Chapter 28

I had now retreated to the wall, and purposed gliding softly, though speedily, out of the room; but before I had taken a single step, the king, in a loud whisper to Mrs. Delany, said, “Is that Miss Burney?”--and on her answering, “Yes, sir,” he bowed, and with a countenance of the most perfect good humour, came close up to me.

A most profound reverence on my part arrested the progress of my intended retreat.

“How long have you been come back, Miss Burney?”

“Two days, sir.”

Unluckily he did not hear me, and repeated his question and whether the second time he heard me or not, I don't know, but he made a little civil inclination of his head, and went back to Mrs. Delany.

He insisted she should sit down, though he stood himself, and began to give her an account of the Princess Elizabeth, who once again was recovering, and trying, at present, James's powders. She had been blooded, he said, twelve times in this last fortnight, and had lost seventy-five ounces of blood, besides undergoing blistering and other discipline. He spoke of her illness with the strongest emotion, and seemed quite filled with concern for her danger and suffering.

Mrs. Delany next inquired for the younger children. They had all, he said, the whooping-cough, and were soon to be removed to Kew.

“Not,” added he, “for any other reason than change of air for themselves; though I am pretty certain I have never had the distemper myself, and the queen thinks she has not had it either:--we shall take our chance. When the two eldest had it, I sent them away, and would not see them till it was over; but now there are so many of them that there would be no end to separations, so I let it take its course.”

Mrs. Delany expressed a good deal of concern at his running this risk, but he laughed at it, and said, he was much more afraid of catching the rheumatism, which has been threatening one of his shoulders lately, However, he added, he should hunt, the next morning, in defiance of it.

A good deal of talk then followed about his own health, and the extreme temperance by which he preserved it. The fault of his constitution, he said, was a tendency to excessive fat, which he kept, however, in order, by the most vigorous exercise and the strictest attention to a simple diet.

Mrs. Delany was beginning to praise his forbearance, but he stopped her.

“No, no,” he cried, “'tis no virtue; I only prefer eating plain and little to growing diseased and infirm.”

During this discourse, I stood quietly in the place where he had first spoken to me. His quitting me so soon, and conversing freely and easily with Mrs. Delany, proved so delightful a relief to me, that I no longer wished myself away; and the moment my first panic from the surprise was over, I diverted myself with a thousand ridiculous notions, of my own situation.

The Christmas games we had been showing Miss Dewes, it seemed as if we were still performing, as none of us thought it proper to move, though our manner of standing reminded one of “Puss in the corner.” Close to the door was posted Miss Port; opposite her, close to the wainscot, stood Mr. Dewes; at just an equal distance from him, close to a window, stood myself. Mrs. Delany, though seated, was at the opposite side to Miss Port; and his majesty kept pretty much in the middle of the room. The little girl, who kept close to me, did not break the order, and I could hardly help expecting to be beckoned, with a PUSS! PUSS! PUSS! to change places with one of my neighbours.

This idea, afterwards, gave way to another more pompous. It seemed to me we were acting a play. There is something so little like common and real life, in everybody's standing, while talking, in a room full of chairs, and standing, too, so aloof from each other, that I almost thought myself upon a stage, assisting in the representation of a tragedy,--in which the king played his own part, of the king; Mrs. Delany that of a venerable confidante; Mr. Dewes, his respectful attendant; Miss Port, a suppliant Virgin, waiting encouragement to bring forward some petition; Miss Dewes, a young orphan, intended to move the royal compassion; and myself,--a very solemn, sober, and decent mute.

These fancies, however, only regaled me while I continued a quiet spectator, and without expectation of being called into play. But the king, I have reason to think, meant only to give me time to recover from my first embarrassment; and I feel infinitely obliged to his good breeding and consideration, which perfectly answered, for before he returned to me, I was entirely recruited.

To go back to my narration.

When the discourse upon health and strength was over, the king went up to the table, and looked at a book of prints, from Claude Lorraine, which had been brought down for Miss Dewes; but Mrs. Delany, by mistake, told him they were for me. He turned over a leaf or two, and then said--

“Pray, does Miss Burney draw, too?”

