DIVERSIONS OF THE KAISER’S DAUGHTER
Shortly after our return to the Neues Palais a small
niece of the Empress, the child of her sister the Duchess of
Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Glucksburg, came to spend a week or two
with her cousin. Her visit marked the last expiring effort of the
Princess to take an interest in her dolls, of which she possessed many
very beautiful specimens.
But though she was an amused spectator of the unflinching realism with
which Princess May--an inventive child whose doll-children suffered many
and varied experiences--shaped the fragments of her dream of human life,
the stormy cross-channel journeys, the illnesses and cheerful funerals
of her large family, it was plain to see that she was not in any sense a
real partaker in the small comedies and dramas.
Live animals had always from babyhood been her great passion. On dogs
and horses she lavished all the superfluous affection of her heart.
Dolls had never been to her more than a transitory amusement, thrust on
her by other people rather than chosen by herself. She was exceedingly
hurt at receiving one the following Christmas, sent by an affectionate
but injudicious aunt. It nerved her to make a clean sweep of the whole
lot, and they were divided among various children’s hospitals. The
Empress sighed over this further emancipation of her small daughter, but
saw its inevitability.
About this time the Emperor, who was staying a few days at Cadinen, his
country house in East Prussia, where he carries out farming operations
on a large scale, sent the Princess a present after her own heart--a
tiny dimpled pigling of tender years. From my bedroom window I suddenly
caught sight of this infant swine as, looking newly scrubbed and washed,
with a bit of blue ribbon tied round the tender curve of his tail, he
sprinted across the Hof pursued by several footmen and the two
Princesses, who had decreed that exercise must be necessary for him
after his cramping railway journey in a tiny crate. Viewing his innocent
infantine chubbiness as he darted between the legs of the pursuing
lackeys, even the sentries on duty were forced to relax their military
sternness and smile at his baby antics as he rushed about, evading
capture for a time.
The Princess was charmed with “Papa’s _Scherkel_,” and rather annoyed at
not being allowed to have him in her own rooms; but he was comfortably
installed in the stable at Lindstedt, a villa belonging to the Emperor
standing close to the gate of the Neues Palais, where, being a pig of
placid disposition, he put on flesh at a rapid rate, quickly losing the
innocent gaiety of his early days, and developed weight and fatness day
by day, so that towards Christmas the usual tragic fate of pigs befell
him. His mistress suffered no sentimental regrets with regard to his
death, eating without a qualm the savoury sausages he provided and
retaining a grateful memory of the nice sum he brought her--for
naturally, although she never paid for his keep, she demanded and
received the sum for which the butcher purchased his remains.
“I wish Papa would give me another pig,” she has been heard to sigh when
money was scarce. “He was so useful.”
But no other pig arrived. He remained the first and last of his tribe.
The Duchess of Albany and her daughter Princess Alice (now Princess
Alexander of Teck) were for a short time living in Potsdam, while the
young Duke of Coburg, the son of the Duchess, was undergoing his year of
military training. He afterwards went as a student to Bonn at the same
time as the Crown Prince and Prince Fritz--and eventually married the
eldest sister of little Princess May of Glucksburg, while her second
sister, Princess Alexandra, married her cousin Prince August Wilhelm,
the fourth son of the Emperor.
Princess Alice of Albany and her mother were great favourites at the
Neues Palais, and frequently visited the Empress. One day they were
invited to meet her at the Marmor Palais, the palace formerly occupied
by Their Majesties when they were first married, before their accession
to the throne. It had remained empty since that time, though now
occupied when they are in Potsdam by the Crown Prince and Princess and
their family of little boys.
Beautifully situated about two miles away from the Neues Palais, on the
border of a lake (the _Heiligen-See_), it was there that the Empress
passed the happiest years of her married life, and that most of her
children were born. She always revisited it with much pleasure mingled
with many regrets.
