The Prince of Wales’s house is exactly opposite to the Lodge
The duke then came in, and bowed to every one present, very attentively; and presently after, they went over the way, arm in arm; and thence returned to town.
I had a long and painful discourse afterwards with Mr. Smelt, deeply interested in these young princes , upon the many dangers awaiting the newly-arrived, who seemed alike unfitted and unsuspicious for encountering them. Mr. Smelt’s heart ached as if he had been their parent, and the regard springing from his early and long care of them seemed all revived in his hopes and fears of what might ensue from this reunion.
I rejoiced at the public reconciliation with the Prince of Wales, which had taken place during my illness, and which gave the greater reason for hope that there might not now be a division!
BUNBURY, THE CARICATURIST.
Windsor, Aug. 14.-General Budé came in, with two strangers, whom he introduced to us by the names of Bunbury and Crawfurd. I was very curious to know if this was the Bunbury;(239) and I conjectured it could be no other. When Colonel Gwynn joined us, he proposed anew the introduction; but nothing passed to ascertain my surmise. The conversation was general And good-humoured, but without anything striking, or bespeaking character or genius. Almost the whole consisted of inquiries what to do, whither to go, and how to proceed; which, though natural and sensible for a new man, were undistinguished by any humour, or keenness of expression or manner.
Mr. Crawfurd spoke not a word. He is a very handsome young man, just appointed equerry to the Duke of York.
I whispered my inquiry to Colonel Gwynn as soon as I found an opportunity, and heard, “Yes,— ’tis Harry Bunbury, sure enough!”
So now we may all be caricatured at his leisure! He is made another of the equerries to the Duke. A man with such a turn, and with talents so inimitable in displaying it, was rather a dangerous character to be brought within a Court!
Aug. 15.-My sole conversation this evening was with Mr. Bunbury, who drew a chair next mine, and chatted incessantly, with great good humour, and an avidity to discuss the subjects he started, which were all concerning plays and Players.
Presently the voice of the Duke of York was heard, calling aloud for Colonel Goldsworthy. Off he ran. Mr. Bunbury laughed, but declared he would not take the hint: “What,” cried he, “if I lose the beginning?(240) — I think I know it pretty well by heart’-’Why did I marry’ ‘“ — And then he began to spout, and act, and rattle away, with all his might,-till the same voice called out “Bunbury! — you’ll be too late!” — And off he flew, leaving his tea untasted — so eager had he been in discourse.
MRS. SIDDONS PROVES DISAPPOINTING ON NEAR ACQUAINTANCE. Wednesday, Aug. 15.-Mrs. Schwellenberg’s illness occasioned my attending the queen alone; and when my official business was ended, she graciously detained me, to read to me a new paper called “Olla Podrida,” which is now Publishing periodically. Nothing very bright — nothing very deficient.
In the afternoon, while I was drinking coffee with Mrs. Schwellenberg, — or, rather, looking at it, since I rarely, swallow any, — her majesty came Into the room, and soon after a little German discourse with Mrs. Schwellenberg told me Mrs. Siddons had been ordered to the Lodge, to read a play, and desired I would receive her in my room
I felt a little queer in the office; I had only seen her twice or thrice, in large assemblies, at Miss Monckton’s, and at Sir Joshua Reynolds’s, and never had been introduced to her, nor spoken with her. However, in this dead and tame life I now lead, such an interview was by no means undesirable.
I had just got to the bottom of the stairs, when she entered the passage gallery. I took her into the tea-room, and endeavoured to make amends for former distance and taciturnity, by an open and cheerful reception. I had heard from sundry people (in old days) that she wished to make the acquaintance; but I thought it then one of too conspicuous a sort for the quietness I had so much difficulty to preserve in my ever increasing connections. Here all was changed; I received her by the queen’s commands, and was perfectly well inclined to reap some pleasure from the meeting.
