Cecilia vol. 3

F >> Frances (Fanny) Burney (Madame d'Arblay) >> Cecilia vol. 3

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"Will you not then," said Cecilia, "since your experiment has failed,
return again to your family, and to the plan of life you formerly
settled?"

"You speak of them together," said he, with a smile, "as if you thought
them inseparable; and indeed my own apprehension they would be deemed
so, has made me thus fear to see my friends, since I love not
resistance, yet cannot again attempt the plan of life they would have
me pursue. I have given up my cottage, but my independence is as dear
to me as ever; and all that I have gathered from experience, is to
maintain it by those employments for which my education has fitted me,
instead of seeking it injudiciously by the very road for which it has
unqualified me."

"And what is this independence," cried Mr Monckton, "which has thus
bewitched your imagination? a mere idle dream of romance and
enthusiasm; without existence in nature, without possibility in life.
In uncivilised countries, or in lawless times, independence, for a
while, may perhaps stalk abroad; but in a regular government, 'tis only
the vision of a heated brain; one part of a community must inevitably
hang upon another, and 'tis a farce to call either independent, when to
break the chain by which they are linked would prove destruction to
both. The soldier wants not the officer more than the officer the
soldier, nor the tenant the landlord, more than the landlord the
tenant. The rich owe their distinction, their luxuries, to the poor, as
much as the poor owe their rewards, their necessaries, to the rich."

"Man treated as an Automaton," answered Belfield, "and considered
merely with respect to his bodily operations, may indeed be called
dependent, since the food by which he lives, or, rather, without which
he dies, cannot wholly be cultivated and prepared by his own hands: but
considered in a nobler sense, he deserves not the degrading epithet;
speak of him, then, as a being of feeling and understanding, with pride
to alarm, with nerves to tremble, with honour to satisfy, and with a
soul to be immortal!--as such, may he not claim the freedom of his own
thoughts? may not that claim be extended to the liberty of speaking,
and the power of being governed by them? and when thoughts, words, and
actions are exempt from controul, will you brand him with dependency
merely because the Grazier feeds his meat, and the Baker kneads his
bread?"

"But who is there in the whole world," said Mr Monckton, "extensive as
it is, and dissimilar as are its inhabitants, that can pretend to
assert, his thoughts, words, and actions, are exempt from controul?
even where interest, which you so much disdain, interferes not,--
though where that is I confess I cannot tell!--are we not kept silent
where we wish to reprove by the fear of offending? and made speak where
we wish to be silent by the desire of obliging? do we not bow to the
scoundrel as low as to the man of honour? are we not by mere forms kept
standing when tired? made give place to those we despise? and smiles to
those we hate? or if we refuse these attentions, are we not regarded as
savages, and shut out of society?"

"All these," answered Belfield, "are so merely matters of ceremony,
that the concession can neither cost pain to the proud, nor give
pleasure to the vain. The bow is to the coat, the attention is to the
rank, and the fear of offending ought to extend to all mankind. Homage
such as this infringes not our sincerity, since it is as much a matter
of course as the dress that we wear, and has as little reason to
flatter a man as the shadow which follows him. I no more, therefore,
hold him deceitful for not opposing this pantomimical parade, than I
hold him to be dependent for eating corn he has not sown."

"Where, then, do you draw the line? and what is the boundary beyond
which your independence must not step?"

"I hold that man," cried he, with energy, "to be independent, who
treats the Great as the Little, and the Little as the Great, who
neither exults in riches nor blushes in poverty, who owes no man a
groat, and who spends not a shilling he has not earned."

"You will not, indeed, then, have a very numerous acquaintance, if this
is the description of those with whom you purpose to associate! but is
it possible you imagine you can live by such notions? why the
Carthusian in his monastery, who is at least removed from temptation,
is not mortified so severely as a man of spirit living in the world,
who would prescribe himself such rules."

"Not merely have I prescribed," returned Belfield, "I have already put
them in practice; and far from finding any pennance, I never before
found happiness. I have now adopted, though poor, the very plan of life
I should have elected if rich; my pleasure, therefore, is become my
business, and my business my pleasure."

"And is this plan," cried Monckton, "nothing more than turning Knight-
errant to the Booksellers?"

