Sometimes the mornings before racing were spent in partridge-driving in the neighbourhood; but more often shooting took place on the Monday or the Saturday of the Cesarewitch and Houghton weeks, and generally the intermediate week was spent in a like manner in the neighbourhood of Newmarket. I remember being in attendance during a visit that the Prince paid to Mr. Willy Jameson at Stowlangtoft. Always a good shoot, in that particular year the Manor fairly swarmed with partridge. But the whole of the country round Newmarket lends itself to sport, and especially to partridge-driving. Within a very small radius, which in these days of motors would literally entail only a twenty minutes’ drive, Stetchworth, Six Mile Bottom, Chippenham, and Cheveley could all be reached, and as far as the quantity of game was concerned, one place would be nearly as good as the other. Six Mile Bottom was perhaps the best partridge-driving ground of all, for the belts over which the birds were driven were so substantial and well placed; the late Duke of Cambridge had it on lease for many years, and generally made Newmarket his temporary abode when shooting over the Manor. His Royal Highness was always very keen about the sport, and with the aid of one of the most perfect weight-carrying hacks that I ever saw, could get about from beat to beat without too much fatigue.
But to leave the neighbourhood and return to the little town of Newmarket itself, another feature of the Race weeks were the dinner parties given at the various houses in the town. The old fashion of dining at the Jockey Club Rooms had rather died out, principally owing to the ladies having taken to patronising Newmarket to such a great extent, so the Prince was in the habit of dining out regularly during his sojourns there, and was a constant guest at the houses of the late Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, the late Sir Daniel Cooper, the late Lord and Lady Cadogan, and the late Mr. Leopold de Rothschild. Mrs. Leo, as she was always called by her many friends, of whom I am glad to be a very old one, and her husband lived at Palace House, so called as a part of it was the original dwelling of King Charles II when he frequented Newmarket, and they used to give a big dinner every Wednesday night there during the Racing Season. Wednesday was a good selection, for it was generally the day of the most important race of the week, and there would be met, from the Prince downwards, all the principal racing men present at the meeting, with the exception of those who were busy entertaining parties of their own. From what I have written it can be easily understood how pleasant a month October was for the Equerry-in-Waiting, and in the old book of Caricatures, that lay in the Equerries’ Room at Marlborough House, and was later moved on to Buckingham Palace, was to be seen a cutting from an illustrated paper of a snapshot done of myself, seated on a shooting stool with loader and dog in attendance, in the act of lighting a large cigar, with the legend underneath it: “An Equerry at work.”
Another month’s duty that fell pretty frequently to my turn was December which, commencing as it did on the Princess’ birthday (1st December) entailed a large Birthday Party at Sandringham. On these occasions the guests consisted entirely of old friends, and year after year the Princess’ most intimate ones, such as Lord, and the late Lady Ripon, Lord and Lady Gosford, and the “little Admiral,” the late Sir Harry Keppel, were amongst those who used to meet there. Occasionally there would be a special dramatic performance, but there was always Gottlieb’s band to play in the evening, and for the men there was excellent covert shooting during the day.
