Letters of a Diplomat's Wife, 1883-1900

by Mary King Waddington

L'EDUCATION À LA MODE

PAR BERQUIN

MADAME VERTEUIL	Mlle. Béatrice de Bunsen
MADAME BEAUMONT	Mlle. de Langhe
LÉONORA, sa nièce	Lady Mary Pepys
DIDIER, son neveu M. DUPAS, Maître de danse	M. Francis Waddington
TRUETTE, soubrette	Mlle. Cameron

I was very proud of my little troupe. Béatrice looked very well and stately in powder, black satin, and lace. Mile. de Langhe and Daisy very well got up, and the two children charming. Lady Mary Pepys was too sweet, and they danced their minuet perfectly. There were roars of laughter when Francis appeared as "Maître de Danse" with a white wig and his violin. The children were not at all shy, enjoyed themselves immensely. B. was a little "émue" at first when she saw how many people there were, but it didn't last and she was excellent, so perfectly correct, and unfrivolous, and boring. Francis said his little poetry, "Le bon Gîte" of Déroulède, quite prettily. W. was rather surprised and quite pleased, and Thénard beamed, as she had coached him. She recites some of those "Chants du Soldat" of Déroulède's divinely. It is a perfect treat to hear her recite in her beautiful rich voice "Le Petit Clairon," also "La Fiancée du Timbalier," with an accompaniment of soft music.

All the children (as we had invited Francis's young friends to see the performance) had tea together afterward, and they wound up with a dance. The men of the Embassy were much pleased, particularly Jusserand, who is rather "difficile." They complimented B. very much; said she spoke so distinctly and with very little accent. It was rather trying for her to play before all the Embassy and an ex-member of the Comédie Française. Francis's blue velvet coat and lace ruffles were very becoming to him. Wolff told him how to hold his violin, I wish you could have seen it. It was much prettier than the original little play at Bourneville, when we executed as well as we could a menuet.

We had a very select public, among others Wyndham of the Criterion, who is an interesting man and a charming actor. When you come over I will take you to see his David Garrick, which I consider a perfect bit of acting. I wrote and asked him to "assister aux débuts d'un jeune collaborateur." The funny formal old-fashioned Berquin phrases amused him. He knows French well.

London, August.

We have decided to go to Scotland with Sir Roderick Cameron and his family, and are starting in a day or two. London is dull and empty, has suddenly become a deserted city. Even the shops are empty, and the Park a wilderness. All our colleagues have gone. I think W. is the only Ambassador in London, and he wants to get off to France and have a few days on the Aisne before he goes to the Conseil Général. We means Francis and me for Scotland.

To H. L. K.

Inveraylort,
August 17, 1888.

I will try and give you an account of our journey, Dear. We arrived in this most lovely place for late dinner yesterday, and went almost at once to bed, having begun our day at 7 o'clock. We left London Tuesday morning by the Flying Scotchman, and a tremendous pace we came. There were quantities of people at the station, all going apparently by our train—children, dogs, guns, fishing rods, provision baskets, tall footmen racing after distracted French maids, and piles of luggage. We had our saloon carriage reserved (as we were a fair party—C., the four girls, Duncan, a friend Miss W., Francis and I and two or three maids). We had also a fair amount of baskets, shawls, cushions, etc. It was a lovely morning, not too warm, and I think W., who came down to the station to see us off, was half sorry he was not going too.

We stopped for luncheon at York, and got to Edinburgh at 6.30. The pace was frightful, but we went so smoothly that one hardly realised the speed. We went straight to the hotel to see our rooms and order dinner, and then went out for a walk. The streets were crowded; omnibuses and cabs with luggage in every direction. The old town and castle looked most picturesque in the soft summer light. Daisy and I went out again after dinner, and after loitering a little near the hotel we saw a tramcar, asked where it went, and mounted on the top, telling the man we would go as far as we could, and then come back. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and we were very cool and comfortable perched on the top of the car. When the man came to get the money for the places I discovered that I had no change—merely a sovereign. The old gentleman, a tall, white-bearded Scotchman, grumbled a good deal, and made various uncomplimentary remarks to himself in a low tone. However after some little time he appeared with a handful of silver. I took the money mechanically and began to stuff it into my portemonnaie, as he looked at me severely and said—"First count your money to see that it is right, and then give me what you owe for your places."

We were up early the next morning—breakfasted at 9 o'clock as we wanted to see a little of Edinburgh before starting for Oban at 12 o'clock. It was an enchanting morning, not too warm, and we went first to the Castle. There is not much to see inside—always a beautiful view of sea and hills. There is a chapel and some old rooms which various Kings and Queens of Scotland have inhabited at various times. A company of Highlanders in Cameron plaids were being exercised in the courtyard, and a fine stalwart set of men they were.

From there we drove through some of the old streets (Cannongate, etc.) to Holyrood, which was most interesting. The children of course were most anxious to see the spot where Rizzio was murdered, and the blood-stains on the floor, but they have disappeared years ago. We were delighted with the pictures. There are quantities of course of Mary, Queen of Scots—one large portrait with that beautiful, sad Stuart face—as if they all foresaw their destinies. I had forgotten how small and low the rooms are. In these luxurious days no ordinary lady would be satisfied with Queen Mary's bedroom and boudoir; and the servants, accustomed to be quite as comfortable as their masters, would give warning at once. We drove straight from the Palace to the station, where our carriage was waiting for us. All our wraps, cushions, etc., neatly arranged; and started for Oban, a most lovely journey, particularly all about Loch Awe. We got to Oban about 7, and I shall often think of that lovely evening. The harbour filled with yachts and sail-boats of all kinds—the water blue and dancing, and the g most divine soft pink lights on the hills, a little like what we used to love at Capri and Ischia—quite beautiful. Daisy and I did some shopping before dinner—bought clean collars for the children, who were decidedly the worse for the two days' journey, and we also interviewed the well-known Ewan at the tartan shop with a view to kilted skirts. D. found their tartan at once of course as there are so many Camerons—ours was rather more difficult as there are few Chisholms left (my Mother-in-law was born Chisholm) and the authorities in London told us we could certainly wear the family plaid. The shop people promised to get it for me. The man was much interested in the skirt for Miss W. Being an American there was no family tartan to be looked up, and she couldn't quite make up her mind. However he came to the rescue, telling her that "all the American ladies take the Royal Stuart, Miss." We had an excellent dinner at the very small hotel where we were obliged to go—all the swell hotels were full—and there are quantities of people in the streets, and boats coming and going from the yachts. The Englishwomen all look so nice in their yachting dresses, almost all of dark blue serge and a sailor hat or regular yachting cap. The cap is rather trying, but the young and pretty women look charming in it. Some of the trippers and their ladies are wonderful to behold. We stood near a couple who were just starting for Skye on one of the steamers. The man was in a wonderful checked suit, and the lady in a brilliant red and green tartan (not unlike the Chisholm), on her head was a Scotch stalking cap, which was not becoming to a red, round face. However she was satisfied and so was her companion, who looked at her most admiringly, saying—"I say, you are fetching in that cap." "Il y en a pour tous les goûts." When we got back to the hotel we found that Sir R. had quite changed our "itinéraire." He had seen the boat, a fine large one which made the outside passage to Arishaig, so instead of taking the Caledonian Canal and landing at Fort William where carriages and carts were ordered for us, he decided that we should go by sea, and take our chance of finding some means of transport. He did, however, send a telegram to Arishaig, as the hotel man told him he would never find any conveyance for such a large party.

We started at 9 o'clock, and the sail was enchanting. About 12 we ran rather close to a small headland, and the Captain told us we had arrived. Apparently we were in broad Atlantic with a rocky shore in the distance—however a boat appeared, one of those broad, flat boats which one sees all over in Scotland. Our disembarkation was difficult as we were 11 people with quantities of trunks and parcels. Happily the sea was quite smooth. All the passengers were wildly interested in the operation and crowded to the side of the steamer. When all the party had finally got off with trunks, bags, a bird in a cage, and a kitten in a basket, one of the passengers remarked—"They only need a pony in that boat, to make the party complete."

To say we found a landing-place would be absolute fiction. As we neared the shore we saw a quantity of black, slippery rocks, and on these we landed, the boatmen holding the boat as near as they could, and we climbing, and slipping, and struggling to get on shore. Our baggage was dumped on the rocks and there we were—not a habitation or a creature in sight. At last we found a sort of house behind a mass of rocks, and saw several carriages in the distance which we supposed were for us. Not at all! Sir R.'s telegram had not been received and those were carriages waiting for a "Corps" which was being conveyed across on a yacht. We tried to persuade them to take some of us at any rate, and at last with great difficulty one carriage was given to us. The negotiations were extremely difficult, as nobody spoke anything but Gaelic, except an old woman, and she was so cross and apparently so suspicious of the whole party that we got on better by signs and a few extra shillings. Sir R. and the maids walked (4 miles through lovely country) and we all finally arrived at the little fishing village of Arishaig, where there is a good inn. It is a little place, three or four fishermen's cottages, a post-office, and two churches, a large Roman Catholic Cathedral and a small Established Church. We had a good lunch and started at 3.30, getting here at 5.30. Such a beautiful drive—all blue sky, and heather almost as blue—and great grey mountains. We walked up two very steep hills, but had such glorious views at the top that we didn't mind the climb.

This place is charming—the house fairly large. It stands low on the lake or arm of the sea, and has pine woods and high mountains behind. It is absolutely lonely—no houses near, except one or two (agent's and farmer's) that belong to the estate. The country is lovely, wild and picturesque, but it would be a terrible place to be in except with a large party. There is nothing nearer than 10 miles, and no real village or settlement for 25. We are about half way between Fort William and Arishaig (each 20 or 25 miles away). I think all our provisions come from Fort William. A stage passes twice a day, morning and evening. Our baggage arrived at 10.30, and we were all glad to go to bed, as we had begun our day early. It is so still to-night—I am writing in my room—the lake looks beautiful in the moonlight, and there is not a sound.

Inveraylort,
Sunday, August 19th.

We have settled down most comfortably in the house, which is fairly large, but we are never indoors except to eat and sleep. We had a lovely drive yesterday all through this property, and to a neighbour's where there is a pillar to show where Prince Charlie landed. There are many Roman Catholics in these parts, which accounts for the large church in the little fishing village of Arishaig.

This morning we had a service in the "Wash-house"—a red-headed Scotch peasant was the "Minister." It was a curious sort of independent service, impromptu prayers, and a long sermon. The congregation consisted of ourselves and the household. Miss Cameron, the owner of this place, who is staying at her agent's cottage on the place, some friends of hers, and the people of the little inn where the daily coach from Fort William stops for rest and luncheon. There are no other habitations of any kind except a few crofters' cottages across the lake. After luncheon we went for a long walk along the stream where there are plenty of fish, and came home over the hills. They are blue and deep purple, with heather, and there are divine views in every direction.

Thursday, August 22d.

It is again a beautiful day. We intended to row down to see some friends of Sir R.'s about 5 or 6 miles off at the mouth of the lake, where it runs into the sea, but there is some trouble about the boats. Our "propriétaire," Miss C., seems to have singular ideas as to the respective rights of owners and tenants. It was so fine and cool that we decided to walk, and the B.'s promised to send us back in their boat. It was long, but the path was not too steep all along the lake, and we arrived not too exhausted. They gave us tea, showed us the house and garden, and we started back about 9. The row home was enchanting, but weird—not a thing to be seen of any kind, except seals, which came up close to the boat. I had never seen one near, and thought at first they were dogs and was so surprised to see so many swimming about; not a sound except the splash of our oars in the water when we turned our backs to the sea, the heather-covered mountains shutting us in on all sides. It was quite wild and beautiful, but a solitude that would be appalling if one lived altogether in the country.

Inveraylort, August 27th.

After all they are not going to stay the month, Sir R. and his proprietor can't come to terms, and I think they will probably take a yacht and cruise about a little. The lake is decidedly rough this morning, but still we thought we must row across to some crofters' cottages. They told us they were of the poorest description, and we wanted to see what their life and houses were. Most wretched little houses (our horses much better off in their stables), generally one room, sometimes two; no floor, merely the earth trodden hard, and covered with straw. To-day it had been raining; there were puddles in the corners and the straw was decidedly damp. A peat fire was burning, and the only opening (no window) was a hole in the thatched roof, which lets the smoke out and the rain in. An old woman was spinning and an old man was sitting in the corner mending a fishing net. They were tall, gaunt figures—might be any age. They spoke nothing but Gaelic, but soon a young woman appeared on the scene who knew English. She looked as old as her mother, but had a keen, sharp face. I was rather interested in the spinning-wheel, so the two women suggested that I should try; but I could do nothing. Either I went too fast and broke the yarn, or else the wheel remained absolutely motionless. I bought some yarn, as I had broken various bits, and then we started home, carrying away an impression of wretched poverty and hard lives of toil, with little to lighten the burden.

Oban, August 29th.

We are back here after a most eventful journey from Inveraylort. We started in the rain, the mist closing round us and blotting out the whole landscape. We had two carriages, but the pony cart came to grief, and the two girls and Francis were thrown out. Miss W. had an ugly cut on her face, but poor N. was lying on the ground, pale and suffering, convinced that her arm was broken. When we got up to them we took her into the waggonette and got on as quickly as we could to Caupar, our destination, where we had been told of a wonderful bone-setter who was well known in all these parts. He saw at once what was wrong—her shoulder was dislocated, and said she must not continue the journey, so we left her there with her sister and brother, and we came on here. They all appeared this afternoon—N. with her arm in a sling and looking fairly well. She said the man set it so quickly and gently she hardly had time to feel any pain.

Oban,
September 3d.

We had a beautiful day yesterday for our excursion to Staffa and Iona. The sea was perfectly calm, and the lights and shades on the mountains enchanting. It was a lovely sail; sometimes we ran into little shaded harbours with two or three cottages and a hotel perched high up on the top of a mountain, and sometimes passed so close to land under the great cliffs that one could throw a stone on the shore. The islands are most interesting, with their old churches and their curious stone crosses, and there were not too many people on the boat. The return was delicious as we sat on deck, watching all the colours fade away from sea and hills.

We leave to-morrow for London and Paris, and I am very sorry to go. We have enjoyed our three weeks immensely. The country is so beautiful, and then it was a great pleasure to be with some of my own people; we have been away so long that the family ties get weaker. Francis was quite happy with some cousins to run about with.

To G. K. S.

Albert Gate,
May 21, 1889.

I got back from Paris last night, rather sorry to come. The weather was enchanting, warm and bright, and, of course, quantities of people for the Exhibition. It isn't half ready yet, but is most interesting—so much to see. I dined and breakfasted there several times at the various restaurants—one evening with the Walter Burns and a party, and we went afterward to see the "fontaines lumineuses," which are really fairy-like; but such a crowd. I also heard the two American prima donnas—Miss Eames, who is very handsome, has a fresh, young voice, and is an ideal Juliette. She is a vision really in her bridal dress as Juliette. Miss Sanderson is also very handsome, but in quite a different style. Her voice is very high and true; she was singing "Esclarmonde" at the Opéra Comique. Massenet has taught her everything. I have found quantities of invitations here, in fact was obliged to come over, as we have a big dinner the day after to-morrow, and the Court ball.

Tuesday, May 28, 1889.

We had our first encounter with Boulanger this morning. W. and I were walking our horses down the Row when we met three gentlemen cantering toward us. As they passed we heard they were speaking French, but didn't pay any particular attention. I merely said, "I wonder who those men are," one so rarely hears French spoken in the Row. A few minutes later we met Lord Charles Beresford, who took a little turn with us, and said to W., "The other distinguished Frenchman is also in the Row,"—then we divined. A few moments afterward (the Row is so small one crosses people all the time) we met them again, Boulanger in the middle riding his famous black horse—a man on each side riding good horses, chestnuts. They all wore top-hats, which no Englishmen do now in the morning. The men all wear low hats, the women also, and covert coats, the girls cotton blouses; not at all the correct style we used to admire as children in Punch when those beautiful women of Leech's riding in the Park filled our childish hearts with envy. I was rather curious as to what would happen, as W. knows Boulanger slightly, and went to him when he was Minister of War about something concerning the military attaché; however, there was no difficulty, as Boulanger was apparently too engrossed in conversation with his companions to notice anyone. I wonder if we shall meet him anywhere? They tell us that some of the society people mean to invite him, but I suppose they will scarcely ask us together.

Thursday, May 30th.

Yesterday was the last Drawing-room of this season. I rather feel as if it were my last in London, but one never knows. We (Corps Diplomatique) were still all in black, the English in colours. It was long and tiring. We dined at Lord Sudeley's—I rather wishing I had no engagement. I am always tired after those hours of standing, and the diadem is heavy, and the train, too, held over one's arm; however, I was quite repaid, as I had a charming neighbour. I didn't know at all who he was, as they rarely introduce in England, so we embarked on one of those banal, inane conversations one has with a stranger of whom one knows nothing, and were talking on smoothly about nothing at all, when he remarked, casually, "I suppose you never go to church." This I at once resented vehemently, so he explained that he didn't know, as I was a Frenchwoman, probably a Catholic (as if they didn't go to church), etc. He turned out to be Canon Rogers, a charming, intelligent, well-known man, most independent in his words and actions. He is rector of St. Botolph's, a church in Bishopsgate, the most disreputable part of London. We became great friends, and he asked me if I would go and lunch with him one Sunday, and he would show me Petticoat Lane. I agreed of course, and we decided for next Sunday. He said he had never had a French lady and an Ambassadress as a guest, and didn't quite know what to do. Should he ask the Prince of Wales and order champagne? I told him my tastes were very simple, and if I might bring my cousin Hilda, and one of the Secretaries, I should be quite happy—also I liked apple-pie, which he says his cook makes very well. I haven't had such a pleasant dinner for a long time.

