Fanny's First Novel

INDEED, I am not quite assured in my mind that the influence of Mr. Garrick upon such a family as ours is healthy,” said Mrs. Burney, when the breakfast cups had been removed and the maid had left the room in the little house in St. Martin's Street, off Leicester Fields. Dr. Burney, the music-master, had not to hurry away this day: his first lesson did not begin until noon; it was to be given at the mansion of Mr. Thrale, the brewer, at Streatham, and the carriage was not to call for him for another hour. He was glancing at the Advertiser in unaccustomed indolence, but when his wife had spoken he glanced up from the paper and an expression of amused surprise was upon his face. His daughter Fanny glanced up from the work-basket which her mother had placed ready for her the moment that the breakfast-table had been cleared, and the expression upon little Miss Burney's face was one that had something of fright in it. She was too short-sighted to see the wink which her brother James, lieutenant in His Majesty's navy, gave her, for their stepmother had her back turned to him. But Mrs. Burney, without seeing him, knew that, as he himself would phrase it, he had tipped Fanny a wink. She turned quickly round upon him, and if she had previously any doubt on this point, it was at once dispelled by the solemnity of his face.

Dr. Burney gave a laugh.

“The influence of Mr. Garrick is like that of the air we breathe,” said he. “It is not to be resisted by the age we live in, leaving family matters out of the question altogether: the Burney family must inhale as much of the spirit of Mr. Garrick as the rest of the town-they cannot help themselves, ces pauvres Burneys! they cannot live without Mr. Garrick.”

Mrs. Burney shook her head solemnly; so did Lieutenant James Burney, for he had all his life been under the influence of Mr. Garrick, when the atmosphere brought by Mr. Garrick was one of comedy.

“My meaning is that Mr. Garrick is not content to allow simple people such as ourselves to live as simple people,” said Mrs. Burney. “I protest that I have felt it: the moment he enters our house we seem to be in a new world-whatsoever world it is his whim to carry us to.”

“That is the truth, my dear-he can do what he pleases with us and with all the thousands who have flocked to his playhouse since his Goodman's Fields days—he has made a fortune as a courier; transporting people to another world for an hour or two every night—a world that is less humdrum than this in which four beats go to every bar and every crotchet goes to a beat! Dear soul! he has made our hearts beat at times beyond all computation of time and space.”