THE VANISHED POMPS OF YESTERDAY
_By
Lord Frederic Hamilton_
THE VANISHED POMPS OF YESTERDAY
THE DAYS BEFORE YESTERDAY
HERE, THERE AND EVERYWHERE
_George H. Doran Company
New York_
THE VANISHED POMPS
OF YESTERDAY
BEING
_Some Random Reminiscences of a
British Diplomat_
BY
LORD FREDERIC HAMILTON
Author of "Here, There and Everywhere," "The Days
Before Yesterday," etc., etc.
A New and Revised Edition
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1921
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO
EMILY LADY AMPTHILL
MY FIRST CHEFESSE
WITH EVER-GRATEFUL RECOLLECTIONS
OF HER KINDNESS
FOREWORD
TO THE SECOND EDITION
The account of the boating accident at Potsdam on page 75, differs in
several particulars from the story as given in the original edition.
These alterations have been made at the special request of the lady
concerned, who tells me that my recollections of her story were at
fault as regards several important details. There are also a few
verbal alterations in the present edition.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
Special Mission to Rome--Berlin in process of transformation--Causes
of Prussian militarism--Lord and Lady Ampthill--Berlin
Society--Music-lovers--Evenings with Wagner--Aristocratic
Waitresses--Rubinstein's rag-time--Liszt's
opinions--Bismarck--Bismarck's classification of
nationalities--Bismarck's sons--Gustav Richter--The Austrian
diplomat--The old Emperor--His defective articulation--Other
Royalties--Beauty of Berlin Palace--Description of interior--The
Luxembourg--"Napoleon III"--Three Court beauties--The pugnacious
Pages--"Making the Circle"--Conversational difficulties--An
ecclesiastical gourmet--The Maharajah's mother
CHAPTER II
Easy-going Austria--Vienna--Charm of town--A little piece of
history--International families--Family
pride--"Schlüssel-Geld"--Excellence of Vienna restaurants--The origin
of "_Croissants_"--Good looks of Viennese women--Strauss's
operettas--A ball in an old Vienna house--Court entertainments--The
Empress Elisabeth--Delightful environs of Vienna--The Berlin Congress
of 1878--Lord Beaconsfield--M. de Blowitz--Treaty telegraphed to
London--Environs of Berlin--Potsdam and its lakes--The bow-oar of the
Embassy "four"--Narrow escape of ex-Kaiser--The Potsdam
palaces--Transfer to Petrograd--Glamour of Russia--An evening with
the Crown Prince at Potsdam
CHAPTER III
The Russian frontier--Frontier police--Disappointment at aspect of
Petrograd--Lord and Lady Dufferin--The British Embassy--St. Isaac's
Cathedral--Beauty of Russian Church-music--The Russian language--The
delightful "Blue-stockings" of Petrograd--Princess Chateau--Pleasant
Russian Society--The Secret Police--The Countess's hurried
journey--The Yacht Club--Russians really Orientals--Their
limitations--The "Intelligenzia"--My Nihilist friends--Their lack of
constructive power--Easter Mass at St. Isaac's--Two comical
incidents--The Easter supper--The red-bearded young Priest--An Empire
built on shifting sand
CHAPTER IV
The Winter Palace--Its interior--Alexander II--A Russian Court
Ball--The "Bals des Palmiers"--The Empress--The blessing of the
Neva--Some curiosities of the Winter Palace--The great Orloff
diamond--My friend the Lady-in-Waiting--Sugared Compensations--The
attempt on the Emperor's life of 1880--Some unexpected finds in the
Palace--A most hilarious funeral--Sporting expeditions--Night drives
through the forest in mid-winter--Wolves--A typical Russian
village--A peasant's house--"Deaf and dumb people"--The inquisitive
peasant youth--Curiosity about strangers--An embarrassing
situation--A still more awkward one--Food difficulties--A bear
hunt--My first bear--Alcoholic consequences--My liking for the
Russian peasant--The beneficent india-rubber Ikon--Two curious
sporting incidents--Village habits--The great gulf between Russian
nobility and peasants
CHAPTER V
The Russian Gipsies--Midnight drives--Gipsy singing--Its
fascination--The consequences of a late night--An unconventional
luncheon--Lord Dufferin's methods--Assassination of Alexander
II--Stürmer--Pathetic incidents in connection with the murder of the
Emperor--The funeral procession and service--Details concerning--The
Votive Church--The Order of the Garter--Unusual incidents at the
Investiture--Precautions taken for Emperor's safety--The Imperial
train--Finland--Exciting salmon-fishing there--Harraka
Niska--Koltesha--Excellent shooting there--Ski-running--"Ringing the
game in"--A wolf-shooting party--The obese General--Some incidents--A
novel form of sport--Black game and capercailzie--At dawn in a
Finnish forest--Immense charm of it--Ice-hilling or "Montagnes
Russes"--Ice-boating on the Gulf of Finland
CHAPTER VI
Love of Russians for children's games--Peculiarities of Petrograd
balls--Some famous beauties of Petrograd Society--The varying garb of
hired waiters--Moscow--Its wonderful beauty--The forest of domes--The
Kremlin--The three famous "Cathedrals"--The Imperial Treasury--The
Sacristy--The Palace--Its splendour--The Terem--A Gargantuan Russian
dinner--An unusual episode at the French Ambassador's
ball--Bombs--Tsarskoe Selo--Its interior--Extraordinary collection of
curiosities in Tsarskoe Park--Origin of term "Vauxhall" for railway
station in Russia--Peterhof--Charm of park there--Two Russian
illusions--A young man of twenty-five delivers an Ultimatum to
Russia--How it came about--M. de Giers--Other Foreign
Ministers--Paraguay--The polite Japanese dentist--A visit to
Gatchina--Description of the Palace--Delights of the children's
playroom there
CHAPTER VII
Lisbon--The two Kings of Portugal, and of Barataria--King Fernando
and the Countess--A Lisbon bull-fight--The "hat-trick"--Courtship
window-parade--The spurred youth of Lisbon--Portuguese
politeness--The De Reszke family--The Opera--Terrible personal
experiences in a circus--The bounding Bishop--Ecclesiastical
possibilities--Portuguese coinage--Beauty of Lisbon--Visits of the
British Fleet--Misguided midshipman--The Legation Whale-boat--"Good
wine needs no bush"--A delightful orange-farm--Cintra--Contrast
between the Past and Present of Portugal
CHAPTER VIII
Brazil--Contrast between Portuguese and Spanish South
America--Moorish traditions--Amazing beauty of Rio de Janeiro--Yellow
fever--The commercial Court Chamberlain--The Emperor Pedro--The
Botanical Gardens of Rio--The quaint diversions of Petropolis--The
liveried young entomologist--Buenos Ayres--The charm of the
"Camp"--Water throwing--A British Minister in Carnival-time--Some
Buenos Ayres peculiarities--Masked balls--Climatic
conditions--Theatres--Restaurants--Wonderful bird-life of the
