“At five, we have dinner. Mrs. Schwellenberg and I meet in the eating-room. We are commonly tête-à-tête.... When we have dined, we go upstairs to her apartment, which is directly over mine. Here we have coffee till the terracing is over: this is at about eight o’clock. Our tête-à-tête then finishes, and we come down again to the eating-room. There the equerry, whoever he is, comes to tea constantly, and with him any gentleman that the King or Queen may have invited for the evening; and when tea is over, he conducts them, and goes himself, to the concert-room. This is commonly about nine o’clock. From that time, if Mrs. Schwellenberg is alone, I never quit her for a minute, till I come to my little supper at near eleven. Between eleven and twelve my last summons usually takes place, earlier and later occasionally. Twenty minutes is the customary time then spent with the Queen: half an hour, I believe, is seldom exceeded. I then come back, and after doing whatever I can to forward my dress for the next morning, I go to bed—and to sleep, too, believe me: the early rising, and a long day’s attention to new affairs and occupations, cause a fatigue so bodily, that nothing mental stands against it, and to sleep I fall the moment I have put out my candle and laid down my head.”
The best-known writer of that day was wounded at first by having to ‘answer the bell,’ like any chambermaid; and she had cast on her another burden, which even her loyalty could not consider dignified. She had to mix the Queen’s snuff. To perform this task belonged to her place, and it was an inflexible rule with her Majesty that discipline must be preserved. We cannot help thinking that there was a touch of regret in the King’s voice when he said:
‘Miss Burney, I hear you cook snuff very well.’
‘Miss Burney,’ exclaimed the Princess Elizabeth, ‘I hope you hate snuff; for I hate it of all things in the world.’
Thus we see that disaffection lurked even in members of the Royal House.
We pause here for a moment to notice that a precaution adopted by Mrs. Phillips, in her replies to her sister’s Court Journal, of giving fictitious names to some of the persons mentioned, was imitated, when the Diary was printed, by substituting the names invented by Susan for the real ones which occurred in the original. Thus, in the published volumes from which our extracts are taken, Mr. Turbulent stands for M. de Guiffardière,[[72]] a clergyman who held the office of French reader to the Queen and the Princesses; Colonel Welbred is Colonel Greville; and Colonel Fairly is the Honourable Stephen Digby, who lost his first wife, a daughter of Lord Ilchester, in 1787, and married Miss Gunning, called in the Diary Miss Fuzilier, in 1790.
Next to the King and Queen, the most important figures in Fanny’s new life are their fair daughters, the Princesses who inhabited the Lower Lodge. ‘The history of the daughters,’ says Thackeray, ‘as little Miss Burney has painted them, is delightful. They were handsome—she calls them beautiful; they were most kind, loving, and ladylike; they were gracious to every person, high and low, who served them. They had many little accomplishments of their own. This one drew: that one played the piano: they all worked most prodigiously, and fitted up whole suites of rooms—pretty smiling Penelopes—with their busy little needles.... The prettiest of all, I think, is the father’s darling, the Princess Amelia, pathetic for her beauty, her sweetness, her early death, and for the extreme passionate tenderness with which the King loved her.’ Three weeks after Miss Burney entered on her post, occurred the birthday of this favourite child. On such festivals, when the weather was fine, the Royal Family never failed to walk on the Terrace, which was crowded with persons of distinction, who, by this mode of showing respect, escaped the necessity of attending the next Drawing-room. On the present occasion, Mrs. Delany was carried in her sedan—the gift of the King—to the foot of the stairs, and appeared on the promenade with the new Keeper of the Robes by her side. “It was really a mighty pretty procession,” writes Fanny. “The little Princess, just turned of three years old, in a robe-coat covered with fine muslin, a dressed close cap, white gloves, and a fan, walked on alone and first, highly delighted in the parade, and turning from side to side to see everybody as she passed: for all the terracers stand up against the walls, to make a clear passage for the Royal Family, the moment they come in sight. Then followed the King and Queen, no less delighted themselves with the joy of their little darling. The Princess Royal, leaning on Lady Elizabeth Waldegrave, followed at a little distance; next the Princess Augusta, holding by the Duchess of Ancaster; and next the Princess Elizabeth, holding by Lady Charlotte Bertie. Office here takes place of rank, which occasioned Lady Elizabeth Waldegrave, as lady of her bedchamber, to walk with the Princess Royal. Then followed the Princess Mary with Miss Goldsworthy,[[73]] and the Princess Sophia with Mademoiselle Montmoulin and Miss Planta;[[74]] then General Budé and the Duke of Montague;[[75]] and, lastly, Major Price, who, as equerry, always brings up the rear, walks at a distance from the group, and keeps off all crowd from the Royal Family.”
‘One sees it,’ adds Thackeray: ‘the band playing its old music; the sun shining on the happy loyal crowd, and lighting the ancient battlements, the rich elms, and purple landscape, and bright green sward: the royal standard drooping from the great tower yonder; as old George passes, followed by his race, preceded by the charming infant, who caresses the crowd with her innocent smiles.’
The Diary proceeds: ‘On sight of Mrs. Delany, the King instantly stopped to speak to her. The Queen, of course, and the little Princess, and all the rest, stood still, in their ranks. They talked a good while with the sweet old lady; during which time the King once or twice addressed himself to me. I caught the Queen’s eye, and saw in it a little surprise, but by no means any displeasure, to see me of the party.
“The little Princess went up to Mrs. Delany, of whom she is very fond, and behaved like a little angel to her: she then, with a look of inquiry and recollection, slowly, of her own accord, came behind Mrs. Delany to look at me. ‘I am afraid,’ said I, in a whisper, and stooping down, ‘your Royal Highness does not remember me?’