But my present business is to tell you exclusively of the Queen’s interview, for which great object I have only a few minutes. Swift then, if my poor hand but would! “Interview” took place this day gone a week. Nearly a week before that the Dean and Deaness (who is called Lady Augusta Stanley, once Bruce, an active, hard and busy woman) drove up here and, in a solemnly mysterious, half-quizzical manner, invited me for Thursday, 4th, at 5 P. M.—“must come; a very high, indeed highest personage has long been desirous,” &c., &c. I saw well enough it was the Queen’s incognita, and briefly agreed to come. “Half-past four, come you,” and then went their ways.
Walking up at the set time, I was ushered into that long drawing-room in their monastic edifice. I found no Stanley yet there; only at the further end a tall old year-pole (?) of a Mrs. Grote, the most wooden-headed woman I know in London, or the world, who thinks herself very clever, &c., and the sight of whom led me to expect Mr. too, and perhaps others, as accordingly in a few minutes fell out. Grote and wife, Sir Charles Lyell and ditto, Browning and myself: that I saw to be our party. “Better than nothing,” thought I, “these will take off the edge of the thing, if edge there be”—which it hadn’t, nor threatened to have.
The Stanleys and we were all in a flow of talk, and some flunkys had done setting coffee-pots and tea-cups of a sublime pattern, when Her Majesty, punctual to the minute, glided in, escorted by her dame-in-waiting (a Duchess Dowager of Athol), and by the Princess Louise, decidedly a very pretty young lady, and clever too, as I found out in talking to her afterwards. The Queen came softly forward, a kindly little smile on her face, gently shook hands with all the three women, gently acknowledged with a nod the silent bows of us male monsters; and directly in her presence every one was at ease again. She is a comely little lady, with a pair of kind, clear, and intelligent gray eyes; still looks almost young (in spite of one broad wrinkle which shows on each cheek occasionally); is still plump; has a fine, low voice, soft; indeed, her whole manner is melodiously perfect. It is impossible to imagine a politer little woman; nothing the least imperious; all gentle, all sincere, looking unembarrassing,—rather attractive even; makes you feel, too (if you have any sense in you), that she is Queen.
After a little word to each of us—to me it was, “Sorry you did not see my daughter” (Princess of Prussia), or “all sorry,” perhaps so; which led us to Potsdam, Berlin, &c., for an instant or two. To Sir Charles Lyell I heard her say, “Gold in Sutherland”—but quickly and delicately cut him short in responding. To Browning, “Are you writing anything?” (who has just been publishing the absurdest things!) To Grote I did not hear what she said, but it was touch-and-go with everybody—Majesty visibly without interest, or nearly so, of her own.
After this, coffee (very black and muddy) was handed round, Queen and three women taking seats, Queen in the corner of a sofa, Lady Deaness in opposite corner, Mrs. Grote in a chair intrusively close to Majesty; Lady Lyell modestly at the diagonal corner; we others obliged to stand and hover within call.
Coffee fairly done, Lady Augusta called me gently to come and speak to Her Majesty. I obeyed, first asking, as an old, infirmish man, Her Majesty’s permission to sit, which was graciously conceded. Nothing of the least significance was said, nor needed; however, my bit of dialogue went very well. “What part of Scotland I came from?” “Dumfries (where Majesty might as well go sometimes). Carlisle, Caer Lewel, a place of about the antiquity of King Solomon (according to Milton),” whereat Majesty smiled. Border Ballads and old James Pool slightly alluded to, not by name. Glasgow, and grandfather’s ride thither, ending in more psalms, and streets vacant at 9½ P. M.—hard, sound Presbyterian root of what has now shot up to such a monstrously ugly cabbage-tree and hemlock-tree! all which Majesty seemed to take rather well: whereupon Mrs. Grote rose good-naturedly and brought forward her husband cheek by jowl with Majesty, who evidently did not care a straw for him, but kindly asked—“Writing anything?” and one heard “Aristotle, now that I have done with Plato” (but only for a minimum of time). Majesty herself (and I think apropos of some question about my shaky hand) said something about her own difficulty in writing to dictation, which brought forward Lady Lyell and husband, mutually used to the operation; after which, talk becoming quite trivial, Majesty gracefully retired with Lady Augusta, and, in ten minutes more, returned, to receive our farewell bows, which, too, she did very prettily, and sailed out as if moving on skates, and bending her head to us with a smile.
By the underground railway I was home before seven, and out of the adventure, with only a headache of little moment.
Froude tells me there are foolish myths about the poor business, especially about my share of it; but this is the real truth, worth to me in strictest truth all but nothing, in the myths less than nothing.
Tell the Dr. I intended writing him, but it is already (horrible to think!) a quarter-past four.
Adieu, dear Sister,
Yours ever, T. C.