tried to rise as she sought the help of her thick ebony walking-cane.
All the other persons were standing, as, beautifully clad in a dark red
velvet gown, her small head illumined by a haze of gold, the Princess of
Wales advanced. The swan-like whiteness of her visage and bare arms were
visible in the dimness of the silvery twilight as, with steps that
glided as softly as the sea foam on the beach, she came to the aged
Queen, and after fondly embracing her, arranged the folds of the black
dress and replaced the ebony cane on the arm of the chair. Her
mother-in-law said in low tones:
“Dear child, we have been looking forward to your presence. I have
invited a young and lovely Irish girl to sing us some Irish songs.
Beatrice says she has an excellent voice, and I want Elizabeth to be
pleased. We are one and all delighted with Elizabeth. But I am talking
away and the girl must begin to sing.”
Then the young voice went forth pure and powerful, while all the rest of
the room lay in darkness; two candles only flickered on the piano and
stood out like big pins of light. The harmony wandered on, like a rush
of warriors in the glare of the rising sun, then moaned over the
bleeding throng, and returned bruised and weary under the cold gaze of
the moon. Ever and anon a piercing cry came from the musician’s lips.
These were songs of wild rebellious Erin she was singing; the clamour of
her soul shrieking for liberty was lifted up in woe. A solemn stillness
had fallen upon the august listeners, on the group of mighty ladies and
lords, as the voice threw out its imperious flood of protestation and
defiance, thrusting its music into the silence of that hallowed room as
with daggers, like the flashes of a spear.
We all knew that the hour was one of great import to the young singer,
perhaps the hour which would decide all her after-life, the
culminating-point of her career, her fate. She sang in the presence of
her Queen; and as the silvery notes rang through the azure twilight, we
thought we could hear the mad throbbings of her heart, the beatings of
her blood against temples and veins. All at once the headlong cadence
fell and died away. A few words were murmured, words carefully uttered
in hushed tones amid the empty spaces, so that the contrast between the
Irish girl’s excitement, the extraordinary force and talent she had
displayed, and the apparent coldness with which her rendering of the
song was received, would have seemed cruel had not the Princess of Wales
approached and said some kind words of congratulation to the beautiful
artist, whose strikingly hard, audacious profile seemed cut out clearly
by the side of the soft fair visage that smiled encouragingly and voiced
thanks for all.
“Carmen Sylva” in her turn said: “How well you sing, madame; and how
very near your heart this music must be, because I cannot suppose any
one could offer us a nobler specimen of the Irish fervour and emotions.”
The lamps had now been brought, but large shades prevented them from
bathing the whole room with light, and most of the people present
remained invisible. Suddenly, in loud distinct tones, Queen Victoria
said:
“I want to hear ‘The Wearing of the Green.’”
The title bore no significance whatever to our ears, but an
uncomfortable murmur floated through the audience, and I could even
discern a few whispered words such as: “Oh, no, impossible ...
here....” However, the Queen repeated her request.
“Sing that song, please. I wish to hear it very much indeed. Will you do
that for me?”
“Yes, madame,” answered the beautiful Irish girl firmly. Her face was
set, and her eyes shone with a strange glow. From the very instant she
began to sing I grasped the meaning of the constraint and uneasiness
with which the Queen’s proposition had been received. In the full glare
of a neighbouring lamp the lovely young woman, whose features were now
fully revealed in the glory of an audacious perfection, began to sing.
Her voice swelled out in accents as fiery and glowing as the flames of
lurid torches, as furious as the harsh cries of multitudes raised up by
wrath to a pitch of passion; fearful indeed, but magnificent.
The song she sang was a popular anthem, a shriek for mercy and pity, a
defiant challenge from the weak to the strong--something startling and
appalling like a thunderbolt that falls on the bosom of the tempestuous
sea and awakens thousands of echoes from its billows. All these waves of
vengeance, all the cries, all the withering rage which that young voice
poured forth, came to die like foam at the feet of the quiet Queen. Once
again I saw that peculiar expression in her eyes, that expression of
clearness and limpidity, as if those eyes were made of fresh air and
water and could blow away or wipe out each tear, all anguish, every one
of the complaints uttered by the desperate song. It was evidently
hastening towards its end--the stanzas quickened their faltering pace,
and each measure was full to the brim of vehement desire for justice and
victory. We were then one and all wrapped up in the same thought: what
would we say after the young girl had ceased--who would dare to break
the silence this time? What would follow?