A large party of children had been invited, as it was the Princess’s
birthday; and after playing madly about in the garden, they all had tea
in the big marble dining-room which overlooked the lake, where swans
were sailing majestically up and down the clear blue water. After tea
Princess Alice invented a delightful new game for the children. The idea
was to put on the enormous felt slippers provided for the boots of the
tourists who come to inspect the palace, so that they may not scratch
the beautifully polished inlaid parquet floors; and when everybody had
stuck their feet into these enormous over-shoes, they began skating
madly after each other, headed by Princess Alice, rushing round and
round the various salons which opened out of each other, so that they
could keep up the race without interruption. The sight of so many rather
small people with such disproportionately large feet tearing after each
other at break-neck speed was irresistibly comic, and the Empress and
the Duchess were convulsed with laughter. It was rather a violent game
for a warm September day, but when they grew tired of it they still
played, with the greatest energy, musical chairs, post, and blind man’s
buff, the sun pouring gaily in at the windows all the time.
A month or so after this party took place, about the middle of November,
the weather suddenly changed. It began to freeze hard, and for six weeks
there was ice everywhere, and everybody was able to indulge in skating.
When the lessons were over we used to jump into a carriage with our
skates and were driven to Charlotten-Hof, a small palace in the park of
Sans Souci, where was a large sheet of water now converted into the most
beautiful black ice. Nobody was particularly expert on skates, but all
were keen to learn; and the Princess and Prince Joachim, after a great
many tumbles, managed to get along at a good pace, though their style
was hardly of the best. The weather kept beautifully clear, with very
little snow, and there were some very merry skating parties, including
the late Sir Robert Collins, gentleman-in-waiting to the Duchess of
Albany, a very graceful expert performer on the ice, and Lady Collins,
who like the rest of us did not skate very well, but perseveringly kept
on trying. The Governor of the Prince made many attempts to learn, but
never got much farther than an ungainly shuffle, for which he always
apologized, saying that at any rate it kept him from freezing.
Sometimes the Crown Prince would bring a few of his friends to play
hockey, but as no one knew much about rules it was rather a wild and
dangerous game.
The most uncomfortable moments spent on the slippery surface, however,
were those when the Emperor in his warm grey cavalry cloak, surrounded
by a party of adjutants and officers, was seen wending his way in our
direction. Inexpert performers realized the extreme risk of trying to
bow to Majesty on skates, and invariably fled to the shelter of a small
island covered with bushes which was in one corner of the lake.
Misfortunes in the way of tumbles caused an unholy joy in the Emperor’s
heart. It pleased him to see people lose their dignity; and on one
occasion, when Princess Alice and I, skating with great dash and
confidence hand-in-hand, came after a convulsive flounder to a sudden
fall, the Imperial laughter floated most whole-heartedly and derisively
over our prostrate bodies.
Ladders and ropes were always laid ready on the bank in case of
accident; and one afternoon when Prince Oscar was with us--having come
over from Ploen for a few days--he and the Princess decided to practise
a little life-saving. I on my skates represented to the best of my
ability the victim of an ice catastrophe, lying down and clutching at
the rope, which after many misdirected efforts they managed to throw in
my direction; but when it came to pulling me out, although I was not
_in_, but already _on_ the surface of the ice, their well-meant
endeavours only resulted in themselves being dragged backwards
accompanied by shrieks of laughter, while I remained exactly where I had
been before. Somebody must have mentioned this attempt to the Emperor,
for the next day when he came to the ice he wanted to know how I liked
being “rescued.”
“They didn’t rescue me one inch, Your Majesty,” I was obliged to reply;
“I should have been drowned ten times over.”
He chuckled very much over this failure to pull me along, and would, I
am sure, have liked to see the experiment repeated in his presence.
“And you so thin and light!” he laughed as he departed.
Another game of hockey was played one afternoon, but not this time on
the ice. Five of the princes took part in it--the Crown Prince and
Prince Fritz captaining their respective sides. It was a wild, weird
game. The Princess after many entreaties had been allowed to play “for a
short time” on Prince Fritz’s side, together with a few young officers,
the French teacher of Prince Joachim, and a Kammer-Herr of Her Majesty,
who thought he would like to take part in the game. He said later that
it was the first and last time he ever played or desired to play hockey.
