In the passage, in the morning, I encountered Colonel Gwynn. I had but just time to inform him I yet thought all would do well, ere the princes appeared. All the equerries are now here except Major Garth, who is ill; and they have all ample employment in watching and waiting. From time to time they have all interviews; but it is only because the poor king will not be denied seeing them: it is not thought light. But I must enter into nothing of this sort-it is all too closely connected with private domestic concerns for paper. After dinner, my chief guest, la Présidente, told me, “ If my room was not so warm, she would stay a little with me.” I felt this would be rather too superlative an obligation; and therefore I simply answered that “I was too chilly to sit in a cold room;” and I confess I took no pains to temper it according to this hint.
PUBLIC PRAYERS FOR THE KING DECIDED UPON.
Finding there was now no danger Of disagreeable interviews, Mr. Fairly renewed his visits as usual. He came early this evening, and narrated the state of things; and then, with a laugh, he Inquired What I had done With my head companion, and how I got rid of her? I fairly told him my malice about the temperature.
He could not help laughing, though he instantly remonstrated against an expedient that might prove prejudicial to my health. “You had better not,” he cried, “try any experiments of this sort: if you hurt Your nerves, it may prove a permanent evil; this other can only be temporary.”
He took up the “Task” again; but he opened, by ill luck, upon nothing striking or good; and soon, with distaste, flung the book down, and committed himself wholly to conversation.
He told me he wished much he had been able to consult with me on the preceding morning, when he had the queen’s orders to write, in her majesty’s name, to the Archbishop of Canterbury, to issue out public prayers for the poor king, for all the churches.
I assured him I fancied it might do very well without my aid. There was to be a privy council summoned, in consequence of the letter, to settle the mode of compliance.
How right a step in my ever-right royal mistress is this! If you hear less of her now, my dearest friends, and of the internal transactions, it is only because I now rarely saw her but alone, and all that passed, therefore, was in promised confidence. And, for the rest, the whole of my information concerning the princes, and the plans and the proceedings of the house, was told me in perfect reliance on my secrecy and honour.
I know this is saying enough to the most honourable of all confidants and friends to whom I am writing. All that passes with regard to myself is laid completely before them.
Nov. 13- This was the fairest day we have passed since the first seizure of the most beloved of monarchs. He was considerably better. O what a ray of joy lightened us, and how mildly did my poor queen receive it
Nov. 14 — Still all was greatly amended, and better spirits reigned throughout the house.
Mr. Fairly — I can write of no one else, for no one else did I see — called early, to tell me he had received an answer relative to the prayer for his majesty’s recovery, in consequence of which he had the queen’s commands for going to town the next day, to see the archbishop. This was an employment so suited to the religious cast of his character, that I rejoiced to see it fall into his hands.
He came again in the evening, and said he had now got the prayer. He did not entirely approve it, nor think it sufficiently warm and animated. I petitioned to hear it, and he readily complied, and read it with great reverence, but very unaffectedly and quietly. I was very, very much touched by It; yet not, I own, quite so much as once before by another, which was read to me by Mr. Cambridge, and composed by his son, for the sufferings of his excellent daughter Catherine. It was at once so devout, yet so concise — so fervent, yet so simple, and the many tender relations concerned in it — father, brother, sister, — so powerfully affected me, that I had no command over the feelings then excited, even though Mr. Cambridge almost reproved me for want of fortitude; but there was something so tender in a prayer of a brother for a sister.
Here, however, I was under better control - for though my whole heart was filled with the calamitous state of this unhappy monarch, and with deepest affliction for all his family, I yet knew so well my reader was one to severely censure all failure in calmness and firmness, that I struggled, and not ineffectually, to hear him with a steadiness like his own. But, fortunately for the relief of this force, he left the room for a few minutes to see if he was wanted, and I made use of his absence to give a little vent to those tears which I had painfully restrained in his presence.
When he returned we had one of the best (on his part) conversations in which I have ever been engaged, upon the highest and most solemn of all subjects, prayers and supplications to heaven. He asked my opinion with earnestness, and gave his own with unbounded openness.
Nov. 15-This morning my poor royal mistress herself presented me with one of the prayers for the king. I shall always keep it — how — how fervently did I use it!
Whilst I was at breakfast Mr. Fairly once more called before he set off for town and he brought me also a copy of the prayer. He had received a large packet of them from the archbishop, Dr. Moore, to distribute in the house.
The whole day the king continued amended.
Sunday, Nov. 16.-This morning I ventured out to church. I did not like to appear abroad, but yet I had a most irresistible earnestness to join the public congregation in the prayer for the king. Indeed nothing could be more deeply moving: the very sound of the cathedral service, performed in his own chapel, overset me at once; and every prayer in the service in which he was mentioned brought torrents of tears from all the suppliants that joined in them. I could scarcely keep my place, scarce command my voice from audible sobs. To come to the House of prayer from such a house of woe! I ran away when the service was over, to avoid inquiries. Mrs. Kennedy ran after me, with swollen eyes; I could not refuse her a hasty answer, but I ran the faster after it, to avoid any more.
