after sunrise, I was summoned to her apartments. For these early
interviews the Queen was in the habit of striking a few notes on the
piano, and, as my sitting-room was situated just above her Majesty’s
boudoir, I immediately obeyed and ran downstairs. The Queen was standing
in the middle of the room, her face full of joy.
“Eureka!” she cried. “Oh, I am _so_ pleased. I have hit on such a
beautiful idea! And without your help, too! On the contrary, you lazy
thing, you tried to thwart and discourage me. But now I will have my own
way.”
“And what is this marvellous idea, madam, may I ask?”
“Tableaux vivants.”
“Tableaux vivants?” I repeated, in a subdued voice, yet in tones of
respectful criticism.
“Yes, tableaux vivants.”
“But the Prince of Wales must have seen thousands of tableaux vivants in
his life.”
“Don’t be silly! These tableaux vivants will be quite unlike any he has
ever seen, or any one else either.”
I failed to understand and said so.
“Wait till I explain. The tableaux will represent a charade, and the
initials of the words of the charade will be our guest’s own
title--‘Prince of Wales.’ The subject of each tableau will begin with
one of the letters of those three words. There are thirteen letters in
the words; therefore you will have thirteen tableaux, and a fourteenth
which will represent the Prince of Wales himself, or one of his
predecessors, because all the subjects of these tableaux will be taken
from the history of England or from English fiction. Now go back to your
room and let me work.”
In the calm solitude upstairs, where I could look out upon the
neighbouring forest, whose dark green foliage was already reddened by
the twofold colour of the autumn leaves and the sunlight striking softly
down the sloping glades and pathways, my first care was to take down the
two volumes of Macaulay’s “History of England” and cast a glance over
their engrossing pages. But my search, though careful, was without
result, as I could find no personages who seemed suitable for parts to
be played in our projected tableaux. As I let the books fall upon the
carpet, and was about to turn to some other occupation, the Queen, whose
light tread I had not heard, appeared at my side, holding in her
outstretched hands a heap of papers on which her firm, bold writing had
traced something which resembled nothing so much as a plan of battle.
“Look here! Each tableau will represent an episode from one of
Shakespeare’s plays. See! All the initials of the names will form the
letters of the three words ‘Prince of Wales’: Perdita, Richard III.,
Imogen, and so on. Now, telegraph to all the people who are likely to
accept our invitations. Here is also a list of the people I want you to
ask to help us. Tell them to come to Sinaïa by the next train. There is
no time to lose.”
“And the manœuvres, madam? I suppose your Majesty intends to give up the
manœuvres?”
“By no means. I never give up an iota of what I deem my duty--we shall
be able to arrange everything beautifully, I assure you.”
“And what says the King?”
“The King allows us to arrange the performance, but under one
condition--rather a severe one. He must totally ignore our doings; the
official life of the castle must remain perfectly undisturbed, and when
the Prince of Wales arrives, should he feel at all fatigued, the
representation must not be even mentioned. The tableaux vivants are not
to be put down in the official programme. ‘Dura lex, sed lex,’” said the
Queen; and she sighed softly.
I was quite taken aback, not to say terror-stricken, at these words. If
the Prince’s curiosity should fail to be awakened, our plans, our
labour, which I imagined might prove hard, would be perfectly useless,
and I vowed to myself that in some way such a catastrophe could and
should be avoided. The great day was fast approaching. First was to come
the Queen’s visit to the vast plain where the manœuvres took place. Then
the King’s intention was to proceed to Bucharest and show his capital to
the Prince of Wales. Afterwards the Prince was due at Sinaïa, where our
grand reception was being prepared.
While the train was briskly carrying us to the field of the manœuvres we
were--both the Queen and myself--absorbed in thought, deep and serious
indeed, but in no way connected with military pursuits. On one side of
the carriage stood the King, surrounded by generals, colonels, and
equerries-in-waiting, expounding the merits of a new cannon or a new
gun. On the other side, but a few steps apart, the Queen was exchanging
with me such typical remarks as these: “Has Mr. V---- received his wig?”
“Miss Z---- does not hold her head well; and the flower in her hair
should be red, not blue.” “We must tell Othello to look just a little
bit more savage.”