The game took place on the broad drive in front of the Palace, and the
only rule which guided it was a feverish desire on everybody’s part to
send the ball into the opposite goal. There was no referee, no off-side,
nobody was more of a “forward” than a “back,” and anybody kept goal who
happened to be near enough to it; but the play was permeated by a fine
and splendid enthusiasm which atoned for many shortcomings. The German
sporting instinct was there sure enough, undeveloped and somewhat
dormant it may be, but none the less ready to germinate under favourable
conditions. Some players emerged rather battered from the fray. The
French tutor had fallen and scraped his chin on the gravel, the
Kammer-Herr had, as the result of a blow, a swollen knuckle which kept
him company some weeks, while Prince Oscar limped slightly for the rest
of the day.
One of the tiresome ceremonies incident to royal existence is the
incessant turning out of the guard whenever any one of royal or princely
blood emerges into view of the sentry. This became especially worrying
when the children happened to wander about backwards and forwards
between the two “Hofs.” One heard a clatter of bootsoles as the
soldiers, perhaps in the middle of eating their soup, rushed out, seized
their weapons from the rack where they stood, and formed up in line in
stiff military attitudes presenting arms at the word of command. It was
usual for the Governor of Prince Joachim, who was himself a Captain in
the army, to give a signal to the guard that these honours were for the
nonce in abeyance, or the Princess or Prince--if they remembered--might
do the same.
In the first week of her visit, Princess May of Glucksburg, who was
running about between the Mopke and the Kleiner Hof, noticed the unusual
restlessness of the guard, who were in and out of the guard-house every
five minutes or less; but it was some time before she connected their
movements with herself, being absorbed in giving “Jacky,” the Princess’s
dog, a ride in a small hand-cart. She had hitherto led a quiet life in
the ancestral Schloss away in the country, untrammelled by guards or
sentries of any kind.
When she realized that these honours were being lavished on her own
small person, and that she ought to have waved her finger backwards and
forwards at the soldiers in sign of dismissal, she was much abashed,
and as she was far too shy to shake her finger at any one, preferred to
choose a more retired spot in which to play.
Besides the Turkish ponies before mentioned, the Prince and Princess
possessed two very small mouse-coloured Sicilian donkeys given to them
by the King of Italy, each of which drew a small Sicilian cart, painted
in gay colours with scenes from the lives of the saints. These animals
wore red brass-studded harness, and nodding plumes made of cock-feathers
dyed crimson waved from their heads. They made a very pretty picture as
they ambled one behind the other over the wide Mopke, and often when
children were invited to spend the afternoon the donkey-carts were
requisitioned. They were a continual source of joy to small visitors and
of acute anxiety to those in charge; for in spite of their innocent
looks and their small size, the donkeys were the least docile animals
that could be imagined, and as the carts were rather small and
top-heavy, there was constant danger of an upset. Sometimes the donkeys,
after a spell of good behaviour, would start running away, or suddenly
make preparations to lie down, the children falling out of the cart like
a small avalanche. After the animals had taken a short rest--for nothing
would make them get up before they felt inclined--they would start
merrily off again, and the Governor and I, who were too heavy for the
carts, had to keep on running after them, “faint yet pursuing,” be the
weather as hot as it might.
The way those beasts whizzed the carts round corners on only one wheel
was nothing short of phenomenal, and they possessed a diabolical
strength which set at naught any efforts of the groom who was supposed
to control them in case of need. One day the little terrier “Jacky” took
it into his head to bite one of the donkeys, who immediately went
helter-skelter over the flower-beds, dragging the empty cart behind him
as well as the unlucky stable-man who happened to be holding the reins
and fell down at an early stage of the proceedings. Fortunately it
happened in a small enclosed garden surrounded by high hedges, but it
might have been a serious business if one or two soldiers had not
happened to be passing and helped us to restrain the donkey, who kicked
and capered and waltzed over the rose-bushes, jerking the man after him,
his face cut, his clothes torn, while the iniquitous “Jacky,” delighted
at the performance, raged round in a frenzy of barking, doing all he
could to urge the poor terrified donkey to fresh efforts.
