GENERAL CONVERSATION: ROYALTY DEPARTS.
After this, Mrs. Delany mentioned Madame de la Fite and her son.
The queen said, “He is a pretty little boy; and when he goes to school, it will do him good.”
“Where will she send him?” said the king.
The queen, looking at me, with a smile answered,
“To the school where Mr. Locke puts his sons. I know that!”
“And where is that?”
“Indeed I don’t know; where is it, Miss Burney?”
“At Cheam, ma’am.”
“Oh, at young Gilpin’s?” cried the king. “Is it near Mr. Locke’s?”
“Yes, sir; within about six miles, I believe.”
The queen, then, with a little arch smile, that seemed to premise she should make me stare, said,
“It was there, at Mr. Locke’s, your sister laid in?”
“O yes, ma’am!” cried I, out of breath with surprise.
The king repeated my “O yes!” and said, “I fancy — by that O — you were frightened a little for her? What?”
I could not but assent to that; and the king, who seemed a good deal diverted at the accident — for he loves little babies too well to look upon it, as most people would, to be a shocking business — questioned me about it.
“How was it?” said he,— “how happened it? Could not she get home?”
“It was so sudden, sir, and so unexpected, there was no time.”
“I dare say,” said the sweet queen, “Mrs. Locke was only very happy to have it at her house.”
“Indeed, ma’am,” cried I, “her kindness, and Mr. Locke’s would make anybody think so but they are all kindness and goodness.”
“I have heard indeed,” said the queen, “that they are all sensible, and amiable, and ingenuous, in that family.”
“They are indeed,” cried I, “and as exemplary as they are accomplished.”
“I have never seen Mrs. Locke,” said the king, “since she was that high;” — pointing to little Miss Dewes.
“And I,” said the queen “I have never seen her in my life; but for all that, from what I hear of her, I cannot help feeling interested whenever I only hear her name.”
This, with a good deal of animation, she said directly to me.
“Mr. William Locke, ma’am,” said Mrs. Delany, “I understand from Miss Burney, is now making the same wonderful progress in painting that he had done before in drawing.”
“I have seen some of his drawings,” said the queen, “which were charming.”
“How old is he?” cried the king.
“Eighteen, sir.”
“Eighteen!” repeated the king— “how time flies!”
“Oh! for me,” cried the queen, “I am always quarrelling with time! It is so short to do something, and so long to do nothing.”
She has now and then something foreign to our idiom, that has a very pretty effect.
“Time,” said the king, “always seems long when we are young, and short when we begin to grow old.”
“But nothing makes me so angry,” said the queen, “as to hear people not know what to do! For me, I never have half time enough to do things. But what makes me most angry still, is to see people go up to a window and say, ‘what a bad day! — dear, what shall we do such a day as this?’ ‘What?’ I say; ‘why, employ yourselves; and then what signifies the bad day?’”
Afterwards, there was some talk upon sermons, and the queen wished the Bishop of Chester would publish another volume.
“No, no,” said the king, “you must not expect a man, while he continues preaching, to go on publishing. Every sermon printed, diminishes his stock for the pulpit.”
“Very true,” said the queen, “but I believe the Bishop of Chester has enough to spare.”
The king then praised Carr’s sermons, and said he liked none but what were plain and unadorned.
“Nor I neither,” said the queen; “but for me, it is, I suppose, because the others I don’t understand.”
The king then, looking at his watch, said, “It is eight o’clock, and if we don’t go now, the children will be sent to the other house.”
“Yes, your majesty,” cried the queen, instantly rising.
Mrs. Delany put on her majesty’s cloak, and she took a very kind leave of her. She then curtsied separately to us all, and the king handed her to the carriage.
It is the custom for everybody they speak to to attend them out, but they would not suffer Mrs. Delany to move. Miss Port, Mr. Dewes, and his little daughter, and myself, all accompanied them, and saw them in their coach, and received their last gracious nods.
When they were gone, Mrs. Delany confessed she had heard the king’s knock at the door before she came into the drawing-room, but would not avow it, that I might not run away. Well! being over was so good a thing, that I could not but be content.
The queen, indeed, is a most charming woman. She appears to me full of sense and graciousness, mingled with delicacy of mind and liveliness of temper. She speaks English almost perfectly well, with great choice and copiousness of language, though now and then with foreign idiom, and frequently with a foreign accent. Her manners have an easy dignity, with a most engaging simplicity, and she has all that fine high breeding which the mind, not the station, gives, of carefully avoiding to distress those who converse with her, or studiously removing the embarrassment she cannot prevent.
The king, however he may have power, in the cabinet, to command himself, has, in private, the appearance of a character the most open and sincere. He speaks his opinions without reserve, and seems to trust them intuitively to his hearers, from a belief they will make no ill use of them. His countenance is full of inquiry, to gain information without asking it, probably from believing that to be the nearest road to truth. All I saw of both was the most perfect good humour, good spirits, ease, and pleasantness.
