Again some years passed. The accounts of the old Emperor’s health showed that his end was drawing near, but at the same time began the disquieting rumors about the Crown Prince’s health. The Prince sent for me shortly after his arrival in London, where he had come for the Queen’s Jubilee, 1887. He looked as grand as ever, and in his eyes there was the same light and life and love, but his voice had become almost a whisper. Nevertheless, he spoke hopefully, almost confidently, and went through all the festivities like a hero. Who will ever forget him on horseback in the white uniform of the Prussian Cuirassiers, in the midst of the sons and sons-in-law of the Queen? I saw him once more at Windsor, the day before he left for Germany. In the evening, after dinner, he walked up to me and spoke to me for a long time. His voice had regained its timbre, and I felt convinced like himself that the downward course of his malady was over, and that the uphill work was now to begin.
After he had spoken to me for nearly half an hour, one of his aides-de-camp came up to him, and said: “Not another word, your Royal Highness.” He shook my hand: I looked up to him full of hope; it was for the last time. He himself, I believe, retained his hopefulness to the very end. The Greeks said: “Those whom the gods love die young.” When the Prince Consort died, and when the Emperor Frederick died, one felt inclined to say: “Those whom all men love die young.” Five reigns have thus passed before my eyes, those of Frederick William III., 17971840; Frederick William IV., 1840–1861; Wilhelm I., 1861–1888; Frederick III., 1888; Wilhelm II., 1888; and if there is one lesson which their history teaches us, and which everybody should take to heart, it is that the wonderful work which they have achieved is due to the hard work, the determined purpose, and the persevering industry of these sovereigns. I did not know much of the personal work of Frederick William III., but, beginning with Frederick William IV. to the present Emperor, I have had occasional glimpses of their private life, enough to show that none of these men looked upon his place in life as a sinecure. In no case was their throne an easy chair. Their bed was in very truth a bed of iron, not a bed of roses. These sovereigns have been at work day and night; they have shared not only in the triumphs, but in the privations and sufferings of their army. I shall never forget, when I was at Ems in 1871, passing the house where the old Emperor resided; and there in the first storey, behind a green curtain, one could clearly see him standing at his desk, with a lamp by his side, reading and signing despatches, while everybody else enjoyed the cool air of the evening, nay, long after most people had gone to bed. The Emperor Frederick, before he was Emperor, was unhappy about one thing only, that he had not work enough to do, and if there is a sovereign indefatigable in the service of his country it is surely the present King of Prussia, the German Emperor. I must say no more, for I have made it a rule in these Recollections not to say anything about living persons, least of all royalties. Besides, through all my life I have tried to follow the rule that Ruskin lays down for himself: “In every person who comes near you look for what is good and strong; honour that; rejoice in it, and, as you can, try to imitate it.”
Though I did not see much of Prince Albert—I am thinking of the time when he was still called Prince Albert, and not yet the Prince Consort—I heard much about him, partly from Bunsen, who admired him greatly, partly through one of his private secretaries, my old friend Dr. Karl Meyer.[[16]] By this time the world knows not only the nobility of the Prince’s character, but the strength of his intellect, his unceasing industry, and his loyal devotion to his queen and country. But there was a time when those who knew him felt indignant, nay, furious, at the treatment which he received in England. It would be well if that page could be torn out of the history of England, and as she who suffered most has long forgiven, if not forgotten, who has a right to renovare dolores? Apart from all personal considerations, it seemed a most extraordinary hallucination to imagine that he who was the consort of the Queen should exercise no influence on his wife. Human nature after all is superior even to the English constitution. One can imagine a political philosopher indulging in so Utopian a theory as a marriage without influence, but that practical men, men of the world, men of common sense, should have imagined such a possibility—that English statesmen should have imagined that a wife, because she was a Queen, would never be influenced by her husband, will hardly sound credible to future historians. I remember only one analogous case. When Lord John Russell was proposed as Secretary for Foreign Affairs, several members of the Cabinet objected, fearing Lady Russell’s influence, and pointing out the danger of Cabinet secrets oozing out through her indiscretion. Lord Palmerston listened for a long time, and then turned to his colleagues and said: “Well, I see one remedy only—one of us must always sleep with them.” When he saw blank consternation on the faces of his colleagues, “Well, well,” he said, “we shall take it by turns.” At a time when it was fully believed that Prince Albert had been taken to the Tower for high treason, no wonder that even a young German student who spent his days in the Bodleian Library should have been attacked as a spy. It was a passing madness, and the wonder is that it passed without more serious consequences.