The too was pronounced very civilly.

“I believe not, Sir,” answered Mrs. Delany “at least, she does not tell.”

“Oh!” cried he, laughing, “that's nothing; she is not apt to tell! she never does tell, you know!--Her father told me that himself. He told me the whole history of her 'Evelina.' And I shall never forget his face when he spoke of his feelings at first taking up the book!--he looked quite frightened, just as if he was doing it that moment! I never can forget his face while I live!”

THE KING CATEGORICALLY QUESTIONS Miss BURNEY.

Then coming up close to me, the king said--

“But what?--what?--how was it?”

“Sir”--cried I, not well understanding him.

“How came you--how happened it--what?--what?”

“I--I only wrote, Sir, for my own amusement,--only in some odd, idle hours.”

“But your publishing--your printing,--how was that?

“That was only, sir,--only because--”

I hesitated most abominably, not knowing how to tell him a long story, and growing terribly confused at these questions;--besides,--to say the truth, his own “what? what?” so reminded me of those vile “Probationary Odes,” that, in the midst of all my flutter, I was really hardly able to keep my countenance.

The What! was then repeated, with so earnest a look, that, forced to say something, I stammeringly answered--

“I thought-sir-it would look very well in print!”

I do really flatter myself this is the silliest speech I ever made! I am quite provoked with myself for it; but a fear of laughing made me eager to utter anything, and by no means conscious, till I had spoken, of what I was saying. He laughed very heartily himself,--well he might--and walked away to enjoy it, crying out,

“Very fair indeed! that's being very fair and honest.”

Then, returning to me again, he said,

“But your father--how came you not to show him what you wrote?”

“I was too much ashamed of it, sir, seriously.”

Literal truth that, I am sure.

“And how did he find it out?

“I don't know myself, sir. He never would tell me.”

Literal truth again, my dear father, as you can testify.

“But how did you get it printed?”

“I sent it, sir, to a bookseller my father never employed, and that I never had seen myself, Mr. Lowndes, in full hope by that means he never would hear of it.”

“But how could you manage that?”

“By means of a brother, sir.”

“O!--you confided in a brother, then?”

“Yes, sir,--that is, for the publication.”

“What entertainment you must have had from hearing people's conjectures, before you were known! Do you remember any of them?”

“Yes, sir, many.”

“And what?”

“I heard that Mr. Baretti[194] laid a wager it was written by a man for no woman, he said, could have kept her own counsel.”

This diverted him extremely.

“But how was it,” he continued, “you thought most likely for your father to discover you?”

“Sometimes, sir, I have supposed I must have dropt some of the manuscript; sometimes, that one of my sisters betrayed me.”

“O! your sister?--what, not your brother?”

“No, sir; he could not, for--”

I was going on, but he laughed so much I could not be heard, exclaiming,

“Vastly well! I see you are of Mr. Baretti's'mind, and think your brother could keep your secret, and not your sister?”

“Well, but,” cried he presently, “how was it first known to you, you were betrayed?”

“By a letter, sir, from another sister. I was very ill, and in the country; and she wrote me word that my father had taken up a review, in which the book was mentioned, and had put his finger upon its name, and said--'Contrive to get that book for me.'”

“And when he got it,” cried the king, “he told me he was afraid of looking at it! and never can I forget his face when he mentioned his first opening it. But you have not kept your pen unemployed all this time?”

“Indeed I have, sir.”

“But why?”

“I--I believe I have exhausted myself, sir.”

He laughed aloud at this, and went and told it to Mrs. Delany, civilly treating a plain fact as a mere bon mot.

Then, turning to me again, he said, more seriously, “But you have not determined against writing, any more?”

“N-o, sir”

“You have made no vow--no real resolution of that sort?”

“No, sir.”

“You only wait for inclination?”

“No, sir.”

A very civil little bow spoke him pleased with this answer, and he went again to the middle of the room, where he chiefly stood, and, addressing us in general, talked upon the different motives of writing, concluding with,

“I believe there is no constraint to be put upon real genius; nothing but inclination can set it to work. Miss Burney, however, knows best.” And then, hastily returning to me, he cried, “What? what?”

