Bankrupt, indeed, was she not, to gaiety, to good-humour, or to polished love of giving pleasure to her social circle, any more than to keeping pace with her correspondents.
When Mrs. Chapone mentioned, with much regret, that a previous evening engagement must force her away at half-past seven o’clock, “Half-past seven?” Mrs. Delany repeated, with an arch smile; “O fie! fie! Mrs. Chapone! why Miss Larolles would not for the world go anywhere before eight or nine!”[61]
And when the Memorialist, astonished as well as diverted at such a sally from Mrs. Delany, yet desirous, from embarrassment, not to seem to have noticed it, turned to look at some of the pictures, and stopped at a charming portrait of Madame de Savigné, to remark its expressive mixture of sweetness, intelligence, and vivacity, the smile of Mrs. Delany became yet archer, as she sportively said, “Yes!—she looks very—enjouée, as Captain Aresby would say.”
This was not a speech to lessen, or meant to lessen, either surprise or amusement in the Memorialist, who, nevertheless, quietly continued her examination of the pictures; till she stopped at a portrait that struck her to have an air of spirit and genius, that induced her to inquire whom it represented.
Mrs. Delany did not mention the name, but only answered, “I don’t know how it is, Mrs. Chapone, but I can never, of late, look at that picture without thinking of poor Belfield.”
This was heard with a real start—though certainly not of pain! But that Mrs. Delany, at her very advanced time of life, eighty-three, should thus have personified to herself the characters of a book so recently published, mingled in its pleasure nearly as much astonishment as gratification.
Mrs. Delany—still clear-sighted to countenance, at least—seemed to read her thoughts, and, kindly taking her hand, smilingly said: “You must forgive us, Miss Burney! it is not quite a propriety, I own, to talk of these people before you; but we don’t know how to speak at all, now, without naming them, they run so in our heads!”
Early in the evening, they were joined by Mrs. Delany’s beloved and loving friend, the Duchess Dowager of Portland; a lady who, though not as exquisitely pleasing, any more than as interesting by age as Mrs. Delany,—who, born with the century, was now in her 83d year, had yet a physiognomy that, when lighted up by any discourse in which she took a part from personal feelings, was singularly expressive of sweetness, sense, and dignity; three words that exactly formed the description of her manners; which were not merely free from pride, but free, also, from its mortifying deputy, affability.
Mrs. Delany, that pattern of the old school in high politeness, was now, it is probable, in the sphere whence Mr. Burke had signalized her by that character; for her reception of the Duchess of Portland, and her conduct to that noble friend, strikingly displayed the self-possession that good taste with good breeding can bestow, even upon the most timid mind, in doing the honours of home to a superior.
She welcomed her Grace with as much respectful ceremony as if this had been a first visit; to manifest that, what in its origin, she had taken as an honour, she had so much true humility as to hold to be rather more than less so in its continuance; yet she constantly exerted a spirit, in pronouncing her opposing or concurring sentiments, in the conversation that ensued, that shewed as dignified an independence of character, as it marked a sincerity as well as happiness of friendship, in the society of her elevated guest.