On the opening of 1793, the French Constitutionalists were at the lowest point of depression and disgrace. They were reviled4 on all hands for having given weight and impetus5 to a movement which they were impotent to control. Norbury Park and Mickleham were eager that Miss Burney should see their new friends and judge them for herself. “Your French colonies,” she wrote in reply to Mrs. Locke’s pressing invitation, “are truly attractive: I am sure they must be so to have caught me—so substantially, fundamentally the foe6 of all their proceedings7 while in power.” Having tarried long enough to pay her birthday duty to the Queen, she left London at the commencement of the season, and went down to Surrey. A day or two after her arrival came the news of the French King’s execution. The excitement caused by this intelligence 294quickened the already frequent intercourse8 between the Lockes and Juniper Hall, and Fanny soon found herself on familiar terms with the refugees. Before the end of January, Madame de Sta?l appeared on the scene, and placed herself at the head of the little colony. Necker’s daughter had earned the rage of the Commune by her exertions9 to save life during the massacres10 of August and September; nor was it at all clear that the privilege which she enjoyed as wife of the Swedish Ambassador would avail for her protection. She had, therefore, crossed the Channel, and now joined her Constitutionalist friends at Juniper Hall, whither she was soon followed by Talleyrand, who had come to England in her company. No other party of refugees could boast two names of equal distinction, though French titles had become plentiful11 as blackberries in several parts of England. Madame de Sta?l paid the most flattering attention to the author of ‘Cecilia,’ whose second novel had procured12 her considerable reputation in Paris. A warm but short-lived intimacy13 between the two ladies ensued. No two persons could be less suited to one another than our timid, prudish15 little Burney and the brilliant and audacious French femme de lettres. The public acts of the Bishop16 of Autun—‘the viper17 that had cast his skin,’ as Walpole called him—had not inclined Fanny in his favour; but his extraordinary powers conquered her admiration18, and as she listened to the exchanges of wit, criticism, and raillery between him and Madame de Sta?l, she could see for the moment no blemishes19 in either, and looked on the little band of exiles, some of whom could almost vie with these leaders, as rare spirits from some brighter world. The group, consisting at different times of some dozen persons,[112] 295were all most agreeable; but one, perhaps the least dazzling of the whole constellation20, proved more attractive than the rest:
“M. d’Arblay,” wrote Fanny, “is one of the most singularly interesting characters that can ever have been formed. He has a sincerity21, a frankness, an ingenuous22 openness of nature, that I have been unjust enough to think could not belong to a Frenchman. With all this, which is his military portion, he is passionately23 fond of literature, a most delicate critic in his own language, well versed24 in both Italian and German, and a very elegant poet. He has just undertaken to become my French master for pronunciation, and he gives me long daily lessons in reading. Pray expect wonderful improvements! In return, I hear him in English.”
The natural consequences followed. In a few days we read: “I have been scholaring all day, and mastering too; for our lessons are mutual25, and more entertaining than can easily be conceived.” Our novelist, in short, was more romantic than any of her own creations: Evelina, Cecilia, and Camilla were prosaic26 women compared with Frances. On the verge27 of forty-one, she gave away her heart to an admirer, suitable to her in age, indeed, but possessing neither fortune, occupation, nor prospects28 of any kind. Whatever property d’Arblay could claim, the Convention had confiscated29. Fanny herself had nothing but the small annuity30 which she enjoyed during the Queen’s pleasure, and which might be discontinued if she married this Roman Catholic alien. Such a match, in any case, implied seclusion32 almost as complete as that from which she had recently escaped. This was anything but the issue that her father had been promised when he was pressed to sanction her resignation. It is not surprising, therefore, that he wrote her a remonstrance33 296stronger and more decided34 than he had been in the habit of addressing to any of his children. But Dr. Burney stood alone. The Lockes and Phillipses were as much fascinated by their French neighbours as his enamoured daughter. Susanna was in avowed35 league with the enemy. Mr. Locke gave it as his opinion that two persons, with one or more babies, might very well subsist36 on a hundred a year. Thus assailed37 by opposing influences, Fanny went to deliberate in solitude38 at Chesington, and sauntered about the lanes where she had planned ‘Cecilia,’ wondering if the Muse39 would ever visit her again. The General’s pursuing letters convinced her that his grief at her hesitation40 was sincere and profound. He made a pilgrimage to see her, which vouched41 his devotion, and gained him the support of her simple hostesses, Mrs. Hamilton and Kitty Cooke, who wept at his tale of misfortunes, and learned for the first time what was meant by the French Revolution. Finally, through the mediation42 of his favourite Susanna, Dr. Burney was persuaded to give way and send a reluctant consent. The wedding took place on the 31st of July, 1793, in Mickleham Church, in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Locke, Captain and Mrs. Phillips, M. de Narbonne, and Captain Burney, who acted as proxy43 for his father. On the following day, the ceremony was repeated at the Sardinian Chapel44 in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, according to the rites45 of the Romish Church.