Happily, when the long-expected accident arrived, it happened under Her
Majesty’s immediate notice, so that she was at once convinced of the
danger to the children of these ill-trained little creatures, and
ordered that they should never appear again. They were sent to the
country and employed on the land in regular work, which was what they
needed. The Princess was the one who suffered, being tipped out of the
cart and sustaining a rather severe cut on her knee, involving a three
days’ suspension of lessons and complete repose of the injured
limb--rather a severe trial for such an active child.
In wet or frosty weather, the rides in the forest had to be given up,
and we were forced to take horse-exercise in the _Reit-Bahn_ or big
covered riding-school attached to the Royal Mews or _Marstall_. A layer
of sawdust covered the floor of the _Bahn_, and our _Sattel-Meister_,
Herr Casper, professed himself delighted to have the opportunity of
furthering our equestrian education. We took lessons in making “voltes”
and circles at the word of command, in “passaging”; we galloped and
trotted and enjoyed ourselves immensely, while the rain beat outside or
the snow fell in thick flurries. The _Bahn_ was furnished with mirrors
in which we could get glimpses of ourselves as we cantered past.
Sometimes the Empress and one of her ladies also rode with us. Her
Majesty is very fond of horse exercise, and though not enamoured of
cross-country riding, still enjoys a good stretching canter.
Nowhere are there better opportunities for this than in the
neighbourhood of Potsdam. Every road, with its beautiful row of trees on
either hand, possesses a carefully kept sandy riding-track on one side.
Then there are immense woods and the Government forest, all unenclosed,
and unfenced fields where one can canter to heart’s desire along
excellent riding-paths. The whole of Central Germany, more especially
the Mark Brandenburg, in which Berlin and Potsdam are situated, is one
vast plain of light sandy soil, made exceedingly fertile by “intensive”
cultivation. Watered by the river Havel, a tributary of the Elbe, which
expands into five great lakes surrounding the town, Potsdam is, as
Carlyle calls it, an “intricate amphibious region,” more water than
land, partaking, though a peninsula, of the nature of an island. Its
inhabitants indulge largely in swimming and boating on the placid waters
which run up into the streets in irregular creeks and bays. Great beds
of rushes skirt the borders of the lakes, while the thick forest comes
down to the water’s edge.
The town itself is picturesque and old-fashioned, with cobbled roads
extremely painful to walk upon. Many of its houses were built in the
time of Frederick the Great and inhabited by his marshals and generals.
Its streets have a somnolent old-world air, and its society is very
aristocratic and exclusive, containing as it does the cream of Prussian
Junkerdom. Several younger sons of princely houses, officers in the
crack regiments of the guards, live with their wives and children in
Potsdam. Occasionally, on wet Sundays, some of these little princes and
princesses came to spend the afternoon, and “Mimi Hohenzollern,” now
married to King Manoel of Portugal, was a fairly frequent guest. One
dull November Sunday evening we had an unusual number of children--about
twenty--some of them quite small and rather an anxiety, for the nurses
and governesses who accompanied them were sent to wait downstairs,
while Herr Schmidt in charge of the boys and myself in charge of the
little girls were left to cope with all these rather lively young
people. They played after tea at circus in the big Turn-Saal at the top
of the Palace, where there was plenty of room to romp about, and were
just pondering what the next game should be, when Herr Schmidt, inspired
by some imp of malice, made the suggestion that they should all go to
the theatre in the dark.
The private theatre of the Neues Palais, built by Frederick the Great
for the representation of French plays, was situated in the farthest
wing of the castle, the way to it lying through chilly, unlit, unwarmed
passages. The whole horde of children--hopeful scions of princely houses
whose names, though unknown in England, permeate the “Almanac de Gotha,”
and occasionally emerge into prominence in connection with some royal or
imperial marriage--were rushing like the Gadarene swine towards certain
destruction. Those slippery marble staircases! Those shallow
balustrades! The darkness and the cold! Terrible “_Schnupfen_"--the
devastating colds with which in a steam-heated country one is eternally
warring--would be the least evil that could possibly happen to them.
