Windsor, Saturday, Nov. 25—I got to Hounslow almost at the same moment with Mrs. Astley, my dear Mrs. Delany's maid, who was sent to meet me. As soon as she had satisfied my inquiries concerning her lady, she was eager to inform me that the queen had drunk tea with Mrs. Delany the day before, and had asked when I should come, and heard the time; and that Mrs. Delany believed she would be with her again that evening, and desire to see me. This was rather fidgetting intelligence. I rather, in my own mind, thought the queen would prefer giving me the first evening alone with my dear old friend. I found that sweet lady not so well as I had hoped, and strongly affected by afflicting recollections at sight of me. With all her gentleness and resignation, bursts of sorrow break from her still whenever we are alone together, for the Duchess of Portland was a boson' friend to her.
Miss Port.[193] who is a truly lovely girl, received me with her usual warmth of joy, and was most impatient to whisper me that “all the princesses intended to come and see me.” She is just at the age to doat upon an ado, and nothing so much delights her as the thought of my presentations.
Mrs. Delany acquainted me that the queen, in their first interview, upon her coming to this house, said to her, “Why did not you bring your friend Miss Burney with you?”
My dear Mrs. Delany was very much gratified by such an attention to whatever could be thought interesting to her, but, with her usual propriety, answered that, in coming to a house of her majesty's, she could not presume to ask anybody without immediate and express permission. “The king, however,” she added, “made the very same inquiry when I saw him next.”
Sunday, Nov. 26.—So now the royal encounters, for a while at least, are out of all question. Nobody came last night, though Mrs. Delany I saw, and Miss Port. I heard, in continual expectation; but this morning, Mr. Battiscombe, apothecary to the household, called, and said that an express arrived from Germany yesterday afternoon, with an account of the death of the queen's youngest brother.
The queen,—whose domestic virtues rise upon me every hour, is strongly attached to all her family, and in much affliction at this news; for though this brother was quite a boy when she left Germany, he has twice been to visit her in, England. None of the royal family will appear till the mourning takes place; the queen, perhaps, may shut herself up still longer.
At night, quite incog. quite alone, and quite privately, the king came, and was shut up with Mrs. Delany for an hour. It is out of rule for any of the family to be seen till in mourning, but he knew she was anxious for an account of the queen. I had a very narrow escape of being surprised by him, which would have vexed me, as he only meant to see Mrs. Delany by herself, though she says he told her he was very glad to hear I was come.
Thursday, Dec. 1.—To-day the queen sent Miss Planta to tell Mrs. Delany that if she would not yet venture to the Lodge, she would come to her in the evening. Mrs. Delany accepted the gracious offer, and, at tea-time, she came, as well as the king, and spent two hours here.
Mrs. Delany told me afterwards, that the queen was very low-spirited, and seemed to wish for nothing but the solace of sitting perfectly quiet. She is a sweet woman, and has all the domestic affections warm and strong in her heart.
Nevertheless they talked of me, she says, a good deal—and the king asked many questions about me. There is a new play, he told Mrs. Delany, coming out; “and it is said to be Miss Burney's!” Mrs. Delany immediately answered that she knew the report must be untrue. “But I hope she is not idle?” cried the king. “I hope she is writing something?”
What Mrs. Delany said, I know not; but he afterwards inquired what she thought of my writing a play?
“What,” said he, “do you wish about it, Mrs. Delany?”
Mrs. Delany hesitated, and the queen then said,
“I wish what I know Mrs. Delany does—that she may not; for though her reputation is so high, her character, by all I hear, is too delicate to suit with writing for the stage.”
Sweet queen! I could have kissed the hem of her garment for that speech, and I could not resist writing it.
Mrs. Delany then said,
“Why My opinion is what I believe to be Miss Burney's own; that It is too public and hazardous a style of writing for her quiet and fearful turn of mind.”
I have really the grace to be a little ashamed of scribbling this, but I know I can scribble nothing my dear father will be more curious to hear.
Saturday, Dec. 3—This morning we had better news of the princess—and Mrs. Delany went again to the Lodge in the evening, to the queen. When Mrs. Delany returned, she confirmed the good accounts of the Princess Elizabeth's amendment. She had told the queen I was going to-morrow to Thames Ditton, for a week; and was asked many questions about my coming back, which the queen said she was sure I should be glad to do from Mrs. Walsingham to Mrs. Delany. O most penetrating queen!
She gratified Mrs. Delany by many kind speeches, of being sorry I was going, and glad I was returning, and so forth. Mrs. Delany then told her I had been reading “The Clandestine Marriage” to her, which the queen had recommended, and she thanked her majesty for the very great pleasure she had received from it.
“O then,” cried the queen, “if Miss Burney reads to you, what a pleasure you must have to make her read her own works!”