"Camp"--Estancia Negrete--Duck-shooting--My one flamingo--An
exploring expedition in the Gran Chaco--Hardships--Alligators and
fish--Currency difficulties
CHAPTER IX
Paraguay--Journey up the river--A primitive Capital--Dick the
Australian--His polychrome garb--A Paraguayan Race Meeting--Beautiful
figures of native women--The "Falcon" adventurers--A quaint
railway--Patiño Cué--An extraordinary household--The capable
Australian boy--Wild life in the swamps--"Bushed"--A literary
evening--A railway record--The Tigre midnight
swims--Canada--Maddening flies--A grand salmon-river--The Canadian
backwoods--Skunks and bears--Different views as to industrial progress
CHAPTER X
Former colleagues who have risen to
eminence--Kiderlin-Waechter--Aehrenthal--Colonel Klepsch--The
discomfiture of an inquisitive journalist--Origin of certain Russian
scares--Tokyo--Dulness of Geisha dinners--Japanese culinary
curiosities--"Musical Chairs"--Lack of colour in Japan--The Tokugawa
dynasty--Japanese Gardens--The transplanted suburban Embassy
house--Cherry-blossom--Japanese politeness--An unfortunate incident
in Rome--Eastern courtesy--The country in Japan--An Imperial
duck-catching party--An up-to-date Tokyo house--A Shinto
Temple--Linguistic difficulties at a dinner-party--The economical
colleague--Japan defaced by advertisements
CHAPTER XI
Petrograd through middle-aged eyes--Russians very constant
friends--Russia an Empire of shams--Over-centralisation in
administration--The system hopeless--A complete change of scene--The
West Indies--Trinidad--Personal character of Nicholas II--The weak
point in an Autocracy--The Empress--An opportunity missed--The Great
Collapse--Terrible stories--Love of human beings for ceremonial--Some
personal apologies--Conclusion
Index
THE VANISHED POMPS OF
YESTERDAY
"Lo, all our Pomp of Yesterday
Is one with Ninevah and Tyre!"
--RUDYARD KIPLING
{13}
THE VANISHED POMPS
OF YESTERDAY
CHAPTER I
Special Mission to Rome--Berlin in process of transformation--Causes
of Prussian militarism--Lord and Lady Ampthill--Berlin
Society--Music-lovers--Evenings with Wagner--Aristocratic
Waitresses--Rubinstein's rag-time--Liszt's
opinions--Bismarck--Bismarck's classification of
nationalists--Bismarck's sons--Gustav Richter--The Austrian
diplomat--The old Emperor--His defective articulation--Other
Royalties--Beauty of Berlin Palace--Description of interior--The
Luxembourg--"Napoleon III"--Three Court beauties--The pugnacious
Pages--"Making the Circle"--Conversational difficulties--An
ecclesiastical gourmet--The Maharajah's mother.
The tremendous series of events which has changed the face of Europe
since 1914 is so vast in its future possibilities, that certain minor
consequences of the great upheaval have received but scant notice.
Amongst these minor consequences must be included the disappearance
of the Courts of the three Empires of Eastern Europe, Russia,
Germany, and Austria, with all their glitter and pageantry, their
pomp and brilliant _mise-en-scène_. I will hazard no opinion as to
whether the world is the better for their loss or not; I cannot,
though, help {14} experiencing a feeling of regret that this prosaic,
drab-coloured twentieth century should have definitely lost so strong
an element of the picturesque, and should have permanently severed a
link which bound it to the traditions of the mediæval days of
chivalry and romance, with their glowing colour, their splendid
spectacular displays, and the feeling of continuity with a vanished
past which they inspired.
A tweed suit and a bowler hat are doubtless more practical for
everyday wear than a doublet and trunk-hose. They are, however,
possibly less picturesque.
Since, owing to various circumstances, I happen from my very early
days to have seen more of this brave show than has fallen to the lot
of most people, some extracts from my diaries, and a few personal
reminiscences of the three great Courts of Eastern Europe, may prove
of interest.
Up to my twentieth year I was familiar only with our own Court. I
was then sent to Rome with a Special Mission. As King Victor
Emmanuel had but recently died, there were naturally no Court
entertainments.
The Quirinal is a fine palace with great stately rooms, but it struck
me then, no doubt erroneously, that the Italian Court did not yet
seem quite at home in their new surroundings, and that there was a
subtle feeling in the air of a lack of continuity somewhere. In the
"'seventies" the House of Savoy had only been established for a very
few years in their new capital. The conditions in Rome {15} had
changed radically, and somehow one felt conscious of this.
Some ten months later, the ordeal of a competitive examination being
successfully surmounted, I was sent to Berlin as Attaché, at the age
of twenty.
The Berlin of the "'seventies" was still in a state of transition.
The well-built, prim, dull and somewhat provincial _Residenz_ was
endeavouring with feverish energy to transform itself into a
World-City, a _Welt-Stadt_. The people were still flushed and
intoxicated with victory after victory. In the seven years between
1864 and 1871 Prussia had waged three successful campaigns. The
first, in conjunction with Austria, against unhappy little Denmark in
1864; then followed, in 1866, the "Seven Weeks' War," in which
Austria was speedily brought to her knees by the crushing defeat of
Königgrätz, or Sadowa, as it is variously called, by which Prussia
not only wrested the hegemony of the German Confederation from her
hundred-year-old rival, but definitely excluded Austria from the
Confederation itself. The Hohenzollerns had at length supplanted the
proud House of Hapsburg. Prussia had further virtually conquered
France in the first six weeks of the 1870 campaign, and on the
conclusion of peace found herself the richer by Alsace, half of
Lorraine, and the gigantic war indemnity wrung from France. As a
climax the King of Prussia had, with the consent of the feudatory
princes, been proclaimed German Emperor at Versailles on January 18,
1871, for Bismarck, with all {16} his diplomacy, was unable to
persuade the feudatory kings and princes to acquiesce in the title of
Emperor _of_ Germany for the Prussian King.
The new Emperor was nominally only _primus Inter Pares_; he was not
to be over-lord. Theoretically the crown of Charlemagne was merely
revived, but the result was that henceforth Prussia would dominate
Germany. This was a sufficient rise for the little State which had
started so modestly in the sandy Mark of Brandenburg (the "sand-box,"
as South Germans contemptuously termed it) in the fifteenth century.