Monday, June 3d.

We made our expedition to Bishopsgate yesterday, and most interesting it was. I went with Hilda and M. Lecomte, one of the secretaries, who knows English, and is very keen to see anything a little out of the way. We had a long drive to the church through the city, and arrived only to hear the end of Canon Rogers' sermon, which was strong and practical. As soon as the service was over we went down to the door and found him and his curate waiting for us. The first thing he did was to send away my carriage, which had already attracted much attention with the tall footman, velvet breeches, cockades, etc. He said he would never venture into Petticoat Lane in such an equipage, and would we please share his modest conveyance; so Hilda and I got into his victoria, and Lecomte and the curate walked close to the carriage behind. We had two policemen in front, two behind, and a detective. I rather demurred to such a display of municipal strength on my account, but he said it was necessary, he much preferred having them, he was afraid people would crowd around us and insist upon my buying something. The street was narrow, crowded with people, as there was also a fair going on and everything imaginable being sold (it is the one place in London where you can buy one shoe or one stocking!). The people were almost all Jews, and I must say they were a bad-looking lot, frightfully rough specimens. Some of the women, girls too, with such sullen, scowling faces. We went at a foot's pace (the only carriage), and hadn't the slightest difficulty in making our way. Everyone knew Mr. Rogers and spoke to him—"Good morning, Governor," "God bless you, Sir." Two or three children ran up to him, one a pretty little dark-eyed girl breathless to tell him she was in church, though she came late. He was so nice to them all, called them all by name, patted the children on the head, and exhorted some of the women to keep their husbands out of the drinking shops, and to wash their children's faces. They say he does an immense amount of good down there, but it must be uphill work. I have rarely seen such a forbidding looking set of people. Some of the women came up rather close to the low victoria and made comments on our garments. (We had dressed very simply at his request. I wore my blue foulard and a blue straw bonnet with iris on it. Hilda was in light grey with a black hat.) "You have got a beautiful bonnet, my lady. Oh, look at her umbrell!" The "umbrell" excited much attention. I couldn't think why at first, as it was also rather dark and plain; when I remembered that it had a watch in the handle upon which, of course, all eyes were fixed. I think the detective kept his eye upon it too, as he came up rather close on my side. The detective took Lecomte to a famous jeweller's shop near in Whitechapel, where there had been a murder some days ago. We drove all through the fair surrounded by these villainous faces (here and there a pretty, fair, innocent, childish face) and I wasn't sorry to get back to civilisation and the rectory, though I am very glad to have seen it. The rectory is a large old-fashioned house in Devonshire Square, shut in with high houses and high trees, and never, I should think, could a ray of sunshine get anywhere near it. One felt miles away from London and life of any kind. It was a curious contrast to the turbulent, noisy, seething crowd we had just left. We had a charming breakfast, Mr. Rogers talking all the time delightfully, so original and so earnest, convinced that everyone in their small circle could do so much to help, not only the poor but the really bad, if only by example and a little sympathy; he says no one ever helps the bad ones, only the deserving poor get looked after.

About 3.30 we started again to see the People's Palace, which he takes great interest in, and hopes he may succeed in keeping the men away from the drinking shops in the evening. It looked comfortable and practical, the reading-room particularly, which is large and airy, with all sorts of morning and evening papers (some foreign ones), illustrated papers, and good, standard books. The librarian told me that Walter Scott was always asked for, also some American books, particularly Indian stories, and travels of all kinds. I was rather interested in hearing that, as whenever W. gives books to a school library, or prizes in France, Walter Scott or Fenimore Cooper are still the favourites (translated, of course. I read the "Last of the Mohicans" in French, and it was very well done). There were not many people, but Mr. Rogers says on a fine, warm Sunday they all prefer to be in the open air. There is also a large swimming bath, given by Lord Rosebery. We parted from our host at the door, having had a delightful afternoon. It is a long time since I have heard anyone talk who interested me so much.

The drive home along the Embankment was nice—quantities of people out, quite like a Sunday in France. We dined quietly at home. W. was much interested in my day. I think if he had known exactly where I was going, and that an escort of police was necessary, he wouldn't have agreed to the expedition.

To H. L. K.

Thursday, June 4, 1889.

The Court Ball was brilliant last night. The Prince opened the ball with Princess Louise, and the Princess with Lord Fife. The engagement of Princess Louise of Wales to Lord Fife is just announced, and has of course created quite a sensation. Of course there are two currents of opinion—the old-fashioned people are rather shocked at the idea of a Royal Princess marrying a subject; but I fancy the entourage of the Prince and Princess of Wales are pleased,—and Fife is a general favourite. It is not very easy for the English princesses to marry. They must marry Protestants, and there are not many Protestant princes who are not near relations.

I talked a little to the Shah, but I didn't find that very amusing. He knows very little English or French, and has a most disagreeable way of looking hard at one. He planted himself directly in front of me, very close, and said "he thought he had seen me before," which of course he had, in Paris.

It seems that one of the Princesses pointed out to him, in the supper-room, a lady neither very young nor very beautiful, who was covered with splendid jewels, thinking they might interest him. He stopped short in front of her—then turned his back at once, saying "monstre." They say he finds no woman handsome who has passed twenty.

Tuesday, July 2d.

It was a splendid summer day yesterday, ideal, for the Shah's arrival by water. We drove down to the Speaker's to see him come. The streets were lined with troops, and there were quantities of people about. They let us drive through the Mall and to Westminster between the lines of soldiers (all the traffic was stopped). Almost all the houses and balconies on the way were draped with red, and crowded with women in their light, gay summer dresses. There were a good many people at the Speaker's, who gave us some tea and strawberries. The Royal Barge arrived very punctually. It was not very beautiful—an ordinary river steamer, painted light grey, with gold lines, and fitted up with palms, red cushions, and carpets, etc. The Thames was a pretty sight, such quantities of boats of all kinds. We saw everything quite well. There was a fair procession of state carriages, and an escort of Life Guards; but what a barbarian the Shah looks, with his embroidered coat and his big jewels, and his coarse, bad face—however he was smiling, and seemed pleased with his reception.

We waited to let the crowd disperse a little, and then came home the same way through Constitution Hill. We met the Prince and Princess coming back from Buckingham Palace. Both looked very well—he in uniform, and she in white, extraordinarily young in face and figure. The two princes, Eddy and George, were with them, and they were much applauded as they passed. In the evening we had a musical party at Blumenthal's. The garden was lighted and everyone sitting outside. The party was in honour of Princess Louise, and the music very good, as it always is there. Mdme. Grondal, a Swedish woman, played beautifully, and Plunkett Greene sang very well. He always brings down the house with "I'm Off to Philadelphy in the Morning." Lord Lorne took me to supper. I always like to talk to him. He was not much impressed with his Persian Majesty either—thought the days of Eastern potentates were over. I asked him what he had come for, and why the English were so civil to him; to which he replied, "Oh, I suppose some of the swells want concessions, or railways."

Monday, July 8, 1889.

We went to Hatfield this morning, where there was a luncheon party for the Shah. It was decidedly grey and uncertain, in fact, raining a little when we started, and I looked once or twice at my crème linon trimmed with Valenciennes—but as I had ordered it especially for that occasion, I decided to wear it. I put on a long cloak for the train. The Hatfield parties are always very well arranged—trains starting every ten minutes. It is hardly three-quarters of an hour from London. There were lots of people, and the short trajet passed quickly enough. All the women were looking at each other to see the dresses, as the weather was really bad. At Hatfield, one of Lord Salisbury's sons was at the station to receive the swells. I got separated in the crowd from W., so Lord Edward put me into a brougham, and asked me if I would take another Ambassador, as mine was missing for the moment. I agreed, of course, so Comte Hatzfeldt came with me. There was a large party staying in the house, including the Prince and Princess, the Shah, and various members of the family and Court. Lady Salisbury was standing at one of the big doors opening on the terrace. Lord Salisbury, she told me, was taking the Shah for a drive in the park. We all loitered about a little on the terrace. The rain had stopped and, though there was no sun, the house looked beautiful with its grey walls and splendid lines. The first person I saw was the Duc d'Aumale, and we had quite a talk while waiting for luncheon. The Prince also came out and talked. Luncheon was served at small, round tables in the great dining-room. As Doyens we were at the Royal table. The Prince took me, and I had next to me the Grand Vizier, who had taken in Lady Londonderry. She is very handsome, very well dressed, and the Grand Vizier enjoyed himself very much. It seems he is a very difficult gentleman, and at some man's house party, Ferdinand Rothschild's, I think, he was not pleased with his reception, or his place at the table, and declined to come downstairs. There were about 70 people at luncheon, and as many more, they told me, upstairs. Quantities of flowers, silver, servants, etc., and a band playing. After breakfast we all adjourned to the terrace and some photographic groups were taken. There was some wonderful shooting by some Americans which interested the Persians very much, and one of the Shah's suite was most anxious to try his hand at it, and forcibly took a rifle from the American, who protested vigorously, but the Persian kept hold of his gun and evidently meant to shoot, so the American appealed directly to the Prince, saying there would be an accident if he was allowed to go on; and the Prince interfered and persuaded the irate Oriental to give up his weapon.

They had asked a great many people to tea, but evidently the rain had kept many away. The toilettes were most varied—every description of costume, from the Duchess of Rutland in white satin and diamonds (large stones sewed all over the body of her dress) to the simplest description of blue serge, covert coat, and even a waterproof carried over one's arm. I was thinking of going to get a cup of tea, when I crossed again the Duc d'Aumale, who was also looking for the tea-table, so we went off together and had a pleasant "quart d'heure." He is always so nice to W. and me, and is so distinguished-looking wherever he is—such extraordinary charm of manner and so soldierly. He had been much amused by the stories he had heard of the eccentricities of the Persian suite. One of the ladies staying in the house found two gentlemen sitting on her bed when she went up to dress for dinner. I must say I think it was awfully good of Lady Salisbury to ask them all to stay.

Group at Hatfield House during the visit of the Shah of Persia, July, 8, 1889
The following are among those in the picture Prince of Wales Lord Salisbury Shah of Persia Princess of Wales Rustem Turkish Ambassador Hatzfeldt German Ambassador Lord Halsbury the Lord Chancellor M de Staal Russian Ambassador Duc d'Aumale Countess of Cadogan M Waddington French Ambassador Madame Waddington Countess of Galloway Duchess of Devonshire
From a photograph by Russell & Sons London

Saturday, July 27th.

Princess Louise of Wales and Fife were married this morning in the small chapel at Buckingham Palace. Very few people were asked, no diplomats except Falbe, Danish Minister, who is a great favourite at Court, and asked always. The streets, especially Piccadilly, were crowded with people. We had to go round by Belgrave Square and Buckingham Palace to get to Marlborough House. We were invited at 2 o'clock to see the bride and the presents. The wedding party drove up just as we arrived. Fife's coach, dark green with green and gold liveries, was very handsome. The Princess of Wales looked radiant, and the bride charming—beautifully dressed and just pale enough to be interesting. The King of Greece and Crown Prince of Denmark were both there. The presents were beautiful—every imaginable thing in diamonds and silver. The Prince and Princess's tiara very handsome—also Fife's. There was a buffet and tea in the garden, also in the drawing-rooms; and we waited to see the young couple start. They looked very happy and smiling. Their carriage was very handsome, with four black horses and an outrider. Everyone cheered and threw rice after them. They started with a Royal escort, but at the top of the park Fife sent it back, and they made their entry into Sheen in his carriage only. They said he made a condition that there should be no lady-in-waiting, that his wife should be Duchess of Fife only; but of course she can never lose her rank. None but Ambassadors were asked to the reception at Marlborough House—no other diplomats.

July 30th.

We had our last dinner this season—musical and all Italians, Tosti, Vinci, and Picolellis. Mme. de Florian came in late with her dinner guests, among others the Duchesse de Richelieu, who is very fond of music. Tosti is delightful once he gets to the piano, sings (with no voice) and plays whatever one wants—his own music, anybody's, and always so simply. It was very warm. We all sat and stood on the balcony when we were not playing and singing.

To G. K. S.

Hatfield, January 8, 1891.

We came down last night for dinner. It was very cold, snow and ice in London, and skating everywhere. We are not a very large party—the family, some of Lord Salisbury's secretaries, Casa Laiglesia (just made Ambassador—very happy. Spain had only a Minister here till now), the Duke and Duchess of Newcastle, etc. After dinner the older members of the party played whist, and the young ones danced in the great hall. This time we have King James I.'s rooms, an enormous bed (with a Royal crown on the top) where he really slept. We have been out all day; the gentlemen went off early to shoot, and I got down about 12. I found some of the young women, Ladies Cranborne and Northcote, in the hall and we decided we would go and skate. It was bitterly cold, but no wind, and the pond is not far, just at the end of the terrace. There was a little wooden house on the edge where we put on our skates, and plenty of chairs and canes. Ladies Northcote and Gwendoline Cecil skate very well. Lady Salisbury came down to the pond, took a broom from one of the numerous sweepers, and swept hard to keep herself warm. After lunch I went for a sleigh ride with Lady Salisbury in a pretty little one-horse sleigh she had bought at the Exhibition. It was very good going in the park, but we bumped occasionally going across the fields. To-night we broke up rather early; we were all tired with the first day's skating, and the men with their shooting.

Lord Salisbury
From a photograph by Weston & Son Dover

Friday.

It has been again a beautiful winter's day, and we have skated all the afternoon until dark. Lady Salisbury came again with her broom and swept vigorously. It seems many doctors recommend sweeping now for women who need exercise and cannot ride or walk. We tried hard to make Casa Laiglesia come down to the pond, but he refused absolutely—that was not at all his idea of pleasure. We spent some time in the library looking over some of the old manuscripts of the time of Queen Elizabeth and King Philip of Spain, and we saw him taking a short, very short turn on the terrace in the sun, wrapped up so as to be almost "méconnaissable."

London, January 18th.

It is still very cold—the Serpentine is quite frozen, and quantities of people skating. The ice is very bad, rather like a ploughed field, but it is amusing to see all the people. We have been this afternoon to Wimbledon, and there it was delightful. There was quite a large part reserved and beautifully smooth, belonging to a club; so Comte de St. Genys (one of the secretaries), who was with us, sent in his card, saying he was there with the French Ambassadress; and they were most civil, brought us chairs, and begged us to come back whenever we liked. We saw some beautiful fancy skating, both men and women. We skated afterward a little on the big lake to see the people. It was a beautiful day, and a very pretty sight, quite like a Dutch picture.

I was interrupted by a visit from Mr. Bryce. He came really to ask about you and to know if you would stay on at Alassio. He spoke so warmly and admiringly of Schuyler that it was a pleasure to hear him. He said he was certainly the cleverest, most cultivated American he had ever seen, that he had never met anyone who knew so many things well. He couldn't conceive how any Government that had such a man to place could have let any party feeling prevent them from giving him a prominent place, in their own interest.

Albert Gate,
Thursday, February 19th.

We have had a funny day. There was a sale of horses, hunters principally, at Cricklewood, a place just outside of London, where they have very good horses. We have been there several times with Deichmann, who has always fine horses, and have bought two or three ourselves. I am looking for a saddle horse, so W. and I drove out the other day, and I tried two which I liked very much (there is a riding-school where one can try). Then Newman, the head man, rode them over some hurdles to show me how well they jumped. They promised to let us know when the sale would be, and yesterday sent word we must come to-day. I drove out with Hilda in her pony carriage. We drew up close to the ring and the auctioneer's stand and saw everything well. Her horses were taken out and we made ourselves as comfortable as we could with furs and couvertures. It was bitterly cold, with a high wind that cut one in two. W. and Deichmann wandered about in the crowd. The collection of people was most amazing, horsey to a degree; horse dealers, trainers, jockeys, racing men and women—a few gentlemen here and there, not many. There was a champagne lunch going on at Newman's, but that we declined—so they brought us tea and excellent bread and butter to the carriage. The two horses I had tried were among the first and I hoped I should get one of them, but they brought much more than the dealers supposed they would. They looked extremely well when they were brought out first, galloped over the grass, and then jumping their hurdles beautifully, taking them easily in a long stride (of course they were beautifully handled, every point made the most of). W. made various bids, but when it got beyond a certain sum he wouldn't give any more, as it was a fancy price and could have gone up indefinitely. I was rather disappointed, as I had set my heart on the black horse. It was cold driving home in the teeth of the wind. We dined with the Deichmanns, with some of our colleagues, and everyone was discussing the Empress Frederick's visit to Versailles. Until then everything had gone most swimmingly, but of course all French people were "froissés" at that. I don't exactly understand her going. She is so intelligent, and had apparently realised quite well how difficult it would be for her ever to go to Paris. Years ago in Rome, where we met her almost every night, she told us she was so anxious to go to Paris, but she was afraid she could not manage it. She wanted very much to meet Renan—admired his books so much, and his great intelligence; and I think she would have been delighted with him. He was a charming talker on every subject, and so easy.

To G.K.S.

Albert Gate,
Tuesday, March 10, 1891.

