the world for her rare beauty and for the love which she has been able
to kindle in the hearts of her subjects. Though a number of them have
the honour and pleasure of frequently approaching the presence of their
lovely Queen, and even to some extent of sharing her existence, it was
my lot--and one of which I feel especially proud--to become an immediate
object of interest and sympathy to her from the very moment of our first
encounter. This interest and sympathy, I am happy to say, her Majesty
has continued to evince, rightly guessing how deep and fervent a
worshipper she had found in the young Roumanian girl who was first
presented to her on a rainy autumn morning in Queen Victoria’s
sitting-room at Balmoral. I remember how startled I then was to discover
that the lovely youthful face, the luminous blue eyes--blue as the water
of fjords and mountain lakes--the slim form, and the indescribable grace
belonged to one who was the mother of grown-up children. Her very speech
was full of that glee and curiosity so rarely the appanage of maturer
years, since in the autumn of life the soul loses its eagerness for new
impressions and new experiences.
How charmed the Princess declared herself to be that day, when she heard
we had come to Scotland for the first time, and with what gracious
sympathy she began to describe the customs of the Highlands. From one
window to the other she led us, pointing out all the details of the
landscape as it lay before us, clad in its glory of purple heather,
veiled by thin bluish mists, weird with the magic of unknown, mysterious
influences.
“I can hardly imagine,” said the fairy of the land, “that your
Karpathians, gorgeous though they be, are ever clad with such a rich
mantle of violet and dark red, or that your trees can rustle so gently
as ours to the tune of the swift, clear river. But the Prince has told
me of the dazzling sunshine as it rests on rocks and forests, and how
strongly the colour of the Roumanian sky, the blinding whiteness spread
above its azure depths, reminded him of India. The Prince always gives
me such a vivid account of his travels that ever since his return I have
been dreaming of your Queen’s visit to England and to us, and, somehow,
I was sure you would accompany her. I know all about you and about the
tableaux vivants in Sinaïa.... I hope you will like your room here--we
have paid special attention to its situation. As you are a poet you will
delight in the fine view it commands. You will soon be able, even
without going out, to become acquainted with our woods and glens, and
perhaps some day you will give us a description of them. Oh, if you
would write a poem here! Doesn’t inspiration come when you call her,
like one of those tame godmothers we read of in fairy-tales, who at the
touch of a magic wand appear upon the threshold and scatter jewels and
flowers as they walk? Oh, please just send a message to me when you feel
disposed to work, and I will sit by very quietly and watch you, as quiet
as a mouse. I should love to sit by a poet when she is writing.”
“Then I need not wait for inspiration,” I replied, “and I want no magic
wand. Your Royal Highness would represent the fairy, and I would gather
the flowers and precious gems that fall from a Princess’s eyes and
tongue.”
Although this sounded very like a banal Court compliment, the Princess’s
aspect, the bright gaze of her tender blue eyes, the easy harmony of her
every gesture as she stood there, leaning a little out of the open
window, made a true comment on my little speech. The voice of the river
mingled with the soft rustling of the trees below, and to me it seemed
as if the sweet feminine vision had risen from among them to complete
the glamour of the hour. She was gazing far off to the distant hills,
tracing their curves with hands so soft and supple that no thought could
come of the day when they must hold the triple sceptre--heavier far than
the wand of beauty they waved that day over the heaving forests of the
Highlands.
“You will wear your Roumanian costumes to-night at dinner?” continued
the Princess. “I shall be so glad to see them. We once found a doll at a
fancy fair dressed in Roumanian costume; but we could not tell whether
the costume was really like the picturesque garb worn by your peasants.”
A few hours later, as we were about to prepare for dinner, we were
having a lively discussion with our maid as to which among the numerous
costumes we had better wear--the maid, of course, proposing the most
showy, the one that sparkled most and was decked the most heavily with
gold and spangles. I had suggested that we should refer the question to
our Queen and had written a note asking her Majesty’s advice on the
subject, to which the Queen had answered: “I consider the white and
silver one is the prettiest you possess.” A soft knock at the door
interrupted our survey of the different belts and aprons. I went myself
to open it, expecting that the Queen had sent a second note, when I saw
a slender form, clad in a plain, tailor-made blue serge dress. Seeing
that I failed to recognise her in the rather dim light, the lady
advanced into the middle of the room, saying quietly: “I am the Princess
of Wales. You know me now, don’t you? I have come to see all your
costumes, and to find out whether you are comfortable in your rooms, and
to watch how you arrange the different parts of this glistening attire,”
and she pointed to a large divan on which in splendid array lay all the
pride of Oriental embroideries and colouring.