“No, sir, I--I-believe not, certainly,” quoth I, very awkwardly, for I seemed taking a violent compliment only as my due; but I knew not how to put him off as I would another person.

He then made some inquiries concerning the pictures with which the room is hung, and which are all Mrs. Delany's own painting and a little discourse followed, upon some of the masters whose pictures she has copied. This was all with her; for nobody ever answers him without being immediately addressed by him.

He then came to me again, and said,

“Is your father about anything at present?”

“Yes, sir, he goes on, when he has time, with his history.”

“Does he write quick?”

“Yes, sir, when he writes from himself; but in his history he has so many books to consult, that sometimes he spends three days in finding authorities for a single passage.”

“Very true; that must be unavoidable.” He pursued these inquiries some time, and then went again to his general station before the fire, and Mrs. Delany inquired if he meant to hunt the next day. “Yes,” he answered; and, a little pointedly, Mrs. Delany said,

“I would the hunted could but feel as much pleasure as the hunter.”

The king understood her, and with some quickness, called out, “Pray what did you hunt?”

Then, looking round at us all,--

“Did you know,” he said, “that Mrs. Delany once hunted herself?--and in a long gown, and a great hoop?”

It seems she had told his majesty an adventure of that sort which had befallen her in her youth, from some accident in which her will had no share.

THE QUEEN APPEARS UPON THE SCENE.

While this was talking over, a violent thunder was made at the door. I was almost certain it was the queen. Once more I would have given anything to escape; but in vain. I had been informed that nobody ever quitted the royal presence, after having been conversed with, till motioned to withdraw.

Miss Port, according to established etiquette on these occasions, opened the door which she stood next, by putting her hand behind her, and slid out, backwards, into the hall, to light the queen in. The door soon opened again, and her majesty entered.

Immediately seeing the king, she made him a low curtsey, and cried,--

“Oh, your majesty is here.”

“Yes,” he cried, “I ran here, without speaking to anybody.”

The queen had been at the lower Lodge, to see the Princess Elizabeth, as the king had before told us.

She then, hastened up to Mrs. Delany, with both her hands held out, saying,

“My dear Mrs. Delany, how are you?”

Instantly after, I felt her eye on my face. I believe, too, she curtsied to me; but though I saw the bend, I was too near-sighted to be sure it was intended for me. I was hardly ever in a situation more embarrassing---I dared not return what I was not certain I had received, yet considered myself as appearing quite a monster, to stand stiff-necked, if really meant.

Almost at the same moment, she spoke to Mr. Bernard Dewes, and then nodded to my little clinging girl.

I was now really ready to sink, with horrid uncertainty of what I was doing, or what I should do,--when his majesty, who I fancy saw my distress, most good-humouredly said to the queen something, but I was too much flurried to remember what, except these words,--“I have been telling Miss Burney--”

Relieved from so painful a dilemma, I immediately dropped a curtsey. She made one to me in the same moment, and, with a very smiling countenance, came up to me; but she could not speak, for the king went on talking, eagerly, and very gaily, repeating to her every word I had said during our conversation upon “Evelina,” its publication, etc. etc.

Then he told her of Baretti's wager, saying,--“But she heard of a great many conjectures about the author, before it was known, and of Baretti, an admirable thing!--he laid a bet it must be a man, as no woman, he said, could have kept her own counsel!”

The queen, laughing a little, exclaimed--

“Oh, that is quite too bad an affront to us!--Don't you think so?” addressing herself to me, with great gentleness of voice and manner.

I assented; and the king continued his relation, which she listened to with a look of some interest; but when he told her some particulars of my secrecy, she again spoke to me.

“But! your sister was your confidant, was she not?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

My sisters, I might have said, but I was always glad to have done.

“Oh, yes!” cried the king, laughing, “but I assure you she is of Baretti's opinion herself; for I asked her if she thought it was her sister or her brother that betrayed her to her father?--and she says her sister, she thinks.”

Poor Esther!--but I shall make her amends by what follows; for the queen, again addressing me, said--

“But to betray to a father is no crime-don't you think so?”

