It was said, however, that in the rarely-permitted meetings which subsequently took place between the mother and daughter the former occasionally complained of the coldness of manner of the latter. The Princess of Wales was, in fact, not satisfied with an ordinary demonstration of attachment from any one. She required enthusiasm—sought and bid for it. When the Regent was rising into something like popularity by the splendid entertainments which he gave—partly for the benefit of trade, and partly because he was pleased to the very top of his bent when playing the magnificent Amphitryon—the Princess appeared in public at a fête at Vauxhall, whither she was escorted by the Duke of Gloucester, on whose arm she leaned as she passed along, soliciting, as it were, signs of sympathy at a festival patronised and presided over by the Duke of York.
In these public scenes she assumed a dignity which well became her, but which she was as well pleased to lay aside as soon as the occasion which called for it had passed. Nothing gave her more gratification, for instance, after receiving congratulatory addresses from corporations and other similar bodies, which she did with mingled stateliness and courtesy, than to not only change her dress of ceremony for a more ordinary one, but to take off her stays! The latter odd fashion was not favourable to a figure which was now far removed from the grace which had distinguished the Princess in her earlier years.
It can be scarcely said that in this year she lost one friend more by the death of her mother. The declining years of the aged Duchess of Brunswick had been years of sorrow. She had long been a sufferer from confirmed asthma, and in March 1813 she was attacked by an epidemic which was fatally prevalent throughout the metropolis. It was attended by, or rather consisted of, cough and difficulty of breathing. This attack aggravated her other sufferings; but, though confined to her bed, she was not considered in danger when her daughter saw her for the last time, on the 22nd of March 1813. The Princess remained with the Duchess several hours, and took leave without suspecting that she was never again to see her mother alive. At nine that night the Duchess was seized with violent spasmodic attacks, under which she rapidly sunk; and, at seventy-six years of age, the ‘Lady Augusta,’ who was born in St. James’s Palace, died in a modest lodging-house, and was quietly interred in Westminster Abbey.
It is due to the Prince Regent to say that on the occasion of the death of the Duchess of Brunswick he exhibited becoming and courteous feeling, by suggesting to the Princess Charlotte that she should pay a visit to her mother, to condole with her on this bereavement. It was suggested that after the funeral would be the most appropriate season for such a visit; but the Princess, with quicker wit or more ready sympathy, repaired at once to her mother’s residence, and thus afforded her a gratification which was probably the more appreciated as it was the less expected. This was more sympathy than she received at the hands of some persons, who probably conceived that by behaving rudely to her they should be paying court to a higher power. Thus, in the course of the summer the Princess went to sup at Mr. Angerstein’s. Lord and Lady Buckinghamshire were there. ‘The latter behaved very rudely, and went away immediately after the Princess arrived. Whatever her principles, political or moral, may be, I think,’ says Lady Charlotte Campbell, who tells the anecdote, ‘that making a curtsy to the person invested with the rank of Princess of Wales would be much better taste and more like a lady than turning her back and hurrying out of the room.’
In addition to her mother, the Princess may be said to have also lost her brother this year; for though the gallant Duke of Brunswick did not fall at Quatre Bras till 1815, she never saw him again but for a brief moment on his departure from this country, two years previously. The Duke was simply a soldier and nothing more, except that he was a gallant one. He had a few relics with him in this country of the treasures of Brunswick, such as old books and antique gems, the value of neither of which did he in the least understand. His habits were of the simplest, except in the fashionable dissipation of the times; but if he was the slave of some pleasures, he was by no means the servant of luxury. He slept on a thin mattress placed on an iron frame, and covered by a single sheet. He had enjoyed sweeter sleep on it, he used to say, than many who lay upon the softest down.
When he went to take leave of his sister he was in the highest spirits, from having at last the prospect of an active career in arms. The actor and the scene are well-described by the author of ‘The Diary:’—‘There never was a man so altered by the hope of glory. His stature seemed to dilate, and his eyes were animated with a fire and an expression of grandeur and delight which astonished me. I could not help thinking the Princess did not receive him with the warmth she ought to have done. He detailed to her the whole of the conversation he had with the ministers, the Prince Regent, &c. He mimicked them all admirably, particularly Lord Castlereagh—so well as to make us all laugh; and he gave the substance of what had passed between himself and those persons with admirable precision, in a kind of question and answer colloquy that was quite dramatic. I was astonished, for I had never seen any person so changed by circumstance. He really looked a hero. The Princess heard all that he said in a kind of sullen silence, while the tears were in several of the bystanders’ eyes. At length the Duke of Brunswick said: “The ministers refused me all assistance; they would promise me neither money nor arms. But I care not. I will go to Hamburg. I hear that there are some brave young men there, who await my coming, and if I have only my orders from the Prince Regent to act, I will go without either money or arms, and gain both.” “Perfectly right!” replied the Princess, with something like enthusiasm in her voice and manners. “How did Bonaparte conquer the greater part of Europe?” the Duke continued: “he had neither money nor arms, but he took them; and if he did that, why should not I, who have so much more just a cause to defend?” The Duke then proceeded to state how the Regent and the ministers were all at variance, and how he had obtained from the former an order he could not obtain from the ministers. After some further conversation, he took leave of his sister. She did not embrace him. He held out his hand to me kindly, and named me familiarly. I felt a wish to express something of the kindly feeling I felt towards him: but, I know not why, in her presence, who ought to have felt so much more and who seemed to feel so little, I felt chilled, and remained silent. I have often thought of that moment since with regret. When the Duke was fairly gone, however, she shed a few tears, and said emphatically, “I shall never see him more!”’
