Captain Howard Vyse—An Anecdote of Paganini—New Hats for Old
Ones—Albert Bingham—Baron Alphonse de Rothschild—Madame Alice
Kernave—Gambetta
During the winter months, I was very fond of going on Sundays to
Pasdeloup’s concerts, which were held in the Cirque d’Hiver. One Sunday,
I met the Vicomte d’Assailly there, who told me that he preferred these
concerts to those at the Conservatoire, as at the latter people did not
cease to talk the whole time, which was very trying for those who, like
himself, really cared for music. He was passionately fond of it. On
one occasion, I went to Pasdeloup’s concert with Captain Howard Vyse,
formerly of the “Blues,” an Old Etonian, and a friend of my father, who
was nicknamed “Punch.” He was placed in a seat near the kettledrums,
while I sat some little distance away, as there were very few vacant
seats. After the concert I asked Vyse how he had enjoyed it, when he told
me that he had never slept better in his life, and had not once heard
the kettledrums. He could speak very little French, but he thoroughly
enjoyed going to the Palais-Royal Theatre, and would often tell me of a
play there which was worth seeing, such as _le Réveillon_, by Meilhac and
Halévy, of which he related to me the plot. He was always very lively,
and sometimes rather amusing, and at times he would invite himself to
dine with us, where he was always very welcome. Once, for some reason or
other, my mother did not want him to stay to dinner, and told him that
she was afraid she had nothing to give him. However, he asked her what
there was, and, on being told, said:—
“If I had ordered the dinner myself, I could not have anything I like
better.”
So he remained and dined with us, notwithstanding the excuses my mother
had made for the dinner. My father introduced him to the late Lady Louisa
Meux, sister of the Marquis of Ailesbury, who lived in quite a palace in
the Bois de Boulogne, and had very smart “turn-outs.” She used to give
very good dinners and once invited Howard Vyse to dine with her. Whenever
afterwards my father wanted to annoy him, he would say that he was sure
that Lady Louisa Meux would be pleased to see him at dinner. To which
Vyse would answer angrily:—
“However badly I might want a dinner, I would not go there for anything.”
The explanation of this was a secret between my father and Howard Vyse,
and evidently an amusing one, since they always laughed heartily over it.
Lady Louisa Meux was very rich and highly eccentric. Her husband was in a
lunatic asylum, and she herself was very queer at times. I never knew her
myself, but my father said she occasionally reminded him of a sister of
his, whom he also considered rather eccentric.
Signor Campobello, whose real name was Campbell, used to sing at a house
to which I was sometimes invited of an afternoon. One day, when he had
just sung a song, the lady of the house went up to him and asked him, in
my hearing, to sing again. He replied:
“You are aware of my charges—five hundred francs each song.” To which she
rejoined:—
“I am perfectly well aware of it.”
Campobello’s wife was Madame Sinico, who was also an operatic singer and
often sang at Covent Garden.
The Marquise Brian de Bois-Guilbert, a very pretty and
distinguished-looking woman, when dining with us one evening, happened
to remark how badly professional singers were treated by some people,
and related a story of a man and his wife who were invited to dinner by
some rich people in Paris on purpose to avoid paying them for singing
afterwards. However, after these two singers had had their dinner, they
put a louis each on their plates in payment for it, and immediately
afterwards left the house, much to the disgust and disappointment of
their host and hostess, who had invited them expressly to sing to the
other guests. The Marquise herself sang most beautifully and quite like a
professional, having learned of the celebrated Professor Duprez (formerly
of the Grand Opéra), one of whose very best pupils she was; and when she
did so, always insisted that there should be no talking in the room,
otherwise she would leave off singing at once. This was no idle threat,
as I once saw her carry it out myself.
Captain Berkeley, who was very fond of hearing her sing, would often
remark that English people, as a rule, always begin to talk when anyone
sings or plays, and he once told a story, which, though I have no doubt
it is a very old one, I may as well repeat, for the benefit of those
unacquainted with it:
On one occasion, when Paganini was playing a violin solo, and had reached
the most pathetic part, he was suddenly interrupted by a certain English
peer, who touched his arm and said:—
“_Pardon, Monsieur, mais j’ai besoin de causer avec une dame._”
It appeared that, in order to reach the lady in question, the Englishman
had to pass Paganini, and the bow of the violin happened to be in his way.
