Royal Visit to Nuneham—A Present from the Queen—Official Exhortations—
Embarrassments at Nuneham—A Laborious Sunday—Hairdressing—The Court
visits Oxford—Journey thither—Reception by the University—Address and
Reply—Kissing Hands—Christchurch—Fatigues of the Suite—Refreshment
under Difficulties—A Surprise—The Routine of Court Life—The Equerries—
Draughts in the Palace—Early Prayers—Barley-water—The London Season—
Mrs. Siddons—Mrs. Schwellenberg’s Apartments—Her Tame Frogs—Her
Behaviour to Miss Burney—Cruel Treatment—A Change for the Better—
Newspaper Reports—Conversation with the Queen—Miss Burney as Reader—
Her Attainments, Tastes, and Powers.
A few days after the scene described at the end of our last chapter, the
Court set out on a visit to Lord and Lady Harcourt at Nuneham. The
arrangement was that the royal party should pass the first day with
their host and hostess; spend the second and third in excursions to
Oxford and Blenheim respectively, sleeping each night at Nuneham; and
return the fourth day to Windsor. Miss Burney was informed that she was
to be one of her Majesty’s suite. In making this communication to her,
Mrs. Schwellenberg took occasion to say: ‘I tell you once, I shall do
for you what I can; you are to have a gown!’ Seeing Fanny draw back in
surprise at this abrupt speech, the important old lady added: ‘The Queen
will give you a gown; the Queen says you are not rich.’ Offended at the
grossness with which the intended gracious present was offered, our
inexperienced Court servant declared a wish to decline it. Her superior
instantly flew into a passion. ‘Miss Bernar,’ cried she, quite angrily,
‘I tell you once, when the Queen will give you a gown,[76] you must be
humble, thankful, when you are Duchess of Ancaster!’ Before the journey
to Nuneham took place, Fanny, rather unwisely, expressed her regret that
she had some time previously neglected an opportunity of being
introduced to the lady whose house she was about to visit; she had met
Lord Harcourt, she said, and thought it might have smoothed her way to
know something of his Countess also. She was promptly told that she was
utterly insignificant—that, going with the Queen, she was sure of civil
treatment; but that whether or not she had a servant, or any change of
dress, was of no consequence. ‘There is no need,’ said the senior
Robe-Keeper, ‘that you should be seen. I shall do everything that I can
to assist you to appear for nobody.’
In fact, the whole expedition might have seemed to be planned for the
purpose of convincing her that any importance she had once enjoyed was
now absolutely gone. Their Majesties went to Nuneham to breakfast. Miss
Burney followed in the afternoon, with Miss Planta, English teacher of
the Princesses, Mrs. Thielky, the Queen’s wardrobe-woman, and one or two
more of the royal attendants. On their arrival, they found the house to
be ‘one of those straggling, half-new, half-old, half-comfortable, and
half-forlorn mansions, that are begun in one generation and finished in
another.’ We have a graphic and amusing description of accidents
encountered and discomforts endured, before the hapless and helpless
diarist was settled for the night: the being handed from her carriage by
a common postilion; the deserted hall, where not even a porter was to be
seen; the entire absence of a welcome, the whole family being in the
Park, with the King and Queen and Princesses, and the mistress of the
house having deputed no one to act for her; the want of assistance in
searching for her apartment; the wanderings through unknown mazy
passages; the ‘superfine men in yellow-laced liveries’ occasionally met
sauntering along, who disdained to waste a word in answer to inquiries;
the sitting down at length in despair in a room destined for one of the
Princesses; the alarm at being surprised there by its owner and her
sisters; the subsequent promises, only made to be broken, of guidance to
the wished-for haven; and finally, when that haven had at last been
reached, the humiliation of being summoned to supper by a
gentleman-footman haughtily calling out from the foot of the stairs,
‘_The equerries want the ladies!_’ It is impossible to read the account
of these ‘difficulties and disgraces’ without seeing that the shy,
sensitive, flattered novel-writer had indeed mistaken her vocation when
she accepted service in a royal household.