For several consecutive years, commencing with 1894, I was in attendance on the Prince in the month of March and the beginning of April at Cannes. He generally lived on board the Britannia, and, as the Riviera Regattas were in full swing during those weeks, there was plenty of yacht racing. The open-air life that could be lived at Cannes was invaluable to him after the long winter that generally ended up with part of January and practically the whole of February in London. Cannes was a very pleasant place then, and there were endless dinner parties and gaieties of all sorts, and the Society was eminently cosmopolitan. To begin with, the whole Riviera bristled with Royalties. Queen Victoria was for several years in succession at Cimiez in the neighbourhood of Nice. The Emperor and Empress of Austria were more than once at Cap Martin. The King of the Belgians was constantly in his yacht at Ville-franche, and was beginning to build himself a villa on that lovely promontory of Cap Juan that forms the eastern side of the harbour. Russian Grand Dukes abounded. The Duke and Duchess of Mecklenburg-Schwerin still continued to spend their winters at Cannes; the Grand Duke Michael, then recently married to Countess Torby, had settled himself at the Villa Kasbec, close to his sister’s Villa Venden. Countess Torby’s father, Prince Nicholas of Nassau, with his wife and daughter, Countess Merenberg and Countess Adda Merenberg, were generally to be found at one of the numerous hotels in the town. Lord Salisbury had also built himself La Bastide, overlooking the little harbour of Beaulieu, where he usually spent a few weeks surrounded by his family, and the President of the French Republic, President Faure, who, since his official visit to St. Petersburg, had become in his secret heart, as well as in his own person, “plus Royaliste que le Roi,” generally took an opportunity of paying a visit to Queen Victoria. I had the honour of being introduced to Monsieur le President on three separate occasions. Since his famous visit to Russia he had, greatly to his own satisfaction, taken upon himself what he conceived to be the true “Royal Manner,” but unfortunately he did not possess the other inherent appanage of Royalty, viz. the “Royal Memory.” So three times running, at comparatively short intervals, on presentation I was most courteously greeted with the same formula, (no wonder that I learnt it by heart!), “Commandant, enchanté de faire votre connaissance; il y a longtemps que vous êtes auprès de son Altesse Royale?”
In addition to these great personages that I have mentioned, three charming old ladies,—who were irreverently nicknamed in Paris “La Vieille Garde,” the three great beauties of the latter days of the Empire, the Princesse de Sagan, the Marquise de Gallifet and the Comtesse de Pourtalès,—were always there, and a number of Frenchmen, such as Vicomte Charles de Rochefoucault, Comte Boni de Castellane and le Vicomte de Rochechouart; the latter was President of the French Yacht Club, under the auspices of which we constantly raced. A good many English people had permanent villas there, Lord and Lady Brougham, for instance, in their Château Eléanore, famous over the whole Riviera for its beautiful gardens and wonderful roses, and the late Mr. and Mrs. Robert Vyner at Château Ste. Anne. Of Americans, too, there were a good many “hardy annuals,” the late Mr. Ogden Goelet and his family passed several winters there, principally on board the yacht, White Lady, whilst Mr. Anthony Drexel, in the Margarita, and the late Mr. Gordon Bennett, spent more of their time at the Monte Carlo end of the coast. When reigning Monarchs, to say nothing of the President of the country itself, are foregathering on some forty miles or so of sea coast, it is pretty obvious that men of importance of various nationalities are apt to find it necessary to pass a few days in the same atmosphere, and it was at Cannes that I first began to notice how the Prince invariably made a point of making the personal acquaintance of the many distinguished foreigners who happened to be out there, even if only for a few days as birds of passage, and I was to see, later on, when I was in attendance on him as the Sovereign, how invaluable these personal acquaintances were. Half-an-hour’s conversation with a man is apt to give a greater insight into the character than reams of correspondence, and this was especially the case with the Prince of Wales, who was endowed either by nature or training, or more probably by a mixture of both, with a memory that really was prodigious. As an example of this memory, I recollect on my first journey with him to Cannes, when he had got out at some wayside station to stroll about during the five minutes’ wait, some very obvious English gentleman bowed, and evidently rather expected to be recognised. His bow was of course returned, but on re-entering the railway carriage, the Prince at once asked me if I knew who the man was. I had never seen him in my life before, and so could be of no assistance. After the train had started again, I could see that the Prince was trying to place the individual, and suddenly, at the end of a quarter of an hour or so, he triumphantly exclaimed: “I knew that I should get hold of his name. He is a Mr. ——, and he was presented to me just fourteen years ago at a function at which I was present.” He then proceeded to state what the function was, and where it had taken place. He had never set eyes on the man in question since!