“_Si ce ri est pas vrai, c’est très bien trouvé_,” as Captain Berkeley
observed at the time he told me the story. Let us hope that the lady was
worthy of the interruption. Possibly she was a Venus, in which case there
may have been some excuse for this infatuated peer, whoever he may have
been.
The Marquise de Brian de Bois-Guilbert used to pay frequent visits to
the Duchesse d’Abrantès at her fine Château de Bailleul, where the
latter’s sister-in-law, the Comtesse de Faverney, painted a portrait of
the Marquise, which she showed me. It was a very fine one, and, unlike
most amateur productions, really resembled the original. The Duchesse
d’Abrantès was then a lovely young blonde, and one of the best portraits
that I ever saw of her was one which she gave to the Marquise. She was
taken in her garden, standing by a favourite horse, with her arm round
the animal’s neck.
In reference to the Duchesse d’Abrantès, the Marquise once observed, in
the course of a letter to me:—
“_Her whole family is greatly respected at Versailles, not only
because it is illustrious, but because it is very pious and
very charitable. What kindness of heart, perfect courtesy, and
exquisite and truly Christian benevolence do we find in these
illustrious families! I repeat: nothing is comparable to the
courtesy and perfect breeding of the French nobility, which is
doubly kind when one happens to have fallen into misfortune.
Its soul is as lofty as its rank is elevated; its heart is
excellent. The greatest nobility resides at Versailles, for it
is in greater security there than anywhere else._”
And she added:
“_On m’a surnommée ici la rose blanche, puis la blanche
apparition, et j’ai de grand succès de beauté, distinction,
chose rare parmi les femmes; pour mon talent, on est en
extase._”
I went, in later years, to a very smart ball given by the Marquise de
Blocqueville, at which I met the Comtesse de la Taille des Essarts and
her daughter Gabrielle. The latter, with whom I danced, was a fair girl,
who afterwards married the Marquis de Gabriac. I took the Comtesse, who
was an English lady and a friend of my mother’s, in to supper. When I
left the ball, I looked for my opera-hat, which was quite new, and found
a very old one in its place. They told me at the _vestiaire_ that they
thought the Marquis de Rey had taken mine. I accordingly sent him the hat
with a note, asking the return of mine, and received an answer, saying
that he was not the person who had left this old hat, as his was quite
new, and he would have no particular desire to exchange it.
“_Je regrette_,” he wrote, “_d’avoir à vous annoncer que le
chapeau que vous m’avez fait remettre hier n’est pas à moi;
l’échange que vous supposez n’est pas de mon fait; MON chapeau
étant entre mes mains.... Ayez donc la bonté de le faire
reprendre chez mon concierge, numéro 11, rue des Saints-Pères,
etc., etc._”
At the same time, the Marquis expressed the hope that I should find my
own hat, but this I never did.
The above incident reminds me of a story I heard about General Ronald
Lane, of the Rifle Brigade, who was at one time Equerry to the Duke of
Connaught. The gallant officer in question went, many years ago, to a
ball in London, wearing a perfectly new hat, and, on leaving, found, as I
had done, an old one in its place. He must evidently have determined to
pay someone out for the loss of his hat, for the next time he went to a
ball, which he did soon afterwards, he took this old hat with him, and,
leaving the house early, had time to select the newest of the hats in the
cloak-room and one that fitted him perfectly.
“You can see for yourself,” said he to the attendant, “that this old hat
can’t possibly belong to me. I must look for it, and I shall soon find
it.”
In this way, he secured an almost better hat than the one he had lost,
and, of course, he left the old hat in its place.