The marriage proved eminently46 happy. Dr. Burney, though he shrank from giving away the bride, was a respecter of accomplished48 facts, and soon became on excellent terms with his new son-in-law. The late impetuous lovers proceeded to translate their romance into the most sober prose. Love in a cottage had been the goal of their ambition. Mr. Locke had promised a site for the cottage; but as funds for building it were not 297immediately forthcoming, the pair went first into farm lodgings49, afterwards into a hired house of two or three rooms at Bookham, within two miles of Mickleham and Norbury Park. D’Arblay, a man of real honour, would have left his wife, almost in their honeymoon50, to fight for Louis XVII. at Toulon; but his offer of service was declined by the English Government, and thenceforth the General resigned himself to wait for better times. Like a sensible man, il cultivait son jardin. Like a man of sense, but not like a good husbandman. His wife, who, notwithstanding her happiness, seems to have lost her sense of humour very soon after matrimony, enjoyed one of her last hearty52 laughs at the expense of her lord:
“This sort of work is so totally new to him, that he receives every now and then some of poor Merlin’s[113] ‘disagreeable compliments’; for when Mr. Locke’s or the Captain’s gardeners favour our grounds with a visit, they commonly make known that all has been done wrong. Seeds are sowing in some parts when plants ought to be reaping, and plants are running to seed while they are thought not yet at maturity53. Our garden, therefore, is not yet quite the most profitable thing in the world; but M. d’A. assures me it is to be the staff of our table and existence.
“A little, too, he has been unfortunate; for, after immense toil54 in planting and transplanting strawberries round our hedge here at Bookham, he has just been informed they will bear no fruit the first year, and the second we may be ‘over the hills and far away.’
“Another time, too, with great labour, he cleared a considerable compartment55 of weeds; and when it looked clean and well, and he showed his work to the gardener, the man said he had demolished56 an asparagus bed! 298M. d’A. protested, however, nothing could look more like des mauvaises herbes.
“His greatest passion is for transplanting. Everything we possess he moves from one end of the garden to another to produce better effects. Roses take place of jessamines, jessamines of honeysuckles, and honeysuckles of lilacs, till they have all danced round as far as the space allows; but whether the effect may not be a general mortality, summer only can determine.
“Such is our horticultural history. But I must not omit that we have had for one week cabbages from our own cultivation57 every day! Oh, you have no idea how sweet they tasted! We agreed they had a freshness and a go?t we had never met with before. We had them for too short a time to grow tired of them, because, as I have already hinted, they were beginning to run to seed before we knew they were eatable.”
While the General was gardening, Madame plied31 her pen, using it once more, after the lapse58 of a dozen years, with a definite purpose of publication. Her first composition was for a charitable object. It was an address to the ladies of England on behalf of the emigrant59 French clergy60, who, to the number of 6,000, were suffering terrible distress61 all over the country. This short paper is an early example of the stilted62 rhetoric63 which gradually ruined its author’s style. Some months later we hear of a more important work being in progress. This tale, eventually published under the title of ‘Camilla,’ was commenced in the summer of 1794, though it did not see the light till July, 1796.
A son, their only child, was born on December 18, 1794, and was baptized Alexander Charles Louis Piochard, receiving the name of his father, with those of his two god-fathers, Dr. Charles Burney the younger, and the Count de Narbonne.