When the dreaded pause came we almost held our breath; no word was
spoken, no sound heard. Then an incident, unexpected as it was charming,
took place. With dignified yet affectionate alacrity the Queen of
Roumania came over and knelt by the side of Queen Victoria’s huge chair,
and taking both her hands caressingly between her own, said:
“What a very great Queen you must be, and how sure of the affection of
your subjects, to be able to hear such a song sung in your presence! In
fact, were you not really a great Queen, no one would have dared to obey
you to-day.”
“But the song is splendid,” said Queen Victoria, “and I wanted you to
hear it. Besides, I am very fond of the Irish, you may be sure of that;”
then, turning towards the young girl, “I thank you with all my heart, my
dear. You have given me great pleasure and been the occasion of my
receiving from the Queen of Roumania a compliment which I shall never
forget.”
At dinner that evening I was seated by the side of the Duke of Clarence,
not far from the Queen, whose right-hand neighbour was “Carmen Sylva.”
The Princess of Wales beamed radiantly upon us from the opposite side of
the table on the left of her Royal mother-in-law. Queen Victoria spoke
little, but followed the conversation with evident interest.
“Mamma,” said the Princess of Wales, “look well at Mdlle. Vacaresco, and
try to remember who she is like--remember Florence and the ladies you
have seen there. _I_ judge of the likeness from a photograph.”
Queen Victoria’s glance rested on my face. “Yes, Alsa dear, I see what
or rather who you mean. But would Mdlle. Vacaresco care about resembling
that lady--almost one of her own countrywomen? I have noticed when
abroad that people belonging to the same race appear to be very like
each other.”
“The lady that we allude to is very handsome,” said the Princess of
Wales to me with ready tact, “so you need not be offended.”
“Surely, dear, that lady is handsome--much handsomer than you, my child.
I guess you already know to whom I refer. Yet I read disappointment in
your face. You do not like the idea of being compared to her.”
I bowed in mute acquiescence. The Queen continued.
“Her face is beautiful, it is true, but it lacks life and expression,
which yours does not, though it is less striking and harmonious. And you
prefer wearing your soul in your face to any perfection mere beauty can
confer--I would do the same in your place. I do not like vacuous or
expressionless faces; yet the ideal in England and most of the northern
countries is in favour of a countenance which is drilled to hide every
emotion, even the natural curiosity of an intellect athirst for
knowledge and comprehension. The southern poets would laugh outright at
_our_ heroines, whose secret aspirations no one can read in face or
gesture.”
When we passed into the drawing-room after the meal, the conversation
around us waxed rapid and full of spirit, though in a key of discreet
undertone. Lord Rosse was at that moment the Minister in attendance on
the Queen, and told us how hard he had worked with her Majesty in the
morning, as he was the one member in the Cabinet who had the management
of the Indies. “So you are the Ministre _pour les Indes_” said I. “Oh!
then you might accomplish my warmest dream. I wish to be Vice-Queen of
the Indies in my own right, if only for a few days. I want to ride on a
white elephant, who would kneel to drink in the Ganges; to see the land
of splendour and diamonds, the land of fakirs and innumerable temples.
Oh, I have hesitated long between the fascinations of the extremely
modern and the excessively old civilisations, the two opposite poles of
the world as to history and religion. I had ardently desired to become
Empress of the United States, Empress of North America altogether. But
since I am here, and such a good opportunity is offered me, why I
prefer the Indies.”
At this Lord Rosse laughed, and we took up the sentence and repeated the
words: “Empress of the United States!” in tones so loud that all the
company were startled, and to our great confusion _our_ Queen put a
finger on her lips, while the Princess of Wales smiled approval, saying:
“Oh, no, do not stop, the Queen likes young people to be merry. Look,
here is my mother, who is coming to inquire into the cause of your
mirth.”
