yell from the room next to me!
This time it was Don Jaime’s brother who had seen the same ghost! He
described it, as we all stood in our pyjamas in the corridor.
I declared to the company that somebody was playing a practical joke,
with which my old friend Dr. Pink--who always wore a big piece of
pink coral as dress-stud, by the way--agreed. At four o’clock we went
to sleep again, but so utterly scared were the Spanish Prince and his
brother that they left Deene next morning without even making their
adieux to their hostess.
From that day to the present the mystery has never been fathomed, and
though the butler Knighton still lives in Northamptonshire, he has,
on several occasions, assured me that there was no ragging.
“I always knew of any rag, sir. And if there had been one, I should
have known,” he said the last time I asked him. “No. It’s a mystery,
sir.”
There was no gayer country house in all England than Deene Park in
those days before the war. Our hostess, a _grande dame_ of the old
school, threw open her beautiful home to her friends, and without
stint or formality bade them enjoy themselves.
Yet Lady Cardigan was most punctiliously dignified, and, as everyone
who knew her is so well aware, she resented any intrusion on her
privacy. In her insistence of the observance of her “manorial
rights,” she in many ways outvied the most feudal chatelaine.
It was her custom, when the weather was fine and warm, to be wheeled
on to the beautiful terrace at Deene. She invariably selected a spot
near a large magnolia, whose creamy blossoms and glossy leaves made
a special appeal to the exotic tastes of the old lady. Here she would
doze happily till Knighton, in due time, reappeared and conducted her
with pomp and circumstance back to the house.
Mrs. ffoulkes, who stayed at Deene a good deal while collaborating
with the old lady in writing her famous memoirs, found me with a
fellow-guest, Rear-Admiral H. W. Wilkin, in the smoking-room one
afternoon and told me an amusing incident that had just happened.
It seems that her ladyship was dozing in the shade of the magnolia
when her slumbers were disturbed by the sound of voices.
“And--now--dear Mr. Smith,” came in the cultured High Church accents
of the neighbouring Vicar’s wife, “you will get a good view of the
park, and here--is the wonderful magnolia.”
“Oh, how truly fair,” drawled the impulsive young shepherd of souls,
who accompanied her, “but how very sad it is to reflect on the many
scandalous stories current about this beautiful ancestral home!”
Suddenly an imperious, high-pitched voice made itself heard.
“Who are you, and how dare you walk on my terrace?” it demanded.
The intruders approached the locality whence the voice proceeded,
and there they saw an irate and golden-haired lady, whose facial
adornment would have given points to Jezebel, yet whose attire was
more suitable for a young lady still in her teens.
The Vicar’s wife was, as befitted her calling, courageous!
“Mr. Smith was lunching with us, your ladyship,” she said, “and I
thought I would bring him across the park to look at the beautiful
magnolia.”
“Am I Countess of Cardigan, or am I not?” demanded the Lady of the
Magnolia. “You’ve no business to bring any fool of a curate about
here! I hate ’em!” Then, ringing a bell furiously, she shrieked:
“Knighton--Knighton--_Knighton_! Turn these people _out_!” At this
moment Knighton, discreet as ever, appeared from nowhere, and, with
a gesture worthy of an Archbishop’s butler, conducted the Vicar’s
wife and the curate homewards, and then rapidly removed the enraged
countess.
In the great hall of Deene, a replica of Westminster Hall and built
at the same time, the aged countess would sing chansonettes after
dinner, and dance with her guests with the agility of a young woman,
and yet she was over eighty!
Great Britain will never again see her equal, for both she and Lady
Dorothy Nevill, whom I knew well, were the last of the old Victorian
school, and passed just as the port-drinking, fox-hunting parson, and
the fat squire of the Pickwickian days, have passed.
My friend Nash and I were among the guests at Deene one week-end
after her recollections had been published, the fashion of writing
memoirs set, and the whole world laughing at her amusing and often
rather ill-natured stories. Nash, at dinner, related the following:
“Lord Frederic Hamilton invariably tells me some amusing story when
we meet. The one I remember best is about an American millionaire who
decided to buy a property in Scotland. He arranged to look over an
estate in the Highlands, and the Scottish peer to whom it belonged
made a point of showing him round the place himself. When at last
they returned to the house the American happened to notice over the
entrance-hall the words: ‘EAST, WEST, HAME’S BEST,’ and, turning to
the owner, he remarked, ‘Well, my lord, it’s very kind of you to
have shown me over this property, and I don’t think we’re likely to
fall out about the price, but there’s one stipulation I must make
(pointing to the motto). That damned fellow Hame has got to take down
his ad-ver-tisement.’”
