She was a quick walker at all times; but on this winter day the slowest would have had little temptation to dawdle9. The usual river mist was thrusting up a quivering cold hand among the gaunt trees of the water boundary of the Gardens, and here and there it flitted like a lean spectre among the clipped evergreens10 of the shrubberies. There was a maze11 of yew12 hedges, in the intricacies of which one mist-spectre had clearly got lost; and the lady, who had some imagination, could see, as she hurried past, the poor thing's wispy13 head and shoulders flitting about among the baffling central walks. (A defective14 eyesight is sometimes a good friend to the imagination.) And all the while she was hurrying along the broad track she was looking with some measure of uneasiness through her half-closed eyes down every tributary15 walk that ran into the main one, and peering uneasily down every long artificial vista16 that Sir Thomas Chambers18, the Swedish knight19 and landscape gardener, had planned, through the well-regulated boskage, with an imitation Greek temple or Roman villa20 at the end. Approaching the widening entrance to each of these, she went cautiously for a few moments until she had assured herself on some point. Once she started and took a step backward, but raising the lorgnette which she carried, and satisfying herself that the group of men a hundred yards down one of the vistas21 was composed wholly of gardeners, she resumed her stroll.
Whatever slight apprehension22 may have been on her mind had vanished by the time she had half completed the circuit made by the main walk. She had reached one of the mounds23 which at that time were covered with rhododendrons, and paused for a moment to see if there was sign of a bud. A blackbird flew out from among the dense25 leafage, and she followed it with her eyes as well as she could while she walked on, crossing the narrow path that led to the seats on the mound24. But at the moment of crossing she was startled out of her senses by the sound of a shout from some distance down this path—a loud shout followed by several others rather less imperative26. She gave a little exclamation27 of terror, raising her muff to her face. Glancing in the direction whence the commotion28 was coming, she gave another cry, seeing a tall man rush toward her with outstretched arms—waving arms, frantically29 beckoning30 to her while he shouted:
“Miss Burney! Miss Burney!”
She waited no longer. She turned and fled along the broad walk, making for one of the many labyrinths31 not so very far away, and after her ran the man, still shouting and gesticulating. She could hear the sound of his feet and his voice behind her, as well as the cries of the other men who were endeavouring to keep pace with him. On they came, and there flashed through her active brain, in spite of the horrible apprehension which thrilled through every nerve in her body, as she doubled back upon the path which she had just traversed, the lines written by Dr. Goldsmith and often quoted by her friend Dr. Johnson:
A hare whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew.
She realised, all too painfully, the feelings of the poor hare at that moment. She longed for a friendly earth to open up before her. They were behind her—those wild huntsmen, one hoarsely33 yelling to her she knew not what, the others, more shrill34, shouting to her to stop.
She was too frightened to think of obeying any of them. On she ran, and it seemed that she was increasing the distance between her and her panting pursuers, until one of them, having better wind, managed to shoot ahead of the others, and to get close enough to say in a voice that was not all gasps35:
“Madam, madam, the doctor begs you to stop!” She glanced over her shoulder, still flying.
“No, no, I cannot—I dare not!” she gasped36.
“Madam, you must—you must: it hurts the King to run!” cried the man.
Then she stopped. The man, an ordinary attendant, stood in front of her. He was more breathless than Miss Burney.
“The doctor, madam,” he faltered37, “'twas the doctor—he thought at first that His Majesty38 was—was—but that was at first—now he says you must please not lead His Majesty on—'tis all too much for him. Save us! How you did go, madam! Who would ha' thought it?”
She was paying no attention to him. Her eyes were fixed39 upon the group of men who were recovering their breath while they walked slowly toward her. The King was between his two physicians—not Physicians in Ordinary; just the contrary—the two physicians who had been summoned from Lincolnshire by some person in authority who possessed40 intelligence—it should surely be easy to identify such a man at the Court of George III—when, some months earlier, His Majesty gave signs of losing his mental balance. They were the Willises, father and son, the former a clergyman, who was therefore all the more fully32 qualified41 to deal with a mind diseased—such a case as was defined as needing more the divine than the physician. The King was between the father and his son, but neither of them was exercising any ostentatious or officious restraint upon him. One of them was smiling while he said some reassuring42 words to the Royal patient; the other was endeavouring to reassure43 little Miss Burney from a distance.