The king was worse. His night had been very bad; all the fair promise of amendment was shaken; he had now some symptoms even dangerous to his life. O good heaven, what a day did this prove! I saw not a human face, save at dinner and then, what faces! gloom and despair in all, and silence to every species of intelligence. . . .
It was melancholy to see the crowds of former welcome visitors who were now denied access. The prince reiterated his former orders; and I perceived from my window those who had ventured to the door returning back in deluges of tears. Amongst them to-day I perceived poor Lady Effingham, the Duchess of Ancaster, and Mr. Bryant; the last sent me In, afterwards, a mournful little letter, to which he desired no answer. Indeed I was not at liberty to write a word.
SIR LuCAS PEPYS ON THE KING’s CONDITION.
Nov. 19.-The account of the dear king this morning was rather better.
Sir Lucas Pepys was now called in, and added to Dr. Warren, Dr. Heberden, and Sir George Baker. I earnestly wished to see him, and I found my poor royal mistress was secretly anxious to know his opinion. I sent to beg to speak with him, as soon as the consultation was over; determined, however, to make that request no more if he was as shy of giving information as Dr. Warren, poor Mr. de Luc was with me wen he came; but it was necessary I should see Sir Lucas alone, that I might have a better claim upon his discretion : nevertheless I feared he would have left me, without the smallest intelligence, before I was able to make my worthy, but most slow companion comprehend the necessity of his absence.
The moment we were alone, Sir Lucas opened upon the subject in the most comfortable manner. He assured me there was nothing desponding in the case, and that his royal patient would certainly recover, though not immediately.
Whilst I was in the midst of the almost speechless joy with which I heard this said, and ready to kiss the very feet of Sir Lucas for words of such delight, a rap at my door made me open it to Mr. Fairly, who entered, saying, “I must come to ask you how you do, though I have no good news to bring you; but—”
He then, with the utmost amaze, perceived Sir Lucas. In so very many visits he had constantly found me alone, that I really believe he had hardly thought it possible he should see me in any other way.
They then talked over the poor king’s situation, and Sir Lucas was very open and comforting. How many sad meetings have I had with him heretofore; first in the alarming attacks of poor Mr. Thrale, and next in the agonizing fluctuations of his unhappy widow!
Sir Lucas wished to speak with me alone, as he had something he wanted, through me, to communicate to the queen; but as he saw Mr. Fairly not disposed to retire first, by his manner of saying “Sir Lucas, you will find all the breakfast ready below stairs,” he made his bow, and said he would see me again.
Mr. Fairly then informed me he was quite uneasy at the recluse life led by the queen and the princesses, and that he was anxious to prevail with them to take a little air, which must be absolutely necessary to their health. He was projecting a scheme for this purpose, which required the assistance of the Duke of York, and he left me, to confer upon it with his royal highness, promising to return and tell its success.
Sir Lucas soon came back, and then gave me such unequivocal assurances of the king’s recovery, that the moment he left me I flew to demand a private audience of the queen, that I might relate such delightful prognostics.
The Duke of York was with her, I waited in the passage, where I met Lady Charlotte Finch, and tried what I could to instil into her mind the hopes I entertained: this, however, was not possible; a general despondency prevailed throughout the house, and Lady Charlotte was infected by it very deeply.
At length I gained admission and gave my account, which was most meekly received by the most patient of sorrowers.
At night came Mr. Fairly again; but, before he entered into any narrations he asked “DO you expect Sir Lucas?”
“No,” I said, “he had been already.”
“I saw him rise early from table,” he added, “and I thought he was coming to YOU.”
He has taken no fancy to poor Sir Lucas, and would rather, apparently, avoid meeting him. However, it is to me so essential a comfort to hear his opinions, that I have earnestly entreated to see him by every opportunity.
FURTHER CHANGES AT THE LODGE.
The equerries now had their own table as usual, to which the physicians were regularly invited, downstairs, and our eating-party was restored. The princes established a table of their own at the Castle, to which they gave daily invitations to such as they chose, from time to time, to select from the Lodge.
The noise of so large a party just under the apartment of the queen occasioned this new regulation, which took place by her majesty’s own direction.
Nov. 20.-Poor Miss Goldsworthy was now quite ill, and forced to retire and nurse. No wonder, for she had suffered the worst sort of fatigue, that of fearing to sleep, from the apprehension the queen might speak, and want her. Lady Elizabeth Waldegrave now took her place Of sleeping in the queen’s room, but the office of going for early intelligence how his majesty had passed the night devolved upon me.
Exactly at seven o’clock I now went to the queen’s apartment - Lady Elizabeth then rose and went to her own room to dress, and I received the queen’s commands for my inquiries. I could not, however, go myself into the room where they assembled, which Miss Goldsworthy, who always applied to her brother, had very properly done : I sent in a message to beg to speak with General Bud, or whoever could bring an account.
Mr. Charles Hawkins came; he had sat up. O, how terrible a narrative did he drily give of the night! — short, abrupt, peremptorily bad, and indubitably hopeless! I did not dare alter, but I greatly softened this relation, in giving it to my poor queen. I had been, indeed, too much shocked by the hard way in which I had been told it, to deliver it in the same manner; neither did I, in my own heart, despair.
