The Diary and Letters of Madame D’Arblay is a Webnovel created by Fanny Burney.
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which no progress had been made since last December. The evening was finished very cheerfully; and we went to our bowers not much out of humour with each other, or with the world.
DR. BURNEY AND THE KING.
We had settled a plan to go to the chapel at Windsor in’ the morning, the king and royal family being there, and the town very full. Dr. H. and Mrs. H. stayed at home, and I was accompanied by the three Graces. Dr. Goodenough, the successor of Dr. Shepherd, as canon, preached. I had dined with him at Dr. Duval’s. He is a very agreeable man, and pa.s.sionately fond of music, with whom, as a professor, a critic, and an historian of the art; I seem to stand very high; but I could not hear a single sentence of his sermon, on account of the distance. After the service I got a glimpse of the good king, in his light-grey farmer-like morning Windsor uniform, in a great crowd, but could not even obtain that glance of the queen and princesses. The day was charming. The chapel is admirably repaired, beautified, and a new west window painted on gla.s.s. All was cheerfulness, gaiety, and good humour, such as the subjects of no other monarch, I believe, i on earth enjoy at present; and except return of creepings now and then, and a cough, I was as happy as the best.
At dinner we all agreed to go to the Terrace,–Mr., Mrs., and Miss H., with their nice little boy, and the three young ladies.
This plan we put in execution, and arrived on the Terrace a little after seven. I never saw it more crowded or gay. The park was almost full of happy people–farmers, servants, and tradespeople,–alt In Elysium. Deer in the distance, and dears unnumbered near. Here I met with everybody I wished and expected to see previous to the king’s arrival in the part of the Terrace where I and my party were planted. …..
Chelsea, Tuesday, three o’clock.
Not a moment could I get to write till now; and I am afraid of forgetting some part of my history, but I ought not, for the events of this visit are very memorable.
When the king and queen, arm in arm, were approaching the place where the Herschel family and I had planted ourselves, one of the Misses Parry heard the queen say to his majesty, “There’s Dr.
Burney,” when they instantly came to me, so smiling and gracious that I longed to throw myself at Page 186
their feet. “How do you, Dr. Burney?” said the king, “Why, you are grown fat and young.”
“Yes, indeed,” said the queen; “I was very glad to hear from Madame d’Arblay how well you looked.”
“Why, you used to be as thin as Dr. Lind,” says the king. Lind was then in sight–a mere lath; but these few words were accompanied with such Very gracious smiles, and seemingly affectionate good-humour–the whole royal family, except the Prince of Wales, standing by in the midst of a crowd of the first people in the kingdom for rank and office–that I was afterwards looked at as a sight. After this the king and queen hardly ever pa.s.sed by me without a smile and a nod. The weather was charming; the park as full as the Terrace, the king having given permission to the farmers, tradesmen, and even livery servants, to be there during the time of his walking.
Now I must tell you that Herschel proposed to me to go with him to the king’s concert at night, he having permission to go when he chooses, his five nephews (Griesbachs) making a princ.i.p.al part of the band. “And,” says he, “I know you will be welcome.” But I should not have presumed to believe this if his majesty had not formerly taken me into his concert-room himself from your apartments. This circ.u.mstance, and the gracious notice with which I had been just honoured, emboldened me. A fine music-room in the Castle, next the Terrace, is now fitted up for his majesty’s evening concerts, and an organ erected. Part of the first act had been performed previous to our arrival. There were none but the performers in the room, except the d.u.c.h.esses of Kent and c.u.mberland, with two or three general officers backwards. The king seldom goes into the music-room after the first act; and the second and part of the third were over before we saw anything of him, though we heard his majesty, the queen, and princesses talking in the next room. At length he came directly up to me and Herschel, and the first question his majesty asked me was,–“How does Astronomy go on?” I, pretending to suppose he knew nothing of my poem, said, “Dr. Herschel will better inform your majesty than I can.” “Ay, ay,” says the king, “but you are going to tell us something with your pen;” and moved his hand in a writing manner. “What–what–progress have you made?” “Sir, it is all finished, and all but the last of twelve books have been read to my friend Dr. Herschel.” The king, then, looking at Herschel, as who would say, “How is it?” “It Page 187
is a very capital work, sir,” says H. “I wonder how you find time?” said the king. “I make time, Sir.” “How, how?” “I take it out of my sleep, sir.” When the considerate good king, “But you’ll hurt your health. How long,” he adds, “have you been at it?” “Two or three years, at odd and stolen moments, Sir.”
“Well,” said the king (as he had said to you before), “whatever you write, I am sure will be entertaining.” I bowed most humbly, as ashamed of not deserving so flattering a speech. “I don’t say it to flatter you,” says the king; “if I did not think it, I would not say it.”
OVERWHELMED WITH THE ROYAL GRACIOUSNESS.
