Diaries
(Selections)

[Burney begins her diary]

Poland Street, London, March 27, 1768

To have some account of my thoughts, manners, acquaintance and actions, when the hour arrives at which time is more nimble than memory, is the reason which induces me to keep a journal: a journal in which I must confess my every thought, must open my whole heart! But a thing of this kind ought to be addressed to somebody — I must imagine myself to be talking — talking to the most intimate of friends — to one in whom I should take delight in confiding, and feel remorse in concealment: but who must this friend be? — to make choice of one to whom I can but half rely, would be to frustrate entirely the intention of my plan. The only one I could wholly, totally confide in, lives in the same house with me, and not only never has, but never will, leave me one secret to tell her. To whom, then must I dedicate my wonderful, surprising and interesting adventures? — to whom dare I reveal my private opinion of my nearest relations? the secret thoughts of my dearest friends? my own hopes, fears, reflections and dislikes — Nobody!

To Nobody, then, will I write my Journal! since To Nobody can I be wholly unreserved — to Nobody can I reveal every thought, every wish of my heart, with the most unlimited confidence, the most unremitting sincerity to the end of my life! For what chance, what accident can end my connections with Nobody? No secret can I conceal from No — body, and to No — body can I be ever unreserved. Disagreement cannot stop our affection, Time itself has no power to end our friendship. The love, the esteem I entertain for Nobody, No-body’s self has not power to destroy. From Nobody I have nothing to fear, the secrets sacred to friendship, Nobody will not reveal, when the affair is doubtful, Nobody will not look towards the side least favourable. —

I will suppose you, then, to be my best friend; tho’ God forbid you ever should! my dearest companion — and a romantick girl, for mere oddity may perhaps be more sincere — more tender — than if you were a friend in propria personae° — in as much as imagination often exceeds reality. In your breast my errors may create pity without exciting contempt; may raise your compassion, without eradicating your love.

From this moment, then, my dear girl — but why, permit me to ask, must a female be made Nobody? Ah! my dear, what were this world good for, were Nobody a female? And now I have done with perambulation.°

[Burney rejects a proposal of marriage]

About 2 o’clock, while I was dawdling in the study, and waiting for an opportunity to speak, John came in, and said “A gentleman is below, who asks for Miss Burney, — Mr. Barlow.”

I think I was never more distressed in my life — to have taken pains to avoid a private conversation so highly disagreeable to me, and at last to be forced into it at so unfavourable a juncture,° — for I had now 2 letters from him, both unanswered and consequently open to his conjectures. I exclaimed “Lord! — how provoking!° what shall I do?”

My father looked uneasy and perplexed: — he said something about not being hasty, which I did not desire him to explain. Terrified lest he should hint at the advantage of an early establishment° — like Mr. Crisp° — quick from the study — but slow enough afterwards — I went down stairs. — I saw my mother pass from the front into the back parlour; which did not add to the graciousness of my reception of poor Mr. Barlow, who I found alone in the front parlor. I was not sorry that none of the family were there, as I now began to seriously dread any protraction° of this affair. He came up to me, and with an air of tenderness and satisfaction, began some anxious enquiries about my health, but I interrupted him with saying “I fancy,° sir, you have not received a letter I — I——”

I stopt, for I could not say which I had sent!

“A letter? — no, ma’am!”

“You will have it, then, to-morrow, sir.”

We were both silent for a minute or two, when he said “In consequence, I presume, ma’am, of the one I —”

“Yes, sir!” cried I.

“And pray° — ma’am — Miss Burney! — may I — beg to ask the contents? that is — the — the —” he could not go on.

“Sir — I — it was only — it was merely — in short, you will see it tomorrow.”

“But if you would favor me with the contents now, I could perhaps answer it at once?”

“Sir, it requires no answer!”

A second silence ensued. I was really distressed myself to see his distress, which was very apparent. After some time, he stammered out something of hoping — and beseeching, — which, gathering more firmness, I announced — “I am much obliged to you, sir, for the too good opinion you are pleased to have of me — but I should be sorry you should lose any more time upon my account — as I have no thoughts at all of changing my situation and abode.”

He remonstrated° very earnestly. “This is the severest decision! — Surely you must allow that the social state is what we were all meant for? — that we were created for one another? — that to form such a resolution is contrary to the design of our being? —”

“All this may be true, —” said I; — “I have nothing to say in contradiction to it — but you know there are many odd characters in the world — and perhaps I am one of them.”

“O no, no, no, — that can never be! — but is it possible you can have so bad an opinion of the married state? It seems to me the only state for happiness! —”

“Well, sir, you are attached to the married life — I am to the single — therefore, every man in his humor — do you follow your opinion, — and let me follow mine.”

“But surely — is not this — singular?° —”

“I give you leave,° sir,” cried I, laughing, “to think me singular — odd — queer — nay, even whimsical, if you please.”

“But, my dear Miss Burney, only —”

“I entreat° you, sir, to take my answer — You really pain me by being so urgent. —”

“That would not I do for the world! — I only beg you to suffer° me — perhaps in future —”

“No, indeed; I shall never change — I do assure you you will find me very obstinate!”°

He began to lament his own destiny. I grew extremely tired of saying so often the same thing; — but I could not absolutely turn him out of the house, and indeed he seemed so dejected and unhappy, that I made it my study to soften my refusal as much as I could without leaving room for future expectation.

