Brussels—Ostend—General Sir John Douglas—Spa—“Captain
Arthy”—Boulogne
On leaving Frankfurt, we went to Brussels, where we lived in a large
house on the Boulevard de Waterloo, which looked out on to a very fine
avenue of trees. Captain Dorrien came with us on a visit to my parents
and stayed for some months. Captain Dorrien, in after years, lost his
whole fortune, when the late Earl of Sheffield, who had been at Eton with
him, insisted on his going to live at his fine house in Portland Place,
where he was given full authority over all the servants, lived free of
all cost to himself, and received a cheque for £500, while the Earl
went for a six months’ cruise in his yacht. This was told me by Captain
Dorrien himself, at a time when he was in far better circumstances.
Lord Howard de Walden was then the English Minister at Brussels, and my
parents were on very friendly terms with him and his family. Two of the
sons came often to our house; one was in the Royal Navy, and the other in
the 60th Rifles. The eldest son, who afterwards succeeded to the title,
was then in the 4th Hussars, but I never met him. Many years afterwards,
I met Lady Howard de Walden, then a widow, in India, at Murree, in the
Himalayas, where she dined at our mess with her daughter, Miss Ellis.
The two ladies were about to start on a journey to Kashmir, on ponies,
as Lady Howard de Walden said that it was her intention to see as much
of the world as she could before she died. She was then seventy. She
added that it was a singular coincidence that the two regiments in which
her sons had served—the 4th Hussars and the 60th Rifles—both of which
she visited, should be quartered quite near Kashmir, the Hussars at
Rawal Pindi, and the 2nd Battalion, 60th Rifles, at Murree. Lady Howard
de Walden accomplished the difficult journey to Kashmir and returned in
safety.
We were on friendly terms with the Baron de Taintegnies, who was in
attendance on Leopold II., King of the Belgians, and also with his
three lovely daughters, who, with their cousins, the daughters of Baron
Danetan, were considered the most beautiful girls in Brussels society at
that time. One of the former married, in later years, Captain Stewart
Muirhead, of the Blues, a friend of my father and of Captain Dorrien.
Frederick Milbanke, of the Blues, an old Etonian, who was a great friend
of my father, was at that time a good deal in Brussels, and married
a Belgian actress there. Milbanke was heir to some of the Duke of
Cleveland’s estates, but he died before coming into this property. The
last time I saw him was at the Alexandra Hôtel, in London, where he and
his wife had a very fine suite of rooms, when my father took me there to
pay them a visit. Milbanke was a very handsome, fair man, and his wife
a great beauty. I met the latter in after years at the Grosvenor Hôtel,
where she was staying with her son, a nice-looking boy, who had come back
from Eton for the holidays.
The winter at Brussels was rather a severe one, and there was plenty of
good skating to be had. I remember learning to skate in the Bois de la
Cambre, to which I went with my father. One day I was knocked down by
some lady skaters, and had great difficulty in extricating myself from
their petticoats. I fell very softly, but I was well-nigh smothered. I
was glad when my parents left Brussels, as I had no companions there at
all.
There was then at Ostend a Mrs. Clifton, who had an exceedingly pretty
daughter. Mrs. Clifton was a widow, and afterwards contracted a second
marriage with a brother of Sir Walter Carew. When I was at school at
Kineton, in Warwickshire, the mother and daughter paid me a visit, as
they had an estate not far from the school.
One day, on the Digue at Ostend, I suddenly caught sight of my little
friend, Baron Vogelsang, who, leaving his father and mother, who were
with him, ran up to me at once and kissed me on both cheeks. I saw a good
deal of Vogelsang while I was at Ostend, going often on to the sands with
him, and meeting him in the evening at the children’s dance at the Casino.
The Baron de Taintegnies’s daughter used to attend those dances, to
which the Duc de Sequeira, a young boy I knew, generally went. Marie,
the Baron’s eldest daughter, who was a lovely girl, afterwards became
the Baronne Le Clément de Taintegnies. She lives at Minehead, where she
has a fine estate and hunts with the Devon and Somerset Staghounds.
