FOOTNOTES TO BOOK III, CHAPTER XIV:
[119] The Princess thus born was afterwards Duchess of Brunswick, and died in London, March, 1813.
[120] Walpole’s Reminiscences, vol. iv. He repeats the same story in his Memoirs, vol. i. Horace Walpole confuses the Queen’s second visit with her first, otherwise his account tallies with that of Lord Hervey—Memoirs, vol. ii.
[121] Message of the King to the Prince of Wales, 10th September, 1737.
[122] The parallel became closer when Frederick Prince of Wales removed to Leicester House.
CHAPTER XV.
THE QUEEN’S ILLNESS AND DEATH. 1737.
The Queen’s health had been breaking for some time past, and nothing but her strength of will and determination not to yield kept her up. She had never really enjoyed good health since she became Queen. The last ten years had been a continual struggle against physical weakness; in the news-sheets of the day mention is frequently made of the Queen’s indisposition, and nearly always from a different cause. The list of her ailments and the barbarous and violent remedies resorted to makes one wonder how she survived so long—gout, ague, rash, pleurisy, chills, colic—everything, in short, but her secret, and most dangerous, malady was recorded. But the Queen seldom retired for more than a day or two, she would never admit that she was really ill, and was extremely angry if any one said that she was so. The King disliked to have sick people about him, and resented the Queen’s ailments as though they were invented for his special annoyance. Caroline was aware of this peculiarity on the part of her spouse, and would endure agonies rather than let him suspect that anything was wrong with her. She was a great sufferer from gout, which sometimes crippled her so much that she could not move without pain, but so absolute was her devotion to the King, that she would plunge her swollen legs into ice-cold water, in order that she might not fail to accompany him on his daily walks. These desperate remedies no doubt did her infinite harm. But she had another malady too, which “false delicacy,” as some described it, though it would be more correct to say “wifely devotion,” made her conceal. At the birth of her youngest child, Princess Louisa, in 1724, Caroline suffered a slight internal rupture. Her husband noticed it at the time, but she said it was nothing, and would pass. Later he taxed her with it again, and advised her to consult a doctor, but she again denied it, this time with so much vexation, declaring that he sought a pretext for neglecting her, that the King promised never to mention it again. For a time the malady seemed to grow better, or, at any rate, to remain dormant, but of late it had been troubling her again, and neglect and concealment made it go from bad to worse.
The Queen took infinite pains to hide the nature of her illness, frequently consulting doctors, and yet leaving them in ignorance of her real malady. For years, amid the splendours of her court, in the plenitude of her power, Caroline had carried with her this dread secret, and maintained a smiling face to the world. From time to time she must have suffered agonies, but she bore them with Spartan heroism. It was only during the King’s absences at Hanover that she indulged in the luxury of a collapse, and then she ascribed her weakness to the gout, or any cause but the real one. She held drawing-rooms as usual, but more than once she had to be wheeled into the presence-chamber in a chair, physically unable to stand. Of one of these breakdowns Peter Wentworth writes:—
“The Queen has been so ill. I went every day to the backstairs and had the general answer that she was better, but I knew when they told me true and when not, and was often in great pain for my good Queen, but it is not the fashion to show any at Court. The first day that she came out into her drawing-room she told a lady, whom I stood behind, that she had really been very bad and dangerously ill, but it was her own fault, for she had a fever a fortnight before she came from Kensington, but she kept it a secret, for she resolved to appear on the King’s birthday. She owned she did wrong, and said she would do so no more, upon which I made her a bow, as much as to say, I hoped she would do as she then said. I believe she understood me for she smiled upon me.”[123]
In some way the Queen connected the decline of her influence over the King, and his passion for the Walmoden, with the failing of her physical health, and she struggled against it to the death. It is no exaggeration to say that she would have died rather than let her malady become known—in fact her concealment of it led to her death. This secret anxiety gnawing always at her heart, combined with the worries she had to endure from without and within, told upon her strength. For the last two or three years she had been on the rack daily, a martyr to physical and mental anguish. The infidelity of the King, the unfilial conduct of the Prince of Wales, the hard work inseparable from her position, and the effort at all costs to keep a brave front to the world, told upon her health, until at last she could bear the strain no longer. It was in vain that she sought relaxation in her best-loved pursuits; the haunting fear never left her day or night.
Soon after the Prince of Wales had been turned out of St. James’s Palace the King and Queen removed there from Hampton Court, and remained over the King’s birthday (October 30th). The Queen busied herself much this autumn in fitting up a new library which she had built in the stable yard of St. James’s, on the site now occupied by Stafford House. It was a large handsome building constructed on the most approved principles. The Queen was now furnishing it with cases and books; she had ordered busts of philosophers and learned men to be placed in the corridor, and had requested the English ambassadors abroad to collect for her the best Spanish, French and Italian books to make her collection as complete as possible. When all was finished she hoped to hold there the intellectual tournaments in which she delighted, and make the library serve the double purpose of a lecture room. She used to go there nearly every day to personally superintend the work, and it was in this library on the morning of Wednesday, November 9th, that she finally broke down.