About this time, my mother came in. We both rose. — I was horridly provoked at my situation —

“I am only come in for a letter,” cried she, — “pray° don’t let me disturb you. —” And away she went.

This could not but be encouraging to him, for she was no sooner gone, than he began again the same story, and seemed determined not to give up his cause. He hoped, at least, that I would allow him to enquire after my health? —

“I must beg you, sir, to send me no more letters.”

He seemed much hurt.

“You had better, sir, think of me no more — if you study° your own happiness —”

“I do study my own happiness — more than I have ever had any probability of doing before —!”

“You have made an unfortunate choice, sir; but you will find it easier to forget it than you imagine. You have only to suppose I was not at Mr. Burney’s on May Day — and it was a mere chance my being there — and then you will be —”

“But if I could — could I also forget seeing you at old Mrs. Burney’s? — and if I did — can I forget that I see you now? —”

“O yes! — in 3 months time you may forget you ever knew me. You will not find it so difficult as you suppose.”

“You have heard, ma’am, of an old man being growed young? — perhaps you believe that? — But you will not deny me leave to sometimes see you? —”

“My father, sir, is seldom, — hardly ever, indeed, at home —”

“I have never seen the doctor — but I hope he would not refuse me permission to enquire after your health? I have no wish without his consent.”

“Though I acknowledge myself to be singular° I would not have you think me either affected° or trifiing,° — and therefore I must assure you that I am fixed in the answer I have given you; unalterably fixed.”

He then took his leave: — returned back — took leave — and returned again: — I now made a more formal reverence of the head, at the same time expressing my good wishes for his welfare, in a sort of way that implied I expected never to see him again — he would fain° have taken a more tender leave of me, — but I repulsed him with great surprise and displeasure. I did not, however, as he was so terribly sorrowful, refuse him my hand, which he had made sundry° vain attempts to take in the course of our conversation; but when I withdrew it, as I did presently,° I rang the bell,° to prevent him again returning from the door.

Though I was really sorry for the unfortunate and misplaced attachment which this young man professes for me, yet I could almost have jumped for joy when he was gone, to think that the affair was thus finally over. Indeed I think it hardly possible for a woman to be in a more irksome° situation, than when rejecting a worthy man who is all humility, respect and submission, and who throws himself and his fortune at her feet.

The next day — a day the remembrance of which will be never erased from my memory — my father first spoke to me in favor of Mr. Barlow! and desired° me not to be peremptory° in the answer I had still to write, though it was to appear written previously.

I scarce made any answer — I was terrified to death — I felt the utter impossibility of resisting not merely my father’s persuasion, but even his advice. — I felt, too, that I had no argumentative objections to make to Mr. Barlow, his character — disposition — situation — I knew nothing against — but O! — I felt he was no companion for my heart! — I wept like an infant when alone — eat nothing — seemed as if already married — and passed the whole day in more misery than, merely on my own account, I ever passed one before in my life, — except when a child, upon the loss of my own beloved mother — and ever revered and most dear grandmother!

After supper, I went into the study, while my dear father was alone, to wish him good night, which I did as cheerfully as I could, though pretty evidently in dreadful uneasiness. When I had got to the door, he called me back, and asked some questions concerning a new court mourning, kindly saying he would assist Susette° and me in our fitting-out, which he accordingly did, and affectionately embraced me, saying “I wish I could do more for thee, Fanny!” “O Sir! —” cried I — “I wish for nothing! — only let me live with you! —” — “My life!” cried he, kissing me kindly, “Thee shalt live with me for ever, if thee wilt! Thou canst not think I meant to get rid of thee?”

“I could not, sir! I could not!” cried I, “I could not outlive such a thought —” and, as I kissed him — O! how gratefully and thankfully! with what a relief to my heart! I saw his dear eyes full of tears! a mark of his tenderness which I shall never forget!

“God knows” — continued he — “I wish not to part with my girls! — they are my greatest comfort! — only — do not be too hasty! —”

Thus relieved, restored to future hopes, I went to bed as light, happy and thankful as if escaped from destruction.

From that day to this, my father, I thank heaven, has never again mentioned Mr. Barlow.

[A conversation with Samuel Johnson]

Streatham, September 15, 1778

I was then looking over the “Life of Cowley,”° which he had himself given me to read, at the same time that he gave to Mrs. Thrale° that of Waller. They are now printed, though they will not be published for some time. But he bade° me put it away.

“Do,” cried he, “put away that now, and prattle° with us; I can’t make this little Burney prattle, and I am sure she prattles well; but I shall teach her another lesson than to sit thus silent before I have done with her.”

“To talk,” cried I, “is the only lesson I shall be backward° to learn from you, sir.”

Mrs. Thrale. “To morrow, Sir, Mrs. Montagu° dines here! and then you will have talk enough.”

Dr. Johnson began to seesaw, with a countenance strongly expressive of inward fun, — and, after enjoying it some time in silence, he suddenly, and with great animation, turned to me, and cried “Down with her, Burney! — down with her! — spare her not! attack her, fight her, and down with her at once! — You are a rising wit, — she is at the top, — and when I was beginning the world, and was nothing and nobody, the joy of my life was to fire at all the established wits! — and then, every body loved to hallow° me on; — but there is no game now, and now, every body would be glad to see me conquered: but then, when I was new, — to vanquish the great ones was all the delight of my poor little dear soul! — So at her, Burney! — at her, and down with her!”