A couple of minutes in a swift landau brought us on to the plain, where
bayonets and sabres were glistening under the glare of the scorching
sun. But neither the sound of trumpets echoing from hill to hill, nor
the mad rush of cavalry, nor the roar of the cannon could divert our
minds from their preoccupation. Flags waved, shrill commands pierced the
sultry air, regiments were poured like water from the distant horizon
till they reached the landau where the Queen sat waiting and waving her
handkerchief, but we saw nothing before our eyes save the little theatre
where, even during our absence, the improvised actors were busy. Even
when the Queen followed the King along the pathway opened for the Royal
pair amid the cheering soldiers, the Queen, without ceasing for one
moment to bow and to appear interested in everything she saw, turned to
me and muttered: “We have no Falstaff yet. Do try and discover among
your acquaintances some one who might be a good Falstaff. I am afraid we
shall not be back before evening, but I hope they are doing their best
without us. But it _is_ annoying to have been compelled to leave the
castle on the eve of such a day. Now, I suppose, we shall be obliged to
sit up the whole night.”
Towards twilight the Royal train bore us back to the castle, while the
King proceeded to Bucharest. Slowly in the soft haze of the evening
light we ascended the steep route: a cool wind was rising, and the
new-born moon floated in the gorgeous autumn sky. Between the station
and the castle, notwithstanding the pace at which the postillion was
driving his four stalwart horses, we found the road long, and gave a
sigh of relief as the castle, illuminated like some fairy vision, at
last burst upon our sight. The postillion sang a wild song, and joyful
greetings came from trumpets and voices to tell the sleepy mountain
forests that their Queen was returning to them under the rays of the
young moon.
We stop upon the threshold--the huge doors are wide open--the Queen
suddenly arrests her steps, and an exclamation of amazement and delight
falls from her lips. I follow quickly upon her heels. The sight she
beholds is a glorious one indeed, and one which I shall never forget.
There in the high hall, where knights in armour form a range of
spectators against the gilded walls, all the glory, all the glamour of
the past seems to rise before our dazzled eyes. There is Mary Queen of
Scots, and quite close to her, heedless of all anachronism, seeing that
she is but the daughter of a poet’s dream, there is Perdita. Here
Richard III. stands grim and resolute, while Shylock turns a friendly
smile upon him. Cleopatra, in gorgeous robes of purple and yellow, walks
hand in hand with Oberon; the gay group of the Merry Wives of Windsor
cluster round King Lear, and Cordelia leans upon the arm of Mary Tudor.
In the case of two of the tableaux we have been obliged to abandon
Shakespeare for Schiller and Victor Hugo; thus is explained the
presence of Queen Elizabeth, Mary Stuart, and Mary Tudor.
As “Carmen Sylva” had foretold, we slept very little that night. When I
went up to my room, instead of seeking repose after the awful fatigues
of the day, I had to sit down and compose the French verses to be
recited before each tableau; and the first grey streaks of dawn decked
the sky before the final stanzas were committed to paper. Overcome by
weariness, giddy and dazed, I fell asleep and dreamed of a vast
battlefield, through the expanse of which a man dressed in glistening
red armour rode at full speed. I awoke to hear bugles and trumpets
sounding a shrill march under our windows. The troops in the castle were
now astir. Already in the hall my companions, dressed in crisp white
muslin, were awaiting my arrival, and were afraid that I might be too
late. “Make haste! make haste!” they cried: “we are soon going to the
station.” It was even warmer than yesterday; the night had brought no
coolness. How we pitied the unfortunate Prince, who had to travel and
perform so many wearisome details of etiquette in such a furnace! “It
will remind him of India, perhaps,” we said. “Let us give him flowers
and look our gayest; the sight of white dresses, joyous faces, and
bright flowers may refresh him.”
The arrival of the Prince took place in the usual manner, to the
accompaniment of music, military salutes, speeches, and official
greetings. We were all presented to the heir of Queen Victoria, and we
noticed that he looked courteous and pleasant in spite of the
circumstances. Then we were immediately told that the Prince would lunch
and take tea with the King and Queen, and that we should see nothing of
him before dinner. So we had the whole afternoon to ourselves, and great
was our delight when we returned to the quiet of our cool apartments and
felt free to taste a few hours of well-earned repose.