The next day was Sunday, and was appointed to be observed, after due
attendance at Church, by a visit to the University of Oxford. Late on
Saturday night, Miss Burney received the Queen’s commands to belong to
the suite on the morrow, and rejoiced exceedingly that she had brought
with her a new Chambéry gauze, instead of only the dress she wore,
according to her Cerbera’s advice. We abridge Fanny’s narrative of her
laborious Sabbath:
“AUGUST 13TH.—At six o’clock my hairdresser, to my great satisfaction,
arrived. Full two hours was he at work, yet was I not finished, when
Swarthy, the Queen’s hairdresser, came rapping at my door, to tell me
her Majesty’s hair was done, and she was waiting for me. I hurried as
fast as I could, and ran down without any cap. She smiled at sight of
my hasty attire, and said I should not be distressed about a
hairdresser the next day, but employ Swarthy’s assistant, as soon as
he had done with the Princesses: ‘You should have had him,’ she added,
‘to-day, if I had known you wanted him.’
“When her Majesty was dressed, all but the hat, she sent for the three
Princesses; and the King came also. I felt very foolish with my
uncovered head; but it was somewhat the less awkward, from its being
very much a custom, in the Royal Family, to go without caps; though
none that appear before them use such a freedom.
“As soon as the hat was on—‘Now, Miss Burney,’ said the Queen, ‘I
won’t keep you; you had better go and dress too.’”
Breakfast and morning service followed, and then came the Oxford
expedition:
“How many carriages there were, and how they were arranged, I observed
not sufficiently to recollect; but the party consisted of their
Majesties, the Princesses Royal, Augusta, and Elizabeth, the Duchess
of Ancaster, Lord and Lady Harcourt, Lady Charlotte Bertie, and the
two Miss Vernons. These last ladies are daughters of the late Lord
Vernon, and sisters of Lady Harcourt. General Harcourt, Colonel
Fairly, and Major Price, and Mr. Hagget, with Miss Planta and myself,
completed the group. Miss Planta and I, of course, as the only
undignified persons, brought up the rear.... The city of Oxford
afforded us a very noble view on the road, and its spires, towers, and
domes soon made me forget all the little objects of minor spleen that
had been crossing me as I journeyed towards them; and, indeed, by the
time I arrived in the midst of them, their grandeur, nobility,
antiquity, and elevation impressed my mind so forcibly, that I felt,
for the first time since my new situation had taken place, a rushing
in of ideas that had no connection with it whatever. The roads were
lined with decently-dressed people, and the high street was so crowded
we were obliged to drive gently and carefully, to avoid trampling the
people to death. Yet their behaviour was perfectly respectful and
proper. Nothing could possibly be better conducted than the whole of
this expedition.‘
The royal party were received by the Vice-Chancellor, and all the heads
of colleges and professors then in residence, who conducted them in
state to the Theatre, which was crowded with spectators. The King took
his seat, with his head covered, on the Chancellor’s chair, the Queen
and Princesses sitting below him to the left. An address, which was read
by the Vice-Chancellor, contained, among other expressions of loyalty,
the congratulations of the University to the King on his recent escape
from the knife of Margaret Nicholson; at the same time touching on the
distress which the attempt had occasioned the Queen, and paying a
tribute to her amiable and virtuous character.
“The Queen could scarcely bear it, though she had already, I doubt
not, heard it at Nuneham, as these addresses must be first read in
private, to have the answers prepared. Nevertheless, this public
tribute of loyalty to the King, and of respect to herself, went
gratefully to her heart, and filled her eyes with tears—which she
would not, however, encourage, but, smiling through them, dispersed
them with her fan, with which she was repeatedly obliged to stop their
course down her cheeks. The Princesses, less guarded, the moment their
father’s danger was mentioned, wept with but little control....
“When the address was ended, the King took a paper from Lord Harcourt,
and read his answer.... When he had done, he took off his hat, and
bowed to the Chancellor and Professors, and delivered the answer to
Lord Harcourt, who, walking backwards, descended the stairs, and
presented it to the Vice-Chancellor....