O how we were all amused! By the way, I must tell you that Mrs. Montagu is in very great estimation° here, even with Dr. Johnson himself, when others do not praise her improperly: Mrs Thrale ranks her as the first of women, in the literary way.

I should have told you that Miss Gregory, daughter of the Gregory who wrote the “Letters,” or, “Legacy of Advice,” lives with Mrs. Montagu, and was invited to accompany her.

“Mark,° now,” said Dr. Johnson, “if I contradict her tomorrow. I am determined, let her say what she will, that I will not contradict her.”

Mrs. T. — Why, to be sure, sir, you did put her a little out of countenance° last time she came. Yet you were neither rough, nor cruel, nor ill-natured; but still, when a lady changes color, we imagine her feelings are not quite composed.

Dr. J. — Why, madam, I won’t answer° that I shan’t contradict her again, if she provokes me as she did then; but a less provocation I will withstand. I believe I am not high in her good graces already; and I begin (added he, laughing heartily) to tremble for my admission into her new house. I doubt I shall never see the inside of it.

(Mrs. Montagu is building a most superb house.)

Mrs. T. — Oh, I warrant° you, she fears you, indeed; but that, you know, is nothing uncommon; and dearly I love to hear your disquisitions;° for certainly she is the first woman for literary knowledge in England, and if in England, I hope I may say in the world.

Dr. J. — I believe you may, madam. She diffuses more knowledge in her conversation than any woman I know, or, indeed, almost any man.

Mrs. T. — I declare I know no man equal to her, take away° yourself and Burke, for that art.° And you who love magnificence, won’t quarrel with her, as everybody else does, for her love of finery.°

Dr. J. — No, I shall not quarrel with her upon that topic. (Then, looking earnestly at me,) “Nay,” he added, “it’s very handsome!”

“What, sir?” cried I, amazed.

“Why, your cap: — I have looked at it some time, and I like it much. It has not that vile bandeau° across it, which I have so often cursed.”

Did you ever hear anything so strange? nothing escapes him. My Daddy Crisp is not more minute in his attentions: nay, I think he is even less so.

Mrs. T. — Well, sir, that bandeau you quarreled with was worn by every woman at court the last birthday,° and I observed that all the men found fault with it.

Dr. J. — The truth is, women, take them in general, have no idea of grace. Fashion is all they think of. I don’t mean Mrs. Thrale and Miss Burney, when I talk of women! — they are goddesses! — and therefore I except them.

Mrs. T. — Lady Ladd never wore the bandeau, and said she never would, because it is unbecoming.°

Dr. J. — (Laughing.) Did not she? then is Lady Ladd a charming woman, and I have yet hopes of entering into engagements° with her!

Mrs. T. — Well, as to that I can’t say; but to be sure, the only similitude I have yet discovered in you, is in size: there you agree mighty well.

Dr. J. — Why, if anybody could have worn the bandeau, it must have been Lady Ladd; for there is enough of her to carry it off; but you are too little for anything ridiculous; that which seems nothing upon a Patagonian,° will become very conspicuous upon a Lilliputian,° and of you there is so little in all, that one single absurdity would swallow up half of you.

Some time after, when we had all been a few minutes wholly silent, he turned to me and said:

“Come, Burney, shall you and I study our parts against Mrs. Montagu comes?”

“Miss Burney,” cried Mr. Thrale, “you must get up your courage for this encounter! I think you should begin with Miss Gregory; and down with her first.”

Dr. J. — No, no, always fly at the eagle! down with Mrs. Montagu herself! I hope she will come full of “Evelina”!°

[Miss White]

Bath,° June 1780

Miss White is young and pleasing in her appearance, not pretty, but agreeable in her face, and soft, gentle and well bred in her manners. Our conversation, for some time, was upon the common Bath topics, — but when Mrs. Lambart left us, — called to receive more company, we went, insensibly,° into graver matters.

As I soon found, by the looks and expressions of this young lady, that she was of a peculiar cast, I left all choice of subjects to herself, determined quietly to follow as she led. And very soon, and I am sure I know not how, we had for topics the follies and vices of mankind, — and indeed she spared not for lashing them! — The women she rather excused than defended, laying° to the door of the men their faults and imperfections; — but the men, she said, were all bad, — all, in one word, and without exception, sensualists.

I stared much at a severity of speech for which her softness of manner had so ill prepared me, — and she, perceiving my surprise, said “I am sure I ought to apologise for speaking my opinion to you, — you, who have so just and so uncommon a knowledge of human nature, — I have long wished ardently to have the honour of conversing with you, — but your party has, altogether, been regarded as so formidable, that I have not had courage to approach it.”

I made, as what could I do else, disqualifying speeches, and she then led to discoursing of happiness and misery; — the latter she held to be the invariable lot° of us all, — and “one word,” she added, “we have in our language, and in all other, for which there is never any essential necessity, — and that is pleasure.” And her eyes filled with tears as she spoke.

“How you amaze me!” cried I: “I have met with misanthropes before, but never with so complete a one, — and I can hardly think I hear right when I see how young you are.”

She then, in rather indirect terms, gave me to understand that she was miserable at home, — and in very direct terms that she was wretched abroad,° and openly said that to affliction she was born, and in affliction she must die, for that the world was so vilely formed as to render happiness impossible for its inhabitants.