The early part of 1814 was spent by the Princess in lowness of spirit and littleness of pursuits. Miss Berry speaks of the mournful ‘house-warming’ by which the Princess inaugurated her tenancy some time before:—On the 1st of December she writes, ‘We both of us (the two sisters) dined with the Princess in Connaught Place, the first time she had given a dinner in her new home, which is still all upside down. The company consisted only of Gell and Craven, who arrived in town to-day, Lady C. Campbell and Lady C. Lindsay in waiting. The Princess was particularly melancholy; wept when speaking to me of herself, confessed herself entirely overwhelmed with her situation and her prospects for the future. On the 30th the aspect was not gay. Dined at the Princess’s. There were only Mr. Craven, Little Willy (Austin) and a young playfellow of his, and Lady Orme. These dinners become insupportable. The dulness makes me almost ill in the course of a long evening, only interrupted by the Princess’s singing with Mr. Craven, which is a screeching of which no idea can be formed without hearing it.’ The Princess was now established in Connaught Place, near the Edgeware Road; the mansion is that now numbered ‘7’ Connaught Place. She seldom saw her daughter, and did not consult her own dignity by taking ‘strolls’ across the fields in the direction of the canal, or by ridiculing the Regent at her own dinner-table. It was this sort of conduct which made people account of her as being worse than she really was. For London, it was a year of triumphs and congratulations, but she shared in neither; it was the year of sovereigns, when European potentates crowded our streets, and passed by the house of the Princess without inquiring for her. In June, mortification was heaped upon her. She had an undoubted right to be present at the drawing-rooms held by the Queen; but her Majesty, who had announced her intention to hold two in honour of the foreign monarchs then in England, announced to the Princess that she would not be permitted to be present at either. No other ground for this expulsion was alleged than the Regent’s will. His Royal Highness had declared that never again would he meet her, either in public or in private, and consequently her appearance on the occasions in question could not be permitted for a moment. She had prepared a letter of indignant remonstrance, but Mr. Whitbread counselled her not to forward it, but rather to write one in a submissive tone, accepting with humility the ill-treatment to which she was thus subjected. This counsel is said to have given considerable discontent to Mr. Brougham, who was inclined to make assertion of her right to be present, and to go even further, if that were necessary.
She made, however, greater sacrifices than that of refraining from appearing at court on a gala day. Her finances had become embarrassed, in spite of the presence of a controlling treasurer, and her friends made application to parliament on her behalf. The Regent had caused it to be understood that he did not wish to curtail her personal comforts or cause her any pecuniary embarrassment, and Lord Castlereagh came down to the house with a proposition of settling on her 50,000l. per annum. Of her own will she surrendered 15,000l. of this sum, and it was agreed that the revenue of 35,000l. per annum should be awarded to the ‘Princess of Wales.’ The sacrifice made by the Princess was gracefully noticed in the House by Mr. Whitbread, at whose suggestion it is said to have been cordially entered into, the Princess having, as he said, a full sense of the burthens that lay heavy on the nation. Such conduct ought to have won for her a little regard, and a visit from that King of Prussia in defence of whose dominions her father had not long before laid down his life, a stout old soldier, dying in his harness, like a knight of the olden time.