(Madame d’Arblay to Dr. Burney.) “Fore George, a more excellent song than t’other!”
Westhamble, July 25, ’99.
Why, my dearest padre, your subjects rise and rise,-till subjects, in fact, are no longer in question. I do not wonder you felt melted by the king’s goodness. I am sure I did in its perusal. And the queen!-her naming me so immediately went to my heart. Her speeches about me to Mrs. Locke in the drawing-room, her interest in my welfare, her deigning to say she had “never been amongst those who had blamed my marriage,” though she lost by it my occasional attendances, and her remarking “I looked the picture of happiness,” had warmed me to the most fervent grat.i.tude, and the more because her saying she had never been amongst those who had blamed me shows there were people who had not failed to do me ill offices in her hearing; though probably, and I firmly believe, without any personal enmity, as I am unconscious of my having any owed me; but merely from a cruel malice with which many seize every opportunity, almost involuntarily, to do mischief and most especially to undermine at Court any one presumed to be in any favour. And, still further, I thought her words conveyed a confirmation of what her conduct towards me in my new capacity always led me to conjecture, namely, that my guardian star had ordained it so that the real character and principles of my honoured and honourable mate had, by some happy chance, reached the royal ear “before the news of our union. The dear king’s graciousness :to M. d’Arblay upon the Terrace, when the commander-in-chief, just then returned from the Continent, was by his side, made it impossible not to suggest this : and now, the queen’s Page 188
again naming me so in, public puts it, in my conception, beyond doubt. My kindest father will be glad, I am sure, to have added to the great delight of his recital a strength to a notion I so much love to cherish.
WAR RUMOURS.
(Madame d’Arblay to Mrs. Phillips.) Aug. 14, ’99.
People here are very sanguine that Ireland is quiet, and will remain so; and that the combined fleets can never reach it. How are your own politics upon that point? Mine will take their colour, be it what it may. Our dear father is Visiting about, from Mr. c.o.x’s to Mrs. Crewe, with whom be is now at Dover, where Mr. Crewe has some command. We are all in extreme disturbance here about the secret expedition. Nothing authentic is arrived from the first armament; and the second is all prepared for sailing. . . . Both officers and men are gathered from all quarters. – Heaven grant them speedy safety, and ultimate peace !
G.o.d bless my own dearest Susan, and strengthen and restore her.
Amen! Amen.
ILLNESS AND DEATH OF MRS. PHILLIPS.
(Madame d’Arblay to Dr. Burney.) Westhamble, October 1, ’99.
Whether gaily or sadly to usher what I have to say I know not, but your sensations, like mine, will I am sure be mixed. The major has now written to Mrs. Locke that he is anxious to have Susan return to England. She is “in an ill state of health,” he says, and he wishes her to try her native air; but the revival of coming to you and among us all, and the tender care that will be taken of her, is likely to do much for her; therefore, if we get her but to this side the channel, the blessing is comparatively so great, that I shall feel truly thankful to heaven.
(Madame d’Arblay to Mrs. Phillips.) Westhamble, December 10, ’99.
O my Susan, my heart’s dear sister! with what bitter sorrow have I read this last account! With us, with yourself, your children,-all,-you have trifled in respect to health, though in all things else you are honour and veracity personified;
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but nothing had prepared me to think you in such a grave state as I now find you. Would to G.o.d I could get to you! If Mr. Keirnan thinks you had best pa.s.s the winter in Dublin, stay, and let me come to you. Venture nothing against his opinion, for mercy’s sake! Fears for your health take place of all impatience to expedite your return; only go not back to Belcotton, where you cannot be under his direction, and are away from the physician he thinks of so highly.
I shall write immediately to Charles about the carriage. I am sure of his answer beforehand,–so must you be. Act, therefore, with regard to the carriage, as if already it were arranged. But I am well aware it must not set out till you Are well enough to nearly fix your day of sailing. I say nearly, for we must always allow for accidents. I shall write to our dear father, and Etty, and James, and send to Norbury Park – but I shall wait till to-morrow, not to infect them with what I am infected.. . .
O my Susan! that I could come to you! But all must depend on Mr.
Keirnan’s decision. If you can come to us with perfect safety, however slowly, I shall not dare add to your embarra.s.sment of persons and package. Else Charles’s carriage–O, what a temptation to air it for you all the way! Take no more large paper, that you may write with less fatigue, and, if possible, oftener;–to any one will suffice for all.
(Madame d’Arblay to Doctor Burney.) 9th January, 1800.
My most dear padre,-My mate will say all,-so I can only offer up my earnest prayers I may soon be allowed the blessing–the only one I sigh for–of embracing my dearest Susan in your arms and under your roof. Amen. F. D’A.
