Fanny's First Novel

by Frank Frankfort Moore

CHAPTER XXVIII

NO chance had Rauzzini of saying more than the most conventional words of farewell to Fanny. Mrs. Burney was beside her and her two sisters also. He yielded to his impulse to pronounce a malediction on Mrs. Thrale, who had so interrupted his conversation with Fanny—the last he could possibly have until his return from France after fulfilling his engagements. But this was when he had seen the Burney family out of the door of the house in Leicester Fields and to the entrance to St. Martin's Street. He was then alone, and could give in some measure expression to his feelings in his own tongue.

His imagination was quite vivid enough to suggest to him all that the officiousness of Mrs. Thrale had interrupted—the exchange of vows—the whispered assurances of fidelity—perhaps a passionate kiss—a heaven-sent chance during a marvellous minute when the painting-room should be emptied of all but herself and him! It was distracting to think of all that had been cut out of his life by that busybody. While he had been talking alone with Fanny his eyes had taken in the splendid possibilities of the painting-room. There were three immense easels on different parts of the floor, and each carried a glorious canvas for a life-size portrait. Two of them were already finished, and the third contained a portion of the Greek altar at which a fair lady was to be depicted making her oblation to Aphrodite, or perhaps Artemis. The young man, however, did not give a thought to the glowing work of the great painter on the canvases, he thought only of the possibilities of a moment or two spent in the protecting shadow of one of them with that gentle, loving girl yielding herself to his clasp—only for a moment—he could not reasonably hope that it should be for longer than a single moment, but what raptures might not be embraced even within that brief space! A moment—one immortal moment worth years of life! That was what he saw awaiting him in the friendly shade of one of Sir Joshua's portraits—that was all that the sublime picture meant to the ardent lover—it was not the immortal picture, but the immortal moment that was before his eyes—but just when, by a little manoeuvring on his part, the joy that should change all his life and console him for being deprived of the society of his beloved for three months, was within his reach, that foolish woman had come bustling up with her chatter and had separated them!

For which he now implored heaven and a heathen deity or two that still linger in the language of malediction in their native Italy, to send her soul to the region where Orpheus had sought his Eurydice. Down—down with her to the lowest depths of the Inferno he implored his patrons to bear her and to keep her there for ever.

His imploration was quite as lyrical as his “Waft her, Angels, to the Skies,” only its bearing was upon the fate of the lady in just the opposite direction, and he was even more fervent in its delivery. But having delivered it, he felt some of that relief which is experienced by a true artist who has a consciousness of having done some measure of justice to his theme. He felt that if beatitude had been denied to him, the one who had separated him from it would not escape scathless, if the intensity of an appeal to the high gods of his native land counted for anything in their estimation.

And then he went more or less contentedly to his lodgings to prepare for his appearance in the opera of the night.

He sang divinely as an angel, and again if any of his audience remained unmoved by the enchantment of his voice, they certainly could not but have yielded to the charm of his presence. Some women might be incapable of appreciating the exquisite character of his vocalism, but none could remain impervious to the appeal of his smile.

As for the girl who alone had appealed to his heart, she went home with her mother and sisters without a word, for she had not perceived the glorious possibilities lurking behind the grand canvases in Sir Joshua's painting-room. She could even bring herself to believe that the coming of Mrs. Thrale had been rather opportune than otherwise; for if she had not joined her stepmother at that time she would not have heard all that Sir Joshua had said about “Evelina.”

All that she had heard had made her supremely happy, not, she thought, because she was greedy for fame, but because it meant to her that she was a step nearer to the arms of the man she loved. The fame which Sir Joshua's words implied was dear to her because she knew that she need not now hesitate to seat herself by the side of this king of men, as his equal—no, not quite as his equal, but certainly not as a beggar maid. She knew that when it was announced that she was the writer of a great book, or, what was better still, a book that everybody was talking about, people would not shrug their shoulders when they heard that Rauzzini> the Roman singer, whose name was in everybody's mouth, was about to marry her. The event that she scarcely dared hope for had actually happened: she was no longer the nobody which she had been, she was a woman the product of whose brain had been acclaimed by the best judges, and so the barrier that she had seen separating her lover from herself had been thrown down. The same voices that had acclaimed her Rauzzini as a singer had acclaimed her as a writer; for though she had hesitated to receive her cousin Edward's reports from the libraries as conclusive of the mark that the book was making, she could not now have any doubt on the subject: a book that was spoken of by Sir Joshua Reynolds as he had spoken of “Evelina” must be granted a place high above the usual volumes to be found on the shelves of a circulating library. She was convinced that in a short time everyone would be talking about it in the same strain, and though people might be incredible on the subject of its authorship, the fact would remain the same—she had written the book, and the fame that attached to the writer would assuredly be hers. There would now be no sneering references to King Cophetua. Everyone within their circle would admit that there was no disparity between her position as the writer of the book that everyone was talking about and that of the singer whom people crowded to hear.