One after the other the belts and veils and skirts were handed to the
Princess, but when she perceived that this was no easy task--they were
so numerous--she said:
“Please do not take the trouble of showing them to me, I will look over
all these bright things by myself--indeed, I prefer doing so, but you
must give me all the explanations I want.” And many and eager were the
questions she asked.
“This veil--do you wear it round your shoulders or on your head?”
“I do not wear it at all, madam; in fact, I could not do so. The veil is
a symbol, the sign of the dignity to which a woman rises by marriage,
and the sign of slavery, too. A married woman must cover her hair--no
man may ever see her hair except her husband. They are very strict about
this in our villages.”
“Indeed!” answered the Princess; “but I do not approve of the
restriction--they must look so fascinating with the veil. I suppose that
it is a precaution against coquettishness and vanity. And this
belt--why, how long it is!”
“The village girls wear it twisted twelve times round their waists.”
“Which is the costume you intend to wear this evening?”
“This one, the white and silver, madam.”
“It is very beautiful indeed, but rather heavy and gaudy for you,” said
the Princess, lifting the red skirts and snowy bodices one after another
and holding them up, with exclamations of amusement. Then she uttered a
cry of admiration. “Oh, how nice! Why do not you wear this? It is so
simple, yet so tasteful. I am sure this coarse red skirt embroidered
with thick yellow flowers, with a gleam of gold thread seen only here
and there, must bear some charming meaning. There is something in this
costume that appeals to my imagination.”
“Your Royal Highness has guessed aright. This is the costume sometimes
worn in our country by the wandering Tziganes. The rough linen, the
coarse tissue of the skirt were once woven on purpose for the reckless
girls of those strange tribes who may be seen at sunset lighting their
fires before their ragged tents, which before daybreak will be carried
away by their possessors, who know and desire neither rest nor settled
home. Once upon a time the Tzigane beauties were accustomed to make
themselves look dainty as they traversed the broad roads leading from
one village to another; but now they do not care for any other dress
than such as are, like these, made up of scraps of coloured finery. This
garment, which interests your Royal Highness, is very old indeed; in
fact, it was found buried in a green wooden box at the foot of a forest
tree some fifty years ago, and no one can tell how long it had remained
underground.”
“How exciting!” exclaimed the Princess, as with breathless attention she
followed my narrative. “Please go on. Is no one aware of the cause that
forced the possessor of the Tzigane dress to bury it underground?”
“No, madam; on that point legends and popular imagination are allowed
full sway. Some assert that the damsel who thus concealed her finery did
so from despair--a love affair, of course. Others are convinced that she
had made a vow to abandon all she held most precious in order to obtain
a favour from the mysterious deities of the Tzigane race. But, however
that may be, I prefer this costume to all the others. And if your Royal
Highness will deign to look more closely, here in the belt is the little
pocket where the young Tzigane kept a shell, and here the pocket for her
little flute, and there a pocket again where this small dagger lay.”
“But what did she keep a shell for?”
“Ah! That requires an explanation. Every Tzigane is a sibyl. She reads
the future in the stars, in the summer foliage, in the sound of the
summer streams; she listens, and voices heard by herself alone speak to
her. But most of all do those mysterious voices sing to her in the
depths of sea-shells. Thus no real Bohemian worthy of the name can go
anywhere without a sea-shell. To tell the truth, madam, I secretly
desired to wear this particular costume at dinner, but on reflection I
feared that it was hardly suitable--it lacks decorum.”
“But what if I forbid you to appear in any other?” said the Princess.
“I will obey you with the utmost pleasure, madam.”
