Letters of a Diplomat's Wife, 1883-1900

About half way through luncheon came the pearl necklace incident (which you saw in the papers). I suddenly felt that my necklace was unclasped. It was sewed on the corsage in front, as the pearls are large and heavy, and I am always afraid of breaking the string. I asked Soveral, who was next to me, if he couldn't clasp it for me. He tried, but was nervous or awkward; at any rate couldn't manage it, and we were both getting red and flustered when suddenly we heard the Emperor from his table calling W.'s attention to the fact that "le Portugal était en train d'étrangler la France"; also Staal, saying that his "Collègue du Portugal se livrait à une gymnastique étrange." They all made various jokes at my expense, and the Prince said "Let me do it," but he couldn't either, and again we heard the Emperor remarking, "Maintenant c'est plus sérieux—l'Angleterre s'en mêle." W., who had his back to me and who couldn't see what was going on, was decidedly mystified, and wondered what on earth I was doing to attract so much attention, in fact was rather annoyed. When we got up from table the Prince and I retreated to a corner of the terrace, and he cut the stitches that held the necklace in front with his knife (which again looked funny to the people assembled on the terrace). He advised me to put the pearls, not in my pocket, but in a safe place, as they were very handsome, so I put them inside my dress. Of course everybody asked me what had happened, and what the Emperor was saying to me from the other table. I asked the Empress if she was never afraid of losing her pearls, but she said all her jewels were most carefully sewn on and strung on a very thick string or sort of silk cord.

Very soon after lunch the Emperor and Empress left, as they were starting in the evening for Germany, and had to go to Windsor to take leave of the Queen. The Prince and Princess followed quickly, and then, of course, all of us. W. had again a talk with the Emperor, and all his colleagues told him he was quite right to come. Any little incident between France and Germany always assumes gigantic proportions, and the papers, both French and German, would have been full of the marked absence of the French Ambassador from all the fêtes for the Emperor; his mourning a pretext, etc. It was a beautiful entertainment—bright, perfect summer day, quantities of pretty women beautifully dressed (a great many in white) and representative people of all kinds. The general impression was that the Emperor was not a lady's man—he evidently preferred talking to army and political men. My talk with him was so perfectly banal that I can scarcely have an opinion, but I should think one might talk to him easily. His face is certainly stern, and the manner very cold, but his smile, like the Queen's, lights up and softens the face. I said to one of the pretty young women who had made a luncheon-party for him, that I had heard that it was beautifully done, and that he was much pleased. She said she hoped he was, that as far as she personally was concerned he hadn't the slightest idea whether she was 25 or 50.

To H. L. K

London,January 12, 1892.

W. and I came over yesterday in a snowstorm. It was beastly getting out of the train and on the boat at Calais. I am rather depressed, having left Francis behind at a professor's near the Lycée Janson, to follow the cours there as externe. I shall miss him frightfully, but it was quite time for him to go to France and go through the regular course. He was forgetting his French here. Of course he and his father always speak French to each other, but he went to a little English school, Miss Quirim's, in Sloane Street (where there were quantities of little friends beginning their education), played all day with English children, heard nothing else spoken around him, and was rapidly becoming an Englishman. The house seems dreadfully quiet without him, and poor little Bonny, the fox-terrier, is miserable. He couldn't think why he wasn't with us to-day on our journey and galloped up to his room as soon as he arrived at the Embassy, asking everybody really with his eyes where his master was. Florian came in at once to see us, and told us that the Duke of Clarence was frightfully ill at Sandringham. He always looked rather delicate, tall and slight and colourless, but I hope his youth will pull him through. He had been rather more en évidence these last months since his engagement to Princess May, daughter of Princess Mary, Duchess of Teck. I think it is a marriage that pleases the nation. Princess May is young and pretty, with a pretty figure and essentially English—born and brought up in the country. Everybody adores her mother, Princess Mary, and I think it will be a very happy marriage.

January 13, 1892.

