Part 2 — L'EDUCATION À LA MODE (continued 2)

This afternoon I had my usual Sunday visits—principally diplomatists this time, and all talking about Prince Eddie's funeral. It seems a pity they don't make a grand military funeral, the procession passing through London. There was such a striking outburst of sympathy and loyalty when his death was announced that the people would have been glad to associate themselves with the last rites. They don't invite all the Chefs de Mission to the funeral at Windsor (which also seems strange, Prince Eddie being the heir), merely those of the "Cours apparentées." That will take in Hatzfeldt, German Ambassador; Staal, Russian; de Bille, Danish Minister; Gennadius, Greece; Soveral, Portugese; and Solvyns, Belgian. All the others go to a special service at St. James's Chapel, in uniform.

Wednesday, January 20, 1892.

To-day is the funeral. Our flag is half-mast, and all the windows shut in the drawing-rooms. It is mild and damp, but not cold. Mdme. de Florian and I have been driving about this afternoon to have an impression of the streets. All the shops are shut, blinds down in all the houses, flags at half-mast, and everyone in black. Some of the hansom cab drivers with bits of black ribbon or stuff on their whips, and everybody looks grave. I can't help thinking it was a pity not to let the people participate in the mourning and feel they were taking some part. In these days of democracy one should take any chance of strengthening the feeling of loyalty. W. went off in uniform, with crêpe on sleeve and sword hilt, at 3, to the service at the Chapel Royal, St. James's, which seems to have been rather mild. The diplomatists (4 Ambassadors), Chefs de Mission, were received by Mr. Eric Barrington, Lord Salisbury's secretary; Mr. Thomas Sanderson, and Colonel Chaine.

W. dined in the evening with Hilda, to meet Count Seckendorff and Bülow, who had come over from Germany to the funeral. They said the service was very simple and impressive, and that the Prince of Wales and Prince George looked badly, the Prince of Wales much agitated. Seckendorff said he could just manage to speak to them when they all filed past him after the ceremony. The Princesses were all in the chapel in a sort of gallery. Quite at the end the Prince stepped forward and laid a white wreath (given by Princess May) on the coffin.

Saturday, January 30, 1892.

It is still very mild and damp, rather dismal weather, and the streets are depressing, everyone in black—the mourning is very general, not at all confined to the fashionable world. Mdme. de Florian and I drove out to White Lodge, and cheerless it looked, so lonely and sad with the black winter trees all around the house. We did not see either of the Princesses; they were in London, but Teck came out to speak to us. I never saw him appear so well—he was so simple and distressed for his daughter. He said she was very quiet, but perfectly heart-broken, and that he had always had a presentiment that something would happen—everything had gone too smoothly. He said the coming back there after the funeral was something too awful—all the wedding presents and stuffs and laces scattered about the rooms—letters and telegrams of congratulation, bouquets of white flowers, in fact all the preparations for a wedding; and at the same time people waiting to try on mourning—telegrams of condolence, etc. What a tragedy! He said he had no hope from the first. Prince Eddie was struck down at once, and he didn't think the Princess of Wales ever had a gleam of hope. She never left her boy until all was over.

To G. K. S.

Wednesday, February 10, 1892.

I went as usual to have tea with the Countess de Bylandt this afternoon, who receives always Wednesday. She always has plenty of people and one has a pleasant hour. She was worried about her husband to-day, who is ill. He is not very young and I should think has always been delicate. He is Dutch Minister, and has been here for years. She is a Russian born, very clever and amusing. We dined with Baron Gevers, Dutch Secretary, at the new restaurant or club, l'Amphytrion, which is supposed to be the best and dearest in London. It is kept by Émile, a well-known Parisian. We were a young party, the Florians, St. Genys, and the Lataings (Belgian Legation). The dinner was excellent, certainly—Émile knew that his Ambassador was coming and had done his best. He was always hovering about the table to see that all was right, and we complimented him very much on the way everything was cooked and served. I said to him that he had very good material in London to work upon, to which he replied, with magnificent contempt for anything that was not French—"Il n'y a pas de marché à Londres, je fais venir tout de Paris." When one thinks of Covent Garden, with its piles of splendid salmon, haunches of venison, hot-house fruits, grapes, pine-apples, and primeurs of all kinds, the answer was amusing. We went upstairs for coffee and cigarettes and had a very pleasant evening. It is so good for W. to be with young people occasionally. He talked a great deal, and the young men were interested in some of his Cambridge reminiscences.

Thursday, February 11, 1892.

It is still quite mild. After breakfast I went with Hilda to the British Museum to hear a young Oxonian lady lecture on Greek Antiquities and the Eleusinian Mysteries. She did it very easily—a pretty, cultivated voice and very distinct pronunciation. The lecture lasted about an hour. She had all sorts of photographs of bas-reliefs, statues, paintings, etc., and it was very interesting, much more so than I expected, as Greek antiquities are not much in my line. After the lecture was over, Mr. Thomson, the director of the Museum (a charming man), came to get us and showed us as much as we could see before 4, when it gets dark and the Museum is shut. The reading-room and library are enormous, and for London very light. The collection of missals, autographs, etc., is splendid. Some of the old, old missals so beautiful still, the colours so wonderfully preserved. We went to Mr. Thomson's room in the Museum building for tea. His daughter was there and gave us very good tea and muffins. Altogether we had a most interesting afternoon. We dined with Mrs. Mitford (widow of Percy Mitford, diplomatist). She has a very pretty and original house and is a very easy hostess, having lived much abroad. She is a great friend of Princess Mary and told me I ought to go and see her. Mr. Lincoln, the American Minister, was there, and we all teased him about the Presidential election (the papers say he is to be the next President). Mdme. de Bille and I told him we were racking our brains to think what we could ask him for our friends at home when he would be at the White House. He assured us there was no possible chance of it, and no one would be as sorry as he himself if ever the thing came to pass. It certainly would be difficult to be a second President Lincoln.

Friday, February 19, 1892.

It is still very cold, snow lying on the ground (in the parks), which is rare in London. I have just had a little note from Princess Mary, asking me to come and see her on Sunday at White Lodge, as she leaves early in the week for the Riviera. Wolff came in late to ask me if I would take him out to White Lodge, as Princess Mary had also written to him to come. He had his violin, so he played for about an hour, and most enchanting it was. I occasionally forgot about the accompaniment, listening to his beautiful long notes. He didn't mind, was standing in the middle of the room (playing by heart) and went on quite serenely until I caught him up somewhere and went on again. I dined quietly with Jean (as W. had a man's dinner at one of the clubs) and we made music all the evening. She is very busy translating a German book, Lady Blennerhasset's "Life of Madame de Staël." It looked easy at first, but I fancy is rather a formidable undertaking, as Lady B. has a very distinct style—very German, and I should think it must lose in translation. She had rather come to grief over one page. I looked over it, and said I didn't find it very difficult, and I know German well, upon which she replied, "Please read it out to me, then, in good English." I began, but came to grief at once. I had got the meaning right enough in my head, but couldn't at all express it at once in correct or fluent English, and I don't know that a dictionary would have helped me much. It was more the turn of the phrase and a peculiar form of expression.