And it seemed that the intentions of both were realised, for His Majesty was smiling as benignly44 as was ever his wont45, and little Miss Burney took her courage in both hands and boldly advanced to meet her Sovereign. (She had been for three years the Queen's “Dresser.”) But when they met, after the King had cried, “Why did you run away from me, Miss Burney?” it appeared that the process of reassuring the King had been but too effectually accomplished46, for before the lady could frame a diplomatic reply to his inquiry47, he had enwound her in his paternal48 arms and kissed her heartily49 on the cheek, greatly to her confusion and (she pretends) to her horror. The two doctors stood placidly50 by. They, poor things, being quite unaccustomed to the ways of the immediate51 entourage of the Court of George III—though they had doubtless heard something of the practices that prevailed at the Courts of His Majesty's lamented52 grandfather and great-grandfather—seemed under the impression that there was nothing unusual in this form of salutation. For all they knew it might be regarded as de rigueur between a monarch53 and the ladies of his consort54's retinue55. Even Dr. Willis, the divine, took a tolerant view of the transaction. He, as Miss Burney afterwards recorded, actually looked pleased!
But, of course, the prim4 little lady herself was overwhelmed—yes, at first; but soon her good sense came to her rescue. She seems to have come with extraordinary rapidity to the conclusion that the King was not so mad as she had believed him to be. Her train of reasoning was instinctive56, and therefore correct: the King had put his arms about her and kissed her when he had the chance, therefore he could not be so mad after all.
In truth, however, Fanny Burney took the view of her treatment that any sensible modest young woman would take of it. She knew that the King, who had been separated for several months from the people whom he had been daily in the habit of meeting, had shown in the most natural way possible his delight at coming once more in contact with one of them.
And undoubtedly57 the homely58 old gentleman was delighted beyond measure to meet with some one belonging to his happy years—a pleasanter face than that of Mrs. Schwellenberg, the dreadful creature who had made Fanny Burney's life miserable61. It is not conceivable that the King would have kissed Mrs. Schwellenberg if he had come upon her suddenly as he had upon Miss Burney. People prefer silver rather than iron links with a happy past. He was so overjoyed, that the divine and the physician in attendance soon became anxious. They could not know much of all that he talked about to Miss Burney. They were in the position of strangers suddenly introduced to a family circle, and understanding nothing of the little homely secrets—homely topics upon which all the members of the circle have laughed together for years.
They possibly could not see much sense in his long and rambling62 chat—it must have been largely in monologue63—but they must have observed the face of the lady who was listening to him, and known from the expression which it wore that their patient was making himself intelligible64. Only now and again they thought it prudent65 to check his exuberance66. They must have been the most intelligent of men; and their names deserve to stand high in the annals of their country. At a time when the scientific treatment of the insane had not even begun to be formulated—when to be mentally afflicted67 meant to be on a level with felons68 and to be subjected to such repressive treatment as was afforded by the iron of the fetters69 and the hiss70 of the whipcord—at a time when a lust71 for office could make a statesman like Burke (a statesman who caused multitudes to weep in sympathy with his harangue72 on the sufferings of Marie Antoinette) refer to the King as having been “hurled73 by the Almighty74 from his throne” (in order to give the Opposition75 a chance of jumping into place and power over his prostrate76 body)—at such a time as this Dr. Willis and his two sons undertook the treatment of the King, and in the face of much opposition from the place-hunters in the Prince of Wales's pack, succeeded in restoring their patient to the palace which his happy nature had transformed into a home for every one dwelling77 under its roof.