I am afraid there is no chance for the poor young Prince. Florian came in for a moment, just back from Marlborough House, where the bulletins are posted twice a day. There were crowds of people reading them and trying to get some detailed information. Florian saw one of the equerries, who told him there was no hope, he was sinking fast and would probably not live through the night. He told him the Princess never left him and was heart-broken, her eldest boy. It is hard for her. They seem to think it was a neglected cold, caught out shooting, and not taken in time. All the personnel came in to see me and brought their New Year's present—4 pretty corbeilles for bonbons. They always give me something New Year's Day and I am much pleased to have the souvenirs. I can hardly realise that we have been here nearly 9 years. We came in '83 and thought we should stay perhaps two years. I am so accustomed to the life now that I feel as if I had always spent half the year in England and the other half in France. I suppose I shall miss a great many things when we retire into private life, perhaps most of all the family life with all the personnel of the Embassy. We have had various changes, of course, but I generally pull well with them all, and I must say they are always ready to help me in every way. I haven't had too many women, which is pleasant; women are much more complicated to deal with than men—there are always so many small jealousies and rivalries.

Thursday, January 14, 1892.

The poor young Duke is dead at 9 o'clock this morning, in spite of all that tender nursing and skill could do. He had not strength to fight against the malady. It is awfully hard at his age and in his position; just now, too, when his marriage was so popular. Florian came at once to tell us, and said there was such a crowd outside Marlborough House that he could hardly get through into the court, where the policeman showed him the Prince of Wales's telegram, "All is over." We had various visits at tea-time; Deym among others, who had done just what we did—sent telegrams to the Prince and Princess and the Tecks at Sandringham. He told me he had dined at White Lodge with the Tecks on Christmas Eve (for their Christmas tree) and that they were all so happy. Princess Mary took him upstairs and showed him all the presents—coupons of velvet, brocade, etc., for dresses, also the wedding dress, and said to him, "Je suis si heureuse que j'en ai peur." Poor thing; perhaps it was a presentiment. I am awfully sorry for them, for her perhaps more than for Princess May, who is young and must of course get over it, as youth happily is elastic and rebounds; but Princess Mary is different. She has her share of worries and disappointments, and she was so happy and proud of the marriage. It must be an awful blow to her.

Sunday, January 19, 1892.

I went to the little church behind the Embassy this morning and am very sorry now that I didn't go to St. Paul's, where there was a fine service—the organ playing the Dead March in Saul, and all the congregation standing, a good many women crying, all in black. It was impressive in the little church—everyone in black. There is a general mourning ordered for three weeks, and Court mourning for six (which is a shorter time than I thought). (I send on a sheet apart what I would like you to order for me. I have nothing black but my black satin evening dress, which fortunately is all black, no white, lace, or colour). They sang the funeral hymn "Labourer, thy work is o'er," the first time I had ever heard it, and beautiful it was; read the prayer for the "Royal Family in affliction," and one for the influenza—which surprised me, as I should not have thought the epidemic was bad enough for that. The sermon, of course, was all about Prince Eddie and the young life cut short. It was very simple and earnest and the congregation certainly felt and showed great sympathy. I went for a short turn in the Park afterward and walked about a little with Henry Edwardes and his children. He is rather down, poor fellow, as his congé drags on and they seem in no hurry at the Foreign Office to give him another post. I believe he didn't get on very well with his last chief, and of course all chiefs are not commodes, but equally of course when there comes a question the secretary is always in the wrong. Edwardes is very clever and cultivated. W. thinks him an excellent agent. In Paris he always knew what was going on, and knew so many people of all kinds.

This afternoon I had my usual Sunday visits—principally diplomatists this time, and all talking about Prince Eddie's funeral. It seems a pity they don't make a grand military funeral, the procession passing through London. There was such a striking outburst of sympathy and loyalty when his death was announced that the people would have been glad to associate themselves with the last rites. They don't invite all the Chefs de Mission to the funeral at Windsor (which also seems strange, Prince Eddie being the heir), merely those of the "Cours apparentées." That will take in Hatzfeldt, German Ambassador; Staal, Russian; de Bille, Danish Minister; Gennadius, Greece; Soveral, Portugese; and Solvyns, Belgian. All the others go to a special service at St. James's Chapel, in uniform.

Wednesday, January 20, 1892.

To-day is the funeral. Our flag is half-mast, and all the windows shut in the drawing-rooms. It is mild and damp, but not cold. Mdme. de Florian and I have been driving about this afternoon to have an impression of the streets. All the shops are shut, blinds down in all the houses, flags at half-mast, and everyone in black. Some of the hansom cab drivers with bits of black ribbon or stuff on their whips, and everybody looks grave. I can't help thinking it was a pity not to let the people participate in the mourning and feel they were taking some part. In these days of democracy one should take any chance of strengthening the feeling of loyalty. W. went off in uniform, with crêpe on sleeve and sword hilt, at 3, to the service at the Chapel Royal, St. James's, which seems to have been rather mild. The diplomatists (4 Ambassadors), Chefs de Mission, were received by Mr. Eric Barrington, Lord Salisbury's secretary; Mr. Thomas Sanderson, and Colonel Chaine.