299An illness, which retarded64 the mother’s recovery, interrupted the progress of her novel, and perhaps counted for something in the failure of the tragedy with which, as we mentioned before, she tempted65 fortune on the stage. ‘Edwy and Elgiva’—so this drama was called—was produced at Drury Lane on March 21, 1795. It says much for the author’s repute that John Kemble warmly recommended her work to Sheridan, who seems to have accepted it without hesitation or criticism. The principal characters were undertaken by Kemble and Mrs. Siddons. At the close of the performance, it was announced that the piece was withdrawn for alterations66. There was a little complaint that several of the actors were careless and unprepared; but, on the whole, Madame d’Arblay bore her defeat with excellent temper. She consoled herself with the thought that her play had not been written for the theatre, nor even revised for the press; that the manuscript had been obtained from her during her confinement67; and that she had been prevented by ill-health from attending rehearsals68, and making the changes which, on the night of representation, even her unprofessional judgment70 perceived to be essential. Yet it is difficult to imagine that a tragedy by the author of ‘Evelina’ could, under any circumstances, have been successful; and we are more surprised that Sheridan was so complaisant71 than that Dr. Burney had always shrugged72 his shoulders when the Saxon drama was mentioned in his hearing.
Three years sooner the dramatist would have felt her personal mishap73 more keenly, as she would have welcomed with far livelier pleasure an event of a public nature which occurred shortly afterwards. On April 23, 1795, Warren Hastings was triumphantly74 acquitted75. The incident hardly stirred her at all. She was now experiencing that 300detachment which is the portion of ladies even of social and literary tastes, when they have accomplished the great function of womanhood. Her father writes her a pleasant account of his London life, relating some characteristic condolences which he had received from Cumberland on the fate of her play, mentioning his own visit of congratulation to Hastings, and chatting about the doings at the Literary Club. The blissful mother replies in a letter, dated from the ‘Hermitage, Bookham,’ which is principally occupied with praises of rural retirement76 and the intelligent infant, though it ends with some words about the tragedy, and a postscript77 expressing satisfaction at the acquittal. Not long before, Frances Burney had repined at living in what she rather inaptly called a monastery78: Frances d’Arblay is more than content with the company of her gardener and their little ‘perennial plant.’ At her marriage, she had counted on having the constant society of Susanna and her Captain, as well as the Lockes; but in June, 1795, the Phillipses remove to town, and are not missed. The Bambino not only supplied all gaps, but made his willing slave work as hard at ‘Camilla’ as, long years before, she had worked at ‘Cecilia’ under the jealous eye of her Chesington daddy.
She was now as keen as Crisp would have had her be in calculating how she could make most money by her pen. ‘I determined79,’ she says, ‘when I changed my state, to set aside all my innate80 and original abhorrences, and to regard and use as resources myself what had always been considered as such by others. Without this idea and this resolution, our hermitage must have been madness.’ She had formerly81 objected to a plan, suggested for her by Burke, of publishing by subscription, with the aid of ladies, instead of booksellers, to keep lists and 301receive names of subscribers. She determined to adopt this plan in bringing out ‘Camilla.’ The Dowager Duchess of Leinster, Mrs. Boscawen, Mrs. Crewe, and Mrs. Locke, gave her the required assistance. In issuing her proposals, she was careful not to excite the prejudice which still prevailed against works of fiction.[114] She remembered that the word novel had long stood in the way of ‘Cecilia’ at Windsor, and that the Princesses had not been allowed to read it until it had been declared innocent by a bishop. ‘Camilla,’ she warned her friends, was ‘not to be a romance, but sketches82 of characters and morals put in action.’ It was, therefore, announced simply as ‘a new work by the author of Evelina and Cecilia.’ The manuscript was completed by the end of 1795; but, as in the case of ‘Cecilia,’ six months more elapsed before the day of publication arrived.