They stood by for some time after the King had greeted Miss Burney; and when he began to speak to her of topics that had a purely78 domestic ring they showed their good taste, as well as their knowledge of the peculiarities79 of their “case,” by moving away to a little distance, signalling to their attendants to do the same. Their discrimination must have been highly appreciated by the King. The poor restless mind had long wanted such a good long talk with a sympathetic listener, who, he knew, could understand every allusion80 that he might make to the past. He yearned81 to talk and to hear of such things as some one living in a distant land looks forward to finding in a letter from home. The res angusta domi—that was what he was hungering for—the trivial things in which he delighted—the confidences on simple matters—the sly everyday jests, never acutely pointed82 even to the family circle, but absolutely pointless to every one outside, yet sounding so delightfully83 witty84 when repeated as a sign of a happy intimacy85 of the past!
Little Miss Burney had never imagined a scene like that in which she played an insignificant86 part at the moment, but one of enormous importance for posterity87. She had, a few years before, been placed upon the porphyry pedestal which is reserved in England for the greatest woman writer of the generation. Seated there quite complacently88, without reflecting upon the possibility of her pedestal becoming a trifle rickety, she had clasped her novel Evelina to her bosom89, and received, without her head being in the least turned, the adulation—respectful in some cases, almost passionate90 in others—of the most notable men and women in the most intellectual and artistic91 society in England. Dr. Samuel Johnson, who was not disposed to overrate the merits of any writer whom the world had praised, was kissing her hands, and Richard Brinsley Sheridan was kissing her feet; Sir Joshua Reynolds was kissing the hem8 of her garments; while Edmund Burke was weaving a tinsel crown of rhetoric92 for her shapely head; but there were others equally great at that time who seemed to think that only a nimbus could give the appropriate finish to the little personage on the pedestal. The marvellous story of her success has been often told. It is more easily told than understood in the present day, the fact being that fashion in fiction is the most ephemeral of all human caprices, and Fanny Burney was essentially93 a fashion. She followed up the marvellous success of Evelina, after an interval94 of four years, with the natural success of Cecilia, and, after another four years, she retired95 from the brilliant world into the obscurity of the palace—the palace wardrobe. She had visited Mrs. Delany, and had been introduced (not presented) to the King and Queen, and the office of Queen's Dresser—Keeper of the Robes was the stately designation of a very humble96 service—becoming vacant, it was offered to Fanny Burney and accepted by her, acting97 on the advice of her father, who most certainly hoped that his own interests as a musician, fully qualified to become leader of the Royal Band, would be materially advanced when his daughter should become one of the Household.
Reams of indignation have been published from time to time in respect of Dr. Burney's conduct in urging on his one brilliant daughter—the others were not brilliant, only mothers—to accept a post the duties of which could be discharged by any lady's maid with far more advantage to the Royal Consort than could possibly result from the ministrations of Fanny Burney. The world has been called on to bemoan98 the prudent indiscretion of the father, who did not hesitate to fling his gifted daughter's pen out of the window, so to speak, and thereby100 deprive the waiting world of some such masterpiece as Camilla—the novel which she published five years after her release from the burden of the Robes. There can be no doubt that the feeling which prevailed among the circle of the elect—the Reynoldses, the Burkes, and even the frigid101 Walpole—when it became known that Miss Burney's health was breaking down under the strain of her duties at the Court—she had about two hours' daily attendance of the most ordinary nature upon the Queen—was on the border of indignation. Every one affirmed that it was a disgrace for so lively a genius to be kept at the duties of a lady's maid. It was like turning the winner of the Oaks out to the plough. Edmund Burke, recalling his early approbation102 of the intentions of Dr. Burney in regard to his daughter, declared that he had never made so great a mistake in all his life; and we know that he made a few. These excellent people had no reason to speak otherwise than they did on this matter. All they knew was that the pen of the novelist who had given them so much pleasure had been (as they believed) idle for nearly nine years, five of which had been passed at the Court. That reflection was quite enough to rouse their indignation. But what can one say of the indignation on this point of a writer who actually made the fact of his being engaged on a review of the Diary of Fanny Burney—the incomparable Diary which she kept during her five years at Court—an excuse for turning the vials of his wrath103 upon her father, whose obstinacy104 gave her a chance of writing the most interesting chapter—the most accurate chapter—of History that was ever penned by man or woman?
