We had a beautiful day yesterday for our excursion to Staffa and Iona. The sea was perfectly calm, and the lights and shades on the mountains enchanting. It was a lovely sail; sometimes we ran into little shaded harbours with two or three cottages and a hotel perched high up on the top of a mountain, and sometimes passed so close to land under the great cliffs that one could throw a stone on the shore. The islands are most interesting, with their old churches and their curious stone crosses, and there were not too many people on the boat. The return was delicious as we sat on deck, watching all the colours fade away from sea and hills.
We leave to-morrow for London and Paris, and I am very sorry to go. We have enjoyed our three weeks immensely. The country is so beautiful, and then it was a great pleasure to be with some of my own people; we have been away so long that the family ties get weaker. Francis was quite happy with some cousins to run about with.
To G. K. S.
Albert Gate,
May 21, 1889.
I got back from Paris last night, rather sorry to come. The weather was enchanting, warm and bright, and, of course, quantities of people for the Exhibition. It isn't half ready yet, but is most interesting—so much to see. I dined and breakfasted there several times at the various restaurants—one evening with the Walter Burns and a party, and we went afterward to see the "fontaines lumineuses," which are really fairy-like; but such a crowd. I also heard the two American prima donnas—Miss Eames, who is very handsome, has a fresh, young voice, and is an ideal Juliette. She is a vision really in her bridal dress as Juliette. Miss Sanderson is also very handsome, but in quite a different style. Her voice is very high and true; she was singing "Esclarmonde" at the Opéra Comique. Massenet has taught her everything. I have found quantities of invitations here, in fact was obliged to come over, as we have a big dinner the day after to-morrow, and the Court ball.
Tuesday, May 28, 1889.
We had our first encounter with Boulanger this morning. W. and I were walking our horses down the Row when we met three gentlemen cantering toward us. As they passed we heard they were speaking French, but didn't pay any particular attention. I merely said, "I wonder who those men are," one so rarely hears French spoken in the Row. A few minutes later we met Lord Charles Beresford, who took a little turn with us, and said to W., "The other distinguished Frenchman is also in the Row,"—then we divined. A few moments afterward (the Row is so small one crosses people all the time) we met them again, Boulanger in the middle riding his famous black horse—a man on each side riding good horses, chestnuts. They all wore top-hats, which no Englishmen do now in the morning. The men all wear low hats, the women also, and covert coats, the girls cotton blouses; not at all the correct style we used to admire as children in Punch when those beautiful women of Leech's riding in the Park filled our childish hearts with envy. I was rather curious as to what would happen, as W. knows Boulanger slightly, and went to him when he was Minister of War about something concerning the military attaché; however, there was no difficulty, as Boulanger was apparently too engrossed in conversation with his companions to notice anyone. I wonder if we shall meet him anywhere? They tell us that some of the society people mean to invite him, but I suppose they will scarcely ask us together.
Thursday, May 30th.
Yesterday was the last Drawing-room of this season. I rather feel as if it were my last in London, but one never knows. We (Corps Diplomatique) were still all in black, the English in colours. It was long and tiring. We dined at Lord Sudeley's—I rather wishing I had no engagement. I am always tired after those hours of standing, and the diadem is heavy, and the train, too, held over one's arm; however, I was quite repaid, as I had a charming neighbour. I didn't know at all who he was, as they rarely introduce in England, so we embarked on one of those banal, inane conversations one has with a stranger of whom one knows nothing, and were talking on smoothly about nothing at all, when he remarked, casually, "I suppose you never go to church." This I at once resented vehemently, so he explained that he didn't know, as I was a Frenchwoman, probably a Catholic (as if they didn't go to church), etc. He turned out to be Canon Rogers, a charming, intelligent, well-known man, most independent in his words and actions. He is rector of St. Botolph's, a church in Bishopsgate, the most disreputable part of London. We became great friends, and he asked me if I would go and lunch with him one Sunday, and he would show me Petticoat Lane. I agreed of course, and we decided for next Sunday. He said he had never had a French lady and an Ambassadress as a guest, and didn't quite know what to do. Should he ask the Prince of Wales and order champagne? I told him my tastes were very simple, and if I might bring my cousin Hilda, and one of the Secretaries, I should be quite happy—also I liked apple-pie, which he says his cook makes very well. I haven't had such a pleasant dinner for a long time.