Sunday, February 21, 1892.

It is very mild to-day—a complete thaw. Wolff came to breakfast, also Mdme. de Florian, and we drove out to White Lodge for tea. It was pleasant enough driving, as there was no wind, but the park and place looked dreary. I had always seen it so gay, with so many young people about, that I could hardly realise that it was the same house. We were expected—two or three footmen in deep mourning were at the door and took us at once to the drawing-room. In a few minutes the three appeared: father, mother, and daughter. I was rather nervous, but they were so natural, it was such real grief, that we felt quite at our ease, and so sorry for them all. Princess May looked lovely. She has grown much thinner, and the long black dress covered with crêpe, with the white collar and cuffs (that all widows wear in England), was most becoming. Her complexion was beautiful, so delicate, and her eyes had that peculiar bright look that one sees in people who have cried a great deal. Before tea I had a long talk with Princess Mary, who said that it all seemed a dream—the first days at White Lodge, when the young couple were so happy, making all sorts of plans, for their future seemed so bright and brilliant; so convinced that long years of happiness and usefulness were before them that she was frightened sometimes, and used to tell them that there would be great cares and responsibilities in their position, and that they must both help each other as much as they could (she said Prince Eddie was naturally timid, and rather disposed to underrate his intelligence). Then came the sudden change. Those terrible days at Sandringham, where she hoped against hope, and then the coming back to White Lodge, which must have been heart-breaking. I only said a few words to Princess May as we were going away, but Mdme. de Florian had some talk with her. She said she felt stunned—could hardly believe that all was over, but that she must try and take up her life again. "It will be very hard; I suppose I was too happy."

They are starting at once for the South, and I hope it will do her good. Various people came in, among others Mrs. Mitford, who is a devoted friend of the Tecks, and so sorry for them. She said it was melancholy to see them the first days after they got back to White Lodge. All the presents had to be put away or sent back; all the letters and telegrams sorted and put away, and that Princess May moved about like a ghost.

We had a quiet evening until some late telegrams came announcing a Ministerial crisis in France, for nothing apparently. W. and his secretaries were disgusted. There are so many changes in France, and we never know who is coming to the Foreign Office. I think it is time for us to go back. We have been away a long time, and it isn't good for a man to live too much out of his own country.

Albert Gate, Wednesday, February 24, 1892.

It is very cold and foggy this morning, impossible to ride; we see all the grooms exercising the saddle horses in the Park. I went for tea as usual to Mdme. de Bylandt. He is still in his bed, and very bad I imagine. This evening we have been to "Venice," the great show at Olympia. We went a family party (Embassy), Florians, St. Genys, Pontavice, d'Agoult. It is really very prettily done; you must see it when you come over. We had a capital box directly in the centre of the house, but the director, hearing we were there, came to pay us a visit, and transferred us to the Royal box, which is very large and comfortable—seats twenty people easily. He sent us some ices, and said he would have two gondolas waiting at the end of the performance to take us through the lagoons. The performance was a sort of ballet—very pretty girls well got up in Venetian costume, very artistically grouped, and quantities of colour. As soon as it was over we went down to the "Canal," where we found two gondolas, the real thing, with Venetian gondoliers, who were much pleased when I spoke Italian to them. We went all around the show, passing under the Bridge of Sighs, and finally wound up at a Neapolitan café, where they were playing and singing all the well-known Italian songs, "Santa Lucia," "Bella Napoli," etc. Florian of course found a friend, one of the singers, who recognised him, having seen him in Rome when she was singing there; so of course we all fraternised, and we stayed there some time listening to all the familiar songs and accompaniment of guitar and mandoline. We had quite the impression of having spent our evening in Italy. W. was much amused when we told him of Florian's "connaissance," as he always says he knows more people than anyone he has ever seen, and is related to half France. He is always going to some cousin's funeral in Paris. French people are so particular about funerals—never fail to pay that last respect to their dead friends; also wear mourning much more than we do. They are constantly in real mourning (not merely fancy black) for three weeks or a month, for a very distant cousin.

Albert Gate, Monday, March 9, 1892.

It is cold and snowing, not a very pleasant day for our excursion to Herkomer's studio, in the country; however, I had a line from Hilda saying they were quite willing to go if I didn't mind the weather, so I consulted with Lecomte, one of the secretaries who was going with us, and we thought we would go. It would be very difficult for me to find another day, as London is filling up for its avant-saison, and we have quantities of engagements. We met the Deichmanns at the station, and there discovered that we had 40 minutes to wait, so we breakfasted there in the big dining-room, and it wasn't bad at all. Deichmann knows everybody and is well known at Euston—so thanks to him we had a really excellent breakfast (and it turned out very well, as we only got to Herkomer's for tea, and we should have been half starved). We had about three-quarters of an hour by rail to our destination, Bushey, in the county of Herts. It was bright and beautiful when we got to the station, but the trees were white with frost and snow everywhere. We found our host in a temporary installation. He is building himself an enormous castle, and all the work, stone-cutting, wood-carving, painting, etc., is done on the spot by his pupils, Herkomer himself superintending and directing everything. He is most interesting; full of all sorts of knowledge and fancies. We went over the studios and saw everything. Some dull red wood they were using came from America he told me—I forget the name of the tree, I think a Californian. It would have amused you to see the eager, intelligent faces of the young workmen, especially when Herkomer was going about explaining his ideas and criticising or encouraging. It reminded me rather of an evening at Wilhelmj's (the great violinist) long ago in Germany. He had a villa near my sister-in-law's, Mdme. Charles de Bunsen, at Mosbach, near Biebrich-am-Rhein. We all went over there one night to a musical party when I was staying with my sister. His house was most artistically arranged, all "Alt Deutsch," with an enormous music-room. He was waiting for us there surrounded by all his pupils, about 10, with their violins and music-stands, and all looking so eager and anxious to begin. He played himself quite beautifully, and when he was accompanied by all the others it was a very pretty sight, he in the middle and all the young ones around him with their eyes fixed on him. He was one of Wagner's right-hand men and played often with him. They played among other things the prelude of "Parsifal," which haunted me for days afterward. You can't imagine anything more divine than those beautiful long notes of his and the soft arpeggio accompaniments of the violins. I couldn't hear anything else afterward. Someone asked him to play Schubert's "Ave Maria," which he did of course beautifully, but it sounded so tame after the other, which I told him; but he said I was quite wrong, that Schubert had written beautiful things, so melodious. All the same, I would have preferred remaining with the impression of that wonderful prelude. What reminded me of all this was the same sort of cadre—"Maître et apprentis," for Herkomer is quite the old-fashioned embodiment of the "Master" with his pupils. We had tea in the studio, where there were some fine portraits. I think I like his men better than his women. It is so difficult to make an interesting picture of a man in ordinary everyday dress. Herkomer has certainly succeeded in making some wonderful pictures, without uniform, or costume, or colour of any kind to appeal to the imagination. We got back late for dinner. I was rather tired and cold after my long day—we had started early, and I persuaded W. with some difficulty to go to Lord Salisbury's reception without me. However, he rather enjoyed himself. He didn't get much farther than the door, where he remained talking with Lady Salisbury, which he always likes. I don't think he was away more than an hour.