But, now that we came so near, I was much disappointed in my expectations. I know not if my dear Fredy has met with her in private, but I fancy approximation is not highly in her favour. I found her the heroine of a tragedy, — sublime, elevated, and solemn. In face and person truly noble and commanding; in manners quiet and stiff; in voice deep and dragging; and in conversation, formal, sententious, calm, and dry. I expected her to have been all that is interesting; the delicacy and sweetness with which she seizes every opportunity to strike and to captivate upon the stage had persuaded me that her mind was formed with that peculiar susceptibility which, in different modes, must give equal powers to attract and to delight in common life. But I was very much mistaken. As a stranger I must have admired her noble appearance and beautiful countenance, and have regretted that nothing in her conversation kept pace with their promise and, as a celebrated actress I had still only to do the same.
Whether fame and success have spoiled her, or whether she only possesses the skill of representing and embellishing materials with which she is furnished by others, I know not but still I remain disappointed.
She was scarcely seated, and a little general discourse begun, before she told me — at once — that “There was no part she had ever so much wished to act as that of Cecilia.”
I made some little acknowledgment, and hurried to ask when she had seen Sir Joshua Reynolds, Miss Palmer, and others with whom I knew her acquainted.
The play she was to read was “The Provoked Husband.” She appeared neither alarmed nor elated by her summons, but calmly to look upon it as a thing of course, from her celebrity.
I should very much have liked to have heard her read the play, but my dearest Mrs. Delany spent the whole evening with me, and I could therefore take no measures for finding out a convenient adjoining room. Mrs. Schwellenberg, I heard afterwards, was so accommodated, though not well enough for the tea-table.
MR. FAIRLY’S BEREAVEMENT.
Aug. 23.-At St. James’s I read in the newspapers a paragraph that touched me much for the very amiable Mr. Fairly: it was the death of his wife, which happened on the Duke of York’s birth-day, the 16th.(242) Mr. Fairly has devoted his whole time, strength, thoughts, and cares solely to nursing and attending her during a long and most painful illness which she sustained. They speak of her here as being amiable, but so cold and reserved, that she was little known, and by no means in equal favour with her husband, who stands, upon the whole the highest in general esteem and regard of any individual of the household. I find every mouth open to praise and pity, love and honour him.
TROUBLESOME MR. TURBULENT.
Upon returning to Kew, I had a scene for which I was little enough, indeed, prepared, though willing, and indeed, earnest to satisfy Mr. Turbulent, I wished him to make an alteration of behaviour. After hastily changing my dress, I went, as usual, to the parlour, to be ready for dinner; but found there no Mrs. Schwellenberg; she was again unwell; Miss Planta was not ready, and Mr. Turbulent was reading by himself.
Away he flung his book in a moment, and hastening to shut the door lest I should retreat, he rather charged than desired me to explain my late “chilling demeanour.”
Almost startled by his apparent entire ignorance of deserving it, I found an awkwardness I had not foreseen in making myself understood. I wished him rather to feel than be told the improprieties I meant to obviate - and I did what was possible by half evasive, half expressive answers, to call back his own recollection and consciousness. In vain, however, was the attempt; he protested himself wholly innocent, and that he would rather make an end of his existence than give me offence.
He saw not these very protestations were again doing it, and he grew so vehement in his defence, and so reproachful in his accusation of unjust usage, that I was soon totally in a perplexity how to extricate myself from a difficulty I had regarded simply as his own.
The moment he saw I grew embarrassed, he redoubled his challenges to know the cause of my “ill-treatment.” I assured him, then, I could never reckon silence ill-treatment.
“Yes,” he cried, “yes, from you it is ill-treatment, and it has given me the most serious uneasiness.” “I am sorry,” I said, “for that, and did not mean it.”
“Not mean it?” cried be. “Could you imagine I should miss your conversation, your ease, your pleasantness, your gaiety, and take no notice of the loss?”