There was something in this freedom of repining° that I could by no means approve, and as I found by all her manner that she had a disposition to even respect what ever I said, why I now grew very serious, and frankly told her that I could not think it consistent with either truth or religion to cherish such notions.

“One thing,” answered she, “there is which I believe might make me happy, — but for that I have no inclination; — it is an amorous disposition. But that I do not possess; I can make myself no happiness by intrigue.” “I hope not, indeed!” cried I, almost confounded by her extraordinary notions and speeches, — “but surely there are worthier subjects of happiness attainable.” —

“No, I believe there are not, — and the reason the men are happier than us, is because they are more sensual.”

“I would not think such thoughts,” cried I, clasping my hands with an involuntary vehemence, “for worlds!” —

The Miss Caldwells then interrupted us, and seated themselves next to us, — but Miss White paid them little attention at first, and soon after none at all, but, in a low voice, continued her discourse with me; recurring to the same subject of happiness and misery, upon which, after again asserting the folly of ever hoping for the former, she made this speech —

“There may be, indeed, one moment of happiness, — which must be the finding one worthy of exciting a passion which one should dare own to himself! That would, indeed, be a moment worth living for! but that can never happen, — I am sure not to me, — the men are so low, so vicious, — so worthless! — no, there is not one such to be found.”

“Well, — you are a most extraordinary character indeed! I must confess I have seen nothing like you!”

“I hope, however, I shall find something like myself, — and, like the magnet rolling in the dust, attract some metal as I go.”

“That you may attract what you please, is of all things most likely; — but if you wait to be happy for a friend resembling yourself, I shall no longer wonder at your despondency.”°

“O!” cried she, raising her eyes in ecstasy, “could I find such a one! — male or female, — for sex would be indifferent to me, with such a one I would go to live directly.”

I half laughed, — but was perplexed in my own mind whether to be sad or merry at such a speech.

“But then,” she continued, “after making — should I lose such a friend — I would not survive!”

“Not survive?” repeated I; “what can you mean?”

She looked down, but said nothing.

“Surely you cannot mean,” said I, very gravely indeed, “to put a violent end to your life?”

“I should not,” said she, again looking up, “hesitate a moment.”

I was quite thunderstruck, — and for some time could not say a word; — but when I did speak, it was in a style of exhortation° so serious and earnest I am ashamed to write it to you lest you should think it too much.

She gave me an attention that was even respectful, but when I urged her to tell me by what right she thought herself entitled to rush unlicensed on Eternity, she said — “By the right of believing I shall be extinct.”

I really felt horror’d!

“Where, for heaven’s sake,” I cried, “where have you picked up such dreadful reasoning?”

“In Hume,” said she; — “I have read his Essays repeatedly.”

“I am sorry to find they have power to do so much mischief; you should not have read them, at least, till a man equal to Hume in abilities had answered him. Have you read any more infidel° writers?”

“Yes, — Bolingbroke, — the divinest of all writers!”

“And do you read nothing upon the right side?”

“Yes, — the Bible, till I was sick to death of it, every Sunday evening to my mother.”

“Have you read Beattie on the immutability of Truth?”

“No.”

“Give me leave,° then, to recommend it to you. After Hume’s Essays, you ought to read it. And even, for lighter reading, if you were to look at Mason’s elegy on Lady Coventry, it might be of no disservice to you.”

This was the chief of our conversation, — which indeed made an impression upon me I shall not easily get rid of, a young and agreeable infidel is even a shocking sight, — and with her romantic, flighty and unguarded turn of mind, what could happen to her that could surprise?

Poor misguided girl!

[Burney meets the King]

Kew Palace, Monday February 2, 1789

What an adventure had I this morning! one that has occasioned me the severest personal terror I ever experienced in my life.

Sir Lucas Pepys still persisting that exercise and air were absolutely necessary to save me from illness, I have continued my walks, varying my gardens from Richmond to Kew, according to the accounts I received of the movements of the King. For this I had her majesty’s permission, on the representation of Sir Lucas.

This morning, when I received my intelligence of the king, from Dr. John Willis, I begged to know where I might walk in safety? In Kew Garden, he said, as the king would be in Richmond.

“Should any unfortunate circumstance,” I cried, “at any time, occasion my being seen by his majesty, do not mention my name, but let me run off, without call or notice.”

This he promised. Everybody, indeed, is ordered to keep out of sight. Taking, therefore, the time I had most at command, I strolled into the garden; I had proceeded, in my quick way, nearly half the round, when I suddenly perceived, through some trees, two or three figures. Relying on the instructions of Dr. John, I concluded them to be workmen, and gardeners; — yet tried to look sharp, — and in so doing, as they were less shaded, I thought I saw the person of his majesty!

Alarmed past all possible expression, I waited not to know more, but turning back, ran off with all my might — But what was my terror to hear myself pursued! — to hear the voice of the king himself, loudly and hoarsely calling after me “Miss Burney! Miss Burney! —”

I protest I was ready to die; — I knew not in what state he might be at the time; I only knew the orders to keep out of his way were universal; that the queen would highly disapprove any unauthorised meeting, and that the very action of my running away might deeply, in his present irritable state, offend him.