My dog, a beautiful yellow setter, lay stretched on the carpet at my
feet, and my mother was sitting on the threshold of the balcony, intent
on a piece of dainty embroidery. Ada (that was the dog’s name) did not
inhabit the Royal stable, but was a daily visitor there. We were now,
however, anxious to keep her from running about the staircases and
perhaps meeting the King, to whom her presence might cause annoyance.
But on that particular afternoon Ada looked the picture of utter
laziness and comfort, and her golden eyes gazed at us with an air of
perfect tranquillity and content. We little guessed the important part
she was to be called upon to play, and were chatting about the reception
and the Prince of Wales, wondering whether in the end he would express
any desire to seethe tableaux vivants. “It _is_ a shame,” I was saying,
“that the Prince should be unaware of all the worry the rehearsals have
caused. I am convinced that he would insist on seeing the representation
if he only knew----” I had not time to finish the sentence before Ada
darted towards the door, pushed it open, and rushed along the corridor,
followed by our distressed but vain appeals. “Ada, come back!” we cried;
“come back instantly!” We dared not call too loud, because the castle
was plunged in absolute stillness; but we followed the truant
downstairs, and arrived in time to see her throw herself down at the
feet of a gentleman dressed in a plain grey suit, who was smoking a
cigar at an open window, and whom I mistook for one of the Prince’s
equerries. The dog began to overwhelm the unknown gentleman with
caresses, and I must say that her impertinence seemed to give him
pleasure. Suddenly he cast a glance upon us as we stood panting and
aghast before him, and he immediately took in the situation.
“You want to get this beautiful creature back to her room, do you not?
Please let me help you. Dogs are fond of me, and perhaps even this one
will obey me better than you.”
There was so much easy grace and composure in the tone in which these
words were spoken that I felt startled, lifted my eyes to the stranger’s
visage, and recognised the Prince of Wales!
I made a low curtsey. “Miss Vacaresco, if I am not mistaken,” said his
Royal Highness; “and this is Madame Vacaresco, your mother, I am sure,
for you are so very much alike.”
And as I expressed my surprise that the Prince remembered my name, which
he had heard mentioned only once that morning at the station, he said,
“I have an excellent memory--a real treasure for a Prince. Now, Ada, go
back with your mistress. You _must_ go back; I am accustomed to be
obeyed. You have seen me, caressed me, delighted me--you are one of the
smartest young ladies I have met. Is not that compliment enough? Now go
back.” And with quiet authority the Prince touched the dog’s collar.
Ada, as if mesmerised by the words and action, crept back to her place
by our side and seemed willing to follow us. So we had nothing more to
do but to thank and curtsey, and leave the Prince to his reverie and
cigar. He extended his hand, and we were on the point of retiring when,
with some hesitation, the Prince advanced again toward us.
“There is something I want to say to you,” he said. “This is--I must
call it so--a most fortunate incident. I see you love dogs. I have a dog
here with me--my little Beatie, whom I call Beatie ‘the Traveller,’
because he always accompanies me on my journeys. But now the poor little
thing is an invalid. Will you come and see him? He is lying in my
sitting-room. His paw was caught in the door of the railway-carriage,
and he has suffered dreadfully. He has had to be left a good deal alone,
and he loves society.”
The Prince opened the door of his large, comfortable sitting-room, and
here little Beatie came to meet us and make friends with Ada. The
animal, a charming white lupetto, limped badly, and his paw was
carefully bandaged.
“Could you not let Ada stay with him while we are having tea?” inquired
the Prince.
“Certainly, sir,” answered my mother. “Besides I can remain here with
them, as I do not care much about functions and official receptions.”
“Ah!” replied the Prince, “What would you say if you were in _my_
place?”
Beatie was now on my knees, and feeling quite at home with us. A sudden
inspiration seized me, and I began to talk to the dog. “Does Beatie know
that we have prepared a beautiful series of tableaux vivants for
Beatie’s master to enjoy, and that, if Beatie’s master does not express
his desire to see them, the tableaux will not be represented, and we
should feel very disappointed indeed?”