To understand the mentality of Prussians, one must realise that
Prussia is the only country _that always made war pay_. She had
risen with marvellous rapidity from her humble beginnings entirely by
the power of the sword. Every campaign had increased her territory,
her wealth, and her influence, and the entire energies of the
Hohenzollern dynasty had been centred on increasing the might of her
army. The Teutonic Knights had wrested East Prussia from the Wends
by the Power of the sword only. They had converted the Wends to
Christianity by annihilating them, and the Prussians inherited the
traditions of the Teutonic Knights. Napoleon, it is true, had
crushed Prussia at Jena, but the latter half of the nineteenth
century was one uninterrupted triumphal progress for her. No wonder
then that every Prussian looked upon warfare as a business
proposition, and an exceedingly paying one at that. Everything about
them had been carefully {17} arranged to foster the same idea. All
the monuments in the Berlin streets were to military heroes. The
marble groups on the Schloss-Brücke represented episodes in the life
of a warrior. The very songs taught the children in the schools were
all militarist in tone: "The Good Comrade," "The Soldier," "The Young
Recruit," "The Prayer during Battle," all familiar to every German
child. When William II, ex-Emperor, found the stately "White Hall"
of the Palace insufficiently gorgeous to accord with his megalomania,
he called in the architect Ihne, and gave directions for a new frieze
round the hall representing "victorious warfare fostering art,
science, trade and industry." I imagine that William in his Dutch
retreat at Amerongen may occasionally reflect on the consequences of
warfare when it is _not_ victorious. Trained in such an atmosphere
from their childhood, drinking in militarism with their earliest
breath, can it be wondered at that Prussians worshipped brute-force,
and brute-force alone?
Such a nation of heroes must clearly have a capital worthy of them, a
capital second to none, a capital eclipsing Paris and Vienna.
Berliners had always been jealous of Vienna, the traditional
"Kaiser-Stadt." Now Berlin was also a "Kaiser-Stadt," and by the
magnificence of its buildings must throw its older rival completely
into the shade. Paris, too, was the acknowledged centre of European
art, literature, and fashion. Why? The French had proved themselves
a nation of decadents, utterly {18} unable to cope with German might.
The sceptre of Paris should be transferred to Berlin. So building
and renovation began at a feverish rate.
The open drains which formerly ran down every street in Berlin,
screaming aloud to Heaven during the summer months, were abolished,
and an admirable system of main drainage inaugurated. The appalling
rough cobble-stones, which made it painful even to cross a Berlin
street, were torn up and hastily replaced with asphalte. A French
colleague of mine used to pretend that the cobble-stones had been
designedly chosen as pavement. Berliners were somewhat touchy about
the very sparse traffic in their wide streets. Now one solitary
_droschke_, rumbling heavily over these cobble-stones, produced such
a deafening din that the foreigner was deluded into thinking that the
Berlin traffic rivalled that of London or Paris in its density.
Berlin is of too recent growth to have any elements of the
picturesque about it. It stands on perfectly flat ground, and its
long, straight streets are terribly wearisome to the eye. Miles and
miles of ornate stucco are apt to become monotonous, even if
decorated with porcelain plaques, glass mosaics, and other
incongruous details dear to the garish soul of the Berliner. In
their rage for modernity, the Municipality destroyed the one
architectural feature of the town. Some remaining eighteenth century
houses had a local peculiarity. The front doors were on the first
floor, and were approached by two steeply inclined planes, locally
known as _die {19} Rampe_. A carriage (with, I imagine, infinite
discomfort to the horses) could just struggle up one of these
_Rampe_, deposit its load, and crawl down again to the street-level.
These inclined planes were nearly all swept away. The _Rampe_ may
have been inconvenient, but they were individual, local and
picturesque.
I arrived at the age of twenty at this Berlin in active process of
ultra-modernising itself, and in one respect I was most fortunate.
The then British Ambassador, one of the very ablest men the English
Diplomatic Service has ever possessed, and his wife, Lady Ampthill,
occupied a quite exceptional position. Lord Ampthill was a really
close and trusted friend of Bismarck, who had great faith in his
prescience and in his ability to gauge the probable trend of events,
and he was also immensely liked by the old Emperor William, who had
implicit confidence in him. Under a light and debonair manner the
Ambassador concealed a tremendous reserve of dignity. He was a man,
too, of quick decisions and great strength of character. Lady
Ampthill was a woman of exceptional charm and quick intelligence,
with the social gift developed to its highest point in her. Both the
Ambassador and his wife spoke French, German, and Italian as easily
and as correctly as they did English. The Ambassador was the
_doyen_, or senior member, of the Diplomatic Body, and Lady Ampthill
was the most intimate friend of the Crown Princess, afterwards the
Empress Frederick.
{20}
From these varied circumstances, and also from sheer force of
character, Lady Ampthill had become the unchallenged social arbitress
of Berlin, a position never before conceded to any foreigner. As the
French phrase runs, "_Elle faisait la pluie et le beau temps à
Berlin._"
To a boy of twenty life is very pleasant, and the novel surroundings
and new faces amused me. People were most kind to me, but I soon
made the discovery that many others had made before me, that at the
end of two years one knows Prussians no better than one did at the
end of the first fortnight; that there was some indefinable,
intangible barrier between them and the foreigner that nothing could
surmount. It was not long, too, before I became conscious of the
under-current of intense hostility to my own country prevailing
amongst the "Court Party," or what would now be termed the "Junker"
Party. These people looked upon Russia as their ideal of a Monarchy.
The Emperor of Russia was an acknowledged autocrat; the British
Sovereign a constitutional monarch, or, if the term be preferred,
more or less a figure-head. Tempering their admiration of Russia was
a barely-concealed dread of the potential resources of that mighty
Empire, whose military power was at that period absurdly
overestimated. England did not claim to be a military State, and in
the "'seventies" the vital importance of sea-power was not yet
understood. British statesmen, too, had an unfortunate habit of
indulging in sloppy sentimentalities {21} in their speeches, and the
convinced believers in "Practical Politics" (_Real Politik_) had a
profound contempt (I guard myself from saying an unfounded one) for
sloppiness as well as for sentimentality.