Albert Gate, March 28, 1892.

We had a nice canter this morning. There were a good many people out. We had a pleasant dinner last night at Lady Winifred Gardner's, one of those curious mixtures one only sees in London. The Brownlows, Lord Carrington, Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone, Hare the actor and his wife, also various stray men. I found Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone both much changed—much older—but he is marvellous—talked, eat, and drank like a man of 50. Hare talked a great deal, and a great deal to W., who found him clever and original.

Wednesday, 30th.

Well, my Dear, I opened my bazaar yesterday, and you will be surprised to hear that I was rather nervous—only for one moment, I must say, when they asked me, after one or two speeches and a little "Marseillaise," if I would pronounce the sacramental phrase and declare the bazaar open. I, with the committee, was seated in a red chair on the platform. When I got up (the only person standing) and saw the crowd of faces beneath me looking hard at me, for a moment I was shy, but that didn't last. They all cheered me, so I recovered myself and made my statement, I think in a clear voice. W. jibed at me well afterward when I told him. I made a tour of the bazaar, buying something at each stall, Lecomte bringing up the rear, carrying a large doll. Do you remember what Lasteyrie used to say when he was W.'s Chef de Cabinet at l'Instruction Publique—that one of his principal functions was to accompany Madame Waddington to all the "Ventes de Charité" carrying a "paquet de chemises de femme," which means that I get so tired of all the fancy boxes, and pin-cushions, and screens I accumulate at the various sales that I finally asked for "layettes" and "vêtements de pauvres." Of course I can never have too many in the country. I was amused to hear one of my friends here who collects for the numerous "guilds" dilate upon the smallness of the objects sent her. She says she receives dresses and "brassières" (a sort of body with sleeves) that would go on no child of any age that she has ever seen. It is rather my own experience—people usually give me very minute garments, also in the most delicate colours, and my children work in the fields and at the "tourbières."

After we had visited all the stalls we had tea (not in a private room) at a round table at one end of the hall near the buffet. M. Dupoutet de la Harpe, the Protestant pasteur who got up the bazaar, explaining that the people would so like to see us. I am always very dressy on those occasions, so I was dressed in black satin with a great deal of jet, and light blue feathers in my bonnet. I had just time to get home, have some tea, and see that my "orgue Mustel" had arrived and was properly placed and tuned to go with the piano, and to assist at a small rehearsal with M. Guillemain (organist at La Trinité in Paris), for whom I am having a dinner to-night, Mérindol, and Miss Stuart, an American girl who has a fine voice. The "orgue Mustel" is small and looks like a harmonium, but it has wonderful tones, particularly when played by a master hand like Guillemain's.

My dinner interested me very much—I hope the guests had the same impression. I called it my "dinner of organists," and I tried to get as many of the great English organists as possible, but only two came (the notice was short), Dr. Stainer of St. Paul's and Dr. Bridge of Westminster Abbey. Both have splendid instruments, and it is a great pleasure to stay sometimes after a week-day service and hear a fugue rolling through those great vaulted aisles. I had only asked musical people, and warned them that it was serious. We were 24 at dinner, and about 100 in the evening. The music was in the ballroom and the organ sounded very well, quite a volume of sound. Guillemain played, of course, beautifully and made it give all it could. The duos, organ and piano, were charming. Miss Stuart sang very well. I found Dr. Bridge most sympathetic. He and Florence Williams made great friends, and he promised to play her a gavotte whenever she likes if she would dance. I think you would have liked the evening—it wasn't banal. Staal was sympathetic and interested, and asked me what was the next original entertainment I was contemplating.

Wednesday, 31st.

We have rather a worrying letter from Henrietta this morning saying their house in Paris was watched by the police, having been threatened by the dynamiters on account of a judge who lives in the house. All the locataires are leaving, and she is bothered, and wants to know what she must do with Francis (who always goes to her Thursday and Sunday). I want W. to write to the Préfet de Police to ask for an extra man, but he doesn't seem to attach importance to it—says no harm ever comes when a thing is announced beforehand. I can't help feeling uncomfortable.

To G. K. S.

Albert Gate, April 3, 1892.

It is rather nice to-day. After breakfast we drove down to Battersea Park, not a very fashionable resort, and walked about along the river, which is always alive—boats, barges, steamers, children in battered old scows that look as if they would break in two on the smallest provocation, and loungers of all kinds, some fishing, most doing nothing and keeping up a running fire of chaff and criticisms. The river life plays a great part in London—the Thames is such a thoroughfare all about London, and a beautiful pleasure ground higher up by Maidenhead, Clieveden, etc. We dined this evening at Lady Mary Lloyd's. She sang very well after dinner, and we went later to Lady Ashburton's, who has a beautiful house crammed with pictures and curios of all kinds. She had a concert of "old music" with old instruments—spinet, viola, viol d'amour, etc. It was interesting in its way as a souvenir, but sounded weak and tinkly. In these days of great orchestras no one would listen to it.

Easter Tuesday, April 19, 1892.