So delighted did the Princess seem with all that was novel to her in our
conversation that she prolonged her visit, astonishing us by her deep
knowledge of English and Scottish popular lore, and giving such advice
about our trip to Ireland as proved how well she had learnt to know the
Green Island which it was our intention to see.
It was growing late and the Princess still stood among the Oriental
ornaments spread around her, while the mountain twilight was falling
fast in the small sitting-room, where her figure now formed the one
luminous point.
“You must come to Abergeldie, our Highland home, to-morrow,” said she;
“but first I will tell you all about Abergeldie and the quiet,
refreshing life we lead there. Refreshing is the real word to express
our autumn stay amongst these dear purple hills, where we seem to forget
completely that we are Royalties, and only remember the fact when we
discover the pleasure our presence bestows upon the people here.”
But these records of Abergeldie I was destined not to hear, for at that
moment a slight knock was heard at the door. I rushed to prevent the
invasion of an intruder, and as I pulled the door open found myself
confronted by a footman.
“Hush!” said I, without allowing him to speak, “The Princess of Wales
is here; I must attend to her Royal Highness. Any message you have to
deliver must wait.”
But the undaunted footman simply said: “The Queen desires you to go to
her immediately.”
“Oh, I see. Then kindly tell her Majesty that I cannot obey her for the
moment, as the Princess of Wales is giving me the honour of her presence
in my room.”
The footman stood perplexed, then made a movement to retire, but the
Princess now stepped to my side.
“You are making a terrible mistake,” she said. “You believe he means
_your_ Queen, the Queen of Roumania, and I know she would be willing to
dispense with your company in my favour. But this man means Queen
Victoria. There is but one Queen--to us, at least, there is but one
Queen here, the Queen of England, and she can brook neither delay nor
excuse, so run quickly.” Then, noticing that the footman had vanished,
she added, “Oh, do not give him time to forestall you. Can you change
your stately Court step into a good run? Here, give me your hand, I will
show you the way,” and with a swift, graceful motion the Princess moved
beside me, holding my fingers between her own till we reached the doors
of Queen Victoria’s apartments.
When I found myself face to face with the aged Queen I could speak of
nothing but the Princess of Wales, and her Majesty stood nodding in
pleased appreciation of my enthusiasm.
“And you have seen only one side of her various gifts: you should follow
her life step by step. For many years the Princess has tried hard to
spare me the strain and fatigue of great functions. She opens bazaars,
attends concerts, visits hospitals in my place, and she always gives me
such full and vivid accounts of people and places that I almost seem to
have been present. I sometimes laughingly tell her that she is a
dictionary in which is inscribed every variety of adjective connected
with the words ‘good’ and ‘true.’ However terrible the load which I lay
upon her slender shoulders, she not only never complains, but endeavours
to prove that she has enjoyed what to another would be a nuisance or a
tiresome duty. She even declares that a Drawing Room is a most
entertaining sight, and that it does not make her feel dizzy or
distressed when she glances from one face to another, without ever
overlooking one of them. For my part I must own how interested I felt in
my early youth in young faces and fresh _débutantes_; later on matrons
and maturer ladies were the great point of attraction to me; and now I
do so pity old ladies who have to wear the three feathers and go through
the tiresome ceremony which, notwithstanding its irksome length and
etiquette, I love to witness, as it is one of the characteristic English
traditions, and must always remain dear to the hearts of British
Sovereigns.... Princess Alexandra holds a Drawing Room beautifully, and
I am gratified to feel secure that, when I am no more, a Queen of
England worthy of England’s throne will grace it.”
That very evening, in honour of our Queen, a Highland reel was danced in
front of Balmoral Castle. The spectacle was new to us and somewhat
bewildering. The glare of the torches, whose flames were shaken by the
strong north wind, the loud, guttural sounds that escaped from that
group of wild men, clad in the picturesque costume so often described by
Walter Scott, sent a thrill through our imagination as we stood there on
the stone threshold with the illumined hall behind us. Tartans flew
high, and from head to foot the wild dancers appeared to be seized with
a frenzy of cadence and clamour. Our Queen had insisted on getting as
near the dance as possible, and presently, to complete the weird poetry
of the scene, the gentle wail of distant bagpipes floated from the
neighbouring hills, as if a chorus of mysterious and invisible beings
were sending forth the welcome of the dim Highland glades to the
strangers entranced by their pathetic charm.