The Berliners of the "'seventies" had not acquired what the French
term _l'art de vivre_. Prussia, during her rapid evolution from an
insignificant sandy little principality into the leading military
State of Europe, had to practise the most rigid economy. From the
Royal Family downwards, everyone had perforce to live with the
greatest frugality, and the traces of this remained. The "art of
living" as practised in France, England, and even in Austria during
the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was impossible in Prussia
under the straitened conditions prevailing there, and it is not an
art to be learnt in a day. The small dinner-party, the gathering
together of a few congenial friends, was unknown in Berlin. Local
magnates gave occasionally great dinner-parties of thirty guests or
so, at the grotesque hour of 5 p.m. It seemed almost immoral to
array oneself in a white tie and swallow-tail coat at four in the
afternoon. The dinners on these occasions were all sent in from the
big restaurants, and there was no display of plate, and never a
single flower. As a German friend (probably a fervent believer in
"Practical Politics") said to me, "The best ornament of a
dinner-table is also good food"; nor did the conversation atone by
its brilliancy for the lack of the dainty trimmings which {22} the
taste of Western Europe expects on these occasions. A never-failing
topic of conversation was to guess the particular restaurant which
had furnished the banquet. One connoisseur would pretend to detect
"Hiller" in the soup; another was convinced that the fish could only
have been dressed by "Poppenberg." As soon as we had swallowed our
coffee, we were expected to make our bows and take our leave without
any post-prandial conversation whatever, and at 7 p.m. too!
Thirty people were gathered together to eat, _weiter nichts_, and, to
do them justice, most of them fulfilled admirably the object with
which they had been invited. The houses, too, were so ugly. No
_objets d'art_, no personal belongings whatever, and no flowers. The
rooms might have been in an hotel, and the occupant of the rooms
might have arrived overnight with one small modest suit-case as his,
or her, sole baggage. There was no individuality whatever about the
ordinary Berlin house, or _appartement_.
I can never remember having heard literature discussed in any form
whatever at Berlin. For some reason the novelist has never taken
root in Germany. The number of good German novelists could be
counted on the fingers of both hands, and no one seemed interested in
literary topics. It was otherwise with music. Every German is a
genuine music-lover, and the greatest music-lover of them all was
Baroness von Schleinitz, wife of the Minister of the Royal Household.
Hers was {23} a charming house, the stately eighteenth century
_Haus-Ministerium_, with its ornate rococo _Fest-Saal_. In that
somewhat over-decorated hall every great musician in Europe must have
played at some time or other. Baron von Schleinitz was, I think, the
handsomest old man I have ever seen, with delightful old-world
manners. It was a privilege to be asked to Madame de Schleinitz's
musical evenings. She seldom asked more than forty people, and the
most rigid silence was insisted upon; still every noted musician
passing through Berlin went to her house as a matter of course. At
the time of my arrival from England, Madame de Schleinitz had struck
up a great alliance with Wagner, and gave two musical evenings a week
as a sort of propaganda, in order to familiarise Berlin amateurs with
the music of the "Ring." At that time the stupendous Tetralogy had
only been given at Bayreuth and in Munich; indeed I am not sure that
it had then been performed in its entirety in the Bavarian capital.
In the _Fest-Saal_, with its involved and tortured rococo curves, two
grand pianos were placed side by side, a point Wagner insisted upon,
and here the Master played us his gigantic work. The way Wagner
managed to make the piano suggest brass, strings, or wood-wind at
will was really wonderful. I think that we were all a little puzzled
by the music of the "Ring"; possibly our ears had not then been
sufficiently trained to grasp the amazing beauty of such a subtle web
of harmonies. His {24} playing finished, a small, very
plainly-appointed supper-table was placed in the middle of the
_Fest-Saal_, at which Wagner seated himself alone in state. Then the
long-wished-for moment began for his feminine adorers. The great
ladies of Berlin would allow no one to wait on the Master but
themselves, and the bearers of the oldest and proudest names in
Prussia bustled about with prodigious fussing, carrying plates of
sauerkraut, liver sausage, black puddings, and herring-salad,
colliding with each other, but in spite of that managing to heap the
supper-table with more Teutonic delicacies than even Wagner's very
ample appetite could assimilate.
I fear that not one of these great ladies would have found it easy to
obtain a permanent engagement as waitress in a restaurant, for their
skill in handling dishes and plates was hardly commensurate with
their zeal. In justice it must be added that the professional
waitress would not be encumbered with the long and heavy train of
evening dresses in the "'seventies." These great ladies, anxious to
display their intimate knowledge of the Master's tastes, bickered
considerably amongst themselves. "Surely, dear Countess, you know by
now that the Master never touches white bread."
"Dearest Princess, Limburger cheese is the only sort the Master cares
for. You had better take that Gruyère cheese away"; whilst an
extremely attractive little Countess, the bearer of a great German
name, would trip vaguely about, announcing to the world that "The
Master thinks that he could {25} eat two more black puddings. Where
do you imagine that I could find them?"
Meanwhile from another quarter one would hear an eager "Dearest
Princess, could you manage to get some raw ham? The Master thinks
that he would like some, or else some raw smoked goose-breast."
"_Aber, allerliebste Gräfin, wissen Sie nicht dass der Meister trinkt
nur dunkles Bier?_" would come as a pathetic protest from some
slighted worshipper who had been herself reproved for ignorance of
the Master's gastronomic tastes.
It must regretfully be confessed that these tastes were rather gross.
Meanwhile Wagner, dressed in a frock-coat and trousers of shiny black
cloth, his head covered with his invariable black velvet skull-cap,
would munch steadily away, taking no notice whatever of those around
him.
The rest of us stood at a respectful distance, watching with a
certain awe this marvellous weaver of harmonies assimilating copious
nourishment. For us it was a sort of Barmecide's feast, for beyond
the sight of Wagner at supper, we had no refreshments of any sort
offered to us.
Soon afterwards Rubinstein, on his way to St. Petersburg, played at
Madame de Schleinitz's house. Having learnt that Wagner always made
a point of having two grand pianos side by side when he played,
Rubinstein also insisted on having two. To my mind, Rubinstein
absolutely ruined the effect of all his own compositions by the
tremendous pace at which he played them. It was as {26} though he
were longing to be through with the whole thing. His "Melody in F,"
familiar to every school-girl, he took at such a pace that I really
believe the virulent germ which forty years afterwards was to develop
into Rag-time, and to conquer the whole world with its maddening
syncopated strains, came into being that very night, and was evoked
by Rubinstein himself out of his own long-suffering "Melody in F."
Our Ambassador, himself an excellent musician, was an almost lifelong
friend of Liszt. Wagner's wife, by the way, was Lizst's daughter,
and had been previously married to Hans von Bulow, the pianist.