Eveleigh Nash is a splendid raconteur and a well-known
man-about-town, as well as being a famous publisher. Mrs. George
Pinckard, who is so well known in Society, once remarked to me, “The
Row would never be the same if Eveleigh deserted it.”
Not long ago he and I were dining with “Ruby”--as her intimate
friends call her--at her delightful Georgian home in Chesterfield
Street, Mayfair. George Pinckard, her husband, was M.F.H. in
Surrey, and, by the way, generously gave a military remount depôt
to the Government, which he himself supported. Afterwards in the
drawing-room the conversation turned on literary people, whereupon
Nash, in his dry way, said:
“I used frequently to meet J. W. Cross, who married George Eliot,
the novelist, and I once heard him tell at a house-party a good
story about himself. Cross, after spending several years of his life
as a banker in Wall Street, returned to settle down in his native
country, and shortly afterwards received an invitation from a friend
to stay with him for the grouse shooting. It was about the time that
‘driving’ birds was introduced, and Cross, whose shooting had got
rather rusty during the years he had spent in New York, deemed it
advisable to get some coaching from the head gamekeeper. After a few
days the host remarked to the keeper, ‘How’s Mr. Cross getting on,
Joe?’ ‘Well, sir,’ replied Joe, ‘he’s _missing_ better than he did!’
Some years afterwards Cross told this story to King Edward, whose
service Joe had entered, and the King remarked, laughing, ‘I shall
never get rid of Joe; that’s one of the most tactful things that has
ever been said.’”
The Cardigan memoirs being such a huge success, I suggested that my
old friend the Princess Luisa, wife of the Crown Prince, now King of
Saxony, should publish her recollections.
Perhaps my claim to be an old friend of Her Imperial Highness is
shown by what she herself has written in _The Life Story of the
Ex-Crown Princess of Saxony_.
In that book she says:
“Though I may be an Imperial Princess of the fatal Hapsburgs, with
many titles after my name as registered in the _Almanach de Gotha_, I
am, after all, only a woman with the same heart, the same sentiments,
the same maternal love, and the same detestation of hypocrisy and
sham as any woman who reads this narrative of mine.
“I know England well, and I know and admire the dear British people.
I know beautiful Scotland. With Mr. Le Queux I have shopped in Bond
Street in London and in Prince’s Street in Edinburgh, and I have been
in Oban and in Inverness, at Cowes and at Ilfracombe, but none has
dreamed that the woman in a plain navy skirt and cream blouse--both
made, by the way, in the Rue de la Paix--was the same person about
whose erratic doings so much has been written at the instigation of
her enemies.
“I love the public. Heartily tired as I am of the glare and glitter
of palaces and the wild turmoil of unceasing plot and counterplot
among those who elbow each other to get into the vicinity of a
throne, I prefer a life with the public to one apart from it.
“Some years ago I went upon an escapade in Dresden which would have
shocked the stiff and narrow-minded Court, in order to discover for
myself in what estimation I was held by my Saxon people. As a matter
of fact, Mr. Le Queux was at our Court at Dresden at the time, and
with my husband, the Crown Prince Frederick-August, we had sat at
five o’clock tea, when the sudden idea occurred to me.
“Mr. Le Queux had mentioned that _Il Trovatore_ was to be given at
the opera that night, and had been recalling some reminiscences of
the great composer, Verdi, with whom both he and his father had been
intimate friends. My husband and I were listening to the amusing
stories when it struck me that instead of attending with the royal
circle, as had been arranged--for at Court we are but creatures of
routine, and live by rules and arrangements laid down for us by the
Minister of the Household and the other officials whom we call the
_Grands Chargés de la Cour_--I might go alone and watch.
“After Mr. Le Queux had bowed before King Albert and his consort,
Carola, who had just entered the room, and had departed, I pleaded a
bad headache, and later sent word to my husband that I could not go
to the opera, and did not wish to be disturbed.