Surely, the Princess was right. Queen Victoria herself came up to Lord
Rosse and asked:
“What have these little girls been saying which makes you all so gay,
Lord Rosse? May I not know?”
“Certainly, madam, here is a young lady who desires me to ask your
Majesty to nominate her Vice-Queen of the Indies for a few days, or even
a few hours.”
“What for?” asked the Queen, in an amused and eager way.
I explained to her my childish day-dream, and how often I had longed to
see and thoroughly explore that distant realm of light, the empire whose
gentle, placid Empress stood before me, modestly clad in a plain black
silk gown.
“These stones are from India,” said the Queen, as she pointed to the
huge diamond necklace which glittered on her bosom. “A gift from the
town of Bombay. You are right, my child,” she continued. “Like you, I
too have longed to see those lands so far away and so marvellous. I am
the ruler, but no more than you have I enjoyed the sight of my subjects,
of the beautiful cities with their rivers where big elephants kneel to
drink. Your wish must be granted. You are a poet, so you will have all
that you desire. Sleep quietly this night, and while you sleep I will
sign an invisible decree which will give you the power to fly towards
the distant paradise of your dreams and be a queen there, and you shall
play with the birds and rubies and feel you possess them all, much more
than I possess them myself.”
“Is your Majesty aware,” interposed Lord Rosse, “that Mdlle. Vacaresco
had just thought also of becoming Empress of the United States?”
“Oh, what a singular, what an unexpected title!” exclaimed the Queen. “I
am gratified to have heard these extraordinary words coupled together:
Empress--United States. Is it a presage? Oh, how could it come about?
The United States and Empire! Could you live to see that?” The Queen
stood dumb-struck, plunged in serious thought, then turned away slowly,
still murmuring: “Empress of the United States--what an extraordinary
idea! What a title, is it a prophecy? the United States a monarchy!”
“My mother wishes you to remember all your life that you spent your
birthday with her,” said Princess Beatrice next morning, as I entered
her drawing-room. “Your Queen has told us that this is your birthday
...” and the Princess pointed to a big volume on the table. “This is the
Queen’s Journal. She has written a dedication and her autograph on the
flyleaf.”
I ran up to my room with my treasure. In the corridor I was startled to
meet Queen Victoria herself, and I endeavoured to thank her.
“Please don’t,” said the Queen. “I have a boon to ask from you. I want
you to write some verses of yours in an album, verses appropriate to the
book. But I am keeping you here. Run upstairs; you must have letters to
write, and I also am in a hurry.”
“My maid is lucky to-day, madam,” said I. “She has had but one idea
since she left Roumania--to catch a glimpse of Queen Victoria; and there
she is at the end of the gallery, looking at your Majesty with greedy
eyes.”
“I will say a word to her, poor thing;” and before I could prevent the
Queen from taking so much trouble, she had briskly walked towards the
terrified maid, and was actually saying to her:
“I have come to ask you whether you like my home, and if you have all
you require here.”
The woman, whose utterance was choked by tears of gratitude, could find
no answer; and when the Queen turned to go she saw that my own eyes were
moist at being witness to an act of such gracious sympathy.
The Queen took leave of us in the evening. “We shall see very little of
each other to-morrow morning. Do not forget Balmoral. I will send my
album up to your room, and remember that what you write in it will
create a lasting link between the ancient Queen of England and the girl
poet of Roumania.”
I sat alone in my chamber pondering over the events of the past two
days, and felt a pang at the thought of leaving this hospitable
dwelling. Around me, one by one, the inmates of the Castle were sinking
to sleep. There I stood in the darkness with clasped hands and a heart
full of reverence and regret.
A slight tap at the door aroused me, and a footman walked in, bearing a
black leather book. A tiny key fell from its lock as I tried to open it.