A lady, enveloped in a plain grey woollen mantle, was standing by the
side of our Queen. In the darkness, when the red streaks of the waving
torches traced long furrows of flames, I could scarcely discern her
form, and her face was hidden by a grey cap which descended low on her
forehead. The cold was bitter, but we scarcely felt how sharply the
night breeze blew, penetrating the thin tissue of our evening dresses.
We should indeed have felt our light summer cloaks unable to protect us
from the biting atmosphere had we bestowed a thought upon ourselves,
instead of remaining entranced, with eyes and ears intent on losing not
a movement or a sound. Presently that silent lady in grey, whose form
seemed to mingle with the rising mist, glided softly away, and I had
forgotten her when the slender figure again appeared by the side of our
Queen, and, raising her arm to the shoulders of the Royal guest, wrapped
round her a fleecy white shawl, which I guessed to be welcome, and which
I heartily envied. But I had barely time to do so before the graceful
apparition had performed for me the same silent kindness. I lifted up my
eyes and recognised the Princess of Wales. She had no leisure to listen
to my grateful thanks, as her arms were laden with shawls, which one by
one she deposited in the hands of the ladies present. Then quietly the
gentle benefactress resumed her place, which she left only now and again
in order to explain to us the different meanings of the words and
dances.... The tartan flew, the bagpipes moaned and twittered, the
torches spread their flames abroad in the dark night air, and the humid
scent of the heather mingled with the smell of the river and the trees.
That moment will remain alive in my memory for ever.
When we returned to the hall, where the Royalties had preceded us, the
Princess of Wales was seated on a bench against the white stone wall.
Her woollen cap lay on her knees, and she had clasped her hands around
it in a reverie which no one dared disturb. Then she rose and said: “Did
you not love to hear those distant bagpipes?--did it not seem to you as
if the spirit of the mountains breathed upon us from afar? That was my
idea. Oh, try not to forget our Highland songs and dances!” And
fervently in my heart I declared that I could never forget them, and
that one of the impressions of that wild scene which I should most
vividly remember would be the form of the shadowy lady in grey who stood
so long by the side of our Queen.
I believe that amongst the many qualities ascribed to Queen Alexandra
the one which she possesses in the most conspicuous degree is the
quality which we are accustomed to admire in the heroines of history,
whose valour, purity, intelligence, or grace have attracted the worship
of multitudes--a knowledge which no learning can bestow--the secret, the
magical power of being in sympathy with the souls with whom destiny
connects them.
My destiny it was to meet the Princess again and again, in widely
differing circumstances. In Rome one day in the gay bustle of a Sunday
crowd, when the scent of crushed flowers and the odour of surrounding
gardens rose in the sunlight and blue air, I met a figure so sweetly
wrapped in sadness, so immersed in grief, that the cry of “Mater
dolorosa” rose to my lips. No stronger image of maternal desolation,
none more thrilling, could have struck upon my sight than did the set
expression of pain which paled the lovely vision of the northern fairy
whom I had once seen so smiling, so light-hearted. Not with the hour of
gaiety under the bright splendour of the Roman sky was Princess
Alexandra in harmony that day, but with the hour which is filled with
the dying perfume of crushed flowers--the hour which had bruised her
soul and robbed her of her eldest born.
Later, again, we met at Marlborough House. The smiling Princess, the
sorrow-stricken mother, had become a Queen, and a new majesty adorned
her.
“Do you remember Balmoral?” she said. “Do you remember Rome? And now I
am in black again--and black would be for ever in keeping with my
thoughts if the people of this land were not so close to my heart. Then
I have the comfort of my faith; I have my husband and my children. But,
oh, at first I thought that I should never overcome my grief! Then I
lost my own mother. We were not only mother and daughter, but such close
friends. Then Queen Victoria----” And in low, subdued tones she told me
of the days of gloom, of the day that preceded Queen Victoria’s death,
and the last hours of that glorious life.