These were the last written lines of the last period–unsuspected as such–of my perfect happiness on earth; for they were stopped on the road by news that my heart’s beloved sister, Susanna Elizabeth Phillips, had ceased to breathe. The tenderest of husbands–the most feeling of human beings–had only reached Norbury Park, on his way to a believed meeting with that angel, when the fatal blow was struck; and he came back to West Hamble– to the dreadful task of revealing the irreparable loss which his own goodness, sweetness, patience, and sympathy could alone have made supported.
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(Madame d’Arblay to Mrs. Locke.) 9th January, 1800.
“As a guardian angel!”–Yes, my dearest Fredy, as such in every interval of despondence I have looked up to the sky to see her, but my eyes cannot pierce through the thick atmosphere, and I can only represent her to me seated on a chair of sickness, her soft hand held partly out to me as I approach her; her softer eyes so greeting me as never welcome was expressed before; and a smile of heavenly expression speaking the tender gladness of her grateful soul that G.o.d at length should grant our re-union. From our earliest moments, my Fredy, when no misfortune happened to our dear family, we wanted nothing but each other. Joyfully as others were received by us–loved by us–all that was necessary to our happiness was fulfilled by our simple junction. This I remember with my first remembrance; nor do I recollect a single instance of being affected beyond a minute by any outward disappointment, if its result was leaving us together.
She was the soul of my soul !-and ’tis wonderful to me, my dearest Fredy, that the first shock did not join them immediately by the flight of mine-but that over-that dreadful, harrowing, never-to be-forgotten moment of horror that made me wish to be mad–the ties that after that first endearing period have shared with her my heart, come to my aid. Yet I was long incredulous; and still sometimes I think it is not–and that she will come– and I paint her by my side–by my father’s–in every room of these apartments, destined to have chequered the woes of her life with rays of comfort, joy, and affection.
O, my Fredy ! not selfish is the affliction that repines her earthly course of sorrow was allowed no shade!–that at the instant soft peace and consolation awaited her she should breathe her last! You would understand all the hardship of resignation for me were you to read the joyful opening of her letter, on her landing, to my poor father, and her prayer at the end to be restored to him. O, my Fredy! could you indeed think of me–be alarmed for me on that dreadful day?—I can hardly make that enter my comprehension; but I thank you from my soul; for that is beyond any love I had thought possible, even from Your tender heart.
Tell me you all keep well, and forgive me my distraction. I write so fast I fear you can hardly read; but you will See Page 191
I am conversing with you, and that will show you how I turn to you for the comfort of your tenderness. Yes, you have all a loss, indeed!
A PRINCESS’S CONDESCENSION.
(Madame d’Arblay to Mrs. Locke).
Greenwich, Friday, February, 1800.
Here we are, my beloved friend. We came yesterday. All places to me are now less awful than my own so dear habitation. My royal interview took place on Wednesday. I was five hours with the royal family, three of them alone with the queen, whose graciousness and kind goodness I cannot express. And each of the princesses saw me with a sort of concern and interest I can never forget. I did tolerably well, though not quite as steadily as I expected but with my own Princess Augusta I lost all command.
She is still wrapt up, and just recovering from a fever herself- and she spoke to me in a tone–a voice so commiserating–I could not stand it–I was forced to stop short in my approach, and hide my face with my m.u.f.f. She came up to me immediately, put her arm upon my shoulder, and kissed me–I shall never forget it.–How much more than thousands of words did a condescension so tender tell me her kind feelings!–She is one of the few beings in this world that can be, in the words of M. de Narbonne, “all that is douce and all that is sbirituelle,”–his words upon my lost darling!
It is impossible more of comfort or gratification could be given than I received from them all.
HORTICULTURAL MISFORTUNES.
(Madame d’Arblay to Dr. Burney).
Westhamble, March 22, 1800.
Day after day I have meant to write to my dearest father ‘but I have been unwell ever since our return, and that has not added to my being sprightly. I have not once crossed ‘the threshold since I re-entered the house till to-day, when Mr. and Mrs. Locke almost insisted upon taking me an airing. I am glad of it, for it has done me good, and broken a kind of spell that made me unwilling to stir.
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M. d’Arblay has worked most laboriously in his garden but his misfortunes there, during our absence, might melt a heart of stone. The horses of our next neighbouring farmer broke through our hedges, and have made a kind of bog of our mead ow, by scampering in it during the wet; the sheep followed, who have eaten up all our greens, every sprout and cabbage and lettuce, destined for the winter ; while the horses dug up our turnips and carrots; and the swine, pursuing such examples, have trod down all the young plants besides devouring whatever the others left of vegetables. Our potatoes, left, from our abrupt departure, in the ground, are all rotten or frostbitten, and utterly spoilt; and not a single thing has our whole ground produced us since we came home. A few dried carrots, which remain from the in-doors collection, are all we have to temper our viands..