QUEEN ADELAIDE.
From the Painting by Sir William Beechey, in the National Portrait Gallery.
It would seem as though the Duchess not only distrusted the King’s word, but had not yet forgiven the Duke for not being able to accede to her earlier request. Had she sent her general adviser, Sir John Conroy, to negotiate with the Duke, or had she invited the latter to Claremont, she would have kept within the limits of politeness; as it was, the only thing left for the Duke to do was to send the Bill to her to study, as he could not in writing give all the explanations he had intended. In the meanwhile Lord Lyndhurst had brought up the measure in the House of Lords, and the Duchess of Kent had sent Conroy up to hear him.
Sir John Conroy was very much in the confidence of the Duchess. He had been equerry to the Duke of Kent for ten years, and had been greatly trusted by His Royal Highness, so much so that he was appointed co-executor of the Duke’s will, with General Wetherall as colleague. After his master’s death Conroy became major-domo to the Duchess, and was consulted by her in all things. There are some indications that he fostered the desire for greater importance, and it is possible that some of the troubles that made so indelible an impression upon the mind of the Princess were due to his influence. It was a great pity, for the Duchess could quite safely have left her dignity in the hands of the King’s Ministers. Such men as Wellington or Lyndhurst, or even those of the Opposition, Melbourne and Brougham, would have seen that so important a person as the mother of the heiress to the Throne received her due. She could not be sure of the King, for, when he disliked a person, were it man or woman, his manners were atrocious. But as one cynical subject once asked in reference to him, “What can you expect of a man with a head like a pineapple?” Greville made the further complimentary remark concerning something that the King had said, “If he were not such an ass that nobody does anything but laugh at what he says, this would be very important.”
However, William was by no means always an ass. He alternately aroused laughter and admiration, and sometimes, among individuals, fierce anger. When in good health he was lively and appreciated a joke, and, unlike his predecessor, he was conscientious in seeing to business matters and keeping his engagements. Even Greville, who, in spite of his sweeping judgments, was an honest critic, not often allowing mere prejudice to warp his opinion, said of William on another occasion, “The fact is he turns out to be an incomparable King, and deserves all the encomiums lavished upon him.” William horrified people at first by prying into every concern; he actually, to the stupefaction of some, reviewed the Guards, both horse and foot, and spent some energy in “blowing up” the people at the Court, actions which were regarded as symptoms of a disordered mind. Later, when suffering from illness, he did not hesitate to “blow up” his Prime Minister, or the Commander-in-Chief, or the guest at his table—and all in public! During the first year of his reign people thought and spoke of nothing but the King, how he slept in a cot, how he dismissed his brother’s cooks, how he insisted upon sitting backwards when in a carriage, refusing to allow anyone to occupy the seat facing him. One day he went to inspect the Tower of London, and a contemporary writer gives this picture of the Royal party:—
“The King is a little, old, red-nosed, weather-beaten, jolly-looking person, with an ungraceful air and carriage; and as to the Duke of Sussex, what with his stiff collar and cocked hat bobbing over his face, nothing could be seen of him but his nose. He seemed quite overcome with heat, and went along puffing and panting with the great, fat Duchess of Cumberland leaning on his arm. The Queen is even worse than I thought—a little insignificant person as ever I saw. She was dressed, as perhaps you will see by the papers, ‘exceeding plain,’ in bombazine with a little shabby muslin collar, dyed Leghorn hat, and leather shoes.”
Creevy went to the opera on a Royal night, and his impressions, related in his own peculiarly flippant way, were as follows:—“Billy 4th at the Opera was everything one could wish: a more Wapping air I defy a King to have—his hair five times as full of poudre as mine, and his seaman’s gold lace cock-and-pinch hat was charming. He slept most of the Opera—never spoke to anyone, or took the slightest interest in the concern.... I was sorry not to see more of Victoria: she was in a box with the Duchess of Kent, opposite, and, of course, rather under us. When she looked over the box I saw her, and she looked a very nice little girl indeed.”
He adds a little later that when the question of proroguing Parliament by commission arose, and Lord Grey said to William that it was, of course, quite out of the question to ask him to prorogue in person, the King replied: “My Lord, I’ll go, if I go in a hackney coach,” which showed at least the true kingly spirit, even if it was perturbing to his Minister. William meant it, too, and Lord Durham had to borrow the Chancellor’s carriage and dash off to the Master of the Horse, whom he found at breakfast. On the demand being made that he should at once have the King’s equipage sent round, the latter asked:
“What, is there a revolution?”
“No,” was the answer, “but there will be if you stop to finish that meal first.”