I heard from her quite recently. Her sister Isa, who married Captain
Stewart Muirhead, is now a widow, her husband having died in Paris in
1906. She also hunts with the staghounds in Devonshire, and both sisters
are well-known horsewomen. Aline, the youngest sister, who was called
“Bébé,” and whom I admired very much when a child at Brussels and Ostend,
married, in 1871, Baron de Hérissem, and, after his death, went to Italy,
where she married again and lived for several years. She died at Ancona
in March, 1906.
There was a racing man at Ostend, named Captain Riddell, who won all
the principal steeplechases that were run there. Mrs. Ind, the wife of
the well-known brewer, was his sister. Riddell met with a very serious
accident in a steeplechase at Ostend, injuring his spine. The horse
which he was riding on that occasion was once ridden by my father on
the sands, and he told me that he was a perfect devil to hold. When a
young man, my father once rode a hundred miles in twelve hours on the
same horse for a bet at Taunton, in Somerset, and won his wager easily,
with plenty of time to spare. He and Charles Kinglake, a brother of the
author of “Eöthen,” were the only persons who were willing to go up in a
balloon at Taunton, when the first one came there, which was considered
rather venturesome at the time. This reminds me that one of the oldest
inhabitants of Bristol told me lately that he remembered when the first
iron ship was launched at that port, and how all the residents declared:
“The idea of iron floating is too absurd to entertain for one instant;
the ship is bound to sink, for iron can never be made to keep above
water.”
The King and Queen of Würtemberg were both then at Ostend. Queen Olga,
who was a Russian Grand Duchess by birth, was said to be the handsomest
woman in Europe. She had very regular features, but was at that time
excessively pale and thin. Her niece, the Grand Duchess Olga, was the
first proposed _fiancée_ of Ludwig II., King of Bavaria. His Majesty,
however, refused to marry her. This is not generally known. The Grand
Duchess Olga afterwards married the late King George of Greece.
King Leopold II. and Queen Henriette were at Ostend at that time with
their children, who used to drive on the sands in a small carriage drawn
by four cream-coloured ponies. Baron de Taintegnies was usually on the
Digue of an afternoon with the King, sitting down or walking about.
Among my father’s friends at Ostend were Lord Orford and Lord Brownlow
Cecil. The latter was very fond of music, and married a lady there who
was a magnificent pianist. One day I can remember my father sitting in
the Casino with Henry Labouchere, an old Etonian, who had formerly been
in the Diplomatic Service. Labouchere was smoking a big cigar, and he
and my father had a long conversation. What it was about, I cannot say,
though they were continually laughing; and my father told me afterwards
that Labouchere was very amusing, and, though sarcastic, witty, and that
he rather liked him.[7]
General Sir John Douglas, K.C.B., Commander of the Forces in Scotland,
and his wife, Lady Elizabeth Douglas, daughter of Earl Cathcart, were a
good deal with my parents at Ostend. The General used to take long walks
with my father, and he put my name down for his old regiment, the 79th
Highlanders, and for the Scots Guards. Sir John Douglas was extremely
kind to me in after years, and invited me to stay with him at Edinburgh;
but I could not get leave from my colonel at the time, and consequently
was obliged, to my great regret, to decline his kind invitation.
My parents used very often to spend the summer months at Ostend, and
one year they occupied the apartments at the Hôtel de Prusse which
the Russian Ambassador, Prince Orloff, had just vacated. One day,
after washing my hands in my bedroom, I emptied the water out of the
window, for some unaccountable reason. Later in the day, the Princess
de Caraman-Chimay sent up her lady’s maid to say that a dress which the
Princess had intended wearing the following evening at a Court ball at
Brussels had been completely spoiled by the water. I was well scolded by
my mother for being the cause of this misfortune.