These words, apparently idly said, seemed to be as idly listened to, but
when, a few hours later, we saluted the Prince of Wales downstairs, I
noticed that the Queen’s brow wore a gleam of triumph, and she said:
“You know, my children” (she always addressed her young maids-of-honour
as “my children”), “the Prince says he has brought a very clever little
dog called Beatie to Roumania, and Beatie has asked the Prince, ‘My
master, how are you going to spend the evening of your first day in
Sinaïa?’ And this question the Prince has repeated to me. I suppose you
all guess what I have answered.” The witty and delicate way in which he
had arranged matters at once made the Prince dear to all the juvenile
party assembled round him.
The famous tableaux vivants proved an immense success, the more so
because his Royal Highness, who almost from the beginning had guessed
the words of the charade, graciously pretended to be at his wits’ end
and completely puzzled. At last the closing scene brought Falstaff and
the Prince of Wales (afterwards Henry V.) under his eyes, and the
following lines were recited:
“Toi qui comme ton peuple en buvant dans son verre,
O Prince allègre et sage, O vainqueur d’Agincourt,
Regarde un autre Prince, espoir de l’Angleterre,
Ainsi que toi digne de son amour.”
The Prince was deeply moved and thanked me heartily.
“I will never forget you,” said he; “you have loved my dog, and you know
the proverb, ‘Love me, love my dog.’ And the lines in which you so
strongly bring out a resemblance between myself and one of England’s
most glorious Kings appeal so strongly to my soul that I should like to
keep them as one of the best omens I have ever known. Please write them
down for me. I must have them written in your own hand, and I will show
them to my mother and to the Princess; they will both be as grateful to
you for them as I am. You are well aware, if you have heard anything of
myself and my character, that these words in my mouth are not idle
words.” In fact, the very next day, during a long walk we took in the
mountains, the Prince more than once came and walked by my side, asking
me many questions about my country and my own pursuits, and telling me a
good deal about himself and his own experiences as a traveller and as a
Royal heir.
“Yes,” he said, “I have been a most fortunate man--heir to a great
throne and yet able to enjoy liberty. I have an admirable mother, an
exquisite wife and charming children, a whole nation--nay, many nations
in one--to love and please. I sometimes wonder how I manage not to
become selfish and hard-hearted. Yet I pity misery and want, and when I
have seen an anxious and worried face I cannot sleep before I have
inquired into the cause of the poor creature’s distress. I catch very
vivid impressions when I travel, and I daily write to the Princess such
descriptions of landscapes and people as I can well cram into a letter
of reasonable length. She keeps these, and could one day make a book out
of my travelling notes. I wish you could see the Princess. She possesses
a soul as perfect as her face, which you must know is very sweet and
beautiful.”
How strenuous would prove the efforts of the new King in the interests
of his people, how high his ideal of a monarch would rise, I was able to
discover in the course of many conversations with his Majesty. “No one
can tell,” he said, “the vast difference which the change of position
must create between an Heir-Apparent and the Sovereign he afterwards
becomes. I feel persuaded that even my face will change when I become a
king. I fervently desire that the moment will be long in coming. I know
I am in many ways rendering real service to my country as Heir-Apparent.
I thus become acquainted not only with the people of England, but with
all the interesting people abroad. I have learnt the organisation of
every State, and many a foreign politician has developed his plans and
methods and views in my presence. There is nothing like travelling to
form the mind of a Prince, and I have always loved going from land to
land. How your country has reminded me of India! The feeling that I
shall never go to India again is very strong within me, and it saddens
me. You cannot imagine, even in your dreams, the beauty of India and its
lasting splendour. My mother, the first Empress of that marvellous
Empire, has never visited it, though in her heart she has often desired
to do so.”
Then, while the Prince thus spoke, I put a sudden question which somehow
seemed to startle him:--
“Sir, dare I ask your Royal Highness to tell me this: are Princes
happier than other men?”
“What is your own opinion?” he replied. “Before I answer I should like
to hear it.”