I lit my lamp and entered into communion with the slumbering souls whose
memory lingered within its covers. The book was a cemetery, and as the
passing winds arouse the murmur of leaves above the graves, so as I
turned these pages a rustling sound awakened the dead. I knew them
almost all by name. Here was the Emperor Frederick III., his last letter
and his tomb; here, too, the Grand Duchess of Hesse, verses written by
her hand, and several letters from her; here also memorial stones were
represented which bore the names of all those whom the Queen had mourned
and loved--the same tribute was paid to the humblest as to the greatest.
A few verses from “In Memoriam” were written in Tennyson’s own hand; a
tender missive from the mother of the Queen to her daughter; withered
flowers, a tuft of heather taken from the wedding bouquet presented by
Prince Albert to his wife, and two of the flowers that had been placed
under his hand before he was laid in his coffin--all the homage rendered
by a soul at anchor in the harbours of faith and hope, to the souls who
travel and float in eternal bliss, was visible on the pages of that
moving little book. My whole night was spent in its perusal; this small
volume gave the final touches to the portrait of Queen Victoria which
was to remain for ever in my mind....
“You have written exactly what I would have liked you to write,” she
said when I stooped over her hand next morning in the white hall of
Balmoral Castle, and her Majesty gently kissed my forehead, saying,
“Thank you for _their_ sake and for mine.”
So we passed away from the stately but homelike Castle. The mists were
so thin that the whole landscape danced before our eyes. I turned my
head to look behind and kept my gaze fixed on the massive tower where
the standard of England floated.
Something was working in my thoughts, something that waved to and fro
like that glorious standard whose vivid colour soared so high. Something
spoke in my heart, and questioning said: “Have I not seen two women in
one, two queens in a single queen? and which of these two women do the
English most revere? The grandmother, ever ready to receive and
distribute affection, or the quiet guardian of the little cemetery, that
small black book I had loved so much: and which of the two queens is the
truest queen--the one who toils till midnight, till the abundant oil in
her lamp is spent, allowing no fault or flaw in her government to be
overlooked, or the indulgent sovereign who listened in serene enjoyment
to the rebellious song that had endeavoured to kindle revolution?”
I had seen two women in one, two queens in a single queen.
INDEX
Abergeldie, 78
Albert Edward Prince of Wales--_see_ Edward VII.
Alexander I. of Russia, 143, 147
Alexander II. of Russia, 146
Alexander III. of Russia, 151
Alexander of Servia: The memorable tragedy, 255, 273,
described by “Madam Draga,” 271;
learning to waltz, 272
Alfonso XIII. of Spain: His appearance, 218;
early training, 219;
necessary qualities of a Spanish King, 220;
Royal stables, 221;
his infancy, 224;
boyish pursuits, 229;
a real King of Spain, 232
America, 251, 309
American women, 251
Arabia, 122
Aranjuez, 224
Austrian Court, 94
Austrian Imperial vault, 108
Balmoral, 71, 81, 294
Belgrade, 256, 263, 271
Berlin, 17, 132
Biarritz, 271
Biebrick, 9
Bourbons, 214, 218
Bucharest, 195, 196, 201, 258, 260
Budapesth, 34
Bullfights, 220, 229
Capuciner Gruft--_see_ Austrian Imperial vault
Carlsbad, 259
“Carmen Sylva”--_see_ Queen of Roumania
Carpathians--_see_ Karpathians
Catherine Constantinovitch, 257
Charles V. of Spain, 92
Cologne, 17
Court Life: Scandal and intrigue, 35;