"'Tis a Knight-errantry," answered Belfield, laughing, "which, however
ludicrous it may seem to you, requires more soul and more brains than
any other. Our giants may, indeed, be only windmills, but they must be
attacked with as much spirit, and conquered with as much bravery, as
any fort or any town, in time of war [to] be demolished; and though the
siege, I must confess, may be of less national utility, the assailants
of the quill have their honour as much at heart as the assailants of
the sword."

"I suppose then," said Monckton, archly, "if a man wants a biting
lampoon, or an handsome panegyric, some newspaper scandal, or a sonnet
for a lady--"

"No, no," interrupted Belfield eagerly, "if you imagine me a hireling
scribbler for the purposes of defamation or of flattery, you as little
know my situation as my character. My subjects shall be my own, and my
satire shall be general. I would as much disdain to be personal with an
anonymous pen, as to attack an unarmed man in the dark with a dagger I
had kept concealed."

A reply of rallying incredulity was rising to the lips of Mr Monckton,
when reading in the looks of Cecilia an entire approbation of this
sentiment, he checked his desire of ridicule, and exclaimed, "spoken
like a man of honour, and one whose works may profit the world!"

"From my earliest youth to the present hour," continued Belfield,
"literature has been the favourite object of my pursuit, my recreation
in leisure, and my hope in employment. My propensity to it, indeed, has
been so ungovernable, that I may properly call it the source of my
several miscarriages throughout life. It was the bar to my preferment,
for it gave me a distaste to other studies; it was the cause of my
unsteadiness in all my undertakings, because to all I preferred it. It
has sunk me to distress, it has involved me in difficulties; it has
brought me to the brink of ruin by making me neglect the means of
living, yet never, till now, did I discern it might itself be my
support."

"I am heartily glad, Sir," said Cecilia, "your various enterprizes and
struggles have at length ended in a project which promises you so much
satisfaction. But you will surely suffer your sister and your mother to
partake of it? for who is there that your prosperity will make so
happy?"

"You do them infinite honour, madam, by taking any interest in their
affairs; but to own to you the truth, what to me appears prosperity,
will to them wear another aspect. They have looked forward to my
elevation with expectations the most improbable, and thought everything
within my grasp, with a simplicity incredible. But though their hopes
were absurd, I am pained by their disappointment, and I have not
courage to meet their tears, which I am sure will not be spared when
they see me."

"'Tis from tenderness, then," said Cecilia, half smiling, "that you are
cruel, and from affection to your friends that you make them believe
you have forgotten them?"

There was a delicacy in this reproach exactly suited to work upon
Belfield, who feeling it with quickness, started up, and cried, "I
believe I am wrong!--I will go to them this moment!"

Cecilia felt eager to second the generous impulse; but Mr Monckton,
laughing at his impetuosity, insisted he should first finish his
breakfast.

"Your friends," said Cecilia, "can have no mortification so hard to
bear as your voluntary absence; and if they see but that you are happy,
they will soon be reconciled to whatever situation you may chuse."

"Happy!" repeated he, with animation, "Oh I am in Paradise! I am come
from a region in the first rude state of nature, to civilization and
refinement! the life I led at the cottage was the life of a savage; no
intercourse with society, no consolation from books; my mind locked up,
every source dried of intellectual delight, and no enjoyment in my
power but from sleep and from food. Weary of an existence which thus
levelled me with a brute, I grew ashamed of the approximation, and
listening to the remonstrance of my understanding, I gave up the
precipitate plan, to pursue one more consonant to reason. I came to
town, hired a room, and sent for pen, ink and paper: what I have
written are trifles, but the Bookseller has not rejected them. I was
settled, therefore, in a moment, and comparing my new occupation with
that I had just quitted, I seemed exalted on the sudden from a mere
creature of instinct, to a rational and intelligent being. But when
first I opened a book, after so long an abstinence from all mental
nourishment,--Oh it was rapture! no half-famished beggar regaled
suddenly with food, ever seized on his repast with more hungry
avidity."

"Let fortune turn which way it will," cried Monckton, "you may defy all
its malice, while possessed of a spirit of enjoyment which nothing can
subdue!"

"But were you not, Sir," said Cecilia, "as great an enthusiast the
other day for your cottage, and for labour?"