“After this, the Vice-Chancellor and Professors begged for the honour
of kissing the King’s hand. Lord Harcourt was again the backward
messenger; and here followed a great mark of goodness in the King: he
saw that nothing less than a thoroughbred old courtier, such as Lord
Harcourt, could walk backwards down these steps, before himself, and
in sight of so full a hall of spectators; and he therefore dispensed
with being approached to his seat, and walked down himself into the
area, where the Vice-Chancellor kissed his hand, and was imitated by
every Professor and Doctor in the room.
“Notwithstanding this considerate good-nature in his Majesty, the
sight, at times, was very ridiculous. Some of the worthy collegiates,
unused to such ceremonies, and unaccustomed to such a presence, the
moment they had kissed the King’s hand, turned their backs to him, and
walked away as in any common room; others, attempting to do better,
did still worse, by tottering and stumbling, and falling foul of those
behind them; some, ashamed to kneel, took the King’s hand straight up
to their mouths; others, equally off their guard, plumped down on both
knees, and could hardly get up again; and many, in their confusion,
fairly arose by pulling his Majesty’s hand to raise them....
“It was vacation time; there were therefore none of the students
present....
“At Christ Church, where we arrived at about three o’clock, in a large
hall there was a cold collation prepared for their Majesties and the
Princesses. It was at the upper end of the hall. I could not see of
what it consisted, though it would have been very agreeable, after so
much standing and sauntering, to have given my opinion of it in an
experimental way. Their Majesties and the Princesses sat down to this
table; as well satisfied, I believe, as any of their subjects so to
do. The Duchess of Ancaster and Lady Harcourt stood behind the chairs
of the Queen and the Princess Royal. There were no other ladies of
sufficient rank to officiate for Princesses Augusta and Elizabeth.
Lord Harcourt stood behind the King’s chair; and the Vice-Chancellor,
and the Head of Christ Church, with salvers in their hands, stood near
the table, and ready to hand to the three noble waiters whatever was
wanted: while the other Reverend Doctors and Learned Professors stood
aloof, equally ready to present to the Chancellor and the Master
whatever they were to forward.
“We, meanwhile, untitled attendants, stood at the other end of the
room, forming a semicircle, and all strictly facing the Royal
collationers.... A whisper was soon buzzed through the semicircle of
the deplorable state of our appetite; and presently it reached the
ears of some of the worthy Doctors. Immediately a new whisper was
circulated, which made its progress with great vivacity, to offer us
whatever we would wish, and to beg us to name what we chose. Tea,
coffee, and chocolate, were whispered back. The method of producing,
and the means of swallowing them, were much more difficult to settle
than the choice of what was acceptable. Major Price and Colonel
Fairly, however, seeing a very large table close to the wainscot
behind us, desired our refreshments might be privately conveyed there,
behind the semicircle, and that, while all the group backed very near
it, one at a time might feed, screened by all the rest from
observation. I suppose I need not inform you, my dear Susan, that to
eat in presence of any of the Royal Family, is as much _hors d’usage_
as to be seated. This plan had speedy success, and the very good
Doctors soon, by sly degrees and with watchful caution, covered the
whole table with tea, coffee, chocolate, cakes, and bread and
butter....
“The Duchess of Ancaster and Lady Harcourt, as soon as the first
serving attendance was over, were dismissed from the royal chairs, and
most happy to join our group, and partake of our repast. The Duchess,
extremely fatigued with standing, drew a small body of troops before
her, that she might take a few minutes’ rest on a form by one of the
doors; and Lady Charlotte Bertie did the same, to relieve an ankle
which she had unfortunately sprained. ‘Poor Miss Burney!’ cried the
good-natured Duchess, ‘I wish she could sit down, for she is unused to
this work. She does not know yet what it is to stand for five hours
following, as we do....’
“In one of the colleges I stayed so long in an old chapel, lingering
over antique monuments, that all the party were vanished before I
missed them, except Doctors and Professors; for we had a train of
those everywhere; and I was then a little surprised by the approach of
one of them, saying, ‘You seem inclined to abide with us, Miss
Burney?’—and then another, in an accent of facetious gallantry, cried,
‘No, no; don’t let us shut up Miss Burney among old tombs!—No, no!’”
At Magdalene College, Miss Burney and two or three other members of the
suite, having slipped away to a small parlour, sat down to rest, and
enjoy some apricots which Mr. Fairly had brought in his pockets.