We had an awful storm yesterday, a regular blizzard, and a terrible night in the Channel. One of the good boats, the Victoria, was out all night, not daring to land at either Dover or Calais. One of our young attachés was on board, bringing over despatches, and they say he looked green when he finally did arrive. The trains were snowed up everywhere, even between Folkestone and London, and the passengers nearly frozen and starved. It seems incredible in such a short distance. The young men are generally rather eager to bring over despatches, but I rather think this one won't try it again, in winter at any rate. I am extraordinarily lucky in my crossings, because probably I am a good sailor. I go backward and forward in all seasons and always have good weather. The Florians have had some wonderful crossings, nine hours between Calais and Dover, both of them tied in their chairs, and the chairs tied to the mast.

Thursday, March 12, 1891.

Yesterday we were at Windsor to dine and sleep. The party was small—Staal, the Russian Ambassador, Lord Hartington, Sir Frederick Leighton, Lord and Lady Curzon, Countess Perponcher and Count Seckendorff in attendance on the Empress Frederick, and of course the regular members of the Queen's Household. Lady Antrim was in waiting. We assembled as usual in the long corridor close to the door by which the Royal party entered. We were all in black, as the Empress was there. The Queen and the Empress came in together. The Queen shook hands with me and the two Ambassadors—the Empress with me only, bowing to the others. She is still in deep mourning—her dress black (woollen stuff of some kind) covered with crêpe, and a crêpe veil arranged in a point, or sort of Mary Stuart cap, on the top of her head, and falling behind to the edge of her skirt. The corsage was a little open, and she had a splendid necklace of pearls, also a miniature of the Emperor Frederick set in diamonds fastened on the front of her bodice. The dress was very becoming—she looked very stately and graceful as she walked through the corridor. She gave her arm to the Queen, and they walked in first to the dining-room, the Empress sitting next to the Queen on her right. W. followed with Princess Beatrice, sitting on the Queen's left; Staal with Princess Margaretta, and sat on the right of the Empress. Lord Hartington took me. The Queen talked a great deal to W.—the Empress joined in occasionally. They were both much interested in the Protestants in France, and wanted to know if the feeling was as strong as in the old days of Huguenots and Catholics. I think there is a very strong feeling, and it is rare when a French Protestant marries a Catholic—rarer still when they become Catholics.

The dinner is always quickly served, and the conversation nil. Nobody talks except those who are next the Princesses. The cercle was, as usual, in the corridor between the two doors. The Queen stood a little, but not all the time. She spoke to me about Johannes Wolff—admired his playing so much. The Empress talked a long time to W., and spoke immediately about her visit to Paris and Versailles, which was rather awkward for him, as he regretted very much that she had gone. All the first part of her stay went so well. She told W. she had had nothing but respect, and even sympathy wherever she had been, and that she was much astonished and distressed when she saw the papers and found what a storm was raging in the press. The Queen said a few words to me about the visit, and seemed to think it was a radical demonstration against the Government. I answered vaguely that all radicals made mischief—it wasn't a very easy subject to discuss. The cercle was not very long—about three-quarters of an hour—and then the Court retired, the two Sovereigns going out as they came in, together. We finished the evening in the drawing-room, but broke up early. W. went off to smoke, and I had a nice hour in the beautiful little yellow salon. I had a splendid fire, quantities of candles (always my mania—I hate lamps, particularly in these days of petroleum), and was quite happy. Adelaïde was very eloquent over the style of the housekeeper's room, and was funny over Charles, our French footman, and his indignation at being excluded from the society of the valets and ladies' maids. W.'s man was ill, so he took the French footman, who has often done his service. That gentleman being in livery was considered one of the lower servants (sat some way below the salt) and when the swells (Adelaïde, of course, included) retired to the housekeeper's room for dessert and coffee he remained with the under servants. All these domestic arrangements are quite unheard of in France—any distinctions of that kind would set the whole establishment in a storm.

It was a cold night, snow lying thick on the ground, clouds dark and low, and the great towers looked grim and formidable. W. came in about 12—said the talk in the fumoir was pleasant. He likes Count Seckendorff very much, finds him intelligent and moderate and sensible in his opinions—like all men who have knocked about a great deal and who know, not only other countries but the people of the country. After all, churches, and palaces, and picture galleries have a certain "resemblance," but people are different, and sometimes very interesting. We came away this morning at 10.30. I did not see anyone except Lady Antrim, as I never go to the dining-room for breakfast. I was ready a little before the time, and wandered about the corridor a little, looking at all the pictures. I met Staal doing the same thing. There is so much to see.

It is a beautiful bright day, and Hyde Park looked very animated as we drove through. Everyone was waiting to see the Queen pass. She arrived about an hour after us, as there is a Drawing-room to-morrow. We had some music this afternoon—2 pianos, 8 hands—and we play rather well a splendid symphony of Brahms'—not at all easy. We dined with Mr. Henry Petre, one of the most soigné dinners in London. It is always pleasant at his house—they say it is because he is a bachelor, which is not very flattering to us, but I think it is true, I don't know why. As we were out we went on, as they say here, to Lady Aberdeen, who had a small dance, but did not stay very long, as it was rather a young company. People always say there is nothing going on in London before the season, but we dine out every night and often have (I at least) something in the afternoon—a tea, or music. I don't believe anybody ever dines at home in London. The theatres are always crowded, quite as much as in Paris. Hilda and I went the other night with Count Seckendorff to see "Charlie's Aunt," a ridiculous farce which is having a great success. He protested at first at our choice—would have preferred something more classic, but he was perfectly amused (though protesting all the time). The piece is absolutely stupid, but so well played that the house was in roars of laughter, and that is always infectious. The man who played the part of the maiden aunt was extraordinarily well got up. His black silk dress and mittens were lovely—he looked really a prim old spinster and managed his skirts so well.

Saturday, April 4, 1891.

We lunched to-day with Ferdinand Rothschild to meet the Empress Frederick. We were a small party, principally Diplomatists. The Deyms, Hatzfeldt, Soveral, Harry Whites, etc. The Empress came (punctually) with Countess Perponcher and Seckendorff. The lunch was very handsome, quickly served and very animated, everybody talked. I had Hatzfeldt on the other side (I sat between him and Rothschild) so I was quite happy—there is nobody I like so much to talk to. He is very clever, very entrain, speaks French beautifully and talks about anything—just enough "moqueur" to keep one's wits sharpened. We had a discussion as to what was the origin of "Mrs. Grundy." None of us knew. I must ask Jusserand, who will I am sure be able to tell us.

We were all dressed in black velvet, one would have thought it was a "mot d'ordre." The Empress is very easy and likes to talk. She asked me if I knew Déroulède, said she heard some of his poetry was charming. I told her the "Chants du Soldat" were delightful, but I couldn't send them to her (they are all about the Franco-German War). One of the ladies, Mrs. White I think, said she would.

Tuesday, April 21, 1891.

We had a pleasant little dinner Sunday night for Wormser, the composer of "L'Enfant Prodigue," which has had an enormous success here. Wolff came too, and they played all the evening. I haven't seen the piece yet, so I was delighted to hear the music. I promised him I would go on Wednesday, my first free night.

Last night I went with Lady Northcote to the Opera; it was "Lohengrin" with Miss Eames and the Reszkes. The girl looked beautiful, quite the patrician maiden, and sang very well; a little cold, but that was of less importance in that opera than in "Romeo and Juliet," which needs more passion. The house was very full and she was much applauded. Jean de Reszke looked magnificent and sang divinely. What a voice it is, and how well he knows how to use it. I fancy Covent Garden is a much better salle to sing in than our great Paris Opéra. The voices seem so far off there, and all the singers complain and get soon tired. W. came in late just as I did. He had had a delightful dinner at Mr. Murray's (the publisher) with Mr. Gladstone. He said Mr. G. was in great form, talking about everything: books, politics, theories, and always with a perfect knowledge of each subject expressed in beautiful English. He must have a marvellous memory.

To H. L. K.

French Embassy,
June 6, 1891.

You will be amused, Dear, to hear that after all we have decided to have the children's comedy. The moment is not exactly propitious in the height of the London season when every instant is taken, but I think we can make something pretty, and Mdme. Thénard is very keen about it. We shall take the "Reine des Fées"—but very much changed, and parts added for every child—also a gavotte and a chorus. I saw some of the mammas, Countess Deym; Mdme. de Bille; Ladies Londonderry, Clanwilliam, etc., yesterday, and they will let me have their daughters. Thénard will direct the whole thing, with Count de St. Genys (Secretary of the French Embassy in London) as régisseur and also décorateur, as he has begun painting a charming décor (the interior of the bailiff's cottage). Mdme. de Langhe will undertake the chœurs and leçons de diction, and I don't quite know yet whom we shall get for the gavotte, or how many children we must have. The dresses will be pretty—two sets—Marie Antoinette and all her ladies in powder—Trianon costumes—and peasants, market women, etc. Of course the boys are a difficulty. There are so few who are here of Francis's old friends—they are all at school. Thénard has a little friend (girl) whom she will dress as a Marquis—she says she will look the part very well. Francis is much excited—he is to be the cruel bailiff who takes all the money and everything else he can get from the poor peasants. St. Genys will see about his costume, and make a croquis from some picture of the period.

June 12, 1891.

We are all (except the Ambassador) perfectly taken up with the comédie—and to-day we had our first répétition of the gavotte in the drawing-room. I hadn't thought of saying anything about the dancing to the young men, and it seems the "chancellerie" went nearly mad; their rooms being directly under the salons, they heard everything—the music beginning the same thing over and over again—and the heavy little feet that couldn't stay long on the tips of their toes. I had some trouble in finding a dancing-mistress—I thought first of the American who had that dancing class here where all the children went, but she didn't seem to understand exactly what I wanted. Finally some one told me I had much better send for Mrs. Roffy—ballet-mistress at the Alhambra—who has sometimes arranged menuets and gavottes for "les femmes du monde"; so I wrote to her to come and see me. She knew exactly what I wanted, would undertake the whole thing—how many children—what sort of a dance—was most business-like—and we fixed the first répétition at once. There were about 20 children, of all ages and sizes, varying from 3 years to 14—Muriel White, Gay Edwardes and her brother, a little de Breunen, Elsa Deichmann, etc. Mrs. Roffy looked very nice. She is very tall, but rather graceful—she had a little black bag in which were her black silk stockings and pointed slippers, and asked if she might have a room to arrange herself—so Clarisse took charge of her. I took the piano—and most distracting it was—as no two of the children ever began their steps at the same time. It was amusing to see Mrs. Roffy. She moved extraordinarily gracefully for such a tall woman, and was so patient—holding up her dress, pointing her toes, and talking to them all the time—"Heads up, Dears—Heads up! Look at me—very proud, please." I should have given up in despair after a quarter of an hour. All the little arms and legs went at wrong times in wrong directions, and no one seemed to have the slightest idea of time. She will give one or two private lessons to some of the very small ones.

Madame de Langhe, too, has her hands full with the chorus, "Vive la Reine"—but I think she must have some one behind the scenes to sing the solo, and then the children will come out strong in the chorus. The rôles are all distributed—Bianca Deym—a tall handsome girl—is to be Marie Antoinette; and the various other Court ladies are Lady Helen Stewart (Lady Londonderry's daughter), Lady J. Meade (Lady Clanwilliam's daughter), Marguerite Phelps, Anna Lawrence, Elsa de Bille, etc. I think it will be pretty.

June 15, 1891.

Hilda and I have been half over London to-day for our stage scenes. We must have real ones representing a sort of wood where the market people have their stands, and the Queen and the ladies come to buy flowers—also sufficient space for the gavotte. The man promises to send it all the day before, as the children must rehearse at least once with the real scenes—for their entrées—that is always a little difficulty. The bigger girls do all right, but the little ones rush in—speak very quickly—and always to Thénard, who stands at one side—looking hard at her to see if they are doing right—and paying no attention whatever to Her Gracious Majesty Queen Marie Antoinette. Muriel White is very good, very deliberate, very careful, and taking all the French nuances and intonations very well. Gay Edwardes, too, is very good—her French is pretty and easy, she learnt it so young in Paris. One of the others (I forget which one) was having a private lesson in a corner with Francis, who was trying to make her roll her Rs in a proper French fashion. She had a complaint to make of her garden—all about "carottes" et "giroflées," and the sentences had a true British ring. Francis is very important, takes himself quite "au sérieux," and is most interested in the proper diction of all the young ladies. I sat some time in the drawing-room while St. Genys was painting his scenes. We had various visitors (even W., who was very complimentary over the décor), tea, and Thénard to settle about a rampe of flowers and tapestry curtain.

Saturday, June 20, 1891.

I am rather lazy this morning and feel as if I had suddenly nothing to do. The comédie went off very well yesterday and was a pretty sight. Until the last moment I was doubtful, as we had so many péripéties. At the dress rehearsal on Thursday, Bianca Deym (Marie Antoinette) was so hoarse she could hardly speak. The girl looked very handsome and distinguished in powder (trés bien coiffée) and one of her mother's handsome Court dresses, but Thénard wouldn't let her speak—said all her part herself, and told Bianca to pay great attention to her voice and gestures. Toupet (Francis), the cruel bailiff, had such a stiff neck and sore throat that he could hardly move—so he was rubbed hard with Elliman's Embrocation and sent to bed as soon as the répétition was over. His costume was very good—coat and long waistcoat of prune cloth—lace jabot—tricorne and gold-headed cane lent by one of his English cousins—a wig of course—which quite changed him. The girls looked charming—I don't know which was the most becoming—the powder and Court dress or the short skirts and high caps of the paysannes. The gavotte went very well. The small children in front and the bigger ones behind. I never could have believed that anyone could evolve anything like a gavotte from the whirling chaos of arms and legs that was my first impression. M. Lecomte (Secretary of the Embassy), who is a very good musician, was at the piano, and marked the time very exactly, which was absolutely necessary for such young performers.

Various friends and Mammas came to look on and criticise—which was what we wanted—and all were pleased. Thénard and St. Genys were quite delighted—and as they have seen it from the first and noted the improvement, that was reassuring. Henry Edwardes came, much amused and slightly astonished at his children's performance (the boy was so good). He told me he considered it quite remarkable. He offered to take charge of the green-room the day of the performance, and I accepted with pleasure, as I am sure the children will be rather excited and probably unruly.

I had a note from Miss Knollys while the répétition was going on saying that the Princess of Wales and her two daughters, Princesses Victoria and Maud, would be present on Friday at the performance. I announced this at once to my young troupe, and they were filled with pleasure and dismay at the appalling prospect of playing before Royalties. I went for a ride Friday morning with Pontavice and when I came in was given a wild note from the Countess Deym saying that Bianca had a complete "extinction de voix" and what could be done. If someone else could take the part (which was impossible at such short notice) she would send all her daughter's dress, which was very handsome, or Bianca would come and look the part and Thénard do the talking from the coulisses. Of course I chose the latter, and sent off Clarisse at once to the Austrian Embassy with a remedy that Mdme. Richard of the Opéra gave me. Francis was all right, his neck quite straight. After breakfast I had a last practice with him and Lecomte for the gavotte. I got in a small piano from Érard (my big one took up too much room behind the scenes) and then I dismissed the whole thing from my mind, and went to dress. I told the children to be there at 4.30 so as to begin the minute the Princess arrived. She said she would come at five.

The little blue salon was a pretty sight when it was filled with all the children in costume. Thénard's Marquis looked too sweet—she had dressed the girl so well in satin coat, ruffles, and silk stockings, and enormous paste buckles on her shoes. She did her part perfectly—so easy, and such pretty French. The Princess came punctually with her two daughters, and the play began at once. I think there were about 100 people—we couldn't seat any more as the stage took up a good deal of room. The prettiest scenes were the Trianon and the Market Place. In the Trianon, Marie Antoinette was seated surrounded by her ladies, and le Marquis telling them "les petites nouvelles de la cour." The child was killing when she took out her snuff-box and made flowery phrases. The Market was very well arranged with flowers and vegetables. Violet Freeman made a splendid old woman at one stall, and Hilda Deichmann did her boy's part very well. After the Queen had made her round (her voice came back, though she was rather hoarse still) she and her ladies retired a little to the background, where the Court made a brilliant group, while the peasants sang their chorus, "Vive la Reine." Then came the gavotte, which really went extremely well. Mrs. Roffy was breathless with recommendations until the last moment. Both chorus and gavotte were encored, and there was much applause when the curtain fell.

Violet FreemanFrancis Waddington

A Comedy for Children at the French Embassy
From a Photograph by Barker & Pragnell London

The Princess, who is always so gracious, asked me what I would like her to do, so I said if she would allow the whole troupe to defile before her I would name each one—and I knew it would give them great pleasure. She agreed at once, so the procession, headed by Marie Antoinette, passed, and the Princess shook hands with every one, talking a little to those she knew. They all applauded when Toupet, with his wig and cane, appeared. Then I named Mdmes. Thénard and Roffy—and I wish you could have seen those ladies' curtseys (Mdme. Roffy's particularly splendid), also St. Genys and Lecomte. The whole thing lasted a short hour, even with the répétition of chorus and gavotte. We had tea in the drawing-room—the children downstairs. The Princess told me she thought it charming—quite wonderful. The only two French children were Francis and the Marquis, but I must say I thought the others quite wonderful. When the Princess went away all the children assembled in the hall at the foot of the stairs, bowing and curtseying—and it was a pretty sight, such a mass of colour and flushed, eager little faces. The Princess told them all again how much she had enjoyed the performance, and it was quite a happy little crowd that dispersed soon afterward to their respective homes. W. complimented Thénard very much, who had given herself no end of trouble—also Mdme. de Langhe, who had undertaken the chorus. Some of the ladies were rather anxious we should repeat the performance for the benefit of some charity, but W. didn't like to have a paying thing at the Embassy; and at one of the public halls it would not have been very easy—some of the ladies objected.