Nevertheless, on I ran, — too terrified to stop, and in search of some short passage, for the garden is full of little labyrinths, by which I might escape. The steps still pursued me, and still the poor hoarse and altered voice rang in my ears: — more and more footsteps resounded frightfully behind me, — the attendants all running, to catch their eager master, and the voices of the two Doctor Willises loudly exhorting him not to heat himself so unmercifully. Heavens how I ran! — I do not think I should have felt the hot lava from Vesuvius, — at least not the hot cinders, had I so ran during its eruption. My feet were not sensible that they even touched the ground.

Soon after, I heard other voices, shriller though less nervous, call out “Stop! Stop! — Stop! —”

I could by no means consent, — I knew not what was purposed, — but I recollected fully my agreement with Dr. John that very morning, that I should decamp if surprised, and not be named.

My own fears and repugnance, also, after a flight and disobedience like this, were doubled in the thought of not escaping; I knew not to what I might be exposed, should the malady be then high, and take the turn of resentment.

Still, therefore, on I flew, — and such was my speed, so almost incredible to relate, or recollect, that I fairly believe no one of the whole party could have overtaken me, if these words, from one of the attendants, had not reached me: “Dr. Willis begs you to stop! —”

“I cannot! — I cannot! —” I answered, still flying on, — when he called out “You must, ma’am, it hurts the king to run. —”

Then, indeed, I stopt! — in a state of fear really amounting to agony! — I turned round, — I saw the two doctors had got the king between them, and about 8 attendants of Dr. Willis’s were hovering about. They all slacked their pace, as they saw me stand still, — but such was the excess of my alarm, that I was wholly insensible to the effects of a race which, at any other time, would have required an hour’s recruit.°

As they approached, some little presence of mind happily came to my command; it occurred to me that, to appease the wrath of my flight, I must now show some confidence; I therefore faced them as undauntedly as I was able, — only charging the nearest of the attendants to stand by my side. When they were within a few yards of me, the king called out “Why did you run away? —”

Shocked at a question impossible to answer, yet a little assured by the mild tone of his voice, I instantly forced myself forward, to meet him — though the internal sensation which satisfied me this was a step the most proper, to appease his suspicions and displeasure, was so violently combated by the tremor of my nerves, that I fairly think I may reckon it the greatest effort of personal courage I have ever made.

The effort answered, — I looked up, and met all his wonted benignity of countenance, though something still of wildness in his eyes. Think, however, of my surprise, to feel him put both his hands round my two shoulders, and then kiss my cheek! — I wonder I did not really sink, so exquisite was my affright when I saw him spread out his arms! — Involuntarily, I concluded he meant to crush me: — but the Willises, who have never seen him till this fatal illness, not knowing how very extraordinary an action this was from him, simply smiled and looked pleased, supposing, perhaps, it was his customary salutation!°

I have reason, however, to believe it was but the joy of a heart unbridled, now, by the forms and proprieties of established custom, and sober reason. He looked almost in rapture at the meeting, from the moment I advanced; and to see any of his house hold thus by accident, seemed such a near approach to liberty and recovery, that who can wonder it should serve rather to elate° than lessen what yet remains of his disorder?° —

He now spoke in such terms of his pleasure in seeing me, that I soon lost the whole of my terror, though it had threatened to almost lose me: astonishment to find him so nearly well, and gratification to see him so pleased, removed every uneasy feeling, and the joy that succeeded, in my conviction of his recovery, made me ready to throw myself at his feet to express it.

What a conversation followed! — when he saw me fearless, he grew more and more alive, and made me walk close by his side, away from the attendants, and even the Willises themselves, who, to indulge him, retreated. I own myself not completely composed, but alarm I could entertain no more. —

Everything that came uppermost in his mind he mentioned; he seemed to have just such remains of his flightiness, as heated his imagination, without deranging his reason, and robbed him of all control over his speech, though nearly in his perfect state of mind as to his opinions.

What did he not say! — He opened his whole heart to me, — expounded all his sentiments, and acquainted me with all his intentions.

He next talked to me a great deal of my dear father, and made a thousand inquiries concerning his history of music.° This brought him to his favorite theme, Handel;° and he told me innumerable anecdotes of him, and particularly that celebrated tale of Handel’s saying of himself, when a boy, “While that boy lives, my music will never want a protector —” And this, he said, I might relate to my father.

Then he ran over most of his oratorios,° attempting to sing the subjects of several airs° and choruses, but so dreadfully hoarse, that the sound was terrible.

Dr. Willis, quite alarmed at this exertion, feared he would do himself harm, and again proposed a separation. “No! no! no!” he exclaimed, “not yet, — I have something I must just mention first.”

Dr. Willis, delighted to comply, even when uneasy at compliance, again gave way.

The good king then greatly affected me, — he began upon my revered old friend, Mrs. Delany! — and he spoke of her with such warmth, such kindness: — “She was my friend!” he cried, “and I loved her as a friend! — I have made a memorandum when I lost her! — I will show it you —”

He pulled out a pocketbook,° and rummaged some time, but to no purpose —

The tears stood in his eyes, — he wiped them, — and Dr. Willis again became very anxious, — “Come, sir,” he cried, “now do you come in, and let the lady go on her walk, — come, now you have talked a long while, — so will go in, — if your majesty pleases.”

“No! — no! —” he cried, “I want to ask her a few questions, — I have lived so long out of the world, I know nothing! —”

This touched me to the heart.

What a scene! how variously was I affected by it! — but, upon the whole, how inexpressibly thankful to see him so nearly himself! so little removed from recovery.

