“Do you think I was going to stand her putting the thermometer in the bath-water to see how hot it was?” she asked me indignantly, referring to the absent Ober-Gouvernante; and I agreed that it was the kind of thing that no one could be expected to bear.
She was a good faithful soul, rather crabbed and cross sometimes, and she inspired in the German footmen and housemaids under her orders a good deal of respect and fear, and also, as I subsequently discovered, a certain amount of affection, such as sterling qualities will always earn for themselves somehow; and if the German associations modified nothing in her character, the same cannot be said of her speech, which, while still remaining British in outward form, became in the course of years somewhat warped from its original purity.
“At Christmas,” she told me once, when showing the gifts that the Empress had made to her, “last year I became a set of teaspoons, and the year before I became a lovely silver teapot.” She had obviously confused the German word bekommen, “to get,” with the similar-sounding but different-meaning English word.
It was at a picnic that I was first presented to His Majesty the Emperor. We had all driven one afternoon in a series of carriages to a beautiful spot in the surrounding hills, where, a little way into the forest which bordered the roadside, a table on trestles was laid for tea. I had already been warned by the Princess of the impending joy.
“You’ll see Papa now, and be introduced,” she said before we started, her face glowing in sympathy with what she supposed I must be feeling. “Won’t it be lovely?”
His Majesty and the gentlemen with whom he is talking volubly when I first catch sight of him are all in uniform, which gleams brightly under the deep green of the pine trees. The German officer, it is well known, wears uniform continually, and adds greatly thereby to the colour and gaiety of the social functions in which he takes part. The Emperor sets an example also in this respect, and on the very few occasions when he appears in mufti loses a great deal of his imposing appearance. Civil dress has with him something of the baffling nature of a disguise, and the ordinary easy lounge tweed suit, which many Englishmen wear with advantage, is distinctly unflattering to him, although he looks well in a frock-coat and silk hat. But he never appears quite himself, never really fits into any but military or naval garments.
“When His Majesty has finished talking you will be introduced,” said one of the ladies-in-waiting. “The Empress will present you, so do not go far away.”
So I stand waiting under the trees, watching the footmen while they place camp-stools and arrange cakes and teacups, and hearing gusts of the Emperor’s conversation, which, being carried on in German, is quite unintelligible to me, though there is one word “Kolossal” which keeps emerging frequently from the rumble of talk.
Presently the group of uniforms breaks up. His Majesty turns towards the Empress, somebody signs to me, and I step out of the shadows and come forward. “Papa’s” keen blue eyes look at me with that characteristically penetrating, alert, rather quizzical brightness which I afterwards learn to know so well. They seem almost too violent a contrast with the deep sunburn of his face. My hand is enveloped in a hearty, almost painful handshake, and I am confronted with a few short, sharp questions.
“From what part of England do I come? Have I ever been in Germany before? What do I think of Homburg? Do I speak German?”