W. dined in the evening with Hilda, to meet Count Seckendorff and Bülow, who had come over from Germany to the funeral. They said the service was very simple and impressive, and that the Prince of Wales and Prince George looked badly, the Prince of Wales much agitated. Seckendorff said he could just manage to speak to them when they all filed past him after the ceremony. The Princesses were all in the chapel in a sort of gallery. Quite at the end the Prince stepped forward and laid a white wreath (given by Princess May) on the coffin.

Saturday, January 30, 1892.

It is still very mild and damp, rather dismal weather, and the streets are depressing, everyone in black—the mourning is very general, not at all confined to the fashionable world. Mdme. de Florian and I drove out to White Lodge, and cheerless it looked, so lonely and sad with the black winter trees all around the house. We did not see either of the Princesses; they were in London, but Teck came out to speak to us. I never saw him appear so well—he was so simple and distressed for his daughter. He said she was very quiet, but perfectly heart-broken, and that he had always had a presentiment that something would happen—everything had gone too smoothly. He said the coming back there after the funeral was something too awful—all the wedding presents and stuffs and laces scattered about the rooms—letters and telegrams of congratulation, bouquets of white flowers, in fact all the preparations for a wedding; and at the same time people waiting to try on mourning—telegrams of condolence, etc. What a tragedy! He said he had no hope from the first. Prince Eddie was struck down at once, and he didn't think the Princess of Wales ever had a gleam of hope. She never left her boy until all was over.

To G. K. S

Wednesday, February 10, 1892.

I went as usual to have tea with the Countess de Bylandt this afternoon, who receives always Wednesday. She always has plenty of people and one has a pleasant hour. She was worried about her husband to-day, who is ill. He is not very young and I should think has always been delicate. He is Dutch Minister, and has been here for years. She is a Russian born, very clever and amusing. We dined with Baron Gevers, Dutch Secretary, at the new restaurant or club, l'Amphytrion, which is supposed to be the best and dearest in London. It is kept by Émile, a well-known Parisian. We were a young party, the Florians, St. Genys, and the Lataings (Belgian Legation). The dinner was excellent, certainly—Émile knew that his Ambassador was coming and had done his best. He was always hovering about the table to see that all was right, and we complimented him very much on the way everything was cooked and served. I said to him that he had very good material in London to work upon, to which he replied, with magnificent contempt for anything that was not French—"Il n'y a pas de marché à Londres, je fais venir tout de Paris." When one thinks of Covent Garden, with its piles of splendid salmon, haunches of venison, hot-house fruits, grapes, pine-apples, and primeurs of all kinds, the answer was amusing. We went upstairs for coffee and cigarettes and had a very pleasant evening. It is so good for W. to be with young people occasionally. He talked a great deal, and the young men were interested in some of his Cambridge reminiscences.

Thursday, February 11, 1892.

It is still quite mild. After breakfast I went with Hilda to the British Museum to hear a young Oxonian lady lecture on Greek Antiquities and the Eleusinian Mysteries. She did it very easily—a pretty, cultivated voice and very distinct pronunciation. The lecture lasted about an hour. She had all sorts of photographs of bas-reliefs, statues, paintings, etc., and it was very interesting, much more so than I expected, as Greek antiquities are not much in my line. After the lecture was over, Mr. Thomson, the director of the Museum (a charming man), came to get us and showed us as much as we could see before 4, when it gets dark and the Museum is shut. The reading-room and library are enormous, and for London very light. The collection of missals, autographs, etc., is splendid. Some of the old, old missals so beautiful still, the colours so wonderfully preserved. We went to Mr. Thomson's room in the Museum building for tea. His daughter was there and gave us very good tea and muffins. Altogether we had a most interesting afternoon. We dined with Mrs. Mitford (widow of Percy Mitford, diplomatist). She has a very pretty and original house and is a very easy hostess, having lived much abroad. She is a great friend of Princess Mary and told me I ought to go and see her. Mr. Lincoln, the American Minister, was there, and we all teased him about the Presidential election (the papers say he is to be the next President). Mdme. de Bille and I told him we were racking our brains to think what we could ask him for our friends at home when he would be at the White House. He assured us there was no possible chance of it, and no one would be as sorry as he himself if ever the thing came to pass. It certainly would be difficult to be a second President Lincoln.