After leaving Cannes, a few days were generally spent in Paris on the way home to see the newest plays, and England was reached about the middle of April, and from that time I was off duty until the Cowes season came round again in the month of August. In 1894 the Vigilant, which had successfully defended the America Cup against Lord Dunraven’s Valkyrie, had arrived in the Roads. She had already met Britannia in several races on the Clyde when the latter had been very successful, and she was now to race with her at the headquarters of English Yacht Racing. One of the best races I ever witnessed was that between these two crack cutters and Satanita during the Squadron Regatta week at Cowes. The Prince was on board, and I am nearly sure that Prince George was also there on that day, and so remarkable a race was it that I am tempted to quote from what I wrote about it some years ago for one of the Badminton series:—
“. . . The yachts (Britannia, Satanita, and Vigilant) were to start to the eastward and sail round the Isle of Wight; and on this occasion Britannia’s Royal owner and several of his friends were on board. Satanita began well, and was leading off Bembridge; but at the back of the island the breeze became paltry, and Satanita dropped back, while Britannia and Vigilant were engaged in a battle-royal. After getting round St. Catherine’s and heading for the Needles, Britannia picked up a fresh breeze off the land, and was leading by some lengths, with the Vigilant tearing up astern of her. Vigilant gradually forged ahead, and came up inshore of Britannia, on her weather. The obvious course was to luff up and prevent her from forcing a passage; but, unhappily, there was not sufficient depth of water, so up went the Britannia on a shoal, and in another moment Vigilant took the ground also. The latter had now all the best of it, as by pulling up her centre-board she was able to get off almost at once, and away she went for the Needles with Britannia left on the shoal. It was a good ten minutes before Britannia was floating again, and by that time Vigilant had gained a couple of miles. However, a yacht race is never lost until it is won; and owing to the wind falling light and a useful fluke or two, by the time the Needles were passed the two yachts were neck and neck. The wind had fallen light again, and what there was blew from the westward, so it was a case of up helm and set spinnakers. All on board were now full of hope, as running in light winds Britannia was rather the faster of the two; so with a gentle westerly breeze and a fair tide to take them along, the two rivals headed for the mark-boat at Cowes. But hope had almost to be abandoned when it was seen that instead of Britannia having the advantage, Vigilant was streaking away as if she were in tow, while Britannia dropped farther and farther astern. Vigilant eventually won in hollow fashion by eight minutes.
“Mr. W. Jameson and Carter had their suspicions about the cause of Britannia’s sluggishness, so next day she was sent over to Southampton to be docked, and then the cause was apparent. The result of her grounding was that a quantity of her copper-plating instead of being polished and smooth, was standing out in rolls, and, moreover, large pieces of rock were actually sticking out from her lead keel. No wonder poor Britannia could not sail! On the other hand, Vigilant, thanks to her centre-board keel, had got off the rocks quite uninjured. However, the disappointment and damage done were alike transitory, and two days later she was sailing as well as ever again. At the end of the Solent Regattas, Vigilant retired from the contest. She had sailed seventeen times against the Britannia, and of those races Britannia had won eleven outright. The rest of the season of 1894, except in mixed races, resolved itself into matches between Satanita and Britannia, of which Britannia won the lion’s share.”
The year 1894 was an interesting one to me as regards horse-racing, for a colt from Sandringham Stud, that good horse Florizel II, came to the fore as a three-year-old. Being very fond of racing, I took a great interest in the horses bred at Sandringham, as, having seen them in the earliest infancy before they went to Richard Marsh to be trained, it was a great pleasure to follow their subsequent careers. Florizel, who was too backward to do any good as a two-year-old, began his winning career as a three-year-old, at Ascot, when he won a couple of good weight-for-age races, and, later on, at Goodwood and Newmarket he won again.