“Now, I had a confidential maid--one whom I had brought from Austria
and who had been with me some years--and in her I confided. I sent
her out to a theatrical costumier’s, where she obtained a dark wig
and a box of ‘make-up,’ and, putting on one of her dresses, I was
soon transformed into a woman of the people. In this guise she saw
me out of the Palace by the servants’ entrance, and I proceeded to
the Opera on foot while the others were still dining. For some time I
waited in the queue, then paid for my modest seat in the gallery, and
at last found myself between two stout women, high up, with the royal
box away on my right.
“The house gradually filled while I sat there among the people. Ah!
how my thoughts ran back to my girlhood days, my stiff upbringing,
my staid, angular governess, with all the hide-bound regulations of
Court manners and Court etiquette, and that parrot-cry ever dinned
into my ears since I had been ten years of age: ‘Imperial Highness,
be careful of the public! Imperial Highness, what will they think?
Imperial Highness, what will they say?’
“That night I sat with the public in order to hear and to know what
they said. The King and Queen entered, and the house, including
myself, rose to salute them. The stout woman on my left, with whom I
had already become on friendly terms by offering her a sight of my
programme, exclaimed:
“‘Ah! Carola is in that same shabby old gown she wore a fortnight
ago when we came to hear _Faust_. Cannot a queen afford a new one?’
“‘I suppose she wears the grand ones in the Palace and puts on any
worn-out thing when she comes here--afraid to spoil it, eh?’ remarked
the woman on my other hand.
“At that moment my husband, smart in his blue uniform, smiling and
good-looking, entered the box, and, advancing, bowed, whereupon all
hands were clapped.
“‘Ah!’ exclaimed the stout critic on my right. ‘The Crown Prince is
only a dressed-up popinjay. He will be our King soon, of course--a
fine, handsome man, but nowadays he dare not call his soul his own,
with such a father and mother!’
“‘When he becomes King he will be all right’ declared the other
woman. ‘Old Albert cannot last for ever. But look! they’ve shut the
door of the box. Where is Luisa? Isn’t she coming?’
“The orchestra struck up, and in the royal box they had all settled
themselves.
“‘Poor Luisa!’ went on the woman, turning to me confidentially as
she added, ‘Another unpleasantness, I suppose! Her life must be a
wretched one. She looks always so smiling and so good-tempered, yet
whenever one sees her driving, here in the theatre, or at the reviews
there is a look in her face of sadness and disappointment. Haven’t
you noticed it?’ she asked. ‘That smile she wears is only the mask of
a broken heart.’
“‘Do you really think so?’ I asked.
“‘Yes, of course. Why, everyone knows what a dull life she has of it
with old Carola snapping at her all the time, and the King going out
of his way to make things uncomfortable for her. Everybody in Saxony
pities poor Luisa!’
“I was silent. So that was what the public were saying about me!
“One woman I took to be the wife of an artisan, the other was, no
doubt, the wife of a small tradesman, and I--well, I was the wife of
the elegant, good-looking Crown Prince who sat in the middle of the
royal box, smiling graciously upon those upon whom he was so soon to
be called to rule.
“I learnt much that evening. It taught me that though I was without
friends in that great, gloomy, gilded Palace, yet the Saxon people
were my friends.
“Yes, I love the public; yet from my earliest recollections as a girl
I had been always taught to hate _das verdammte Publikum_ (the damned
public), as my father, the Grand Duke of Tuscany usually referred
to the people: a favourite remark, by the way, of the late Emperor
Francis Josef.
“For the benefit of those who may not know exactly who I am,” she
goes on in the book of her life story, “I may, perhaps, say that
though I am usually called Luisa, Ex-Crown Princess of Saxony, I
was christened on September 8th, 1870, at the Imperial Castle of
Salzburg, with eleven different names, and succeeded to the titles of
Archduchess of Austria, Duchess of this, Baroness of that, Countess,
and what not. Under my last title, Countess of Montignoso--a
beautiful estate in Italy, belonging to my family--I am still known,
for even the wrath of poor old Francis Josef--himself no saint, by
the way--could not deprive me of that. My father was Ferdinand IV.,
Grand Duke of Tuscany, and my grandfather, the last ruler of Tuscany,
lived in the Pitti Palace in Florence, now turned into one of the
greatest art-galleries in the world, which many of my readers know,
and have, no doubt, admired.”