Prince Albert took a most lively interest in a scheme which I had strongly advocated in The Times and elsewhere, namely, that there should be a school of Oriental languages in England, as in every other country that has political and commercial relations with the East. I pointed out that for years France had maintained its École des Langues Orientales vivantes; that Austria had its Oriental School for the diplomatic service and for the education of official interpreters; that, long before the Afghan disaster, there was a professor teaching the Afghan language in the University of St. Petersburg (and, I may add now, that Prussia has a flourishing Oriental seminary in which even African languages are taught by professors and native teachers); but no one would listen to me except Prince Albert. The different offices, Foreign Office, Horse Guards, Colonial Office, etc., declared that interpreters could always be had, and that the best way to secure their fidelity was to pay them well. That others might pay them better seemed never to have entered their minds. Prince Albert saw clearly the disadvantage under which England was labouring, nay, the danger that threatened her trade and her general influence in the East. He spoke to Lord Granville, and Lord Granville wrote to me to make further proposals. This I did; but beyond that I decided I would not go, for such was the feeling at that time, that the name of Prince Albert and my own, as that of a German scholar, would have been sufficient to wreck the whole scheme. I remember writing at the time to Prince Albert that we must wait till “Her Majesty, Public Opinion, became more favourable.” In the meantime, to speak of commercial interests only, how much has England lost by her unwillingness to incur an expense which other countries have readily incurred, which the people of England have a right to demand, and which would not have amounted to anything like the cost of a single man-of-war! The Prince of Wales took the same warm interest in the foundation of an Oriental school in London, as may be seen from the speech he delivered at the Royal Institution in 1890, when the scheme of a school of Oriental languages was taken up by the Imperial Institute, but even his persuasive eloquence has hitherto proved ineffectual to realise a wish that was so near his father’s heart, and of such enormous importance to English interests in the East.
As I think it right to abstain from recording my recollections of royal persons still alive, I must say nothing of the stay of the young Prince of Wales at Oxford; but, among the many things which I treasure in my memory, I may at least produce one small treasure, a sixpence, which I won from His Royal Highness at whist. I have always been a very bad whist player, but good luck would have it that I won a sixpence at Frewen Hall, the Prince’s residence at Oxford. The Prince maintained that I had calculated my points wrongly, but not being a courtier, I held my own, and actually appealed to General Bruce. When he decided in my favour, the Prince graciously handed me my sixpence, which I have kept ever since among my treasures. I may speak more fully of Prince Leopold, the late Duke of Albany, a deeply interesting character of whom much was expected, and in whom much has been lost. He was often a great sufferer while at Oxford, but when he was well, no one was so well as he was, no one looked more brilliant or more vigorous. His little dinner parties were charming. His tutor, Mr. (now Sir) R. Collins, knew how to collect his guests, and the Prince was the most excellent host. Whenever I had some distinguished man staying with me, a note was sure to come from the Prince, asking whether he might invite Emerson or Froude, or whoever it might be, and I well remember his adding: “You may tell Mr. Froude that I have read the whole of his ‘History.’” And so he had. Being often confined to his bed he had read a great deal, and was read to by his devoted tutor, Sir R. Collins. How many fond hopes centred in that life, and how anxious many of the best men that Oxford has produced were to inspire him with a love each of his own subject. Sanskrit, I soon perceived, had no chance. But for a time astronomy was in the ascendant, then history, then art. But there was always the danger to be guarded against of the young student becoming too much absorbed in any one subject, and losing that general sympathy with learning and art which is so desirable in a Prince. The Prince had a quick eye for small weaknesses, but his kindness was likewise extreme. I so well remember sitting by him at dinner, and enjoying the most exquisite