Then, turning to me again, he said, more seriously, “But you have not determined against writing, any more?”
“N-o, sir”
“You have made no vow — no real resolution of that sort?”
“No, sir.”
“You only wait for inclination?”
“No, sir.”
A very civil little bow spoke him pleased with this answer, and he went again to the middle of the room, where he chiefly stood, and, addressing us in general, talked upon the different motives of writing, concluding with,
“I believe there is no constraint to be put upon real genius; nothing but inclination can set it to work. Miss Burney, however, knows best.” And then, hastily returning to me, he cried, “What? what?”
“No, sir, I — I-believe not, certainly,” quoth I, very awkwardly, for I seemed taking a violent compliment only as my due; but I knew not how to put him off as I would another person.
He then made some inquiries concerning the pictures with which the room is hung, and which are all Mrs. Delany’s own painting and a little discourse followed, upon some of the masters whose pictures she has copied. This was all with her; for nobody ever answers him without being immediately addressed by him.
He then came to me again, and said,
“Is your father about anything at present?”
“Yes, sir, he goes on, when he has time, with his history.”
“Does he write quick?”
“Yes, sir, when he writes from himself; but in his history he has so many books to consult, that sometimes he spends three days in finding authorities for a single passage.”
“Very true; that must be unavoidable.” He pursued these inquiries some time, and then went again to his general station before the fire, and Mrs. Delany inquired if he meant to hunt the next day. “Yes,” he answered; and, a little pointedly, Mrs. Delany said,
“I would the hunted could but feel as much pleasure as the hunter.”
The king understood her, and with some quickness, called out, “Pray what did you hunt?”
Then, looking round at us all, —
“Did you know,” he said, “that Mrs. Delany once hunted herself? — and in a long gown, and a great hoop?”
It seems she had told his majesty an adventure of that sort which had befallen her in her youth, from some accident in which her will had no share.
THE QUEEN APPEARS UPON THE SCENE.
While this was talking over, a violent thunder was made at the door. I was almost certain it was the queen. Once more I would have given anything to escape; but in vain. I had been informed that nobody ever quitted the royal presence, after having been conversed with, till motioned to withdraw.
Miss Port, according to established etiquette on these occasions, opened the door which she stood next, by putting her hand behind her, and slid out, backwards, into the hall, to light the queen in. The door soon opened again, and her majesty entered.
Immediately seeing the king, she made him a low curtsey, and cried, —
“Oh, your majesty is here.”
“Yes,” he cried, “I ran here, without speaking to anybody.”
The queen had been at the lower Lodge, to see the Princess Elizabeth, as the king had before told us.
She then, hastened up to Mrs. Delany, with both her hands held out, saying,
“My dear Mrs. Delany, how are you?”
Instantly after, I felt her eye on my face. I believe, too, she curtsied to me; but though I saw the bend, I was too near-sighted to be sure it was intended for me. I was hardly ever in a situation more embarrassing — I dared not return what I was not certain I had received, yet considered myself as appearing quite a monster, to stand stiff-necked, if really meant.
Almost at the same moment, she spoke to Mr. Bernard Dewes, and then nodded to my little clinging girl.
I was now really ready to sink, with horrid uncertainty of what I was doing, or what I should do, — when his majesty, who I fancy saw my distress, most good-humouredly said to the queen something, but I was too much flurried to remember what, except these words,— “I have been telling Miss Burney—”
Relieved from so painful a dilemma, I immediately dropped a curtsey. She made one to me in the same moment, and, with a very smiling countenance, came up to me; but she could not speak, for the king went on talking, eagerly, and very gaily, repeating to her every word I had said during our conversation upon “Evelina,” its publication, etc. etc.
Then he told her of Baretti’s wager, saying,— “But she heard of a great many conjectures about the author, before it was known, and of Baretti, an admirable thing! — he laid a bet it must be a man, as no woman, he said, could have kept her own counsel!”
The queen, laughing a little, exclaimed —
“Oh, that is quite too bad an affront to us! — Don’t you think so?” addressing herself to me, with great gentleness of voice and manner.
I assented; and the king continued his relation, which she listened to with a look of some interest; but when he told her some particulars of my secrecy, she again spoke to me.
“But! your sister was your confidant, was she not?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
My sisters, I might have said, but I was always glad to have done.
“Oh, yes!” cried the king, laughing, “but I assure you she is of Baretti’s opinion herself; for I asked her if she thought it was her sister or her brother that betrayed her to her father? — and she says her sister, she thinks.”
Poor Esther! — but I shall make her amends by what follows; for the queen, again addressing me, said —
“But to betray to a father is no crime-don’t you think so?”
I agreed; and plainly saw she thought Esther, if Esther it was, had only done right.
The king then went on, and when he had finished his narration the queen took her seat. She made Mrs. Delany sit next her, and Miss Port brought her some tea.
“MISS BURNEY PLAYS — BUT NOT TO ACKNOWLEDGE IT.”
The king, meanwhile, came to me again, and said,— “Are you musical?”
“Not a performer, sir.”
Then, going from me to the queen, he cried,— “She does not play.” I did not hear what the queen answered — she spoke in a low voice, and seemed much out of spirits.