Mrs. Delany laughed, and exclaimed,
“O ma'am! read her own works!—your majesty has no notion of Miss Burney! I believe she would as soon die!”
This, of course, led to a great deal of discussion, in the midst of which the queen said,
“Do you know Dr. Burney, Mrs. Delany?
“Yes, ma'am, extremely well,” answered Mrs. Delany.
“I think him,” said the queen, “a very agreeable and entertaining man.”
There, my dear father! said I not well just now, O most penetrating queen?
So here ends my Windsor journal, part the first. Tomorrow morning I go for my week to Thames Ditton.
Windsor, Wednesday, Dec. 14—Yesterday I returned to my dear Mrs. Delany, from Thames Ditton, and had the great concern of finding her very unwell. Mr. Bernard Dewes, one of her nephews, and his little girl, a sweet child of seven years old, were with her, and, of course, Miss Port. She had been hurried, though only with pleasure, and her emotion, first in receiving, and next in entertaining them, had brought on a little fever.
She revived in the afternoon, and I had the pleasure of reading to her a play of Shakspeare's, that she had not heard for forty years, and which I had never read since I was a child,—“The Comedy of Errors;”—and we found in it all the entertainment belonging to an excellent farce, and all the objections belonging to an indifferent play, but the spirit with which she enters into every part of everything she hears, gives a sort of theatric effect to whatever is read to her; and my spirits rise in her presence, with the joy of exciting hers.
But I am now obliged, by what follows, to confess a little discussion I have had with my dear Mrs. Delany, almost all the time I spent with her at first, and now again upon my return, relative to the royal interview, so long in expectation.
Immediately upon my arrival, she had imagined, by what had preceded it, that a visit would instantly ensue here, and I should have a summons to appear; but the death of the queen's brother, which was known the very night I came, confined her majesty and all the family for some days to the Lodge; and the dangerous illness of the Princess Elizabeth next took place, in occupying all their thoughts, greatly to their credit. My dear old friend, however, earnest I should have an honour which her grateful reverence for their majesties makes her regard very highly, had often wished me to stay in the room when they came to see her, assuring me that though they were so circumstanced as not to send for a stranger, she knew they would be much pleased to meet with me. This, however, was more than I could assent to, without infinite pain, and that she was too kind to make a point of my enduring.
Yesterday, upon my return, she began again the same reasoning; the Princess Elizabeth had relapsed, and she knew, during her being worse, there was no chance the queen would take any active step towards a meeting. “But she inquires,” continued Mrs. Delany, “so much about you, and is so earnest that you should be with me, that I am sure she wants to see and converse with you. You will see her, too, with more ease to yourself by being already in the room, than from being summoned. I would not for the world put this request to you, if I were not sure she wishes it.”
There was no withstanding the word “request” from Mrs. Delany, and little as I liked the business, I could not but comply. What next was to be done, was to beg directions for the rencounter.
Now though you, my dear father, have had an audience, and you, my dear Susan, are likely enough to avoid one, yet I think the etiquettes on these occasions will be equally new to you both; for one never inquired into them, and the other has never thought of them. Here, at Windsor, where more than half the people we see are belonging to the Court, and where all the rest are trying to be in the same predicament, the intelligence I have obtained must be looked upon as accurate, and I shall, therefore give it. In full confidence you will both regard it as a valuable addition to your present stock of Court knowledge, and read it with that decent awe the dignity of the topic requires!
... To come, then, to those particular instructions I received myself, and which must not be regarded as having anything to do with general rules.
“I do beg of you,” said dear Mrs. Delany, “When the queen or the king speak to you, not to answer with mere monosyllables. The queen often complains to me of the difficulty with which she can get any conversation, as she not only always has to start the subjects, but, commonly, entirely to support them: and she says there is nothing she so much loves as conversation, and nothing she finds so hard to get. She is always best pleased to have the answers that are made her lead on to further discourse. Now, as I know she wishes to be acquainted with you, and converse with you, I do really entreat you not to draw back from her, nor to stop conversation with only answering 'Yes,' or 'No.'”
This was a most tremendous injunction; however, I could not but promise her I would do the best I could.
To this, nevertheless, she readily agreed, that if upon entering the room, they should take no notice of me, I might quietly retire. And that, believe me, will not be very slowly! They cannot find me in this house without knowing who I am, and therefore they can be at no loss whether to speak to me or not, from incertitude.
I heard the thunder at the door, and, panic struck, away flew all my resolutions and agreements, and away after them flew I!
Don't be angry, my dear father—I would have stayed if I could, and I meant to stay—-but, when the moment came, neither my preparations nor intentions availed, and I arrived at my own room, ere I well knew I had left the drawing-room, and quite breathless between the race I ran with Miss Port and the joy of escaping, Mrs. Delany, though a little vexed at the time, was not afterwards, when she found the queen very much dispirited by a relapse of the poor Princess Elizabeth. She inquired if I was returned, and hoped I now came to make a longer stay.