Macaulay wrote in all the fullness of his knowledge of what Fanny Burney had written. He knew that for four years after she had published Cecilia her pen had been idle so far as fiction was concerned. He knew that for five years after her release from the thraldom105 of the Queen's closet she had published nothing; he himself felt it to be his duty to point out the comparative worthlessness of Camilla, the novel which she then gave to the world, not because she felt upon her the impulse of a woman of genius, but simply because she found herself in great need of some ready money. Macaulay does not disdain106 to go into the money question, showing (he fancies) how Dr. Burney had by his obstinacy deprived his gifted daughter of earning the large sum which she would assuredly have obtained by the writing of a novel in the time that she was compelled to devote to the Queen's toilette. He found it convenient to ignore the fact that of the fourteen years that elapsed between the publication of Cecilia and that of Camilla only five were spent at Court. Surely any born novelist could, without running a chance of imperilling a well-earned reputation by undue107 haste in the dialogue or by scamping the descriptive passages, contrive108 by dint109 of hard, but not over-hard, work to produce more than one complete romance within a space of nine years. Many ladies who are not born novelists have succeeded in surpassing this task without physical suffering.
But even assuming that the author of Evelina, Cecilia, and Camilla lost not only time but money while she was at Court, how much money did she lose? She received at least the equivalent of ￡2000 for her five years' service, and she was granted a pension of ￡100 a year, which she drew for forty-nine years; so that for her enforced seclusion110 she was remunerated to the extent of close upon ￡7000! This sum represents more than all Fanny Burney's literary works yielded to her from the joyous111 youthful days of Evelina down to the somewhat sordid112 middle age of Camilla.
But what has the world gained by the lamentable113 short-sightedness attributed to Dr. Burney? How is one to estimate the value of that incomparable Diary so admirably “written up” during her tedious five years at Court? How many Cecilias, how many Camillas would one not give in exchange for a single year of that part of the Diary which deals with the approach of the King's malady114? In no work of fiction that ever came from her pen did she ever show such power of observation, not only of incident, but of character as well; nor is there apparent on any page produced by her imagination such perfect artistic effects as appeal to a reader on every page of this Diary of a disease.
At the outset of her account of these dreadful days we are conscious of the vague approach of a shadow—we feel as if we were led into the darkened chamber17 of a haunted house. Our attendant pauses by our side, listening for strange noises; she lays a hand upon our arm, as it were, and speaks to us in a whisper. We feel that the dread60 Thing is coming. The King is indisposed—he has not been quite in his usual health for some time past; but of course nothing very alarming has been announced by Sir George Barker, the Physician in Ordinary, although there is an uncertainty115 as to His Majesty's complaint. But Miss Burney has seen the faces of the people about her who have come more closely in contact with the Sovereign; she has doubtless noticed the solemnity of some—the airs of mystery, the head-shakings, and she is capable of drawing her own conclusions. “Heaven preserve him!” she whispers in her Diary for October 19th, 1788. She is very much with the Queen, and she perceives that Her Majesty is extremely uneasy, though saying nothing. There is great alarm during the night. Possibly some one has heard the delirious116 voice of the King coming from his apartments in that tumbledown palace of his at Kew. The fright is general, and every one is wondering what the morning will bring forth117. Hope comes with the light. The bulletin is that the King was ill, but is now so very much better that his physician believes the move to Windsor, to which the Court was looking forward, may be taken. The move is made on the 25th, and then Miss Burney has a chance meeting with the King that causes her to suspect the truth. He talks to her with unnatural118 vehemence—unnatural volubility—and without cessation for a long time; all is exaggerated, and his graciousness most of all. She has never met with anything like this before, but having heard of the delirium119 accompanying a high fever, she believes that His Majesty is in the throes of a fever.