I saw Sir Lucas afterwards, who encouraged all my more sanguine opinions. He told me many new regulations had been made. His majesty was to be kept as quiet as possible, and see only physicians, except for a short and stated period in every day, during which he might summon such among his gentlemen as he pleased.
Mr. Fairly came also early, and wrote and read letters of great consequence relative to the situation of affairs; and he told me he was then to go to the king, who had refused his assent to the new plan, and insisted upon seeing him when he came in from his ride, which, to keep him a little longer quiet, they had made him believe he was then taking. The gentlemen had agreed to be within call alternately, and he meant to have his own turn always in the forenoon, that his evenings might have some chance for quiet, The rest of the day was comfortless; my coadjutrix was now grown so fretful and affronting that, though we only met at dinner, it was hard to support her most unprovoked harshness.
MR. FAIRLY AND THE LEARNED LADIES.
At night, while I was just sealing a short note to my dear Miss Cambridge, who had an anxiety like that of my own Susan and Fredy lest I should suffer from my present fatigues, I heard the softest tap at my door, which, before I could either put down my letter or speak, was suddenly but most gently opened.
I turned about and saw a figure wrapped up in a great, coat, with boots and a hat on, who cautiously entered, and instantly closed the door. I stared, and looked very hard, but the face was much hid by the muffling of the high collar to the great coat. I wondered, and could not conceive who it could be. The figure then took off his hat and bowed, but he did not advance, and the light was away from him. I courtsied, and wondered more, and then a surprised voice exclaimed, “Don’t you know me?” and I found it was Mr. Fairly.
“I cannot,” he said, “stop now, but I will come again; however, you know it, perhaps, already “Know what?”
“Why — the — news.”
“What news?”
“Why — that the king is much better, and—”
“Yes, Sir Lucas said so, but I have seen nobody since.”
“No? And have you heard nothing more?”
“Nothing at all; I cannot guess what you mean.”
“What, then, have not you heard — how Much the king has talked?
And — and have not you heard the charge.”
“No; I have heard not a word of any charge.”
“Why, then, I’ll tell you.”
A long preamble, uttered very rapidly, of “how much the king had been talking,” seemed less necessary to introduce his intelligence than to give him time to arrange it; and I was so much struck with this, that I could not even listen to him, from impatience to have him proceed.
Suddenly, however, breaking off, evidently from not knowing how to go on, he exclaimed, “Well, I shall tell it you all by and by; you come in for your share!”
Almost breathless now with amaze, I could hardly cry,
“Do I?”
“Yes, I’ll tell you,” cried he; but again he stopped, and, hesitatingly, said, “You — you won’t be angry?”
“No,” I answered, still more amazed, and even almost terrified, at what I had now to expect.
“Well, then,” cried he, instantly resuming his first gay and rapid manner, “the king has been calling them all to order for staying so long away from him. ‘All the equerries and gentlemen here,’ he said, ‘lost their whole time at the table, by drinking so much wine and sitting so long over their bottle, which constantly made them all so slow in returning to their waiting, that when he wanted them in the afternoon they were never ready; and-and-and Mr. Fairly,’ says he, ‘is as bad as any of them; not that he stays so long at table, or is so fond of wine, but he’s just as late as the rest; for he’s so fond of the company of learned ladies, that he gets to the tea-table with Miss Burney, and there he stays and spends his whole time.’”
He spoke all this like the velocity of lightning- but, had it been with the most prosing slowness, I had surely never interrupted him, so vexed I was, so surprised, so completely disconcerted. Finding me silent, he began again, and a
s rapidly as ever; “I know exactly,” he cried, “what it all means — what the king has in his head — exactly what has given rise to the idea— ’tis Miss Fuzilier.”
Now, indeed, I stared afresh, little expecting to hear her named by him. He went on in too much hurry for me to recollect his precise words, but he spoke of her very highly, and mentioned her learning, her education, and her acquirements, with great praise, yet with that sort of general commendation that disclaims all peculiar interest; and then, with some degree of displeasure mixed in his voice, mentioned the report that had been spread concerning- them, and its having reached the ears of the king before his Illness. He then lightly added something I could not completely hear, of its utter falsehood, in a way that seemed to hold even a disavowal too important for it, and then concluded with saying, “And this in the present confused state of his mind is altogether, I know, what he means by the learned ladies.”
When he had done he looked earnestly for my answer, but finding I made none, he said, with some concern, “You won’t think any more of it?”
“No,” I answered, rather faintly.
In a lighter manner then, as if to treat the whole as too light for a thought, he said, as he was leaving the room to change his dress, “Well, since I have now got the character of being so fond of such company, I shall certainly” — he stopped short, evidently at a loss how to go on; but quickly after, with a laugh, he hastily added, “come and drink tea with you very often;” and then, with another laugh, which he had all to himself, he hurried away.
He left me, however, enough to think upon and the predominant thought was an immediate doubt whether or not, since his visits had reached the king, his majesty’s observation upon them ought to stop their continuance?
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 594