Liszt, when passing through Berlin, always dined at our Embassy and
played to us afterwards. I remember well Lord Ampthill asking Liszt
where he placed Rubinstein as a pianist. "Rubinstein is, without any
question whatever, the first pianist in the world," answered Liszt
without hesitation. "But you are forgetting yourself, Abbé,"
suggested the Ambassador. "Ich," said Liszt, striking his chest,
"Ich bin der einzige Pianist der Welt" ("I; I am the only pianist in
the world"). There was a superb arrogance about this perfectly
justifiable assertion which pleased me enormously at the time, and
pleases me still after the lapse of so many years.
Bismarck was a frequent visitor at our Embassy, and was fond of
dropping in informally in the evening. Apart from his liking for our
Ambassador, he had a great belief in his judgment and {27}
discretion. Lady Ampthill, too, was one of the few women Bismarck
respected and really liked. I think he had a great admiration for
her intellectual powers and quick sense of intuition.
It is perhaps superfluous to state that no man living now occupies
the position Bismarck filled in the "'seventies." The maker of
Modern Germany was the unchallenged dictator of Europe. He was
always very civil to the junior members of the Embassy. I think it
pleased him that we all spoke German fluently, for the acknowledged
supremacy of the French language as a means of communication between
educated persons of different nationalities was always a very sore
point with him. It must be remembered that Prussia herself had only
comparatively recently been released from the thraldom of the French
language. Frederick the Great always addressed his _entourage_ in
French. After 1870-71, Bismarck ordered the German Foreign Office to
reply in the German language to all communications from the French
Embassy. He followed the same procedure with the Russian Embassy;
whereupon the Russian Ambassador countered with a long despatch
written in Russian to the Wilhelmstrasse. He received no reply to
this, and mentioned that fact to Bismarck about a fortnight later.
"Ah!" said Bismarck reflectively, "now that your Excellency mentions
it, I think we did receive a despatch in some unknown tongue. I
ordered it to be put carefully away until we could procure the
services of an expert to decipher {28} it. I hope to be able to find
such an expert in the course of the next three or four months, and
can only trust that the matter was not a very pressing one."
The Ambassador took the hint, and that was the last note in Russian
that reached the Wilhelmstrasse.
We ourselves always wrote in English, receiving replies in German,
written in the third person, in the curiously cumbrous Prussian
official style.
Bismarck was very fond of enlarging on his favourite theory of the
male and female European nations. The Germans themselves, the three
Scandinavian peoples, the Dutch, the English proper, the Scotch, the
Hungarians and the Turks, he declared to be essentially male races.
The Russians, the Poles, the Bohemians, and indeed every Slavonic
people, and all Celts, he maintained, just as emphatically, to be
female races. A female race he ungallantly defined as one given to
immense verbosity, to fickleness, and to lack of tenacity. He
conceded to these feminine races some of the advantages of their sex,
and acknowledged that they had great powers of attraction and charm,
when they chose to exert them, and also a fluency of speech denied to
the more virile nations. He maintained stoutly that it was quite
useless to expect efficiency in any form from one of the female
races, and he was full of contempt for the Celt and the Slav. He
contended that the most interesting nations were the epicene ones,
partaking, that is, {29} of the characteristics of both sexes, and he
instanced France and Italy, intensely virile in the North, absolutely
female in the South; maintaining that the Northern French had saved
their country times out of number from the follies of the
"Méridionaux." He attributed the efficiency of the Frenchmen of the
North to the fact that they had so large a proportion of Frankish and
Norman blood in their veins, the Franks being a Germanic tribe, and
the Normans, as their name implied, Northmen of Scandinavian,
therefore also of Teutonic, origin. He declared that the fair-haired
Piedmontese were the driving power of Italy, and that they owed their
initiative to their descent from the Germanic hordes who invaded
Italy under Alaric in the fifth century. Bismarck stoutly maintained
that efficiency, wherever it was found, was due to Teutonic blood; a
statement with which I will not quarrel.
As the inventor of "Practical Politics" (_Real-Politik_), Bismarck
had a supreme contempt for fluent talkers and for words, saying that
only fools could imagine that facts could be talked away. He
cynically added that words were sometimes useful for "papering over
structural cracks" when they had to be concealed for a time.
With his intensely overbearing disposition, Bismarck could not brook
the smallest contradiction, or any criticism whatever. I have often
watched him in the Reichstag--then housed in a very modest
building--whilst being attacked, especially by Liebknecht the
Socialist. He made no effort to {30} conceal his anger, and would
stab the blotting-pad before him viciously with a metal paper-cutter,
his face purple with rage.
Bismarck himself was a very clear and forcible speaker, with a happy
knack of coining felicitous phrases.
His eldest son, Herbert Bismarck, inherited all his father's
arrogance and intensely overweening disposition, without one spark of
his father's genius. He was not a popular man.
The second son, William, universally known as "Bill," was a genial,
fair-headed giant of a man, as generally popular as his elder brother
was the reverse. Bill Bismarck (the juxtaposition of these two names
always struck me as being comically incongruous) drank so much beer
that his hands were always wet and clammy. He told me himself that
he always had three bottles of beer placed by his bedside lest he
should be thirsty in the night. He did not live long.
Moltke, the silent, clean-shaved, spare old man with the sphinx-like
face, who had himself worked out every detail of the Franco-Prussian
War long before it materialised, was an occasional visitor at our
Embassy, as was Gustav Richter, the fashionable Jewish artist.
Richter's paintings, though now sneered at as _Chocolade-Malerei_
(chocolate-box painting), had an enormous vogue in the "'seventies,"
and were reproduced by the hundred thousand. His picture of Queen
Louise of Prussia, engravings of which are scattered all over the
world, {31} is only a fancy portrait, as Queen Louise had died before
Richter was born. He had Rauch's beautiful effigy of the Queen in
the mausoleum at Charlottenburg to guide him, but the actual model
was, I believe, a member of the _corps de ballet_ at the Opera.
Madame Richter was the daughter of Mendelssohn the composer, and
there was much speculation in Berlin as to the wonderful artistic
temperament the children of such a union would inherit. As a matter
of fact, I fancy that none of the young Richters showed any artistic
gifts whatever.
Our Embassy was a very fine building. The German railway magnate
Strousberg had erected it as his own residence, but as he most
tactfully went bankrupt just as the house was completed, the British
Government was able to buy it at a very low figure indeed, and to
convert it into an Embassy. Though a little ornate, it was admirably
adapted for this purpose, having nine reception rooms, including a
huge ball-room, all communicating with each other, on the ground
floor. The "Chancery," as the offices of an Embassy are termed, was
in another building on the Pariser Platz. This was done to avoid the
constant stream of people on business, of applicants of various
sorts, including "D.B.S.'s" (Distressed British Subjects),
continually passing through the Embassy. Immediately opposite our
"Chancery," in the same building, and only separated from it by a
_porte-cochère_, was the Chancery of the Austro-Hungarian Embassy.