* * * * *
The affairs of this erratic yet charming lady had, ever since she had
separated from her husband and had her name connected with M. Giron,
her son’s tutor, been in my hands, and it struck me that if I could
induce her to write the story of her eventful life, so much of which
I alone knew, it should be of great interest.
After an unconventional career all over Europe, the Princess had
fallen deeply in love with Signor Toselli, who was, by the way,
utterly unsuited to her, as I openly told her. But she was bent on
marrying him, and at her request I arranged that the contract should
be made one morning in secret at the Registry Office in Henrietta
Street, Strand.
It was a few months after their marriage that I travelled from London
to Fiesole, above Florence, where they were living in a large old
Italian villa, and not without a great deal of persuasion I prevailed
upon the Princess to receive Mrs. Maude Chester ffoulkes and to allow
her to collaborate with her in writing her memoirs.
This she did, with the result that the second volume of memoirs,
_My Own Story_, was published by the House of Nash, and was even a
greater success than the recollections of Lady Cardigan.
Since then we have been flooded by books of the reminiscences of
persons, some well known, and others a trifle obscure, but I have
thought it to be of some little interest to here tell the story of
how the fashion in “memoirs” was inaugurated.
The events that immediately followed the Princess’s secret marriage I
will let Her Imperial Highness describe in her own words:
“A small party of five people entered the restaurant of the Savoy
Hotel, and sat down to a table overlooking the river, to eat the
wedding luncheon. All five of us were half fearful lest we might be
recognized, but among that gay, chattering throng we were unnoticed,
and whispered our toasts across our glasses.
“Luncheon ended, we passed out by the back of the hotel and walked
along the Embankment, fondly believing that nobody knew of the happy
event. But already the sleuth-hounds of the London Press had scented
news of it from the Registrar’s Office, the register had been
inspected and a copy of the register obtained. While walking along a
Press-photographer took a snapshot of Signor Toselli, Mr. Le Queux,
and myself, which was the first inkling we had that our secret was
out.
“We decided to enter the Hotel Cecil by the back way, and Mr. Le
Queux conducted my husband and myself to his rooms, urging us to
admit no one. Meanwhile he descended to the front hall to deal
diplomatically with an assembly of thirty or forty representatives of
various newspapers clamouring for news. It was not every day that an
Imperial Princess was married in secret at a London Registry Office.
“Because I had endeavoured to keep the whole thing quiet, Mr. Le
Queux was extremely discreet. He admitted to the reporters that I
had been married, a fact they already knew from the copy of the
certificate, which one enterprising journalist had demanded and paid
for. Of details Mr. Le Queux gave none. Though a writer himself, he
was full of regrets that he could not oblige his friends, yet, as he
pointed out, he was compelled to respect my wishes.
“Meanwhile an amusing incident has occurred upstairs. Signor Toselli
was seated writing a letter while I stood at the window, when, of
a sudden, a man burst into the room unannounced and faced us with
surprise upon his face. We, of course, believed him to be a reporter
who had eluded the vigilance of those below, therefore my husband
promptly and with few words took hold of him and bundled him out of
the room.
“A few minutes later Mr. Le Queux returned, accompanied by the man
whom Signor Toselli had so unceremoniously ejected, and introduced
him. He was Mr. Fred Le Queux, who, of course, knowing nothing of the
circumstances, had been astounded to find strangers occupying his
brother’s quarters.
“Truly, that day was one fraught with much excitement. We dare not
go forth from the hotel, for the journalists were still watchful.
They had been informed in confidence that we were to leave Victoria
that night for Paris. Instead of doing so, however, Mr. Le Queux
and myself drove in one cab, with my husband and Mr. Le Queux’s
brother in another, to Charing Cross Station, and were able to leave
unobserved, while the journalists were waiting eagerly at Victoria.”
The skittish Princess omits to tell what she said to me on our way to
the station:
“Now, Mr. Le Queux, thank you for all you’ve done for me to-day. I
know you hesitated, and you have done this because you are my old
friend, and I’m very grateful. But there is only one thing wanting to
complete the sensation which will be in the papers to-morrow!”
“And what is that?” I asked.
“Why, for me to elope with you!” she laughed. “That would be a
first-class shocker for the people, wouldn’t it?”
Princess Luisa was always incorrigible, as those who have read her
own story so well know.