Friday, Dec. 16.—Yesterday morning we had a much better account of the Princess Elizabeth; and Mrs. Delany said to me,
“Now you will escape no longer, for if their uneasiness ceases, I am sure they will send for you, when they come next.”
To be sent for, I confessed to her, would really be more formidable than to be surprised; but to pretend to be surprised would answer no purpose in making the meeting easy to me, and therefore I preferred letting the matter take its chance.
After dinner, while Mrs. Delany was left alone, as usual, to take a little rest,—for sleep it but seldom proves,—Mr. B. Dewes, his little daughter, Miss Port, and myself, went into the drawing-room. And here, while, to pass the time, I was amusing the little girl with teaching her some Christmas games, in which her father and cousin joined, Mrs. Delany came in. We were all in the middle of the room, and in some confusion;—but she had but just come up to us to inquire what was going forwards, and I was disentangling myself from Miss Dewes, to be ready to fly off if any one knocked at the street-door, when the door of the drawing-room was again opened, and a large man, in deep mourning, appeared at it, entering, and shutting it himself without speaking.
A ghost could not more have scared me, when I discovered, by its glitter on the black, a star! The general disorder had prevented his being seen, except by myself, who was always on the watch, till Miss Port, turning round, exclaimed, “The king!—aunt, the king!”
O mercy! thought I, that I were but out of the room! which way shall I escape? and how pass him unnoticed? There is but the single door at which he entered, in the room! Every one scampered out of the way: Miss Port, to stand next the door; Mr. Bernard Dewes to a corner opposite it; his little girl clung to me; and Mrs. Delany advanced to meet his majesty, who, after quietly looking on till she saw him, approached, and inquired how she did.
He then spoke to Mr. Bernard, whom he had already met two or three times here.
I had now retreated to the wall, and purposed gliding softly, though speedily, out of the room; but before I had taken a single step, the king, in a loud whisper to Mrs. Delany, said, “Is that Miss Burney?”—and on her answering, “Yes, sir,” he bowed, and with a countenance of the most perfect good humour, came close up to me.
A most profound reverence on my part arrested the progress of my intended retreat.
“How long have you been come back, Miss Burney?”
“Two days, sir.”
Unluckily he did not hear me, and repeated his question and whether the second time he heard me or not, I don't know, but he made a little civil inclination of his head, and went back to Mrs. Delany.
He insisted she should sit down, though he stood himself, and began to give her an account of the Princess Elizabeth, who once again was recovering, and trying, at present, James's powders. She had been blooded, he said, twelve times in this last fortnight, and had lost seventy-five ounces of blood, besides undergoing blistering and other discipline. He spoke of her illness with the strongest emotion, and seemed quite filled with concern for her danger and suffering.
Mrs. Delany next inquired for the younger children. They had all, he said, the whooping-cough, and were soon to be removed to Kew.
“Not,” added he, “for any other reason than change of air for themselves; though I am pretty certain I have never had the distemper myself, and the queen thinks she has not had it either:—we shall take our chance. When the two eldest had it, I sent them away, and would not see them till it was over; but now there are so many of them that there would be no end to separations, so I let it take its course.”
Mrs. Delany expressed a good deal of concern at his running this risk, but he laughed at it, and said, he was much more afraid of catching the rheumatism, which has been threatening one of his shoulders lately, However, he added, he should hunt, the next morning, in defiance of it.
A good deal of talk then followed about his own health, and the extreme temperance by which he preserved it. The fault of his constitution, he said, was a tendency to excessive fat, which he kept, however, in order, by the most vigorous exercise and the strictest attention to a simple diet.
Mrs. Delany was beginning to praise his forbearance, but he stopped her.
“No, no,” he cried, “'tis no virtue; I only prefer eating plain and little to growing diseased and infirm.”
During this discourse, I stood quietly in the place where he had first spoken to me. His quitting me so soon, and conversing freely and easily with Mrs. Delany, proved so delightful a relief to me, that I no longer wished myself away; and the moment my first panic from the surprise was over, I diverted myself with a thousand ridiculous notions, of my own situation.
The Christmas games we had been showing Miss Dewes, it seemed as if we were still performing, as none of us thought it proper to move, though our manner of standing reminded one of “Puss in the corner.” Close to the door was posted Miss Port; opposite her, close to the wainscot, stood Mr. Dewes; at just an equal distance from him, close to a window, stood myself. Mrs. Delany, though seated, was at the opposite side to Miss Port; and his majesty kept pretty much in the middle of the room. The little girl, who kept close to me, did not break the order, and I could hardly help expecting to be beckoned, with a PUSS! PUSS! PUSS! to change places with one of my neighbours.