Their behaviour to each other speaks the most cordial confidence and happiness. The king seems to admire as much as he enjoys her conversation, and to covet her participation in everything he either sees or hears. The queen appears to feel the most grateful regard for him, and to make it her chief study to raise his consequence with others, by always marking that she considers herself, though queen to the nation, only to him, the first and most obedient of subjects. Indeed, in their different ways, and allowing for the difference of their characters, they left me equally charmed both with their behaviour to each other and to myself.
THE KING AGAIN: TEA TABLE ETIQUETTE.
Monday, Dec. 19 — In the evening, while Mrs. Delany, Miss Port, and I were sitting and working together in the drawing-room, the door was opened, and the king entered.
We all started up; Miss Port flew to her modest post by the door, and I to my more comfortable one opposite the fire, which caused me but a slight and gentle retreat, and Mrs. Delany he immediately commanded to take her own place again.
He was full of joy for the Princess Elizabeth. He had been to the lower Lodge, and found her in a sweet sleep, and she was now, he said, in a course of James’s powders, from which he hoped her perfect restoration. I fear, however, it is still but precarious.
Mrs. Delany congratulated him, and then inquired after the whooping-cough. The children, he said, were better, and were going to Kew for some days, to change the air. He and the queen had been themselves, in the morning, to Kew, to see that their rooms were fit for their reception. He could not, he said, be easy to take any account but from his own eyes, when they were sick. He seems, indeed, one of the most tender fathers in the world.
I cannot pretend to write this meeting with the method and minuteness of the first; for that took me so long, that I have not time to spare for such another detail. Besides the novelty is now over, and I have not the same inducement to be so very circumstantial. But the principal parts of the conversation I will write, as I recollect.
Our party being so small, he made all that passed general; for though he principa
lly addressed himself to Mrs. Delany, he always looked round to see that we heard him, and frequently referred to us.
I should mention, though, the etiquette always observed upon his entrance, which, first of all, is to fly off to distant quarters — and next, Miss Port goes out, walking backwards, for more candles, which she brings in, two at a time, and places upon the tables and pianoforte. Next she goes out for tea, which she then carries to his majesty, upon a large salver, containing sugar, cream, and bread and butter, and cake, while she hangs a napkin over her arm for his fingers.
When he has taken his tea, she returns to her station, where she waits till he has done, and then takes away his cup, and fetches more. This, it seems, is a ceremony performed in other places always by the mistress of the house; but here neither of their majesties will permit Mrs. Delany to attempt it.
Well; but to return. The king said he had just been looking over a new pamphlet, of Mr. Cumberland’s, upon the character of Lord Sackville,
“I have been asking Sir George Baker,” he said, “if he had read it, and he told me, yes, but that he could not find out why Cumberland had written it. However, that, I think, I found out in the second page. For there he takes an opportunity to give a high character of himself.”
He then enlarged more upon the subject, very frankly declaring in what points he differed from Mr. Cumberland about Lord Sackville; but as I neither knew him, nor had read the pamphlet, I could not at all enter into the subject.
Mrs. Delany then mentioned something of Madame de Genlis, upon which the king eagerly said to me,
“Oh, you saw her while she was here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And — did she speak English?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how?”
“Extremely well, sir; with very great facility.”
“Indeed? that always surprises me in a foreigner that has not lived here.”
Her accent is foreign, however; but her language is remarkably ready.
He then spoke of Voltaire, and talked a little of his works, concluding with this strong condemnation of their tendency: —
“I,” cried he, “think him a monster, I own it fairly.”
Nobody answered. Mrs. Delany did not quite hear him, and I knew too little of his works to have courage to say anything about them.
He next named Rousseau, whom he seemed to think of with more favour, though by no means with approbation, Here, too, I had read too little to talk at all, though his majesty frequently applied to me. Mrs. Delany told several anecdotes which had come to her immediate knowledge of him while he was in England, at which time he had spent some days with her brother, Mr. Granville, at Calwich. The king, too, told others, which had come to his own ears, all charging him with savage pride and insolent ingratitude.
Here, however, I ventured to interfere; for, as I knew he had had a pension from the king, I could not but wish his majesty should be informed he was grateful to him. And as you, my dear father, were my authority, I thought it but common justice to the memory of poor Rousseau to acquaint the king of his personal respect for him.
“Some gratitude, sir,” said I, “he was not without. When my father was in Paris, which was after Rousseau had been in England, he visited him in his garret, and the first thing he showed him was your majesty’s portrait over his chimney.”
The king paused a little while upon this; but nothing more was said of Rousseau.
GEORGE III. ON PLAYS AND PLAYERS.
Some time afterwards, the king said he found by the newspapers, that Mrs. Clive was dead.
Do you read the newspapers? thought I. O, king! you must then have the most unvexing temper in the world, not to run wild.
This led on to more players. He was sorry, he said, for Henderson, and the more as Mrs. Siddons had wished to have him play at the same house with herself. Then Mrs. Siddons took her turn, and with the warmest praise.