But the year 1895 was more interesting still, both as regards yachts and thoroughbreds. The Ailsa, a new cutter belonging to Mr. Barclay Walker, came out to Cannes in the March of that year, and made the yacht-racing there more strenuous than ever. She was a worthy antagonist to Britannia, and on the Riviera, where the wind is apt to be light, had rather the best of it, but later on in England the Britannia more than held her own. In the early summer the Prince was again racing on the Thames, and pulled off a pretty double event, for, on anchoring after a winning race against Ailsa, a telegram was brought on board the Britannia announcing the fact that Florizel had won a nice race the same day. I think it was the big handicap at Gatwick or Manchester. Ascot of the same year was really a “Royal Ascot,” for Florizel won the Gold Vase, and that great horse, Persimmon, an own brother to Florizel, made his début as a two-year-old, and won the most important two-year-old race of the meeting, the Coventry Stakes, in a canter.
But life did not consist entirely of racing and yachting; on the whole the greatest pleasure that I had in those days was, I think, the Opera. Covent Garden was perhaps at its zenith about then. I can still remember my first visit to that House when I was a little boy nine years old. Patti was then at the height of her fame and beauty, and I was lucky enough to hear her sing in Dinorah, with Graziani as the Hoel. Meyerbeer is quite out of fashion now, but to a child, loving music as I did, it was heavenly, and I know that I was so excited by it that I never slept a wink the whole night through. Later, whenever I had a chance on the rare occasions that I was in London, I used to manage to go to Covent Garden, or Her Majesty’s Opera House in the Haymarket, which were both going at the same time, with Patti as the bright particular star at Covent Garden, and Christine Nilsson at Her Majesty’s. Some of the castes were very remarkably good then. I remember Don Giovanni being splendidly given at Covent Garden, with Patti, Tamberlik and Faure in the principal parts, and of course I heard Nilsson as Margherita in Faust, perhaps her best rôle; and, somewhat later, I heard that marvellous singer, Melba,—Dame Nellie Melba, as she now is,—when she sang once or twice at Covent Garden before she made her triumphal successes at Brussels and Paris. Having become famous in Paris, of course she became indispensable to Covent Garden, and, thank Heaven, her lovely voice is still to be heard there, and I am proud to be able to count myself as one of her friends. But it was only when I was fortunate enough to become a member of the omnibus box that I developed into a confirmed habitué. There were plenty of other distractions available, but I was faithful to my love of music and was there most nights in the week, hearing delightful operas in the greatest comfort. The omnibus box was designed for eight subscribers, but the other amusements of London generally cut the nightly number of occupants down to three or four, and sometimes indeed I was the only one present, and to listen to good music in solitary comfort, seated in a capacious arm-chair, is one of the pleasantest things I know. Then, too, Covent Garden was fashionable in the best sense of that detestable word. The boxes were extraordinarily becoming to pretty women, and through the season they were filled, on most nights, with all the beautiful women of the time, looking their best in their most becoming dresses and diamonds, especially if there happened to be an important party to follow. The late Sir Augustus Harris treated his subscribers and his public extremely well; but I am inclined to think that the Syndicate that succeeded him did even better. Before taking leave of Sir Augustus Harris, a rather amusing incident indirectly connected with him happened at one of the early Masked Balls that he inaugurated at Covent Garden. An old friend of mine, the well-known Member of Parliament, Colonel Claude Lowther, had a box on the Grand Tier at one of these entertainments, and surreptitiously introduced into it a wonderful dummy figure made up as Sir Augustus. When the dancing was at its height, a sudden commotion brought the dancing to a standstill, and there in the forefront of one of the boxes was to be seen a terrific combat between Claude Lowther and Sir Augustus, Claude evidently getting very much the best of it. The dancers in the parterre were in agonies of suspense, as Sir Augustus was deservedly a great popular favourite, and their suspense changed into horror when they suddenly saw him taken bodily off his feet and flung out of the box on to the dancing-floor. So realistic was it that the police rushed up to the box, and before the joke could be explained Claude Lowther was conducted over to Bow Street, which was exactly opposite. I never shall forget the shout of laughter that went up when the dummy was discovered on the floor none the worse for its fall.