The next day is Sunday, and she meets him again in one of the passages, and she finds him rather more coherent in his talk, but still it is the talk of a man in the delirium of a fever. It is all about himself—his health—his dreadful sleeplessness120. He keeps at it for half an hour without making the slightest pause; and yet he manages to convey to her an impression of his benevolence—his consideration for the people around him—his hopes that he may not cause them any uneasiness. When he leaves her she doubtless tells of the meeting to some of her friends in the apartments where the equerries are accustomed to meet, and doubtless there are more head-shakings and airs of mystery; but she records: “Nobody speaks of his illness, nor what they think of it.”
Apparently121, too, no one felt it to be necessary to subject His Majesty to any course of treatment, although, a few days later, he became so weak that he, who at the beginning of the year thought nothing of walking twelve miles at a stretch—more than his sons could do—hobbled along like a gouty man. Gradually, very gradually, the horror approaches; and nothing that has ever been done in fiction equals in effect the simple record of all that Fanny Burney noticed from day to day. Most touching122 of all her entries are those relating to the Queen. “The Queen,” she writes, “is almost overpowered with some secret terror. I am affected123 beyond all expression in her presence to see what struggles she makes to support her serenity124. To-day she gave up the conflict when I was alone with her; and burst into a violent fit of tears. It was very, very terrible to see!... something horrible seemed impending125... I was still wholly unsuspicious of the greatness of the cause she had for dread. Illness, a breaking up of the constitution, the payment of sudden infirmity and premature126 old age for the waste of unguarded health and strength—these seemed to me the threats awaiting her; and great and grievous enough, yet how short of the fact!”...
At last the terrible truth was revealed. Miss Burney was dining with one of the Queen's ladies; but there was little conversation between them. It was clear that both had their suspicions of the nature of the dread shadow that was hovering127 over the castle. They remained together, waiting for the worst. “A stillness the most uncommon128 reigned129 over the whole house. Nobody stirred; not a voice was heard; not a motion. I could do nothing but watch, without knowing for what; there seemed a strangeness in the house most extraordinary.”
To talk of such passages as these as examples of literary art would be ridiculous. They are transcripts130 from life itself made by some one with a genius for observation, not merely for recording131. Boswell had a genius for recording; but his powers of observation were on a level with those of a sheep. We know perfectly132 well what his treatment of the scenes leading up to the tragedy of the King would have been. But Fanny Burney had the artist's instinct for collecting only such incidents as heighten the effect.
When she is still sitting in the dim silence of that November evening with her friend some one enters to whisper that there was to be no playing of the after-dinner music in which the King usually took so much pleasure. Later on the equerries come slowly into the room. There is more whispering—more head-shaking. What was it all about? Had anything happened? What had happened? No one wishes to be the first to speak. But the suspense133! The strain upon the nerves of the two ladies! At last it can be borne no longer. The dreadful revelation is made. The King is a madman!
At dinner, the Prince of Wales being present, His Majesty had “broken forth into positive delirium, which long had been menacing all who saw him most closely; and the Queen was so overpowered as to fall into violent hysterics. All the princesses were in misery134, and the Prince of Wales had burst into tears. No one knew what was to follow—no one could conjecture135 the event.” Nothing could be more pathetic than the concern of the King for his wife. His delusion136 is that she is the sufferer. When Fanny Burney went to her room, where she was accustomed to await her nightly summons to attend Her Majesty, she remained there alone for two hours. At midnight she can stand the suspense no longer. She opens the door and listens in the passage. Not a sound is to be heard. Not even a servant crossed the stairs on the corridor off which her apartment opened. After another hour's suspense a page knocks at her door with the message that she is to go at once to her Royal mistress.
“My poor Royal Mistress!” she writes. “Never can I forget her countenance—pale, ghastly pale she looked... her whole frame was disordered, yet she was still and quiet. And the poor King is dreadfully uneasy about her. Nothing was the matter with himself, he affirmed, except nervousness on her account. He insisted on having a bed made up for himself in her dressing-room in order that he might be at hand should she become worse through the night. He had given orders that Miss Goldsworthy was to remain with her; but it seemed that he had no great confidence in the vigilance of any one but himself, for some hours after the Queen had retired he appeared before the eyes of the horrified137 lady-in-waiting, at the door, bearing a lighted candle. He opened the bed curtains and satisfied himself that his dread of her being carried out of the palace was unfounded; but he did not leave the room for another half-hour, and the terror of the scene completely overwhelmed the unhappy lady.”