I dined at home, but went to a concert in the evening, and had various compliments for my troupe. The Prince of Wales told me that the Princess had told him it was quite charming. I think on the whole W. was pleased. He was rather doubtful about inviting the Princess—thought it was a little informal, and would bore her, but I don't think it did.

Tuesday, June 23, 1891.

We have had various notices in the French papers of the comédie; generally "une bonne presse," but one or two of the very Republican papers expressed great surprise at such a Royalist Demonstration—couldn't imagine why we had chosen that particular chorus, "Vive la Reine," at an Embassy representing the French Republic!

I am sorry you couldn't come over—all the répétitions would have amused you so much. Nothing was funnier than to see Francis always in a corner with some of the girls. Madame Campan (Elsa de Bille) had a long thing to say, and was most anxious to have the correct accent.

To H. L. K.

London,
July 8, 1891.

I dined quietly with some of the personnel last night, and had Thekla Staal, as her mother and father had gone to Windsor for the State banquet for the German Emperor. Mdme. de Staal came in for a moment on her way home—she said it was very handsome, very well done, as it always is at Windsor, only they were all rather uncomfortable, as they went down from London by special train in full dress—diamonds and feathers—and when they arrived at the Castle they were asked to take off their wraps in the hall, no dressing-room of any kind provided. I don't know what my erratic hair would have looked like. Of course I couldn't go on account of my mourning.

All London was on the "qui vive" this morning, as the German Emperor was to make his formal entry into London. I thought I wouldn't go in the carriage and take up a position, so Mrs. Edwardes suggested that I should go with her to Constitution Hill, where she had places, and see the Emperor pass there; so we started off on foot quite cheerfully, but as soon as we got outside the Park and wanted to cross the Square, we were confronted by lines of soldiers and policemen, who refused to let us pass. I explained who I was and that I was merely going to cross to Constitution Hill, but they evidently thought nothing of an Ambassadress in a simple black dress with neither equipage nor servants, and we were getting rather discouraged when I saw a Park-keeper who knew me, so he instantly went after one of the heads of the mounted police, who appeared, made way for us and accompanied us (he riding) across the Square. Some of our friends, who were looking on from windows in the houses opposite, were rather anxious—thought we had been arrested. We waited a little while and very soon the head of the procession appeared. We made ourselves as small as we could and squeezed close up to the gate, but the Horse Guards on their big, black horses came unpleasantly near and the least plunge or kick would have been disastrous. The Royal carriage passed quite close to us at a quick trot. The Emperor looked very wide-awake and soldierly in blue dragoon uniform; the Empress, tall and fair, in white, was seated next to him; the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Edinburgh on the front seat. There was not much enthusiasm, a few hats (not all) lifted. The Emperor saluted all the time, mechanically. When he saw me he leaned forward, smiled and bowed in evident recognition. I can't think how he knew me, standing there in a crowd of nursery-maids and children. He had seen me but twice before, and then in the evening in full dress. I suppose it is that extraordinary memory, instinct almost, that all Princes have, and which does them such good service. Everyone is pleased and flattered at being recognised by a Royalty. I was, too, just like all the rest. I wasn't mistaken in thinking he knew me. He told one of our secretaries at the reception at the Palace that he had seen Mdme. Waddington standing in the crowd.

Hilda came to dinner with Countess Eulenbourg (wife of the Master of Ceremonies of the German Court) and her boy. They were very late, as the Countess had been to Buckingham Palace to see the Empress. She said the confusion was something awful. She had great difficulty in getting in, was sent from pillar to post and finally the carriage was allowed to enter through the stable-yard. She was glad to have a quiet evening. Her husband was at the gala performance at the Opera with the Emperor and Empress. She spoke a great deal about the Emperor, said it was impossible to be with him without feeling what a strong personality he is; that what he felt was right and best for Germany he would certainly do—also that he would never shirk a responsibility, or put the blame on others if he made a mistake. It seems curious to be suddenly out of everything. W. is still in France^[11] and of course our deep mourning makes all Court and gala things impossible for us. I think W. must come back before the Emperor goes and try to see him in a private audience, if nothing else can be arranged.

Thursday, 9th.

All the Corps Diplomatique were received this morning at Buckingham Palace—the men by the Emperor, the women by the Empress. Hatzfeldt presented the men. In W.'s absence, d'Estournelles represented the Embassy (with all the secretaries of course). As he was only Chargé d'Affaires, he could not take W.'s place as Doyen at the head of the row—on the contrary, was quite at the end; after all the Ministers of the small Powers—however they made a little group apart. The Emperor talked a little while to d'Estournelles—regretted very much not seeing W.—knew that he was still in France, and told him to tell me that he had recognised me at once in the Park. He said a few words to each member of the Embassy. The ladies were presented by Mdme. de Staal—my young women told me she did it very well, passing down the line with the Empress and naming every one. They also found the Empress very gracious, saying something to each one—of course there is never any real conversation on such occasions, people are usually in a hurry and anxious to get through their function.

This afternoon was the garden party at Marlborough House—Mdme. d'Estournelles and Florian came in afterward to tell me about it; also Mme. de Bille (wife of the Danish Minister), she is an American, née Zabriskie. They said there was a great crowd, and such a hedge of loyal subjects around the Royalties that it was almost impossible to see them even. Princess of Monaco (née Heine), who was with the Court (her husband being a "prince regnant," of a minute principality certainly), made a sign to Countess de Florian to come and speak to her, and she also had quite a talk with Princess Amélie of Schleswig Holstein, cousin of the German Emperor, whom she had known as a girl in Pau, when her father, Marquis de Nadaillac, was Préfet there. Staal came in late, and hopes that W. will come back (he is always such a good colleague). He thinks it will make a bad effect, the French Ambassador being the only one absent. He thinks he ought to come over for the breakfast at the Mansion House, which is strictly official, and where the Emperor will probably make a speech. I will write to him to-night and tell him what they all say.

Friday, July 10th.

I rode this morning with Pontavice, the Military Attaché, and just missed the Emperor, who was riding with six or seven officers, all in uniform, which seems strange, as the officers never wear uniform except when they are on duty. We sometimes see the officer of the day riding in the Row in uniform, but never any other. In Paris it is quite different; all the officers of the Paris garrison, which is a very large one, always ride in uniform in the Bois in the morning. I went to the War Office afterward to see the Emperor, Empress, and Prince and Princess pass on their way to the Lord Mayor's banquet. The display of troops was rather mesquin—the Grenadiers standing so far apart that there were groups of street boys in between. The Royalties were fairly applauded (the Prince and Princess are always whenever they appear). The Emperor was in a white uniform, but his helmet is so big and heavy and so low on his face that one could hardly see him. Francis and I dined quietly at the Russian Embassy, and the Staals told us all about the various fêtes. They said the getting away from the Mansion House was awful—when the gentlemen of the household were trying to make a passage for the Princess of Wales there was a general skirmish, one of the ladies of the Corps Diplomatique was struck on the shoulder by one of the gentlemen, and there was a fine row—the husband of the lady furious, the unfortunate equerry protesting, saying he was incapable of such an enormity, etc. However, excuses were made and peace restored.

Saturday, July 11th.

I rode this morning with Pontavice, and we met the Emperor, also riding, several times; but he did not recognise me this time in my habit. He had six or seven officers with him and two grooms. All the officers, the Emperor also, in uniform, and wearing those long German sabres that hang loose and make a great clatter. They all rode at a gallop and set all the horses in the Row by the ears. I really had some trouble with my quiet animal, who was jumping and kicking all over the place. I had several visits at tea-time. My windows and balconies giving on the Park are most attractive, as there are quantities of people about—a sort of general excitement in the air, and royal carriages and soldiers passing all the time. D'Estournelles came in and told me about the review. He said the troops looked splendid, but the arrangements were very bad—no seats reserved—he and his wife and many ladies standing all the time. Mme. d'Estournelles was dead tired and had gone home to bed. W. came back for dinner; he looks grave and sad. We sat on the balcony after dinner while he smoked. He said he must go to the luncheon at Hatfield for the Emperor and Empress. As long as he was Ambassador, he had no right to let any private grief prevent his taking part in a public function, particularly in this case, when his absence might be misconstrued.

Sunday, July 18th.

I went this afternoon to consult some of my colleagues about my dress for Hatfield. Of course I am in deep mourning, and I didn't know if I could meet Royalties in black. At some Courts, Russia for instance, black is not allowed—when people are in mourning they wear white. After various consultations, I decided that I would go in my black dress; so I have had some lace put on top of the flounce of "crépon de laine," which is really very deep mourning.

To H. L. K.

Tuesday, July 19, 1891.

We had a most interesting day at Hatfield, and evidently we were right in going. We went down by a special, W. in deep mourning, I in my black crépon, my big pearls in my ears and around my neck, a little crêpe bonnet (with a soupçon of jet) and an ordinary dotted tulle veil. All our colleagues were most empressés and nice—said it had been so strange not to see either of us at any of the fêtes. There were, as usual, a certain number of young men, sons of the house, secretaries, etc., at the station at Hatfield; plenty of carriages, and in a few minutes we were at the house. We passed straight through the rooms to the terrace, where a very smart company was assembled. Some of the young women in white satin and lace, high bodices of course, all very much dressed, and all with necklaces and jewels on their corsages. No one in particular received us. Lady Salisbury was driving with the Empress, Lord Salisbury talking with the Prince of Wales, and the Emperor riding. (The Salisburys had an enormous house party, all arrived the night before for dinner—the Emperor and Empress with their suite, also the Prince and Princess and theirs.) I was strolling about the terrace with Countess Deym when we came suddenly upon the Princess of Wales, walking about with her "Kodak" and looking about 25 in her simple grey foulard and big black hat. As we went up to speak to her, she made us a sign to stop, saying "I want you in my picture." We talked to her a little while and then she said she must go and make herself "smart" for the lunch-party. There was still some time before there was any sign of Princes—or lunch. Mr. Barrington asked us to stand near the perron, as he had charge of the placing of the people. The Emperor and Empress appeared first, and immediately made a sort of cercle. Lady Salisbury presented me at once to the Empress, and she was most amiable, regretted not having seen me at the reception at Buckingham Palace, adding, "J'ai vu toutes vos jeunes femmes, plus jolies les unes que les autres." The Emperor, too, was easy and pleasant, but so many people were brought up to him all the time that he couldn't talk much. It was interesting to watch him. He was of course the central figure, and there is always a certain curiosity as to what he will do. He holds himself very straight, has a stern face and rather a stiff manner, not particularly gracious, speaks English of course perfectly well (in fact looks like an Englishman, particularly in ordinary dress—of course the uniform changes him a little). I think he knew about everybody who was presented to him; soldiers, statesmen, artists, and seemed to be interested in the very short talks he had with each one. He and W. had quite a talk, and he again expressed his regret at not having seen him before, and also for the cause which had kept him away. The Prince and Princess stood about on the terrace while all the presentations were going on, talking to their friends. After about half an hour there was a move to the great dining-hall. I think there were about 150 guests. The Royalties and swells lunched in the great hall at small tables of ten, and the others in the ordinary dining-room. I was at Lord Salisbury's table, who took in the Empress; the Prince took me; Hatzfeldt (German Ambassador) Mdme. de Staal; Rustem (Turkish Ambassador) Princess Maud; Soveral (Portuguese Minister) Countess Spencer. At Lady Salisbury's table were the Emperor, Princess, Staal, W., etc. The talk was fairly easy at our table—Hatzfeldt said to me rather pointedly, "Je suis très heureux de vous voir ici aujourd'hui, Madame Waddington." The Prince also said we were quite right to come. I said I thought my plain black dress was rather out of place at such a brilliant entertainment, but he assured me it was quite correct.

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.

Albert Gate,
March 28, 1892.

We had a nice canter this morning. There were a good many people out. We had a pleasant dinner last night at Lady Winifred Gardner's, one of those curious mixtures one only sees in London. The Brownlows, Lord Carrington, Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone, Hare the actor and his wife, also various stray men. I found Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone both much changed—much older—but he is marvellous—talked, eat, and drank like a man of 50. Hare talked a great deal, and a great deal to W., who found him clever and original.

Wednesday, 30th.

Well, my Dear, I opened my bazaar yesterday, and you will be surprised to hear that I was rather nervous—only for one moment, I must say, when they asked me, after one or two speeches and a little "Marseillaise," if I would pronounce the sacramental phrase and declare the bazaar open. I, with the committee, was seated in a red chair on the platform. When I got up (the only person standing) and saw the crowd of faces beneath me looking hard at me, for a moment I was shy, but that didn't last. They all cheered me, so I recovered myself and made my statement, I think in a clear voice. W. jibed at me well afterward when I told him. I made a tour of the bazaar, buying something at each stall, Lecomte bringing up the rear, carrying a large doll. Do you remember what Lasteyrie used to say when he was W.'s Chef de Cabinet at l'Instruction Publique—that one of his principal functions was to accompany Madame Waddington to all the "Ventes de Charité" carrying a "paquet de chemises de femme," which means that I get so tired of all the fancy boxes, and pin-cushions, and screens I accumulate at the various sales that I finally asked for "layettes" and "vêtements de pauvres." Of course I can never have too many in the country. I was amused to hear one of my friends here who collects for the numerous "guilds" dilate upon the smallness of the objects sent her. She says she receives dresses and "brassières" (a sort of body with sleeves) that would go on no child of any age that she has ever seen. It is rather my own experience—people usually give me very minute garments, also in the most delicate colours, and my children work in the fields and at the "tourbières."

After we had visited all the stalls we had tea (not in a private room) at a round table at one end of the hall near the buffet. M. Dupoutet de la Harpe, the Protestant pasteur who got up the bazaar, explaining that the people would so like to see us. I am always very dressy on those occasions, so I was dressed in black satin with a great deal of jet, and light blue feathers in my bonnet. I had just time to get home, have some tea, and see that my "orgue Mustel" had arrived and was properly placed and tuned to go with the piano, and to assist at a small rehearsal with M. Guillemain (organist at La Trinité in Paris), for whom I am having a dinner to-night, Mérindol, and Miss Stuart, an American girl who has a fine voice. The "orgue Mustel" is small and looks like a harmonium, but it has wonderful tones, particularly when played by a master hand like Guillemain's.

My dinner interested me very much—I hope the guests had the same impression. I called it my "dinner of organists," and I tried to get as many of the great English organists as possible, but only two came (the notice was short), Dr. Stainer of St. Paul's and Dr. Bridge of Westminster Abbey. Both have splendid instruments, and it is a great pleasure to stay sometimes after a week-day service and hear a fugue rolling through those great vaulted aisles. I had only asked musical people, and warned them that it was serious. We were 24 at dinner, and about 100 in the evening. The music was in the ballroom and the organ sounded very well, quite a volume of sound. Guillemain played, of course, beautifully and made it give all it could. The duos, organ and piano, were charming. Miss Stuart sang very well. I found Dr. Bridge most sympathetic. He and Florence Williams made great friends, and he promised to play her a gavotte whenever she likes if she would dance. I think you would have liked the evening—it wasn't banal. Staal was sympathetic and interested, and asked me what was the next original entertainment I was contemplating.

Wednesday, 31st.

We have rather a worrying letter from Henrietta this morning saying their house in Paris was watched by the police, having been threatened by the dynamiters on account of a judge who lives in the house. All the locataires are leaving, and she is bothered, and wants to know what she must do with Francis (who always goes to her Thursday and Sunday). I want W. to write to the Préfet de Police to ask for an extra man, but he doesn't seem to attach importance to it—says no harm ever comes when a thing is announced beforehand. I can't help feeling uncomfortable.

To G. K. S.

Albert Gate,
April 3, 1892.

It is rather nice to-day. After breakfast we drove down to Battersea Park, not a very fashionable resort, and walked about along the river, which is always alive—boats, barges, steamers, children in battered old scows that look as if they would break in two on the smallest provocation, and loungers of all kinds, some fishing, most doing nothing and keeping up a running fire of chaff and criticisms. The river life plays a great part in London—the Thames is such a thoroughfare all about London, and a beautiful pleasure ground higher up by Maidenhead, Clieveden, etc. We dined this evening at Lady Mary Lloyd's. She sang very well after dinner, and we went later to Lady Ashburton's, who has a beautiful house crammed with pictures and curios of all kinds. She had a concert of "old music" with old instruments—spinet, viola, viol d'amour, etc. It was interesting in its way as a souvenir, but sounded weak and tinkly. In these days of great orchestras no one would listen to it.

Easter Tuesday, April 19, 1892.

I am delighted to have Henrietta and Francis, the boy's first holidays since he has been in Paris, and he is enjoying himself extremely. He rides with his father every morning, and goes about all day with his friends. We are busy getting up a "toy symphony"—Mlle. Levisohn, Francis's piano mistress, organises it. Francis has the piano, Comte Vinci, our Roman friend (who plays extremely well), is first violin; a little boy, a friend of Mlle. Levisohn's, the 2nd, and the minor instruments are distributed among all the children, Edwardes, Lawrence, Billes, Deichmann, etc. We gave young Bille, son of the Danish Minister, the drum—but the unfortunate boy could do nothing with it, and his mother said he must have some lessons. I applied to Pontavice (our Military Attaché), who said he was sure one of his friends, an officer in the Guards, would arrange it for me, so accordingly there appeared one morning a gentleman (Mr. Lloyd, I think) who said his friend, Comte de Pontavice, had told him that I wished to have some lessons on the drum, and that the drum-major of the regiment was quite at my service. I hastily explained that the lessons were not for me, but for a young friend who was to play that instrument in a toy symphony. He didn't seem at all surprised at my wishing to learn to play the drum, and yet I can't help thinking that he hadn't often been applied to for lessons on the drum for an Ambassadress. He promised to send his man to the Danish Legation, and Mdme. de Bille told me that all the household was upset, and the maids distracted by the magnificent drum-major who came three or four times, and retired to a sort of basement, where he and the boy rattled away on the drum. If I had ever imagined what an undertaking it was, I never should have agreed to the performance. The principal instruments, piano and violins, were all right, but all the small ones, quails, nightingales, and cuckoos (oh, the cuckoos!) were something awful. The children distracted (sometimes they had 25 measures to count), the mammas and governesses equally so, and the impartial assistants (who had no children taking part) remarking to me with absolute frankness that it was the most awful noise they had ever heard. Comte Vinci, first violin, was a tower of strength, and kept them all in order. It is awfully good of him to come and play with all those children.

