I am very agreeably surpriz'd

[the_comfortable_courtesan]

As I sip my morning chocolate, I hear Tibby having words with Minnie over little notes pressed into her hand by gentlemen while she is taking Flora out for an airing, and the practice of this household (sure she sounds exactly like Hector); but she then says that sure it must because they think her a simple countryfy’d creature that knows no better. This afternoon, once little Flora takes her nap, Tibby will set about dressing her hair and furbishing up her wardrobe so that she will look more the thing. Minnie, sobbing, says she does not want to present temptation to which Tibby replies that there is a deal of difference between being properly turned out and flaunting around like a Covent Garden Miss.

I suppose that Mr G- will have been at poor Minnie about tempting men to sin because that she fell. Sure women may fall, but in many cases it is because some man pushes or trips ‘em up. (Tho’ in my case ‘tis true that I needed no push to fall backwards, as the Nurse puts it. Tho' as I recollect, I fell forwards onto Mr J- who was rehearsing Romeo - for I could read a part and provide cues well enough - as we reached the tomb scene and he affectingly expired.)

My chocolate having completely dispell’d the noxious taste of the waters (Dr J- forbids coffee and strong liquors but has made no mention of chocolate) I rise and ring for Tibby to come dress me.

I find both my dearest love and darling Flora at breakfast. Mrs F- says alas there is no fine kedgeree, but the eggs and bacon are very good. I eat remarkable hearty. Then I take Flora for a little cuddle and kiss – o, I think my precious darling knows me – until she offers something unsuited to polite company and Minnie removes her.

Really, my darling, says Mrs F-, I am sure all the artists of the Academy would desire to paint you with our little angel in the character of a Madonna. Not the ones who prefer to depict scenes of Nature, I say; and with those others, I confide that somehow there would be a bubbie or two in the picture. But let us go out and walk to the circulating library before we have to go bathe.

Mrs F- teazes me by counting the gentlemen that she says take particular note of the lovely widow - o, shame, say I, is there no respect for my weeds?

As always the reading room is a busy exchange, and as Mrs F- goes to enquire after our books, I look through the various journals that lie upon the tables. I see the one in which Mr P-‘s criticisms (under an incognito) are wont to appear and flick through the pages to see if he is applying his stringent critickal opinions upon anything.

Mr P- mostly confines his critickal opinions to the stage, but will occasionally venture upon giving his views on poetry (the work of the moderns is sorry stuff) and the novel (there has hardly been an author worth the time of reading since Fielding). Today he writes about a new novel that has come to his attention, an unusually superior example by one that has clearly studied Shakspeare and not only employs some of the telling devices that we find in the plays of the Bard, but has learnt from that master the happy combination of the dramatick and the pathetick with comoedick touches. It is called The Gypsy’s Curse (I gasp and several people turn round to look at me): while it is by no means a perfect work (the female characters act and talk with a freedom for which there is indeed Shakspearean warrant, but hardly in accordance with the taste and manners of the present day) it is certainly superior to most of the productions in its kind.

Sure, I think to myself, has Sandy bribed or blackmailed Mr P- into this favourable report? For it is very seldom that Mr P- will indite anything that looks like praise.

My beloved comes over with our books, and quite dumbstruck I point out the piece to her. She laughs. Oh, I have been hearing about this fine new Gothick novel: it is most immense popular and they are thinking of ordering more copies. Oh, do not teaze, say I.

Enters Mrs S- with a sulky-looking little V-. She greets us and says what would you with this girl here? Burnt down several candles reading through the night, and does not want to bring the book back though it is in great demand, says she desires to read it again. Look at her all shadow-ey’d from lack of sleep, and suppos’d to be going to the assembly this e’en.

O, it is such a fine book! says V-. I had rather read it through again than go to the assembly. Mrs S- tuts at her, tho’ I cannot suppose she much enjoy’d assemblies in her own younger days. Mrs F- asks V- about the book, and I move slightly away as if we were only by chance met here. I turn over other journals and discover one in which a critick condemns The Gypsy’s Curse as a bad Jacobinickal piece of work that shows a dangerous revolutionary spirit against the given order of things and in particular should be kept from young girls as it is most morally injurious, even more so than novels in general.

Mrs F- is recommending slices of cowcumber on the eyes and a little rest to set up Miss K- for the evening’s enjoyments, and adds that Tibby will sure be able to furbish her up. She takes her leave and Mrs S- and her sister go over to the counter to hand back their books. I hear little V- enquiring as to whether she may purchase a copy for her sole use – she is, of course, the doated-upon daughter of a wealthy man and doubtless has a generous allowance.