Truly when this terror was walking by night Fanny Burney's stipend138 was well earned. But worse was in store for her when it was decided139 that the King should be removed to Kew Palace, which he detested140 and which was certainly the most miserable of all the miserable dwelling-places of the Royal Family. It seemed to be nobody's business to make any preparation for the reception of the Queen and her entourage. The rooms were dirty and unwarmed, and the corridors were freezing. And to the horrors of this damp, unsavoury barrack was added Mrs. Schwellenberg, the German she-dragon who had done her best to make Fanny Burney's life unendurable during the previous three years. Formerly141 Fanny had dwelt upon the ill-treatment she had received at the hands of this old harridan142; but now she only refers to her as an additional element of casual discomfort143. The odious144 creature is “so oppressed between her spasms145 and the house's horrors, that the oppression she inflicted146 ought perhaps to be pardoned. It was, however, difficult enough to bear,” she adds. “Harshness, tyranny, dissension, and even insult seemed personified. I cut short details upon this subject—they would but make you sick.”
Truly little Miss Burney earned her wages at this time. The dilapidated palace was only rendered habitable by the importation of a cartload of sandbags, which were as strategically distributed for the exclusion147 of the draughts148 as if they were the usual defensive149 supply of a siege. But even this ingenious device failed to neutralise the Arctic rigours of the place. The providing of carpets for some of the bare floors of the bedrooms and passages was a startling innovation; but eventually it was carried out. An occasional set of curtains also was smuggled150 into this frozen fairy palace, and a sofa came now and again.
But in spite of all these auxiliaries151 to luxury—in spite, too, of Mrs. Schwellenberg's having locked herself into her room, forbidding any one to disturb her—the dreariness152 and desolation of the December at Kew must have caused Miss Burney to think with longing59 of the comforts of her father's home in St. Martin's Street and of the congenial atmosphere which she breathed during her numerous visits to the Thrales' solid mansion153 at Streatham.
The condition of the King was becoming worse, and early whispers of the necessity for a Regency grew louder. It was understood that Mrs. Fitzherbert would be made a duchess! Everybody outside the palace sought to stand well in the estimation of the Prince of Wales, and Pitt was pointed out as a traitor154 to his country because he did his best to postpone155 the Comus orgy which every one knew would follow the establishing of a Regency. The appointment of the Doctors Willis was actually referred to as a shocking impiety156, suggesting as it did a wicked rebellion against the decree of the Almighty, Who, according to Burke, had hurled the monarch from his throne. There were, however, some who did not regard Mr. Burke as an infallible judge on such a point, and no one was more indignant at the mouthings of the rhetorician than Miss Burney. But it seemed as if the approach of the Regency could no longer be retarded157. The Willises were unable to certify158 to any improvement in the condition of the King during the month of January, 1789. It was really not until he had that chase after Fanny Burney in Kew Gardens that a change for the better came about.
Though she was greatly terrified by his affectionate salutation, she could not but have been surprised at the sanity159 displayed in the monologue that followed; for one of the first of his innumerable questions revealed to her the fact that he was perfectly well aware of what a trial to her patience was the odious Mrs. Schwellenberg. He asked how she was getting on with Mrs. Schwellenberg, and he did so with a laugh that showed her how well he appreciated her difficulties in this direction in the past. Before she could say a word he was making light of the Schwellenberg—adopting exactly the strain that he knew would be most effective with Miss Burney.
“Never mind her—never mind her! Don't be oppressed! I am your friend! Don't let her cast you down—I know that you have a hard time of it—but don't mind her!”
The advice and the tone in which it was given—with a pleasant laugh—did not seem very consistent with what she expected from a madman. Fanny Burney appears up to that moment to have been under the impression that the King and Queen had known nothing of the tyranny and the insults to which she had been subjected by Mrs. Schwellenberg. But now it was made plain to her that the eyes of the Royal couple had been open all the time. If Macaulay had noticed the passage touching upon this point he would have had still stronger grounds for his attack upon their Majesties160 for their want of consideration for the tire-woman who was supposed never to be tired.