{32}
Count W----, the Councillor of the Austrian Embassy, was very deaf,
and had entirely lost the power of regulating his voice. He
habitually shouted in a quarter-deck voice, audible several hundred
yards away.
I was at work in the Chancery one day when I heard a stupendous din
arising from the Austrian Chancery. "The Imperial Chancellor told
me," thundered this megaphone voice in stentorian German tones, every
word of which must have been distinctly heard in the street, "that
under no circumstances whatever would Germany consent to this
arrangement. If the proposal is pressed, Germany will resist it to
the utmost, if necessary by force of arms. The Chancellor, in giving
me this information," went on the strident voice, "impressed upon me
how absolutely secret the matter must be kept. I need hardly inform
your Excellency that this telegram is confidential to the highest
degree."
"What is that appalling noise in the Austrian Chancery?" I asked our
white-headed old Chancery servant.
"That is Count W---- dictating a cypher telegram to Vienna," answered
the old man with a twinkle in his shrewd eyes.
This little episode has always seemed to me curiously typical of
Austro-Hungarian methods.
The central figure of Berlin was of course the old Emperor William.
This splendid-looking old man may not have been an intellectual
giant, but he {33} certainly looked an Emperor, every inch of him.
There was something, too, very taking in his kindly old face and
genial manner. The Crown Princess, afterwards the Empress Frederick,
being a British Princess, we were what is known in diplomatic
parlance as "une ambassade de famille." The entire staff of the
Embassy was asked to dine at the Palace on the birthdays both of
Queen Victoria and of the Crown Princess. These dinners took place
at the unholy hour of 5 p.m., in full uniform, at the Emperor's ugly
palace on the Linden, the Old Schloss being only used for more formal
entertainments. On these occasions the sole table decoration
consisted, quaintly enough, of rows of gigantic silver dish-covers,
each surmounted by the Prussian eagle, with nothing under them,
running down the middle of the table. The old Emperor had been but
indifferently handled by his dentist. It had become necessary to
supplement Nature's handiwork by art, but so unskilfully had these,
what are euphemistically termed, additions to the Emperor's mouth
been contrived, that his articulation was very defective. It was
almost impossible to hear what he said, or indeed to make out in what
language he was addressing you. When the Emperor "made the circle,"
one strained one's ears to the utmost to obtain a glimmering of what
he was saying. If one detected an unmistakably Teutonic guttural,
one drew a bow at a venture, and murmured "_Zu Befehl Majestät_,"
trusting that it might fit in. Should one catch, on the other hand,
a slight {34} suspicion of a nasal "n," one imagined that the
language must be French, and interpolated a tentative "_Parfaitement,
Sire_," trusting blindly to a kind Providence. Still the impression
remains of a kindly and very dignified old gentleman, filling his
part admirably. The Empress Augusta, who had been beautiful in her
youth, could not resign herself to growing old gracefully. She would
have made a most charming old lady, but though well over seventy
then, she was ill-advised enough to attempt to rejuvenate herself
with a chestnut wig and an elaborate make-up, with deplorable
results. The Empress, in addition, was afflicted with a slight palsy
of the head.
The really magnificent figure was the Crown Prince, afterwards the
Emperor Frederick. Immensely tall, with a full golden beard, he
looked in his white Cuirassier uniform the living embodiment of a
German legendary hero; a Lohengrin in real life.
Princess Frederick Charles of Prussia was a strikingly handsome woman
too, though unfortunately nearly stone deaf.
Though the palace on the Linden may have been commonplace and ugly,
the Old Schloss has to my mind the finest interior in Europe. It may
lack the endless, bare, gigantic halls of the Winter Palace in
Petrograd, and it may contain fewer rooms than the great rambling
Hofburg in Vienna, but I maintain that, with the possible exception
of the Palace in Madrid, no building in Europe {35} can compare
internally with the Old Schloss in Berlin. I think the effect the
Berlin palace produces on the stranger is due to the series of rooms
which must be traversed before the State apartments proper are
reached. These rooms, of moderate dimensions, are very richly
decorated. Their painted ceilings, encased in richly-gilt "coffered"
work in high relief, have a Venetian effect, recalling some of the
rooms in the Doge's Palace in the sea-girt city of the Adriatic.
Their silk-hung walls, their pictures, and the splendid pieces of old
furniture they contain, redeem these rooms from the soulless,
impersonal look most palaces wear. They recall the rooms in some of
the finer English or French country-houses, although no private house
would have them in the same number. The rooms that dwell in my
memory out of the dozen or so that formed the _enfilade_ are, first,
the "Drap d'Or Kammer," with its droll hybrid appellation, the walls
of which were hung, as its name implies, with cloth of gold; then the
"Red Eagle Room," with its furniture and mirrors of carved wood,
covered with thin plates of beaten silver, producing an indescribably
rich effect, and the "Red Velvet" room. This latter had its walls
hung with red velvet bordered by broad bands of silver lace, and
contained some splendid old gilt furniture.
The Throne room was one of the most sumptuous in the world. It had
an arched painted ceiling, from which depended some beautiful old
chandeliers of cut rock crystal, and the walls, which framed {36}
great panels of Gobelin tapestry of the best period, were highly
decorated, in florid rococo style, with pilasters and carved groups
representing the four quarters of the world. The whole of the wall
surface was gilded; carvings, mouldings, and pilasters forming one
unbroken sheet of gold. We were always told that the musicians'
gallery was of solid silver, and that it formed part of Frederick the
Great's war-chest. As a matter of fact, Frederick had himself melted
the original gallery down and converted it into cash for one of his
campaigns. By his orders, a facsimile gallery was carved of wood
heavily silvered over. The effect produced, however, was the same,
as we were hardly in a position to scrutinise the hall-mark. The
room contained four semi-circular buffets, rising in diminishing
tiers, loaded with the finest specimens the Prussian Crown possessed
of old German silver-gilt drinking-cups of Nuremberg and Augsburg
workmanship of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.
When the Throne room was lighted up at night the glowing colours of
the Gobelin tapestry and the sheen of the great expanses of gold and
silver produced an effect of immense splendour. With the possible
exception of the Salle des Fêtes in the Luxembourg Palace in Paris,
it was certainly the finest Throne room in Europe.