Then followed a most violent flow of compliments, ending with a fresh demand for an explanation, made with an energy that, to own the truth, once more quite frightened me. I endeavoured to appease him, by general promises of becoming more voluble - and I quite languished to say to him the truth at once; that his sport, his spirit, and his society would all be acceptable to me, would he but divest them of that redundance of -gallantry which rendered them offensive : but I could only think how to say this — I could not bring it out.
This promised volubility, though it softened him, he seemed to receive as a sort of acknowledgment that I owed him some reparation for the disturbance I had caused him. I stared enough at such an interpretation, which I could by no means allow; but no sooner did I disclaim it than all his violence was resumed, and he urged me to give in my charge against him with an impetuosity that almost made me tremble.
I made as little answer as possible, finding everything I said seemed but the more to inflame his violent spirit; but his emotion was such, and the cause so inadequate, and my uncertainty so unpleasant what to think of him altogether, that I was seized with sensations so nervous, I Could almost have cried. In the full torrent of his offended justification against my displeasure towards him, he perceived my increasing distress how to proceed, and, suddenly stopping, exclaimed in quite another tone, “Now, then, ma’am, I see your justice returning; you feel that you have used me very ill!”
To my great relief entered Miss Planta. He contrived to say,
“Remember, you promise to explain all this.”
I made him no sort of answer, and though he frequently, in the course of the evening, repeated, “I depend upon your promise! I build upon a conference,” I sent his dependence and his building to Coventry, by not seeming to hear him.
I determined, however, to avoid all tęte-ŕ-tętes with him whatsoever, as much as was in my power. How very few people are fit for them, nobody living in trios and quartettos can imagine!
A CONCEITED PARSON.
Windsor.-Who should find me out now but Dr. Shepherd.(243) He is here as canon, and was in residence. He told me he had long wished to come, but had never been able to find the way of entrance before. He made me an immense length of visit, and related to me all the exploits of his life,-so far as they were prosperous. In no farce did a man ever more floridly open upon his own perfections. He assured me I should be delighted to know the whole of his life; it was equal to anything; and everything he had was got by his own address and ingenuity.
“I could tell the king,” cried he, “more than all the chapter. I want to talk to him, but he always gets out of my way; he does not know me; he takes me for a mere common person, like the rest of the canons here, and thinks of me no more than if I were only fit for the cassock; — a mere Scotch priest! Bless ‘em! — they know nothing about me. You have no conception what things I have done! And I want to tell ’em all this; — It’s fitter for them to hear than what comes to their ears. What I want is for somebody to tell them what I am.”
They know it already, thought I.
Then, when he had exhausted this general panegyric, he descended to some few particulars; especially dilating upon his preaching, and applying to me for attesting its excellence.
“I shall make one sermon every year, precisely for you!” he cried; “I think I know what will please you. That on the creation last Sunday was just to your taste. You shall have such another next residence. I think I preach in the right tone — not too slow, like that poor wretch Grape, nor too fast like Davis and the rest of ‘em; but yet fast enough never to tire them. That’s just my idea of good preaching.”
Then he told me what excellent apartments he had here and how much he should like my opinion in fitting them up.
MR. TURBULENT BECOMES A NUISANCE.
Aug.30.-Mrs. Schwellenberg invited Mr. Turbulent to dinner, for she said he had a large correspondence, and might amuse her. He came early; and finding nobody in the eating-parlour, begged to wait in mine till Mrs. Schwellenberg came downstairs. This was the last thing I wished; but he required no answer, and instantly resumed the Kew discussion, entreating me to tell him what he had done. I desired him to desist — in vain, he affirmed I had promised him an explanation, and he had therefore a right to it.
“You fully mistook me, then,” cried I, “for I meant no such thing then; I mean no such thing now; and I never shall mean any such thing in future. Is this explicit? I think it best to tell you so at once, that you may expect nothing more, but give over the subject, and talk of something else. What is the news?”
“I’ll talk of nothing else! — it distracts me; — pray No, no, tell
Me! — I call upon your good-nature!”
“I have none — about this!”
“Upon your goodness of heart!”
“’Tis all hardness here!”