At a ball given by an American in Paris, the celebrated composer
Waldteufel was conducting one of his own very delightful waltzes, which
he used at times to play in rather slow time, putting always a great deal
of expression into them, when the master of the house came up to him and
asked if he would mind playing the waltz a trifle faster, since it would
suit the dancers better. Waldteufel, whose _amour-propre_ was wounded by
this request, immediately afterwards struck up the “Dead March in Saul,”
and since then no one dared to interfere with him when he was conducting
his orchestra, which he did at all the principal balls, though his fee
was £150 for the night. It was very interesting to watch him conduct his
orchestra, which was excellent, though by no means numerous. At times, he
played the violin and led the orchestra somewhat in the manner of Edward
Strauss, though he went through more peculiar movements with his arms
and legs than even the latter does. Edward Strauss always seems to dance
himself when he conducts his orchestra and plays waltzes and polkas,
and looks pleasant; but Waldteufel always looked furious. I remember at
balls, when I was dancing a cotillion or a waltz, I used to be rather
afraid of him, as one never knew at any time what eccentricity he might
not be prompted to indulge in. Sometimes, he would stop his orchestra
in the middle of a dance; at others, he would play an overture when you
were expecting a waltz. In fact, with him one had to be prepared for
anything. But the Americans in Paris were such beautiful dancers that
these eccentricities rather pleased them, and, besides, they could dance
to almost any _tempo._
The Marquis de Grandmaison used often to dine with us in the Rue d’Albe.
He was a very strongly-built, clean-shaven man, and wore his hair very
short; so much so, indeed, that one day, when he had given a photograph
of himself to my father, the latter said:—
“You look, my dear fellow, as if you had undergone ten years’ penal
servitude!”
Grandmaison laughed, as he always enjoyed a joke, even when it was at his
own expense. Generally, he would retaliate, and my father and he used to
make fun of one another. The Marquis, who belonged to one of the noblest
families in France, and was a very wealthy man, owned a beautiful hôtel
in Paris. He had lived in the United States and spoke English like an
American. He was very fond of practical jokes, and would make us all
laugh at the tricks he had played on various people. My mother rather
liked him, but at times he was almost too noisy; in fact, very like a
schoolboy, as he was up to all kinds of fun. He belonged to the Jockey
Club, and generally drove a fine four-in-hand to the races at Longchamps,
and he was very fond of racing.
The Marquis de Bois-Hébert, the husband of the well-known author, used
also to drive a very fine four-in-hand in Paris at this time. I knew him
very well and have mentioned him in my book, “Society Recollections in
Paris and Vienna.”
The late Hon. Albert Bingham, brother of Lord Clanmorris, who drew the
pictures in Lady Brassey’s well-known book, used often to dine with
us in the Rue d’Albe, and sometimes brought with him a little pug-dog
called Félice, who was a great favourite, particularly with the ladies.
Bingham was a very pleasant man, with plenty of conversation, and was
most popular in Paris. He was very nice-looking and a good draughtsman,
besides being clever in other ways. I remember him getting me an
invitation to dine with the Naylor-Leylands, who had a fine hôtel in the
Avenue d’Antin, in which the kitchen was at the top of the house. The
Naylor-Leylands had as their secretary a man who had formerly been a
captain in the Rifle Brigade. I was at Eton with Albert Bingham’s nephew,
Lord Clanmorris, who entered the Rifle Brigade. I met him afterwards in
town and also in Paris. He married soon after the last time I saw him. He
has recently died.
The Piétris sometimes came to see us in the Rue d’Albe, and, on the
marriage of the eldest daughter, Marie, I was invited to the wedding,
at which the two younger sisters acted as bridesmaids, and also to the
ball given just before the married couple started on their honeymoon.
About two hundred people were present at this ball, and the supper was
an excellent one, with champagne. I danced with Mlle. Julie Piétri, who
was a beautiful dancer, and looked very pretty that evening in a dress of
pink tulle, with pearls as ornaments.
When Captain Hubert de Burgh, formerly of the 11th Hussars, who was an
Old Etonian and a nephew of the Earl of Cardigan, dined with us, as he
often did, my mother always said that she felt sure that he would break
a wine-glass; and he invariably did so. This was previous to his being
attacked by the sad spinal complaint from which he died. One day, in
the Champs-Elysées, he fell in love at sight with a German lady whom my
father knew, and she told him that she had also fallen in love with de
Burgh. My father introduced them to each other, and de Burgh afterwards
left the lady his entire fortune. At one time my father always went with
him to the different race-meetings round Paris.
In later years, Mr. Tugwell, a banker from Bath, who was on a visit to
Paris, was very anxious to see Ferrières, the magnificent country-seat
of the late Baron Alphonse de Rothschild. Accordingly, having obtained
permission from the Baron himself, who happened to be in Paris at the
time, we went there by train.