“And I have to leave this dear old place, though I cling to it as I
clung to my title of Princess of Wales, which I bore through so many
happy days. As Princess of Wales I was a young wife and a young mother
and a young figure to the people, and I shall remain to them and to
myself the Princess of Wales long after being a crowned Queen. There is
so much to achieve and to cherish,” she continued, “in the paths of duty
and love. And who can deny the blessings of prayer?... Now tell me all
about your work--I love poetry. Speak, and I will listen.”
And the moments glided by while I spoke and the Queen listened; then
again light came into the beautiful, unchanged face as she unravelled
the skeins of memory, till through the melancholy of her tones faith and
hope shone like stars amid dark foliage.
I had completely forgotten how long I had been there when an equerry or
usher stepped forward, and in a respectful whisper reminded her Majesty
of the hour. “Ah! yes,” and the Queen rose to her feet, “I have quite
forgotten the time. It is,” and she turned to me, “a deputation from the
town of Chester, which gave me a casket containing an address of loyalty
on the day of our marriage--and now they come to congratulate us on our
accession. But where are your books which I asked you to bring?”
I pointed to a low stool, and with a swift and graceful movement the
Queen knelt before the humble volumes.
“Oh, thank you, thank you! I shall love them; you may be sure I shall.”
And thus I left her. She rose to say good-bye again, the trembling
green shadows poured upon her form by the great trees encircling her
head like an aureola of emerald, a wreath of hope.
And, though since then I have seen England’s Alexandra again--seen her
in the glory and emotion of that Coronation hour at Westminster Abbey
whose surpassing greatness held enshrined all the hours of her
illustrious existence--that image of the new Queen in her old
Marlborough home remains with me one of unrivalled beauty and sweetness,
an image harmonious, fair, and dazzling, like the name and title of the
exalted lady whose rank is eclipsed by virtues as countless as the gems
of her crown.
[Illustration:
_Photo by C. Pietzner, Vienna_
FRANCIS JOSEPH, EMPEROR OF AUSTRIA]
THE EMPEROR OF AUSTRIA
It has been the destiny of few human beings to drain to the dregs so
many varied cups of misfortune as the present Emperor of Austria. Few
men have known as he has all the troubles that fate may pour on the head
of a chosen victim. Whenever thought of the venerable sovereign arises
within us, wherever his name is mentioned, it is not the image of his
greatness, not the light of his benevolent smile nor the clear depths of
his gentle blue eyes that appears before the interior gaze of our
imagination. Instead of seeing him enthroned in a palace, surrounded by
a throng of adoring nations gathered to greet their beloved lord and
master, we find him encircled by a crowd of shadows, a funereal throng,
each figure bearing a black urn filled with ashes and tears. Dark
mourning garlands of dead flowers hang heavy on their brows as they
advance with slow and faltering steps, and like Dante on the threshold
of Hell questioning the mighty Poet whose white garb was the only ray in
the thick darkness, we murmur to ourselves:
“Whence come these women so sad and so distressed? Whence the wounds
and the blood we behold? Why does that man whose looks betoken goodness
bear a gap in his side? And the Royal Lady who walks not far from him,
why has she stains of blood on her bosom and about her dress, though her
demeanour is free and proud and her beauty more wonderful than the first
dawn of day upon the sea? Who is the young man in the glow of youth
whose features are gory and red as the sun at its setting, and why do we
see knives in the air around him with all their points at his heart? Who
are they? And who is that form standing out from the others in the
mournful pageant, whose every gesture betokens a madness as sacred and
mysterious as that of Hamlet?”
When our gaze has rested fully on the bewildering scene, like Dante
again we question the Past.
“What was their story? It must have been singularly tragic and
thrilling? Lay your hand on that lady’s shoulder; touch her long hair
that she may turn her head and show us those eyes in which one may read
all the horror of despair, all the beauty of heaven and earth. Stay for
an instant that other one, that illustrious sister of Hamlet, while she
speaks to us of the distant land where her beloved spouse perished at
the hands of those who should have sheltered and protected him. And if,
O luminous guide, thou canst give tongue and speech to the most mute of
all the taciturn throng, let that young man reveal the terror of the
hour when he stood face to face with death!”