One night there was a ball, or rather a small dance, in Charles Street, and I was allowed to come down after going to bed all day. People shook their heads over this, and said I was being spoilt, to Chérie, but Chérie said: “Cet enfant n’est pas gâté mais il se fait gâter.”
The dance led off with a quadrille, in which I and my father both took part. After having carefully learnt the pas chassé at dancing lessons, I was rather shocked to find this elegant glide was not observed by the quadrille dancers.
All this was the delightful epoch of the ’eighties, when the shop windows were full of photographs of the professional beauties, and bands played tunes from the new Gilbert and Sullivan in the early morning in the streets, and people rode in Rotten Row in the evening, and Chérie used to rush us across the road to get a glimpse of Mrs. Langtry or the Princess of Wales.
Dancing lessons played an important part in our lives. Our first dancing instructor was the famous ex-ballerina, Madame Taglioni, a graceful old lady with grey curls, who held a class at Lady Granville’s house in Carlton House Terrace. It was there I had my first dancing lesson and learnt the Tarantelle, a dance with a tambourine, which I have always found effective, if not useful, in later life. Then Madame Taglioni’s class came to an end, and there was a class at Lady Ashburton’s at Bath House, which was suddenly put a stop to owing to the rough and wild behaviour of the boys, myself among them. Finally we had a class in our own house, supervised by a strict lady in black silk, who taught us the pas chassé, the five positions, the valse, the polka, and the Lancers.
Another event was Mrs. Christie’s lottery, which was held once a year at her house at Kentish Town. All her pupils came, and everyone won a prize in the lottery. One year I won a stuffed duck. After tea we acted charades. On the way back we used to pass several railway bridges, and Chérie, producing a gold pencil, used to say: “Par la vertu de ma petite baguette,” she would make a train pass. It was perhaps a rash boast, but it was always successful.
We used to drive to Mrs. Christie’s in a coach, an enormous carriage driven by Maisy, the coachman, who wore a white wig. It was only used when the whole family had to be transported somewhere.
Another incident of London life was Mademoiselle Ida’s pupils’ concert, which happened in the summer. I performed twice at it, I think, but never a solo. A duet with Mademoiselle Ida playing the bass, and whispering: “Gare au dièse, gare au bémol,” in my ear. What we enjoyed most about this was waiting in what was called the artists’ room, and drinking raspberry vinegar.
But the crowning bliss of London life was Hamilton Gardens, where we used to meet other children and play flags in the summer evenings.
This was the scene of wild enjoyment, not untinged with romance, for there the future beauties of England were all at play in their lovely teens. We were given tickets for concerts at the Albert Hall and elsewhere in the afternoon, but I remember that often when Hugo and I were given the choice of going to a concert or playing in the nursery, we sometimes chose to play. But I do remember hearing Patti sing “Coming thro’ the Rye” at the Guildhall, and Albani and Santley on several occasions.
But what we enjoyed most of all was finding some broken and derelict toy, and inventing a special game for it. Once in a cupboard in the back drawing-room I came across some old toys which had belonged to John and Cecil, and must have been there for years. Among other things there was an engine in perfectly good repair, with a little cone like the end of a cigar which you put inside the engine under the funnel. You then lit it and smoke came out, and the engine moved automatically. This seemed too miraculous for inquiry, and I still wonder how and why it happened. Then the toy was unaccountably lost, and I never discovered the secret of this mysterious and wonderful engine.