Herr Schmidt, like an overgrown schoolboy, was laughing gleefully at the
stampede.
Fortunately they were stopped at the next staircase, where the faint
gleam of a lamp served to show the black shadows of the descent, and
were brought back, much disappointed, to play a “humdrum game,” as the
Princess called it, of hide-and-seek.
The Emperor to his sons was stern enough, and saw that Prince Joachim
was shortly despatched to join his brothers at school in Ploen, but
towards his little daughter he allowed himself, perhaps unconsciously,
to be somewhat lenient.
Her bright alert intelligence evidently responded to something in
himself; her constantly exhibited affection, her love for his society
flattered him irresistibly, as they would any father in the world. He
wrote long letters to her when away, sent her picture-postcards and
small trifling presents from places where he was staying. Her first
letter to him in English was something of an event, written with the
greatest care and after much anxious consultation with me as to the
intricacies of “that awful English spelling.” It received an immediate
and flattering reply, also in English.
“Papa was delighted with my letter,” she said, her face glowing with
happiness.
On every possible opportunity the Emperor liked to have his daughter
with him; would seize and carry her off, sticking her bodkin-wise in the
carriage between himself and the Empress. He never troubled much if she
missed a few lessons. He was no believer in higher education for women.
One afternoon, on a birthday or some other anniversary, the band of the
Potsdam Guards had been ordered to perform at the Palace, and as, owing
to the heavy rain, they were not able to remain outside on the terrace,
they were installed in the large Marmor Saal, where they played before
the Emperor and Empress.
His Majesty stood alone in front of the band for some time, moving his
body and limbs in time to the music, while the Princess and Prince
Joachim, at a distance of a few yards, were doing the same thing, all
three wriggling the left leg in time together and looking rather like
marionettes jerked by a string.
The bandmaster continued gravely to beat time, when suddenly His Majesty
made a sign to one of his adjutants, who immediately handed him a
conductor’s baton, and the Emperor began to assist to conduct, while the
two children, each raising a forefinger, did their little best also to
help.
Some members of the band looked a little surprised at having no less
than four conductors and four different time-beats to follow, but after
a time they settled down again, and keeping their eyes firmly fixed on
the music, played triumphantly to the end.
His Majesty has not a highly cultivated taste in music. He likes
something military in style, with well-marked time and rhythm, and
Wagner makes no appeal to his tastes.
His patronage of the art has been singularly unfortunate, and all the
operatic pieces to which he has stood godfather are always played to
very thin houses. He comforts himself by inveighing against the want of
musical taste shown by Berlin audiences. The critics treat these pieces
with contempt, ignoring their existence, and the newspapers publish a
bare announcement that they have been performed, and make no further
comment.
Within the last two years the Emperor has had an Opera constructed as a
setting for various dances performed in Corfu by the peasants there. At
great expense the Director of the Opera-House has had to send
professionals to study the various dances on the spot, to copy the
Corfiote costumes, and to paint the scenery of the island. But
transplanted from Corfu and its picturesque surroundings to the Berlin
Opera-stage, these dances appear excessively dull and meaningless, and
are not in the least redeemed by the accompanying music founded on
ancient Greek melodies.
This opera was played before King George and Queen Mary on the last
evening of their stay in Berlin, two days after the wedding of the
Emperor’s daughter.
None of the children of the Kaiser, with the exception of the Crown
Prince, who learned to play the violin fairly well, have ever mastered
any musical instrument. For some years the Princess made strenuous
efforts to learn the piano, but in spite of her love of music she was
never able to play even the simplest piece approximately correctly.
Various professors of the art came and went--came with the joyous glow
caused by the honour of teaching royalty, only to retire baffled after
a few lessons.
At last, when the Princess was about fourteen, she gave up the unequal
contest, and refused to waste more time in efforts to attain the
unattainable.
Occasionally she has been heard to reproach any of her companions who
had no yearnings after musical instruction.