The first time I saw the Luxembourg hall was as a child of seven,
under the Second Empire, when I was absolutely awe-struck by its
magnificence. It then contained Napoleon the Third's throne, and
{37} was known as the "Salle du Trône." A relation pointed out to me
that the covering and curtains of the throne, instead of being of the
stereotyped crimson velvet, were of purple velvet, all spangled with
the golden bees of the Bonapartes. The Luxembourg hall had then in
the four corners of the coved ceiling an ornament very dear to the
meretricious but effective taste of the Second Empire. Four immense
globes of sky-blue enamel supported four huge gilt Napoleonic eagles
with outspread wings. To the crude taste of a child the purple
velvet of the throne, powdered with golden bees, and the gilt eagles
on their turquoise globes, appeared splendidly sumptuous. Of course
after 1870 all traces of throne and eagles were removed, as well as
the countless "N. III's" with which the walls were plentifully
besprinkled.
What an astute move of Louis Napoleon's it was to term himself the
"Third," counting the poor little "Aiglon," the King of Rome, as the
second of the line, and thus giving a look of continuity and
stability to a brand-new dynasty! Some people say that the
assumption of this title was due to an accident, arising out of a
printer's error. After his _coup d'état_, Louis Napoleon issued a
proclamation to the French people, ending "Vive Napoleon!!!" The
printer, mistaking the three notes of exclamation for the numeral
III, set up "Vive Napoleon III." The proclamation appeared in this
form, and Louis Napoleon, at once recognising the advantages of it,
adhered to the style. {38} Whether this is true or not I cannot say.
I was then too young to be able to judge for myself, but older people
have told me that the mushroom Court of the Tuileries eclipsed all
others in Europe in splendour. The _parvenu_ dynasty needed all the
aid it could derive from gorgeous ceremonial pomp to maintain its
position successfully.
To return to Berlin, beyond the Throne room lay the fine picture
gallery, nearly 200 feet long. At Court entertainments all the
German officers gathered in this picture gallery and made a living
hedge, between the ranks of which the guests passed on their way to
the famous "White Hall." These long ranks of men in their
resplendent _Hofballanzug_ were really a magnificent sight, and
whoever first devised this most effective bit of stage-management
deserves great credit.
The White Hall as I knew it was a splendidly dignified room. As its
name implies, it was entirely white, the mouldings all being silvered
instead of gilt. Both Germans and Russians are fond of substituting
silvering for gilding. Personally I think it most effective, but as
the French with their impeccable good taste never employ silvering,
there must be some sound artistic reason against its use.
It must be reluctantly confessed that the show of feminine beauty at
Berlin was hardly on a level with the perfect _mise-en-scène_. There
were three or four very beautiful women. Countess Karolyi, the
Austrian Ambassadress, herself a Hungarian, was a tall, graceful
blonde with beautiful hair; she {39} was full of infinite attraction.
Princess William Radziwill, a Russian, was, I think, the loveliest
human being I have ever seen; she was, however, much dreaded on
account of her mordant tongue. Princess Carolath-Beuthen, a
Prussian, had first seen the light some years earlier than these two
ladies. She was still a very beautiful woman, and eventually married
as her second husband Count Herbert Bismarck, the Iron Chancellor's
eldest son.
There was, unfortunately, a very wide gap between the looks of these
"stars" and those of the rest of the company.
The interior of the Berlin Schloss put Buckingham Palace completely
in the shade. The London palace was unfortunately decorated in the
"fifties," during the _époque de mauvais goût_, as the French
comprehensively term the whole period between 1820 and 1880, and it
bears the date written on every unfortunate detail of its decoration.
It is beyond any question whatever the product of the "period of bad
taste." I missed, though, in Berlin the wealth of flowers which
turns Buckingham Palace into a garden on Court Ball nights.
Civilians too in London have to appear at Court in knee-breeches and
stockings; in Berlin trousers were worn, thus destroying the
_habillé_ look. As regards the display of jewels and the beauty of
the women at the two Courts, Berlin was simply nowhere. German
uniforms were of every colour of the rainbow; with us there is an
undue predominance of scarlet, so that the kaleidoscopic effect of
Berlin was never {40} attained in London, added to which too much
scarlet and gold tends to kill the effect of the ladies' dresses.
At the Prussian Court on these State occasions an immense number of
pages made their appearance. I myself had been a Court page in my
youth, but whereas in England little boys were always chosen for this
part, in Berlin the tallest and biggest lads were selected from the
Cadet School at Lichterfelde. A great lanky gawk six feet high, with
an incipient moustache, does not show up to advantage in lace
ruffles, with his thin spindle-shanks encased in silk stockings; a
page's trappings being only suitable for little boys. I remember
well the day when I and my fellow-novice were summoned to try on our
new page's uniforms. Our white satin knee-breeches and
gold-embroidered white satin waistcoats left us quite cold, but we
were both enchanted with the little pages' swords, in their
white-enamelled scabbards, which the tailor had brought with him. We
had neither of us ever possessed a real sword of our own before, and
the steel blades were of the most inviting sharpness. We agreed that
the opportunity was too good a one to be lost, so we determined to
slip out into the garden in our new finery and there engage in a
deadly duel. It was further agreed to thrust really hard with the
keen little blades, "just to see what would happen." Fortunately for
us, we had been overheard. We reached the garden, and, having found
a conveniently secluded spot, had just {41} commenced to make those
vague flourishes with our unaccustomed weapons which our experience,
derived from pictures, led us to believe formed the orthodox
preliminaries to a duel, when the combat was sternly interrupted.
Otherwise there would probably have been vacancies for one if not two
fresh Pages of Honour before nightfall. What a pity there were no
"movies" in those days! What a splendid film could have been made of
two small boys, arrayed in all the bravery of silk stockings, white
satin breeches, and lace ruffles, their red tunics heavy with bullion
embroidery, engaged in a furious duel in a big garden. When the news
of our escapade reached the ears of the highest quarters, preemptory
orders were issued to have the steel blades removed from our swords
and replaced with innocuous pieces of shaped wood. It was very
ignominious; still the little swords made a brave show, and no one by
looking at them could guess that the white scabbards shielded nothing
more deadly than an inoffensive piece of oak. A page's sword, by the
way, is not worn at the left side in the ordinary manner, but is
passed through two slits in the tunic, and is carried in the small of
the back, so that the boy can keep his hands entirely free.
The "White Hall" has a splendid inlaid parquet floor, with a crowned
Prussian eagle in the centre of it. This eagle was a source of
immense pride to the palace attendants, who kept it in a high state
of polish. As a result the eagle was as slippery as ice, and woe
betide the unfortunate dancer {42} who set his foot on it. He was
almost certain to fall; and to fall down at a Berlin State ball was
an unpardonable offence. If a German officer, the delinquent had his
name struck off the list of those invited for a whole year. If a
member of the Corps Diplomatique, he received strong hints to avoid
dancing again. Certainly the diplomats were sumptuously entertained
at supper at the Berlin Palace; whether the general public fared as
well I do not know.