“I am an enthusiast for her,” cried the king, “quite an enthusiast, I think there was never any player in my time so excellent — not Garrick himself — I own it!”
Then, coming close to me, who was silent, he said,— “What? what?” — meaning, what say you? But I still said nothing; I could not concur where I thought so differently, and to enter into an argument was quite impossible; for every little thing I said, the king listened to with an eagerness that made me always ashamed of its insignificancy. And, indeed, but for that I should have talked to him with much greater fluency, as well as ease.
From players he went to plays, and complained of the great want of good modern comedies, and of the extreme immorality of most of the old ones.
“And they pretend,” cried he, “to mend them; but it is not possible. Do you think it is? — what?”
“No, sir, not often, I believe; — the fault, commonly, lies in the very foundation.”
“Yes, or they might mend the mere speeches — but the characters are all bad from the beginning to the end.”
Then he specified several; but I had read none of them, and consequently could say nothing about the matter — till, at last, he came to Shakspeare.
“Was there ever,” cried he, “such stuff as great part of Shakspeare only one must not say so! But what think you? — What? — Is there not sad stuff? what? — what?”
“Yes, indeed, I think so, sir, though mixed with such excellences, that — —”
“O!” cried he, laughing good-humouredly, “I know it is not to be said! but it’s true. Only it’s Shakspeare, and nobody dare abuse him.”
Then he enumerated many of the characters and parts of plays that he objected to — and when he had run them over, finished with again laughing, and exclaiming,
“But one should be stoned for saying so!”
“Madame de Genlis, sir,” said I, “had taken such an impression of the English theatre, that she told me she thought no woman ought to go to any of our comedies.”
This, which, indeed, is a very overstrained censure of our dramas, made him draw back, and vindicate the stage from a sentence so severe; which, however, she had pronounced to me, as if she looked upon it to be an opinion in which I should join as a thing past dispute.
The king approved such a denunciation no more than his little subject; and he vindicated the stage from so hard an aspersion, with a warmth not wholly free from indignation.
This led on to a good deal more dramatic criticism; but what was said was too little followed up to be remembered for writing. His majesty stayed near two hours, and then wished Mrs. Delany good night, and having given me a bow, shut the door himself, to prevent Mrs. Delany, or even me, from attending him out, and, with only Miss Port to wait upon him, put on his own great coat in the passage, and walked away to the lower Lodge, to see the Princess Elizabeth, without carriage or attendant. He is a pattern of modest, but manly superiority to rank. I should say more of this evening, and of the king, with whose unaffected conversation and unassuming port and manner I was charmed, but that I have another meeting to write, — a long, and, to me, very delightful private conference with the queen. It happened the very next morning.
LITERARY TALK WITH THE QUEEN.
Tuesday, Dec. 20. — 1st, summons; 2ndly, entree.
“Miss Burney, have you heard that Boswell is going to publish a life of your friend Dr. Johnson?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I tell you as I heard. I don’t know for the truth of it, and I can’t tell what he will do. He is so extraordinary a man, that perhaps he will devise something extraordinary. What do you think of Madame de Genlis’ last work?”
“I have not read it, ma’am.”
“Not read it?”
(I believe she knew my copy, which lay on the table.)
I said I had taken it to Norbury, and meant to read it with Mrs. Locke, but things then prevented.
“Oh! (looking pleased) have you read the last edition of her ‘Adele?’”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, i
t is much improved; for the passage, you know, Mrs. Delany, of the untruth, is all altered — fifteen pages are quite new; and she has altered it very prettily. She has sent it to me. She always sends me her works; she did it a long while ago, when I did not know there was such a lady as Madame de Genlis. You have not seen ‘Adele,’ then?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You would like to see it. But I have it not here. Indeed, I think sometimes I have no books at all, for they are at Kew, or they are in town, and they are here; and I don’t know which is which. Is Madame de Genlis about any new work?”
“Yes, ma’am — one which she intends ‘pour le peuple.’”
“Ah, that will be a good work. Have you heard of—” (mentioning some German book, of which I forget the name).
“No, ma’am.”
“O, it will be soon translated; very fine language, — very bad book. They translate all our worst! And they are so improved in language; they write so finely now, even for the most silly books, that it makes one read on, and one cannot help it. O, I am very angry sometimes at that! Do you like the ‘Sorrows of Werter?’”
“I — I have not read it, ma’am, only in part.”
“No? Well, I don’t know how it is translated, but it is very finely writ in German, and I can’t bear it.”
“I am very happy to hear that, for what I did look over made me determine never to read it. It seemed only writ as a deliberate defence of suicide.”
“Yes; and what is worse, it is done by a bad man for revenge.”
She then mentioned, with praise, another book, saying,
“I wish I knew the translator.”
“I wish the translator knew that.”
“O — it is not — I should not like to give my name, for fear I have judged ill: I picked it up on a stall. O, it is amazing what good books there are on stalls.”
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 549