Suddenly the door opened; the Queen entered; the truants started up, and
tried to look as if sitting was a posture unknown to them; while
desperate exertions were made to hide the forbidden fruit. ‘I
discovered,’ says Fanny, ‘that our appetites were to be supposed
annihilated, at the same time that our strength was to be invincible.’
However, her fatigues ended at last, and she was permitted to spend the
Monday in peace among the pictures and gardens of Nuneham, not being
commanded to join in the excursion to Blenheim.
After this expedition, the year wore on slowly and tediously. There were
more royal birthdays to be kept, with the usual terracings and concerts.
In alternate weeks, the Court removed from Windsor to Kew for two or
three days, and again returned to Windsor. There were journeys from Kew
to St. James’s, and back, on the days appointed for Drawing-rooms. But
the ordinary routine of Windsor and Kew was monotony itself. ‘The
household always rose, rode, dined at stated intervals. Day after day
was the same. At the same hour at night the King kissed his daughters’
jolly cheeks; the Princesses kissed their mother’s hand; and Madame
Thielky brought the royal nightcap. At the same hour the equerries and
women-in-waiting had their little dinner, and cackled over their tea.
The King had his backgammon or his evening concert; the equerries yawned
themselves to death in the anteroom.’[77] And it must be remembered that
poor Miss Burney had only a partial share even in this unvaried round of
existence. Her views of the Court proper were confined to glimpses
through half-opened doors, and down the vistas of long corridors. She
was not even permitted to stand at the entrance of the room where
‘nothing but Handel was played;’ and when Mrs. Siddons once came to the
Lodge to read a play, the Keepers of the Robes were only allowed access
to ‘a convenient adjoining room.’ She was licensed to receive hardly
anyone from the outer world, except her father and sisters, Mrs. Delany,
and the Lockes; beyond these, she had to use the utmost caution in
admitting visitors; while her associates within the palace were
restricted to the King’s equerries, Mr. Turbulent, Mrs. Schwellenberg,
Miss Planta, and a few other persons in positions resembling her own.
She saw no other company but the strangers who from time to time were
sent to dine at Mrs. Schwellenberg’s table.
His Majesty’s equerries were certainly not selected for their brilliant
attainments, or their powers of conversation, or even for their polished
manners. One of these gentlemen, a Colonel Goldsworthy, whom Miss Burney
had not before seen, arrived for his turn of duty at the end of
September. ‘He seems to me,’ says the Diary, ‘a man of but little
cultivation or literature, but delighting in a species of dry humour, in
which he shines most successfully, by giving himself up for its
favourite butt.’ He soon began to warn Fanny of the discomforts of
winter service in the ill-built and ill-contrived Queen’s Lodge. ‘Wait
till November and December, and then you’ll get a pretty taste of
them.... Let’s see, how many blasts must you have every time you go to
the Queen? First, one upon opening your door; then another, as you get
down the three steps from it, which are exposed to the wind from the
garden-door downstairs; then a third, as you turn the corner to enter
the passage; then you come plump upon another from the hall door; then
comes another, fit to knock you down, as you turn to the upper passage;
then, just as you turn towards the Queen’s room comes another; and last,
a whiff from the King’s stairs, enough to blow you half a mile off. One
thing,’ he added, ‘pray let me caution you about—don’t go to early
prayers in November; if you do, that will completely kill you!... When
the Princesses, used to it as they are, get regularly knocked up before
this business is over, off they drop one by one:—first the Queen deserts
us; then Princess Elizabeth is done for; then Princess Royal begins
coughing; then Princess Augusta gets the snuffles; and all the poor
attendants, my poor sister[78] at their head, drop off, one after
another, like so many snuffs of candles: till at last, dwindle, dwindle,
dwindle—not a soul goes to the Chapel but the King, the parson, and
myself; and there we three freeze it out together!’