Urbain, the old Emperor William's French chef, who was responsible
for these admirable suppers, had published several cookery books in
French, on the title-page of which he described himself as "Urbain,
premier officier de bouche de S.M. l'Empereur d'Allemagne." This
quaint-sounding title was historically quite correct, it being the
official appellation of the head cooks of the old French kings. A
feature of the Berlin State balls was the stirrup-cup of hot punch
given to departing guests. Knowing people hurried to the grand
staircase at the conclusion of the entertainment; here servants
proffered trays of this delectable compound. It was concocted, I
believe, of equal parts of arrack and rum, with various other unknown
ingredients. In the same way, at Buckingham Palace in Queen
Victoria's time, wise persons always asked for hock cup. This was
compounded of very old hock and curious liqueurs, from a
hundred-year-old recipe. A truly admirable beverage! Now, alas!
since Queen Victoria's day, only a memory.
{43}
The Princesses of the House of Prussia had one ordeal to face should
they become betrothed to a member of the Royal Family of any other
country. They took leave formally of the diplomats at the Palace,
"making the circle" by themselves. I have always understood that
Prussian princesses were trained for this from their childhood by
being placed in the centre of a circle of twenty chairs, and being
made to address some non-committal remark to each chair in turn, in
German, French, and English. I remember well Princess Louise
Margaret of Prussia, afterwards our own Duchess of Connaught, who was
to become so extraordinarily popular not only in England but in India
and Canada as well, making her farewell at Berlin on her betrothal.
She "made the circle" of some forty people, addressing a remark or
two to each, entirely alone, save for two of the great long, gawky
Prussian pages in attendance on her, looking in their red tunics for
all the world like London-grown geraniums--all stalk and no leaves.
It is a terribly trying ordeal for a girl of eighteen, and the
Duchess once told me that she nearly fainted from sheer nervousness
at the time, although she did not show it in the least.
If I may be permitted a somewhat lengthy digression, I would say that
it is at times extremely difficult to find topics of conversation.
Years afterwards, when I was stationed at our Lisbon Legation, the
Papal Nuncio was very tenacious of his dignity. In Catholic
countries the Nuncio is _ex officio_ head {44} of the Diplomatic
Body, and the Nuncio at Lisbon expected every diplomat to call on him
at least six times a year. On his reception days the Nuncio always
arrayed himself in his purple robes and a lace cotta, with his great
pectoral emerald cross over it. He then seated himself in state in a
huge carved chair, with a young priest as aide-de-camp, standing
motionless behind him. It was always my ill-fortune to find the
Nuncio alone. Now what possible topic of conversation could I, a
Protestant, find with which to fill the necessary ten minutes with an
Italian Archbishop _in partibus_. We could not well discuss the
latest fashions in copes, or any impending changes in the College of
Cardinals. Most providentally, I learnt that this admirable
ecclesiastic, so far from despising the pleasures of the table, made
them his principal interest in life. I know no more of the
intricacies of the Italian _cuisine_ than Melchizedek knew about
frying sausages, but I had a friend, the wife of an Italian
colleague, deeply versed in the mysteries of Tuscan cooking. This
kindly lady wrote me out in French some of the choicest recipes in
her extensive _répertoire_, and I learnt them all off by heart.
After that I was the Nuncio's most welcome visitor. We argued hotly
over the respective merits of _risotto alia Milanese_ and _risotto al
Salto_. We discussed _gnocchi_, _pasta asciutta_, and novel methods
of preparing _minestra_, I trust without undue partisan heat, until
the excellent prelate's eyes gleamed and his mouth began to water.
Donna Maria, my Italian friend, proved an {45} inexhaustible mine of
recipes. She always produced new ones, which I memorised, and
occasionally wrote out for the Nuncio, sometimes, with all the valour
of ignorance, adding a fancy ingredient or two on my own account. On
one occasion, after I had detailed the constituent parts of an
extraordinarily succulent composition of rice, cheese, oil,
mushrooms, chestnuts, and tomatoes, the Nuncio nearly burst into
tears with emotion, and I feel convinced that, heretic though I might
be, he was fully intending to give me his Apostolic benediction, had
not the watchful young priest checked him. I felt rewarded for my
trouble when my chief, the British Minister, informed me that the
Nuncio considered me the most intelligent young man he knew. He
added further that he enjoyed my visits, as my conversation was so
interesting.
The other occasion on which I experienced great conversational
difficulties was in Northern India at the house of a most popular and
sporting Maharajah. His mother, the old Maharani, having just
completed her seventy-first year, had emerged from the seclusion of
the zenana, where she had spent fifty-five years of her life, or, in
Eastern parlance, had "come from behind the curtain." We paid short
ceremonial visits at intervals to the old lady, who sat amid piles of
cushions, a little brown, shrivelled, mummy-like figure, so swathed
in brocades and gold tissue as to be almost invisible. The Maharajah
was most anxious that I should talk to his mother, but what possible
subject of conversation {46} could I find with an old lady who had
spent fifty-five years in the pillared (and somewhat uncleanly)
seclusions of the zenana? Added to which the Maharani knew no Urdu,
but only spoke Bengali, a language of which I am ignorant. This
entailed the services of an interpreter, always an embarrassing
appendage. On occasions of this sort Morier's delightful book _Hadji
Baba_ is invaluable, for the author gives literal English
translations of all the most flowery Persian compliments. Had the
Maharani been a Mohammedan, I could have addressed her as "Oh
moon-faced ravisher of hearts! I trust that you are reposing under
the canopy of a sound brain!" Being a Hindoo, however, she would not
be familiar with Persian forms of politeness. A few remarks on lawn
tennis, or the increasing price of polo ponies, would obviously fail
to interest her. You could not well discuss fashions with an old
lady who had found one single garment sufficient for her needs all
her days, and any questions as to details of her life in the zenana,
or that of the other inmates of that retreat, would have been
indecorous in the highest degree. Nothing then remained but to
remark that the Maharajah was looking remarkably well, but that he
had unquestionably put on a great deal of weight since I had last
seen him. I received the startling reply from the interpreter
(delivered in the clipped, staccato tones most natives of India
assume when they speak English), "Her Highness says that, thanks to
God, and to his mother's cooking, her son's belly is increasing
indeed to vast size."
{47}
Bearing in mind these later conversational difficulties, I cannot but
admire the ease with which Royal personages, from long practice,
manage to address appropriate and varied remarks to perhaps forty
people of different nationalities, whilst "making the circle."
{48}