I am delighted to have Henrietta and Francis, the boy's first holidays since he has been in Paris, and he is enjoying himself extremely. He rides with his father every morning, and goes about all day with his friends. We are busy getting up a "toy symphony"—Mlle. Levisohn, Francis's piano mistress, organises it. Francis has the piano, Comte Vinci, our Roman friend (who plays extremely well), is first violin; a little boy, a friend of Mlle. Levisohn's, the 2nd, and the minor instruments are distributed among all the children, Edwardes, Lawrence, Billes, Deichmann, etc. We gave young Bille, son of the Danish Minister, the drum—but the unfortunate boy could do nothing with it, and his mother said he must have some lessons. I applied to Pontavice (our Military Attaché), who said he was sure one of his friends, an officer in the Guards, would arrange it for me, so accordingly there appeared one morning a gentleman (Mr. Lloyd, I think) who said his friend, Comte de Pontavice, had told him that I wished to have some lessons on the drum, and that the drum-major of the regiment was quite at my service. I hastily explained that the lessons were not for me, but for a young friend who was to play that instrument in a toy symphony. He didn't seem at all surprised at my wishing to learn to play the drum, and yet I can't help thinking that he hadn't often been applied to for lessons on the drum for an Ambassadress. He promised to send his man to the Danish Legation, and Mdme. de Bille told me that all the household was upset, and the maids distracted by the magnificent drum-major who came three or four times, and retired to a sort of basement, where he and the boy rattled away on the drum. If I had ever imagined what an undertaking it was, I never should have agreed to the performance. The principal instruments, piano and violins, were all right, but all the small ones, quails, nightingales, and cuckoos (oh, the cuckoos!) were something awful. The children distracted (sometimes they had 25 measures to count), the mammas and governesses equally so, and the impartial assistants (who had no children taking part) remarking to me with absolute frankness that it was the most awful noise they had ever heard. Comte Vinci, first violin, was a tower of strength, and kept them all in order. It is awfully good of him to come and play with all those children.

Friday, April 22, 1892.

I will write you about the performance at once, as I am too tired to do anything else, and have dined quietly at home. We had a last répétition this morning—Mlle. Levisohn directing from a small platform covered with red cloth. For the first time I thought it would go—really almost all the instruments were in tune and in time. Francis had been giving private rehearsals all the morning to Wilhelm Deichmann (trumpet) and the child, I forget which one, that had the triangle. The performance began at 4, and the orchestra was most effective. All the young ladies were in white and the men in dress clothes and white boutonnières. It was killing to see all eyes fixed upon Mlle. Levisohn as she stood on her platform with her baton raised. It really went extremely well. Pfeffer happened in, and said he had never heard the Romberg Symphony better given. After the music was over Francis and Hilda Deichmann played a little comedy, "La Souris," really very well—Mdme. Thénard had coached them both. They weren't at all shy, and looked funny perched on chairs, standing, afraid of an imaginary mouse. They wound up with a dance, Gevers leading a most spirited cotillon. Francis danced with Nannie, who looked very pretty. He was very proud of his American cousin. Mlle. Levisohn had many compliments, and I think she was pleased. She certainly took no end of trouble.

Albert Gate, Thursday, April 28th.

I had a nice ride this morning with Pontavice. W. and Francis went off on Monday—W. to Laon and Francis to school. Last night Henrietta and I went to the Italian Embassy, where there was a contract party for Tornielli's niece, who is to marry the Marquis Paulucci, one of the secretaries. The fiancée looked charming in pink satin, with a very pretty diamond tiara that her uncle had given her. There were a great many people. I had the Camerons with me—Nannie looking very pretty and chic in red satin with gold wings in her hair. I told her the dress was much too old and heavy for her, she should have been in white tulle, with nothing in her hair, but she says all the American girls wear satin. The Tornielli entertainments are always handsome; their full dress livery red is so effective. Henrietta and I have been driving about shopping. I never go near a shop alone, but Mrs. Edwardes told us there were wonderful "occasions" for silks at Marshall & Snelgrove's. We did pick up several things not dear. The English shops are not at all like the French ones.

To H. L. K.

French Embassy, London, May 1, 1892.

It is very cold to-day, and I think generally is on the 1st of May. One can't imagine a Queen of the May, crowned with flowers, dancing around a May-Pole. We are rather shivering, with a good fire in the room. It is true that we have been sitting for some time at the window looking at the crowds of people pouring into the Park for their great demonstration (anti-capitalist). It seems to be all going quite quietly—there are processions, and banners, and brass bands (such horrors), the usual thing, and I am sure there will be no row and that nothing will happen—nothing ever does happen in England.

The Salvation Army are also holding their service in the Park, so near that we can almost hear the hymns. There are always soldiers hovering near when they have their service; I wonder if it does any good. When we were at Dover last year I went quite often to their service—they had one almost every afternoon, late, on the beach. It was a curious sight, such a motley crowd, rugged old fishermen, boys (half water rats), women, children, and occasionally a well-dressed, prosperous small tradesman, often soldiers—some lounging on the outskirts of the little circle, some sitting on boats, some reverent, some merely curious, but all joining in the hymns. I must say it interested me very much; not the sermon, nor the preachers as a general thing, but the little earnest group gathered on the sands with the swash of the waves for an accompaniment, and the red coats of the soldiers making a patch of colour. Some of the women looked pretty even in their regulation poke-bonnets.

French Embassy, London, May 18th.

It is a beautiful, fine day. I did not perform the Drawing-room, but walked about in the crowd with Pontavice, which was decidedly amusing. We saw a good many people we knew in the carriages and talked to some of them. Very tired they looked, having been for hours in the string. I wanted too to see some of the handsome English turn-outs, as when we go ourselves we hardly see anything but colleagues. The policeman, who knew us, let us stand where we liked—I told him to stop the French Ambassador's carriage when it came out. He did, and I jumped in, much to the astonishment of the crowd. We had a pleasant dinner at Lady Delamere's. About the middle the electric light went out and we sat for a few minutes in perfect darkness, except for a succession of matches that Lord Wimborne, who was next to me, lit. The servants lost their heads, and didn't think at first of lighting candles which were on the table. It only lasted those few minutes. Of course such accidents will happen perpetually until the system is perfected and universally applied.

Saturday, May 20th.

We had a pleasant dinner to-night at Lord Tweedmouth's and I went afterward to a very handsome ball at the Burtons' with Nannie and Pontavice. They have Chesterfield House—one of the best London houses—flowers and electric light everywhere, and such splendid pictures. All the smart women in London were there, and all with their tiaras, except one, who explained to me that tiaras should only be worn at Embassies, or when one was invited to meet Royalties, "which of course you understand, as you haven't put yours on"—so I didn't tell the reason, which was that I had forgotten mine, I so rarely wear anything in my hair, and a tiara is heavy; also I have to be "recoiffée," which I hate. My hair is done in the morning, and walks or rides all day, and is merely pulled out a little at night.

Saturday, May 21, 1892.

We dined to-night at the Trevelyans, all Conservatives. The Stanleys (African Stanley) were there. He looks as hard as steel, but I suppose couldn't do what he has done if he were not. Many say he wants to be an M.P. and is sure of his election. His wife can help him enormously. It is so curious to me to see all the women occupying themselves so energetically with politics. They go about the country canvassing for their husbands; wear the colours of the party; and have affiches sometimes in their windows. I saw one well-known political woman in London who had large bills posted on her window, "Vote for Lord R." We should be hooted in France if we did that sort of thing. My husband has been candidate very often, for many offices, but I have scarcely seen his name at the bottom of a circular and never heard him address a public meeting of any kind—in fact, have never been in the country when the elections were going on. It is rather curious, as women have such a strong position in France—a mère de famille, and above all a grandmother, is somebody. A clever, strong-minded grandmother is a power in her family and immediate circle.