[Burney undergoes a mastectomy]

Paris, March 22, 1812

Separated as I have now so long — long been from my dearest father — brothers — sisters — nieces, and native friends, I would spare, at least, their kind hearts any grief for me but what they must inevitably feel in reflecting upon the sorrow of such an absence to one so tenderly attached to all her first and forever so dear and regretted ties — nevertheless, if they should hear that I have been dangerously ill from any hand but my own, they might have doubts of my perfect recovery which my own alone can obviate.° And how can I hope they will escape hearing what has reached Seville to the south, and Constantinople to the east? from both I have had messages — yet nothing could urge me to this communication till I heard that M. de Boinville had written it to his wife, without any precaution, because in ignorance of my plan of silence. Still I must hope it may never travel to my dearest father — But to you, my beloved Esther, who, living more in the world, will surely hear it ere° long, to you I will write the whole history, certain that, from the moment you know any evil has befallen me your kind kind heart will be constantly anxious to learn its extent and its circumstances, as well as its termination.

About August, in the year 1810, I began to be annoyed by a small pain in my breast, which went on augmenting from week to week, yet, being rather heavy than acute, without causing me any uneasiness with respect to consequences: Alas, “what was the ignorance?” The most sympathizing of partners, however, was more disturbed: not a start, not a wry face, not a movement that indicated pain was unobserved, and he early conceived apprehensions to which I was a stranger. He pressed me to see some surgeon; I revolted from the idea, and hoped, by care and warmth, to make all succor° unnecessary. Thus passed some months, during which Madame de Maisonneuve, my particularly intimate friend, joined with M. d’Arblay to press me to consent to an examination. I thought their fears groundless, and could not make so great a conquest over my repugnance. I relate this false confidence, now, as a warning to my dear Esther — my sisters and nieces, should any similar sensations excite similar alarm. M. d’Arblay now revealed his uneasiness to another of our kind friends, Mme. de Tracy, who wrote to me a long and eloquent letter upon the subject, that began to awaken very unpleasant surmises; and a conference with her ensued, in which her urgency and representations, aided by her long experience of disease, and most miserable existence by art, subdued me, and, most painfully and reluctantly, I ceased to object, and M. d’Arblay summoned a physician — M. Bourdois? Maria will cry; — No, my dear Maria, I would not give your beau frere° that trouble; not him, but Dr. Jouart, the physician of Miss Potts. Thinking but slightly of my statement, he gave me some directions that produced no fruit — on the contrary, I grew worse, and M. d’Arblay now would take no denial to my consulting M. Dubois, who had already attended and cured me in an abscess of which Maria, my dearest Esther, can give you the history. M. Dubois, the most celebrated surgeon of France, was then appointed accoucheur° to the empress, and already lodged in the Tuilleries, and in constant attendance: but nothing could slacken the ardour of M. d’Arblay to obtain the first advice. Fortunately for his kind wishes, M. Dubois had retained a partial regard for me from the time of his former attendance, and, when applied to through a third person, he took the first moment of liberty, granted by a promenade taken by the empress, to come to me. It was now I began to perceive my real danger, M. Dubois gave me a prescription to be pursued for a month, during which time he could not undertake to see me again, and pronounced nothing — but uttered so many charges to me to be tranquil, and to suffer no uneasiness, that I could not but suspect there was room for terrible inquietude.° My alarm was increased by the nonappearance of M. d’Arblay after his departure. They had remained together some time in the book room, and M. d’Arblay did not return — till, unable to bear the suspense, I begged him to come back. He, also, sought then to tranquilize me — but in words only; his looks were shocking! his features, his whole face displayed the bitterest woe. I had not, therefore, much difficulty in telling myself what he endeavored not to tell me — that a small operation would be necessary to avert evil consequences! — Ah, my dearest Esther, for this I felt no courage — my dread and repugnance, from a thousand reasons besides the pain, almost shook all my faculties, and, for some time, I was rather confounded° and stupified° than affrighted. — Direful,° however, was the effect of this interview; the pains became quicker and more violent, and the hardness of the spot affected increased. I took, but vainly, my proscription, and every symptom grew more serious.

A physician was now called° in, Dr. Moreau, to hear if he could suggest any new means: but Dr. Larrey had left him no resources untried. A formal consultation now was held, of Larrey, Ribe, and Moreau — and, in fine,° I was formally condemned to an operation by all three. I was as much astonished as disappointed — for the poor breast was no where discoloured, and not much larger than its healthy neighbor. Yet I felt the evil to be deep, so deep, that I often thought if it could not be dissolved, it could only with life be extirpated.° I called up, however, all the reason I possessed, or could assume, and told them that — if they saw no other alternative, I would not resist their opinion and experience: — the good Dr. Larrey, who, during his long attendance had conceived for me the warmest friendship, had now tears in his eyes; from my dread he had expected resistance.

All hope of escaping this evil now at an end, I could only console or employ my mind in considering how to render it less dreadful to M. d’Arblay. M. Dubois had pronounced “il faut s’attendre à souffrir, Je ne veux pas vous tromper — Vous souffrirez — vous souffrirez beaucoup!° —” M. Ribe had charged° me to cry! to withhold or restrain myself might have seriously bad consequences, he said. M. Moreau, in echoing this injunction, inquired whether I had cried or screamed at the birth of Alexander — Alas, I told him, it had not been possible to do otherwise; Oh then, he answered, there is no fear! — What terrible inferences were here to be drawn! I desired, therefore, that M. d’Arblay might be kept in ignorance of the day till the operation should be over. To this they agreed, except M. Larrey, with high approbation:° M. Larrey looked dissentient,° but was silent. M. Dubois protested he would not undertake to act, after what he had seen of the agitated spirits of M. d’Arblay if he were present: nor would he suffer° me to know the time myself over night; I obtained with difficulty a promise of 4 hours warning, which were essential to me for sundry regulations.