And none know it more than myself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Adventures: Humorous and Curious--My Only Superstition--I
Purchase a Mummy Mask of an Arab at Luxor and Two of
My Servants Die--Lord Carnarvon’s Death--I Ride on the
First Motor-Car in England--Motoring Adventures with
Lord Northcliffe--Secrets of How England Saw the First
Aeroplanes--William Caspar, Adventurer and Practical
Joker--The Race that Finished Before It Started.
I am by no means a superstitious man except in one direction, and
it has been forcibly brought back to me by the recent death of my
friend Lord Carnarvon--who, by the way, took a great interest in
the Casino at Corfu, in which I was also interested--following on
his discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamen at Thebes. There are a
good many, including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who believe the Earl’s
sudden end to be due to the vengeance of the “Ka” or “double” of the
Pharaoh. From the historian Herodotus we learn that the wise men of
Egypt taught that the souls of the dead passed through “every species
of terrestrial, aquatic, and winged creatures.” And to many of the
present generation it does not seem incredulous that the spirit of
the dead monarch, or of some other soul who resented interference
with the king’s tomb, has taken revenge through the agency of a
poisonous insect.
In the Egyptian “Book of the Dead” it is distinctly laid down,
that the preservation of the body was necessary for the continued
existence of the soul, hence the efforts to embalm and to preserve
it undisturbed. Herodotus again asserts that the soul returns to
animate the dead frame “after a period of 3,000 years.”
To me, this is of peculiar interest on account of my own personal
experience. While at Thebes a few years ago. Sir Gaston Maspero--one
of the greatest Egyptologists who ever lived, and then head of the
Antique Department of the Egyptian Government--introduced me to
an old Arab _hadj_, who lived in Luxor, and who acted as agent of
the British and other national museums, for, as is well known, all
antiques discovered in Egypt are first claimed by the Government,
but if better specimens are already in the great museum in Cairo,
then the duplicate objects are sold. Indeed, there is a room in the
Cairo museum where they are marked in plain figures, and are all, of
course, guaranteed genuine.
In the den of the old fellow with the green turban we inspected
a quantity of things he had for sale, all duplicates of objects
already in the museum, and I bought several things to add to my own
collection, including several fine strings of beads, a human eye
of lapis-lazuli from a sarcophagus, a number of amulets, Ushabitu
figures, an alabaster canopic jar, and, finest of all, the gilded
mask from the mummy of a priestess of Isis who had lived in the
Eighteenth Dynasty, viz. 1600 B.C., and which had been found in a
tomb near Aswân.
I had them carefully packed, and brought them home to my house
overlooking Dartmoor. I arranged them in a big glass case, where
there were other objects I had previously collected in Egypt. In
the centre on a wooden stand, I placed the gilt mask; it was in a
splendid state of preservation. Judge of my dismay, however, when,
on entering the room next day, I found that the mask had dropped to
pieces from its stand!
I had it repaired, but within one week from that date I suffered a
severe financial loss; one of my servants died from disease; and a
second servant expired suddenly, an inquest being held on her at
Ashburton. In the next week a relative died quite unexpectedly, and
also my pet collie. During the week following I had another serious
financial loss, which compelled me to give up the house.
Feeling that there must be some uncanny influence at work, I packed
up the whole of my Egyptian collection, including the mummy-mask, and
sent it to the Peterborough Museum, where they have ever since been
on exhibition.
Is it little wonder, therefore, that the strange circumstances that
surrounded the death of Lord Carnarvon should interest me? While
those objects I bought in Luxor were in my possession ill-fortune
certainly dogged me. Whether somebody’s “Ka” was annoyed with me, or
whether an “elemental” had been let loose, I know not. I can only
relate my own experiences and let others comment on them.
Those who knew Lord Carnarvon knew that he loved practical joking.
I had several examples of it. His character was a mingling of
shrewdness and whimsicality. He told me one day, on his return from
America, of an adventure of his there. He had apparently promised a
friend in the City--a rich company promoter, whom I knew well--to
obtain information regarding a certain much-boomed commercial
enterprise in America. On his way to California he paused in New
York, and of the hotel barber made inquiry regarding the person in
control of the venture.
The man who cut his hair gave his opinion, and recounted certain
facts concerning the great American financier. Later he wrote a note
asking for an interview. He was received by the industrial magnate,
whom he described to me as “a fellow with eyes like gimlets and a
mouth like a steel rat-trap.”