real Johannisberger from the royal cellar. Prince Metternich used to send every year some of the best of his crue to the royalties represented at the Congress of Vienna, having received Johannisberg from that Congress. Prince Leopold knew how to appreciate the wines sent him from the royal cellar. “They like port better at Oxford,” he said to me, “but we shall keep to the Rheinwein.” It was really a quite exceptional wine, the aroma of it being perceptible even at the dinner-table. I quoted some of my father’s drinking songs, “Das Essen, nicht das Trinken, bracht’ uns um’s Paradies,” etc. Many delightful evenings were thus spent in the Prince’s drawing-room. I often played à quatre mains with him, fearing only to touch and hurt his fingers, which was always most painful to him. But to return to the Johannisberger. Long after the Prince had settled at Boyton, I was staying with him, and at dinner he said: “Now we must drink the health of the Princess of Wales; it is her birthday. I have one bottle left of the Oxford Rheinwein. I kept it for you. It has travelled about with me from place to place; but there will be no more of it, it is the last bottle.”
Once more the Prince was most kind to me under most trying circumstances. I was to dine at Windsor, and when I arrived my portmanteau was lost. I telegraphed and telegraphed, and at last the portmanteau was found at Oxford station, but there was no train to arrive at Windsor before 8.30. Prince Leopold, who was staying at Windsor, and to whom I went in my distress, took the matter in a most serious spirit. I thought I might send an excuse to say that I had had an accident and could not appear at table; but he said: “No, that is impossible. If the Queen asks you to dinner, you must be there.” He then sent all round the Castle to fit me out. Everybody seemed to have contributed some article of clothing—coat, waistcoat, tie, shorts, shoes and buckles. I looked a perfect guy, and I declared that I could not possibly appear before the Queen in that attire. I was actually penning a note when the 8.30 train arrived, and with it my luggage, which I tore open, dressed in a few minutes, and appeared at dinner as if nothing had happened.
Fortunately the Queen, who had been paying a visit, came in very late. Whether she had heard of my misfortunes I do not know. But I was very much impressed when I saw how, with all the devotion that the Prince felt for his mother, there was this feeling of respect, nay, almost of awe, that made it seem impossible for him to tell his own mother that I was prevented by an accident from obeying her command and appearing at dinner.
Oxford is an excellent place for seeing illustrious visitors from all parts of the world. It is the cynosure of all Americans, and it is strange to see how many travellers know all about the beauties of Oxford, and seem often to be quite unaware of the similar, nay, in some respects greater, beauties of Cambridge. There is only one drawback. Most travellers come to Oxford during the Long Vacation, and during the Long Vacation most professors naturally go away. In that way I have missed seeing some people whose acquaintance I should have highly valued. I thus lost the pleasure of showing the late Emperor of Brazil the historical sights of Oxford, being absent when he passed through. He saw everything in a marvellously short time, but then he was up sight-seeing at five in the morning. However, I made his acquaintance afterwards in Switzerland. We were staying at an out-of-the-way place at Gimmelwald, and one day about five in the morning there was a loud knock at my bedroom door. The whole wooden cottage trembled. When I got up to see what was the matter, I saw my friend Mr. Ralston, standing breathless on the staircase and saying, “The Emperor of Brazil wants to see you. He is staying at Interlaken, and has persuaded the Empress to stay another day to see you. But you must get up at once and take a carriage and drive to Interlaken.” I did so, and was with the Emperor and Empress soon after breakfast. The Empress and the gentlemen-in-waiting were not in the best of humours on account of this unexpected delay in their journey. We had a long and undisturbed talk in a private room. I was sorry the Emperor would speak French, though, having been at school in Switzerland, he spoke German quite as well. He was full of questions about Sanskrit literature and the Vedic religion. I was amazed at his knowledge, for he had actually begun to study Sanskrit, and was fully aware of all the difficulties that had to be met before we could hope to gain an insight into the heart of the ancient