Royal visits, 51, 126;
etiquette of the Austrian Court, 94;
Roumanian Court, 129;
Italian Court, 171;
Spanish Court, 217;
Court of Holland, 249;
Roman Pontifical Court, 281;
“red carpet and white gloves,” 292;
ladies of honour and international etiquette, 295;
German Court, 296
Crimean War, 146
Czar--_see_ Nicholas II. of Russia
Czarina, 70, 156
Danube, 23, 134, 140, 255
Darmstadt, 162
Divine Right of Kings, 192
Duchess of Albany, 298
Duke of Luxembourg, 9
Duke Philibert “the handsome,” 189, 190
Duke of Reichstadt, 105, 109
Dutch Court Ceremonies, 249
Education of Princes, 219
Edward VII.: Visit to Roumania when Prince of Wales, 51;
fondness for dogs, 62;
converses on the happiness of princes, 66;
coronation, 67;
a true British Monarch, 220
Emperor of Austria (Franz Josef): His chequered career, 89;
his fortitude, 93;
death of Prince Rudolf, 103;
calls on the Queen of Roumania, 106
Empress of Austria (Elizabeth), 34, 69, 91, 93, 109, 112
Empress Maria Theresa of Austria, 108
Empress of Russia--_see_ Czarina
English as the language of Courts, 131
English Court ceremonies, 80
Escurial, 213, 217
Etiquette--_see_ Court Life
Etruscan relics, 209
Fanny Mouchard, 21, 22
Ferdinand, Emperor of Austria, 108
Florence, 122, 208
France and Kaiser Wilhelm II., 124
French Court under Napoleon III., 13
French Revolution, 21
German Court, 296
German Ladies of Honour, 296
German Women, 199
Grand Duchess Helena of Russia, 11, 13
Hague, 248, 252
Hapsbourg Family, 218, 221
Highland reel at Balmoral, 81
Humbert, King of Italy, 170, 191
India, 72, 154, 156, 310
Ireland, 78
Italian Court, 171
Italian Renaissance, 2, 136
Jerusalem, 202
Joseph II. of Austria, 108
Josephine, wife of Napoleon I., 5, 126
Karpathians, 3, 67, 72
Kief, 145
Kruger, 251
London, 174
Louis XIV. of France, 120, 155, 187
Madrid, 213, 215
Margherita di Savoia, 189
Marie Catargi, 257
Marie Louise, Archduchess of Austria, 109
Maximilian, 92
Mejerling, 98, 255
Milan, King of Servia, 257, 259
Miramar, 70, 226, 229
Moscow, 145
Murat, 22, 126
Naples, 122, 191
Napoleon I., 126, 133, 143
Napoleon III., 13
Nicholas I. of Russia, 143, 146
Nicholas II. of Russia: Favourite pursuits, 154;
interest in India, 154, 156;
love of travel, 154;
personal appearance, 155;
marriage, 156;
intercourse with English cousins, 156
Nihilism, 147
Obrenovitch Family, 256, 257
Palais Michel, 12
Palermo, 185
Panslavism, 151
Paris, 199, 268
Parthenon, 122
Philip II. of Spain, 123, 145, 214, 216, 224
Pierre Loti, 177, 229
Pisa, 205, 207
Plevna, 45, 147, 148
Pope Leo XIII.: Receives Tuscan pilgrims, 278;
ceremonies of the Pontifical Court, 280;
his immaculate dress and appearance, 282, 284;
St. Peter’s ring, 282;
“the true fold,” 284;
doctrine of infallibility, 285;
as poet, 285;
his love of the poor, 287
Prince Charles of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen (afterwards King
of Roumania), 17;
his ancestry, 21, 22, 126
Prince Henry of Battenberg, 294
Prince Henry of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, 250
Prince Otto of Wied, 10
Prince Rudolf of Austria, 91, 98, 100, 102, 108, 255
Princess Beatrice, 297
Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, 110, 160, 255
Princess Elizabeth of Wied, 7--_see_ also Queen of Roumania
Princess Henry of Prussia, 158
Princess Irene of Prussia, 159
Princess Mary of Wied, 10
Princess Victoria of Battenberg, 161, 163
Princess of Wales (Alexandra)--_see_ Queen Alexandra
Queen Alexandra, 71;
love of poetry, 72, 85;
admires Roumanian costumes, 75;
knowledge of English and Scottish popular lore, 78;
death of Prince Albert Victor, 84;
coronation, 86;
with Queen Victoria at Balmoral, 299