I agreed; and plainly saw she thought Esther, if Esther it was, had only done right.

The king then went on, and when he had finished his narration the queen took her seat. She made Mrs. Delany sit next her, and Miss Port brought her some tea.

“MISS BURNEY PLAYS--BUT NOT TO ACKNOWLEDGE IT.”

The king, meanwhile, came to me again, and said,--“Are you musical?”

“Not a performer, sir.”

Then, going from me to the queen, he cried,--“She does not play.” I did not hear what the queen answered---she spoke in a low voice, and seemed much out of spirits.

They now talked together a little while, about the Princess Elizabeth, and the king mentioned having had a very promising account from her physician, Sir George Baker and the queen soon brightened up.

The king then returned to me and said,--

“Are you sure you never play?--never touch the keys at all.”

“Never to acknowledge it, sir.”

“Oh! that's it!” cried he; and flying to the queen, cried, “She does play--but not to acknowledge it!”

I was now in a most horrible panic once more; pushed so very home, I could answer no other than I did, for these categorical questions almost constrain categorical answers; and here, at Windsor, it seems an absolute point that whatever they ask must be told, and whatever they desire must be done. Think but, then, of my consternation, in expecting their commands to perform! My dear father, pity me!

The eager air with which he returned to me fully explained what was to follow. I hastily, therefore, spoke first, in order to stop him, crying--“I never, sir, played to anybody but myself!--never!”

“No?” cried he, looking incredulous; “what, not to--

“Not even to me, sir!” cried my kind Mrs. Delany, who saw what was threatening me.

“No?--are you sure?” cried he, disappointed; “but--but you'll--”

“I have never, sir,” cried I, very earnestly, “played in my life, but when I could hear nobody else--quite alone, and from a mere love of any musical sounds.”

He repeated all this to the queen, whose answers I never heard; but when he once more came back, with a face that looked unwilling to give it up, in my fright I had recourse to dumb show, and raised my hands in a supplicating fold, with a most begging countenance to be excused. This, luckily, succeeded; he understood me very readily, and laughed a little, but made a sort of desisting, or rather complying, little bow, and said no more about it.

I felt very much obliged to him, for I saw his curiosity was all alive, I wished I could have kissed his hand. He still, however, kept me in talk, and still upon music.

“To me,” said he, “it appears quite as strange to meet with people who have no ear for music, and cannot distinguish one air from another, as to meet with people who are dumb. Lady Bell Finch once told me that she had heard there was some difference between a psalm, a minuet, and a country dance, but she declared they all sounded alike to her! There are people who have no eye for difference of colour. The Duke of Marlborough actually cannot tell scarlet from green!”

He then told me an anecdote of his mistaking one of those colours for another, which was very laughable, but I do not remember it clearly enough to write it. How unfortunate for true virtuosi that such an eye should possess objects worthy the most discerning--the treasures of Blenheim! “I do not find, though,” added his majesty, “that this defect runs in his family, for Lady Di Beauclerk, draws very finely.”

He then went to Mr. Bernard Dewes.

Almost instantly upon his leaving me, a very gentle voice called out--“Miss Burney!”

It was the queen's. I walked a little nearer her, and a gracious inclination of her head made me go quite up to her.

“You have been,” she said, “at Mrs. Walsingham's?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“She has a pretty place, I believe?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Were you ever there before?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Oh, shocking! shocking! thought I; what will Mrs. Delany say to all these monosyllables?

“Has not she lately made some improvements?”

“Yes, ma'am; she has built a conservatory.”

Then followed some questions about its situation, during which the king came up to us; and she then, ceasing to address me in particular, began a general sort of conversation, with a spirit and animation that I had not at all expected, and which seemed the result of the great and benevolent pleasure she took in giving entertainment to Mrs. Delany.

A DRAWING-ROOM DURING A FOG.

The subject was the last Drawing-room, which she had been in town to keep on Thursday, during the dense fog.

