The next day, between eleven and twelve o’clock, Mr Monckton was
again in Portman Square; he found, as he expected, both the ladies,
and he found, as he feared, Mr Arnott prepared to be of their party.
He had, however, but little time to repine at this intrusion, before
he was disturbed by another, for, in a few minutes, they were joined
by Sir Robert Floyer, who also declared his intention of
accompanying them to the Haymarket.
Mr Monckton, to disguise his chagrin, pretended he was in great
haste to set off, lest they should be too late for the overture:
they were, therefore, quitting the breakfast room, when they were
stopt by the appearance of Mr Morrice.
The surprise which the sight of him gave to Mr Monckton was extreme;
he knew that he was unacquainted with Mr Harrel, for he remembered
they were strangers to each other when they lately met at his house;
he concluded, therefore, that Cecilia was the object of his visit,
but he could frame no conjecture under what pretence.
The easy terms upon which he seemed with all the family by no means
diminished his amazement; for when Mrs Harrel expressed some concern
that she was obliged to go out, he gaily begged her not to mind him,
assuring her he could not have stayed two minutes, and promising,
unasked, to call again the next day: and when she added, “We would
not hurry away so, only we are going to a rehearsal of an Opera,” he
exclaimed with quickness, “A rehearsal!—are you really? I have a
great mind to go too!”
Then, perceiving Mr Monckton, he bowed to him with great respect,
and enquired, with no little solemnity, how he had left Lady
Margaret, hoped she was perfectly recovered from her late
indisposition, and asked sundry questions with regard to her plan
for the winter.
This discourse was ill constructed for rendering his presence
desirable to Mr Monckton; he answered him very drily, and again
pressed their departure.
“O,” cried Morrice, “there’s no occasion for such haste; the
rehearsal does not begin till one.”
“You are mistaken, sir,” said Mr Monckton; “it is to begin at twelve
o’clock.”
“O ay, very true,” returned Morrice; “I had forgot the dances, and I
suppose they are to be rehearsed first. Pray, Miss Beverley, did you
ever see any dances rehearsed?”
“No, sir.”
“You will be excessively entertained, then, I assure you. It’s the
most comical thing in the world to see those signores and signoras
cutting capers in a morning. And the figuranti will divert
you beyond measure; you never saw such a shabby set in your life:
but the most amusing thing is to look in their faces, for all the
time they are jumping and skipping about the stage as if they could
not stand still for joy, they look as sedate and as dismal as if
they were so many undertaker’s men.”
“Not a word against dancing!” cried Sir Robert, “it’s the only thing
carries one to the Opera; and I am sure it’s the only thing one
minds at it.”
The two ladies were then handed to Mrs Harrel’s vis-a-vis;
and the gentlemen, joined without further ceremony by Mr Morrice,
followed them to the Haymarket.
The rehearsal was not begun, and Mrs Harrel and Cecilia secured
themselves a box upon the stage, from which the gentlemen of their
party took care not to be very distant.
They were soon perceived by Mr Gosport, who instantly entered into
conversation with Cecilia. Miss Larolles, who with some other ladies
came soon after into the next box, looked out to courtsie and nod,
with her usual readiness, at Mrs Harrel, but took not any notice of
Cecilia, though she made the first advances.
“What’s the matter now?” cried Mr Gosport; “have you affronted your
little prattling friend?”
“Not with my own knowledge,” answered Cecilia; “perhaps she does not
recollect me.”
Just then Miss Larolles, tapping at the door, came in from the next
box to speak to Mrs Harrel; with whom she stood chatting and
laughing some minutes, without seeming to perceive that Cecilia was
of her party.
“Why, what have you done to the poor girl?” whispered Mr Gosport;
“did you talk more than herself when you saw her last?”
“Would that have been possible?” cried Cecilia; “however, I still
fancy she does not know me.”
She then stood up, which making Miss Larolles involuntarily turn
towards her, she again courtsied; a civility which that young lady
scarce deigned to return, before, bridling with an air of
resentment, she hastily looked another way, and then, nodding good-humouredly at Mrs Harrel, hurried back to her party.
Cecilia, much amazed, said to Mr Gosport, “See now how great was our
presumption in supposing this young lady’s loquacity always at our
devotion!”
“Ah, madam!” cried he, laughing, “there is no permanency, no
consistency in the world! no, not even in the tongue of a VOLUBLE!
and if that fails, upon what may we depend?”
“But seriously,” said Cecilia, “I am sorry I have offended her, and
the more because I so little know how, that I can offer her no
apology.”
“Will you appoint me your envoy? Shall I demand the cause of these
hostilities?”