From this time, I assumed the best spirits in my power, to meet the coming blow; — and support my too sympathizing partner.

Sundry necessary works and orders filled up my time entirely till one o’clock, when all was ready — but Dr. Moreau then arrived, with news that M. Dubois could not attend till three. Dr. Aumont went away — and the coast was clear. This, indeed, was a dreadful interval. I had no longer any thing to do — I had only to think — two hours thus spent seemed never-ending. I would fain° have written to my dearest father — to you, my Esther — to Charlotte James — Charles — Amelia Lock — but my arm prohibited me: I strolled to the salon — I saw it fitted with preparations, and I recoiled — But I soon returned; to what effect disguise from myself what I must so soon know? — yet the sight of the immense quantity of bandages, compresses, spunges, lint — made me a little sick: — I walked backwards and forwards till I quieted all emotion, and became by degrees, nearly stupid — torpid,° without sentiment or consciousness; — and thus I remained till the clock struck three. A sudden spirit of exertion then returned, — I defied my poor arm, no longer worth sparing, and took my long banished pen to write a few words to M. d’Arblay — and a few more for Alex, in case of a fatal result. These short billets° I could only deposit safely, when the cabriolets° — one — two — three — four — succeeded rapidly to each other in stopping at the door. Dr. Moreau instantly entered my room, to see if I were alive. He gave me a wine cordial,° and went to the salon. I rang for my maid and nurses, — but before I could speak to them, my room, without previous message, was entered by 7 men in black, Dr. Larrey, M. Dubois, Dr. Moreau, Dr. Aumont, Dr. Ribe, and a pupil of Dr. Larrey, and another of M. Dubois. I was now awakened from my stupor — and by a sort of indignation — Why so many? and without leave?° — But I could not utter a syllable. M. Dubois acted as commander in chief. Dr. Larrey kept out of sight; M. Dubois ordered a bedstead into the middle of the room. Astonished, I turned to Dr. Larrey, who had promised that an arm chair would suffice; but he hung his head, and would not look at me. Two old mattresses M. Dubois then demanded, and an old sheet. I now began to tremble violently, more with distaste and horror of the preparations even than of the pain. These arranged to his liking, he desired me to mount the bedstead. I stood suspended, for a moment, whether I should not abruptly escape — I looked at the door, the windows — I felt desperate — but it was only for a moment, my reason then took the command, and my fears and feelings struggled vainly against it. I called to my maid — she was crying, and the two nurses stood, transfixed, at the door. “Let those women all go!” cried M. Dubois. This order recovered me my voice — “No,” I cried, “let them stay! qu’elles restent!”° This occasioned a little dispute, that re-animated me — The maid, however, and one of the nurses ran off — I charged° the other to approach, and she obeyed. M. Dubois now tried to issue his commands en militaire,° but I resisted all that were resistable — I was compelled, however, to submit to taking off my long robe de chambre,° which I had meant to retain — Ah, then, how did I think of my sisters! — not one, at so dreadful an instant, at hand, to protect — adjust — guard me — I regretted that I had refused Mme de Maisonneuve — Mme Chastel — no one upon whom I could rely — my departed angel! — how did I think of her! — how did I long — long for my Esther — my Charlotte! — My distress was, I suppose, apparent, though not my wishes, for M. Dubois himself now softened, and spoke soothingly. “Can you,” I cried, “feel for an operation that, to you, must seem so trivial?” — “Trivial?” he repeated — taking up a bit of paper, which he tore, unconsciously, into a million pieces, “oui — c’est peu de chose — mais° —” he stammered, and could not go on. No one else attempted to speak, but I was softened myself, when I saw even M. Dubois grow agitated, while Dr. Larrey kept always aloof, yet a glance showed me he was pale as ashes. I knew not, positively, then, the immediate danger, but every thing convinced me danger was hovering about me, and that this experiment could alone save me from its jaws. I mounted, therefore, unbidden, the bedstead — and M. Dubois placed me upon the mattress, and spread a cambric handkerchief upon my face. It was transparent, however, and I saw, through it, that the bedstead was instantly surrounded by the 7 men and my nurse. I refused to be held; but when, bright through the cambric, I saw the glitter of polished steel — I closed my eyes. I would not trust to convulsive fear the sight of the terrible incision. A silence the most profound ensued, which lasted for some minutes, during which, I imagine, they took their orders by signs, and made their examination — Oh what a horrible suspension!° — I did not breathe — and M. Dubois tried vainly to find any pulse. This pause, at length, was broken by Dr. Larrey, who in a voice of solemn melancholy, said “Qui me tiendra ce sein?° —”

No one answered; at least not verbally; but this aroused me from my passively submissive state, for I feared they imagined the whole breast infected — feared it too justly, — for, again through the cambric, I saw the hand of M. Dubois held up, while his forefinger first described a straight line from top to bottom of the breast, secondly a cross, and thirdly a circle; intimating that the whole was to be taken off. Excited by this idea, I started up, threw off my veil, and, in answer to the demand “Qui me tiendra ce sein?” cried “C’est moi, Monsieur!”° and I held my hand under it, and explained the nature of my sufferings, which all sprang from one point, though they darted into every part. I was heard attentively, but in utter silence, and M. Dubois then, replaced me as before, and, as before, spread my veil over my face. How vain, alas, my representation! immediately again I saw the fatal finger describe the cross — and the circle — Hopeless, then, desperate, and self-given up, I closed once more my eyes, relinquishing all watching, all resistance, all interference, and sadly resolute to be wholly resigned.

