rendered his voice peremptory and even piercing. Thousands of small
wrinkles marked his sunken face and seemed to pass from one feature to
another like the shadows on an autumn stream. His kindness and his ready
smile gave him a benevolent expression which might almost have meant
weakness but for the piercing look of the restless coal-black eyes that
wandered like living torches. The voice, accustomed to scatter orisons
and benedictions, now spoke of everyday events, and I could not help
remembering how I had once been thrilled at a large function under St.
Peter’s dome on hearing the “pater” said by that white old man who now
turned towards us with such sweet familiarity and inquired:
“Are you going to stay long in Rome? I would advise you to spend the
Easter holidays with us. You cannot know the real beauty, the real
holiness of Rome, if you have not heard the Easter functions in our
basilica and at St. Jean de Lateran. Have you visited St. Paolo fuori le
Mura?”
“Yes, Holy Father,” and I remained a little embarrassed.
This the Pope quickly noticed, and guessing the cause of my hesitation,
said in an easy natural tone:
“You have been told, haven’t you, that my desire is to be buried there?”
Then turning to another topic: “I am very much interested in Roumania,
and in all the spiritual children I have there--Roumanians make very
good Roman Catholics.”
“Of course, Holy Father, once they are Roman Catholics they are true to
the faith....”
“And all would be true, every one of you, if you could but understand
and fulfil my great desire--the union of the Churches.”
“Oh, that seems to me impossible, Holy Father.”
“To you, but not to me. The Shepherd longs to bring back the vagrant
lamb to the fold....”
“But, Holy Father, if the lamb does not know it is vagrant, and is
convinced that it is he who belongs to the true fold ...?”
A flash of indignation shot from the curiously keen black eyes. Then the
Pope sank back into his chair to resume that attitude of utter
prostration which he assumed twice or three times during our visit. It
seemed as if he fell into a trance, during which inspirations from
above visited him, but now a sign from his fingers urged me to speak on.
“Besides, your Holiness knows much better than myself that the
differences between our religions lies only in outward signs, that we
enjoy the blessings of Communion, that the Holy Virgin is adored by us
with the same fervour as by the Roman Catholics. The great impediment to
the Union of the Churches would arise from the fact--from the
fact”--here I stammered slightly, and then stopped short as I had begun
a sentence which in presence of the Pope I could not well finish. The
great impediment which I was about to be so imprudent as to mention was
the certainty that our Orthodox creed would never recognise the
supremacy and infallibility of the Pope.
Again he sat erect, again the strange gleaming eyes kindled with a vivid
flame. “You err, and you need tuition. Security and life are to be found
here only, in the place where I stand and upon which the Church is
built. But I have been told you are a poet, and therefore much more
versed in the gentle art of Horace and Virgil than in theological
discussion.” The voice softened; an amused smile crossed the thin lips.
“I am a poet also, and I will repeat to you the Latin verse I composed
this morning after Mass, just before I received the faithful pilgrims of
Tuscany.” Closing his eyes the Pope slowly recited two verses in praise
of the Virgin Mary and of Spring. Then he inquired about the climate of
our country, and said:
“You live near the place where Ovid was exiled and where he regretted
Rome.”
“Not very near, but your Holiness is not mistaken; the town where Ovid
spent the latter years of his life, with his eyes ever turned towards
the sea where he expected to perceive the vessel that would bear him
home, is situated within the Roumanian kingdom.”
“Oh, then I hope when you return to Roumania you will be like Ovid and
sigh after Rome, and I sincerely pray Heaven that your desire to see the
Holy City again may be fulfilled. Carry my benediction to all my
spiritual children you may meet there, and I will remember you in my
prayers, notwithstanding--” and at that moment the smile that curved the
pale lips reminded me of a similar expression I had seen in a portrait
of Cardinal Richelieu,--“I will remember you in my prayers,
notwithstanding that terrible impediment you were about to mention, but
did not dare to name....”