Queen Draga of Servia: The memorable tragedy, 255, 273;
at a Paris garden party, 268;
her devotion to Queen Nathalie, 269
Queen Emma of Holland, 239, 241, 246
Queen Helena of Italy, 70
Queen Juana la Loca of Spain, 92, 222
Queen Margherita of Italy: Her appearance, 70, 168, 171;
beloved of her people, 169;
etiquette of Italian Court, 171;
visits Queen of Roumania, 177;
describes Italian people, 181;
training her son, 191
Queen Maria Christina of Spain: Her character, 70;
training of Alphonso XIII., 219;
love of poetry, 226;
conversation, 228
Queen Mercedes of Spain, 224
Queen Nathalie of Servia, 263, 269
Queen of Roumania (“Carmen Sylva”): Her varied pursuits, 2, 30;
her crown, 5;
early life, 6;
visit to the Russian Court, 11;
the French Court and Napoleon III., 13;
her father’s death, 14;
her marriage, 15;
betrothal, 19;
Castel Polesch at Sinaïa, 27;
her poetry, 31, 69;
visit to Elizabeth, Empress of Austria, 34;
love of music, 35;
punishes her maids of honour, 37;
death of her infant, 41;
nursing the sick during the Russo-Roumano-Turkish War, 45;
prepares tableaux vivants for the Prince of Wales--Edward VII., 54;
Rudolf of Austria’s visit, 94;
Queen Nathalie’s visit, 265
Queen Sophia of Naples, 94
Queen of Sweden, 9
Queen Victoria: Her views on Court ceremonies, 80;
love for Princess Alexandra, 80, 299;
her last hours, 84;
kindness and intellectual power, 291;
“Carmen Sylva’s” visit, 292;
her appearance, 295;
simple tastes at Balmoral, 297;
love of music, 300;
Prince Consort, 301;
studying Hindustani, 303;
“the Wearing of the Green,” 305;
wish to visit India, 311
Queen Wilhelmina of Holland: Birth and parentage, 235, 238;
descendant of William of Orange, 238;
childhood, 240;
training, 243;
dislike to incognita, 244;
excursion down the Rhine, 244;
death of her father, 247;
her studies, 247;
coronation, 249;
her betrothal and marriage, 249;
personal characteristics, 250;
visit of Kruger, 251
Rhine, 2, 7, 9, 11, 14, 110, 244, 247
Roman Catholic Church in Roumania, 281, 284, 286
Roman Pontifical Court, 280
Rome, 83, 167, 170, 180, 182, 277, 286
Roumania and the British traveller, 302
Roumanian costumes and manners, 23, 74, 197
Roumanian Court, 35, 196
Roumanian folk-lore and ballads, 31, 113, 133, 139
Royal love marriages, 16
Russian Church, 145
Russian Court, 12
Russo-Roumano-Turkish War, 45, 147
Savoy, House of, 186, 187, 188
Scheveningen, 252
Schönbrunn, 105, 106, 108
Sicily, 122
Sigmaringen, 125, 135
Spanish Court, 217
Spanish bullfights, 220, 229
St. Petersburg, 12, 145
St. Sebastian, 226
Tchernagora, 70, 209
Tuileries, 6
Tzigane costumes and manners, 76
Venice, 176
Versailles, 224
Victor Emmanuel of Italy, 169
Victor Emmanuel III.: As soldier, 185;
ancestry, 190;
birth, 191;
visits Roumanian Court, 192, 195;
love of sport, 194;
notes on travel, 197, 202;
marriage, 207
Victor Hugo, 130
Vienna, 94, 104
Waterloo, 133
“Wearing of the Green,” 305
Wiesbaden, 111, 156
Wilhelm II., German Emperor: His varied pursuits, 117, 123;
ambitions, 119;
as orator, 120, 124;
his travels, 122;
French opinion, 124;
visit to King and Queen of Roumania, 125;
English as the language of Courts, 131;
statuesque appearance, 135;
antiquary and connoisseur, 136;
opinion of clever women, 137
William, Prince of Orange, 238
Women of America, 251
Women of Germany, 199
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
London & Edinburgh
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
Castel Polesch and Castel Pelesch are both used
The tableax vivants=> The tableaux vivants {pg 56}
Royal Higness has=> Royal Highness has {pg 76}
flash he rememberd=> flash he remembered {pg 207}
But the Estruscans=> But the Etruscans {pg 209}