The Princesses of the House of Prussia had one ordeal to face should they become betrothed to a member of the Royal Family of any other country. They took leave formally of the diplomats at the Palace, "making the circle" by themselves. I have always understood that Prussian princesses were trained for this from their childhood by being placed in the centre of a circle of twenty chairs, and being made to address some non-committal remark to each chair in turn, in German, French, and English. I remember well Princess Louise Margaret of Prussia, afterwards our own Duchess of Connaught, who was to become so extraordinarily popular not only in England but in India and Canada as well, making her farewell at Berlin on her betrothal. She "made the circle" of some forty people, addressing a remark or two to each, entirely alone, save for two of the great long, gawky Prussian pages in attendance on her, looking in their red tunics for all the world like London-grown geraniums—all stalk and no leaves. It is a terribly trying ordeal for a girl of eighteen, and the Duchess once told me that she nearly fainted from sheer nervousness at the time, although she did not show it in the least.
If I may be permitted a somewhat lengthy digression, I would say that it is at times extremely difficult to find topics of conversation. Years afterwards, when I was stationed at our Lisbon Legation, the Papal Nuncio was very tenacious of his dignity. In Catholic countries the Nuncio is ex officio head of the Diplomatic Body, and the Nuncio at Lisbon expected every diplomat to call on him at least six times a year. On his reception days the Nuncio always arrayed himself in his purple robes and a lace cotta, with his great pectoral emerald cross over it. He then seated himself in state in a huge carved chair, with a young priest as aide-de-camp, standing motionless behind him. It was always my ill-fortune to find the Nuncio alone. Now what possible topic of conversation could I, a Protestant, find with which to fill the necessary ten minutes with an Italian Archbishop in partibus. We could not well discuss the latest fashions in copes, or any impending changes in the College of Cardinals. Most providentally, I learnt that this admirable ecclesiastic, so far from despising the pleasures of the table, made them his principal interest in life. I know no more of the intricacies of the Italian cuisine than Melchizedek knew about frying sausages, but I had a friend, the wife of an Italian colleague, deeply versed in the mysteries of Tuscan cooking. This kindly lady wrote me out in French some of the choicest recipes in her extensive répertoire, and I learnt them all off by heart. After that I was the Nuncio's most welcome visitor. We argued hotly over the respective merits of risotto alia Milanese and risotto al Salto. We discussed gnocchi, pasta asciutta, and novel methods of preparing minestra, I trust without undue partisan heat, until the excellent prelate's eyes gleamed and his mouth began to water. Donna Maria, my Italian friend, proved an inexhaustible mine of recipes. She always produced new ones, which I memorised, and occasionally wrote out for the Nuncio, sometimes, with all the valour of ignorance, adding a fancy ingredient or two on my own account. On one occasion, after I had detailed the constituent parts of an extraordinarily succulent composition of rice, cheese, oil, mushrooms, chestnuts, and tomatoes, the Nuncio nearly burst into tears with emotion, and I feel convinced that, heretic though I might be, he was fully intending to give me his Apostolic benediction, had not the watchful young priest checked him. I felt rewarded for my trouble when my chief, the British Minister, informed me that the Nuncio considered me the most intelligent young man he knew. He added further that he enjoyed my visits, as my conversation was so interesting.
The other occasion on which I experienced great conversational difficulties was in Northern India at the house of a most popular and sporting Maharajah. His mother, the old Maharani, having just completed her seventy-first year, had emerged from the seclusion of the zenana, where she had spent fifty-five years of her life, or, in Eastern parlance, had "come from behind the curtain." We paid short ceremonial visits at intervals to the old lady, who sat amid piles of cushions, a little brown, shrivelled, mummy-like figure, so swathed in brocades and gold tissue as to be almost invisible. The Maharajah was most anxious that I should talk to his mother, but what possible subject of conversation could I find with an old lady who had spent fifty-five years in the pillared (and somewhat uncleanly) seclusions of the zenana? Added to which the Maharani knew no Urdu, but only spoke Bengali, a language of which I am ignorant. This entailed the services of an interpreter, always an embarrassing appendage. On occasions of this sort Morier's delightful book Hadji Baba is invaluable, for the author gives literal English translations of all the most flowery Persian compliments. Had the Maharani been a Mohammedan, I could have addressed her as "Oh moon-faced ravisher of hearts! I trust that you are reposing under the canopy of a sound brain!" Being a Hindoo, however, she would not be familiar with Persian forms of politeness. A few remarks on lawn tennis, or the increasing price of polo ponies, would obviously fail to interest her. You could not well discuss fashions with an old lady who had found one single garment sufficient for her needs all her days, and any questions as to details of her life in the zenana, or that of the other inmates of that retreat, would have been indecorous in the highest degree. Nothing then remained but to remark that the Maharajah was looking remarkably well, but that he had unquestionably put on a great deal of weight since I had last seen him. I received the startling reply from the interpreter (delivered in the clipped, staccato tones most natives of India assume when they speak English), "Her Highness says that, thanks to God, and to his mother's cooking, her son's belly is increasing indeed to vast size."
Bearing in mind these later conversational difficulties, I cannot but admire the ease with which Royal personages, from long practice, manage to address appropriate and varied remarks to perhaps forty people of different nationalities, whilst "making the circle."
CHAPTER II
Easy-going Austria—Vienna—Charm of town—A little piece of history—-International families—Family pride—"Schlüssel-Geld"—Excellence of Vienna restaurants—The origin of "Croissants"—Good looks of Viennese women—Strauss's operettas—A ball in an old Vienna house—Court entertainments—The Empress Elisabeth—Delightful environs of Vienna—The Berlin Congress of 1878—Lord Beaconsfield—M. de Blowitz—Treaty telegraphed to London—Environs of Berlin—Potsdam and its lakes—The bow-oar of the Embassy "four"—Narrow escape of ex-Kaiser—The Potsdam palaces—Transfer to Petrograd—Glamour of Russia—An evening with the Crown Prince at Potsdam.