_Jan. 8, 1831_.
Now I will tell you of my delightful young Christmas party at Mrs.
Lockhart's. After dinner she arranged a round table in the corner of the
room, on which stood a magnificent iced plum cake. There were to be
twelve children: impossible to have room for chairs all round the table:
it was settled that the king and queen alone should be invited to the
honours of the sitting; but Mr. Lockhart, in a low voice, said, "Johnny!
there must, my dear Sophia, you know, be a chair for Johnny here--all's
right now."
Enter first, Miss Binning, a young lady of fifteen, Johnny's particular
friend, who had been invited to make crowns for the king and queen--a
very nice elegant-looking girl with a slight figure.
Then came from the top of the stairs peals of merry laughter, and in
came the revel rout; the king and queen with their gilt paper admirable
crowns on their heads, and little coronation robes; the queen was Mrs.
Lockhart's youngest child, like a dear little fairy; and the king to
match. All the others in various ways pleasing and prettily simply
dressed in muslins of a variety of colours; plenty of ringlets of glossy
hair, fair or brown, none black, with laughing blue eyes. And now they
look at the tickets they have drawn for their twelfth-night characters,
and read them out. After eating as much as well could be compassed, the
revel rout ran upstairs again to the drawing-room, where open space and
verge enough had been made for hunt the slipper; and down they all
popped in the circle, of which you may see the likeness in the
_Pleasures of Memory_. Then came dancing; and as the little and large
dancers were all Scotch, I need not say how good it was. Mrs. Lockhart
is really a delightful creature, the more lovable the closer one comes
to her and in _London_. How very, very kind of her to invite me to this
quite family party; if she had invented for ever, she could not have
found what would please me more.
_To_ MRS. EDGEWORTH.
LONDON, _January 20_.
I write this "certificate of existence," and moreover, an affidavit of
my being a-foot [Footnote: Miss Edgeworth had twisted her foot a few
nights before in getting out of the carriage, and was unable to use it
for some days.] again, and can go downstairs with one foot foremost like
a child, and wore a black satin shoe like another last night at Mrs.
Elliot's.
Now sign, seal, and deliver for the bare life--of Mrs. Hope and the
Duchess of Wellington in my next.
_January 22_.
I left off at the Duchess of Wellington. I heard she was ill and
determined to write and ask if she wished to see me; a hundred of the
little London _remoras_ delayed and stopped me and fortunately--I almost
always find cause to rejoice instead of deploring when I have delayed to
execute an intention, so that I must conclude that my fault is
precipitation not procrastination. The very day I had my pen in my hand
to write to her and was called away to write some other letter, much to
my annoyance; much to my delight a few hours afterwards came a little
pencil note, begging me to come to Apsley House if I wished to please an
early friend who could never forget the kindness she had received at
Edgeworthstown. I had not been able to put my foot to the ground, but I
found it easy with motive to trample on impossibilities, and there is no
going upstairs at Apsley House, for the Duke has had apartments on the
ground floor, a whole suite, appropriated to the Duchess now that she is
so ill, and I had only to go leaning on Fanny's arm, through a long
passage to a magnificent room--not magnificent from its size, height,
length, or breadth, but from its contents: the presents of Cities,
Kingdoms, and Sovereigns. In the midst, on a high, narrow, mattressed
sofa like Lucy's, all white and paler than ever Lucy was, paler than
marble, lay as if laid out a corpse, the Duchess of Wellington. Always
little and delicate-looking, she now looked a miniature figure of
herself in wax-work. As I entered I heard her voice before I saw her,
before I could distinguish her features among the borders of her cap;
only saw the place where her head lay on the huge raised pillow; the
head moved, the head only, and the sweet voice of Kitty Pakenham
exclaimed, "O! Miss Edgeworth, you are the truest of the true--the
kindest of the kind." And a little, delicate, death-like white hand
stretched itself out to me before I could reach the couch, and when I
got there I could not speak--not a syllable, but she, with most perfect
composure, more than composure, cheerfulness of tone, went on speaking;
as she spoke, all the Kitty Pakenham expression appeared in that little
shrunk face, and the very faint colour rose, and the smile of former
times. She raised herself more and more, and spoke with more and more
animation in charming language and with all her peculiar grace and
elegance of kindness recollected so much of past times and of my father
particularly, whose affection she convinced me had touched her deeply.
Opposite her couch hung the gold shield in imitation of the shield of
Achilles with all the Duke's victories embossed on the margin, the Duke
and his staff in the centre, surrounded with blazing rays, given by the
city of London. On either side the great candelabras belonging to the
massive plateau given by Portugal, which cannot be lifted without
machinery. At either end, in deep and tall glass cases, from top to
bottom ranged the services of Dresden and German china, presented by the
Emperor of Austria and the King of Prussia. While I looked at these, the
Duchess raising herself quite up, exclaimed with weak-voiced,
strong-souled enthusiasm, "All tributes to merit! there's the value, all
pure, no corruption ever suspected even. Even of the Duke of Marlborough
that could not be said so truly."
The fresh, untired enthusiasm she feels for his character, for her own
still youthful imagination of her hero, after all she has gone through,
is most touching. There she is, fading away, still feeding when she can
feed on nothing else, on his glories, on the perfume of his incense. She
had heard of my being in London from Lord Downes, who had seen me at the
Countess de Salis's, where we met him and Lady Downes; when I met her
again two days after we had been at Apsley House she said the Duchess
was not so ill as I supposed, that her physicians do not allow that they
despair. But notwithstanding what friends and physicians say, my own
impression is, that she cannot be much longer for this world.
_To_ MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.