This phase of “Papa’s” character is forcibly, almost painfully, brought home to me when one day his daughter, in a moment of relaxation, seeks to amuse herself by practising the schoolboy trick—she is very schoolboyish—of making with her mouth and cheek the “pop” of a champagne cork and the subsequent gurgle of the flowing wine.
“Whoever taught you these unladylike accomplishments?” I ask, in the reproving tones appropriate to an instructor of youth.
“S-s-sh! It was Papa,” she answers gleefully, repeating the offending sound with an even more perfect imitation than before; “he can do it splendidly,” and she “gurgled” with persevering industry.
It is obvious that in the intervals of inspecting regiments and making warlike speeches “Papa” unbends to a considerable extent when in the bosom of his family. But I learn with some regret that “poor Mamma” seldom has time to get a really proper breakfast, because after she has poured out “Papa’s” coffee, buttered his toast and ministered to his other wants she has only time to snatch the merest mouthful for herself before he is hurrying away to call the dogs and put on his cloak for a brisk early morning walk.
“Come on, come on,” he says, with cheerful impatience; “how you do dawdle over your food, to be sure! I’ve finished long ago,” and the whole family has to leave its meal half eaten and start on an hour’s tramp through the streets of the town or to the beautiful hills outside. It is clear that “Papa” is the dominating force of his daughter’s life. His ideas, his opinions on men and things are persistently quoted by her; trenchant, fluent criticisms on persons of world-wide fame, astonishing verdicts on men of the hour, issue from her lips in bewildering confidences.
“Papa says that Herr Muller” (the name of course is not Muller) “is a Schafs-Kopf and doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” she would say glibly of some well-known politician on whose utterances the world was hanging with bated breath.
These communications are sometimes almost disconcerting. They add a burden to life, a fear lest one may betray some great political secret from sheer inadvertence. It is a relief when the Princess turns her confidences into less embarrassing channels.
The chief pets of her existence at this time are two ponies, which, together with a small victoria upholstered in pale blue satin, have been presented to her by the then reigning Sultan of Turkey, who was afterwards deposed. These two little creatures, named Ali and Aladdin, are of a pale fawn-colour, with long white silky manes and tails, and when drawing the small blue-lined victoria, which has a diminutive groom perched on a small seat behind, make an extremely exotic circus-like effect on the country roads round Homburg. The Princess always drives herself, and delights in flourishing a rather large whip, which it is necessary frequently to apply to the ponies’ fat sides, for they are of a somewhat sluggish disposition; but their appearance outside the Schloss gates is hailed with delight by the crowds who stand waiting there waving their hats and handkerchiefs on all sides.
Cronberg, the residence of the late Empress Frederick, now in the possession of her daughter the Princess Frederick Charles of Hesse, is within driving distance of Homburg. At this time the children of another sister of the Emperor are staying there—the Greek princes and princesses, whose father was then Crown Prince and is now King of Greece. As the Princess of Hesse is herself the mother of six sons, two pairs of twins among them, there is no lack of playfellows for the Princess and Prince Joachim, who frequently exchange visits with their young cousins. Cronberg is a beautiful house built in old German style, quite different from the peculiar Greco-French character of most palaces in Germany.
It is pleasant to watch the cataract of white-clad children rushing in and out of the doorways, displaying that universal characteristic of their age—a desire to penetrate to unusual places, such as kitchens, cellars and attics. They have glorious games on rainy afternoons in the upper regions of the old Homburg Schloss, in whose cobwebby, dusty rooms, among old forgotten lumber, are to be found many curiously interesting things—old portraits of dead and gone Landgrafs and Landgravines, pictures of the children of the old house, attired in the cumbersome finery which in past days hampered unfortunate infancy, pieces of queer armour, ancient blunderbusses and rapiers, old moth-eaten furniture with the silk worn into rags.