She thanked him, and he followed Miss Larolles; who was now
addressing herself with great earnestness to Mr Meadows, the
gentleman with whom she was conversing when Cecilia first saw her in
Portman Square. He stopt a moment to let her finish her speech,
which, with no little spirit, she did in these words, “I never knew
anything like it in my life; but I shan’t put up with such airs, I
assure her!”
Mr Meadows made not any other return to her harangue, but stretching
himself with a languid smile, and yawning: Mr Gosport, therefore,
seizing the moment of cessation, said, “Miss Larolles, I hear a
strange report about you.”
“Do you?” returned she, with quickness, “pray what is it? something
monstrous impertinent, I dare say,—however, I assure you it i’n’t
true.”
“Your assurance,” cried he, “carries conviction indisputable, for
the report was that you had left off talking.”
“O, was that all?” cried she, disappointed, “I thought it had been
something about Mr Sawyer, for I declare I have been plagued so
about him, I am quite sick of his name.”
“And for my part, I never heard it! so fear nothing from me upon his
account.”
“Lord, Mr Gosport, how can you say so? I am sure you must know about
the Festino that night, for it was all over the town in a moment.”
“What festino?”
“Well, only conceive, how provoking!—why, I know nothing else was
talked of for a month!”
“You are most formidably stout this morning! it is not two minutes
since I saw you fling the gauntlet at Miss Beverley, and yet you are
already prepared for another antagonist.”
“O as to Miss Beverley, I must really beg you not to mention her;
she has behaved so impertinently, that I don’t intend ever to speak
to her again.”
“Why, what has she done?”
“O she’s been so rude you’ve no notion. I’ll tell you how it was.
You must know I met her at Mrs Barrel’s the day she came to town,
and the very next morning I waited on her myself, for I would not
send a ticket, because I really wished to be civil to her; well, the
day after, she never came near me, though I called upon her again;
however, I did not take any notice of that; but when the third day
came, and I found she had not even sent me a ticket, I thought it
monstrous ill bred indeed; and now there has passed more than a
week, and yet she has never called: so I suppose she don’t like me;
so I shall drop her acquaintance.”
Mr Gosport, satisfied now with the subject of her complaint,
returned to Cecilia, and informed her of the heavy charge which was
brought against her.
“I am glad, at least, to know my crime,” said she, “for otherwise I
should certainly have sinned on in ignorance, as I must confess I
never thought of returning her visits: but even if I had, I should
not have supposed I had yet lost much time.”
“I beg your pardon there,” said Mrs Harrel; “a first visit ought to
be returned always by the third day.”
“Then have I an unanswerable excuse,” said Cecilia, “for I remember
that on the third day I saw her at your house.”
“O that’s nothing at all to the purpose; you should have waited upon
her, or sent her a ticket, just the same as if you had not seen
her.”
The overture was now begun, and Cecilia declined any further
conversation. This was the first Opera she had ever heard, yet she
was not wholly a stranger to Italian compositions, having
assiduously studied music from a natural love of the art, attended
all the best concerts her neighbourhood afforded, and regularly
received from London the works of the best masters. But the little
skill she had thus gained, served rather to increase than to lessen
the surprize with which she heard the present performance,—a
surprize of which the discovery of her own ignorance made not the
least part. Unconscious from the little she had acquired how much
was to be learnt, she was astonished to find the inadequate power of
written music to convey any idea of vocal abilities: with just
knowledge enough, therefore, to understand something of the
difficulties, and feel much of the merit, she gave to the whole
Opera an avidity of attention almost painful from its own eagerness.
But both the surprize and the pleasure which she received from the
performance in general, were faint, cold, and languid, compared to
the strength of those emotions when excited by Signore Pacchierotti
in particular; and though not half the excellencies of that superior
singer were necessary either to amaze or charm her unaccustomed
ears, though the refinement of his taste and masterly originality of
his genius, to be praised as they deserved, called for the judgment
and knowledge of professors, yet a natural love of music in some
measure supplied the place of cultivation, and what she could
neither explain nor understand, she could feel and enjoy.
The opera was Artaserse; and the pleasure she received from the
music was much augmented by her previous acquaintance with that
interesting drama; yet, as to all noviciates in science, whatever is
least complicated is most pleasing, she found herself by nothing so
deeply impressed, as by the plaintive and beautiful simplicity with
which Pacchierotti uttered the affecting repetition of sono
innocente! his voice, always either sweet or impassioned,
delivered those words in a tone of softness, pathos, and
sensibility, that struck her with a sensation not more new than
delightful.