French Embassy, London, Wednesday, June 1, 1892.

We had a funny experience to-night. We had been engaged for some time to dine with the Gladstones, to meet the Archbishop of Canterbury and Mrs. Benson. Mrs. Gladstone wrote to me yesterday, asking me to come punctually at 7.45, as the Archbishop didn't like late hours (he is rather a delicate man) and had asked to dine early. We made a great effort to get there in time—and did; so did everybody else—except the Bensons. We waited one hour—then went to dinner (they had sent a messenger to Lambeth and the answer came back that the Archbishop and Mrs. Benson had started hours ago. Everyone was worried and feared there must have been an accident. At 9.30 o'clock, when dinner was practically over (we had got to the jellies and ices), a message was brought to Mr. Gladstone. He left the room and reappeared with the Bensons. The explanation was that Mrs. Gladstone had written her invitation from Dollis Hill, a place belonging to Lord Aberdeen, some miles out of London. They often stay there, so the Archbishop naturally imagined he was to dine there, and they had been driving about in the country. The poor old lady was dreadfully put out—"The Archbishop might have known that we were in London." Of course the dinner was all brought back and our evening was long. However, we managed to go for a moment to the Foreign Office. I said to Lady Salisbury I hoped it wasn't the last time we were supping with her at the Foreign Office (everyone says the Liberals are coming in again). "Will you think me very rude if I say I hope so, though of course I shall always want to see my friends in Arlington Street" (their private residence). I think she and Lord Salisbury are both tired and will be glad to have a rest, not that they will socially, for they are always receiving, both in London and at Hatfield. We got home fairly early, though the streets were crowded, Piccadilly something awful. It is a regular London night—carriages rolling in every direction, and all the world dining, dancing, supping. W. was rather funny over the dinner and the long wait, but said that if he had been in Benson's place he would have gone straight home from Dollis Hill, and had a cup of tea in his library.

Thursday, July 2, 1892.

We had a small luncheon party this morning to hear the band of the Garde Républicaine, who have come over from Paris for a few days to the Exhibition. They play magnificently—we have been to hear them once or twice and I assure you when they play the "Marseillaise" it makes one's pulses leap. We had the Duke of Cambridge, Prince Edward of Saxe-Weimar, Staals, Coventrys, etc. They played on the terrace—we had draped the balcony with red stuffs, and had some flowers and plants and about 70 chairs on the terrace. The Duke talked a great deal. As soon as luncheon was over he went straight to the library, which opens on the terrace. We presented the Chef-de-Musique, and they played at once a few bars of "God Save the Queen"; then the "Marseillaise," everyone standing. Someone said to the Duke, "It is very fine, but not an anthem like our 'God Save the Queen.'" "Non," he answered, "mais c'est un magnifique chant de guerre." They played for about an hour, people coming and going and standing about on the terrace. Some of our friends passing couldn't imagine what was going on—there was quite a crowd collected in the Park listening. My dress hadn't come from Paris, so I wore white, trimmed with Valenciennes; I thought a little of wearing a tiny tricolour bow, but didn't after all. One of the prettiest women there was Mrs. Astor, in black, with a big black picture hat.

To H. L. K.

Walmer Castle, July 17, 1892.

We came down here yesterday and hoped (at least I did) to have a lovely day on the water. Lord Dufferin is a great yachtsman and cruises all about in his own little boat. At the present moment it is pouring—I can hardly see the sea—every now and then comes a partial break and I get a glimpse of a great grey expanse of water. We got down for dinner last night; a small party, as there are not many bedrooms—Lord and Lady Wantage (he such a nice man, one of the few Englishmen who has the "Légion d'Honneur," which he got in the Crimean War), the Marchesa Chigi from Rome, and various young men. The dinner was handsome—Lord Dufferin always a charming host—and we finished the evening in the big drawing-room, where I always feel as if I were in the cabin of a ship, it is so directly on the water. It looks exactly as it did in Lady Granville's time, and in fact Lady D. told me she had not changed anything. When I went to the drawing-room this morning I found the three ladies talking and trying to persuade themselves that it would clear after lunch. I said I did not mind weather and could not stay in the house all day, so we agreed to equip ourselves suitably and go for a walk after lunch. In the meantime Lady D. took me over the house—we went to see Wellington's room (where he died). His little camp-bed is still there, and some interesting relics, bits of uniform, and one or two letters framed and hung upon the wall. The room is small, in one of the towers, nothing magnificent or ducal about it. In fact the whole house is simple and not large, one good drawing-room, looking straight out to sea, so that sitting inside you see the big ships pass apparently close under the windows—a fair dining-room, no library or billiard-room, and a few bedrooms—an ideal place for a water life. The moat has been changed into a garden and there is a tennis-court somewhere, though I didn't exactly make out where. We went for a walk along the sea wall with waterproofs and umbrellas, and I wondered if we should be blown over into the sea, the wind came in such violent gusts sometimes. It seems a child and a perambulator were blown off the other day, and strange to say nothing was hurt, neither child nor perambulator—only the nurse had hysterics. We walked to Deal and paid Lady Herschell a visit. I rather demurred at going in, as my hair was decidedly ruffled and I was very wet, but they all wanted to and I didn't look any worse than any of the others. The Castle is fine, interesting—not so large as Walmer, but with always the same beautiful situation close to the sea. It is one of the Cinque Ports, and Lord Sydney had it as long as he lived. The Herschells walked back with us, and coming home was pleasanter, as the rain had stopped and the wind diminished a little. I came up after tea, as I was a little tired and thought I would take advantage of a quiet moment to write to you. I will finish to-night, as we have come upstairs early. We had rather an amusing evening. The young people proposed playing "Historical Portraits," and insisted upon our all taking part. I protested vehemently, as I never have drawn anything in my life. I remember the drawing class years ago at Mrs. Ward's, when we all copied a Greek girl with an amphora on her head, and the tears I shed over my performance. The amphora (that might have been anything) was crooked and toppling over, and all her arms and legs were of different lengths. Even the drawing master was obliged to say I had no facility with my pencil. The game is really an undertaking. Everyone is given paper and pencils and you have 5 minutes by the watch to draw a historical portrait or portraits. My neighbour, one of the sons, was doing something most elaborate—a quantity of figures—my other neighbour, about my calibre, looked helpless, but said she must do something. What do you think she did? "The House that Jack Built," an infantine production with 4 lines and a chimney, the sort of thing that we all have done as children. That gave me courage, particularly as she had played the game before, and knew what could be received, so I drew the "Man in the Moon." Can't you see it—a large, round O with dots for eyes, nose, and mouth. Some of the drawings were really very clever—the "Field of the Cloth of Gold" with a great many figures, and Raleigh and his cloak before Elizabeth; Queen Elizabeth with a chignon and a short bicycle skirt. We amused ourselves very much. We leave to-morrow morning, W. by the first train, as he had an early rendezvous in London. I shall go a little later with the Wantages.