Ferrières is one of the most beautiful properties in the world, and
enjoys quite a European reputation for its magnificence. We went all over
the château itself, entering nearly every room. On our arrival at the top
of the house, I recollect seeing some very elaborate coffins, covered
with gold, standing up against the outside walls of certain rooms. The
servant who showed us over the house explained to us about these coffins,
and said whose they were; but I was only too pleased to go down the
staircase again and see them no more. The servant showed us some of the
beautiful _objets d’art_ and paintings which adorned the walls, and told
us that the house contained _objets d’art_ to the value of nearly one
hundred million francs. Baron Alphonse was the wealthiest of all the
Rothschilds, and all the most remarkable _objets d’art_ which had been
amassed by the family in years gone by had been collected and placed in
the Château de Ferrières. We were told that Rothschild rarely ever gave
permission for visitors to see the inside of the château, as he did not
wish journalists and others to describe the interior of this splendid
house and the wealth it contained, which, we were assured, exceeded
that of any other in Europe. Tugwell, who could not speak French, was
delighted to find that one of the gardeners had lived as head gardener
on his estate near Bath, and had also been a gardener in the service of
the Prince of Wales, afterwards King Edward VII. This man showed us over
the greenhouses, and told us that he was one of twenty-seven gardeners
employed at Ferrières, and that the collection of orchids was the finest
in Europe; and Tugwell, who had a very fine collection himself, admitted,
after seeing them, that such must be the case.
Baron Alphonse de Rothschild was a fair man with a long beard. He used,
at one time, to ride a very fine chestnut horse, and to go every morning,
accompanied by his daughter, also on horseback, to the Bois de Boulogne,
returning to his hôtel in time for _déjeuner_ at twelve o’clock. Mlle. de
Rothschild died quite young, and the Baron, who never seemed to get over
her death, died himself not long afterwards.
On one occasion, I went to the Chantilly and to le Vésinet races, and was
shown over the splendid estate of the Duc d’Aumale. Colonel McCall, a
friend of my father, was Equerry to the Duke, and his son, who was an Old
Etonian, served in my regiment, which he commanded in later years. The
Duc d’Aumale bequeathed this splendid property to the French nation. Le
Vésinet races were not of much account, and were only kept going by the
support of the royal owner of Chantilly.
I went, of course, to Versailles to see the magnificent château and
the beautiful gardens, which are laid out in the most charming manner
imaginable, and, though often imitated, have never been equalled. Le
Petit Trianon, with its splendid collection of roses of every possible
_nuance_—the “Souvenir à la Malmaison,” “Prince Noir,” “La France,”
“Niphetos,” “Boule de Neige,” and so forth—greatly enhance the charm
of that part of the gardens; and when the great fountains are playing,
the view from the terrace is quite fairy-like in its wonderful beauty,
and the château looks like one of those magic palaces described in the
“Arabian Nights.” When there is a display of fireworks and the fountains
are lit up by various coloured lights, you may almost imagine yourself
in fairyland or living in the days of the Caliph Haroun Alrashid,
particularly if one happens to be in the company of a fair lady, as I was
in that of Mlle. Renée Leclerc.
I went once to Enghien with my mother and the Marquise Brian de
Bois-Guilbert, where we listened to a fine Prussian military band, which
played, as the Marquise observed, better than most French military bands.
It was, however, depressing to reflect that the Prussians were then
in occupation and so near Paris. Enghien is a nice little place, with
an artificial lake and some fine houses, and the public garden, where
the band plays of an afternoon, is a very pretty one. The Marquise de
Bois-Guilbert stayed there during the War, and for some time afterwards,
before returning to Paris, where she usually lived.
I once visited the Fair of Saint-Germain with some friends. In one of
the shows a woman conjuror singled me out, and asked me to hold a gold
coin in my hand. Then, telling me to keep my hand tightly closed, she
went away to a considerable distance, counted up to three and fired off
a pistol. Afterwards, she asked me to open my hand and to count aloud in
French the pieces it contained, which I found numbered over thirty. How
the trick was performed I have never had the slightest idea to this day.
I was once at the Cirque d’Hiver, in Paris, when a woman was blindfolded
on the stage; after which her husband came up to me and asked if I had a
foreign bank-note about me. I gave him an Austrian one, which he held in
his hand, and the woman immediately cried out:
“Austrian ten-florin note, Number 178150.”
