writing”; and now and again she had a consciousness of her own duplicity in failing to resist the impulse that had come upon her to do some more of what her mother termed her “girlish scribbling.”

One of the guilty secrets that Fanny cherished was that when it was believed she was writing her long letters to her old friend Mr. Crisp, she had been composing a novel which was now about to be given to the world; the second was that Signor Rauzzini, the handsome young Roman singer with whom half the fashionable ladies of the town were in love, was in love with her.

These were two secrets worth the cherishing, she knew; and the thought of them more than compensated her for the reflection that she was the dunce of the family, and that the unconscious tone of patronage adopted toward her by her elder sister and the dreadful compliments paid to her plain sewing, as though plain sewing represented the highest hopes that could reasonably be entertained in regard to her, were only to be looked for in the circumstances.

The two secrets were closely bound up together, she knew. She had the deepest affection for Signor Rauzzini. How could she fail to return the feeling which the whisper of his musical voice had told her he had conceived for her? He loved her in spite of the fact that she was the least attractive member of the family—in spite of the fact that half the town was at his feet, and that he might have made his choice from among the best. He had chosen her whom no one else had ever noticed, with the exception of her father’s old friend, Mr. Crisp, and—oh, yes (she laughed now, perceiving that she had done an injustice to the other person who had been attracted to her—mainly, she thought, on account of her reputation for plain sewing)—a young man named Thomas Barlowe, the excellent son of the well-known mercer of gold and silver lace, in the Poultry!

Thinking of young Mr. Barlowe by the side of Signor Rauzzini, Fanny laughed again. She had so restricted an opinion of her own attractiveness that the tears actually came into her eyes for having given that derisive laugh as she compared the two young men; and she felt that she had been grossly ungrateful to young Mr. Barlowe; for even young Mr. Barlowe had a right to look above her level for a wife. As the daughter of a simple music master with a large family she could have no endowment so far as worldly goods were concerned; and she knew that the practical parents of young business men, as a rule, looked for their sons to marry, if not great fortunes, at least young women with a few thousands to their names.

She felt that she had treated the condescending young Mr. Barlowe very badly in laughing at the poor figure he cut by the side of the angelic Roman singer—she had failed to resist the temptation to call Signor Rauzzini angelic in one of her letters to Mr. Crisp—and now, in thinking of Mr. Barlowe as a very worthy young man, she was unconsciously relegating him to a hopeless position as a lover. It is not the very worthy young men who are beloved by young women of a romantic temperament: if it were there would be very few romances left. But little Miss Burney desired only to ease the twinges of her conscience for having laughed at the thought of young Tommy Barlowe; and she thought that she had done the right thing in assuring herself that he was a very worthy person.

And then she thought no more about him. She had a feeling that to give another thought to him when she had such a man as Signor Rauzzini to think about, would be a constructive act of treason in regard to Rauzzini. She had received many hints from her stepmother to the effect that all the family considered her to be a very fortunate young woman (all things taken into account) in having a chance of marrying the Thomas who seemed ready to pay his addresses to her; but though quite submissive to her stepmother in household matters, she was ready to face her with the “Never!” of the avowed rebel in the matter of consenting to wed the highly approved Thomas, and so she dismissed him from her thoughts, in favour of the man whom she loved.

But thinking of the man whom she loved was by no means equivalent to passing into a region of unalloyed happiness. She had mystified her sister by the way in which she had spoken about Signor Rauzzini, and the seal had been put upon the mystery by her frank acknowledgment that she did not think a union between so distinguished a man as Rauzzini and so insignificant a person as herself was likely to be satisfactory.

She had certainly allowed Hetty to go away believing that this was in her mind; and that was just what was in her mind when her thoughts turned from Thomas, whom she considered so estimable, to Rauzzini, whom she loved. She loved the Roman singer so truly that she had made a resolution never to consent to his marrying anyone so insignificant as she believed herself to be.

She had no illusions regarding herself. She knew just how good-looking she was; she knew that by the side of any of her sisters she was almost plain; but that she had a pleasing, simple face of a very ordinary type. She knew that she could love with the truest devotion and she could trust herself not to change with time. But she felt that these were not beyond the traits of the ordinary young woman, and that they did not lift her from the level of insignificance to the level of Signor Rauzzini.

She knew that she was at that moment an insignificant person; and she made no attempt to think of herself as otherwise.

Yes; but she had heard of people—even young women—being insignificant one day, and the next springing to a pinnacle of fame to which all eyes looked up. How would it be if she were destined to reach in a moment a position that would place her on a level with the man of her thoughts—the man whose fame as a singer had caused him to be the centre round which every conversation in the most notable circles turned? Everyone was talking in praise of Rauzzini; and she herself thought of him as occupying a place on a height as far above her as King Cophetua’s throne was above the marble steps at the foot of which the beggar maid had crouched; but in her mind there was the possibility that her name might one day be spoken by the world in connection with an achievement that would raise her from the insignificance of Fanny Burney to the importance of Signor Rauzzini, and prevent people from asking what on earth had induced so glorious a person as he to make her his wife!