"I was, madam; but there my philosophy was erroneous: in my ardour to
fly from meanness and from dependence, I thought in labour and
retirement I should find freedom and happiness; but I forgot that my
body was not seasoned for such work, and considered not that a mind
which had once been opened by knowledge, could ill endure the
contraction of dark and perpetual ignorance. The approach, however, of
winter, brought me acquainted with my mistake. It grew cold, it grew
bleak; little guarded against the inclemency of the ----, I felt its
severity in every limb, and missed a thousand indulgencies which in
possession I had never valued. To rise at break of day, chill,
freezing, and comfortless! no sun abroad, no fire at home! to go out in
all weather to work, that work rough, coarse, and laborious!--unused
to such hardships, I found I could not bear them, and, however
unwillingly, was compelled to relinquish the attempt."

Breakfast now being over, he again arose to take leave.

"You are going, then, Sir," said Cecilia, "immediately to your
friends?"

"No, madam," answered he hesitating, "not just this moment; to-morrow
morning perhaps,--but it is now late, and I have business for the rest
of the day."

"Ah, Mr Monckton!" cried Cecilia, "what mischief have you done by
occasioning this delay!"

"This goodness, madam," said Belfield, "my sister can never
sufficiently acknowledge. But I will own, that though, just now, in a
warm moment, I felt eager to present myself to her and my mother, I
rather wish, now I am cooler, to be saved the pain of telling them in
person my situation. I mean, therefore, first to write to them."

"You will not fail, then, to see them to-morrow?"

"Certainly--I think not."

"Nay, but certainly you _must_ not, for I shall call upon them to-day,
and assure them they may expect you. Can I soften your task of writing
by giving them any message from you?"

"Ah, madam, have a care!" cried he; "this condescension to a poor
author may be more dangerous than you have any suspicion! and before
you have power to help yourself, you may see your name prefixed to the
Dedication of some trumpery pamphlet!"

"I will run," cried she, "all risks; remember, therefore, you will be
responsible for the performance of my promise."

"I will be sure," answered he, "not to forget what reflects so much
honour upon myself."

Cecilia was satisfied by this assent, and he then went away.

"A strange flighty character!" cried Mr Monckton, "yet of uncommon
capacity, and full of genius. Were he less imaginative, wild and
eccentric, he has abilities for any station, and might fix and
distinguish himself almost where-ever he pleased."

"I knew not," said Cecilia, "the full worth of steadiness and prudence
till I knew this young man; for he has every thing else; talents the
most striking, a love of virtue the most elevated, and manners the most
pleasing; yet wanting steadiness and prudence, he can neither act with
consistency nor prosper with continuance."

"He is well enough," said Lady Margaret, who had heard the whole
argument in sullen taciturnity, "he is well enough, I say; and there
comes no good from young women's being so difficult."

Cecilia, offended by a speech which implied a rude desire to dispose of
her, went up stairs to her own room; and Mr Monckton, always enraged
when young men and Cecilia were alluded to in the same sentence,
retired to his library.

She then ordered a chair, and went to Portland-street, to fulfil what
she had offered to Belfield, and to revive his mother and sister by the
pleasure of the promised interview.

She found them together: and her intelligence being of equal
consequence to both, she did not now repine at the presence of Mrs
Belfield. She made her communication with the most cautious attention
to their characters, softening the ill she had to relate with respect
to Belfield's present way of living, by endeavouring to awaken
affection and joy from the prospect of the approaching meeting. She
counselled them as much as possible to restrain their chagrin at his
misfortunes, which he would but construe into reproach of his ill
management; and she represented that when once he was restored to his
family, he might almost imperceptibly be led into some less wild and
more profitable scheme of business.

When she had told all she thought proper to relate, kindly
interspersing her account with the best advice and best comfort she
could suggest, she made an end of her visit; for the affliction of Mrs
Belfield upon hearing the actual situation of her son, was so clamorous
and unappeaseable, that, little wondering at Belfield's want of courage
to encounter it, and having no opportunity in such a storm to console
the soft Henrietta, whose tears flowed abundantly that her brother
should thus be fallen, she only promised before she left town to see
her again, and beseeching Mrs Belfield to moderate her concern, was
glad to leave the house, where her presence had no power to quiet their
distress.

She passed the rest of the day in sad reflections upon the meeting she
was herself to have the next morning with Mr Delvile. She wished
ardently to know whether his son was gone abroad, and whether Mrs
Delvile was recovered, whose health, in her own letter, was mentioned
in terms the most melancholy: yet neither of these enquiries could she
even think of making, since reasonably, without them, apprehensive of
some reproach.

CHAPTER iv.

A WRANGLING.