Meanwhile, the subscription-list filled up nobly. When Warren Hastings heard what was going forward, we are told that “he gave a great jump, and exclaimed, ‘Well, then, now I can serve her, thank Heaven, and I will! I will write to Anderson to engage Scotland, and I will attack the East Indies myself!’” Nor was Edmund Burke less zealous83 than his old enemy. Protesting that for personal friends the subscription ought to be five guineas instead of one, he asked for but one copy of ‘Camilla’ in return for twenty guineas which he sent on behalf of himself, his wife, his dead brother Richard, and the son for whom he was in mourning. In the same spirit, three Misses Thrale order ten sets of the book. As we glance down the pages of the list, we meet with 302most of the survivors84 of the old Blue Stockings, with Mrs. Carter, Mrs. Chapone, Mrs. Montagu, and Hannah Moore. There, too, are many literary women of other types: Anna Barbauld, Amelia Alderson, afterwards Mrs. Opie, Mary Berry, Maria Edgeworth, Sophia and Harriet Lee.[115] There the incomparable Jane Austen, then a girl of twenty, pays tribute to a passed mistress of her future art. There also figure the names of many of the writer’s former colleagues in the royal household. Even Mrs. Schwellenberg is on the list. Perhaps, as the book was to be dedicated85 by permission to the Queen, this was almost a matter of course. But the subscription was, in fact, a testimonial to a general favourite from hundreds of attached friends, some of whom cared little for literature; as well as from a crowd of distant admirers, who regarded her as the most eminent47 female writer of her time.
The first parcel of ‘Camilla; or, A Picture of Youth,’ reached Bookham on an early day in July, 1796; and Madame d’Arblay at once set off for Windsor to present copies to the King and Queen. Immediately on her arrival, she was admitted to an audience of the Queen, during which the King entered to receive his share of the offering. The excellent monarch86 was in one of his most interrogative moods, and particularly curious to learn who had corrected the proofs of the volumes before him. His flattered subject confessed that she was her own reader. ‘Why, some authors have told me,’ cried he, ‘that they are the last to do that work for themselves! They know so well by heart what ought to be, that they run on without seeing what is. They have told me, besides, that a mere87 plodding88 head is best and surest for that work, and that the livelier the imagination, the less 303it should be trusted to.’ Madame had carried her husband with her to Windsor. They were detained there three days; and, as Walpole remarks with some emphasis, even M. d’Arblay was allowed to dine. Horace means, of course, that the General, who had the Cross of St. Louis, was invited to a place at Mdlle. Jacobi’s table. Just before dinner, Madame d’Arblay was called aside by her entertainer, and presented, in the name of their Majesties, with a packet containing a hundred guineas, as a ‘compliment’ in acknowledgment of her dedication89.
On the following day, the Chevalier and his wife repaired to the Terrace. “The evening was so raw and cold that there was very little company, and scarce any expectation of the Royal Family; and when we had been there about half an hour the musicians retreated, and everybody was preparing to follow, when a messenger suddenly came forward, helter-skelter, running after the horns and clarionets, and hallooing to them to return. This brought back the straggling parties, and the King, Duke of York, and six Princesses soon appeared.... The King stopped to speak to the Bishop of Norwich[116] and some others at the entrance, and then walked on towards us, who were at the further end. As he approached, the Princess Royal said, ‘Madame d’Arblay, sir;’ and instantly he came on a step, and then stopped and addressed me, and after a word or two of the weather, he said, ‘Is that M. d’Arblay?’ and most graciously bowed to him, and entered into a little conversation, demanding how long he had been in England, how long in the country, etc. Upon the King’s bowing and leaving us, the Commander-in-Chief most courteously90 bowed also to M. d’Arblay; and the Princesses all came 304up to speak to me, and to curtsey to him, and the Princess Elizabeth cried, ‘I’ve got leave! and mamma says she won’t wait to read it first!’”
The lively Princess, who was then twenty-six years of age, and had been concerned in bringing out a poem entitled the ‘Birth of Love,’ with engravings from designs by herself, intended to communicate that she had obtained permission to read ‘Camilla,’ though it had not yet been examined by her mother.