Friday, April 22, 1892.

I will write you about the performance at once, as I am too tired to do anything else, and have dined quietly at home. We had a last répétition this morning—Mlle. Levisohn directing from a small platform covered with red cloth. For the first time I thought it would go—really almost all the instruments were in tune and in time. Francis had been giving private rehearsals all the morning to Wilhelm Deichmann (trumpet) and the child, I forget which one, that had the triangle. The performance began at 4, and the orchestra was most effective. All the young ladies were in white and the men in dress clothes and white boutonnières. It was killing to see all eyes fixed upon Mlle. Levisohn as she stood on her platform with her baton raised. It really went extremely well. Pfeffer happened in, and said he had never heard the Romberg Symphony better given. After the music was over Francis and Hilda Deichmann played a little comedy, "La Souris," really very well—Mdme. Thénard had coached them both. They weren't at all shy, and looked funny perched on chairs, standing, afraid of an imaginary mouse. They wound up with a dance, Gevers leading a most spirited cotillon. Francis danced with Nannie, who looked very pretty. He was very proud of his American cousin. Mlle. Levisohn had many compliments, and I think she was pleased. She certainly took no end of trouble.

Albert Gate,
Thursday, April 28th.

I had a nice ride this morning with Pontavice. W. and Francis went off on Monday—W. to Laon and Francis to school. Last night Henrietta and I went to the Italian Embassy, where there was a contract party for Tornielli's niece, who is to marry the Marquis Paulucci, one of the secretaries. The fiancée looked charming in pink satin, with a very pretty diamond tiara that her uncle had given her. There were a great many people. I had the Camerons with me—Nannie looking very pretty and chic in red satin with gold wings in her hair. I told her the dress was much too old and heavy for her, she should have been in white tulle, with nothing in her hair, but she says all the American girls wear satin. The Tornielli entertainments are always handsome; their full dress livery red is so effective. Henrietta and I have been driving about shopping. I never go near a shop alone, but Mrs. Edwardes told us there were wonderful "occasions" for silks at Marshall & Snelgrove's. We did pick up several things not dear. The English shops are not at all like the French ones.

To H. L. K.

French Embassy, London,
May 1, 1892.

It is very cold to-day, and I think generally is on the 1st of May. One can't imagine a Queen of the May, crowned with flowers, dancing around a May-Pole. We are rather shivering, with a good fire in the room. It is true that we have been sitting for some time at the window looking at the crowds of people pouring into the Park for their great demonstration (anti-capitalist). It seems to be all going quite quietly—there are processions, and banners, and brass bands (such horrors), the usual thing, and I am sure there will be no row and that nothing will happen—nothing ever does happen in England.

The Salvation Army are also holding their service in the Park, so near that we can almost hear the hymns. There are always soldiers hovering near when they have their service; I wonder if it does any good. When we were at Dover last year I went quite often to their service—they had one almost every afternoon, late, on the beach. It was a curious sight, such a motley crowd, rugged old fishermen, boys (half water rats), women, children, and occasionally a well-dressed, prosperous small tradesman, often soldiers—some lounging on the outskirts of the little circle, some sitting on boats, some reverent, some merely curious, but all joining in the hymns. I must say it interested me very much; not the sermon, nor the preachers as a general thing, but the little earnest group gathered on the sands with the swash of the waves for an accompaniment, and the red coats of the soldiers making a patch of colour. Some of the women looked pretty even in their regulation poke-bonnets.

French Embassy, London,
May 18th.

It is a beautiful, fine day. I did not perform the Drawing-room, but walked about in the crowd with Pontavice, which was decidedly amusing. We saw a good many people we knew in the carriages and talked to some of them. Very tired they looked, having been for hours in the string. I wanted too to see some of the handsome English turn-outs, as when we go ourselves we hardly see anything but colleagues. The policeman, who knew us, let us stand where we liked—I told him to stop the French Ambassador's carriage when it came out. He did, and I jumped in, much to the astonishment of the crowd. We had a pleasant dinner at Lady Delamere's. About the middle the electric light went out and we sat for a few minutes in perfect darkness, except for a succession of matches that Lord Wimborne, who was next to me, lit. The servants lost their heads, and didn't think at first of lighting candles which were on the table. It only lasted those few minutes. Of course such accidents will happen perpetually until the system is perfected and universally applied.

Saturday, May 20th.

We had a pleasant dinner to-night at Lord Tweedmouth's and I went afterward to a very handsome ball at the Burtons' with Nannie and Pontavice. They have Chesterfield House—one of the best London houses—flowers and electric light everywhere, and such splendid pictures. All the smart women in London were there, and all with their tiaras, except one, who explained to me that tiaras should only be worn at Embassies, or when one was invited to meet Royalties, "which of course you understand, as you haven't put yours on"—so I didn't tell the reason, which was that I had forgotten mine, I so rarely wear anything in my hair, and a tiara is heavy; also I have to be "recoiffée," which I hate. My hair is done in the morning, and walks or rides all day, and is merely pulled out a little at night.

Saturday, May 21, 1892.

We dined to-night at the Trevelyans, all Conservatives. The Stanleys (African Stanley) were there. He looks as hard as steel, but I suppose couldn't do what he has done if he were not. Many say he wants to be an M.P. and is sure of his election. His wife can help him enormously. It is so curious to me to see all the women occupying themselves so energetically with politics. They go about the country canvassing for their husbands; wear the colours of the party; and have affiches sometimes in their windows. I saw one well-known political woman in London who had large bills posted on her window, "Vote for Lord R." We should be hooted in France if we did that sort of thing. My husband has been candidate very often, for many offices, but I have scarcely seen his name at the bottom of a circular and never heard him address a public meeting of any kind—in fact, have never been in the country when the elections were going on. It is rather curious, as women have such a strong position in France—a mère de famille, and above all a grandmother, is somebody. A clever, strong-minded grandmother is a power in her family and immediate circle.

French Embassy, London,
Wednesday, June 1, 1892.

We had a funny experience to-night. We had been engaged for some time to dine with the Gladstones, to meet the Archbishop of Canterbury and Mrs. Benson. Mrs. Gladstone wrote to me yesterday, asking me to come punctually at 7.45, as the Archbishop didn't like late hours (he is rather a delicate man) and had asked to dine early. We made a great effort to get there in time—and did; so did everybody else—except the Bensons. We waited one hour—then went to dinner (they had sent a messenger to Lambeth and the answer came back that the Archbishop and Mrs. Benson had started hours ago. Everyone was worried and feared there must have been an accident. At 9.30 o'clock, when dinner was practically over (we had got to the jellies and ices), a message was brought to Mr. Gladstone. He left the room and reappeared with the Bensons. The explanation was that Mrs. Gladstone had written her invitation from Dollis Hill, a place belonging to Lord Aberdeen, some miles out of London. They often stay there, so the Archbishop naturally imagined he was to dine there, and they had been driving about in the country. The poor old lady was dreadfully put out—"The Archbishop might have known that we were in London." Of course the dinner was all brought back and our evening was long. However, we managed to go for a moment to the Foreign Office. I said to Lady Salisbury I hoped it wasn't the last time we were supping with her at the Foreign Office (everyone says the Liberals are coming in again). "Will you think me very rude if I say I hope so, though of course I shall always want to see my friends in Arlington Street" (their private residence). I think she and Lord Salisbury are both tired and will be glad to have a rest, not that they will socially, for they are always receiving, both in London and at Hatfield. We got home fairly early, though the streets were crowded, Piccadilly something awful. It is a regular London night—carriages rolling in every direction, and all the world dining, dancing, supping. W. was rather funny over the dinner and the long wait, but said that if he had been in Benson's place he would have gone straight home from Dollis Hill, and had a cup of tea in his library.

Thursday, July 2, 1892.

We had a small luncheon party this morning to hear the band of the Garde Républicaine, who have come over from Paris for a few days to the Exhibition. They play magnificently—we have been to hear them once or twice and I assure you when they play the "Marseillaise" it makes one's pulses leap. We had the Duke of Cambridge, Prince Edward of Saxe-Weimar, Staals, Coventrys, etc. They played on the terrace—we had draped the balcony with red stuffs, and had some flowers and plants and about 70 chairs on the terrace. The Duke talked a great deal. As soon as luncheon was over he went straight to the library, which opens on the terrace. We presented the Chef-de-Musique, and they played at once a few bars of "God Save the Queen"; then the "Marseillaise," everyone standing. Someone said to the Duke, "It is very fine, but not an anthem like our 'God Save the Queen.'" "Non," he answered, "mais c'est un magnifique chant de guerre." They played for about an hour, people coming and going and standing about on the terrace. Some of our friends passing couldn't imagine what was going on—there was quite a crowd collected in the Park listening. My dress hadn't come from Paris, so I wore white, trimmed with Valenciennes; I thought a little of wearing a tiny tricolour bow, but didn't after all. One of the prettiest women there was Mrs. Astor, in black, with a big black picture hat.

To H. L. K.

Walmer Castle,
July 17, 1892.

We came down here yesterday and hoped (at least I did) to have a lovely day on the water. Lord Dufferin is a great yachtsman and cruises all about in his own little boat. At the present moment it is pouring—I can hardly see the sea—every now and then comes a partial break and I get a glimpse of a great grey expanse of water. We got down for dinner last night; a small party, as there are not many bedrooms—Lord and Lady Wantage (he such a nice man, one of the few Englishmen who has the "Légion d'Honneur," which he got in the Crimean War), the Marchesa Chigi from Rome, and various young men. The dinner was handsome—Lord Dufferin always a charming host—and we finished the evening in the big drawing-room, where I always feel as if I were in the cabin of a ship, it is so directly on the water. It looks exactly as it did in Lady Granville's time, and in fact Lady D. told me she had not changed anything. When I went to the drawing-room this morning I found the three ladies talking and trying to persuade themselves that it would clear after lunch. I said I did not mind weather and could not stay in the house all day, so we agreed to equip ourselves suitably and go for a walk after lunch. In the meantime Lady D. took me over the house—we went to see Wellington's room (where he died). His little camp-bed is still there, and some interesting relics, bits of uniform, and one or two letters framed and hung upon the wall. The room is small, in one of the towers, nothing magnificent or ducal about it. In fact the whole house is simple and not large, one good drawing-room, looking straight out to sea, so that sitting inside you see the big ships pass apparently close under the windows—a fair dining-room, no library or billiard-room, and a few bedrooms—an ideal place for a water life. The moat has been changed into a garden and there is a tennis-court somewhere, though I didn't exactly make out where. We went for a walk along the sea wall with waterproofs and umbrellas, and I wondered if we should be blown over into the sea, the wind came in such violent gusts sometimes. It seems a child and a perambulator were blown off the other day, and strange to say nothing was hurt, neither child nor perambulator—only the nurse had hysterics. We walked to Deal and paid Lady Herschell a visit. I rather demurred at going in, as my hair was decidedly ruffled and I was very wet, but they all wanted to and I didn't look any worse than any of the others. The Castle is fine, interesting—not so large as Walmer, but with always the same beautiful situation close to the sea. It is one of the Cinque Ports, and Lord Sydney had it as long as he lived. The Herschells walked back with us, and coming home was pleasanter, as the rain had stopped and the wind diminished a little. I came up after tea, as I was a little tired and thought I would take advantage of a quiet moment to write to you. I will finish to-night, as we have come upstairs early. We had rather an amusing evening. The young people proposed playing "Historical Portraits," and insisted upon our all taking part. I protested vehemently, as I never have drawn anything in my life. I remember the drawing class years ago at Mrs. Ward's, when we all copied a Greek girl with an amphora on her head, and the tears I shed over my performance. The amphora (that might have been anything) was crooked and toppling over, and all her arms and legs were of different lengths. Even the drawing master was obliged to say I had no facility with my pencil. The game is really an undertaking. Everyone is given paper and pencils and you have 5 minutes by the watch to draw a historical portrait or portraits. My neighbour, one of the sons, was doing something most elaborate—a quantity of figures—my other neighbour, about my calibre, looked helpless, but said she must do something. What do you think she did? "The House that Jack Built," an infantine production with 4 lines and a chimney, the sort of thing that we all have done as children. That gave me courage, particularly as she had played the game before, and knew what could be received, so I drew the "Man in the Moon." Can't you see it—a large, round O with dots for eyes, nose, and mouth. Some of the drawings were really very clever—the "Field of the Cloth of Gold" with a great many figures, and Raleigh and his cloak before Elizabeth; Queen Elizabeth with a chignon and a short bicycle skirt. We amused ourselves very much. We leave to-morrow morning, W. by the first train, as he had an early rendezvous in London. I shall go a little later with the Wantages.

London,
Friday, July 22, 1892.

W. and I drove out to Lyon House this afternoon to a garden party at the Duke of Northumberland's. It is a fine old place, about an hour's drive from London, with big iron gates, with the Percy lion with its tail straight out on top. The Duke did not appear—his daughter-in-law, Countess Percy (who is a daughter of the Duke of Argyll) did the honours. She showed us the great corridor and large drawing-room with a fine Adam's ceiling, and then we went out into the garden, where there were quantities of tents, carpets, tea-tables—and half London. Everyone was talking elections. I sympathised with Philip Stanhope, who has been beaten, and said, "Why didn't you spend more money while you were about it?" He was not in the least outraged at such a question, and replied promptly, "I should have certainly, if I hadn't been so sure of being named." They say a great deal of money has been spent this time.

London, July 27th.

We had our last outing for this year last night; a handsome dinner at Tornielli's for the Duc d'Aoste. He is a tall, good-looking young fellow, decidedly dashing, and inclined to amuse himself. He is a curious contrast to his father, whom I liked extremely, but who was cold and silent, looked like a Spanish grandee of the Middle Ages, or a soldier-monk—a very striking face and figure. Countess Somaglia (née Gwendoline Doria) was among the guests, with her two daughters. We talked a little of old days in Rome. I remember so well when she was married.

To-morrow I shall make our paquets, and we four, Francis and I, May and Beatrice, leave for Bayreuth and the Tyrol by the Club train on Saturday. I ordered my mountain dresses at Nicoll's—two skirts to one jacket—a real short one faced with leather for mountaineering, and a longer one, shortish too, for travelling, in blue serge; a shortish blue linen, and an alpaca. All the personnel dine to-night for good-bye. This is my 9th season in London—I wonder if I shall ever see it again. I have a presentiment that next year we shall only go back to take leave.

To G. K. S.

French Embassy,
February 1, 1893.

We came over last night; a very good crossing, the shortest I ever made; we were just one hour on the boat. Lady Salisbury was on board, coming from the Riviera. We talked all the way over. She is very sorry we are going—says the Queen will regret M. Waddington very much; that she had great confidence in him, and now, at her age, rather dreads seeing strange faces around her. W. is very glad to get back to France—I too. After all, ten years is a long time to be away from one's country.

Sunday, 5th.

W. and I drove out this afternoon to White Lodge to say good-bye to Princess Mary. As we came quite near to the house we crossed very quickly two gentlemen in a hansom and just recognised the Prince of Wales and Prince George. Everyone is saying that that marriage will be arranged. Princess Mary and Princess May were alone, and decidedly more cheerful. Princess May still in black, but with no crêpe and a little jet. Princess Mary was charming and friendly as she always is, and seemed really sorry we were going, also wanted to know who was coming in our place; but that I couldn't tell her. She promised to come to tea one afternoon at the Embassy before we went away. Various people came in to tea, as they always do here on Sunday afternoon, and someone said the marriage was certainly decided and would be announced after the 27th, which was to have been the wedding-day last year. They certainly looked much brighter and happier than I expected to see them.

French Embassy,
February 13, 1893.

I went this afternoon to the House of Commons to hear Mr. Gladstone make his great Irish speech. I had an excellent place in the front row of the ladies' gallery, and heard and saw everything. The House was packed, chairs all along the gangway—the Prince, Dukes of York and Teck in their places, quantities of peers and some diplomats—no Ambassadors, which surprised me. I know that W. always prefers reading a speech the next day, but I thought some of the others would be there. Mr. Gladstone was much cheered by both sides when he came in (a tribute to his age and intelligence rather than to his politics). He rose to speak at a quarter to 4, finishing at 5 minutes past six (two hours and 20 minutes). He was much quieter and less passionate than I had expected. There was no vehement appeal for the wrongs of Ireland. It was more an "exposé de motifs" than a real speech, but it was an extraordinary effort for a man of his age (83). His voice was so clear and strong, never faltering: a little weaker and lower perhaps toward the end. I suppose it is the last great political speech he will ever make.

To H. L. K.

French Embassy,
March 3, 1893.