London, Friday, July 22, 1892.

W. and I drove out to Lyon House this afternoon to a garden party at the Duke of Northumberland's. It is a fine old place, about an hour's drive from London, with big iron gates, with the Percy lion with its tail straight out on top. The Duke did not appear—his daughter-in-law, Countess Percy (who is a daughter of the Duke of Argyll) did the honours. She showed us the great corridor and large drawing-room with a fine Adam's ceiling, and then we went out into the garden, where there were quantities of tents, carpets, tea-tables—and half London. Everyone was talking elections. I sympathised with Philip Stanhope, who has been beaten, and said, "Why didn't you spend more money while you were about it?" He was not in the least outraged at such a question, and replied promptly, "I should have certainly, if I hadn't been so sure of being named." They say a great deal of money has been spent this time.

London, July 27th.

We had our last outing for this year last night; a handsome dinner at Tornielli's for the Duc d'Aoste. He is a tall, good-looking young fellow, decidedly dashing, and inclined to amuse himself. He is a curious contrast to his father, whom I liked extremely, but who was cold and silent, looked like a Spanish grandee of the Middle Ages, or a soldier-monk—a very striking face and figure. Countess Somaglia (née Gwendoline Doria) was among the guests, with her two daughters. We talked a little of old days in Rome. I remember so well when she was married.

To-morrow I shall make our paquets, and we four, Francis and I, May and Beatrice, leave for Bayreuth and the Tyrol by the Club train on Saturday. I ordered my mountain dresses at Nicoll's—two skirts to one jacket—a real short one faced with leather for mountaineering, and a longer one, shortish too, for travelling, in blue serge; a shortish blue linen, and an alpaca. All the personnel dine to-night for good-bye. This is my 9th season in London—I wonder if I shall ever see it again. I have a presentiment that next year we shall only go back to take leave.

To G. K. S.

French Embassy, February 1, 1893.

We came over last night; a very good crossing, the shortest I ever made; we were just one hour on the boat. Lady Salisbury was on board, coming from the Riviera. We talked all the way over. She is very sorry we are going—says the Queen will regret M. Waddington very much; that she had great confidence in him, and now, at her age, rather dreads seeing strange faces around her. W. is very glad to get back to France—I too. After all, ten years is a long time to be away from one's country.

Sunday, 5th.

W. and I drove out this afternoon to White Lodge to say good-bye to Princess Mary. As we came quite near to the house we crossed very quickly two gentlemen in a hansom and just recognised the Prince of Wales and Prince George. Everyone is saying that that marriage will be arranged. Princess Mary and Princess May were alone, and decidedly more cheerful. Princess May still in black, but with no crêpe and a little jet. Princess Mary was charming and friendly as she always is, and seemed really sorry we were going, also wanted to know who was coming in our place; but that I couldn't tell her. She promised to come to tea one afternoon at the Embassy before we went away. Various people came in to tea, as they always do here on Sunday afternoon, and someone said the marriage was certainly decided and would be announced after the 27th, which was to have been the wedding-day last year. They certainly looked much brighter and happier than I expected to see them.

French Embassy, February 13, 1893.

I went this afternoon to the House of Commons to hear Mr. Gladstone make his great Irish speech. I had an excellent place in the front row of the ladies' gallery, and heard and saw everything. The House was packed, chairs all along the gangway—the Prince, Dukes of York and Teck in their places, quantities of peers and some diplomats—no Ambassadors, which surprised me. I know that W. always prefers reading a speech the next day, but I thought some of the others would be there. Mr. Gladstone was much cheered by both sides when he came in (a tribute to his age and intelligence rather than to his politics). He rose to speak at a quarter to 4, finishing at 5 minutes past six (two hours and 20 minutes). He was much quieter and less passionate than I had expected. There was no vehement appeal for the wrongs of Ireland. It was more an "exposé de motifs" than a real speech, but it was an extraordinary effort for a man of his age (83). His voice was so clear and strong, never faltering: a little weaker and lower perhaps toward the end. I suppose it is the last great political speech he will ever make.

To H. L. K.

French Embassy, March 3, 1893.

We are beginning our tournée of farewell visits, and to-day we have been to take leave of the Prince and Princess of Wales at Marlborough House. I had not seen the Princess since Prince Eddie's death. I wore blue velvet and my Jubilee medal. We were received at the door by all the household—Probyn, Lord Suffield, Stanley Clark, Lady Suffield, and Miss Knollys. Prince George was in the first drawing-room. The Prince and Princess with two daughters in the big long room. I can't say I found the Princess changed or grown older. She looked sad, but it was the same slight, youthful figure. She was still in deep plain black (woollen stuff) with no ornaments. She was charming, with the sweet, simple manner she always has. Tears came into her eyes when she said she hadn't seen me for so long on account of her mourning. I asked her about her first grandchild—Princess Louise Fife's little girl. She said she was a dear little thing, talked a great deal, trotted about everywhere, and called her "Granny." W. and the Prince talked together, but we didn't stay very long. I didn't say a word to the Princess about Prince Eddie (they told me not to), only just as we were going I said I hoped the end of the year would bring her happiness and blessing. She squeezed my hand, but her lips quivered and she couldn't speak. She has been unfailing to us always and said we should certainly meet again, and that I must always let her know when I came to England. I begin to realise now that we are going, with all these leave-takings. After all we have been here 10 years, and that is a good piece out of one's life.

Albert Gate, March 5, 1893.