The subscribers to the new novel exceeded eleven hundred; but the number of copies printed was four thousand. Out of these only five hundred remained at the end of three months—a rate of sale considerably91 more rapid than that of ‘Cecilia’ had been. Macaulay mentions a rumour92 that the author cleared more than three thousand guineas by her work. This is not an improbable account; for Dr. Burney told Lord Orford within the first six weeks that about two thousand pounds had already been realized.[117] The material results were astonishing; yet ‘Camilla’ could not be considered a success. The ‘Picture of Youth’ had neither the freshness of ‘Evelina,’ nor the mature power of ‘Cecilia.’ It was wanting alike in simplicity93 and polish. By disuse of her art, the writer had lost touch with the public; by neglect of reading, she had gone back in literary culture. Hence it was generally felt that the charm which she had exercised was gone. The reviews were severe; new admirers appeared not; old friends found their faith a good deal tried. When the first demand was satisfied, there seems to have been no call for a fresh edition, though some years afterwards Miss Austen boldly coupled[118] 305‘Camilla’ with ‘Cecilia’ as a ‘work in which most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation94 of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour are conveyed to the world.’ When its five volumes were most sharply handled, brother Charles could console the chagrined95 author with the distich:
‘Now heed96 no more what critics thought ’em,
Since this you know, all people bought ’em.’
The composition of ‘Camilla’ has been blamed for the opposite faults of affectation and slovenliness97. ‘Every passage,’ says Macaulay, ‘which the author meant to be fine is detestable; and the book has been saved from condemnation98 only by the admirable spirit and force of those scenes in which she was content to be familiar.’ Other censors99 have observed that, while the rhetoric is inflated100, the grammar is occasionally doubtful, and the diction sometimes barbarous. Now, it must be owned that the ordinary vocabulary of the Burneys was not remarkable101 for purity or elegance102. In their talk and intimate letters, both the father and the daughters expressed themselves in the most colloquial103 forms, not seldom lapsing104 into downright slang. To give one instance only, the atrocious vulgarism of ‘an invite’ for ‘an invitation’ occurs in several parts of the Diary. When writing for the press, Dr. Burney guarded himself by the adoption105 of a wholly artificial style, that swelled106, from time to time, into tedious magniloquence. Fanny was schooled for writing ‘Cecilia’ by the critical discussions of the Streatham circle, by much intercourse with Johnson, and by some study of style—chiefly the style of the ‘Ramblers’ and ‘Lives of the Poets.’ Having despatched her second novel, she ceased to be careful about literary questions. This indifference107 increased after her marriage. When describing the reception of ‘Camilla’ 306at Windsor, ‘the Queen,’ she writes, ‘talked of some books and authors, but found me wholly in the clouds as to all that is new.’ Her husband, insensible, of course, to the niceties of a foreign idiom, but apparently108 admiring pompous109 phraseology, conceived a relish110 for Dr. Burney’s style; and Madame, delighting to think her ‘dear father’ perfect, was pleased to place his English in the very first class.[119] The eloquence111 of ‘Camilla’ seems to mingle112 faint Johnsonian echoes with the stilted movement of the music-master’s prose; while too often the choice of words is left to chance. A recent editor of the two earlier novels has called attention to the numerous vulgarities of expression, not put into vulgar mouths, which occur in ‘Camilla.’ ‘People “stroam the fields,” or have “a depressing feel.”’ This editor suggests that Miss Burney’s five years at Court may have done much to spoil her English, remarking that ‘she lived at Windsor among hybrids113.’ By ‘hybrids’ we suppose we are to understand equerries. But the equerries, if not possessing great culture, were, at any rate, gentlemen of good position. If they used the incriminated phrases why not also the personages of the novel? We take it, however, that ‘to stroam the fields’ is not a low phrase acquired by Fanny at Court, but a provincialism which she learned in her native county, where the verb to ‘stroam,’ or to ‘strome,’ was certainly in use a hundred years ago,[120] and is, we are assured, familiarly employed at the present day. We believe that Madame d’Arblay’s English was ruined, not by associating with Colonel Digby, or even Colonel Manners, but by neglect of reading, by retirement from lettered society, by fading recollections of Johnson, by untoward114 family influences, and by a strong hereditary115 tendency to run into fustian116.
307In October, 1796, Dr. Burney lost his second wife, who, after a prolonged period of ill-health, died at Chelsea Hospital. To prevent him from brooding over his bereavement117, Madame d’Arblay induced her father to resume a poetical118 history of astronomy which he had begun some time before. This occupation amused him for some time, though in the end the poem, which ran to a great length, was destroyed unfinished.