That the King was considerate to his attendants, the following story by
the same elegant wit will testify. It was told after a hard day’s
hunting: “‘After all our labours,’ said he, ‘home we come, with not a
dry thread about us, sore to the very bone, and forced to smile all the
time, and then:
“‘Here, Goldsworthy!’ cries his Majesty; so up I comes to him, bowing
profoundly, and my hair dripping down to my shoes. ‘Goldsworthy, I say,’
he cries, ‘will you have a little barley-water?’
“‘And, pray, did you drink it?’
“‘I drink it?—drink barley-water? No, no; not come to that neither.’ But
there it was, sure enough!—in a jug fit for a sick-room; just such a
thing as you put upon a hob in a chimney, for some poor miserable soul
that keeps his bed! And: ‘Here, Goldsworthy,’ says his Majesty, ‘here’s
the barley-water!’
“‘And did the King drink it himself?’
“‘Yes, God bless his Majesty! but I was too humble a subject to do the
same as the King!’”
In January, 1787, the Court removed to London for the winter. During
their residence in the capital, the Royal Family occupied Buckingham
House, then called the Queen’s House. But the season in town was
interrupted by short weekly visits to Windsor. The only Sundays of the
year which George III. spent in London were the six Sundays of Lent.
Miss Burney went to the play once or twice, and also attended ‘the
Tottenham Street oratorios.’ She had more than one illness in the early
part of this year; but her custodians courteously entreated their
prisoner, and gave her liberty to go to her friends to refresh herself.
Under this permission, she had opportunities of meeting Mrs.
Cholmondeley, Sir Joshua, Mrs. Montagu, Mrs. Vesey, Horace Walpole,[79]
and sundry other old acquaintances. But at the beginning of June the
relaxations of this pleasant time, as well as the fatiguing journeys
backwards and forwards to Windsor, came to an end, and the household
were again settled in the Upper Lodge. The rest of the year passed in
much the same way as the summer and autumn of 1786 had done, but with
fewer noticeable incidents.
In August occurred the commanded visit of Mrs. Siddons, to which we have
before referred:
“In the afternoon ... her Majesty came into the room, and, 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 ... now that we came so near, I
was much disappointed in my expectations.... 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—all 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.”
The company that assembled in Mrs. Schwellenberg’s apartments occupied
their leisure hours with small-talk, mild flirtations, and trifling
amusements, varied by occasional misunderstandings. The first Keeper of
the Robes domineered over them all, and her rule was a savage tyranny,
tempered by ill-health. Her infirmities sometimes detained her in London
for weeks together. During her absence, her junior presided at the
dinner-table, and made tea for the equerries. Great was the joy whenever
the old lady went up to town to consult her physician. Then Mr.
Turbulent,[80] more gay and flighty than beseemed a married
clergyman,[81] would practise on the patent prudery of Fanny’s character
by broaching strange theories of morality, and breaking out in wild
rhapsodies of half-amatory admiration. Then the colonels-in-waiting,
relieved from the watchful eyes of Cerbera, exerted themselves for the
entertainment of the fair tea-maker. They were not always successful.
Miss Burney cared but little for Colonel Goldsworthy’s rough humour, and
still less for the vocal performances of a certain Colonel Manners, who,
in love with his own voice, and with what he called the songs that he
heard at church, insisted on regaling his friends with snatches from
Tate and Brady, married to the immortal notes of the National Anthem.
Fanny once or twice caused some unpleasantness by endeavouring to escape
from the duty of receiving the equerries in the evening. As soon as the
Schwellenberg returned, she was again thrown into the background.
Destitute of every attraction, yet constantly demanding notice, the
principal could not bear to see the least attention bestowed on anyone
else. ‘Apparently,’ says the Diary, ‘she 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.’ When in company, she would sometimes talk about a pair of
tame frogs which she kept, and fall into an ecstasy while describing
‘their ladder, their table, and their amiable ways of snapping live
flies.’ ‘And I can make them croak when I will,’ she would say, ‘when I
only go so to my snuff-box—knock, knock, knock—they croak all what I
please.’ Rather to our surprise, we hear of this lady being once engaged
in reading: the author was Josephus, ‘which is the only book in favour
at present, and serves for all occasions, and is quoted to solve all
difficulties.’ But the sole effectual mode of amusing her, after the
gentlemen had retired, was to join her in a game at cards. Fanny
disliked cards, and knew little of trumps or honours; but to avert
threatened attacks of spasms, she was at length fain to waive her
objections, and learn piquet. When in the least crossed, Mrs.