They now talked together a little while, about the Princess Elizabeth, and the king mentioned having had a very promising account from her physician, Sir George Baker and the queen soon brightened up.
The king then returned to me and said, —
“Are you sure you never play? — never touch the keys at all.”
“Never to acknowledge it, sir.”
“Oh! that’s it!” cried he; and flying to the queen, cried, “She does play — but not to acknowledge it!”
I was now in a most horrible panic once more; pushed so very home, I could answer no other than I did, for these categorical questions almost constrain categorical answers; and here, at Windsor, it seems an absolute point that whatever they ask must be told, and whatever they desire must be done. Think but, then, of my consternation, in expecting their commands to perform! My dear father, pity me!
The eager air with which he returned to me fully explained what was to follow. I hastily, therefore, spoke first, in order to stop him, crying— “I never, sir, played to anybody but myself! — never!”
“No?” cried he, looking incredulous; “what, not to —
“Not even to me, sir!” cried my kind Mrs. Delany, who saw what was threatening me.
“No? — are you sure?” cried he, disappointed; “but — but you’ll—”
“I have never, sir,” cried I, very earnestly, “played in my life, but when I could hear nobody else — quite alone, and from a mere love of any musical sounds.”
He repeated all this to the queen, whose answers I never heard; but when he once more came back, with a face that looked unwilling to give it up, in my fright I had recourse to dumb show, and raised my hands i
n a supplicating fold, with a most begging countenance to be excused. This, luckily, succeeded; he understood me very readily, and laughed a little, but made a sort of desisting, or rather complying, little bow, and said no more about it.
I felt very much obliged to him, for I saw his curiosity was all alive, I wished I could have kissed his hand. He still, however, kept me in talk, and still upon music.
“To me,” said he, “it appears quite as strange to meet with people who have no ear for music, and cannot distinguish one air from another, as to meet with people who are dumb. Lady Bell Finch once told me that she had heard there was some difference between a psalm, a minuet, and a country dance, but she declared they all sounded alike to her! There are people who have no eye for difference of colour. The Duke of Marlborough actually cannot tell scarlet from green!”
He then told me an anecdote of his mistaking one of those colours for another, which was very laughable, but I do not remember it clearly enough to write it. How unfortunate for true virtuosi that such an eye should possess objects worthy the most discerning — the treasures of Blenheim! “I do not find, though,” added his majesty, “that this defect runs in his family, for Lady Di Beauclerk, draws very finely.”
He then went to Mr. Bernard Dewes.
Almost instantly upon his leaving me, a very gentle voice called out— “Miss Burney!”
It was the queen’s. I walked a little nearer her, and a gracious inclination of her head made me go quite up to her.
“You have been,” she said, “at Mrs. Walsingham’s?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She has a pretty place, I believe?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Were you ever there before?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Oh, shocking! shocking! thought I; what will Mrs. Delany say to all these monosyllables?
“Has not she lately made some improvements?”
“Yes, ma’am; she has built a conservatory.”
Then followed some questions about its situation, during which the king came up to us; and she then, ceasing to address me in particular, began a general sort of conversation, with a spirit and animation that I had not at all expected, and which seemed the result of the great and benevolent pleasure she took in giving entertainment to Mrs. Delany.
A DRAWING-ROOM DURING A FOG.
The subject was the last Drawing-room, which she had been in town to keep on Thursday, during the dense fog.
“I assure you, ma’am,” cried she to Mrs. Delany, “it was so dark, there was no seeing anything, and no knowing any body. And Lady Harcourt could be of no help to tell me who people were, for when it was light, she can’t see and now it was dark, I could not see myself. So it was in vain for me to go on in that manner, without knowing which I had spoken to, and which was waiting for me; so I said to Lady Harcourt, ‘We had better stop, and stand quite still, for I don’t know anybody, no more than you do. But if we stand still, they will all come up in the end, and we must ask them who they are, and if I have spoken to them yet, or not: for it is very odd to do it, but what else can we manage?’”
Her accent is a little foreign, and very prettily so; and her emphasis has that sort of changeability, which gives an interest to everything she utters. But her language is rather peculiar than foreign.
“‘Besides,”’ added she, with a very significant look, “‘if we go on here in the dark, maybe I shall push against somebody, or somebody will push against me — which is the more likely to happen.’”
She then gave an account of some circumstances which attended the darkness, in a manner not only extremely lively, but mixed, at times, with an archness and humour that made it very entertaining. She chiefly addressed herself to Mrs. Delany; and to me, certainly, she would not, separately, have been so communicative; but she contrived, with great delicacy, to include me in the little party, by frequently looking at me, and always with an expression that invited my participation in the conversation. And, indeed, though I did not join in words, I shared very openly in the pleasure of her recital.
“Well,” she continued, “so there was standing by me a man that I could not see in the face; but I saw the twisting of his bow; and I said to Lady Harcourt, ‘I am sure that must be nobody but the Duke of Dorset.’— ‘Dear,’ she says, ‘how can you tell that?’— ‘Only ask,’ said I; and so it proved he.”