The Queen was giving some directions to the workmen when suddenly she was seized with violent internal pains. She made her way back to St. James’s Palace as quickly as she could, and went to bed. At two o’clock there was to be a drawing-room; the King proposed that it should be postponed, but the Queen, who did not wish it to be known that she was ill, declared that she felt much better, got up, dressed, and went to the drawing-room. She smiled and bowed as usual, and even chatted to some of the company, though she was suffering extremely, and could scarcely stand. The King noticed nothing amiss, and went on talking for a long time about some new farce that was the fashion of the hour. At last he dismissed the court, reminding the Queen, who was by this time in agony, that she had not spoken to the premier duchess, the Duchess of Norfolk. The Queen, as she was going out, went to the duchess, and apologised for the omission with her usual graciousness. On returning to her room she again went to bed.
THE PRINCESS CAROLINE.
(THIRD DAUGHTER OF GEORGE II.)
The King thought it was only a temporary indisposition, in which belief she humoured him, and he went off in the evening to play cards with Lady Deloraine, after having sent for the German court physician to look after the Queen. Every hour the Queen became worse, but she was still bent on concealing the cause of her illness, and declared that she had the colic. She asked Lord Hervey, who was in attendance, what she should do to ease her pain. Lord Hervey, who was a chronic invalid, and made himself a worse one by taking quack nostrums, recommended her a concoction called “snake root”. But the German physician would not let her take it, and, as the Queen was now in a high fever, he called in another doctor. In ignorance of her malady, the doctors dosed their unfortunate patient with a number of horrible decoctions, such as “Daffy’s Elixir,” “Sir Walter Raleigh’s Cordial,” usquebaugh, and so forth, and then, as the only effect of these remedies was to make her violently sick, they sent for Ranby, the surgeon, who bled her into the bargain. The Princess Caroline, who had sat with her mother all day, now declared herself seized with rheumatic pains, and Lord Hervey, who was in his element, dosed her with another nostrum called “Ward’s Pill,” which, it is not surprising to hear, made her worse. The King came back at his usual hour, and was much upset at finding the Queen so ill. By way of showing his anxiety he lay on her bed all night, outside the coverlet, with the result that he spoilt his night’s rest and hers too.
The Queen was again bled in the morning (Thursday), and the fever having abated a little it was thought that she was better. But she knew that she was not, for she said to the Princess Caroline, who was suffering from the effects of the pill: “Poor Caroline, you are very ill too; we shall soon meet again in another place”. At her request the King held a drawing-room as usual, and the Princess Amelia took her mother’s place at court. So the day wore on. Towards the evening the Queen got worse, and in her agony cried aloud to the Princess Caroline: “I have an ill which nobody knows of”. But, as she gave no particulars, this was regarded merely as a vague statement. Two more physicians were called in, and further added to the illustrious patient’s discomfort by ordering blisters and aperients, both without effect. The King was now greatly concerned, and sat up all night with his wife.
The next morning (Friday) it was impossible to conceal any longer the fact that the Queen was seriously ill. The news reached the ears of the Prince of Wales, who was then at Kew, and he immediately hurried up to London to inquire after the Queen. The King had an idea that something of the kind would happen, and gave strict orders that if the Prince came he was not to be admitted. About an hour after the King had thus expressed himself, the Prince sent Lord North to St. James’s with a message saying that he was much grieved to hear of the Queen’s illness, and asking to be allowed to come and see her. But the King not only refused to let him come, but returned an answer requesting him to send no more messages to St. James’s. “This,” said he, “is like one of the scoundrel’s tricks, it is just of a piece of his kneeling down in the dirt before the mob to kiss her hand at the coach door, when she came from Hampton Court to see the Princess, though he had not spoken one word to her during the whole visit. I always hated the rascal, but now I hate him worse than ever. He wants to come and insult his poor dying mother, but she shall not see him.” Later in the day, the Queen, who had no knowledge of what had passed, said to the King that she wondered the Prince had not asked to see her yet, as she felt sure that he would do so, because it would look well before the world. The King then told her of what had passed and how he had forbidden the Prince to come, or send any more messages, though, he added, if the Queen really wished to see her son she could do so. But the Queen emphatically declared that she had no such wish, and the incident ended. The Prince continued to send messengers to inquire throughout his mother’s illness.