But how much more surprised must Fanny Burney have been when the King went on to talk to her in the most cordially confidential161 way about her father! It must have been another revelation to her when he showed how fully he realised the ambitions of Dr. Burney. He asked her regarding the progress of the History of Music, at which Dr. Burney had been engaged for several years, and this gave him a chance of getting upon his favourite topic, the music of Handel. But when he began to illustrate162 some of his impressions on this fruitful theme by singing over the choruses of an oratorio163 or two—perhaps such trifles as “All we like Sheep,” or “Lift up your Heads,” or the “Hallelujah”—he must have gone far toward neutralising the good opinion she had formed as to his sanity. Fortunately the attendant doctors interposed at this point; but the fact that the distinguished164 amateur suffered their adverse165 criticism proves to posterity that the King was even more good-natured than he had been painted by Miss Burney.
On then he went to talk of the subject which must never have been far from Dr. Burney's heart—the Mastership of the King's Band: “Your father ought to have had the post, and not that little poor musician Parsons, who was not fit for it,” he cried. “But Lord Salisbury used your father very ill in that business, and so he did me! However, I have dashed out his name, and I shall put your father's in—as soon as I get loose again. What has your father got at last? Nothing but that poor thing at Chelsea! Oh, fie! fie! But never mind! I will take care of him—I will do it myself!”
Could he have given the devoted166 daughter of Dr. Burney a more emphatic167 proof of his complete recovery to sanity than this? Why, it would have convinced Dr. Burney himself!
Alas168! although the King may have been very resolute169 at the moment—he had just been making out a list of new officers of State, and was ready to show her that the name of her father's enemy, Lord Salisbury, was not to be found in it, and he assured her that in future he would rule with a rod of iron—yet before he returned to his ordinary way of life he must have mislaid his list, for poor Dr. Burney remained at his post of organist of Chelsea Hospital. He never attained170 to the place which he coveted171 and for which his daughter was sent to five years' Royal servitude, and (incidentally) to achieve for herself that immortality173 as a chronicler which would certainly never have been won by her as a novelist.
But the King did not confine his conversation to the one topic which he knew was of greatest interest to her. He spoke174 of Mrs. Delany, who had been the means of introducing Fanny to the Royal circle; and he referred to the ill-treatment which he had received at the hands of one of his pages; but this was the only passage that savoured of unkindness, and the chronicler is unable to do more than hope that the conduct of the pages was one of His Majesty's delusions175. Then, with what seems to us to be consummate176 adroitness177, he put some questions to her which she could not but answer. “They referred to information given to him in his illness from various motives178, but which he suspected to be false, and which I knew he had reason to suspect,” Miss Burney writes. “Yet was it most dangerous to set anything right, as I was not aware what might be the views of their having been stated wrong. I was as discreet179 as I knew how to be, and I hope I did no mischief180: but this was the worst part of the dialogue.”
We can quite believe that it was, and considering that it was the part of the dialogue which was most interesting to the King, we think that Miss Burney was to be congratulated upon the tact2 she displayed in her answers. She did not cause the King to be more perturbed181 than he was when waxing indignant over the conduct of his pages; and there was no need for Dr. Willis to interfere182 at this point, though he did a little later on. Then submitting with the utmost docility183 to the control of his excellent attendant, and with another exhortation184 not to pay any attention to the whims185 of the Schwellenberg, the gracious gentleman kissed her once more on the cheek and allowed her to take her departure.
So ended this remarkable186 adventure in Kew Gardens. One can picture Fanny Burney flying to tell the Queen all that had occurred—to repeat everything that her discretion99 permitted her of the conversation; and one has no difficulty in imagining the effect upon Queen Charlotte of all that she narrated187; but it seems rather hard that from Mrs. Schwellenberg should have been withheld188 the excellent advice given by the King to Miss Burney respecting the German virago189.