“Yes,” cried the king, “he is pretty well again; he can smile again, now!”
It seems his features had appeared to be fixed, or stiffened. It is said, he has been obliged to hold his hand to his mouth, to hide it, ever since his stroke, — which he refuses to acknowledge was paralytic.
The queen looked as if some comic notion had struck her, and, after smiling a little while to herself, said, with a sort of innocent archness, very pleasing,
“To be sure, it is very wrong to laugh at such things, — I know that; but yet, I could not help thinking, when his mouth was in that way, that it was very lucky people’s happiness did not depend upon his smiles!”
Afterwards, she named other persons, whose behaviour and manners pointed them out to her, in defiance of obscurity.
“A lady,” said she, “came up to me, that I could not see, so I was forced to ask who she was; and immediately she burst into a laugh. ‘O,’ says I, ‘that can be only Mrs. De Rolles!’ — and so it proved.”
Methinks, by this trait, she should be a near relation to my Miss Larolles!
WILL MISS BURNEY WRITE ANY MORE?
When these, and some more anecdotes which I do not so clearly remember, were told, the king left us, and went to Mr. Bernard Dewes. A pause ensuing, I, too, drew back, meaning to return to my original station, which, being opposite the fire, was never a bad one. But the moment I began retreating, the queen, bending forward, and speaking in a very low voice, said, “Miss Burney!” — and, upon my coming up to her, almost in a whisper, cried, “But shall we have no more — nothing more?”
I could not but understand her, and only shook my head. The queen then, as if she thought she had said too much, with great sweetness and condescension, drew back herself, and, very delicately, said,
“To be sure it is, I own, a very home question, for one who has not the pleasure to know you.”
I was quite ashamed of this apology, but did not know what to say to it. But how amiable a simplicity in her speaking of herself in such a style,— “for one who has not the pleasure to know you.”
“But, indeed,” continued she, presently, “I would not say it, only that I think from what has been done, there is a power to do so much good — and good to young people, which is so very good a thing — that I cannot help wishing it could be.”
I felt very grateful for this speech, and for the very soft manner in which she said it; and I very much wished to thank her and was trying to mutter something, though not very intelligibly, when the king suddenly coming up to us, inquired what was going forward.
The queen readily repeated her kind speech.
The king eagerly undertook to make my answer for me, crying, “O, but she will write! — she only waits for inclination — she told me so.” Then, speaking to me, he said, “What — is it not so?”
I only laughed a little; and he again said to the queen,
“She will write. She told me, just now, she had made no vow against It.”
“No, no,” cried the queen, “I hope not, indeed.”
“A vow!” cried dear Mrs. Delany, “no, indeed, I hope she would not be so wicked — she who can so do what she does!”
“But she has not,” said the king, earnestly; “she has owned that to me already.”
What excessive condescension, my dear padre!
“I only wish,” cried Mrs. Delany, “it could be as easily done, as it is earnestly and universally desired.”
“I doubt it not to be so desired,” said the queen.
I was quite ashamed of all this, and quite sorry to make no acknowledgment of their great
condescension in pressing such subject, and pressing it so much in earnest. But I really could get out nothing, so that’s the truth; and I wish I could give a better account of my eloquence, my dear padre and I cannot, however, in justice any more than in inclination, go on, till I stop to admire the sweetness of the queen, and the consideration of the king, in each making me a party in their general conversation, before they made any particular address to me.
A MUSICIAN, WITH A PROBOSCIS.
They afterwards spoke of Mr. Webb, a Windsor musician, who is master to the young princesses, and who has a nose, from some strange calamity, of so enormous a size that it covers all the middle of his face. I never saw so frightful a deformity. Mrs. Delany told the queen I had met with him, accidentally, when he came to give a lesson to Miss Port, and had been quite startled by him.
“I dare say so,” said her majesty. “I must tell Miss Burney a little trait of Sophia, about Mr. Webb.”
A small table was before the queen, who always has it brought when she is seated, to put her tea or work upon, or, when she has neither, to look comfortable, I believe; for certainly it takes off much formality in a standing circle. And close to this, by the gracious motion of her head, she kept me.
“When first,” continued she, “Mr. Webb was to come to Sophia, I told her he had had some accident to disfigure his whole face, by making him an enormous nose; but I desired her to remember this was a misfortune, for which he ought to be pitied, and that she must be sure not to laugh at it, nor stare at it. And she minded this very well, and behaved always very properly. But, while Lady Cremorne was at the Lodge, she was with Sophia when Mr. Webb came to give her a lesson. As soon as he was named, she coloured very red, and ran up to Lady Cremorne, and said to her in a whisper, ‘Lady Cremorne, Mr. Webb has got a very great nose, but that is only to be pitied — so mind you don’t laugh.’”
This little princess is just nine years old!
The king joined us while the queen was telling this, and added, “Poor Mr. Webb was very much discountenanced when he first saw me, and tried to hide his nose, by a great nosegay, or I believe only a branch, which he held before it: but really that had so odd a look, that it was worse, and more ridiculous, than his nose. However, I hope he does not mind me, now, for I have seen him four or five times.”
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 548