religion of the Vedic Rishis. He had a young German with him who acted as his tutor in Sanskrit, and likewise in Hebrew. It was very pleasant to be examined by a man who really knew what questions to ask, and who was bent on finding out by himself what the “Rig Veda,” the most ancient of all the books in the world, really contained. Like many others he seemed to expect too much, and I had to tell him he must not be disappointed, and that, though the Veda was certainly the oldest book in the proper sense of that word, which had been preserved to us in an almost miraculous manner, still it bore already traces of a long growth, nay, even of a long decay of religious thought. If the Vedic poets were different from what we expected them to be, it was our fault, not theirs. They showed us what the world was like in the second millennium B.C., and if we thought that there was in that millennium much that sounds childish and absurd to us, it was well that we should know that fact, and talk no longer of the mysterious or esoteric wisdom of the East. Like most students, the Emperor wished to know the exact date of the Veda, and I did not find it easy to explain to him that where we have no contemporaneous history we cannot expect an exact chronology. If some scholars placed the Veda 5000 or 10,000 B.C., we should find it difficult to refute them, but we should gain nothing, it would be like one of the distant dates in Egyptian and Babylonian chronology, a mere point in vacuo. He was surprised when I confessed to him that even the low date of about 1200 B.C., which I had fixed upon, seemed to me too high rather than too low, and that I should feel it a relief if anybody could establish a lower date for at least some of the Vedic hymns. I think the Emperor saw that in spite of this inevitable uncertainty, the “Rig Veda” would always maintain its unique position in the history of religion, nay, of literature, being without an equal anywhere, and allowing us an insight into the growth of thought, such as we find in no other literature. Whatever the antecedents of the Vedic religion may have been, however rudely its original features may have been effaced even before the beginning of the Brâhmana period, we can still see here and there in the Veda some germ ideas, some thoughts requiring no antecedents, and in that sense primitive, more primitive even than the thoughts of Egypt, Babylon, and Nineveh, whatever their merely chronological antiquity may have been. I do not know how it happened—that from discussing the ancient names of metals and the relative value of gold and silver, as fixed, we do not know how, in Egypt, Babylon, and afterwards in Greece, in Italy, and the rest of the civilised world at about 1 to 15—our conversation drifted away into financial questions. Here I must have been betrayed into uttering some financial heresy, possibly savouring of bimetallism, for I well remember the Emperor becoming rather impatient and saying: “I know all about that, and have studied the question for many years. Let us return to the Veda.”
After a very pleasant luncheon we parted, and soon after the Emperor lost his crown, as some would have it, because he had given too much thought and time to his studies instead of keeping in touch with the leaders of the different parties around his throne. However that may be, Brazil has not been long before regretting her learned Emperor. I heard afterwards that to the very end of his reign, and even when in exile, the Emperor kept his tutor and carried on his studies in Sanskrit and Hebrew. When at Stockholm in 1889, attending the International Oriental Congress, under the auspices of the King of Sweden, I received a letter from the Emperor of Brazil giving an account of his Sanskrit studies. I showed the letter to the King of Sweden, Oscar II., himself a man extremely well informed on Eastern literature, and full of the warmest sympathy for Oriental scholars and scholarship. He read the letter and sighed. “I have no leisure for Sanskrit,” he said. “The happy Emperor of Brazil has but one people to govern, I have two.”
I might go on for a long time with my royal recollections, but it is, of course, impossible to do so when living persons are concerned. Most of the royal persons with whom I was brought into contact were eminent among their peers, but were I to say what I think of them, I should at once be called ugly names—courtier, flatterer, etc. Such things cannot be helped, and the only excuse I could, perhaps, plead as a circonstance atténuante would be the reverence I imbibed with my mother’s milk for my own Duke and my own Duchess of Anhalt-Dessau.