Out of the profits made by his wife’s publication, M. d’Arblay built a small house on land leased to him by Mr. Locke at West Humble119, near Dorking, and called it Camilla Cottage. If a family, as well as a nation, is happy that has no history, we must conclude that the d’Arblays lived very much at ease for some years after their removal to their new abode120. When the excitement of planning, building, and taking possession is exhausted121, Madame’s pen finds little to record, beyond the details of occasional interviews with the Queen and Princesses at Buckingham House. She wisely declines a proposal of Mrs. Crewe to make her directress of a weekly paper, which was to have been started, under the name of The Breakfast-Table, to combat the progress of Jacobinical ideas. Later on she abandons unwillingly122 a venture of a different kind. Still thirsting for dramatic success, she had written a comedy called ‘Love and Fashion;’ and towards the close of 1799 was congratulating herself on having it accepted by the manager of Covent Garden Theatre.[121] The piece was put into rehearsal69 early in the following spring; but Dr. Burney was seized with such dread123 of another failure, that, to appease124 him, his daughter and her husband consented to its being withdrawn. The compliance125 cost some effort: Fanny complained 308that she was treated as if she ‘had been guilty of a crime, in doing what she had all her life been urged to, and all her life intended—writing a comedy.’ ‘The combinations,’ she added, ‘for another long work did not occur to me: incidents and effects for a drama did.’
This was only a transient disappointment. In the first days of 1800 came a lasting126 sorrow, in the loss of Mrs. Phillips, who, since the autumn of 1796, had been living with her husband in Ireland, and who died immediately after landing in England on her way to visit her father.[122] But, except by this grief, the peace of Camilla Cottage was never interrupted so long as the husband and wife remained together. In her old age, Madame d’Arblay looked back to the first eight years of her married life as to a period of unruffled happiness.
Then occurred a crisis. The d’Arblays had borne poverty cheerfully, even joyfully127, so long as any stretch of economy would enable them to keep within their income. The cost of living and the burden of taxation128 had begun to increase almost from the day of their marriage. One of the motives129 for bringing out ‘Camilla’ was the rise of prices, which had doubled within the preceding eighteen months. Hardly was Camilla Cottage occupied, when an addition to the window-tax compelled the owners to block up four of their new windows. The expense of building so much exceeded calculation that, after all bills were settled, the balance remaining from the foundress’s three thousand guineas produced only a few pounds of annual interest. In the spring of 1800, we read that the gardener has planted potatoes on every spot where they can grow, on account of the dreadful price of provisions. 309Towards the close of 1801, it is admitted that for some time previously130 they had been encroaching on their little capital, which was then nearly exhausted. As soon, therefore, as the preliminaries of peace were signed, M. d’Arblay determined to remove his family to France, hoping to recover something from the wreck131 of his fortune, and to obtain from the First Consul132 some allowance for half-pay as a retired133 officer. Crossing the Channel alone, in the first instance, the General involved himself in a double difficulty: he failed with the French Government by stipulating134 that he should not be required to serve against his wife’s country, while he had cut off his retreat by pledging himself at the English Alien Office not to return within a year. In this dilemma135, he wrote to his wife to join him in Paris with their child. Madame d’Arblay obeyed the summons, amidst the anxious forebodings of her father, but with the full approval of the Queen, who granted her a farewell audience, admitting that she was bound to follow her husband.
Dr. Burney’s fears were more than justified136 by the event. His daughter left Dover a few days after the treaty was signed at Amiens. When she reached Paris, she found the city rejoicing at the conclusion of the war, yet worshipping Bonaparte, whose temper and attitude showed that the peace could not last. A reception by the First Consul, followed by a review, both of which Madame d’Arblay witnessed from an ante-chamber138 in the Tuileries, afforded striking evidence of the military spirit which animated139 everything:
“The scene, with regard to all that was present, was splendidly gay and highly animating140. The room was full, but not crowded, with officers of rank in sumptuous141 rather than rich uniforms, and exhibiting a martial142 air 310that became their attire143, which, however, generally speaking, was too gorgeous to be noble.
“Our window was that next to the consular144 apartment, in which Bonaparte was holding a levée, and it was close to the steps ascending145 to it; by which means we saw all the forms of the various exits and entrances, and had opportunity to examine every dress and every countenance146 that passed and repassed. This was highly amusing, I might say historic, where the past history and the present office were known.
