Fanny Burney and Her Friends: Select Passages from Her Diary and Other WritingsBurney, Fanny
General
Fanny Burney and Her Friends: Select Passages from Her Diary and Other Writings
Burney, Fanny
Burney, Fanny, 1752-1840 -- Friends and associates
Once, at the end of May, she had an opportunity of unburdening her mind
to her father. They met in Westminster Abbey at one of the many
commemorations of Handel which occurred about this time; and, neither of
them caring very much for the great master’s music, they spent three
hours chiefly in conversation. For four years they had not been so long
alone together. Dr. Burney happened to mention that some of the French
exiles wished him to make them acquainted with the author of ‘Cecilia,’
and repeated the astonished speech of the Comtesse de Boufflers on
learning that this was out of his power: ‘Mais, monsieur, est-ce
possible! Mademoiselle votre fille n’a-t-elle point de vacances?’ Such
an opening was just what Fanny wanted, and she availed herself of it to
pour out her whole heart. With many expressions of gratitude for the
Queen’s goodness, she owned that her way of life was distasteful to her;
she was lost to all private comfort, dead to all domestic endearment,
worn with want of rest and laborious attendance. Separated from her
relations, her friends, and the society she loved, she brooded over the
past with hopeless regret, and lived like one who had no natural
connections. “Melancholy was the existence, where happiness was
excluded, though not a complaint could be made! where the illustrious
personages who were served possessed almost all human excellence—yet
where those who were their servants, though treated with the most
benevolent condescension, could never in any part of the live-long day,
command liberty, or social intercourse, or repose!” “The silence of my
dearest father,” she adds, “now silencing myself, I turned to look at
him; but how was I struck to see his honoured head bowed down almost
into his bosom with dejection and discomfort! We were both perfectly
still a few moments; but when he raised his head I could hardly keep my
seat to see his eyes filled with tears! ‘I have long,’ he cried, ‘been
uneasy, though I have not spoken; ... but ... if you wish to resign—my
house, my purse, my arms, shall be open to receive you back!’”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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