That was the secret dream which filled the imagination of this imaginative young woman—the same dream as comes to so many young women who have written the last chapter of a book and sent it forth for the world to receive with acclaim—the dream of fame—of immortality! She had written a novel and it was about to be given to the world, if the world would have it, and upon its success her happiness depended. If it brought her fame, it would place her by the side of the man whom she loved; but if it failed, then she would remain a person of no significance, and quite unworthy of sharing the honours which were showered upon her lover. She had imagination, and this faculty it was that made her more than doubtful of the success of King Cophetua’s rash experiment. She felt sure that King Cophetua had now and again, turning suddenly round, caught one of his courtiers with his tongue in his cheek when his Majesty was entering the throne-room with his shy and insignificant Queen by his side, and that the Queen had occasionally overheard the whispers of her maids of honour, when they did not know she was at hand, asking one another what on earth the King had seen in her that induced him to make her his consort. Little Miss Burney had long ago made up her mind that the union of King Cophetua and his beggar maid was far from being a happy one—that the King looked around him and saw several princesses of great beauty and quite devoid of shyness who were fully acquainted with the convenances of his court and would not, if he had married any one of them, have made the mistakes which she was sure the young person whom he had elevated had fallen into, causing him constant irritation.

Little Miss Burney had resolved that she would never play the part of a crowned beggar maid. The man whom she loved had won fame for himself, and she would not go to him unless she, too, had at least made such a name for herself as should prevent her from feeling herself in the position of the beggar maid whom King Cophetua had raised to his side. Little Miss Burney resolved that although she could scarcely expect to go to her lover wearing purple robes embroidered with gold, she could, at any rate, refrain from wearing beggars’ rags. She had her ambitions, and she felt that they were not ignoble, but that they made for the happiness of the man she loved, and who had been gracious enough to love her—the least attractive member of the family.

But after she had sat for some time with her hands lying idle on the sempstress’ work at which she had been engaged on the departure of her sister—after her imagination had carried her much farther away than she intended it should, she was sensible of a return to the cold world from which she had soared. Her heart, which had begun to beat quickly when Hetty had told her how the divine Rauzzini had spoken of her, sank within her as she seemed to hear a voice asking who was she that she should hope to reach by the publication of that story which she had been writing by stealth and at odd times during the past three years, even the smallest measure of fame that would compare with that of Signor Rauzzini? What fame attached to the writing of a novel in comparison with that achieved by the enchantment of a singer who had power to move the hearts of men and women as it pleased him? Orpheus—ah, what fame could compare with the fame of Orpheus, the singer? His was a heaven-sent gift. What was her little talent compared with such a gift? If she had the ability even to make music such as one of her sisters could bring forth from the keys of the piano, she would have a better chance of being accounted worthy of a place beside Signor Rauzzini than if her novel found its way to the shelves of many readers. The writing of a novel was a poor achievement—nay, in the opinion of a good many people, including her own stepmother—a most practical woman—it was something to be ashamed of; and Fanny herself, thinking over all the novels written by women which she herself had read—most of them surreptitiously—was disposed to agree with her. That was why she had kept as a secret for more than three years the fact that she was trying to write a novel. Her father knew nothing of it, and her stepmother was equally uninformed. Even her old friend Mr. Crisp, to whom she wrote voluminous letters week after week, and to whom she gave her confidence on many matters, had no suspicion that she had written her novel.

She had thought it prudent to keep this matter hidden from them, for she did not doubt that if she had told any one of them of her project, she would never have a chance of realizing it. They would certainly have pronounced against such a proceeding even before a page of her novel came to be written.

And yet it was the thought that this novel was shortly to be published that had caused her to feel that she was drawing nearer to her lover.

As she reflected upon this, sitting idly over her work when her sister had left the house, her tears began to fall, not in a torrent, but slowly dropping at intervals upon the fabric which she had been sewing. She felt very sad, very hopeless, very lonely.

Nor could it be said that the sudden return of Mrs. Burney meant a return of happiness to the girl.

Mrs. Burney did not consider that Fanny had made satisfactory progress with her work, and did not hesitate to express her opinion to this effect. But she was not imprudently unkind; for young Mr. Barlowe had just written to her, begging permission to pay his respects to Mrs. Burney and her daughter that evening, and she meant that Fanny should be in a good humour to entertain him.

Mrs. Burney had great hopes that the question of Fanny’s future—a constant topic of conversation and consultation between her and her husband—might be settled by a series of visits of young Mr. Barlowe.