When we descended the broad staircase it was almost noon, and the full
light of the Roman sunshine flooded the marbles and the pictures all
around. The shrill clear sound of that imperious voice, the white
reclining form, and the start with which the great Pope returned to
signs of life and interest after appearing to be plunged in meditation
and repose--all the particulars of that memorable interview still dwell
with me, though often since then have I beheld the august figure of the
Pope carried high above the crowd, and often heard the peremptory tones
call to Heaven or murmur prayers and benedictions. On such occasions Leo
XIII. was more than a priest, more than the Head of a Church, more than
a human creature; he became the very symbol of faith and spirituality,
whereas during that half-hour in that chamber of the Vatican Palace, he
seemed to me an image of pure and real kindliness, one to whom the
humblest could come for comfort and advice. For a time the little lamp
was extinguished which used to be seen from every part of Rome, and to
which the people would point saying, “Look, there is the Pope’s lamp!”
It soon shone again, but the grand white figure of the Pope, whose title
“Lumen in cœlo” had been pronounced by predictions four hundred years
before his day, the towering spirit of Leo XIII. is no more. So white,
so pale, so bereft of flesh, yet so strong; so near to death, yet so
fully alive to every manifestation of his calling, he seemed immortal,
though ever on the verge of the tomb. He loved the poor with an almost
fierce affection, and had many a hard fight to defend them against those
who believed that the Pope’s duty lay on the side of the prosperous and
the powerful.
“I have sent the richest wine which was sent me to my family this
morning,” said he one day. Some one answered: “Then Count Pecci and
Count Moroni will be able to appreciate the good presents your Holiness
has received and given them.”
“Pecci, Moroni?” repeated the Pope, “I know not what you mean. My family
walks barefoot, and lies in hospitals or sultry dens stretched upon hard
pallets. Pecci, Moroni--they are Joachim Pecchi’s nephews; but the
others, the orphans and the exiled, the wanderers and the exhausted,
they are mothers, sisters, and brothers to me.”
[Illustration:
_Photo by G. & W. Morgan, Aberdeen_
QUEEN VICTORIA]
QUEEN VICTORIA
However numerous and interesting may be the descriptions of personages
who have come in touch with the great Queen, however thrilling the
narratives in connection with her public and private life, still, every
one who had the honour of approaching that illustrious lady may feel
justified in hoping that yet more remains to be told of one whose every
movement, whose every word, now belongs to history. When, as in the case
of the present writer, the emotion which arises from the presence of so
revered a sovereign is felt at an age when enthusiasm and desire unite
to make heart and soul ardent and eager, it is a joy to catch each sign
of feeling, to cherish the lightest impression, to retain even the
smallest detail. I am not afraid, therefore, to appear daring, or
lacking in modesty and common sense, when I say that my own experience
of Queen Victoria’s kindness and intellectual power may prove a novelty
even to those who have read the innumerable books and biographies that
have been written concerning her.
All the circumstances of our journey to Scotland, whither I accompanied
Queen Elizabeth of Roumania (“Carmen Sylva”), are yet so fresh in my
mind that I am scarcely able to realise how far off those days are now,
beyond our reach for ever. Methinks I see again the little station of
Ballater, gaily decorated with foliage and wild flowers, as our Royal
train rushed in, then came to a sudden stop in front of the eternal red
carpet. Red carpets and white gloves are so associated with official
receptions, so familiar and so loathsome to travelling Royalty, that
“Carmen Sylva” always says: “Oh, what would my travels be like, how
joyous and charming, without those obnoxiously new red carpets and those
awful white gloves! What would I not give to see bare stones and bare
hands before me!”
Methinks I can hear again the shrill notes of the bagpipes as the
Highland regiments burst into sight, playing a glad salute. The doors of
our compartment are flung open; the Prince of Wales mounts a few steps
and helps our Queen to alight. We know well that everything will pass
off in the conventionally ceremonious way which renders one Royal
interview so much like another; every movement, every syllable is
studied and decided beforehand; every one seems delighted, and declares
this moment to be eventful and entrancing. How natural, how free from
constraint, how simple and sincere they all seem to be while
accomplishing the dismal duty! How difficult even for the closest
observer to detect the slightest hesitation or passing shade of
annoyance on the well-trained countenance; how impossible, if one is not
aware of the truth, to discover that the conversations obey the same
unflinching rules and never vary; how striking appears the merit of
those who can give to them such a semblance of life that at times even
the Princes themselves forget they are playing a part! Now, as a matter
of course, all these ceremonies and salutes are a serious drawback if
any person present has a secret desire to gather information, or is bent
on some psychological inquiry dear to that spirit of philosophy which
the true soul pursues everywhere. The visages, serene and courteous,
wear a silken mask; as with the red carpet and the white gloves, a glare
and gloss is cast upon things whose nakedness would otherwise be too
apparent, but which makes them perfectly monotonous.
