The Duke of Wellington, whom I saw yesterday at a concert in honour of Madame Malibran, told me that he had been with Don Carlos that morning, and had had a very curious conversation with him. He could not give me an account of it then because of the crowd which surrounded us listening to everything we said, but he told me that nothing could exceed the squalour, poverty and untidiness of this King and Queen of Spain and the Indies. The Duke was the more astonished at this, as they have found money here, and might easily have bought a little soap and clean linen. All that the Duke told me of the conversation was as follows. First he told them the truth as he always does, and, seeing a priest, then observed, "God doubtless does much for those who invoke His help, but He does even more for those who do something for themselves." The priest only said that there was a Spanish proverb to the same effect.
London, July 1, 1834.—Yesterday we received the news of the death of Madame Sosthène de la Rochefoucault, an event which proves that I am right in maintaining that there is no such thing as a malade imaginaire. Nothing, in fact, can be so tedious and wearisome as to be constantly watching, dieting and pitying one's self. How could any one keep up such a pretence unless some serious and painful symptom condemned one to it? But there are two things which the world never will believe in—the troubles and the sufferings of others. Every one is so afraid of being asked for sympathy and help, that it is found more convenient to deny the facts than to sacrifice one's self. All my life I have heard Madame Sosthène abused; she was described as a lazy, complaining creature who had in reality the constitution of a Turk. When one does not look delicate, and even sometimes when one does, nothing short of dying will convince people that one is really ill. The world is only too ready to give exhibitions of its curiosity, its indiscretion, and its calumny, but its compassion, like its indulgence, only comes after the event, when you have no longer any need of it.
M. de Montrond talks of returning to Louèche to put his poor body in a bath. It would be a good thing if it were possible to put his soul in also. His visit here was an even worse failure than that of last year. When you have survived yourself, your fortune, your health, your wit, and your manners, and when there does not even remain the faintest reflection of your past glories to give you a little consideration in the world, the spectacle which you present is deplorable. I said one day to M. de Talleyrand that in my opinion nothing was left to M. de Montrond except to blow out his brains. He replied that he would do nothing of the sort, because he had never been able to put up with the smallest deprivation, and he would not willingly accept the deprivation of life any more than any other.
Madame de Montrond, who was divorced from her first husband[19] in order to marry M. de Montrond, told me that one day, after she had been divorced for the second time and had resumed her maiden name Aimée de Coigny, she was being driven in a phaeton with M. de Montrond, who himself took the reins. She was admiring the fine pair of English horses and praised the view, the equipage, and the driver. "It is not much of a pleasure," he replied; "what would be worth doing would be to harness two young tigers, lash them to fury, to tame them, and then to kill them." This is, indeed, the language of an insatiable soul.
London, July 2, 1834.—The Queen is definitely going on the 5th. She will cross in the yacht Royal George, which people are going to visit out of curiosity, as well as two splendid steamboats, which will act as tugs when necessary. The whole Yacht Club will escort her, and the North Sea will be covered with a charming little fleet. The Queen is to land at Rotterdam some time on the 6th, and will proceed the same evening incognita to her sister, the Duchess of Weimar, who lives in the suburbs of The Hague. The Prince of Orange, I understand, is to be there as if by chance. The Princess of Orange is in Germany with her sister.
London, July 3, 1834.—Lord Grey has become extremely nervous and irritable. Yesterday, while dining with Lord Sefton, he was, as they say here, quite cross because dinner was later than usual; because Lady Cowley, a witty and animated woman but a great Tory, was there; and, finally, because every one was in full dress for the Duke of Wellington's ball. It is really curious that a man in Lord Grey's exalted position and of such a noble nature as he, should be so sensitive to small matters, and should have nerves so childishly susceptible.
The Duke of Wellington gave a splendid ball, very magnificent, brilliant, and well-arranged. All the guests did their best not to dim the lustre of the proceedings, and I think they were successful.
M. Royer-Collard writes to me: "The aspect of the elections is deceptive; they are much less ministerial than they seem. Next Session will be very heavy, and the Ministry is prepared for trouble. The great number of coalitions is a very serious symptom. What must be the violence of the hatreds which have formed such an alliance!" Further on he adds, "When one knows a person one is usually able to predict with fair accuracy what he will say or do in given circumstances, but M. Dupin defies all calculation. The rashness of his speech is such as cannot be foreseen; it is the same here as in London, and it makes it impossible that he should ever come into power."
London, July 4, 1834.—The other day the Queen said something which seemed very ridiculous to the person to whom she said it, but which seems to me quite intelligible, probably owing to what M. de Talleyrand would call my allemanderie. She said that "during the sixteen hours which she spent last week in Westminster Abbey during the performance of the great oratorios, she had had more time and leisure to reflect on her position, and for self-examination than she usually had." This has led to her making discoveries, for instance that she was more attached to the King than she was perhaps aware, that she was more necessary to her husband than she had thought, and, in a word, that henceforth England was her only true country. All this makes her departure particularly painful, but she has one consolation. This is the thought that when she is away the King will be more disposed to assist in bringing about a change of Ministry, and that it cannot be supposed that in doing so he is yielding to her influence. There is much, perhaps too much, frankness in such pieces of self-revelation, but I think that all these ideas are perfectly natural, and I understand perfectly how they were inspired in the places and circumstances above described.
The King for his part gives the most curious explanations of his regret at the Queen's leaving him, which grows keener day by day. Thus he said to Madame de Lieven yesterday. "I could never explain to you, Madame, the innumerable ways in which the Queen is of use to me." This is a strange and rather ridiculous way of putting it. The King has gout in his hands which makes it difficult to use them, prevents him from riding, and often from writing. This causes him much pain when he has many papers to sign, and makes him depend on his valet in the smallest matters. All his fine plans of resuming his bachelor existence and of amusing himself as suits his fancy are abandoned. So much so that his Majesty concluded his confidences to Madame de Lieven by saying that once the Queen is gone he would go to Windsor and live there like a hermit, never leaving the place till she came back.