Presently from under the archway, interposing his bulk between me and the glancing sunlight, comes walking slowly a gentleman of stately mien, garbed in black frock-coat and tall silk hat. He wears the aspect of an Ambassador, and may be one for all I know or care. I fling myself into the orbit of his path, assembling together with beating heart the few fragmentary bits of German that remain with me after the varied emotions of the day. I murmur something inarticulate and wave my hand explanatorily in the direction of the supine droschky-driver, who, surrounded by my luggage, still continues to crouch in obvious somnolence on his box.
The black-coated functionary may not be a diplomat—I subsequently find that he is a Hoffourrier, one of those pleasant minor court-officials who regulate royal journeys and the small financial housekeeping arrangements of royal households—but he has the art of seizing a situation at a glance. His eye wanders whimsically over the luggage, the slumberous droschky-driver and his horse. It strikes him, no doubt, as a humorous situation. So it would appear to me under different circumstances. He answers in polite but unintelligible German, wakens the driver, directs him to a door in a corner, and rings a bell; a rush of gaitered footmen follows; something kaleidoscopic and swift takes place; I find myself following a servant down a long, cool, bare passage decorated with old German prints—up a tiny winding staircase into a pleasant, shady room looking out over the red roofs of Homburg away towards great purple hills against a background of pale lemon-coloured sky.
The quiet, calm beauty of the outlook as seen from this high-pitched gabled corner of the quaint old Schloss falls soothingly on my tired, travel-worn soul. I sink into a funny old-fashioned chair covered with a blue spotted chintz which has been out of fashion for at least a hundred and twenty years, and contemplate the fat, plethoric, square sofa and the rest of the furniture, which is delightfully old—so old that its ugliness has mellowed into something charming and alluring. There is a big mirror fixed over a marble-topped mahogany chest of drawers in which I catch a glimpse of my haggard face; there are various mahogany chairs covered with the before-mentioned blue-spotted print; there is a carpet of vivid moss-green. All is very plain and comfortable and old-world, and spotlessly clean and fresh. Flowers are on the writing-table which stands in the embrasure of the window.
Soon a pleasant chinking of china is heard outside, and a man in a flowing Russian beard parted in the middle brings in a tray with tea. He bows politely as he enters the room, the bow without which no well-trained German servant comes into the presence of those whom he serves, and deftly arranges the tea-table. He is clad in plain dark livery, such as is worn by all the Diener-schaft in the royal employment who are below the rank of footmen.
The sight of the teapot and the taste of the tea set at rest the doubts I have had whether this cheerful beverage would be one of the luxuries I should have to renounce permanently on leaving England.
“German people all drink coffee, and if they do make tea it’s like coloured water,” I had been assured many times over. That this is true still of the great mass of the people my experience in many parts of Germany has proved; but the Court buys its very excellent tea direct from a big London warehouse and brews it with due respect to its peculiar needs.
A small bedroom, in which my luggage has been deposited, leads out of the little sitting-room. It contains also the same quaint old-world furniture, together with a short, squat, solid-looking mahogany bedstead with deep wooden sides, covered with one of those big bags filled with down which take the place of an eiderdown quilt and are so typically German. One sees them hanging out of the windows for an airing every morning—at hours, it is needless to say, permitted by the police.
I wash away the dust of the journey, change and begin to unpack, wondering if my clothes are right, if I ought to have had longer or shorter trains on my dresses, and wishing somebody would come along and explain to me any points that might guide my inexperienced steps.
The departing English teacher whose place I am taking has written to me a letter purporting to give advice as to wardrobe and etiquette, but she has recently become “engaged,” and except an impression that white kid gloves are a chief necessity of life at court, there is little of practical use to be gathered from the vague kindliness of her short note. She writes that there is practically no etiquette except such as can be “seen at a glance,” and leaves it at that.
A knock comes at the door; a voice, a pleasant, cheerful woman’s voice, calls my name; and with both hands outstretched in welcome enters a tall, middle-aged, smiling person, who introduces herself as the lady-in-waiting with whom I have been corresponding. She radiates kindness and sympathy, is gaiety and charm personified, knows exactly how I am feeling—how excited, dubious, tired, and worried—and she laughs it all away while she stands clasping my hand and shaking it at intervals. She is much amused at the description of my entry into the Schloss, and explains that a carriage and luggage-cart had been sent to meet me with one of the Empress’s own English-speaking footmen, so that everything might be as easy as possible; but there had been a mistake as to the time—probably on my part—and as the train was very punctual I had been there too soon.