Schwellenberg put no restraint on her temper, language, or demeanour. If
her servants kept her waiting for her coach, she would talk of having
them transported; if Miss Burney spoke of taking tea with Mrs. Delany,
she would leave her unhelped at the dinner-table.
Such was _la Présidente_. More than once, Miss Burney felt her ill-usage
so intolerable that she was only held back from resigning her
appointment by reluctance to mortify her father. The most violent
dispute between them occurred towards the end of November, 1787, when,
during a journey to town for a Drawing-Room, Mrs. Schwellenberg had
insisted upon keeping the window of the carriage on her companion’s side
open, though a sharp wind was blowing, which before their arrival in
London set up an inflammation in poor Fanny’s eyes. The scene on the
journey back is thus described:
“The next day, when we assembled to return to Windsor, Mr. de Luc was
in real consternation at sight of my eyes; and I saw an indignant
glance at my coadjutrix, that could scarce content itself without
being understood....
“Some business of Mrs. Schwellenberg’s occasioned a delay of the
journey, and we all retreated back; and when I returned to my room,
Miller, the old head housemaid, came to me, with a little neat tin
saucepan in her hand, saying, ‘Pray, ma’am, use this for your eyes:
’tis milk and butter, _such as I used to make for Madame Haggerdorn_
when she travelled in the winter with Mrs. Schwellenberg.’
“I really shuddered when she added, that all that poor woman’s
misfortunes with her eyes, which, from inflammation after
inflammation, grew nearly blind, were attributed by herself to these
journeys, in which she was forced to have the glass down at her side
in all weathers, and frequently the glasses behind her also!
“Upon my word this account of my predecessor was the least
exhilarating intelligence I could receive! Goter told me, afterwards,
that all the servants in the house had remarked _I was going just the
same way_!
“Miss Planta presently ran into my room, to say she had hopes we
should travel without this amiable being; and she had left me but a
moment when Mrs. Stainforth succeeded her, exclaiming, ‘Oh, for
Heaven’s sake, don’t leave her behind; for Heaven’s sake, Miss Burney,
take her with you!’
“’Twas impossible not to laugh at these opposite interests; both, from
agony of fear, breaking through all restraint.
“Soon after, however, we all assembled again, and got into the coach.
Mr. de Luc, who was my _vis-à-vis_, instantly pulled up the glass.
“‘Put down that glass!’ was the immediate order.
“He affected not to hear her, and began conversing.
“She enraged quite tremendously, calling aloud to be obeyed without
delay. He looked compassionately at me, and shrugged his shoulders,
and said, ‘But, ma’am——”
“‘Do it, Mr. de Luc, when I tell you! I will have it! When you been
too cold, you might bear it!’
“‘It is not for me, ma’am, but poor Miss Burney.’
“‘O, poor Miss Burney might bear it the same! put it down, Mr. de Luc!
without, I will get out! put it down, when I tell you! It is my coach!
I will have it selfs! I might go alone in it, or with one, or with
what you call nobody, when I please!’
“Frightened for good Mr. de Luc, and the more for being much obliged
to him, I now interfered, and begged him to let down the glass. Very
reluctantly he complied, and I leant back in the coach, and held up my
muff to my eyes.
“What a journey ensued! To see that face when lighted up with fury is
a sight for horror! I was glad to exclude it by my muff.
“Miss Planta alone attempted to speak. I did not think it incumbent on
me to ‘make the agreeable,’ thus used; I was therefore wholly dumb:
for not a word, not an apology, not one expression of being sorry for
what I suffered, was uttered. The most horrible ill-humour, violence,
and rudeness, were all that were shown. Mr. de Luc was too much
provoked to take his usual method of passing all off by constant talk:
and as I had never seen him venture to appear provoked before, I felt
a great obligation to his kindness.
“When we were about half-way, we stopped to water the horses. He then
again pulled up the glass, as if from absence. A voice of fury
exclaimed, ‘Let it down! without, I won’t go!’