“I will cast myself at your feet, — I will kneel to you!” And he was preparing his immense person for prostration, when Goter(244) opened the door. Such an interruption to his heroics made me laugh heartily; nor could he help joining himself; though the moment she was gone he renewed his importunity with unabated earnestness.
“I remember,” he cried, “it was upon the Terrace you first shewed me this disdain; and there, too, you have shown it me repeatedly since, with public superciliousness. . . . You well know you have treated me ill, — you know and have acknowledged it!”
“And when?” cried I, amazed and provoked; “when did I do what could never be done?”
“At Kew, ma’am, you were full of concern — full of remorse for the treatment you had given me! — and you owned it!”
“Good heaven, Mr. Turbulent, what can induce you to say this?”
“Is it not true?”
“Not a word of it! You know it is not!”
“Indeed,” cried he, “I really and truly thought so — hoped so; — I believed you looked as if you felt your own ill-usage,- and it gave to me a delight inexpressible!”
This was almost enough to bring back the very same supercilious Distance of which he complained; but, in dread of fresh explanations, I forbore to notice this flight, and only told him he might be perfectly satisfied, since I no longer Persevered in the taciturnity to which he objected.
“But how,” cried he, “do you give up, without deigning to assign one reason for It”?
“The greater the compliment!” cried I, laughing; “I give up to your request.”
“Yes, ma’am, upon my speaking,-but why did you keep Me so long in that painful suspense? “Nay,” cried I, “could I well be quicker? Till you spoke could I know if you heeded it?”
“Ah, ma’am — is there no language but of words? Do you pretend to think there is no other?’ — Must I teach it you,, — teach it to Miss Burney who speaks, who understands it so well? — who is never silent, and never can b silent?”
And then came his heroic old homage to the poor eyebrows vehemently finishing with, “Do you, can you affect to know no language but speech?”
“ Not,” cried I, coolly, “ without the trouble of more investigation than I had taken here.”
He called this “contempt,” and, exceedingly irritated, de sired me, once more, to explain, from beginning to end, how he had ever offended me.
“Mr. Turbulent,” cried I, “will you be satisfied if I tell you it shall all blow over?”
“Make me a vow, then, you will never more, never while you live, resume that proud taciturnity.”
“N
o, no, — certainly not; I never make vows; it is a rule with me to avoid them.”
“Give me, then, your promise, — your solemn promise, — at least I may claim that?”
“I have the same peculiarity about promises; I never make them.”
He was again beginning to storm, but again I assured him I would let the acquaintance take its old course, if he would but be appeased, and say no more; and, after difficulties innumerable, he at length gave up the point: but to this he was hastened, if not driven, by a summons to dinner.
DR. HERSCHEL AND HIS SISTER.
Sept.-Dr. Herschel is a delightful man; so unassuming with his great knowledge, so willing to dispense it to the ignorant, and so cheerful and easy in his general manners, that were he no genius it would be impossible not to remark him as a pleasing and sensible man. I was equally pleased with his sister, whom I had wished to see very much, for her great celebrity in her brother’s science. She is very little, very gentle, very modest, and very ingenious; and her manners are those of a person unhackneyed and unawed by the world, yet desirous to meet and to return its smiles. I love not the philosophy that braves it. This brother and sister seem gratified with its favour, at the same time that their own pursuit is all-sufficient to them without it.
I inquired of Miss Herschel if she was still comet-hunting, or content now with the moon? The brother answered that he had the charge of the moon, but he left to his sister to sweep the heavens for comets.
Their manner of working together is most ingenious and curious. While he makes his observations without-doors, he has a method of communicating them to his sister so immediately, that she can instantly commit them to paper, with the precise moment in which they are made. By this means he loses not a minute, when there is anything particularly worth observing, by writing it down, but can still proceed, yet still have his accounts and calculations exact. The methods he has contrived to facilitate this commerce I have not the terms to explain, though his simple manner of showing them made me, fully, at the time, comprehend them.
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 570