It would have been impossible either for Fanny Burney or the Queen to come to any conclusion from all that happened except one that was entirely190 satisfactory to both. King George III was undoubtedly on the high road to recovery, and subsequent events confirmed this opinion. It really seemed that the interview with the author of Evelina marked the turning-point in his malady at this time. Every day brought its record of improvement, and within a fortnight the dreaded191 Regency Bill, which had been sent up to the Lords, was abandoned. On March 1st there were public thanksgivings in all the churches, followed by such an illumination of London as had not been seen since the great fire. The scene at Kew is admirably described by Miss Burney, who had written some congratulatory lines to be offered by the Princess Amelia to the King. A great “transparency” had been painted by the Queen's order, representing the King, Providence192, Health, and Britannia—a truly British tableau—and when this was hung out and illuminated193 the little Princess “went to lead her papa to the front window.” Then she dropped on her knees and gave him the “copy of verses,” with the postscript194:
The little bearer begs a kiss
From dear papa for bringing this.
The “dear papa” took his dear child in his arms, and held her close to him for some time. Nothing could have been more charmingly natural and affecting. For such a picture of Royalty195 at home we are indebted to Fanny Burney, and, face to face with it, we are selfish enough to feel grateful to Dr. Burney for having given his daughter for five years to discharge a humble duty to her Sovereign and an immortal172 one to her fellow-countrymen, who have read her Diary and placed it on a shelf between Pepys and de Gramont.
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1
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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2
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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3
primness
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| n.循规蹈矩，整洁 | |
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4
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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5
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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6
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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8
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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dawdle
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| vi.浪费时间；闲荡 | |
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10
evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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12
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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wispy
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| adj.模糊的；纤细的 | |
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14
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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15
tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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16
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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17
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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18
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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19
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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20
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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21
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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22
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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23
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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24
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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25
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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26
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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27
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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28
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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29
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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30
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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31
labyrinths
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| 迷宫( labyrinth的名词复数 )； （文字，建筑）错综复杂的 | |
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32
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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33
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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34
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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35
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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36
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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37
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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38
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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39
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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40
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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41
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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42
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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43
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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44
benignly
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| adv.仁慈地，亲切地 | |
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45
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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46
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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47
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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48
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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49
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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50
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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51
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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52
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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54
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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55
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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56
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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57
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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58
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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59
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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60
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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61
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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62
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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63
monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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64
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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65
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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66
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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67
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
felons
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| n.重罪犯( felon的名词复数 )；瘭疽；甲沟炎；指头脓炎 | |
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69
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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70
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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71
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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72
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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73
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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74
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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75
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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76
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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77
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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78
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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79
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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80
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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81
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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83
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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84
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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85
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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86
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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87
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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88
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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89
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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90
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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91
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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92
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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93
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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94
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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95
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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96
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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97
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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98
bemoan
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| v.悲叹，哀泣，痛哭；惋惜，不满于 | |
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99
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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100
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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101
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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102
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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103
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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104
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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105
thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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106
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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107
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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108
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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109
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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110
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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111
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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112
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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113
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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114
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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115
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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116
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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117
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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118
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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119
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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120
sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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121
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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122
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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123
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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124
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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125
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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127
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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128
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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129
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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130
transcripts
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| n.抄本（ transcript的名词复数 ）；转写本；文字本；副本 | |
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131
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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132
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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133
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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134
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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136
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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137
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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138
stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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142
harridan
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| n.恶妇；丑老大婆 | |
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143
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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145
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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150
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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151
auxiliaries
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| n.助动词 ( auxiliary的名词复数 )；辅助工，辅助人员 | |
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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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153
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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154
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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155
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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156
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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certify
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| vt.证明，证实；发证书(或执照)给 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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majesties
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| n.雄伟( majesty的名词复数 )；庄严；陛下；王权 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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oratorio
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| n.神剧，宗教剧，清唱剧 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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168
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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170
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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174
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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177
adroitness
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178
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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179
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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180
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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181
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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182
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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183
docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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184
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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185
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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186
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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187
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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189
virago
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| n.悍妇 | |
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190
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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191
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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192
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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193
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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194
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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195
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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