Friday, February 19, 1892.

It is still very cold, snow lying on the ground (in the parks), which is rare in London. I have just had a little note from Princess Mary, asking me to come and see her on Sunday at White Lodge, as she leaves early in the week for the Riviera. Wolff came in late to ask me if I would take him out to White Lodge, as Princess Mary had also written to him to come. He had his violin, so he played for about an hour, and most enchanting it was. I occasionally forgot about the accompaniment, listening to his beautiful long notes. He didn't mind, was standing in the middle of the room (playing by heart) and went on quite serenely until I caught him up somewhere and went on again. I dined quietly with Jean (as W. had a man's dinner at one of the clubs) and we made music all the evening. She is very busy translating a German book, Lady Blennerhasset's "Life of Madame de Staël." It looked easy at first, but I fancy is rather a formidable undertaking, as Lady B. has a very distinct style—very German, and I should think it must lose in translation. She had rather come to grief over one page. I looked over it, and said I didn't find it very difficult, and I know German well, upon which she replied, "Please read it out to me, then, in good English." I began, but came to grief at once. I had got the meaning right enough in my head, but couldn't at all express it at once in correct or fluent English, and I don't know that a dictionary would have helped me much. It was more the turn of the phrase and a peculiar form of expression.

Sunday, February 21, 1892.

It is very mild to-day—a complete thaw. Wolff came to breakfast, also Mdme. de Florian, and we drove out to White Lodge for tea. It was pleasant enough driving, as there was no wind, but the park and place looked dreary. I had always seen it so gay, with so many young people about, that I could hardly realise that it was the same house. We were expected—two or three footmen in deep mourning were at the door and took us at once to the drawing-room. In a few minutes the three appeared: father, mother, and daughter. I was rather nervous, but they were so natural, it was such real grief, that we felt quite at our ease, and so sorry for them all. Princess May looked lovely. She has grown much thinner, and the long black dress covered with crêpe, with the white collar and cuffs (that all widows wear in England), was most becoming. Her complexion was beautiful, so delicate, and her eyes had that peculiar bright look that one sees in people who have cried a great deal. Before tea I had a long talk with Princess Mary, who said that it all seemed a dream—the first days at White Lodge, when the young couple were so happy, making all sorts of plans, for their future seemed so bright and brilliant; so convinced that long years of happiness and usefulness were before them that she was frightened sometimes, and used to tell them that there would be great cares and responsibilities in their position, and that they must both help each other as much as they could (she said Prince Eddie was naturally timid, and rather disposed to underrate his intelligence). Then came the sudden change. Those terrible days at Sandringham, where she hoped against hope, and then the coming back to White Lodge, which must have been heart-breaking. I only said a few words to Princess May as we were going away, but Mdme. de Florian had some talk with her. She said she felt stunned—could hardly believe that all was over, but that she must try and take up her life again. "It will be very hard; I suppose I was too happy."

They are starting at once for the South, and I hope it will do her good. Various people came in, among others Mrs. Mitford, who is a devoted friend of the Tecks, and so sorry for them. She said it was melancholy to see them the first days after they got back to White Lodge. All the presents had to be put away or sent back; all the letters and telegrams sorted and put away, and that Princess May moved about like a ghost.

We had a quiet evening until some late telegrams came announcing a Ministerial crisis in France, for nothing apparently. W. and his secretaries were disgusted. There are so many changes in France, and we never know who is coming to the Foreign Office. I think it is time for us to go back. We have been away a long time, and it isn't good for a man to live too much out of his own country.

Albert Gate,Wednesday, February 24, 1892.