The next day (Saturday) the Queen grew worse every hour, yet she still, with a stubbornness which it is impossible to understand, concealed the true nature of her malady. Towards evening the King, who was greatly worried, whispered to her that he believed her illness came from rupture, but she denied it with great warmth and peevishness. However, the King sent for the surgeon, Ranby, and confided his fears to him. Ranby at once examined the Queen, and even then she carried her desire for concealment so far as to declare that she felt the pain in a different part of her body to that where it really was. But the surgeon was no longer to be deceived, and having discovered the rupture, he took the King aside and told him of it, adding that the Queen was in the utmost danger. The Queen started up in bed in a state of great excitement, but when the surgeon told her bluntly that it was no longer possible to conceal the truth, she turned her face to the wall and wept silently—these were the only tears she shed throughout her illness. As there was no time to be lost, two more surgeons were called in, and the same evening an operation was performed. It did not give relief, nor did the doctors hold out much hope, concealment and neglect had made the ill past remedy.
The Queen passed a troubled night, and early the next morning (Sunday) she complained that her wound gave her great pain. The surgeons were summoned, and discovered that it had already begun to mortify. The dreaded news was immediately conveyed to the King, and it was feared the Queen could not live many hours. The King came at once, followed by the Duke of Cumberland and the Princesses Amelia, Caroline, Mary and Louisa. The Queen took leave of her weeping husband and children, and asked them not to leave her until she died. To the Princess Caroline she commended the care of her younger children, and she bade her son William be a support to his father, and try to make up for the sorrow and vexation caused by his elder brother. Of the King she took a most affectionate farewell, telling him that he knew all her thoughts, and thanking him for his love and trust of her. She commended to his care all those who were dependent on her, from the highest to the lowest. She then drew from her finger the ruby ring he had given her at the Coronation, and put it upon his, saying: “This is the last thing I have to give you: naked I came to you, naked I go from you. I had everything I ever possessed from you, and to you everything I have I return.” She added one word of advice, which she said she had often given to him when she was in health—that after her death he should marry again. At this the King burst into sobs and tears, and vowed he would not, saying: “Non! Non! j’aurai des maîtresses”.[124] The Queen replied wearily: “Mon Dieu! cela n’empêche pas”.[125] It was the only hint of reproach that ever crossed her lips, if we except that other bitter cry wrung from her in the extremity of her anguish years before: “I have never lived a day without suffering”. Perhaps the King felt some pangs of remorse, for he wept over her bitterly; kissed her again and again, and uttered many endearing words. He had reason to weep, for he was losing the only being in the world who loved him, and loved him with a devotion that was as absolute as it was unaccountable.
After this trying scene the Queen fell into a doze and it was thought that she would pass away in her sleep, but, to every one’s surprise, she woke up feeling better. She now declared her belief that she would last until Wednesday, saying that all the great events of her life had happened on that day; she had been born on a Wednesday, married on a Wednesday, had her first child on a Wednesday, heard the news of the late King’s death on a Wednesday, and had been crowned on a Wednesday, and therefore she would die on a Wednesday. This was the only little touch of superstition in her character. Later in the day the surgeons again examined the wound, and, finding that the mortification had not spread, declared that perhaps after all she would recover.[126] This revived hope in all breasts but that of the Queen, who knew it to be only a reprieve. “My heart will not break yet,” she said.
Her reprieve gave her time to see her trusted friend and minister, Sir Robert Walpole, who arrived in haste on Monday morning from Houghton, whither he had gone ten days previously to bury his wife. In consequence of his mourning he had not been sent for officially, but when he heard the news of the Queen’s danger he came as fast as post horses could bring him. The Queen had asked for him once or twice, and when the King heard that Walpole had arrived, and was in the ante-chamber, he at once gave him audience. Walpole was in great disorder and distress, for he had been travelling hard and fast. Despite his great bulk, he knelt down awkwardly and kissed the King’s hand, and with tears, asked: “How is the Queen?” The King said: “Come and see yourself, my good Sir Robert,” and carried him off to the Queen’s bedside. The interview was very short, but the Queen’s words were to the point. “My good Sir Robert, you see me in a very indifferent situation. I have nothing to say to you but to recommend the King, my children, and the kingdom to your care.”[127]
The Queen lingered throughout Monday and Tuesday, and even the dreaded Wednesday, in much the same condition. On Thursday a change took place for the worse and she suffered much pain, but she bore it all without a murmur and had a smile and a cheery word for many. She even joked at Ranby, the surgeon, when he was dressing her wound, saying: “Before you begin, let me have a full view of your comical face”; and whilst he was cutting her she said: “What would you give now to be cutting up your wife?”[128] The Queen underwent many of these cuttings, but she bore all with great fortitude, and if sometimes a groan escaped her she would beg the surgeons not to heed and even apologised to them for some peevish expressions. Her patience and courage were marvellous, and her mind remained calm and collected.