“Don’t you believe it must be always the same red carpet we see at every
station where I have to alight?” asks the Queen.
Yet we feel obliged to confess that leisure and an agreeable freedom are
obtained by the facilities attendant on Royal arrivals. No porter to
scream after, no anxiety about the luggage, no rough old gentleman to
elbow his way just between one’s innocent self and a foot-warmer, no
grating quarrels, in fact none of the thousand nuisances that often
change the station of a big city into a corner of Dante’s hell.
So there we were, in the grey mist of a raw September morning, bowing
and curtseying right and left. This was for the moment our only serious
duty; when we had done so for at least ten minutes, in a methodical and,
I must say, most elegant way, we could easily look round and try to
recognise all the illustrious personages who had come to meet us. These
were the Princess of Wales, the Princess of Battenberg, her husband,
Prince Henry, the late Duke of Clarence, Princess Victoria of Wales. Our
Queen walked lightly from one to the other, and, leaning on the arm
which the Prince of Wales had proffered, they now exchanged quite a
volley of affectionate compliments.
“How kind of you to have come so far! We really did not dare ask you to
come.”
“But how could I be twelve hours distant from Queen Victoria without
doing my utmost to see her?”
“But we really are so agreeably surprised, so charmed to greet you here.
Till the very last moment we were afraid you would not make the
journey.”
Yet we were all aware that the meeting between Roumania’s Queen and the
Queen of England had been arranged long before we left Roumania. I was
convinced that I should see very little of Queen Victoria during the two
days we were to spend at Balmoral, and I was already making plans for
scouring the Highland hills and glens, in the company of the amiable
ladies-in-waiting whose acquaintance we had just made, and who spoke
gaily of their drives and walks. When I bent low over the Queen’s
proffered hand, my sole idea was to cast a hasty glance at her face. My
glance quickly took in the whole countenance,--the clear azure of her
childish eyes, the complexion rosy instead of red as I had always
supposed her skin to be, and the extreme candour of her looks and smile;
an expression so strange in the physiognomy of an aged grandmother, that
I kept pondering over the fact and immediately wrote in my Journal de
Voyage: “La reine a un visage limpide--ses rides sont jeunes.” (The
Queen has a limpid countenance--her wrinkles are young.)
My expectations were completely at fault; no leisure was to be left for
an afternoon in the forest or the park round the castle; we were told
after luncheon that the Queen invited us all to tea. The hours fled
swiftly as we sat in the billiard room talking gaily and hearing the
other ladies tell all about the Court of England, while in our turn we
described to them the customs of our own. There is always between _dames
d’honneur_ an exchange of opinions regarding etiquette which constitutes
a subject of conversation unknown in other circles of society. In this I
have always found the greatest amusement, since personal feelings and
inveterate patriotism are bound to enter the lists; and it is seldom
that the friendly talk ends without some acrimony on both sides, each
party being intent on proving the superiority of its particular Court
and Sovereign. The typical _hof-dame_, however, only exists in Germany.
In England the ladies who have the honour of attending upon their Queen
still preserve sentiments, opinions, and nerves of their own; whereas
German Court ladies soon become mere machines, give themselves up
blindly to their duty, and preserve so little of their individuality
that it is impossible to distinguish one of them from another. They are
not human beings, they are mechanical imitations bent upon maintaining
propriety and fine manners, with the humble conviction that it is an
immense distance which separates a King from his subjects.