She sent her chamberlain to welcome the King of Prussia on his arrival in this country, and the King acknowledged the courtesy by sending his chamberlain to return thanks for it. The same stiff intercourse passed with the other sovereigns and princes; but it is said that Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt was especially charged by the Prince to request the Russian Emperor Alexander to abstain from visiting the Princess of Wales! They saw each other, nevertheless, though under different circumstances from those which the Princess herself could have desired. The incidents of this eventful evening are thus described by one of the ladies-in-waiting on the Princess:—‘There came a note from Mr. Whitbread advising her at what hour she should go to the opera, and telling her that the Emperor was to be at eleven o’clock at the Institution, which was to be lighted up for him to see the pictures. All this advice tormented the Princess, and I do not wonder that she sometimes loses patience. No child was ever more thwarted and controlled than she is; and yet she often contrives to do herself mischief, in spite of all the care that is taken of her. When we arrived at the opera, to the Princess’s and all her attendants’ infinite surprise, we saw the Regent placed between the Emperor and the King of Prussia, and all the minor princes in a box to the right. ‘God save the King’ was performing when the Princess entered; and, consequently, she did not sit down. I was behind, and of course I could not see the house very distinctly, but I saw the Regent was at that time standing, applauding the Grassini. As soon as the air was over, the whole pit turned round to the Princess’s box and applauded her. We who were in attendance on her Royal Highness entreated her to rise and make a curtsy, but she sat immoveable; and, at last, turning round, she said to Lady ——: “My dear, Punch’s wife is nobody when Punch is present.” We all laughed, but still thought it wrong not to acknowledge the compliment paid her; but she was right, as the sequel will prove. “We shall be hissed,” said Sir W. Gell. “No, no,” again replied the Princess, with infinite good humour; “I know my business better than to take the morsel out of my husband’s mouth. I am not to seem to know that the applause is meant for me till they call my name.” The Prince seemed to verify her words, for he got up and bowed to the audience. This was construed into a bow to the Princess, most unfortunately; I say most unfortunately, because she has been blamed for not returning it. But I, who was an eye-witness of the circumstance, knew that the Princess acted just as she ought to have done. The fact was that the Prince took the applause to himself, and his friends, to save him from the imputation of this ridiculous vanity, chose to say that he did the most beautiful and elegant thing in the world, and bowed to his wife! When the opera was finished, the Prince and his supporters were applauded, but not enthusiastically, and scarcely had his Royal Highness left the box when the people called for the Princess, and gave her a very warm applause. She then went forward and made three curtsies, and hastily withdrew.’[15] The semi-ovation in the house was followed by a demonstration something more noisy in the streets. The Princess’s charioteer was unable to drive through the crowd of vehicles in Charles Street. The carriage was therefore, ‘backed’ and driven round by Carlton House. In front of this royal residence the mob surrounded her Royal Highness, saluting her with loud and reiterated shouts. The ladies who were accompanying her were more alarmed at the popular demonstration than she was. The people opened the carriage door, insisted on shaking hands with her, and asked if they should burn Carlton House. ‘No, my good people,’ was her reply; ‘be quite quiet, let me pass, and go home to your beds.’ They then allowed the carriage to pass on its way, as she desired, but they continued following it as long as they had strength, swiftness, and breath enough, shouting the while the favourite cry, ‘The Princess of Wales for ever!’ She was pleased, says the original narrator of this scene, at this demonstration of feeling in her favour, and she never showed so much dignity or looked so well, we are told, as she did under this excitement. She was depressed in spirits, however, the next day, for the same people crowded the parks, and flung those strong salutes which so offended the delicate Casca, at the company of foreign sovereigns and princes who were riding in the ring, and who refused to pay her the scant courtesy of a visit in the house from which she could hear the loud huzzas that greeted them as they passed by it.
She lived on, feverishly, and in continually disappointed hope that the Emperor of Russia would yet offer her the poor homage of a morning call. In this hope she was encouraged by some of her ladies-in-waiting, who told her that they had heard, from good authority, it was the imperial intention to pay a formal visit to Kensington on a day named. With no better official authority than this to trust to she sat up dressed, ready for the reception of the potentate whose presence, she hoped, would lend her some of the prestige of respectability which she fancied herself losing by his prolonged absence. And still he came not. On the other hand, she met with disappointment even more bitter. Her city friends did not even render her the courtesy of forwarding an invitation to the grand banquet at which they were about to regale the sovereigns and the retinue of princes in their train. Not that they entirely forgot her, but then their remembrance of her was rather insulting than flattering. Alderman Wood, for instance, was absurd enough to offer her a window in Cheapside, from which she might view the procession of monarchs and minor potentates on their way to dine with the city king! This vexed her sorely, as so emphatically ‘rude’ a proceeding was likely to do. The Princess would have less felt her exclusion from an entertainment in the city where her friends abounded had it been a festival from which ladies were altogether excluded. Her ‘sensibility’ was wounded at hearing that the Duchess of Oldenburg, the sister of the Emperor Alexander, was to be present, with four other ladies. ‘This was galling,’ says Lady Charlotte Campbell in her ‘Diary,’ and the Princess felt her own particular exclusion from this fête given by the city very hard to bear, as she had considered the city folks her friends. They, however, were not to blame, as these royal ladies were self-invited or invited by the Regent, and the Princess’s friends had not time to call a council and discuss the matter. Immediately after this bitter pill came another from Mr. Whitbread, recommending her, upon no account, to go to Drury Lane on Thursday evening, after having, a few days before, desired her to go. ‘You see,’ said the Princess to one of her ladies; ‘you see, my dear, how I am plagued;’ and, although she mastered her resentment, the tears came into her eyes. ‘It is not,’ she said, ‘the loss of the amusement which I regret, but being treated like a child and made the puppet of a party. What does it signify whether I come in before or after the Regent, or whether I am applauded in his hearing or not; that is all for the gratification of the party, not for my gratification; ’tis of no consequence to the Princess, but to Mr. Whitbread; and that’s the way things go, and always will till I can leave this vile country.’