It is very cold and foggy this morning, impossible to ride; we see all the grooms exercising the saddle horses in the Park. I went for tea as usual to Mdme. de Bylandt. He is still in his bed, and very bad I imagine. This evening we have been to "Venice," the great show at Olympia. We went a family party (Embassy), Florians, St. Genys, Pontavice, d'Agoult. It is really very prettily done; you must see it when you come over. We had a capital box directly in the centre of the house, but the director, hearing we were there, came to pay us a visit, and transferred us to the Royal box, which is very large and comfortable—seats twenty people easily. He sent us some ices, and said he would have two gondolas waiting at the end of the performance to take us through the lagoons. The performance was a sort of ballet—very pretty girls well got up in Venetian costume, very artistically grouped, and quantities of colour. As soon as it was over we went down to the "Canal," where we found two gondolas, the real thing, with Venetian gondoliers, who were much pleased when I spoke Italian to them. We went all around the show, passing under the Bridge of Sighs, and finally wound up at a Neapolitan café, where they were playing and singing all the well-known Italian songs, "Santa Lucia," "Bella Napoli," etc. Florian of course found a friend, one of the singers, who recognised him, having seen him in Rome when she was singing there; so of course we all fraternised, and we stayed there some time listening to all the familiar songs and accompaniment of guitar and mandoline. We had quite the impression of having spent our evening in Italy. W. was much amused when we told him of Florian's "connaissance," as he always says he knows more people than anyone he has ever seen, and is related to half France. He is always going to some cousin's funeral in Paris. French people are so particular about funerals—never fail to pay that last respect to their dead friends; also wear mourning much more than we do. They are constantly in real mourning (not merely fancy black) for three weeks or a month, for a very distant cousin.

Albert Gate,Monday, March 9, 1892.

It is cold and snowing, not a very pleasant day for our excursion to Herkomer's studio, in the country; however, I had a line from Hilda saying they were quite willing to go if I didn't mind the weather, so I consulted with Lecomte, one of the secretaries who was going with us, and we thought we would go. It would be very difficult for me to find another day, as London is filling up for its avant-saison, and we have quantities of engagements. We met the Deichmanns at the station, and there discovered that we had 40 minutes to wait, so we breakfasted there in the big dining-room, and it wasn't bad at all. Deichmann knows everybody and is well known at Euston—so thanks to him we had a really excellent breakfast (and it turned out very well, as we only got to Herkomer's for tea, and we should have been half starved). We had about three-quarters of an hour by rail to our destination, Bushey, in the county of Herts. It was bright and beautiful when we got to the station, but the trees were white with frost and snow everywhere. We found our host in a temporary installation. He is building himself an enormous castle, and all the work, stone-cutting, wood-carving, painting, etc., is done on the spot by his pupils, Herkomer himself superintending and directing everything. He is most interesting; full of all sorts of knowledge and fancies. We went over the studios and saw everything. Some dull red wood they were using came from America he told me—I forget the name of the tree, I think a Californian. It would have amused you to see the eager, intelligent faces of the young workmen, especially when Herkomer was going about explaining his ideas and criticising or encouraging. It reminded me rather of an evening at Wilhelmj's (the great violinist) long ago in Germany. He had a villa near my sister-in-law's, Mdme. Charles de Bunsen, at Mosbach, near Biebrich-am-Rhein. We all went over there one night to a musical party when I was staying with my sister. His house was most artistically arranged, all "Alt Deutsch," with an enormous music-room. He was waiting for us there surrounded by all his pupils, about 10, with their violins and music-stands, and all looking so eager and anxious to begin. He played himself quite beautifully, and when he was accompanied by all the others it was a very pretty sight, he in the middle and all the young ones around him with their eyes fixed on him. He was one of Wagner's right-hand men and played often with him. They played among other things the prelude of "Parsifal," which haunted me for days afterward. You can't imagine anything more divine than those beautiful long notes of his and the soft arpeggio accompaniments of the violins. I couldn't hear anything else afterward. Someone asked him to play Schubert's "Ave Maria," which he did of course beautifully, but it sounded so tame after the other, which I told him; but he said I was quite wrong, that Schubert had written beautiful things, so melodious. All the same, I would have preferred remaining with the impression of that wonderful prelude. What reminded me of all this was the same sort of cadre—"Maître et apprentis," for Herkomer is quite the old-fashioned embodiment of the "Master" with his pupils. We had tea in the studio, where there were some fine portraits. I think I like his men better than his women. It is so difficult to make an interesting picture of a man in ordinary everyday dress. Herkomer has certainly succeeded in making some wonderful pictures, without uniform, or costume, or colour of any kind to appeal to the imagination. We got back late for dinner. I was rather tired and cold after my long day—we had started early, and I persuaded W. with some difficulty to go to Lord Salisbury's reception without me. However, he rather enjoyed himself. He didn't get much farther than the door, where he remained talking with Lady Salisbury, which he always likes. I don't think he was away more than an hour.