“You don’t want to learn the piano? But supposing you happen to marry a
musical husband, whatever should you do if you couldn’t play to him?”
“Well, he would probably be happier if I didn’t play to him,” replied
one child of conspicuous good sense.
This observation helped the Princess to realize that piano playing of
the baser sort was not a necessary ingredient of happy matrimony, and
she shortly afterwards renounced further ambitions in that direction.
Nor in the domain of painting and drawing, though fond of both, did she
accomplish anything noteworthy, as she did not possess the necessary
perseverance and patience, and was always too eager to arrive at the
effect; so that her pictures, like her music, always promised something
that was never realized. For outdoor sketching she professed a great
affection, but it was probably the “outdoorness” more than the sketching
that she really loved.
As a child, animals, particularly horses, were her great passion, and
she paid many Sunday afternoon visits to Busch’s Circus in Berlin, where
a large party of little boys and girls were also invited to fill up the
royal box.
The Berlin populace who crowd the Circus on Sundays were delighted to
see the “_Kleine Prinzessin_,” as they loved to call her, enjoying
herself in their midst.
Tea was always served after the performance in the flower-bedecked room
behind the box, where the _Herr Cirkus-Direktor_ appeared in his dress
suit to receive the thanks and congratulations of the Princess, who
asked interested questions about the performing horses and told him how
beautifully her own little Arab mare could do the “Spanish trot.” She
enjoyed these circus performances and the sawdust and smells, and the
faces of the good Berliners turned as one man towards the royal box in
the intervals. Then there was the return to the station through the big
Sunday crowd along the Linden, where the people stood patiently waiting
to see the carriages pass, waving pocket-handkerchiefs and bowing, and
shouting “_Hoch lebe die kleine Prinzessin_,” and wearing those
expansive smiles, all of the same width and pattern, to which one soon
grew accustomed as part of the Sunday performance.
And if it was not the circus then it was the theatre--_Wilhelm Tell_ or
_Wallenstein_, or sometimes on special occasions even the Opera. It is
not known at what age the Princess was first introduced to Opera, but it
must have been at a very early one. She was quite an old _habituée_ when
I first knew her.
When Beerbohm Tree came with his company to Berlin for a week or ten
days, to show the Germans something about stage-management, the Empress
wished the Princess to see the English actor, but feared there was
nothing very suitable in his _répertoire_. However, after carefully
re-reading _Richard II_ she decided that it was a very suitable play for
stimulating historical interest, and the Princess, to her joy,
accompanied Their Majesties. She was delighted with Miss Viola Tree,
who, as the Queen, came riding on to the stage on a gallant white horse
in gorgeous trappings--one that belonged to the royal stables and had
often eaten sugar from the Princess’s hand. She saw Beerbohm Tree as
Richard II dying in his dungeon, and was able next day to reproduce
exactly his words, his gestures, even the peculiar characteristic tones
of his voice, for she had great gifts of mimicry, and her talent ranged
from the imitation of the antics of “Sally,” the pet chimpanzee of the
Berlin “Zoo,” to the dignified gestures of a Julius Cæsar.
Beerbohm Tree’s stay in Berlin must have been fraught to him with
peculiar anxiety, for on the Sunday (when he gave two performances) all
his German scene-shifters deserted him to go to the funeral of a notable
Socialist, and he was left to grapple as he could with the situation.
There were terribly long waits between the scenes of _Antony and
Cleopatra_, at which Their Majesties were present, and once the curtain
went up prematurely, revealing British stage-carpenters among the
splendours of ancient Egypt.
The visits of the Princess to the theatre often involved the “Intendant”
or Director in some anxiety, as he was asked by the Empress to select
some play which would be, if not suitable, at least inoffensive: for on
this point the Empress was very particular. One Director, wishing to
please in this respect, had struck out of the piece the only line he
could find capable of offence, but was assured by one of His Majesty’s
adjutants that there was another part which he was certain ought to be
slightly altered, though he couldn’t quite recollect where it came in.