“Sundry footmen of the First Consul, in very fine liveries, were attending to bring or arrange chairs for whoever required them; various peace-officers, superbly begilt, paraded occasionally up and down the chamber, to keep the ladies to their windows and the gentlemen to their ranks, so as to preserve the passage or lane, through which the First Consul was to walk upon his entrance, clear and open; and several gentlemanlike-looking persons, whom in former times I should have supposed pages of the back-stairs, dressed in black, with gold chains hanging round their necks, and medallions pending147 from them, seemed to have the charge of the door itself, leading immediately to the audience chamber of the First Consul.
“But what was most prominent in commanding notice, was the array of the aides-de-camp of Bonaparte, which was so almost furiously striking, that all other vestments, even the most gaudy148, appeared suddenly under a gloomy cloud when contrasted with its brightness....
“The last object for whom the way was cleared was the Second Consul, Cambacérès, who advanced with a stately and solemn pace, slow, regular, and consequential149; dressed richly in scarlet150 and gold, and never looking to the right or left, but wearing a mien137 of fixed151 gravity and importance. 311He had several persons in his suite14, who, I think, but am not sure, were ministers of state.
“At length the two human hedges were finally formed, the door of the audience chamber was thrown wide open with a commanding crash, and a vivacious152 officer—sentinel—or I know not what, nimbly descended153 the three steps into our apartment, and placing himself at the side of the door, with one hand spread as high as possible above his head, and the other extended horizontally, called out in a loud and authoritative154 voice, ‘Le Premier155 Consul!’
“You will easily believe nothing more was necessary to obtain attention; not a soul either spoke156 or stirred as he and his suite passed along, which was so quickly that, had I not been placed so near the door, and had not all about me facilitated my standing51 foremost, and being least crowd-obstructed, I could hardly have seen him. As it was, I had a view so near, though so brief, of his face, as to be very much struck by it. It is of a deeply impressive cast, pale even to sallowness, while not only in the eye, but in every feature—care, thought, melancholy157, and meditation158 are strongly marked, with so much of character, nay159, genius, and so penetrating160 a seriousness, or rather sadness, as powerfully to sink into an observer’s mind....
“The review I shall attempt no description of. I have no knowledge of the subject, and no fondness for its object. It was far more superb than anything I had ever beheld161; but while all the pomp and circumstance of war animated others, it only saddened me; and all of past reflection, all of future dread, made the whole grandeur162 of the martial scene, and all the delusive163 seduction of martial music, fill my eyes frequently with tears, but not regale164 my poor muscles with one single smile.
312“Bonaparte, mounting a beautiful and spirited white horse, closely encircled by his glittering aides-de-camp, and accompanied by his generals, rode round the ranks, holding his bridle165 indifferently in either hand, and seeming utterly166 careless of the prancing167, rearing, or other freaks of his horse, insomuch as to strike some who were near me with a notion of his being a bad horseman.”
Having introduced his wife to old friends in Paris, and paid a visit with her to his relations at Joigny, the General settled his family in a small house at Passy. Instead of being seen at Chelsea again within eighteen months, as her father had been led to expect, she was detained in France more than ten years. From the moment when Lord Whitworth quitted Paris in May, 1803, her opportunities of communicating with England were few and far between. All remittances168 thence, including her annuity, ended with the peace. The claims to property on which her husband had built proved delusive. Apparently they would have been without means of any kind, but that, just as war was declared, the influence of General Lauriston procured for his old comrade the retraite, or retiring allowance, for which the latter had been petitioning. Yet this only amounted to ￡62 10s. yearly, so that the luckless pair would have been far better off in their cottage at West Humble. Moreover, the receipt of half-pay made it impossible for them to risk any attempt at escape while the war continued. At length, in 1805, M. d’Arblay obtained employment in the Civil Department of the Office of Public Buildings. He became, in fact, a Government clerk, plodding daily between his desk and a poorly-furnished home at suburban169 Passy. He seems to have been eventually promoted to the rank of sous-chef in his department.