We are beginning our tournée of farewell visits, and to-day we have been to take leave of the Prince and Princess of Wales at Marlborough House. I had not seen the Princess since Prince Eddie's death. I wore blue velvet and my Jubilee medal. We were received at the door by all the household—Probyn, Lord Suffield, Stanley Clark, Lady Suffield, and Miss Knollys. Prince George was in the first drawing-room. The Prince and Princess with two daughters in the big long room. I can't say I found the Princess changed or grown older. She looked sad, but it was the same slight, youthful figure. She was still in deep plain black (woollen stuff) with no ornaments. She was charming, with the sweet, simple manner she always has. Tears came into her eyes when she said she hadn't seen me for so long on account of her mourning. I asked her about her first grandchild—Princess Louise Fife's little girl. She said she was a dear little thing, talked a great deal, trotted about everywhere, and called her "Granny." W. and the Prince talked together, but we didn't stay very long. I didn't say a word to the Princess about Prince Eddie (they told me not to), only just as we were going I said I hoped the end of the year would bring her happiness and blessing. She squeezed my hand, but her lips quivered and she couldn't speak. She has been unfailing to us always and said we should certainly meet again, and that I must always let her know when I came to England. I begin to realise now that we are going, with all these leave-takings. After all we have been here 10 years, and that is a good piece out of one's life.

Albert Gate,
March 5, 1893.

I wish you had been here yesterday to see the farewell dinner for W. at the Mansion House. It was a great tribute to a departing Ambassador—all the distinguished men in England assembled to say good-bye. The Lady Mayoress had asked me to dine with her and bring anyone I wanted, so I took Hilda and Mdme. de la Villestreux. Hilda and I started together a little before 7. As we drew near the Mansion House there was quite a crowd; quantities of policemen, and empty carriages driving away. We went in by the same entrance as the men, and then turned off sharp to the right and were conducted to the drawing-room of the Lady Mayoress. I wore black moiré with a great band of orange velvet on the corsage, and all the jewels I possessed—tiara, pearls, and diamond necklace and diamond stars and ornaments fastened on the front of the dress, as I knew we were to sit in the gallery after dinner to hear the speeches. We found Mdme. de la Villestreux already there—there were 16 women. The Lady Mayoress presented them all to me. They were all ex-Lady Mayoresses—"ladies who had passed the chair," which it seems is the technical term. She also gave me a splendid bouquet tied with a tricolour ribbon. The dinner was very good, the traditional London public dinner menu—turtle soup, salmon, etc. There was very handsome silver on the table: great massive bowls and flagons and beautiful flowers—very quickly served, and really very pleasant. After the first five minutes everyone talked. Some of the women were handsome, all well dressed and with quantities of diamonds. Just as we were finishing a servant came to summon us to the gallery. The loving cup was going round and the speeches were to begin. The Lady Mayoress led the way to the gallery in the great banqueting hall directly opposite the table d'honneur. It was a striking sight, particularly that table where was the Lord Mayor in his robes, and all the diplomatists with stars and broad ribbons. There was a blaze of light and at first I couldn't recognise anyone (we were very high), and then I saw W. standing, drinking out of the loving cup, with the Lord Mayor on one side and Rustem on the other, and gradually I made out a good many people. There were two long tables besides the table d'honneur, and they told me about 300 guests. All the representative men and intelligence of England assembled to say God-speed to the departing Ambassador. The Speaker and Lord Herschell (Presidents of the two Houses) were both there, and men of every possible coterie from Lord Lorne to James Knowles of the "Nineteenth Century." As soon as the regular toasts had been drunk there was a pause and then came the toast of the evening with "bumpers," "The French Ambassador." There were roars of applause when W. got on his legs, and I must confess to a decided choke in my throat. W. spoke (in English, which they had asked him to do) very simply and very well, going back to his early days. When he said that he had done his best always to keep up good and friendly relations with England, and that he had had much sympathy from all sides, he was much cheered; but much more when he said that perhaps what had given him more friends in England than any of his public acts as a statesman was the fact that he had rowed in the University eight at Cambridge. Then there were roars of applause, and he heard quite distinctly the people below saying—"he is quite right, we always remember it." He was quite ému when he came to the end; his voice taking that grave tone I like so much when he said "good-bye." One heard every word. He was much cheered when he finished. The Lady Mayoress came and shook hands with me and asked me if I wasn't proud of my husband. Some of the speeches were charming—the Speaker's particularly; Lord Lorne also made a very pretty little speech, and Rustem (Turk), who answered the toast for the "Corps Diplomatique," made a very good speech. I can't remember all the names and all the speeches, but it was a most brilliant assembly, and as Countess Deym said to me, a wonderful tribute to W. As soon as the speeches were over we all went down to the great hall, where I had a perfect défilé of compliments and regrets, Lord Lorne again repeating his words "that W.'s departure was a national calamity." All had something friendly to say—the two Law Lords, Judge Bowen and Sir Francis Jeune, most sympathetic. S. too told me I should be much pleased—he had never seen such a demonstration in England for a foreigner. Of course some of the young men came in to the Embassy to talk the dinner over, and gave their impressions. They were all much pleased. W. certainly was, and said he felt quite ému when he saw all the faces turned to him and knew that every word he said would tell—also he knew quite well that his reference to the boat-race would appeal much more to the general public than any expressions of good feeling toward England. He hasn't always had an easy time with his English name and his English education. Of course it has been very useful to him here, as he has been thrown with all sorts of people, and could understand the English point of view, but in France they were always afraid he was too English. I think when he has gone they will realise at home what good work he has done here because he understands them.

French Embassy, London,
March 8, 1893.

W. and I went together to the Mansion House, Tuesday, to pay a farewell visit to the Lady Mayoress, who was receiving formally with music, tea, and quantities of people. The Lord Mayor appeared too when he heard we were there, and was quite pleased when W. said how gratified and touched he had been by the banquet and the universal expression of regret at his departure. The Lord Mayor said to him, "You can't find any warmer friends, Ambassador, in France than those you are leaving here, but I quite understand that a man can't live long out of his own country." We had just time to get back to the Embassy, dress, and start for Windsor, where we dined: our last stay in the yellow rooms. The dinner was almost entirely Royal—the Empress Frederick, Prince and Princess Christian, Prince and Princess Henry of Battenberg, Duchess of Connaught, del Mazo, the Spanish Ambassador, I the only other lady. The cercle was not long—I thought the Queen looked tired. She sat down at once; said she wouldn't say good-bye, as she hoped to see me once more at Buckingham Palace. She said at her age she rather dreaded saying good-bye, also seeing new faces, and she was very sorry we were going. "Who comes to replace you?" I said I thought nothing was yet decided. I talked some time to the other Princesses after the Queen had congédied me. The Empress was as usual charming, and said, "I am afraid we sha'n't meet again often, Mdme. Waddington, you won't cross to Berlin, and I can't go to Paris, but that isn't my fault. I think we shall have to meet in Italy, where I first had the pleasure of seeing you." The end of the evening we spent as usual in the drawing-room with the "household." I had quite a talk with Prince Henry, who is very good-looking and attractive. We left the drawing-room about eleven—W. going as usual to smoke, and I to my rooms. I sat some time in front of the fire in the beautiful little yellow drawing-room wondering if I ever should see it again, and going back to our first Windsor visit, when all was so new and strange to me. I wonder where we shall be this time next year, and if we shall settle down easily to our quiet life in France. W. came in rather late from the smoking-room: he said all the men were so nice to him, and seemed really sorry he was going; also were very anxious to know if he wasn't sorry himself.

This morning (Wednesday) it was beautiful. I breakfasted as usual in my rooms and sat some time in the deep window recess watching all the people coming and going. There is always so much life about Windsor when the Queen is there. About 10 Colonel Byng came to take us to the Chapel to see the sarcophagus of Prince Eddie, which is enormous and has rather too much colour—almost gaudy. I went with Hilda the other day to Gilbert's studio to see the monument he is making, and which I liked. It is very elaborate and complicated, but the sleeping figure good: so reposeful and young; the long straight limbs. One quite realised a young life cut short. Gilbert is clever and interesting, and begged us to criticise freely.

We got home about 12 and I took a short turn in the Park before breakfast, which was full as usual when the Queen passes. She came this afternoon for two Drawing-rooms. I shall do my last to-morrow—I sha'n't go to the second.

French Embassy,
March 10, 1893.

I am doing all my last things. I went to the Drawing-room yesterday (our last). Countess Spencer presented the ladies, and looked very stately and handsome in black, with splendid jewels. The Queen didn't stay very long, but looked less tired, I thought, than the other night at Windsor. I said good-bye to a great many people whom I sha'n't see again. At this season plenty of people are still in the country, and only come up for a day or two for Drawing-rooms, theatres, etc. Teesdale and I had quiet an affectionate parting. For so long now we have made our entrée together into the Throne Room: he holding my hand and both of us making a deep bow and curtsey at the door, that we have become quite like puppets.

This afternoon I have had my farewell audience from the Queen at Buckingham Palace at 4 o'clock. I wore as usual the blue velvet, which will walk about alone soon, as it has done all the ceremonies lately; my pearls, and a crême velvet bonnet with light blue feathers. I went in the ordinary open carriage (not gala). The gala carriage with the powdered wigs, big footmen, canes, etc., went out yesterday for the last time to the Drawing-room. I had some difficulty in getting into the court-yard, which was filled with carriages, luggage-vans, soldiers, etc., as the Queen was leaving this afternoon for Windsor. I was sent from one entrance to another, in spite of the tricolour cockade, and finally drew up at a side-door (where a shabby little victoria was standing). A man in ordinary black livery appeared, and after a short parley (in which I intervened myself, saying that I was the French Ambassadress and had an audience with the Queen) he showed me into a room on the ground floor. I waited about 15 minutes (it was 5 minutes to 4 when I arrived) and then Lady Southampton, Lady in Waiting, appeared, with many apologies for being late—she didn't think I would come so soon (and I was a little afraid of being late, they kept me so long in the court-yard). We went upstairs to a small drawing-room looking out on the court-yard, and in about 10 minutes the same servant in black appeared, saying, "The Queen is ready to receive the French Ambassadress." Lady Southampton said she couldn't come, as the Queen wished to see me alone, so I followed the servant down a long corridor—he stopped at a door, knocked, a voice said "come in," and I found myself in the Royal presence. It was a small, ordinary room, rather like a sort of waiting-room, no traces of habitation, nothing pretty or interesting. The Queen was standing, very simply dressed in black (her travelling dress she said, she was starting at once for Windsor) before a writing-table which was in the middle of the room, covered with books and papers. She was most kind, made me sit down on the sofa next to her, and said she was afraid she had kept me waiting, but that she had been kept by a visit from Mr. Gladstone—she then paused a moment, so I made a perfectly banal remark, "what a wonderful man, such an extraordinary intelligence," to which she replied, "He is very deaf." She expressed great regret at our departure, and hoped we were sorry to leave England and all our friends, but after all Paris was not very far off, and she hoped she should see me again. She was sure M. Waddington would find plenty to do when he got back—would he continue his literary work? I said he would certainly have plenty to do, as he was Senator and Membre de l'Institut, but that we should both miss the Embassy life and the varied interests it brought. She repeated that she hoped to see me again, so I asked if ever I came back to England might I write to one of her ladies, and ask if I could be received. "Pray do, and I shall not say good-bye, but au revoir." We talked about 15 minutes about all sorts of things—some of our colleagues—our successor, etc. She asked again who was coming to London, and said, "My last two Ambassadors to France were ex-Viceroys." It seemed to me that she said it on purpose, and that she wanted France to send one of her best men to St. James's. I repeated the remark to my husband, and the chancellerie. It is quite true. The present British Ambassador, Lord Dufferin, is certainly the first diplomatist they have. He has had every distinguished post England can offer—Ambassador to St. Petersburg and Rome, Governor of Canada, and Viceroy of India, and has played a great part. His predecessor, Lord Lytton, was also Viceroy of India, and very distinguished, though in a different way from Lord Dufferin. I rather fancy that Montebello would be an acceptable appointment. He knows English well, has English relations, and I should think would like the post, but I have really no idea. Some of the papers say that Ribot wants the place, but I think he prefers home politics and would not care to leave France; however, I could not tell the Queen anything definite. She kissed me at parting, and gave me her photograph, signed, in a handsome silver frame—then half turned her back, moving to a door on the other side of the room, so that I could get out easily and not altogether à reculons, which would have been awkward to open the door. I tucked my parcel under my arm, opened the door myself (a thing I don't often do in these days, except my bedroom door) and found myself again in the long corridor. My audience was over, and I daresay I shall never see the Queen again. She was unfailing to us both from the first moment, always welcomed us with the same smile, was always inclined to talk about anything and to understand and smooth over any little difficulty or misunderstanding. I think she is a wonderful woman and a wonderful Queen. In her long life she must have had many difficult questions and responsibilities, and certainly England has not suffered under her rule. I met Lady S. in the corridor, who came downstairs with me, and said she was quite sure the Queen meant it when she said she would like to see me again, that she never said anything she didn't mean.

I found Hilda and one or two friends when I got home who told me that the English ladies, headed by Ladies Salisbury and Spencer, representing the two parties, Conservative and Liberal, were going to give me a souvenir (in memory of my ten years in London), a jewel of some kind. I was rather pleased. The last days of adieux are rather melancholy. I shall be glad when they are over. I forgot to say that Wednesday I had a message about 3 o'clock from the Princess Beatrice, saying she and Prince Henry of Battenberg would come about 5 and ask me for a cup of tea. The notice was so short that I hadn't time to ask anyone except Hilda, who happened in, and some of the secretaries. They came alone and were most friendly—said they had not given me any more time on purpose, as they didn't want a party, but merely to see us. They were as easy and pleasant as possible, she talking much more than she ever does in the grand monde. I told her I hoped she would let me know if ever she came to Paris. She said. "Oh, yes—and we will do a lively play together."

To H. L. K.

Albert Gate,
Tuesday, March 14, 1893.

I went this afternoon with Mdme. de la Villestreux to the French bazaar at Kensington Town Hall to receive Princess Mary, who opened it (and very much better than I did the day I performed the same thing). Mdme. de Bylandt, de Bille, Mdme. du Poutel de la Harpe were all there waiting at the foot of the stairs. Princess Mary was easy and charming, and I really think was not bored. She had all the ladies presented to her, talked to them all, knew apparently all their relations, young and old, complimented them on the arrangement of their stalls, said the various objects made and presented by the Ladies' Art Association were very artistic and useful (I wish you could have seen them—our pincushions at the Vente des Diaconnesses were things of beauty next to them), took her tea, said the cake was so good, and delighted everybody. When I see how easy it is for Royalties to win golden opinions with a few gracious words and a smile, I wonder at the stiff, stand-off manner some of them adopt. Princess May looked very slight and pretty, and is always well dressed. I again wore the blue velvet, which will fall off me soon, but this time I changed the bonnet and wore a black jet one with a red rose, and it wasn't very pretty.

March 16, 1893.

We had a last musical afternoon to-day at Marie Humlicher's: 8 hands, two pianos, she directing and the performers being Ctesse. de Bylandt, Mlle. de Staal, Hilda and I. We played Mozart and Schumann, really very well. Mlle. Humlicher has a nice big room over a coutourière on Fulham Road. She always gives us tea after the music, which is generally brought up by a tidy little English maid with her cap and apron. She was astounded this afternoon when the tea was brought in by a most elegant young person, dressed in the latest fashion, and attended by a second, also most stylish—however, as the tea was all right she did not say anything; neither did I, but I waited a moment after the other ladies had gone and she had a mysterious conversation on the stairs and came in highly amused. It seems the two elegant ladies were the dressmaker and her assistant. When they saw all these ambassadorial equipages at their door—enormous powdered footmen, wigs, cockades, etc., also Hilda's beautiful carriage (Deichmann has splendid horses always and everything perfectly well turned out), their curiosity got the better of them and they felt they must see the swells; so they interviewed the maid, installed her in their rooms to attend to any customer who might come, got into their swell garments, and brought up the tea. Wasn't it funny? Luckily we were all rather elegant. I had been paying some farewell visits, and it so happened that we were all up to the mark. I have sometimes gone to Mlle. Humlicher's on foot in a cloth dress, as it is not far from the Embassy. I am sorry to have done with those afternoons—Mlle. Humlicher plays beautifully—she is a pupil of Rubinstein's and has a real artistic nature.

Friday, March 17th.

I had a line from Lady Salisbury yesterday, asking if to-day at 5 would suit me to receive the ladies and my present. I accepted of course, asking her about how many would come. She answered, between 50 and 60, she thought. As the moment drew near I got rather nervous, for W. said they would certainly make me a little speech and that I would have to reply, and he suggested thinking it over; but that I refused and said I must trust to the inspiration of the moment. I wore my purple satin. The ladies arrived very punctually. There were one or two men, all the personnel, including W., and one or two of my friends, Sir George Arthur, Gevers, etc. Lady Salisbury asked me where I would stand, so I put myself in the middle of the big drawing-room, under the chandelier. Lady Salisbury was spokeswoman, flanked on one side by Lady Spencer, the other by Mrs. Gladstone; all the other ladies, including Ladies Londonderry, Cadogan, Shrewsbury, Harcourt, etc., forming a circle round me. Lady Salisbury made a very pretty little speech, beginning—"Madame Waddington, Ambassadress," and saying they hoped I would sometimes think of England and my English friends, that I had been there so long that I seemed one of themselves, etc., and then handed me a blue velvet étui. I don't know exactly what I replied (I was rather émue and W. just opposite to me was looking at me hard), but evidently only a few words, to say that the ten years I had spent in London had been very happy ones, that France wasn't very far away, and that I hoped to come back often—but I think they understood that I was pleased and grateful for the present, and above all with the feeling that prompted it. The jewel is very handsome, a circle of large, beautiful white diamonds with a large pearl in the centre and another as pendant. It was passed around the company and they all found it very handsome. We had tea in the blue room, and I talked to them all and said what was perfectly true, that they had been ten perfectly happy years we had spent in London, and ten years is a good piece out of one's life. They left me a book with the names of all the "signataires." W. was much pleased, and I fancy it was rather an unusual demonstration. One of these days, when Francis's wife wears it, it will be a historic jewel. After all the company had gone the secretaries stayed on a little while. I think they are all sorry we are going, and they certainly regret W. as a chief. They all say he is so absolutely just.