Prince Henry of Battenberg came himself to apprise us that tea would
soon be served, and he showed us the way to the Queen’s drawing-room. We
followed duly upon his steps, and when he pushed open a door we found
ourselves in the presence of the Royal family. All the Princesses were
standing; Queen Victoria alone sat in a large armchair. She makes a
slight movement as we advance towards her, and asks whether we have not
found our first day in the Highlands too dreary and too long. Her voice
is clear though not very strong, the French syllables tremble a little,
yet she speaks the language well, with a very slight accent. She knows
she can address me in English:
“Take a chair and sit by my side,” she says, waving the others away and
indicating a sofa not far off. I know that a seat must be close by, but
I am short-sighted and in great confusion, so remain motionless, while
Princess Beatrice, pitying my embarrassed countenance, wheels round a
chair and places me somewhat behind the Queen but still very near, where
I shall be able to see and hear her every movement, her very
breathing.... To hear the breathing of a living creature, to listen
eagerly for the regular return of that slight sound, has ever impressed
me with an emotion deeper than that which even the heaving of the sea,
or the pulsations of a clock, can give. Thus while listening to the
faint movements of that gentle breast, my thoughts flew towards the
moment when millions would hang anxiously on the feeble sighs which
should announce the approach of death. I pictured to myself what the
nations, what the whole world, would say when the blood, stirred into
action by the weak breathing whose cadence now stirred my hair, would be
growing colder and colder, and when the shadows of mourning should fall
upon kingdoms and empires heavier far than the shadows of night. Then
the high meaning, the symbolism of monarchy burst upon my soul as I sat
there so near the Queen; and I smiled to see how different from my
vagrant dreams were these surroundings; how familiar and old-fashioned
the aspect of the faded drawing-room, the tints of the huge furniture
whose coverings had not been changed for years; how quaint and even
rustic the few trifling objects decorating the shelves and tables. No
trace of grandeur, no hint of the exalted state of the illustrious
owner lurked there.
Through the open window a sharp evening wind was beginning to blow right
in our faces; the twilight hour was fast coming. Still, the hills were
fair to look upon, in the silvery rays of the wet atmosphere. The Queen
of Roumania and the Duchess of Albany were merrily turning over the
leaves of a large music album and pointing out their favourite songs to
a beautiful young girl who stood by the open piano. The unknown damsel
appeared neither moved nor fluttered. The firm and perfect lines of her
profile, her cold smile, and the respectful silence with which she
received the eager words of the royal ladies, made a striking contrast
with their playful condescension, and I could not make out who the girl
was till Princess Beatrice advanced towards her mother and said:
“Mamma, she will sing three songs--Elizabeth has chosen them. I am told
her voice is excellent and very well trained.”
“Is it really so? You know, dear, she has to be a good singer, a perfect
artist, if she sings before Elizabeth,” answered Queen Victoria--and I
comprehended that no small anxiety was felt by the august hostess on
account of our own Queen’s musical gifts and reputation.
“Yes, mamma, you may feel perfectly easy. Helen (the Duchess of Albany)
and my husband have heard her sing this morning. Is your seat
comfortable, mother? Does not the light disturb you?” And into the eyes
of the Princess Beatrice came a look of unutterable tenderness and
solicitude. She was at that time in the prime of robust and healthy
womanhood; her lips and her eyes spoke of happiness, and though she
could not be called pretty or fascinating, had no pretensions whatever
to either of these adjectives, her cordial smile, her fine figure, her
amiable conversation, and above all the unceasing care she took to make
every one at ease and content, rendered her most attractive.
“Mamma, don’t you think she should begin to sing?” she asked. “Just a
little song to begin with? Henry, go and tell her to sing the shortest
of the three little songs.”
“But Alsa has not come yet,” said the Queen. “I will have no singing
till Alsa is here. Of course the young girl will be as delighted to sing
before Alsa as before myself.” The voice of the Queen lingered
caressingly on the name “Alsa.” She alluded to Alexandra, the Princess
of Wales, and as she laid particular stress on the last sentences, a
sense of the grandeur which had hitherto been missing in the scene, took
hold of me--not because of mere affection, the attachment of a mother to
her daughter-in-law--but because of this instinctive homage rendered by
the actual Queen to the future Queen-Consort, a tribute of respect to
the Heiress of the Throne, the lady on whom the hopes of the realm were
centred. The proud consciousness of her own grandeur already reflected
in the grandeur of the dynasty lit up Queen Victoria’s eyes and gave
those few broken sentences a significance which went far beyond their
apparent meaning.
