If there were one note more marked than another in these Audley Square assemblies it was a note of culture. Ease and good breeding and distinction may all be taken for granted. It is of the things which may not be taken for granted that I speak; and culture certainly may not. There are many houses in London in which it is neither expected nor desired. In New York, as we all know, it is discouraged. It would be discouraged anywhere if it were obtrusive or pedantic. Neither in a salon nor anywhere else is it to supersede good manners, but to blend with them. To make a salon possible there must be varied interests, play of mind, flexibility, adaptability, and an unlimited supply of tact. Perhaps the last includes all social gifts except those of the intellect. It covers a multitude of deficiencies. Nay, there was Miss Ada Reeve, a clever actress who last year was discussing on the stage questions of costume (elsewhere than on the stage), and announced:
"If a woman has tact and diamonds she needs nothing else."
Most of the generalities which you have been reading are really particulars and are descriptive of Lady Arthur Russell's receptions, of which I have spoken as a salon. I don't know that Lady Arthur herself ever used the word, nor does it matter. The thing, not the name, is what matters. There was culture, of a very unusual kind, on both sides of the house. There was, on Lady Arthur's side, her French blood. A salon in Paris is no rare thing, and the reason why it is not rare is because the society of Paris is French. In the Faubourg St. Germain, if nowhere else, the social traditions of the old monarchy in its most brilliant days still survive.
One of the noticeable things about this house in Audley Square was the presence of distinguished foreigners, and another was that they seemed no longer to consider themselves foreigners. They were at home. Nor was this true only of men and women of rank who might be of kin to the Peyronnets, and at any rate were of their world, but of artists and men of letters. I will take M. Renan as an example. He had come to London to deliver the Hibbert lectures and a lecture on Marcus Aurelius before the Royal Institution in Albemarle Street, of which the ever lamented Tyndall was then at the head. I had met Renan twice at other houses. He seemed a little dépaysé. In Audley Square this exotic and troubled air had disappeared. He had no English—at any rate, he spoke none—and his conversation, or the conversation of the English with him, was therefore limited. But when he talked, and often when he did not, he was surrounded by a crowd of listeners or, as the case might be, of lookers-on. Hence it was that he was so often kept, or left, standing, and his physical frame was of such a kind that long standing was irksome to him, and even painful. I noticed one night that he seemed ill at ease, and said to him I hoped he was not suffering.
"Yes," he said, "that is exactly it; I am souffrant, and if I have to stand much longer I don't know what will happen."
"But why don't you sit down?"
"Oh, do you think I might?"
So I took him to a comfortable sofa and, once seated, an ineffable sweet peace stole over his features.
A more tragic incident happened in Count von Arnim's case, the end of whose career was all tragedy. At this time he was still German Ambassador in Paris, but Prince Bismarck had become distrustful of him and the end was not far off. The public, however, knew nothing; least of all the English public, whose acquaintance with occurrences on the Continent is apt to be remote. For aught that was known in London, Count von Arnim was still the trusted representative of Germany. He bore a great name, he held a great position. The personal impression was a little disappointing. He did not look like the man to stand up to Prince Bismarck, who was a giant in stature as well as in character; nor was he. Slight, rather short, lacking in distinction, meagre in face, with no hint of power in the shape of his head or in his rather furtive expression, or in his carriage, he seemed, on the whole, insignificant. The eyes had no fire in them; he looked older than his years, and unequal to his renown.
It was the custom in those distant days to serve tea in the drawing-room after dinner. Count von Arnim was asked if he would take tea, left the lady by whom he was sitting, crossed the floor to the tea-table, took his cup of tea from Lady Arthur's hand, and started on his return. The floor was of polished oak, with here and there a rug; just the sort of floor to which he must have been used to all his life. But he slipped, his feet flew from under him, and down came the Ambassador on his back. It was an awful moment. Men went to his rescue, he was helped up, evidently much shaken, and slowly found his way back to the sofa and to the lady who had been his companion. There were almost tears in his eyes. When, a little later, the news of his disgrace became known, a man said: "Well, if he could not keep his feet in a drawing-room, what chance had he against Prince Bismarck."