My last letters from England are to the 16th of January; everything is
in a sad state there. They say in Paris that the refugees are doing
their best to excite the king and the Prince of Wales against each
other in the hope that a regent may be chosen by the parliament, and
that the country will thus escape the authority of the prince. That
seems very likely to be true; but it also seems to me that father and
son ought to perceive the scheme and thus be led to reconciliation
with each other; if not, great evils will result. There is no motive
in the world which can justify a son in not submitting to a father,
and when, moreover, that father is his king. I believe there has
never existed any tenderness between them; our dear Electress used
to say it was the son who was in fault. The dear Princess of Wales
inspires me with such compassion that yesterday I wept over her. Her
departure from Saint James' palace as Countess of Buckenburg [_sic_]
was described to me; it was truly deplorable; she fainted several
times when her three little princes, all in tears, took leave of her;
that touched me deeply. The King of England, if I may dare to say so,
treats her too harshly. She has done nothing to justify his forbidding
her to see her children, whom she loves with such tenderness. Where
can they be better brought up than beside so sensible and virtuous a
mother? According to my ideas, the whole thing is very blamable.
King George was always an artful, dissimulating egoist. I have known
that for a long time. Whatever marks of friendship I gave him he
never gave me any sign of confidence, and sometimes would scarcely
speak to me. I had to drag his words from him, one by one, which is a
very unpleasant thing to do; he is completely devoid of good natural
feelings. I am not surprised that he takes no notice of you. He cares
for no one; but it happens to him, as it does to such people, that in
return nobody cares for him. He piques himself on not being civil; I
saw this by the manners of those who frequented his Court in Hanover.
It is not possible to meet any one more sulky and surly than young
Count Platten; if he had not been warmly recommended to me by my aunt,
and if his father and mother had not been my good friends, I would
have let him be put in a place where he would have had time to make
reflections and learn how to live; he fully deserved the Bastille, but
serious reasons led me to save him.