All this time the chaplain’s services had not been required. Several of the bishops remarked on it, and many about the court whispered that it was not right that the Queen should remain without the consolations of religion. At last representations were made to Walpole, who irreligiously shrugged his shoulders. But he asked the Princess Amelia to acquaint the King and Queen with what was being said, and suggested that the Archbishop of Canterbury (Dr. Potter) should be sent for. The Princess Amelia, who knew her mother’s views on religious matters, at first demurred to taking the message, but afterwards went to the King, who went to the Queen, who immediately consented. The Archbishop came, and continued afterwards to pray by her bedside, morning and evening. But the prayers of the Archbishop were far from satisfying the scruples of the orthodox, who further required that her Majesty should receive the Holy Communion.
How far the Archbishop spoke to the Queen on this solemn subject it is impossible to say. The matter was one between the royal sufferer and her God. Caroline was, in the wide sense of the word, a religious woman, one whose religion was not on her lips but in her life; she had a firm faith in God and trust in His mercy, but she was not, and never had been, an orthodox Christian. In health, because she conceived it to be her duty as Queen-Consort, she had scrupulously conformed to the rites of the Church of England, but now, in the presence of death, she felt it necessary to be sincere in her convictions and dispense with them. The Archbishop, who was a godly and tolerant prelate, and who knew the Queen’s views, probably forbore to press her on the matter, and we may take it for granted that the Queen did not receive the last sacrament. It was rumoured about the court that the Archbishop had celebrated the Communion of the Sick in the royal chamber, but at the last moment the Queen refused to receive. When the Archbishop came out of the room he was surrounded by courtiers and ladies in waiting in the ante-chambers, who eagerly asked him, “My Lord, has the Queen received?” The Archbishop eluded the question, and rebuked them by saying “The Queen is in a very heavenly disposition”. Some, more officious than the rest, told him that it was his duty to reconcile the Queen to the Prince of Wales. The Archbishop replied that, whenever the Queen had spoken to him about the unhappy divisions in the Royal Family, she had spoken with such good sense that it would be impertinent for him to offer her advice on the subject. By some authorities it is stated that the Queen, at the last, forgave the Prince, and one goes so far as to declare that “She sent her blessing and forgiveness to her son, and told Sir Robert [Walpole] that she would have sent for him with pleasure, but prudence forbade the interview as it might irritate and embarrass the King”.[129] On the other hand Hervey is silent on this point, though he makes the Queen several times during her illness express resentment against her son, which was perhaps natural, as his insults were very recent. Her enemies afterwards declared that she refused the Prince her forgiveness, though he sent again and again to humbly beseech her blessing. There is a conflict of testimony here, and the Queen may well have the benefit of the doubt, for all her life she had laboured in the cause of peace, and striven to prevent discord in the Royal Family.
The Queen still lingered on, her brain and faculties clear till the last. But the King’s mind was giving way under the strain. He was conscious of this to some extent, for he told his pages that if he were unreasonable in chiding and swearing at them they were not to mind it. Lord Hervey, in his grim and ghastly account of the Queen’s deathbed, mocks at the lamentations of the King, and jeers at his behaviour. Yet there is every reason to believe that his grief was absolutely sincere, and in the presence of so great a sorrow these gibes should surely have been stilled. It was all very human and very pitiful. The King was not one of those who could suffer and be still, his grief was noisy and garrulous, and he talked incessantly during those trying days to all whom he met of the Queen’s many virtues and the great and irreparable loss her death would be to him and the nation. He said the same to his wife over and over again, and they babbled their love together with tears and broken words. She knew now that she was first with him, had always been first with him, and their love was as fresh and fragrant as when he wooed her in the rose-gardens of Ansbach long ago. Yet, evidently overwrought by long watching and emotion, the King would sometimes break off in the middle of his vows of love and devotion to chide her in the old peevish fashion. Her pain made her very restless, and she complained that she could not sleep. “How the devil should you sleep,” burst forth the King, “when you will never lie still a moment?” or again, when the Queen at his bidding lay perfectly still, the King would rail at her for looking straight before her, “like a calf waiting for its throat to be cut”. But Caroline knew better than to blame him for these rough words, which were more welcome to her than sweetest music. Her wifely obedience never failed, even at the last. The doctors said that her strength must be kept up, so the King was always forcing down her throat all sorts of food and drink. The poor Queen would swallow whatever he wished, and when he thanked her, she would say: “It is the last service I can do you”. But her stomach was not so complaisant, and she could only retain the food for a few minutes. Then she would bravely try again. For her own sake she wished not to live; for his she would fain have done so.
So the days wore on, the Queen almost apologising for being so long in dying. Thursday, Friday and Saturday passed without change, but on Sunday (November 20th, 1737), the eleventh day of her illness, she grew weaker every hour. About ten o’clock in the evening the end came quietly and suddenly. Her last word was Pray. The King was with her when she passed away, and in an agony of grief he kissed the face and hands of the dead Queen.