Mr Monckton, the next day, as soon as breakfast was over, went out, to
avoid showing, even to Cecilia, the anxiety he felt concerning the
regulation of her fortune, and arrangement of her affairs. He strongly,
however, advised her not to mention her large debt, which, though
contracted in the innocence of the purest benevolence, would incur
nothing but reproof and disapprobation, from all who only heard of it,
when they heard of its inutility.

At eleven o'clock, though an hour before the time appointed, while
Cecilia was sitting in Lady Margaret's dressing room, "with sad
civility and an aching head," she was summoned to Mr Briggs in the
parlour.

He immediately began reproaching her with having eloped from him, in
the summer, and with the various expences she had caused him from
useless purchases and spoilt provisions. He then complained of Mr
Delvile, whom he charged with defrauding him of his dues; but observing
in the midst of his railing her dejection of countenance, he suddenly
broke off, and looking at her with some concern, said, "what's the
matter, Ducky? a'n't well? look as if you could not help it."

"O yes," cried Cecilia, "I thank you, Sir, I am very well."

"What do you look so blank for, then?" said he, "bay? what are fretting
for?--crossed in love?--lost your sweetheart?"

"No, no, no," cried she, with quickness.

"Never mind, my chick, never mind," said he, pinching her cheek, with
resumed good humour, "more to be had; if one won't snap, another will;
put me in a passion by going off from me with that old grandee, or
would have got one long ago. Hate that old Don; used me very ill; wish
I could trounce him. Thinks more of a fusty old parchment than the
price of stocks. Fit for nothing but to be stuck upon an old monument
for a Death's head."

He then told her that her accounts were all made out, and he was ready
at any time to produce them; he approved much of her finishing wholly
with the _old Don_, who had been a mere cypher in the executorship; but
he advised her not to think of taking her money into her own hands, as
he was willing to keep the charge of it himself till she was married.

Cecilia, thanking him for the offer, said she meant now to make her
acknowledgments for all the trouble he had already taken, but by no
means purposed to give him any more.

He debated the matter with her warmly, told her she had no chance to
save herself from knaves and cheats, but by trusting to nobody but
himself, and informing her what interest he had already made of her
money, enquired how she would set about getting more?

Cecilia, though prejudiced against him by Mr Monckton, knew not how to
combat his arguments; yet conscious that scarce any part of the money
to which he alluded was in fact her own, she could not yield to them.
He was, however, so stubborn and so difficult to deal with, that she at
length let him talk without troubling herself to answer, and privately
determined to beg Mr Monckton would fight her battle.

She was not, therefore, displeased by his interruption, though very
much surprised by the sight of his person, when, in the midst of Mr
Briggs's oratory, Mr Hobson entered the parlour.

"I ask pardon, ma'am," cried he, "if I intrude; but I made free to call
upon the account of two ladies that are acquaintances of yours, that
are quite, as one may say, at their wit's ends."

"What is the matter with them, Sir?"

"Why, ma'am, no great matter, but mothers are soon frightened, and when
once they are upon the fret, one may as well talk to the boards! they
know no more of reasoning and arguing, than they do of a shop ledger!
however, my maxim is this; every body in their way; one has no more
right to expect courageousness from a lady in them cases, than one has
from a child in arms; for what I say is, they have not the proper use
of their heads, which makes it very excusable."

"But what has occasioned any alarm? nothing, I hope, is the matter with
Miss Belfield?"

"No, ma'am; thank God, the young lady enjoys her health very well: but
she is taking on just in the same way as her mamma, as what can be more
natural? Example, ma'am, is apt to be catching, and one lady's crying
makes another think she must do the same, for a little thing serves for
a lady's tears, being they can cry at any time: but a man is quite of
another nature, let him but have a good conscience, and be clear of the
world, and I'll engage he'll not wash his face without soap! that's
what I say!"

"Will, will!" cried Mr Briggs, "do it myself! never use soap; nothing
but waste; take a little sand; does as well."

"Let every man have his own proposal;" answered Hobson; "for my part, I
take every morning a large bowl of water, and souse my whole head in
it; and then when I've rubbed it dry, on goes my wig, and I am quite
fresh and agreeable: and then I take a walk in Tottenham Court Road as
far as the Tabernacle, or thereabouts, and snuff in a little fresh
country air, and then I come back, with a good wholesome appetite, and
in a fine breathing heat, asking the young lady's pardon; and I enjoy
my pot of fresh tea, and my round of hot toast and butter, with as good
a relish as if I was a Prince."