“O sir, I am convinced they are a thousand times happier, though, of
course, grief must come to them through the same causes as to others.
But the cares of the Crown and the people are not, I am sure, a load
added to affliction. On the contrary, greatness helps to bear
affliction. Greatness brings with it a strong desire for life, a keen
enjoyment of its cares and toils.”
“You are perfectly right,” answered the Prince. “I do not think that
Princes are more liable to feel grief than other mortals; nor, indeed,
to feel it to the same extent. You see, if we are really awake to the
calls of our position and its innumerable duties, we have no time to
nourish our emotions; and then there is a great consolation in the
certainty that so many share your sorrows or your joys. For instance, I
have on the whole been a very happy man--a perfectly happy man; yet this
does not mean that I have not often mourned and grieved.”
These and similar reflections revealed King Edward’s strong and cheerful
mind; a mind which openly rejects hypocrisy, cultivates gaiety and
self-possession, deems the best courage to be that kind of moral courage
to which every hour and duty of the day is precious--the highest quality
of a Sovereign.
The Prince left after three days’ sojourn among the Karpathians. “I
shall never forget you,” said he again, before he mounted the steps of
his railway carriage; “I shall never forgot your words and their good
omen.”
The remembrance of these scenes, to which memory clings so warmly, was
strong upon me when I saw the King and Queen enter the choir of
Westminster Abbey on the glorious morning of their Coronation. As I
stood there and gazed upon the admirable scene I prayed with fervour for
the happiness of both Sovereigns, while the august and radiant pair
received the blessings of Heaven on their bowed heads, and while the
mingled voices of cannon, bells, and organs were bearing the good news
from village to borough all over the land and beyond the seas.
QUEEN ALEXANDRA
Almost all the Queens of Europe possess an individuality of their own,
are celebrated for some peculiar quality which springs up before the
mind as soon as their names are mentioned. Unfortunate indeed is that
sovereign lady who takes her place in history by virtue of her office
alone, who has not succeeded in winning the real popularity so lavishly
accorded a Queen or Queen Consort of essential beauty or individuality
of character. Whatever may be her official virtues, her private merit,
“for her no minstrel’s bosom swells”: she has no hold on the imagination
of a people.
We are accustomed to connect with the late Empress of Austria her wild
desire for liberty and space, her solitary walks through glades and
mountain paths, her love of the sea and of castles lost amid parks as
wild as those which protected the unhaunted slumber of the Sleeping
Beauty. The name of Queen Elizabeth of Roumania can scarcely be
mentioned without its recalling the tall white form of a Royal poet,
awake from early dawn to gather material for her songs by long gazing on
the towering heights of the Karpathians, that encircle her beautiful
dwelling. Maria Christina of Spain, again, is the sagacious, prudent
Queen, the devoted mother, the resolute Sovereign of a land difficult to
rule. It would, indeed, have been impossible to trace a portrait of her
without some touches of austerity had we not found she presented such a
contrast between the smiling gentleness of her eyes and speech and the
iron fetters which Fate has bound around her, that all we had heard
about her was instantly forgotten in the presence of the radiant vision
upon which we gazed one summer day at Miramare. Again, the name of Queen
Margherita of Italy suggests at once beauty and grace. She has become
the very symbol of that sunny land where her first appearance was
greeted as the vision of a fair-haired Madonna.
Some of the younger Royal consorts, such as the present Empress of
Russia and Queen Helena of Italy, have not as yet acquired a hold of the
public imagination: they do not enjoy the power of embodying a legend.
This must, no doubt, be attributed to their youth, and perhaps also to
the retiring nature of both. Yet one of them, the Empress of Russia, is
Princess of the Rhine--a title worthy of any ballad and one which in
itself lends attraction to its owner; while the second, the young
Italian Queen, was born and bred in a poetic home hidden amongst the
rocks of the wild Tchernagora. The Queen Consort of Greece is celebrated
for her boundless generosity to the poor, and the young Queen of
Portugal for the tender care with which she tends little children. Her
Majesty has, in fact, given and collected the means wherewith to build a
large hospital, where she spends a few hours every day, and at times,
being herself a clever and experienced physician, even takes an active
part in surgical operations.