313We learn, however, from the scanty170 notices belonging to this period, that the Chevalier was treated with consideration by the heads of his office, and that he and Madame kept their footing in Parisian society. ‘The society in which I mix,’ writes the lady, ‘when I can prevail with myself to quit my yet dearer fireside, is all that can be wished, whether for wit, wisdom, intelligence, gaiety, or politeness.’ She would resume, she adds, her old descriptions if she could only write more frequently, or with more security that she was not writing to the winds and the waves. Her worst distress was the rarity with which letters could be despatched, or travel either way, with anything like safety. At another time she tells her father: ‘I have never heard whether the last six letters I have written have as yet been received. Two of them were antiques that had waited three or four years some opportunity ... the two last were to reach you through a voyage by America.’ The very letter in which this is said lost its chance of being sent, and was not finished till a year later. Dr. Burney, in his fear of a miscarriage172, finally gave up writing, and charged his family and friends to follow his example. Fanny had nothing to regret in her husband, except his being overworked and in poor health: her heart shrank from leaving him; yet her longing171 for England increased from year to year. Her visionary castles, she said, were not in the air, but on the sea.
In 1810 she had prepared everything for flight, when fresh rigours of the police obliged her to relinquish173 her design. In 1811 she had a dangerous illness, and was operated upon by the famous surgeon, Baron174 de Larrey, for a supposed cancer. In the summer of 1812, when Napoleon had set out on his Russian campaign, she obtained a passport for America, took ship with her 314son at Dunkirk, and landed at Deal. During the interval175 between her first and second attempts at crossing, all correspondence with England was prohibited on pain of death. One letter alone reached her, announcing in brief terms the death of the Princess Amelia, the renewed and hopeless derangement176 of the King, and the death of Mr. Locke.
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1
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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majesties
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| n.雄伟( majesty的名词复数 )；庄严；陛下；王权 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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reviled
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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massacres
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| 大屠杀( massacre的名词复数 )； 惨败 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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blemishes
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| n.（身体的）瘢点( blemish的名词复数 )；伤疤；瑕疵；污点 | |
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constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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29
confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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36
subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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38
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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39
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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40
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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41
vouched
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| v.保证( vouch的过去式和过去分词 )；担保；确定；确定地说 | |
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42
mediation
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| n.调解 | |
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43
proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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44
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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45
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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46
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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47
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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48
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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49
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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50
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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51
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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52
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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53
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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54
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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55
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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56
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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57
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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58
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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59
emigrant
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| adj.移居的，移民的；n.移居外国的人，移民 | |
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60
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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61
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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62
stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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63
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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64
retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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65
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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66
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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67
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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68
rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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69
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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70
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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71
complaisant
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| adj.顺从的，讨好的 | |
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72
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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73
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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74
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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75
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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76
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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77
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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78
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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79
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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80
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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81
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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82
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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83
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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84
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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85
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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86
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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87
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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90
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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91
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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92
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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93
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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94
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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95
chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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97
slovenliness
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98
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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99
censors
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| 删剪（书籍、电影等中被认为犯忌、违反道德或政治上危险的内容）( censor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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100
inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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101
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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102
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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104
lapsing
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| v.退步( lapse的现在分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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105
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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106
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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107
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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108
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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109
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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110
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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111
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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112
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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113
hybrids
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| n.杂交生成的生物体( hybrid的名词复数 )；杂交植物（或动物）；杂种；（不同事物的）混合物 | |
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114
untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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115
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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116
fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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117
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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118
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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119
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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120
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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121
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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122
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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123
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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124
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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125
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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126
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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127
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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128
taxation
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| n.征税，税收，税金 | |
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129
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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130
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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131
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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132
consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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133
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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134
stipulating
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| v.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的现在分词 )；规定，明确要求 | |
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135
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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136
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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137
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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138
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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139
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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140
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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141
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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142
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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143
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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144
consular
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| a.领事的 | |
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145
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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146
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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147
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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148
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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149
consequential
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| adj.作为结果的，间接的；重要的 | |
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150
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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151
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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152
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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153
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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154
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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156
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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157
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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158
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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159
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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160
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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161
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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162
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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163
delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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164
regale
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| v.取悦，款待 | |
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165
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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166
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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167
prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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168
remittances
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| n.汇寄( remittance的名词复数 )；汇款，汇款额 | |
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169
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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170
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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171
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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172
miscarriage
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| n.失败，未达到预期的结果；流产 | |
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173
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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174
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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175
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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176
derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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