Albert Gate,
Monday, March 27, 1893.

We walked about in the Row this morning. It was cold and raw, not many people. We dined at the Italian Embassy in the evening with Tornielli. The Comtesse is at Naples with her niece, the young Marquise Paulucci, who has just had a fine boy. The dinner was small, mostly colleagues. We sat after dinner in the red drawing-room, which is very picturesque—a fine old carved chimney, enormous, and beautiful old red silk hangings just faded enough to give an old-world look. He has brought quantities of things from his palace in Italy. Lincoln was there. He knows who his successor is—Mr. Bayard. We don't know ours.

Albert Gate,
March 29, 1893.

Princess Mary and Princess May had promised to come once to tea before I left and they named to-day. I asked very few people—Duchess of St. Albans, Ladies Arran, Randolph Churchill, Hilda, and some men, Deym, Tornielli, Mensdorff, George Arthur, etc. Lady Randolph is very musical, plays extremely well and is very kind to all the artists. I asked Mlle. Jansen (Swedish), who sang quite beautifully—a fine voice, such a ring in it. She is going to America, and I am sure she will have a great success. Both Princesses were as cordial and nice as possible, said it would seem strange not to see me about everywhere any more. "Of course you will come back to London," Princess Mary said; "but it can never be the same thing—you will be a visitor; now you are living your life with us, and London is your home." Princess May looked very pretty, and so bright that I fancy her engagement is settled—everyone seems to think so. I didn't say anything to her, but when I parted from Princess Mary at the foot of the stairs I couldn't help saying that I heard that very soon all her friends would be able to congratulate her, and that as I was going I would like to think that very happy days were before her. She said "I hope so—I think so," and kissed me. At the door she turned and said, "I wonder when I shall have tea and music again in these rooms. I shall always think with pleasure of the French Embassy." We had a farewell dinner at our cousin's, Mrs. Mostyn's. Lord Herschell was on one side of me and talked a great deal about the banquet at the Mansion House. He said W.'s English was so good, too classical if anything; said he would like very much to hear him speak in French and at the Tribune. He couldn't imagine such a quiet speech and manner in the fiery French Chamber. I told him the Senate was much more sedate than the Chamber (consequently much less amusing) and that he would often hear a perfectly quiet academic speech there.

French Embassy,
Good Friday, March 31, 1893.

We went to the afternoon service at St. Paul's, where the anthem was beautiful. There were a great many people, a great many men following the service, and a great many also walking about looking at the tombs and tablets.

We really have not a moment these last days. I shall go over a little before W., about the 12th of next month. We have had all sorts of leave-takings. The Empress Frederick received us the other day—always charming and interesting, but still talking of her visit to Paris, which she can't get over. She said to me, "I would have liked so much to see you in Paris, in your own house. M. Waddington promised me a dinner with all your clever men." "I should have been much pleased and honoured, Majesté; perhaps a little later he may have that pleasure—but I'm afraid——"

We had all a pleasant visit to Princess Louise at Kensington, who said she would certainly let us know when she came to Paris—I think she often comes. We went to White Lodge, of course, where they all look so happy I can't help thinking that the marriage is arranged. We also went, for a farewell cup of tea, to Alma Tadema, who receives once a week in his beautiful studio. He is going to send me an engraving of one of his lovely Greek pictures. His atelier is most picturesque and full of interesting things. He has a set of panels painted by all his artist friends which are gems. He is very attractive himself—so simple. There were a good many people there.

We had a dinner and party (music) last week at Lady Wimborne's. Their entertainments are always successful. The house (Hamilton House) is one of the best in London. Lord B., a great friend of W.'s, took me to get an ice at the buffet, and was deploring W.'s departure. "Such a pity that Waddington had gone back to France after graduating so brilliantly at Cambridge. He would certainly have made the same career in England, and would have been Premier in England, so much better than being Premier in France"—a truly British sentiment (what makes their strength, perhaps), but naif.

To G. K. S.

Albert Gate,
Easter Sunday, April 2, 1893.

My last Easter in London, a beautiful bright day. Henrietta, Francis, and I walked down to Westminster Abbey in the morning. It was crowded, as it always is—Easter is such a splendid service—the fine old Easter hymn always the same, with the Hallelujah echoing through the vaults and arches. We had a small dinner in the evening—Jusserand (who had come back to see his friends, of whom he has thousands here), the La Villestreux, the personnel, and a few young people in the evening. I wore my jewel, which they all found very handsome.

French Embassy,
April 9th.

Henrietta, Francis, and I went to the Temple Church this morning. It is a grand old place, right in the heart of London. We were met at the door by one of the "benchers," who gave us very good places and took us all over the church and various halls after service. Francis had never been there and was wildly interested, particularly in the tombs of the old Crusaders with their crossed legs. We lunched with quite a party of benchers and their wives in the "parlement" room, a charming room looking out on the river and across a garden filled with roses, streams of sunlight pouring in at all the windows. They told us the War of the Roses, white and red, was planned in those gardens, and asked us if we remembered the old lines:

1. "If this red rose offend thy sight,
2. It in thy bosom wear;
3. 'Twill blush to find itself less white
4. And turn Lancastrian there.:

Yesterday we had a handsome "Diner d'Adieu" at the Turkish Embassy, principally colleagues. Lincoln was there—he too is going, his wife left yesterday. They have raised the United States Legation here to an Embassy, and I hope they will raise the salaries. No one is more asked out or has a better position here than the United States Minister. I always remember the remark of one of our colleagues, Baron Solvyns, who had been long in London and knew it well. We were talking one day about the Corps Diplomatique, small Powers, Embassies, etc., and were discussing who was the most important Ambassador in London. Solvyns said, "There is no doubt about it, the American Minister is the first Ambassador in London."

French Embassy,
April 12, 1893.

My last letter from Albert Gate, Dear. Yesterday all our small things, silver, house linen, etc., departed. The packing seemed well done. We put everything that was to go in the ballroom (little Dresden figures, glasses, silver ornaments), nothing packed, all spread out, on tables. A man came and made an inventory, packs everything in a great van that comes to the door and arrives at our door in the Rue Dumont d'Urville, where equally everything is taken out and unpacked. He says nothing will be broken. It is certainly a very easy way of moving, and I shall be anxious to see how they arrive. The Florians had their furniture taken over like that, and I think one table was a little démantibulée. We leave to-morrow; we being Henrietta and I. W. stays some little time still. I take over all the French servants, both coachmen, and my victoria and horses, as I must settle myself for the spring in the Paris house. W. sends over one of the secretaries, M. Lecomte, with us, and the colleagues are all coming to the station to say good-bye. The rooms look melancholy to-night, so many things gone; piano of course and all books and small tables, screens, etc.—all the gros mobilier belongs to the Embassy. We sat some time talking, just we three: W., Henrietta, and I, after dinner. W. has just been named one of the Directeurs du Canal de Suez. I think he will find plenty of occupation when he gets back.

Paris, 31, Rue Dumont d'Urville,
April 16, 1893.

Here I am, Dear, back in my little salon, writing at my table in the corner by the window, and rather distracted by the quantities of carriages passing. There is so much more movement in the street than when we left ten years ago, and I have got accustomed to such a quiet bedroom and salon. All our living rooms (except the dining-room) at Albert Gate gave on the Park, so we never heard the rattle and noise of carriages over pavements, and as no cabs nor camions are allowed in the Park the passing never disturbed us. We came over very comfortably on Thursday. All our colleagues were at the station to see us off, and I think they are sorry to say good-bye. We found our voiture-salon filled with flowers. Sir George Arthur and S. came over with us. It was very cold and very rough. All the men disappeared at once, but Henrietta and I remained on deck and were quite happy, well wrapped up with rugs, and tarpaulins stretched in front of us to keep out the wet. Lecomte had arranged our lunch in the private room of the buffet at Calais (where W. and I always breakfasted when we came over) and it was comfortable to see a bright fire. I am ashamed to say that the ladies of the party eat a very good breakfast. The men looked rather white, and certainly were not good "fourchettes" at that meal. At Dover we had found Lord William Seymour in uniform, with his aide-de-camp, wife and daughter waiting for us. He took me on the boat, and to the cabin, where there were more flowers, and stayed until the last moment, giving the captain all manner of instructions for my comfort, and particularly to see that my cabin was warm, with plenty of rugs, etc. I never went near it. I think Adelaïde and Bonny had a very comfortable time there. Francis met us at the Gare du Nord, much pleased to have us back. We went to Henrietta's to dine. I was glad to come home directly after dinner and go to bed. Well, Dear, there is one chapter of my life closed—I wonder what the future reserves for us. I shall be uncomfortable for a few days until my van arrives. It left the same day we did, and the man said it would take a week to bring the things over, but I shall not expect them for ten days. I found quantities of cards and notes here, and Louise and Henrietta of course will give me dinner or anything else I want until I can get quite settled. Hubert got over only to-day. The sea was so rough he wouldn't cross on Thursday; he waited a day at Folkestone, and another at Boulogne, to rest the horses which had been knocked about. W. writes that the Embassy seems absolutely empty. Still he dines out every night (at the club when he hasn't an invitation) and will come over as soon as he can. The house looks so small after the big rooms at Albert Gate, and the stable and little cour minute. It sounded so familiar to hear the carriage coming in under the voûte, and also the street cries. I daresay in a few days I shall take up my ordinary Paris life, and London will seem a dream—like Moscow.

To G. K. S.

Bayreuth,
Saturday, July 31, 1897.^[12]

We arrived Thursday evening from Nuremberg in a pouring rain, which continued all day Friday, and detestable it was—streets crowded, everybody's umbrella running into one and catching in your veil (really twice in mine), mud everywhere, carriages scarce and dear. Our rooms are comfortable, Mary de Bunsen got them for us, a good-sized salon (with a piano), three bedrooms, and two maids' rooms. We have our early breakfast and supper, but dine out. Our experience at the Sonne was not very agreeable—a long, hot dining-room, quantities of hungry people and no servants to speak of. I was rather interested in my neighbour, a long, thin American, a Western man from Iowa I think, a school-master. He told me he had been saving for years to get money enough "to come across" (as he said) and hear "Parsifal." He had taught himself German in the evenings when his class was finished. The man was in such a quiver of delighted anticipation that it was a pleasure to see him. I told him I was sure he would not be disappointed, as Van Dyck was to sing "Parsifal." There were quite a number of priests at table, and one heard a little French, but the talk was principally German and English. We got up to the theatre easily enough, as carriages were going backward and forward all the time. The opera, "Parsifal," was beautifully given—Van Dyck as good as ever. I always think he stands so wonderfully in that scene where he has his back to the public and is absorbed by all he sees. He told me it was one of his most difficult parts. We had great difficulty in getting our coffee between the acts, and greater still in finding our carriage at the end. The crowd, and scramble, and mud were something awful.

Friday, August 6th.

We are leaving this afternoon, having had an enchanting week. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, the whole Ring beautifully given. All the music is racing through my brain, from the lovely wave chorus of the swimming Rhine maidens to the magnificent end of the "Götterdämmerung" with all the different motifs worked in. They played the funeral march of "Siegfried" splendidly. It is a curious life one leads here. In the morning everybody walks about the town—the streets are narrow and it is amusing to be hailed from windows over small shops, grocers', bakers', watchmakers', by friends who are lodging there. About 3 a sort of restless excitement is in the air and one sees a long procession mounting the hill to the Opera House, everyone absorbed by the one idea. There are quantities of people we know. I didn't go and see Mdme. Wagner this time, as Henrietta and Pauline don't know her. Her evenings, the off night, are very interesting. One sees all the distinguished people of any kind at her house, all the artists, critics, etc. Of course no one ventures to criticise the music—merely the execution.

Meingeningen, Biebrich,
Sunday, August 15, 1897.

I have been here two or three days and am glad to have some quiet hours in the garden after the fatigue and excitement of Bayreuth. Four Wagner operas in succession is a strain on one's brain (not that I wouldn't do it straight over again this week if I could, but one wants the rest between). The crowd at Bayreuth the day we started was something wonderful, as of course everyone leaves after their série—there is nothing to do or see in the town. At Nuremberg, too, the scramble to get something to eat was funny, as there were two courants, all of us leaving Bayreuth, and just as many more arriving to take our places. There is always a crowd at the Nuremberg station, though they have multiplied little buffets outside the regular salles d'attente with coffee, beer, sausages, etc. We were late all along the line, and again there was such a crowd at the big Frankfort station that I could not get my trunks in time to take the first train for Mosbach—however, I arrived finally and was pleased to see Heinrich's broad, good-humoured face, and we drove at once to the house, where Mary was waiting for me with supper. We talked a little, but even that took us on to 2 o'clock, as it was after midnight when I arrived.

We have seen various people, and made expeditions to Wiesbaden. We wrote to the Empress Frederick's lady-in-waiting the other day (Countess Perponcher, whom Mary knows very well) to say that I was here near Cronberg, and would be so pleased if the Empress would receive me. The answer has just come, asking me to lunch at Cronberg on Wednesday. I am delighted to go—first to see the Empress, and then to see the house, which is filled with beautiful things. The Empress has travelled so much, and been so much in Italy, and has bought all sorts of treasures.

Tuesday, August 17, 1897.

Last night we went to the opera at Wiesbaden. It was "Hansel and Gretel," beautifully given—the orchestra very good and the angel scene with all the angels coming down a sort of ladder and circling round the sleeping children quite exquisite. It was a funny contrast to the London and Paris Opera. Mary and I started off about 5.30 in ordinary summer dress—foulard and voile. We went to the great confectioner at Wiesbaden for our tea and cakes, and a little before 7 walked across to the Opera. There we took off our hats and jackets, hung them up on a little peg, found our seats without any trouble, and had a very pleasant evening. The entr'actes are much shorter than in France, so that we were out a little before 10. The drive home was lovely on a bright starlight summer night; about three-quarters of an hour. It was such an easy, independent way of going, without the complications of a man to go with us, servant to take our cloaks, etc. I often think I should like to live a little in Germany, there is so much that I like in the country, and life seems so easy, though I believe German women wouldn't say so. They all seemed weighed down with cares, and apparently all with very small incomes. I wonder if you have read Hauptmann's "Versunkene Glocke"; I am fascinated by it. It was a little difficult reading at first on account of the sort of patois, but it is a wonderful book, so weird and full of sentiment. I will finish my letter after our day at Cronberg.

Thursday, August 19, 1897.

We had a charming day; I am so glad we went. We started a little after ten for Frankfort, where we had a wait of 20 minutes. I wore my black voile and a little black and jet toque in which I put a white aigrette, and white gloves, so as not to be too black. The trajet is short from Frankfort to Cronberg, about an hour. We found two carriages (rather pretty victorias in wood natural colour and cushions the same colour—they looked very chic and country) and tall powdered footmen in the black and silver Imperial livery. There were two or three people in the second carriage whom I didn't recognise at first, but made out when we arrived. Val Prinsep, the artist, and his wife, a very pretty woman, and a German lady, also an artist I think. The Castle is not far from the station, and Cronberg (the town) is rather picturesque. The house is large—nothing particular in the way of architecture, but stands well in a fair-sized park. We were received in a fine hall, with pictures, carvings, and plenty of old furniture. Countess Perponcher and Baron Reischach received us. Count Seckendorff was not there, which I regretted, as I like him very much and should have been glad to see him again. Countess Perponcher took us to a small room on the ground floor where we left our parasols, wraps, etc., and then we went through one or two handsome rooms into a large salon where the company was already assembled. Lady Layard and her niece were staying in the house, also Prince Albert Solms (our old friend) with his wife. He is very ill, poor fellow, and can hardly get about. Some English friends arrived from Hombourg—Lady Cork, Lord Algy Lennox. About 1.30 the Empress came—always the same charming manner, and always her sad eyes. I thought she looked thinner and paler perhaps, but not ill. We went immediately to luncheon—the Empress first, alone, all of us following. Baron Reischach sat opposite to her, between me and Lady Cork. The talk was easy, the Empress talking a great deal. Val Prinsep too did his share, and Lady Cork is always clever and original. After luncheon we went back to the big drawing-room and looked at some of the beautiful things. Angeli's last portrait of the Empress had just come and had been placed (temporarily only) in a corner where the light was not very good. It is a fine picture—the Empress all in black with her splendid pearl necklace, seated on a sort of carved throne, or high-backed chair—all the shading dark, the only bit of colour the yellow ribbon of the Black Eagle. It is a striking picture and very like her, but so inexpressibly sad. She called each one of us in turn to come and sit by her. She spoke very warmly of W. to me, and asked me if I didn't regret my London life, and if I did not find it very difficult to settle down in France after having lived ten years in London, "the great centre of the world." It is curious how universal that feeling is with English people (and "au fond," notwithstanding all the years she has lived in Germany, the Empress is absolutely English still in her heart). They think that life in England—London—spoils one for everything else. I told her I didn't think I was to be pitied for living in Paris—after all, my boy was a Frenchman and all his interests were in France. She asked about Francis, how old he was, and couldn't believe that I was going back to fêter his 21 years, and thought it was fortunate for him that his early education had been in England.

