The Diary and Collected Letters of Madame D'Arblay, Frances Burney. Frances Burney
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however, there was no help for it. She then took my fan, and, having looked at it on both sides, gravely returned it me, saying, “O! a brown fan!”
The king and queen then bid her curtsey to Mrs. Delany which she did most gracefully, and they all moved on; each of the princesses speaking to Mrs. Delany as they passed, and condescending to curtsey to her companion.
The Cipher Becomes a Number
Mrs. Delany was too much fatigued to return to the Lodge to tea; but Mrs. Fielding and her three daughters, Lord Courtown, Mr. Fisher, the general, and the major, made up our set.
Mrs. Schwellenberg was very ill. She declined making tea, and put it into the hands of the general. I had always kept back from that office, as well as from presiding at the table, that I might keep the more quiet, and be permitted to sit silent; which, at first, was a repose quite necessary to my depressed state of spirits, and which, as they grew better, I found equally necessary to keep off the foul fiends of Jealousy and Rivalry in my colleague; who, apparently, never wishes to hear my voice but when we are tête-à-tête, and then never is in good-humour when it is at rest. I could not, however, see this feminine occupation in masculine hands, and not, for shame, propose taking it upon myself. The general readily relinquished it, and I was fain to come forth and do the honours.
Lord Courtown sat himself next me, and talked with me the whole time, in well-bred and pleasant discourse. The Major waited upon me as assiduously as if he had been as much my equerry as the king’s, and all went smooth, well, and naturally, except that the poor sick lady grew evidently less and less pleased with the arrangement of things, and less and less in humour with its arrangers: so obvious, indeed, was the displeasure that the cipher should become a number, that had my own mind been easy, I should have felt much vexed to observe what a curb was placed over me: for hitherto, except when she had been engaged herself, and only to Major Price and Mr. Fisher, that cipher had “word spoke never one.” ’Tis wonderful, my dearest Susan, what wretched tempers are to be met with—wretched in and to themselves—wretched to and for all that surround them. However, while only to be stupid and silent will do, we shall not be at variance. Were I happier, perhaps I might comply with more difficulty; so be not sorry, my Susan, nor you, my sweet Fredy, if, bye-and-bye, you should hear me complain. It will be a very good sign.
Display of Loyalty at Little Kew
Aug. 8.—An exceedingly pretty scene was exhibited today to their majesties. We came, as usual on every alternate Tuesday, to Kew. The queen’s Lodge is at the end of a long meadow, surrounded with houses, which is called Kew green; and this was quite filled with all the inhabitants of the place—the lame, old, blind, sick, and infants, who all assembled, dressed in their Sunday garb, to line the sides of the roads through which their majesties passed, attended by a band of musicians, arranged in the front, who began “God save the King!” the moment they came upon the green, and finished it with loud huzzas. This was a compliment at the expense of the better inhabitants, who paid the musicians themselves, and mixed in with the group, which indeed left not a soul, I am told, in any house in the place.
This testimony of loyal satisfaction in the king’s safe return, after the attempted assassination, affected the queen to tears: nor were they shed alone; for almost everybody’s flowed that witnessed the scene. The queen, speaking of it afterwards, said,
“O! I shall always love little Kew for this!”
Miss Bernar, the Queen will Give you a Gown
At the second toilette today, Mrs. Schwellenberg, who left the dressing-room before me, called out at the door, “Miss Bernar, when you have done from the queen, come to my room.”
There was something rather more peremptory in the order than was quite pleasant to me, and I rather drily answered, “Very well, Mrs. Schwellenberg.”
The queen was even uncommonly sweet and gracious in her manner after this lady’s departure, and kept me with her some time after she was dressed. I never go from her presence till I am dismissed; no one does, not even when they come in only with a hurried message,—except the pages, who enter merely as messengers, and Mrs. Schwellenberg, whose place and illness together have given her that privilege.
The general form of the dismission, which you may perhaps be curious to hear, is in these words, “Now I will let you go,” which the queen manages to speak with a grace that takes from them all air of authority.
At first, I must confess, there was something inexpressibly awkward to me, in waiting to be told to go, instead of watching an opportunity, as elsewhere, for taking leave before I thought myself de trop: but I have since found that this is, to me, a mark of honour; as it is the established custom to people of the first rank, the princesses themselves included, and only not used to the pages and the wardrobe-women, who are supposed only to enter for actual business, and therefore to retire when it is finished, without expectation of being detained to converse, or beyond absolute necessity.
I give you all these little details of interior royalty, because they are curious, from opening a new scene of life, and can only be really known by interior residence.
When I went to Mrs. Schwellenberg, she said, “You might know I had something to say to you, by my calling you before the queen.” She then proceeded to a long prelude, which I could but ill comprehend, save that it conveyed much of obligation on my part, and favour on hers; and then ended with, “I might tell you now, the queen is going to Oxford, and you might go with her; it is a secret—you might not tell it nobody. But I tell you once, I shall do for you what I can; you are to have a gown.”
I stared, and drew back, with a look so undisguised of wonder and displeasure at this extraordinary speech, that I saw it was understood, and she then thought it time, therefore, to name her authority, which with great emphasis, she did thus: “The queen will give you a gown! The queen says you are not rich,” etc.
There was something in the manner of this quite intolerable to me, and I hastily interrupted her with saying, “I have two new gowns by me, and therefore do not require another.”
Perhaps a proposed present from her majesty was never so received before; but the grossness of the manner of the messenger swallowed up the graciousness of the design in the principal: and I had not even a wish to conceal how little it was to my taste.
The highest surprise sat upon her brow; she had imagined that a gown—that any present—would have been caught at with obsequious avidity,—but indeed she was mistaken.
Seeing the wonder and displeasure now hers, I calmly added, “The queen is very good, and I am very sensible of her majesty’s graciousness; but there is not, in this instance, the least occasion for it.”
“Miss Bernar,” cried she, quite angrily, “I tell you once, when the queen will give you a gown, you must be humble, thankful, when you are Duchess of Ancaster.”
She then enumerated various ladies to whom her majesty had made the same present, many of them of the first distinction, and all, she said, great secrets. Still I only repeated again the same speech.
I can bear to be checked and curbed in discourse, and would rather be subdued into silence—and even, if that proves a gratification that secures peace and gives pleasure, into apparent insensibility; but to receive a favour through the vehicle of insolent ostentation—no! no! To submit to ill humour rather than argue and dispute I think an exercise of patience, and I encourage myself all I can to practice it: but to accept even a shadow of an obligation upon such terms I should think mean and unworthy; and therefore I mean always, in a Court as I would elsewhere, to be open and fearless in declining such subjection.
When she had finished her list of secret ladies, I told her I must beg to speak to the queen, and make my own acknowledgments for her gracious intention.
This she positively forbid; and said it must only pass through her hands. “When I give you the gown,” she added,