But though she was, perhaps, the only person thus astonished, she
was by no means the only one enraptured; for notwithstanding she was
too earnestly engaged to remark the company in general, she could
not avoid taking notice of an old gentleman who stood by one of the
side scenes, against which he leant his head in a manner that
concealed his face, with an evident design to be wholly absorbed in
listening: and during the songs of Pacchierotti he sighed so deeply
that Cecilia, struck by his uncommon sensibility to the power of
music, involuntarily watched him, whenever her mind was sufficiently
at liberty to attend to any emotions but its own.
As soon as the rehearsal was over, the gentlemen of Mrs Harrel’s
party crowded before her box; and Cecilia then perceived that the
person whose musical enthusiasm had excited her curiosity, was the
same old gentleman whose extraordinary behaviour had so much
surprized her at the house of Mr Monckton. Her desire to obtain some
information concerning him again reviving, she was beginning to make
fresh enquiries, when she was interrupted by the approach of Captain
Aresby.
That gentleman, advancing to her with a smile of the extremest self-complacency, after hoping, in a low voice, he had the honour of
seeing her well, exclaimed, “How wretchedly empty is the town!
petrifying to a degree! I believe you do not find yourself at
present obsede by too much company?”
“At present, I believe the contrary!” cried Mr Gosport.
“Really!” said the Captain, unsuspicious of his sneer, “I protest I
have hardly seen a soul. Have you tried the Pantheon yet, ma’am?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor I; I don’t know whether people go there this year. It is not a
favourite spectacle with me; that sitting to hear the music
is a horrid bore. Have you done the Festino the honour to look in
there yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Permit me, then, to have the honour to beg you will try it.”
“O, ay, true,” cried Mrs Harrel; “I have really used you very ill
about that; I should have got you in for a subscriber: but Lord, I
have done nothing for you yet, and you never put me in mind. There’s
the ancient music, and Abel’s concert;—as to the opera, we may have
a box between us;—but there’s the ladies’ concert we must try for;
and there’s—O Lord, fifty other places we must think of!”
“Oh times of folly and dissipation!” exclaimed a voice at some
distance; “Oh mignons of idleness and luxury! What next will ye
invent for the perdition of your time! How yet further will ye
proceed in the annihilation of virtue!”
Everybody stared; but Mrs Harrel coolly said, “Dear, it’s only the
man-hater!”
“The man-hater?” repeated Cecilia, who found that the speech was
made by the object of her former curiosity; “is that the name by
which he is known?”
“He is known by fifty names,” said Mr Monckton; “his friends call
him the moralist; the young ladies, the crazy-man; the
macaronies, the bore; in short, he is called by any and every
name but his own.”
“He is a most petrifying wretch, I assure you,” said the Captain; “I
am obsede by him partout; if I had known he had been
so near, I should certainly have said nothing.”
“That you have done so well,” cried Mr Gosport, “that if you had
known it the whole time, you could have done it no better.”
The Captain, who had not heard this speech, which was rather made at
him than to him, continued his address to Cecilia; “Give me leave to
have the honour of hoping you intend to honour our select masquerade
at the Pantheon with your presence. We shall have but five hundred
tickets, and the subscription will only be three guineas and a
half.”
“Oh objects of penury and want!” again exclaimed the incognito; “Oh
vassals of famine and distress! Come and listen to this wantonness
of wealth! Come, naked and breadless as ye are, and learn how that
money is consumed which to you might bring raiment and food!”
“That strange wretch,” said the Captain, “ought really to be
confined; I have had the honour to be degoute by him so
often, that I think him quite obnoxious. I make it quite a principle
to seal up my lips the moment I perceive him.”
“Where is it, then,” said Cecilia, “that you have so often met him?”
“O,” answered the Captain, “partout; there is no greater bore
about town. But the time I found him most petrifying was once when I
happened to have the honour of dancing with a very young lady, who
was but just come from a boarding-school, and whose friends had done
me the honour to fix upon me upon the principle of first bringing
her out: and while I was doing mon possible for killing the
time, he came up, and in his particular manner, told her I had no
meaning in any thing I said! I must own I never felt more tempted to
be enrage with a person in years, in my life.”
Mr Arnott now brought the ladies word that their carriage was ready,
and they quitted their box: but as Cecilia had never before seen the
interior parts of a theatre, Mr Monckton, hoping while they loitered
to have an opportunity of talking with her, asked Morrice why he did
not shew the lions? Morrice, always happy in being employed,
declared it was just the thing he liked best, and begged
permission to do the honours to Mrs Harrel, who, ever eager in the
search of amusement, willingly accepted his offer.
They all, therefore, marched upon the stage, their own party now
being the only one that remained.
“We shall make a triumphal entry here,” cried Sir Robert Floyer;
“the very tread of the stage half tempts me to turn actor.”
“You are a rare man,” said Mr Gosport, “if, at your time of life,
that is a turn not already taken.”