The unfortunate Director spent every spare moment up to the performance
trying to run to ground the objectionable lines, but never was able to
find them, as they did not exist, and had only been suggested to him out
of “pure cussedness” by the wicked adjutant in question, who chuckled
with unholy pleasure at the success of his little joke--especially when
he found two of the court ladies feverishly searching the pages of their
Schiller with the hope of helping the Director in his quest.
The Berlin Opera House, which stands only a few yards from the Royal
Schloss, was built by Frederick the Great, and though a fine building,
is hardly up-to-date in its accommodation for either performers or
audience. After the terrible theatre-fire in Chicago where, for want of
adequate exits, many lives were lost, very hideous iron staircases were
constructed outside it by order of the Emperor; and these, while giving
perhaps some additional sense of security to the audience, altogether
spoil the appearance of the building--which His Majesty is anxious to
replace by a new one constructed on modern lines in a style of
architecture suitable to its surroundings.
A Berlin Opera audience is not conspicuous for smartness, and a few
years ago morning blouses and tweed skirts, with a pair of rather weary
white kid gloves, were considered by the ladies as quite sufficient for
the _Parkett_ (stalls); but by dint of special orders from the Emperor
and the example of a few well-known ladies a decided improvement in
dress is now observable. Officers in their uniforms are plentifully
besprinkled among the audience, as they can get tickets at reduced
prices.
Whenever the Emperor’s presence is announced beforehand, no one is
admitted who is not in evening dress. This order was for a time not
strictly enforced, and a good proportion of the audience even after
repeated warnings habitually ignored it; but on one occasion all whose
dress did not come up to the required standard--ladies whose gown was
not _ausgeschnitten_, men who had omitted to put on the regulation
suit--were politely but firmly refused admission and advised to go home
again and change! There was much anger and heart-burning, but no one now
fails to obey the imperial mandate.
On the Emperor’s birthday, and when the visits of foreign potentates
take place, no tickets are sold and the seats are occupied entirely by
guests invited by His Majesty. A splendidly brilliant spectacle is
presented on these occasions. The whole house is decorated with wreaths
of flowers, the _Parkett_ filled entirely with the gentlemen of the
Diplomatic Corps, Ambassadors and envoys from the remotest parts of the
world. Chinese mandarins in yellow silk robes, wearing peacocks’
feathers in their caps, Turks and Egyptians in red fezes, all mingle
with the uniforms of every existing army into a wonderful mass of
scintillating colour. The ladies on these occasions are seated in the
dress circle, in a line with the Royal Box which is crowded with
princely personages.
Before the entrance of the Emperor and Empress the Intendant of the
Theatre in full uniform comes to the front of the box and taps loudly
three times on the floor with his wand of office, and at once that queer
gabbling jargon of incoherent sound which rises from a crowd of people
talking together is suddenly hushed into a complete silence, in which
Their Majesties with their guests slowly advance, bow to the audience
and take their places.
I invariably received a ticket for a stage box on these occasions, the
best possible place for an uninterrupted view of the house.
From this point of vantage at different times I saw many notable royal
personalities, among others the late King Edward with Queen Alexandra,
who visited Berlin the year before the King’s death. The performance on
these occasions was always short and not too absorbing, and on King
Edward’s visit the spectacular play of _Sardanapalus_ was given, which
strictly speaking is hardly to be classed with opera at all, consisting
as it does of a series of splendid pictures interspersed with songs. The
last scene of all is a very realistic and vivid representation of the
funeral pyre of Sardanapalus, whither slaves bring all the treasures of
the house to be consumed by the fire, which, beginning with little
licking tongues of flame, soon spreads to a wide and vivid blaze, in
which Sardanapalus and all his household perish.
At the moment before the curtain finally descends the whole stage has
the appearance of a glowing furnace threaded with leaping flames and
rolling billows of smoke.
King Edward, being very tired with his hard day’s work in Berlin, had
indulged in a short nap during the scene, and woke to consciousness at
the moment of most intense conflagration, when he was for a few moments
much excited and alarmed, believing that the fire was real and wondering
why the firemen stationed at the wings had not yet become active. With
some difficulty the Empress managed to convince him that there was no
danger.