I wish you had been here yesterday to see the farewell dinner for W. at the Mansion House. It was a great tribute to a departing Ambassador—all the distinguished men in England assembled to say good-bye. The Lady Mayoress had asked me to dine with her and bring anyone I wanted, so I took Hilda and Mdme. de la Villestreux. Hilda and I started together a little before 7. As we drew near the Mansion House there was quite a crowd; quantities of policemen, and empty carriages driving away. We went in by the same entrance as the men, and then turned off sharp to the right and were conducted to the drawing-room of the Lady Mayoress. I wore black moiré with a great band of orange velvet on the corsage, and all the jewels I possessed—tiara, pearls, and diamond necklace and diamond stars and ornaments fastened on the front of the dress, as I knew we were to sit in the gallery after dinner to hear the speeches. We found Mdme. de la Villestreux already there—there were 16 women. The Lady Mayoress presented them all to me. They were all ex-Lady Mayoresses—"ladies who had passed the chair," which it seems is the technical term. She also gave me a splendid bouquet tied with a tricolour ribbon. The dinner was very good, the traditional London public dinner menu—turtle soup, salmon, etc. There was very handsome silver on the table: great massive bowls and flagons and beautiful flowers—very quickly served, and really very pleasant. After the first five minutes everyone talked. Some of the women were handsome, all well dressed and with quantities of diamonds. Just as we were finishing a servant came to summon us to the gallery. The loving cup was going round and the speeches were to begin. The Lady Mayoress led the way to the gallery in the great banqueting hall directly opposite the table d'honneur. It was a striking sight, particularly that table where was the Lord Mayor in his robes, and all the diplomatists with stars and broad ribbons. There was a blaze of light and at first I couldn't recognise anyone (we were very high), and then I saw W. standing, drinking out of the loving cup, with the Lord Mayor on one side and Rustem on the other, and gradually I made out a good many people. There were two long tables besides the table d'honneur, and they told me about 300 guests. All the representative men and intelligence of England assembled to say God-speed to the departing Ambassador. The Speaker and Lord Herschell (Presidents of the two Houses) were both there, and men of every possible coterie from Lord Lorne to James Knowles of the "Nineteenth Century." As soon as the regular toasts had been drunk there was a pause and then came the toast of the evening with "bumpers," "The French Ambassador." There were roars of applause when W. got on his legs, and I must confess to a decided choke in my throat. W. spoke (in English, which they had asked him to do) very simply and very well, going back to his early days. When he said that he had done his best always to keep up good and friendly relations with England, and that he had had much sympathy from all sides, he was much cheered; but much more when he said that perhaps what had given him more friends in England than any of his public acts as a statesman was the fact that he had rowed in the University eight at Cambridge. Then there were roars of applause, and he heard quite distinctly the people below saying—"he is quite right, we always remember it." He was quite ému when he came to the end; his voice taking that grave tone I like so much when he said "good-bye." One heard every word. He was much cheered when he finished. The Lady Mayoress came and shook hands with me and asked me if I wasn't proud of my husband. Some of the speeches were charming—the Speaker's particularly; Lord Lorne also made a very pretty little speech, and Rustem (Turk), who answered the toast for the "Corps Diplomatique," made a very good speech. I can't remember all the names and all the speeches, but it was a most brilliant assembly, and as Countess Deym said to me, a wonderful tribute to W. As soon as the speeches were over we all went down to the great hall, where I had a perfect défilé of compliments and regrets, Lord Lorne again repeating his words "that W.'s departure was a national calamity." All had something friendly to say—the two Law Lords, Judge Bowen and Sir Francis Jeune, most sympathetic. S. too told me I should be much pleased—he had never seen such a demonstration in England for a foreigner. Of course some of the young men came in to the Embassy to talk the dinner over, and gave their impressions. They were all much pleased. W. certainly was, and said he felt quite ému when he saw all the faces turned to him and knew that every word he said would tell—also he knew quite well that his reference to the boat-race would appeal much more to the general public than any expressions of good feeling toward England. He hasn't always had an easy time with his English name and his English education. Of course it has been very useful to him here, as he has been thrown with all sorts of people, and could understand the English point of view, but in France they were always afraid he was too English. I think when he has gone they will realise at home what good work he has done here because he understands them.

French Embassy, London, March 8, 1893.

W. and I went together to the Mansion House, Tuesday, to pay a farewell visit to the Lady Mayoress, who was receiving formally with music, tea, and quantities of people. The Lord Mayor appeared too when he heard we were there, and was quite pleased when W. said how gratified and touched he had been by the banquet and the universal expression of regret at his departure. The Lord Mayor said to him, "You can't find any warmer friends, Ambassador, in France than those you are leaving here, but I quite understand that a man can't live long out of his own country." We had just time to get back to the Embassy, dress, and start for Windsor, where we dined: our last stay in the yellow rooms. The dinner was almost entirely Royal—the Empress Frederick, Prince and Princess Christian, Prince and Princess Henry of Battenberg, Duchess of Connaught, del Mazo, the Spanish Ambassador, I the only other lady. The cercle was not long—I thought the Queen looked tired. She sat down at once; said she wouldn't say good-bye, as she hoped to see me once more at Buckingham Palace. She said at her age she rather dreaded saying good-bye, also seeing new faces, and she was very sorry we were going. "Who comes to replace you?" I said I thought nothing was yet decided. I talked some time to the other Princesses after the Queen had congédied me. The Empress was as usual charming, and said, "I am afraid we sha'n't meet again often, Mdme. Waddington, you won't cross to Berlin, and I can't go to Paris, but that isn't my fault. I think we shall have to meet in Italy, where I first had the pleasure of seeing you." The end of the evening we spent as usual in the drawing-room with the "household." I had quite a talk with Prince Henry, who is very good-looking and attractive. We left the drawing-room about eleven—W. going as usual to smoke, and I to my rooms. I sat some time in front of the fire in the beautiful little yellow drawing-room wondering if I ever should see it again, and going back to our first Windsor visit, when all was so new and strange to me. I wonder where we shall be this time next year, and if we shall settle down easily to our quiet life in France. W. came in rather late from the smoking-room: he said all the men were so nice to him, and seemed really sorry he was going; also were very anxious to know if he wasn't sorry himself.

This morning (Wednesday) it was beautiful. I breakfasted as usual in my rooms and sat some time in the deep window recess watching all the people coming and going. There is always so much life about Windsor when the Queen is there. About 10 Colonel Byng came to take us to the Chapel to see the sarcophagus of Prince Eddie, which is enormous and has rather too much colour—almost gaudy. I went with Hilda the other day to Gilbert's studio to see the monument he is making, and which I liked. It is very elaborate and complicated, but the sleeping figure good: so reposeful and young; the long straight limbs. One quite realised a young life cut short. Gilbert is clever and interesting, and begged us to criticise freely.

We got home about 12 and I took a short turn in the Park before breakfast, which was full as usual when the Queen passes. She came this afternoon for two Drawing-rooms. I shall do my last to-morrow—I sha'n't go to the second.

French Embassy, March 10, 1893.

I am doing all my last things. I went to the Drawing-room yesterday (our last). Countess Spencer presented the ladies, and looked very stately and handsome in black, with splendid jewels. The Queen didn't stay very long, but looked less tired, I thought, than the other night at Windsor. I said good-bye to a great many people whom I sha'n't see again. At this season plenty of people are still in the country, and only come up for a day or two for Drawing-rooms, theatres, etc. Teesdale and I had quiet an affectionate parting. For so long now we have made our entrée together into the Throne Room: he holding my hand and both of us making a deep bow and curtsey at the door, that we have become quite like puppets.