“Of course Alsa knows she must come--but as Bertie (the Prince of Wales)
is going off by the five o’clock train and she accompanies him to the
station, she will be somewhat late perhaps. So, if it please you, the
young girl will sing immediately.”
“No singing for the moment,” replied the Queen. “We will wait for the
Princess of Wales.” And to cut short all further remark, while the Queen
of Roumania was lightly touching the open pianoforte and delighting the
Princesses who lingered near by playing some Roumanian airs, Queen
Victoria turned her head towards me and beckoned me to pull my chair
still nearer. There was a gentle calmness in her gesture, in fact all
that happened appeared to be at the same time as strange and as familiar
as those dreams whose memory takes us back to the spots we have
cherished and are sure never to see again.
Her Majesty questioned me closely as to my musical tastes and
preferences. When I mentioned that my favourite composers were Mozart
and Wagner:
“How wide apart lie your ideals!” she said. “I am so fond of music
myself; and I love reading the biography of the great musicians. They
have all had such sad and thrilling experiences. I have till quite
lately played on the piano and even practised whenever I found time
enough to do so, because I always remember the happy days when my
darling husband used to open the instrument himself and lead me to the
music stool and then find a book of Mendelssohn--he loved
Mendelssohn--and point out the passages he wanted to hear. Now I am
rather ashamed to play, I am such an old woman. One day one of my
youngest granddaughters caught me practising and laughed outright. ‘Why,
grandmamma,’ she said, ‘how can _you_ practise now, and what for?’ Her
remark struck me.... I left off playing for some time. But then you see
my dear husband taught me to love all things beautiful and good--I
learnt to seek them for his sake--now I return to them often in memory
of him. You cannot guess to what extent my life is interwoven with the
life of the dead. I only feel alive when in close communion with the
dead. My prayers lead me toward them. Their spirits and their power
guide me. I am sure that the dead we have loved pray constantly on
behalf of the living!”
I then took occasion to relate to Her Majesty how touching and true was
the love which the villagers in Roumania bestow on their dead, and how
many touching ceremonies and songs point out this particular trait of
our national instincts. The Queen said:
“I am beginning to get quite fond of Roumania. Roumania is happy indeed
to possess such a Queen as yours is. I never could have believed before
meeting her that I was liable to get so rapidly attached to a mere
stranger. Everything she says and does is charming; I am so attracted by
her goodness, her intelligence--and what a voice she has! She must be
idolised in your country, is she not? I beg of you to tell all who take
any interest in your visit to Scotland that I admire your Queen
exceedingly. I want her and her subjects to know it. I am not of an
enthusiastic nature, nor does my temperament impel me to exaggerate.
This time I am enthusiastic and eloquent--how queer the words sound on
my lips those who have not lived by my side cannot understand.”
The light blue eyes looked more and more deeply into mine, as if they
sought in my soul the secrets of my race and of the distant land from
which I came. “Tell me more about Roumania,” she said. “It is a country
whose mysteries authors and guidebooks have not yet exhausted. I am
astonished that British travellers do not oftener seek pleasure and
exotic surroundings in your country. Do write a book on Roumania--invite
the English to your native land; they do so much good to all the
countries whose climate and scenery lure them to long excursions and
frequent visits. Just think how much Italy and Switzerland owe to the
English. Do invite them to the banks of the Danube--I would be _so_
pleased to observe the result, and I have many reasons for wishing it.
They like best those parts of the globe in which they can either create
history, or call to life again historical deeds of long-forgotten days.
So search your records well through, stir up your sleeping heroes, and
the English will come to you. But you must also offer them trout-fishing
and mountain climbing as an inducement.... Some of your national legends
remind me of Indian folk-lore. I am studying Hindustani just now. Don’t
laugh--I am very old, but I have always lived up to a precept which I
advise you to remember: We must always live as if we were immortal.”
In my opinion all the power and the happiness of Queen Victoria’s life
and influence are explained in those words. With a quiet, melancholy
smile she added:
“Then death will come to us like a radiant surprise, a most wonderful
and unlooked-for boon; then will the joy of seeing again those we have
loved be most startling and complete.”