The English clergyman at Ostend was a Mr. Jukes. He had a very
good-looking son, a boy about my own age. He told me that he was in the
habit of walking in his sleep, and showed me his bedroom window, which
had a padlock on it. When I asked him where the key of it was, he said
that they would not tell him, in case he might get up in the night,
unlock it, and walk on the roof of the house, which, he said, he had done
before. His father once met me with mine in the street, and when told
that I was going into the British Army, said that he entirely disapproved
of soldiers, and thought that the time was near at hand when there would
be no more wars and every dispute would be settled by arbitration. I
fancied at that time that Mr. Jukes’s prophecy might come true, but, as
subsequent events proved, we were very far indeed from its realisation.
Both the King and Queen of the Belgians were very popular with the
inhabitants of Ostend. They used to walk on the Digue quite unattended,
and seemed in no way inconvenienced by the crowd, who always treated them
with the greatest respect. The King wore plain clothes, usually a dark
suit with a tall white hat, and never appeared there in uniform. A very
good story is told of Leopold II., who, some years ago, during the summer
months, was at Luchon, in the Pyrenees. The day after he arrived there,
the King sent for a hairdresser, and directed him to trim his silvery
beard. When the operation was over, His Majesty inquired what he had to
pay.
“It will be twenty francs, Your Majesty,” replied the hairdresser without
hesitation.
The King pulled out a two-franc piece, which he handed to this too
facetious Figaro.
“I am accustomed,” said he, “to pay very well. Here is a two-franc piece.
It is a new Belgian coin, and you will see my head on it, as you wished
to pay yourself for it.” (“_Vous y verrez ma tête, puisque vous avez
voulu vous la payer._”)
It is said that the hairdresser left without asking for the rest of the
money, and that, since this adventure, he placed over his shop a fine
board, inscribed: “Furnisher of H.M. the King of the Belgians.”
My mother spent a summer at Spa, where she took a house with a garden
attached to it. I liked the place very much, and often went for rides on
a pony in the woods with the late Captain Lennox Berkeley, who afterwards
became Earl of Berkeley. The country round Spa is mountainous and very
charming. Spa itself is an exceedingly pretty place, situated in a valley
entirely surrounded by hills and woods, and the Ardennes are not far off.
But in the summer months the heat is intense, and, when the sun once gets
into the valley, there is often not a breath of air. The promenade, where
the band plays morning and evening, is charming, and it is very pleasant
to sit beneath the shady trees and listen to the excellent orchestra. I
often used to go there with my mother, particularly of a morning, when
all the _monde élégant_ used to forgather to listen to the music. The
gambling-rooms were then open for roulette and trente-et-quarante, and
Captain Berkeley used often to try his luck at them, but, unfortunately,
he was not successful. I can remember his giving me “Japhet in Search of
a Father,” by Captain Marryat, and recommending me to read it. I did so,
and it amused me very much.
Another of my father’s friends, the late Captain Bromley, an old Etonian,
and a son of Sir Thomas Bromley, was at Spa at the same time. One day,
when I happened to tell him that I was going into the Army, he smiled,
and said that he never could hit off with his colonel. The latter
complained that he was always late for parade, and asked him if he did
not hear the bugles sound. He answered:—
“Yes, sir—I hear the bugles, but there must be something wrong with
them, for they don’t sound the right note.” The Colonel soon found him
incorrigible, and he himself that he was never made for a soldier.
Bromley told me that, when a boy, he was accustomed to dine off gold
plates and that everything he used at table was of gold. Suddenly, his
father died, and his elder brother inherited the title and estates, while
he was obliged to live on a few hundreds a year. This, he said, was the
fault of our law of primogeniture, which ought only to take effect in the
case of ducal houses, where the bearer of the title should be made to pay
an “appanage” to the other members of the family, as is the rule on the
Continent.
It has often been asserted by authors of great authority that women are
much meaner than men; but I have known some instances to the contrary.
Once, during our stay at Spa, a gentleman called on my mother, and told
her that he had lost all he possessed, and asked her to lend him £50,
as he was anxious to rejoin his wife. My mother, who had known him for
years, said that she would give him all she had in the house—nearly
£40—for which he was very grateful, both at the time and when we met him
and his wife in later years.