This idea, afterwards, gave way to another more pompous. It seemed to me we were acting a play. There is something so little like common and real life, in everybody's standing, while talking, in a room full of chairs, and standing, too, so aloof from each other, that I almost thought myself upon a stage, assisting in the representation of a tragedy,—in which the king played his own part, of the king; Mrs. Delany that of a venerable confidante; Mr. Dewes, his respectful attendant; Miss Port, a suppliant Virgin, waiting encouragement to bring forward some petition; Miss Dewes, a young orphan, intended to move the royal compassion; and myself,—a very solemn, sober, and decent mute.
These fancies, however, only regaled me while I continued a quiet spectator, and without expectation of being called into play. But the king, I have reason to think, meant only to give me time to recover from my first embarrassment; and I feel infinitely obliged to his good breeding and consideration, which perfectly answered, for before he returned to me, I was entirely recruited.
To go back to my narration.
When the discourse upon health and strength was over, the king went up to the table, and looked at a book of prints, from Claude Lorraine, which had been brought down for Miss Dewes; but Mrs. Delany, by mistake, told him they were for me. He turned over a leaf or two, and then said—
“Pray, does Miss Burney draw, too?”
The too was pronounced very civilly.
“I believe not, Sir,” answered Mrs. Delany “at least, she does not tell.”
“Oh!” cried he, laughing, “that's nothing; she is not apt to tell! she never does tell, you know!—Her father told me that himself. He told me the whole history of her 'Evelina.' And I shall never forget his face when he spoke of his feelings at first taking up the book!—he looked quite frightened, just as if he was doing it that moment! I never can forget his face while I live!”
Then coming up close to me, the king said—
“But what?—what?—how was it?”
“Sir”—cried I, not well understanding him.
“How came you—how happened it—what?—what?”
“I—I only wrote, Sir, for my own amusement,—only in some odd, idle hours.”
“But your publishing—your printing,—how was that?
“That was only, sir,—only because—”
I hesitated most abominably, not knowing how to tell him a long story, and growing terribly confused at these questions;—besides,—to say the truth, his own “what? what?” so reminded me of those vile “Probationary Odes,” that, in the midst of all my flutter, I was really hardly able to keep my countenance.
The What! was then repeated, with so earnest a look, that, forced to say something, I stammeringly answered—
“I thought-sir-it would look very well in print!”
I do really flatter myself this is the silliest speech I ever made! I am quite provoked with myself for it; but a fear of laughing made me eager to utter anything, and by no means conscious, till I had spoken, of what I was saying. He laughed very heartily himself,—well he might—and walked away to enjoy it, crying out,
“Very fair indeed! that's being very fair and honest.”
Then, returning to me again, he said,
“But your father—how came you not to show him what you wrote?”
“I was too much ashamed of it, sir, seriously.”
Literal truth that, I am sure.
“And how did he find it out?
“I don't know myself, sir. He never would tell me.”
Literal truth again, my dear father, as you can testify.
“But how did you get it printed?”
“I sent it, sir, to a bookseller my father never employed, and that I never had seen myself, Mr. Lowndes, in full hope by that means he never would hear of it.”
“But how could you manage that?”
“By means of a brother, sir.”
“O!—you confided in a brother, then?”
“Yes, sir,—that is, for the publication.”
“What entertainment you must have had from hearing people's conjectures, before you were known! Do you remember any of them?”
“Yes, sir, many.”
“And what?”
“I heard that Mr. Baretti[194] laid a wager it was written by a man for no woman, he said, could have kept her own counsel.”
This diverted him extremely.
“But how was it,” he continued, “you thought most likely for your father to discover you?”
“Sometimes, sir, I have supposed I must have dropt some of the manuscript; sometimes, that one of my sisters betrayed me.”
“O! your sister?—what, not your brother?”
“No, sir; he could not, for—”
I was going on, but he laughed so much I could not be heard, exclaiming,
“Vastly well! I see you are of Mr. Baretti's'mind, and think your brother could keep your secret, and not your sister?”
“Well, but,” cried he presently, “how was it first known to you, you were betrayed?”
“By a letter, sir, from another sister. I was very ill, and in the country; and she wrote me word that my father had taken up a review, in which the book was mentioned, and had put his finger upon its name, and said—'Contrive to get that book for me.'”
“And when he got it,” cried the king, “he told me he was afraid of looking at it! and never can I forget his face when he mentioned his first opening it. But you have not kept your pen unemployed all this time?”
“Indeed I have, sir.”
“But why?”
“I—I believe I have exhausted myself, sir.”
He laughed aloud at this, and went and told it to Mrs. Delany, civilly treating a plain fact as a mere bon mot.
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.
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.
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 in 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.
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![195]