The Empress Frederick, wearing the Order of the Black Eagle
The last portrait of the Empress by the artist Angeli

We talked a little about French literature—I think she reads everything—and she asked about Bayreuth, were there many French people there. I told her the Director of the Grand Opéra, among others, who wants to have the "Meistersinger" in France, but Mdme. Wagner is rather unwilling—the choruses, she thinks, are too difficult either to translate or to sing with the true spirit in any other language. The Empress said, "She is quite right; it is one of the most difficult of Wagner's operas, and essentially German in plot and structure. It scarcely bears translation in English and in French would be impossible; neither is the music, in my mind, at all suited to the French character. The mythical legend of the Cycle would appeal more to the French, I think, than the ordinary German life." I daresay she is right. When she congédied me I talked some little time to Prince Solms, Reischach, and others. Then it was getting time for us to go, as we had to take the 4.30 train back to Frankfort. I was standing by the window, from which there is a fine open view over plain and woods, when the Empress came up to say good-bye. She supposed I was going back to France, where I would find my boy. "You are very fortunate to have him still with you; it gives such an interest to your life." She kissed me, and then said sadly, "My task is done—I am quite alone." I watched her go out of the room, across the hall, and up the great staircase, with her long black dress trailing behind, alone—as she said. It must be an awful solitude for her—living there in her beautiful house, filled with art treasures of all kinds, and with friends near all summer at Hombourg, Wiesbaden, etc., who are only too happy to go to her—but her real life is over, and she is as far away from Germany and the throbbing pulse of the nation as if she were a cloistered nun.

The Val Prinseps came away with us, and we made a bout de chemin together until they branched off to Hombourg. He has quite the same idea of the Empress; says "elle se ronge," that she had always had such aspirations and wanted to do so much for the intellectual life of Germany. Mary and I got to Frankfort in good time, and home for dinner. We were glad to prowl about in the garden after dinner, when it was deliciously cool and the air heavy almost with the scent of roses, of which she has quantities. We saw the Rhine and the lights of Mayence in the distance. I suppose this place too I shall never see again, as I think Mary has made up her mind to sell Meingeningen. I think she will settle in Ireland if she can get the old Townshend place where she was one summer. It is ideal, close on the sea, with a splendid park rising up behind the Castle, but will be a great change for her.

To H. L. K.

South Pavilion, West Cowes,
August 9, 1900.

We are becoming accustomed, Dear, to the wind and rain and a general damp feeling. I don't think I have been really dry since we left Paris. I live in my serge dress and a waterproof. I should have been quite comfortable if I could have changed with the other one, but Bessie Talleyrand is disporting herself in it. When we arrived we found everyone in mourning for the Duke of Edinburgh, the first days not so marked, but since the Osborne has arrived with the Prince and Princess on board one sees nothing but black, and Bessie was much disgusted, having only blue. The steam launches and boats go all day between the yachts and the shore. Everyone, men and women, wears those remarkable yellow mackintoshes; you can't tell them apart, and the boats look as if they were loaded with great yellow "ballots." The two American yachts, Nahma, Mrs. Goelet, and Itwana, Mr. Armour, are splendid, enormous steamers and beautifully kept. Yesterday after lunch Bessie and I started in the wind and rain to drive over to Osborne and write ourselves down for the Queen. I am afraid I sha'n't see her, which will be a great disappointment to me; but the ladies here tell me she is much affected by the Duke of Edinburgh's death, and after all, the Prince has only just got back from his funeral. The drive through Cowes is not very interesting, through dirty, smelly little streets; but once over the ferry (which one crosses in a boat large enough to take the Queen's carriage with four horses) it is pretty enough, up a long hill with fine trees and a few places. We didn't see the Castle, as of course we were stopped at the gates, which were open, with a policeman standing just inside. The park looked fine, grass and flower beds beautifully kept. We wrote ourselves down and I left a card for the Duchess of Roxburghe, who is in waiting. We went for tea to the Club garden, and there I saw the Duchess of Roxburghe, who told me the Queen would certainly see me. We dined quietly at home, rather a fancy meal, but we prefer that to going out. There is a nice little dining-room, and Joseph waits. How he gets on down-stairs with the three maiden ladies who run the establishment I don't know. He doesn't speak or understand one word of English and has never been out of France before. He went nearly mad over that remarkable railway journey of ours across country from Eastbourne to Cowes, where we changed about 10 times (all the luggage naturally being transferred each time), lost all our connections everywhere and arrived at Cowes at 10.30 at night, having left Eastbourne at 2. He is much impressed with the uncleanliness of the house, and said to me just now, "Si Madame voyait les torchons sales dont on se sert pour essuyer les assiettes propres, Madame ne mangerait jamais à la maison."

East Cowes,
Sunday, August 12, 1900.

I had two notes this morning, one from Miss Knollys saying the Princess would receive me, and one from Madame d'Arcos saying the Empress Eugénie would like us to come to tea with her on the Thistle at 5. I had rather hesitated about writing myself down for the Empress. I had never seen her, and W. was in such violent opposition always to the Empire that I never saw any of the Imperial family; but Madame d'Arcos said Bessie and I were the only Frenchwomen at Cowes; we had been everywhere—on the Osborne, to the Queen, etc., and it was rude not to do the same thing for the Empress—au fond, I was rather glad to have the opportunity, as I had never seen her. We went to the club garden after church, as I wanted to find a friend who would lend me a steam launch to go out to the Osborne. Lord Llangattock offered his, and also said he would take us to the Thistle for tea, as they were going on board to say good-bye to the Empress (they leave to-night). I wore my black and white foulard and a big black hat with feathers (never a sailor hat), which could go, as the day was fine and the sea smooth. The Princess was not there when I arrived; she had gone to the service on the Victoria and Albert. Miss Knollys appeared and we sat some time talking on deck. I was leaning over the railing when the Royal launch arrived, and I was astounded, after all these years (7), at the appearance of the Princess. Just the same slight, youthful figure and light step. The Duke of York came forward first and talked a little. He was dressed in undress admiral's uniform and looked very well. Then the Princess came, quite unchanged. She was simply dressed, in mourning, and looked quite as she did the last time I saw her, when she was also in mourning (for Prince Eddie). She kissed me, seemed pleased to see me, and we sat on two straw chairs, under the awning on the deck, talking about all sorts of things. She said the Duke of Edinburgh's death was a great grief to them. They were very fond of him, and it was sudden; and spoke most sadly about the Empress Frederick, who seems to be dying, and of a cancer. It seems that she knows quite well what is the matter with her and what is before her, as she nursed her husband through his long malady. Isn't it awful? She spoke about Francis, recalling his first afternoon at Marlborough House, when he was quite small and wept bitterly when the negro minstrels appeared. I told her he was working for diplomacy, and she said she would be much pleased to see him when he came to London as attaché.

Entrance to the Club and Gardens, Cowes, Isle of Wight.
From a photograph by Broderick.

The Prince came and talked a little while, and also recalled the last time we met last summer on the quai at Nuremberg, both coming from Marienbad, and swallowing hastily a cup of very hot coffee. I thought he looked grave and preoccupied. He talked a little about Cowes. He said he never remembered such a bad week—awful weather and few yachts. He was very complimentary about the two big American yachts, Itwana and Nahma; said he had never seen the Nahma, which he regretted, but he didn't know Mrs. Goelet—did I? "Oh yes, very well, ever since she was a child, and her mother and father before." I was sure she would be very pleased to receive them. The Prince said they were in such deep mourning that they had been on no yacht, and he hoped there would be no party. I said Mrs. Goelet herself was in deep mourning. After some consultation with the Princess they said they would like to go on board to-morrow morning at 12 o'clock (they leave early Tuesday morning), and I promised to speak to Mrs. Goelet.

He was amused when I said I liked the "Japs" so much, as he rather invented them. They came to sing to him one summer when he was ill at Cowes and on his yacht all the time. There are four people, three women and a man (a Frenchman), all masked, the women in pretty Japanese dresses and the man in ordinary clothes. One woman accompanies at the piano by heart, and extremely well; the other two and the man sing and dance—dancing very moderate—a sort of "walk around," but the singing very good; all English except one or two little French songs the man sings alone. One of their favourite ditties, "Mary housemaid," always brings down the house. It is just the sort of thing that would have amused us in our young days when we used to play and sing by heart and invent steps. The women are very graceful—I don't know if they are pretty, as one never sees their faces—and the man extraordinary, very amusing and never vulgar.

I think I must have been a long time on the yacht, and nothing could be more gracious and sympathetic than the Princess. She told me the Queen would certainly receive me. I hadn't more than time to get back where Bessie and Borghese were very hungry waiting for luncheon, and to start again at 4; this time with Bessie and the Llangattocks for the Thistle. We were received by Madame d'Arcos, Mlle. Darauvilliers, and M. Rambaut. They told us the Empress had a cold and was very hoarse; had been forbidden by the doctor to come on deck, and also to talk, but that she would receive us in the cabin. We went down almost immediately, preceded by Madame d'Arcos, who said we must not stay long, as the Empress ought not to talk. She was standing in her cabin, still a handsome, stately figure, with beautiful brow and eyes, and charming manner, more animated than I had imagined. She was very well dressed in black. She made us sit down and talked herself a great deal, always about Paris, the Bassanos (speaking most warmly of the Duke), d'Albuféras, and various mutual friends. She knew Francis was to work for diplomacy, and said she could wish him nothing better than to walk in his father's footsteps. We were afraid we were tiring her, as she talked all the time. Twice the "dame d'honneur" appeared, but she waved her away. When she finally dismissed us she said "Je ne dirai pas adieu, mais au revoir"—regretted very much that she could not come on deck and have tea with us, but that we must certainly stay. We had a pleasant half hour talking with the others, and then there came a message from her begging that we would take her launch and cruise about in the harbour. I accepted gladly, as I wanted to communicate with the Nahma and didn't exactly know how to manage. The French ladies too wished to see the American yacht, so off we started in the Empress's launch. It seemed funny after all these years to be suddenly thrown with the Empress and her suite and careering about in her launch. Mrs. Goelet was not on board, but the steward took the visitors all over the yacht, and I discovered Mrs. Warren and told her that the Prince and Princess would like to go on board to-morrow—she said she was quite sure her daughter would be very happy to see them. I found a note from the Duchess of Roxburghe when I got home, saying that the Queen would receive me to-morrow at 4.30 at Osborne, so my day will be full, as I told Mrs. Goelet I would come to the Nahma to present her to the Prince and Princess.

To H. L. K.

East Pavilion, Cowes, Isle of Wight,
Monday, August 13, 1900.

Well, Dear, I am just back from Osborne. I have the salon all to myself, Bessie and Borghese are out, and I will write you all about my audience while it is fresh in my memory, but I must begin at the beginning and tell you about the Royal visit to the Nahma, which went off very well. A little before twelve Mr. Warren, Mrs. Goelet's brother, came for us and we went off at once to the yacht. The Royal party arrived very punctually, Prince and Princess, Duke and Duchess of York, Princess Victoria, and various gentlemen. They were all delighted with the yacht, particularly the Duke of York, who saw everything. He called an officer of the Osborne to see some arrangement of signals which it seems is wonderful, and said they had nothing so perfect in the Royal Yacht. Mrs. Goelet did the honours very well and simply, receiving the Princes at the gangway, with her son and daughter on each side of her, a pretty, graceful figure in her plain black dress. I remained on board to lunch after the Princes departed, and they sent me ashore at 2.30 as I had just time to dress and go to Osborne.

I started again a little before 4, wearing my black taffetas trimmed with lace and a tulle bonnet and white aigrette (quite costume de ville—I could not go to the Queen in a serge skirt and big hat). I took Joseph with me in plain black livery. We arrived quite in time, as there was no delay at the ferry this time, and the large gates were open, the man making a sign to us to drive in. There were two or three policemen standing near the gate and in the park. The park is pretty—not very large but beautifully green, and as we got near the house, quantities of flowers—a mass of colour. The house is not handsome—rather imposing, a large grey stone house with two wings, and flower-beds close up to the windows. Three or four footmen in plain black livery were waiting in the hall, and they took me at once upstairs to the ladies' drawing-room—a nice room at the side of the house not looking out to sea. The Duchess of Roxburghe was waiting for me, and we talked about fifteen minutes. Then came a Highland servant saying, "Her Majesty was ready to receive Lady Waddington." The Duchess and I went downstairs, walked through various galleries, and stopped at a door where there was no servant. The Duchess knocked, the Queen's voice said, "Come in," and I found myself in a beautiful large salon, all the windows opening on the sea. The Queen, dressed as usual in black, was seated in the middle of the room facing the door. I had barely time to make one curtsey—she put out her hand and made me sit down next to her. She spoke to me first in French (just as she always did when I was at the Embassy—to mark, I suppose, that I was the French Ambassadress), "Je suis très heureuse de vous revoir—I think we can speak English—how much has happened since we met"; and then we talked about all sorts of things. I thought she looked extremely well—of course I couldn't tell if her sight was gone, as she knew I was coming and I sat close to her. Her eyes were blue and clear, and her memory and conversation quite the same. She thanked me for my letter; said the Duke of Edinburgh's death was a great blow to her. It was so sudden, she had not thought him ill. She had lost three children all very dear to her, and it was hard at her age to see her children go before her. She spoke at once (so moderately) of the caricatures and various little incidents that had occurred in France. I said I was very glad to have an opportunity of telling her that everybody in France (except for a few hot-headed radicals and anti-English) was most indignant at such gratuitous insults not only to the Queen but to a woman. She said she quite understood that—that wherever she had been in France everybody had done what they could to make her stay happy and comfortable; that she never could forget it, and hoped the French nation felt that—also that she would never dream of holding the country responsible for the radical press, but "my children and my people feel it very deeply." We talked about the King of Italy's murder (she was much pleased with the expression in one of the Italian papers "è morto in piedi") and she expressed great sympathy for Queen Margherita—"She is fond of Italy and is always thinking and planning what she can do for the people." We also talked about the Shah and the attentat in Paris. I said that left me rather indifferent, but she answered instantly, "You are quite wrong—it is the principle, not the person, that is attacked in those cases." I then remarked that it was a great pity, I thought, that one of those gentlemen (anarchists, not sovereigns) shouldn't be lynched; that I believed the one thing they were afraid of was the justice of the people. She said, "That is not a very Christian sentiment"; but I think she didn't altogether disagree with me. She asked me about Francis—was he working for diplomacy; and then, I don't know exactly how, we began talking about mixed marriages. She said she didn't think religion ought to be an invincible obstacle. I said I thought with her, but that French Protestants were very strict. I told her it had been said that my husband, who was certainly a very large-minded man in most things, was really narrow about Catholics. She said, with such a charming smile, "Oh, I can't think M. Waddington was ever narrow about anything, I always thought him one of the most large-minded, just men I ever knew." I must say I was pleased, and W. always felt that for some reason or another he was sympathetic to her. We talked a little about the Empress Frederick; she said the last news was better, but she evidently didn't want to pursue the subject. We talked on some little time, and when she finally dismissed me, she said, "I hope you will come back to England, and whenever you do I shall be very glad to see you." She shook hands—I backed myself to the door, opened it, and there found the Highland servant, who took me back to the drawing-room where the Duchess of Roxburghe was waiting. She suggested that we should go for a turn in the garden, and when she went to get her hat I looked about the room, which is quite plainly furnished—a grand piano, comfortable furniture, not pretty, and no particular style.

We walked about the gardens a little, which are pretty, such quantities of flowers, and had tea under the trees. Two of the ladies came out—Mrs. Grant and Miss Harbord. They were very anxious to know if I found the Queen changed after seven years, but I really can't say I did. My impression is that they find her older. They say she felt the Duke of Edinburgh's death very much, and that she is very worried about the Empress Frederick, though she doesn't talk much about her. It was lovely sitting under the trees, so cool and quiet after the noise and glare of Cowes. All the people bowed as we drove home through Cowes. I think they took Joseph in his black livery for one of the Queen's servants.

I must tell you that Joseph and Élise are also moving in high society. Joseph came with a most smiling face to me Saturday night to say that one of his friends was chef on the Empress's yacht (the Thistle) and had invited them to breakfast on Sunday on the yacht. I said they could go, and when Bessie and I were going to church we saw them start—he in the regulation Cowes blue serge costume (not the short, very short, Eton jacket which is the dress attire of the Club men) and yellow shoes, and she in my old purple foulard, with a very nice little toque. A very smart little boat was waiting for them.

Now, my Dear, I must stop, as I am exhausted, and a perfect Mrs. Jellyby, papers flying all over the place, as I am writing at the open window, and ink all over me, fingers, hair, etc. I can't say, as Madame de Sévigné did, "ma plume vole," for mine stops and scratches, and makes holes in the paper, and does everything it can to make my writing difficult. I wonder why I hate it so—I do—as soon as I sit down to my writing-table I want to go out or play on the piano, or even crochet little petticoats—anything rather than write. I suppose I shall never see the Queen again—at her age it isn't very likely, especially if I wait another seven years without coming over. I am glad she received me, it was a great pleasure.

Note.

Paris, 29, Rue Auguste Vacquerie,
Dimanche, 29 Decembre, 1901.

Of course I never saw the Queen again. She began to fail that same autumn (1900) after her return home from Balmoral, and died at Osborne the 22d of January, 1901—a beautiful death, painless, sleeping away and all her children and grandchildren with her. It isn't only the Queen who has disappeared—it is the century. England will enter on a new phase—but it must be different from the chapter that has just closed.