I never was able to discover how this was done.
I went once with Madame Saint-Hilaire, who wrote some interesting novels,
published by Dentu, of the Palais Royal, and her pretty daughter, Madame
Alice Kernave, who had been an actress in St. Petersburg, to a _séance_
of spirit-rapping and table-turning, in which they both firmly believed.
But, to tell the truth, I did not think much of it, though the _séances_
were always very well attended. I did not mind being kept in the dark
when I sat near Madame Alice Kernave, but when I went there alone with
her mother on one occasion I felt rather nervous. I never went again, but
frequently visited the daughter, whom I admired at that time. She had
received, while in St. Petersburg, very handsome presents from a Russian
gentleman, who, she told me, had recently died. She was looking for a
good engagement in _la haute comédie_, in which she was very clever.
I met her some years afterwards at Nice, where she was acting at the
theatre, when she told me that she had lived in great luxury while her
Russian friend was alive, but since then had been obliged to live more
economically in Paris.
[Illustration: Madame Alice Kernave.
[_To face p. 164._]
[Illustration: The late Earl of Berkeley.
[_To face p. 165._]
I remember that once the Baron de Vay, a Russian, who lived during the
summer at a villa he owned at Vévey, in Switzerland, called on my mother,
in the Rue d’Albe, with his daughter, a pretty little girl of fourteen.
In the course of conversation, the Baron mentioned that he made a rule
of never knowing certain people for more than a fortnight, after which
he always dropped their acquaintance, if he possibly could, for, as he
explained, in that space of time he learned all their good qualities and
none of their faults. I could not help thinking at the time, and I am
still of the same opinion, that he was a most fortunate man to be able to
do so. The Baron only spoke French and Russian, and did not know a word
of English.
In later years, when the Earl of Berkeley was living with his
wife and his sister-in-law, the Baronne van Havre, in the Rue de
Saint-Pétersbourg, he took a fancy to the streich melodion (or viola
zither), which is somewhat like the streich zither, and Sighicelli,
the famous violinist of the Grand Opéra, came every evening to give us
lessons, when we all three played together. The streich melodion is a
favourite instrument in Vienna, where thirty or forty of them are at
times played together by young girls in society at the Musik Vereins
Saal, and the effect is quite charming. Some evenings, Taffanel, the
flute-player of the Grand Opéra, brought his silver flute, and really
enchanted all whom Berkeley invited to his house. I remember that, one
evening, Captain Francis Lowther, the father of Miss Toupie Lowther, the
well-known lawn-tennis player, came there. He was a son of the Earl of
Lonsdale and a friend of my father. He told Berkeley how well he spoke
foreign languages, particularly French, when the latter replied that
there was very little merit in his being able to do so, as he had spoken
them all his life.
At the house of some American friends of ours I had the privilege
of meeting the same evening two of the greatest men of their time:
General Grant and Gambetta. General Grant appeared to me to be a short,
stoutly-built and rather stern-looking man. On being presented to him, I
happened to remark that the day had been a fine one, to which he replied:—
“I beg to differ from you, sir; the wind was a bitterly cold one from the
North.”
I afterwards spoke in praise of Paris, and said how much I preferred it
to London, so far as its theatres and other amusements were concerned.
The General replied that he was much pleased with what he had seen of
Paris, but that London and the English interested him far more. He then
asked me several questions about England and the British Army, which I
answered to the best of my ability. My answers seemed to please him,
since he asked me to give him my address, and called on me with his
son the very next day; but I happened most unfortunately to be out. My
impression of Grant was that he was a very kind-hearted man, but that he
did not carry his heart on his sleeve.
Gambetta shook hands with me like the General, but, instead of letting
go of my hand, kept it in his, the while he made a very long speech
in French, which was so florid that I was quite carried away by his
eloquence, and forgot almost where I was. He did not seem to expect
a reply; anyway, he contented himself with one or two monosyllables
from me, and praised England, the English, and the English Army in the
most high-flown language. My impression of Gambetta was that he was a
passionate, warm-hearted son of the Midi, who certainly wore his heart on
his sleeve. His appearance was not in his favour, as he was excessively
stout and had a bad figure, but his attractive, captivating manner more
than atoned for his physical defects.