I walk out and my dearest follows shortly. I can see she is highly amus’d, and she informs me that Miss K- utterly doats upon The Gypsy’s Curse and in particular upon the character of the poor scholar. O dear, say I.

In the evening she and Tibby set off for the S-s to go on to the assembly. I have precious Flora all to myself, but that Minnie is also there, which is a relief to me, because much as I love my little angel I am not us’d to babies and their needs. Flora lies sweet and amiable in my lap and occasionally offers to eat her hand, becomes much astonisht at the sight of her feet, coos and smiles, &C.

How now, Minnie, I say, as my little dear drowses a little, how do you like your new place?

Minnie returns that she feels that sure she must have died and be in heaven nursing a baby angel. For she has always enough to eat and very good food too, a warm bed, no-one offers to hit her and all she has to do is look after Miss Flora, no scrubbing or laundry save baby’s requirements. She does not have to suffer any rudenesses or being preacht at as a sinner. While she does miss her little boy, he is in a better place and it was probably for the best, for what could he have lookt forward to except being prentic’d as a climbing boy or some such. But, madame, she sees that Miss Flora should be put to the breast and then laid to sleep or she will become fretfull.

I kiss my lovely darling and hand her over. Minnie takes her off to the nursery. I take out the book in which I am writing my new Gothick novel, which is set in a spaw town somewhere in the Hapsburg domains. There is a young woman that goes around spaws and such and the presumption is that she is a card-sharp. She is under this guise secretly a courier between revolutionary secret societies. There is one of high degree from a cold northern land that has been exil’d for his sympathy to reform. There are members of his family that endeavour to bring him back into favour and marry him to a suitable wife, as well as a proud haughty lady that goes about to entrap him. There are numerous conspiracies on hand.

There is a knock at the door and in comes our dearest Grand Turk Mr F-, quite unexpect’d. I rise to kiss him, explaining that Mrs F- is out enjoying some society unsuit’d to my own condition, and that Minnie must just have put our precious bundle down for the night. Mr F- takes off his hat and coat, and says he will just go take a little peek at the darling.

He returns and says she sleeps soundly, and so does Minnie, but close enough that she will hear does Flora stir.

He holds me a little away from him, studying my face, and then says sure I look completely restor’d, and entirely too blooming for a recent widow.

You forget, sir, I say, that my late husband had the purpose to declare me lunatick in order to control my fortune; sure if it were not so distant I would go dance upon his grave.

Mr F- laughs and then there is no further distance between us and much kissing. He murmurs that since he is come so impromptu and without the least warning, finding that matters could spare him for a few days did he leave at once, he has brought with him a supply of spunges.

O, I say, are you going be ever fretting about that now?

My love, I never want to have to go through such worry a third time.

It must be hard, I think, for one that is as good at taking care of matters as Mr F- to find something so near to him that is quite out of his hands.

There is a sound of farewells being said outside, and in comes Mrs F-. Why, Mr F-, she says, do you come post-haste to see whether we are engaging in flirtations? And then we all laugh and are embrac’d together.

Comments

[davidgillon]

a dangerous revolutionary spirit against the given order of things

Huzzah!

[nineveh_uk]

I am glad to see that Minnie is thriving!

[rymenhild]

Now I am imagining the feminist critics ca. 1995-2005 who figure out, in quick succession, that

1. The author of those popular Gothic novels is the "Madame C-" who wrote the memoir
2. Said author is a bisexual sex worker at the center of a very interesting social circle
3. Major characters in at least two of her novels are based on the famous mathematician/astronomer/explorer Mrs. T-
4. ...who turns out ALSO to be a former sex worker who had a long-running affair with a future Prime Minister of England

And so forth and so on, and suddenly dozens of graduate students are writing articles on topics like "The Gypsy's Curse and Industrialism in 19th Century England" using Mme C-'s claim in her memoir that the gypsy king and queen are based on the owners of a substantial iron factory...

[ironed_orchid]

All too plausible.

[entirelydisregardablelout]

a future Prime Minister of England

Reflexive "of the United Kingdom -- England is just a part of the UK".

Who was Miss G's gentleman?

[the_comfortable_courtesan]

Sir B- W- did not, in fact, reach that high office! even though - I think after her first encounter with Susannah W- - Clorinda hypothesised that with her behind him, he well might.

[rymenhild]

Sir B- W-, who our archivist has told us never did become Prime Minister