Once I was staying with my father at Desseins Hôtel, at Calais,[8] when
he told me that he had made the acquaintance of an Englishman, a certain
Captain Arthy, who was rather a singular character, indeed, highly
eccentric. It appeared that he had just lost his wife, and that he was so
distressed at her death that he wore all the trinkets which had belonged
to her on his watch-chain, to show his affection for her. He had not,
however, gone into mourning, and always affected a red tie, saying that
he wore the mourning in his heart, upon which he used to lay his hand as
he spoke. I was introduced to Captain Arthy, who was a bald-headed man,
with black side-whiskers and rather a red face, dressed in a light suit
of clothes. The quantity of charms on his watch-chain would have almost
filled the window of a jeweller’s shop, while numerous rings adorned his
fingers. He was perpetually smiling, displaying a set of very fine teeth
when he did so.
He invited my father and me to see his rooms, which were full of gold and
silver cups, which he told us, had belonged to his late wife. The late
Mrs. Winsloe, whose husband was a friend of my father, was staying at
this hôtel. Mr. Winsloe was a well-known man in Somersetshire, but he had
recently gone out of his mind. His wife had been a great beauty, but she
was then terribly made up, with fair dyed hair.
Mrs. Winsloe, who lived in very luxurious fashion, and occupied a very
fine set of rooms at Desseins Hôtel, said that Arthy was a cousin of her
husband, and showed us a cutting from the _Times_ about the death of Mrs.
Arthy, which had occurred in rather a tragic manner. One evening, when my
father and I were in her salon, she said to Arthy:—
“I wish you would give one of your lockets to that little boy, as a
keepsake from me.” Arthy thereupon took off his watch-chain, and, after
hunting amongst his innumerable lockets, at length chose one, which he
unfastened, saying:—
“Here is a nice gold locket that will do. Will you give him your photo to
put inside it?”
“I haven’t got one,” replied Mrs. Winsloe. “Give him one of yours
instead.” So he cut round one of his photos and, inserting it in the
locket, handed it to me. “Now kiss Mrs. Winsloe,” said he, “for it is her
present to you.” I kissed the paint off her face, and she kissed me, and
I felt sure that she left a coloured impression on my face. But I was so
pleased with the locket, which I attached to my chain, that I did not
care in the least.
Arthy drank champagne with Mrs. Winsloe, and the latter seemed rather
infatuated with him, which was not surprising, as he was a fine-looking
man, though his baldness detracted from his good looks. However, the lady
could not afford to be very _difficile_, being only an artificial beauty,
whose youth was but a memory. Formerly, she had had beautiful hair,
and it still reached to her waist. My father complimented her upon it,
observing:—
“I never saw such lovely hair in my life, or such a perfect colour.”
She looked pleased, and replied, smiling:—
“Yes, I don’t think there are many women who have such fine hair.”
“No, I am sure there are not,” remarked Arthy, who appeared to be
thinking of the gold locket which he had given away, for he looked at his
chain as he spoke.
“He doesn’t half admire you,” said my father, laughing.
“I am sure I do; I think my cousin the loveliest woman possible,” replied
the other, who appeared annoyed at my father’s remark.
Mrs. Winsloe looked at Arthy and smiled, being evidently under the
impression that he was jealous, as he appeared angry with my father.
The fact was that Arthy was anxious to ingratiate himself with Mrs.
Winsloe, as she was very wealthy. Accordingly, he pretended to admire
her, though it needed only half a glance to see that in reality he
considered her very far from beautiful. Mrs. Winsloe not only paid for
her own rooms at the hôtel, but all the expensive dinners which she and
Arthy had together were entered to her account. The latter had a great
partiality for naval officers, and as an American warship, the _Alabama_,
of the Confederate Navy, happened to be lying at Calais at this time,
he invited some of the officers to dine with him and Mrs. Winsloe. They
accepted, and were most sumptuously entertained, champagne flowing like
water.
After staying six weeks with his cousin, Arthy left for England. Soon
afterwards, the officers of a British warship at Portsmouth received an
invitation from the Duke of St. Albans to dine with him at an hôtel. The
captain of the ship happened to be away, and, on his return, the other
officers told him what a good dinner he had missed and loudly praised the
ducal hospitality.
