The first time I saw the Luxembourg hall was as a child of seven, under the Second Empire, when I was absolutely awe-struck by its magnificence. It then contained Napoleon the Third's throne, and was known as the "Salle du Trône." A relation pointed out to me that the covering and curtains of the throne, instead of being of the stereotyped crimson velvet, were of purple velvet, all spangled with the golden bees of the Bonapartes. The Luxembourg hall had then in the four corners of the coved ceiling an ornament very dear to the meretricious but effective taste of the Second Empire. Four immense globes of sky-blue enamel supported four huge gilt Napoleonic eagles with outspread wings. To the crude taste of a child the purple velvet of the throne, powdered with golden bees, and the gilt eagles on their turquoise globes, appeared splendidly sumptuous. Of course after 1870 all traces of throne and eagles were removed, as well as the countless "N. III's" with which the walls were plentifully besprinkled.
What an astute move of Louis Napoleon's it was to term himself the "Third," counting the poor little "Aiglon," the King of Rome, as the second of the line, and thus giving a look of continuity and stability to a brand-new dynasty! Some people say that the assumption of this title was due to an accident, arising out of a printer's error. After his coup d'état, Louis Napoleon issued a proclamation to the French people, ending "Vive Napoleon!!!" The printer, mistaking the three notes of exclamation for the numeral III, set up "Vive Napoleon III." The proclamation appeared in this form, and Louis Napoleon, at once recognising the advantages of it, adhered to the style. Whether this is true or not I cannot say. I was then too young to be able to judge for myself, but older people have told me that the mushroom Court of the Tuileries eclipsed all others in Europe in splendour. The parvenu dynasty needed all the aid it could derive from gorgeous ceremonial pomp to maintain its position successfully.
To return to Berlin, beyond the Throne room lay the fine picture gallery, nearly 200 feet long. At Court entertainments all the German officers gathered in this picture gallery and made a living hedge, between the ranks of which the guests passed on their way to the famous "White Hall." These long ranks of men in their resplendent Hofballanzug were really a magnificent sight, and whoever first devised this most effective bit of stage-management deserves great credit.
The White Hall as I knew it was a splendidly dignified room. As its name implies, it was entirely white, the mouldings all being silvered instead of gilt. Both Germans and Russians are fond of substituting silvering for gilding. Personally I think it most effective, but as the French with their impeccable good taste never employ silvering, there must be some sound artistic reason against its use.
It must be reluctantly confessed that the show of feminine beauty at Berlin was hardly on a level with the perfect mise-en-scène. There were three or four very beautiful women. Countess Karolyi, the Austrian Ambassadress, herself a Hungarian, was a tall, graceful blonde with beautiful hair; she was full of infinite attraction. Princess William Radziwill, a Russian, was, I think, the loveliest human being I have ever seen; she was, however, much dreaded on account of her mordant tongue. Princess Carolath-Beuthen, a Prussian, had first seen the light some years earlier than these two ladies. She was still a very beautiful woman, and eventually married as her second husband Count Herbert Bismarck, the Iron Chancellor's eldest son.
There was, unfortunately, a very wide gap between the looks of these "stars" and those of the rest of the company.
The interior of the Berlin Schloss put Buckingham Palace completely in the shade. The London palace was unfortunately decorated in the "fifties," during the époque de mauvais goût, as the French comprehensively term the whole period between 1820 and 1880, and it bears the date written on every unfortunate detail of its decoration. It is beyond any question whatever the product of the "period of bad taste." I missed, though, in Berlin the wealth of flowers which turns Buckingham Palace into a garden on Court Ball nights. Civilians too in London have to appear at Court in knee-breeches and stockings; in Berlin trousers were worn, thus destroying the habillé look. As regards the display of jewels and the beauty of the women at the two Courts, Berlin was simply nowhere. German uniforms were of every colour of the rainbow; with us there is an undue predominance of scarlet, so that the kaleidoscopic effect of Berlin was never attained in London, added to which too much scarlet and gold tends to kill the effect of the ladies' dresses.
At the Prussian Court on these State occasions an immense number of pages made their appearance. I myself had been a Court page in my youth, but whereas in England little boys were always chosen for this part, in Berlin the tallest and biggest lads were selected from the Cadet School at Lichterfelde. A great lanky gawk six feet high, with an incipient moustache, does not show up to advantage in lace ruffles, with his thin spindle-shanks encased in silk stockings; a page's trappings being only suitable for little boys. I remember well the day when I and my fellow-novice were summoned to try on our new page's uniforms. Our white satin knee-breeches and gold-embroidered white satin waistcoats left us quite cold, but we were both enchanted with the little pages' swords, in their white-enamelled scabbards, which the tailor had brought with him. We had neither of us ever possessed a real sword of our own before, and the steel blades were of the most inviting sharpness. We agreed that the opportunity was too good a one to be lost, so we determined to slip out into the garden in our new finery and there engage in a deadly duel. It was further agreed to thrust really hard with the keen little blades, "just to see what would happen." Fortunately for us, we had been overheard. We reached the garden, and, having found a conveniently secluded spot, had just commenced to make those vague flourishes with our unaccustomed weapons which our experience, derived from pictures, led us to believe formed the orthodox preliminaries to a duel, when the combat was sternly interrupted. Otherwise there would probably have been vacancies for one if not two fresh Pages of Honour before nightfall. What a pity there were no "movies" in those days! What a splendid film could have been made of two small boys, arrayed in all the bravery of silk stockings, white satin breeches, and lace ruffles, their red tunics heavy with bullion embroidery, engaged in a furious duel in a big garden. When the news of our escapade reached the ears of the highest quarters, preemptory orders were issued to have the steel blades removed from our swords and replaced with innocuous pieces of shaped wood. It was very ignominious; still the little swords made a brave show, and no one by looking at them could guess that the white scabbards shielded nothing more deadly than an inoffensive piece of oak. A page's sword, by the way, is not worn at the left side in the ordinary manner, but is passed through two slits in the tunic, and is carried in the small of the back, so that the boy can keep his hands entirely free.
The "White Hall" has a splendid inlaid parquet floor, with a crowned Prussian eagle in the centre of it. This eagle was a source of immense pride to the palace attendants, who kept it in a high state of polish. As a result the eagle was as slippery as ice, and woe betide the unfortunate dancer who set his foot on it. He was almost certain to fall; and to fall down at a Berlin State ball was an unpardonable offence. If a German officer, the delinquent had his name struck off the list of those invited for a whole year. If a member of the Corps Diplomatique, he received strong hints to avoid dancing again. Certainly the diplomats were sumptuously entertained at supper at the Berlin Palace; whether the general public fared as well I do not know.
Urbain, the old Emperor William's French chef, who was responsible for these admirable suppers, had published several cookery books in French, on the title-page of which he described himself as "Urbain, premier officier de bouche de S.M. l'Empereur d'Allemagne." This quaint-sounding title was historically quite correct, it being the official appellation of the head cooks of the old French kings. A feature of the Berlin State balls was the stirrup-cup of hot punch given to departing guests. Knowing people hurried to the grand staircase at the conclusion of the entertainment; here servants proffered trays of this delectable compound. It was concocted, I believe, of equal parts of arrack and rum, with various other unknown ingredients. In the same way, at Buckingham Palace in Queen Victoria's time, wise persons always asked for hock cup. This was compounded of very old hock and curious liqueurs, from a hundred-year-old recipe. A truly admirable beverage! Now, alas! since Queen Victoria's day, only a memory.