“I assure you, ma'am,” cried she to Mrs. Delany, “it was so dark, there was no seeing anything, and no knowing any body. And Lady Harcourt could be of no help to tell me who people were, for when it was light, she can't see and now it was dark, I could not see myself. So it was in vain for me to go on in that manner, without knowing which I had spoken to, and which was waiting for me; so I said to Lady Harcourt, 'We had better stop, and stand quite still, for I don't know anybody, no more than you do. But if we stand still, they will all come up in the end, and we must ask them who they are, and if I have spoken to them yet, or not: for it is very odd to do it, but what else can we manage?'”

Her accent is a little foreign, and very prettily so; and her emphasis has that sort of changeability, which gives an interest to everything she utters. But her language is rather peculiar than foreign.

“'Besides,”' added she, with a very significant look, “'if we go on here in the dark, maybe I shall push against somebody, or somebody will push against me--which is the more likely to happen.'”

She then gave an account of some circumstances which attended the darkness, in a manner not only extremely lively, but mixed, at times, with an archness and humour that made it very entertaining. She chiefly addressed herself to Mrs. Delany; and to me, certainly, she would not, separately, have been so communicative; but she contrived, with great delicacy, to include me in the little party, by frequently looking at me, and always with an expression that invited my participation in the conversation. And, indeed, though I did not join in words, I shared very openly in the pleasure of her recital.

“Well,” she continued, “so there was standing by me a man that I could not see in the face; but I saw the twisting of his bow; and I said to Lady Harcourt, 'I am sure that must be nobody but the Duke of Dorset.'--'Dear,' she says, 'how can you tell that?'--'Only ask,' said I; and so it proved he.”

“Yes,” cried the king, “he is pretty well again; he can smile again, now!”

It seems his features had appeared to be fixed, or stiffened. It is said, he has been obliged to hold his hand to his mouth, to hide it, ever since his stroke,--which he refuses to acknowledge was paralytic.

The queen looked as if some comic notion had struck her, and, after smiling a little while to herself, said, with a sort of innocent archness, very pleasing,

“To be sure, it is very wrong to laugh at such things,--I know that; but yet, I could not help thinking, when his mouth was in that way, that it was very lucky people's happiness did not depend upon his smiles!”

Afterwards, she named other persons, whose behaviour and manners pointed them out to her, in defiance of obscurity.

“A lady,” said she, “came up to me, that I could not see, so I was forced to ask who she was; and immediately she burst into a laugh. 'O,' says I, 'that can be only Mrs. De Rolles!'--and so it proved.”

Methinks, by this trait, she should be a near relation to my Miss Larolles![195]

WILL MISS BURNEY WRITE ANY MORE?

When these, and some more anecdotes which I do not so clearly remember, were told, the king left us, and went to Mr. Bernard Dewes. A pause ensuing, I, too, drew back, meaning to return to my original station, which, being opposite the fire, was never a bad one. But the moment I began retreating, the queen, bending forward, and speaking in a very low voice, said, “Miss Burney!”--and, upon my coming up to her, almost in a whisper, cried, “But shall we have no more--nothing more?”

I could not but understand her, and only shook my head. The queen then, as if she thought she had said too much, with great sweetness and condescension, drew back herself, and, very delicately, said,

“To be sure it is, I own, a very home question, for one who has not the pleasure to know you.”

I was quite ashamed of this apology, but did not know what to say to it. But how amiable a simplicity in her speaking of herself in such a style,--“for one who has not the pleasure to know you.”

“But, indeed,” continued she, presently, “I would not say it, only that I think from what has been done, there is a power to do so much good--and good to young people, which is so very good a thing--that I cannot help wishing it could be.”

I felt very grateful for this speech, and for the very soft manner in which she said it; and I very much wished to thank her and was trying to mutter something, though not very intelligibly, when the king suddenly coming up to us, inquired what was going forward.

The queen readily repeated her kind speech.

The king eagerly undertook to make my answer for me, crying, “O, but she will write!--she only waits for inclination--she told me so.” Then, speaking to me, he said, “What--is it not so?”

I only laughed a little; and he again said to the queen,

“She will write. She told me, just now, she had made no vow against It.”

“No, no,” cried the queen, “I hope not, indeed.”

“A vow!” cried dear Mrs. Delany, “no, indeed, I hope she would not be so wicked--she who can so do what she does!”