“The Duke of St. Albans!” exclaimed the captain, in astonishment. “How
can you possibly have dined with him that evening? Why, the very same day
I was shooting quite near the duke’s property, and I happened to see
him! I will go to the hôtel and find out who it can be.”
The captain lost no time in instituting inquiries, with the result that
the supposed duke was laid by the heels just as he was preparing to leave
Portsmouth, and turned out to be none other than the man who had passed
as Captain Arthy at Calais. It was subsequently ascertained that he was a
certain Comte d’Aubigny, a member of a very old and noble French family,
and that he had deceived several people in the same way. My father, on
hearing of this, remarked:—
“It is the first time that I have been taken in by a man, but I am glad I
am not the only one he deceived.”
The enterprising gentleman was afterwards brought to trial and sentenced
to seven years’ penal servitude.
My parents sometimes spent the summer months at Boulogne, one year taking
a large house at some little distance from the sea, overlooking a public
garden. The late Captain Elwes, a nephew of the Duchess of Wellington,
who was Vice-Consul at Boulogne, was a friend of my parents. He was
devoted to painting, and, many years later, painted a miniature of an
American lady for his cousin, the Marquis of Anglesey. It was beautifully
painted, but, unfortunately, when it was finished, the Marquis had fallen
in love with another Transatlantic belle, so he did not appreciate the
miniature quite as much as he might have done, if his affections had not
been diverted from the original. Elwes hoped to be appointed Consul at
Boulogne, but whether he ever obtained that post, I cannot say. The last
time I met him was in Paris, many years later, at a dinner given by the
Marquis of Anglesey, at the Hôtel d’Albe, in the Champs Elysées.
Lord Henry Paget, afterwards Marquis of Anglesey, was very fond of
Boulogne, and lived there with his first wife. The latter died at
Boulogne, quite suddenly, but the Marquis continued to visit the place,
and my father saw a good deal of him.
George Lawrence, the author of “Guy Livingstone,” son of Lady Emily
Lawrence, was frequently at Boulogne, and often with my parents. I can
remember my father relating how one day he went with him to see one of
the lovely daughters of the Baron de Taintegnies off to Paris, and how
Lawrence was so infatuated with the young lady, that he jumped into the
train, without any luggage, merely to have the pleasure of travelling
with her all the way to Paris, a journey of about five hours. On reaching
Paris, he saw Mlle. de Taintegnies safely to her destination, and then
took the train back to Boulogne.
My parents were particularly fond of Lawrence, who was good-humoured,
clever, and very amusing. I heard that he had a quarrel with Tom Hohler,
who married the Duchess of Newcastle, on account of having introduced
him into one of his novels, called “Breaking a Butterfly.” Hohler was
very friendly with my father in later years in Paris. We had a white
Pomeranian dog, and Tom Hohler asked my father to show it to the Duke of
Newcastle, who was then a child, living with his mother in the Avenue
d’Antin. The dog took such a fancy to the young Duke that it forsook
us for him entirely. I heard recently from the Duke of Newcastle, who
was kind enough to be interested in this book, that he remembered this
Pomeranian dog quite well, and told me its name—“Loulou”—which I had
entirely forgotten. The name recalled many things to my recollection. It
is strange how at times we forget a name, and then, when it is mentioned,
associations and incidents connected with it are suddenly recalled to our
memory and flash before us as in a dream.
Tom Hohler sang for a time at Her Majesty’s Theatre. I never heard him
sing in operas, but I have been told that he had a very pleasing voice,
though it was not a very powerful one. It was said that when he sang in
private houses, he was paid £40 for every song.
Harry Slade, a son of Sir Frederick Slade, stayed for a time at Boulogne
with his mother, of whom we saw a good deal; and, after Lady Slade’s
death, her son stayed for a long time at the Hôtel du Nord, where my
father and I often went to see him. He was a good talker and always very
entertaining.
Mrs. Joe Riggs, an American lady, who afterwards became Princess Ruspoli,
was extremely fond of Boulogne, and generally spent the summer at the
Hôtel Impérial; but this was in later years.