“My time of life!” repeated he; “what do you mean by that? do you
take me for an old man?”
“No, sir, but I take you to be past childhood, and consequently to
have served your apprenticeship to the actors you have mixed with on
the great stage of the world, and, for some years at least, to have
set up for yourself.”
“Come,” cried Morrice, “let’s have a little spouting; ’twill make us
warm.”
“Yes,” said Sir Robert, “if we spout to an animating object. If Miss
Beverley will be Juliet, I am Romeo at her service.”
At this moment the incognito, quitting the corner in which he had
planted himself, came suddenly forward, and standing before the
whole group, cast upon Cecilia a look of much compassion, and called
out, “Poor simple victim! hast thou already so many pursuers? yet
seest not that thou art marked for sacrifice! yet knowest not that
thou art destined for prey!”
Cecilia, extremely struck by this extraordinary address, stopt short
and looked much disturbed: which, when he perceived, he added, “Let
the danger, not the warning affect you! discard the sycophants that
surround you, seek the virtuous, relieve the poor, and save yourself
from the impending destruction of unfeeling prosperity!”
Having uttered these words with vehemence and authority, he sternly
passed them, and disappeared.
Cecilia, too much astonished for speech, stood for some time
immoveable, revolving in her mind various conjectures upon the
meaning of an exhortation so strange and so urgent.
Nor was the rest of the company much less discomposed: Sir Robert,
Mr Monckton, and Mr Arnott, each conscious of their own particular
plans, were each apprehensive that the warning pointed at himself:
Mr Gosport was offended at being included in the general appellation
of sycophants; Mrs Harrel was provoked at being interrupted in her
ramble; and Captain Aresby, sickening at the very sight of him,
retreated the moment he came forth.
“For heaven’s sake,” cried Cecilia, when somewhat recovered from her
consternation, “who can this be, and what can he mean? You, Mr
Monckton, must surely know something of him; it was at your house I
first saw him.”
“Indeed,” answered Mr Monckton, “I knew almost nothing of him then,
and I am but little better informed now. Belfield picked him up
somewhere, and desired to bring him to my house: he called him by
the name of Albany: I found him a most extraordinary character, and
Belfield, who is a worshipper of originality, was very fond of him.”
“He’s a devilish crabbed old fellow,” cried Sir Robert, “and if he
goes on much longer at this confounded rate, he stands a very fair
chance of getting his ears cropped.”
“He is a man of the most singular conduct I have ever met with,”
said Mr Gosport; “he seems to hold mankind in abhorrence, yet he is
never a moment alone, and at the same time that he intrudes himself
into all parties, he associates with none: he is commonly a stern
and silent observer of all that passes, or when he speaks, it is but
to utter some sentence of rigid morality, or some bitterness of
indignant reproof.”
The carriage was now again announced, and Mr Monckton taking
Cecilia’s hand, while Mr Morrice secured to himself the honour of
Mrs Harrel’s, Sir Robert and Mr Gosport made their bows and
departed. But though they had now quitted the stage, and arrived at
the head of a small stair case by which they were to descend out of
the theatre, Mr Monckton, finding all his tormentors retired, except
Mr Arnott, whom he hoped to elude, could not resist making one more
attempt for a few moments’ conversation with Cecilia; and therefore,
again applying to Morrice, he called out, “I don’t think you have
shewn the ladies any of the contrivances behind the scenes?”
“True,” cried Morrice, “no more I have; suppose we go back?”
“I shall like it vastly,” said Mrs Harrel; and back they returned.
Mr Monckton now soon found an opportunity to say to Cecilia, “Miss
Beverley, what I foresaw has exactly come to pass; you are
surrounded by selfish designers, by interested, double-minded
people, who have nothing at heart but your fortune, and whose
mercenary views, if you are not guarded against them—”
Here a loud scream from Mrs Harrel interrupted his speech; Cecilia,
much alarmed, turned from him to enquire the cause, and Mr Monckton
was obliged to follow her example: but his mortification was almost
intolerable when he saw that lady in a violent fit of laughter, and
found her scream was only occasioned by seeing Mr Morrice, in his
diligence to do the honours, pull upon his own head one of the side
scenes!
There was now no possibility of proposing any further delay; but Mr
Monckton, in attending the ladies to their carriage, was obliged to
have recourse to his utmost discretion and forbearance, in order to
check his desire of reprimanding Morrice for his blundering
officiousness.
Dressing, dining with company at home, and then going out with
company abroad, filled up, as usual, the rest of the day.
Nguồn: Wikisource English — Cecilia (Burney)/Book 1/Chapter viii. Văn bản được nhập và định dạng lại; CC BY-SA 4.0, có thể áp dụng điều khoản bổ sung của tác phẩm.