My dearest Esther, — and all my dears to whom she communicates this doleful ditty,° will rejoice to hear that this resolution once taken, was firmly adhered to, in defiance of a terror that surpasses all description, and the most torturing pain. Yet — when the dreadful steel was plunged into the breast — cutting through veins — arteries — flesh — nerves — I needed no injunctions° not to restrain my cries. I began a scream that lasted unintermittingly during the whole time of the incision — and I almost marvel that it rings not in my ears still! so excruciating was the agony. When the wound was made, and the instrument was withdrawn, the pain seemed undiminished, for the air that suddenly rushed into those delicate parts felt like a mass of minute but sharp and forked poniards,° that were tearing the edges of the wound — but when again I felt the instrument — describing° a curve — cutting against the grain, if I may so say, while the flesh resisted in a manner so forcible as to oppose and tire the hand of the operator, who was forced to change from the right to the left — then, indeed, I thought I must have expired. I attempted no more to open my eyes, — they felt as if hermetically shut, and so firmly closed, that the eyelids seemed indented into the cheeks. The instrument this second time withdrawn, I concluded the operation over, — Oh no! presently the terrible cutting was renewed — and worse than ever, to separate the bottom, the foundation of this dreadful gland from the parts to which it adhered — Again all description would be baffled — yet again all was not over, — Dr. Larrey rested but his own hand, and — Oh heaven! — I then felt the knife rackling° against the breast bone — scraping it! — This performed, while I yet remained in utterly speechless torture, I heard the voice of Mr. Larrey, — (all others guarded a dead silence) in a tone nearly tragic, desire every one present to pronounce if anything more remained to be done; or if he thought the operation complete. The general voice was yes, — but the finger of Mr. Dubois — which I literally felt elevated over the wound, though I saw nothing, and though he touched nothing, so indescribably sensitive was the spot — pointed to some further requisition° — and again began the scraping! — and, after this, Dr. Moreau thought he discerned a peccant atom° — and still, and still, M. Dubois demanded atom after atom — My dearest Esther, not for days, not for weeks, but for months I could not speak of this terrible business without nearly again going through it! I could not think of it with impunity! I was sick, I was disordered° by a single question — even now, 9 months after it is over, I have a head ache from going on with the account! and this miserable account, which I began 3 months ago, at least, I dare not revise, nor read, the recollection is still so painful.

To conclude, the evil was so profound, the case so delicate, and the precautions necessary for preventing a return so numerous, that the operation, including the treatment and the dressing, lasted 20 minutes! a time, for sufferings so acute, that was hardly supportable° — However, I bore it with all the courage I could exert, and never moved, nor stopped them, nor resisted, nor remonstrated, nor spoke — except once or twice, during the dressings, to say “Ah Messieurs! que je vous plains!° —” for indeed I was sensible to the feeling concern with which they all saw what I endured, though my speech was principally — very principally meant for Dr. Larrey. Except this, I uttered not a syllable, save, when so often they recommenced, calling out “Avertissez moi, Messieurs! avertissez moi!° —” Twice, I believe, I fainted; at least, I have two total chasms in my memory of this transaction, that impede my tying together what passed. When all was done, and they lifted me up that I might be put to bed, my strength was so totally annihilated, that I was obliged to be carried, and could not even sustain my hands and arms, which hung as if I had been lifeless; while my face, as the nurse has told me, was utterly colorless. This removal made me open my eyes — and I then saw my good Dr. Larrey, pale nearly as myself, his face streaked with blood, and its expression depicting grief, apprehension, and almost horror.

When I was in bed, — my poor M. d’Arblay — who ought to write you himself his own history of this morning — was called to me — and afterwards our Alex. —

[Postscript by Monsieur D’Arblay]

No! No my dearest and ever more dear friends, I shall not make a fruitless attempt. No language could convey what I felt in the deadly course of these seven hours. Nevertheless, every one of you, my dearest dearest friends, can guess, must even know it. Alexandre had no less feeling, but showed more fortitude. He, perhaps, will be more able to describe to you, nearly at least, the torturing state of my poor heart and soul. Besides, I must own,° to you, that these details which were, till just now, quite unknown to me, have almost killed me, and I am only able to thank God that this more than half angel has had the sublime courage to deny herself the comfort I might have offered her, to spare me, not the sharing of her excruciating pains, that was impossible, but the witnessing so terrific° a scene, and perhaps the remorse to have rendered it more tragic. For I don’t flatter myself I could have got through it — I must confess it.

Thank heaven! She is now surprisingly well, and in good spirits, and we hope to have many many still happy days.° May that of peace soon arrive, and enable me to embrace better than with my pen my beloved and ever ever more dear friends of the town and country. Amen. Amen!