"Pot of fresh tea," cried Briggs, "bring a man to ruin; toast and
butter! never suffer it in my house. Breakfast on water-gruel, sooner
done; fills one up in a second. Give it my servants; can't eat much of
it. Bob 'em there!" nodding significantly.

"Water-gruel!" exclaimed Mr Hobson, "why I could not get it down if I
might have the world for it! it would make me quite sick, asking the
young lady's pardon, by reason I should always think I was preparing
for the small-pox. My notion is quite of another nature; the first
thing I do is to have a good fire; for what I say is this, if a man is
cold in his fingers, it's odds if ever he gets warm in his purse! ha!
ha! warm, you take me, Sir? I mean a pun. Though I ought to ask pardon,
for I suppose the young lady don't know what I am a saying."

"I should indeed be better pleased, Sir," said Cecilia, "to hear what
you have to say about Miss Belfield."

"Why, ma'am, the thing is this; we have been expecting the young
'Squire, as I call him, all the morning, and he has never come; so Mrs
Belfield, not knowing where to send after him, was of opinion he might
be here, knowing your kindness to him, and that."

"You make the enquiry at the wrong place, Sir," said Cecilia, much
provoked by the implication it conveyed; "if Mr Belfield is in this
house, you must seek him with Mr Monckton."

"You take no offence, I hope, ma'am, at my just asking of the question?
for Mrs Belfield crying, and being in that dilemma, I thought I could
do no less than oblige her by coming to see if the young gentleman was
here."

"What's this? what's this?" cried Mr Briggs eagerly; "who are talking
of? hay?--who do mean? is this the sweet heart? eh, Duck?"

"No, no, Sir," cried Cecilia.

"No tricks! won't be bit! who is it? will know; tell me, I say!"

"_I'll_ tell Sir," cried Mr Hobson; "it's a very handsome young
gentleman, with as fine a person, and as genteel a way of behaviour,
and withal, as pretty a manner of dressing himself, and that, as any
lady need desire. He has no great head for business, as I am told, but
the ladies don't stand much upon that topic, being they know nothing of
it themselves."

"Has got the ready?" cried Mr Briggs, impatiently; "can cast an
account? that's the point; can come down handsomely? eh?"

"Why as to that, Sir, I'm not bound to speak to a gentleman's private
affairs. What's my own, is my own, and what is another person's, is
another person's; that's my way of arguing, and that's what I call
talking to the purpose."

"Dare say he's a rogue! don't have him, chick. Bet a wager i'n't worth
two shillings; and that will go for powder and pomatum; hate a
plaistered pate; commonly a numscull: love a good bob-jerom."

"Why this is talking quite wide of the mark," said Mr Hobson, "to
suppose a young lady of fortunes would marry a man with a bob-jerom.
What I say is, let every body follow their nature; that's the way to be
comfortable; and then if they pay every one his own, who's a right to
call 'em to account, whether they wear a bob-jerom, or a pig-tail down
to the calves of their legs?"

"Ay, ay," cried Briggs, sneeringly, "or whether they stuff their
gullets with hot rounds of toast and butter."

"And what if they do, Sir?" returned Hobson, a little angrily; "when a
man's got above the world, where's the harm of living a little genteel?
as to a round of toast and butter, and a few oysters, fresh opened, by
way of a damper before dinner, no man need be ashamed of them, provided
he pays as he goes: and as to living upon water-gruel, and scrubbing
one's flesh with sand, one might as well be a galley-slave at once.
You don't understand life, Sir, I see that."

"Do! do!" cried Briggs, speaking through his shut teeth; "you're out
there! oysters!--come to ruin, tell you! bring you to jail!"

"To jail, Sir?" exclaimed Hobson, "this is talking quite ungenteel! let
every man be civil; that's what I say, for that's the way to make every
thing agreeable but as to telling a man he'll go to jail, and that,
it's tantamount to affronting him."

A rap at the street-door gave now a new relief to Cecilia, who began to
grow very apprehensive lest the delight of spending money, thus warmly
contested with that of hoarding it, should give rise to a quarrel,
which, between two such sturdy champions for their own opinions, might
lead to a conclusion rather more rough and violent than she desired to
witness: but when the parlour-door opened, instead of Mr Delvile, whom
she now fully expected, Mr Albany made his entrance.

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