I wonder if the servants who never saw him break through his routine, or lose one jot of his dignity, ever guessed at how shy he was of them, or suspected the rather wistful curiosity he felt about their lives. I think it was Pierre, the butler, who lived with his family in the entresol between the two floors of reception rooms in the Embassy. Lord Lyons was much interested in their family life, and liked to speculate as to what went on there. One inconvenient result of his extreme shyness was that when he really wished to alter any detail as to the daily routine, he could not bring himself to impart his wishes to any of the servants. I have often heard him say how tired he was of the same breakfast which never varied in the least, and he would add that his Italian valet Giuseppe was so convinced that it was the only breakfast he liked that when he travelled, the man took incredible pains that the coffee, the eggs, the rolls, the marmalade, the two tangerine oranges in winter and the tiny basket of strawberries in summer, should not differ an iota from those served up every morning at the Embassy. But Lord Lyons could never summon up courage to speak to him on the subject. On certain days Pierre undertook Giuseppe's duties, and for many years Lord Lyons wished that Pierre would arrange his things as they were arranged by Giuseppe, but he never told him so. While he grumbled, he was amused at the situation and at himself. Indeed, his keen sense of the ridiculous and his endless enjoyment of nonsense explain a good deal of his life. He used to say that as he was too shy to look at the servants' faces, he had learnt to know them by their silk stockinged calves. When he dined alone he made an amusement of identifying the six or seven pairs of calves, and was proud of his success in this odd game of skill.
I recall one ludicrous instance of his shyness with servants. It was his custom annually when he came to stay with us to shake hands with the old family nurse, and on one occasion, meeting her on the stairs, he leant across the banisters to perform the ceremony with such empressement and effort that he broke one of the supports. He always afterwards alluded to the extraordinary emotion he had shown in this greeting. Nothing is so unaccountable as shyness, but it was curious that a man who had seen so much of public life and of society should have so much of it as he had. I remember once helping him to escape with, for him, astonishing speed across the garden of a country house, when a very agreeable woman, whom I believe he really liked, had come to call; he was as full of glee as if he were a boy running away from a school-master.
The British Embassy, Paris.
F. Contet, Paris. Phot.
I don't think that in Paris he ever gave way to such impulses; they were the relaxation of a shy nature in the holidays.
To return for one moment to Paris. He occasionally gave a big official dinner which I don't think he at all enjoyed, and of which we knew nothing. But he certainly enjoyed small gatherings, especially if they included old friends who were passing through Paris, although not one word of ordinary sentiment would probably pass his lips, nor would one of the day's arrangements be changed. He certainly enjoyed the society of his women friends, and I liked to watch him talking to Mrs. Augustus Craven, the author of the Récit d'une Sœur. Two characteristic sayings of his about the Cravens I remember. He was always pleased at showing his knowledge of the most orthodox and strict views of Roman affairs. He used to say that Mrs. Craven could never make amends for her conduct at the time of the Vatican Council—when her salon was a centre for 'inopportunist' Bishops—unless she went back to Rome and gave 'Infallibilist tea-parties.'
Mr. Augustus Craven, her husband, was intensely mysterious in manner, and Lord Lyons used to call him 'the General of the Jesuits.' Once, on meeting him in London, he asked him if his wife were with him. Mrs. Craven was staying with Lady Cowper, and Mr. Craven answered with solemn, slow and mysterious tones: 'She is at Wrest,' and my uncle said 'Requiescat in Pace,' with equal solemnity.
I think that with all his natural British prejudices he liked French people and their ways. He used to maintain that Frenchwomen were more domestic and kept earlier hours than Englishwomen. He certainly liked French cooking. He spoke once in tones of horror of an Englishman who had committed the monstrosity of putting pepper on young green peas—a crime of which a Frenchman was incapable.