“‘I am sure,’ cried he, ‘all Mrs. de Luc’s plants will be killed by
this frost!’
“For the frost was very severe indeed.
“Then he proposed my changing places with Miss Planta, who sat
opposite Mrs. Schwellenberg, and consequently on the sheltered side.
“‘Yes!’ cried Mrs. Schwellenberg, ‘Miss Burney might sit there, and so
she ought!’
“I told her briefly I was always sick in riding backwards.
“‘Oh, ver well! when you don’t like it, don’t do it. You might bear it
when you like it! What did the poor Haggerdorn bear it! when the blood
was all running down from her eyes!’
“This was too much! ‘I must take, then,’ I cried, ‘the more warning!’”
Even this quarrel blew over. Mrs. Schwellenberg[82] continued to look
black, and hurl thunderbolts, as long as the peccant eyes remained
inflamed, but as these gradually grew well, her brows cleared and her
incivility wore off, till the sufferer became far more in favour than
she had ever presumed to think herself till that time. She was$1‘$2’$3at
every other word; no one else was listened to if she would speak, and no
one else was accepted for a partner at piquet if she would play. Fanny
found no cause to which she could attribute this change, and believed
the whole mere matter of caprice.
In the autumn of 1787, the newspapers began to make frequent mention of
Miss Burney’s name. Paragraphs appeared regretting her long silence, and
the employment to which it was supposed to be attributable.[83] Fanny
had many regrets connected with her situation: she lamented her
dependence on her odious colleague; she lamented the inferiority of most
of her associates; she lamented her separation from her old friends; but
we have no reason to think that she repined at the want of liberty to
print and publish. At least we cannot discover any passage in her Diary
indicating such a feeling. Presently the paragraphs proceeded to mingle
rumours with regrets. The ‘World’ was informed that Miss Burney ‘had
resigned her place about the Queen, and had been promoted to attend the
Princesses, an office far more suited to her character and abilities.’
Then followed a contradiction. ‘The rumour of resignation was premature,
and only arose from thoughts of the benefit the education of the
Princesses might reap from Miss Burney’s virtues and accomplishments.’
Such speculations made it needful for their subject to explain herself
to the Queen. Fanny hastened to repudiate all participation in the idea
that it could be promotion to her to be transferred from the service of
her Majesty to that of the Princesses; she disclaimed, with equal
warmth, having the slightest wish for such a transference. There can be
no doubt that she was perfectly sincere. The Queen, she felt, had some
regard for her, and she had a decided attachment to the Queen. ‘Oh,’ she
sighed, ‘were there no Mrs. Schwellenberg!’
One cannot help wondering if the question whether some more worthy
position at Court might not be found for Miss Burney occurred to the
Queen, or to herself, at this interview. If such a thought did present
itself, it does not seem to have been mentioned by either. Fanny had
early conceived the notion that the Queen intended to employ her as an
English reader. She was not altogether wrong. She had been occasionally
called on to read, but the result did not prove very satisfactory. At
the first trial her voice was quite unmanageable; when she had
concluded, the Queen talked of the _Spectator_ she had read, but
forebore saying anything of any sort about the reader. Of a subsequent
attempt we have this record: ‘Again I read a little to the Queen—two
_Tatlers_; both happened to be very stupid; neither of them Addison’s,
and therefore reader and reading were much on a par: for I cannot arrive
at ease in this exhibition to her Majesty; and where there is fear or
constraint, how deficient, if not faulty, is every performance!’ For the
office of preceptress to the Princesses she was even less fitted than
for that of reader to their mother. Probably Mrs. Goldsworthy and Miss
Planta were much better qualified to instruct their young charges than
Miss Burney would have been. This may be confessed without the slightest
reflection on her extraordinary talents. She could afford to have it
known that her education had been neglected. It was nothing that she had
withdrawn rather ungraciously from Johnson’s Latin lessons. It was
little that she did not understand a word of the German which the Royal
Family commonly spoke among themselves. Hardly any Englishwomen in those
days read Latin, or were acquainted with the language of Goethe and
Wieland. But Miss Burney had not even a strong taste for reading. At the
height of her fame, her knowledge of ordinary English authors was
surprisingly limited. Queen Charlotte, who read a good deal in French
and English, as well as in German, was disappointed by the scanty
furniture of her attendant’s book-shelves. And whenever her Majesty or
anyone else at Court mentioned any standard or current work in her
presence, it almost invariably happened that she had not read it. One
evening, Cowper’s ‘Task’ was referred to, and she was asked if she knew
the poem; ‘Only by character,’ was her answer. She had not even that
amount of acquaintance with Churchill’s Satires, the very existence of
which seems to have been unknown to her. Akenside’s works she knew of
only by some quotations which she had heard from Mr. Locke. It may,
perhaps, be urged that Cowper was then quite a new writer, and that the
fame of Mark Akenside and Charles Churchill, though bright when she was
a child, had become dim before she grew up. Well, then, take Goldsmith.
No poems were more popular than Oliver’s when Fanny began to see the
world in Martin’s Street; yet we have her confession that she never read
the ‘Traveller,’ or ‘The Deserted Village,’ till a friend made her a
present of them in 1790.[84] This being so, we cannot wonder that she
had never heard of Falconer’s ‘Shipwreck’ when Colonel Digby produced a
copy of that work. She appears to have been barely aware of Cumberland’s
‘Observer,’ a production in which she herself and most of her friends
were referred to, until the Queen read some passages to her, and
afterwards lent her the volumes. She had not seen Hawkins’s ‘Life of
Johnson’ when the King first mentioned it to her, and ‘talked it over
with great candour and openness.’ Nor did she take much interest in
literary questions. The Scotch ballad of ‘The Gaberlunzie Man,’ then
lately printed in Germany, she threw aside almost contemptuously, though
it had been lent her by the Queen. About Shakspeare her views were those
of a most loyal subject. She reads Hamlet to Mrs. Delany, and this is
her comment: ‘How noble a play it is, considered in parts! how wild and
how improbable, taken as a whole! But there are speeches, from time to
time, of such exquisite beauty of language, sentiment, and pathos, that
I could wade through the most thorny of roads to arrive at them.’ The
Queen, as Thackeray has observed, could give shrewd opinions about
books, and we suspect she presently learned to value her second
Robe-Keeper for her brightness of intelligence, her powers of
description, and her lively humour, rather than for the solidity or the
variety of her attainments.
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Footnote 76:
Macaulay says that this promise of a gown was never performed; but he
is mistaken. Miss Burney did get the gown after some delay. It was ‘a
lilac tabby,’ whatever that may be, or may have been. (Diary, ii.
189.)
Footnote 77:
Thackeray.
Footnote 78:
Miss Goldsworthy, sub-governess of the Princesses.
Footnote 79:
‘The last time I saw her (Mrs. Vesey) before I left London,’ writes
Walpole, ‘Miss Burney passed the evening there, looking quite
recovered and well; and so cheerful and agreeable that the Court seems
only to have improved the ease of her manner, instead of stamping more
reserve on it, as I feared. But what slight graces it can give will
not compensate to us and the world for the loss of her company and her
writings.’—Walpole to Hannah More, June 15, 1787.
Footnote 80:
What induced Macaulay to describe this gentleman as ‘half-witted,’ we
are at a loss to conjecture. He possessed, as Miss Burney bears
witness, remarkable cleverness, extraordinary attainments and great
powers of conversation.
Footnote 81:
He had a wife to whom he was strongly attached.
Footnote 82:
Croker was told by the Right Hon. Joseph Planta, on the authority of
Miss Planta, that Mrs. Schwellenberg was so despotic that she was
better served, and more attended to than the Queen herself. Her
servant always waited at the step of her door that she might not have
to ring a bell; and a very constant expression of hers was, that if
such and such a thing was good enough for her Majesty, it was not good
enough for _her_.’—Jesse’s ‘George III.,’ vol. ii., App., p. 539.
Footnote 83:
‘I flatter myself _you_ will never be royally gagged and promoted to
fold muslins, as has been lately wittily said on Miss Burney, in the
List of five hundred living authors.’—Walpole to Hannah More, July 12,
1788.
Footnote 84:
‘Diary,’ vol. iii., p. 245.
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