This afternoon I have had my farewell audience from the Queen at Buckingham Palace at 4 o'clock. I wore as usual the blue velvet, which will walk about alone soon, as it has done all the ceremonies lately; my pearls, and a crême velvet bonnet with light blue feathers. I went in the ordinary open carriage (not gala). The gala carriage with the powdered wigs, big footmen, canes, etc., went out yesterday for the last time to the Drawing-room. I had some difficulty in getting into the court-yard, which was filled with carriages, luggage-vans, soldiers, etc., as the Queen was leaving this afternoon for Windsor. I was sent from one entrance to another, in spite of the tricolour cockade, and finally drew up at a side-door (where a shabby little victoria was standing). A man in ordinary black livery appeared, and after a short parley (in which I intervened myself, saying that I was the French Ambassadress and had an audience with the Queen) he showed me into a room on the ground floor. I waited about 15 minutes (it was 5 minutes to 4 when I arrived) and then Lady Southampton, Lady in Waiting, appeared, with many apologies for being late—she didn't think I would come so soon (and I was a little afraid of being late, they kept me so long in the court-yard). We went upstairs to a small drawing-room looking out on the court-yard, and in about 10 minutes the same servant in black appeared, saying, "The Queen is ready to receive the French Ambassadress." Lady Southampton said she couldn't come, as the Queen wished to see me alone, so I followed the servant down a long corridor—he stopped at a door, knocked, a voice said "come in," and I found myself in the Royal presence. It was a small, ordinary room, rather like a sort of waiting-room, no traces of habitation, nothing pretty or interesting. The Queen was standing, very simply dressed in black (her travelling dress she said, she was starting at once for Windsor) before a writing-table which was in the middle of the room, covered with books and papers. She was most kind, made me sit down on the sofa next to her, and said she was afraid she had kept me waiting, but that she had been kept by a visit from Mr. Gladstone—she then paused a moment, so I made a perfectly banal remark, "what a wonderful man, such an extraordinary intelligence," to which she replied, "He is very deaf." She expressed great regret at our departure, and hoped we were sorry to leave England and all our friends, but after all Paris was not very far off, and she hoped she should see me again. She was sure M. Waddington would find plenty to do when he got back—would he continue his literary work? I said he would certainly have plenty to do, as he was Senator and Membre de l'Institut, but that we should both miss the Embassy life and the varied interests it brought. She repeated that she hoped to see me again, so I asked if ever I came back to England might I write to one of her ladies, and ask if I could be received. "Pray do, and I shall not say good-bye, but au revoir." We talked about 15 minutes about all sorts of things—some of our colleagues—our successor, etc. She asked again who was coming to London, and said, "My last two Ambassadors to France were ex-Viceroys." It seemed to me that she said it on purpose, and that she wanted France to send one of her best men to St. James's. I repeated the remark to my husband, and the chancellerie. It is quite true. The present British Ambassador, Lord Dufferin, is certainly the first diplomatist they have. He has had every distinguished post England can offer—Ambassador to St. Petersburg and Rome, Governor of Canada, and Viceroy of India, and has played a great part. His predecessor, Lord Lytton, was also Viceroy of India, and very distinguished, though in a different way from Lord Dufferin. I rather fancy that Montebello would be an acceptable appointment. He knows English well, has English relations, and I should think would like the post, but I have really no idea. Some of the papers say that Ribot wants the place, but I think he prefers home politics and would not care to leave France; however, I could not tell the Queen anything definite. She kissed me at parting, and gave me her photograph, signed, in a handsome silver frame—then half turned her back, moving to a door on the other side of the room, so that I could get out easily and not altogether à reculons, which would have been awkward to open the door. I tucked my parcel under my arm, opened the door myself (a thing I don't often do in these days, except my bedroom door) and found myself again in the long corridor. My audience was over, and I daresay I shall never see the Queen again. She was unfailing to us both from the first moment, always welcomed us with the same smile, was always inclined to talk about anything and to understand and smooth over any little difficulty or misunderstanding. I think she is a wonderful woman and a wonderful Queen. In her long life she must have had many difficult questions and responsibilities, and certainly England has not suffered under her rule. I met Lady S. in the corridor, who came downstairs with me, and said she was quite sure the Queen meant it when she said she would like to see me again, that she never said anything she didn't mean.

I found Hilda and one or two friends when I got home who told me that the English ladies, headed by Ladies Salisbury and Spencer, representing the two parties, Conservative and Liberal, were going to give me a souvenir (in memory of my ten years in London), a jewel of some kind. I was rather pleased. The last days of adieux are rather melancholy. I shall be glad when they are over. I forgot to say that Wednesday I had a message about 3 o'clock from the Princess Beatrice, saying she and Prince Henry of Battenberg would come about 5 and ask me for a cup of tea. The notice was so short that I hadn't time to ask anyone except Hilda, who happened in, and some of the secretaries. They came alone and were most friendly—said they had not given me any more time on purpose, as they didn't want a party, but merely to see us. They were as easy and pleasant as possible, she talking much more than she ever does in the grand monde. I told her I hoped she would let me know if ever she came to Paris. She said. "Oh, yes—and we will do a lively play together."

To H. L. K.

Albert Gate, Tuesday, March 14, 1893.

I went this afternoon with Mdme. de la Villestreux to the French bazaar at Kensington Town Hall to receive Princess Mary, who opened it (and very much better than I did the day I performed the same thing). Mdme. de Bylandt, de Bille, Mdme. du Poutel de la Harpe were all there waiting at the foot of the stairs. Princess Mary was easy and charming, and I really think was not bored. She had all the ladies presented to her, talked to them all, knew apparently all their relations, young and old, complimented them on the arrangement of their stalls, said the various objects made and presented by the Ladies' Art Association were very artistic and useful (I wish you could have seen them—our pincushions at the Vente des Diaconnesses were things of beauty next to them), took her tea, said the cake was so good, and delighted everybody. When I see how easy it is for Royalties to win golden opinions with a few gracious words and a smile, I wonder at the stiff, stand-off manner some of them adopt. Princess May looked very slight and pretty, and is always well dressed. I again wore the blue velvet, which will fall off me soon, but this time I changed the bonnet and wore a black jet one with a red rose, and it wasn't very pretty.

March 16, 1893.

We had a last musical afternoon to-day at Marie Humlicher's: 8 hands, two pianos, she directing and the performers being Ctesse. de Bylandt, Mlle. de Staal, Hilda and I. We played Mozart and Schumann, really very well. Mlle. Humlicher has a nice big room over a coutourière on Fulham Road. She always gives us tea after the music, which is generally brought up by a tidy little English maid with her cap and apron. She was astounded this afternoon when the tea was brought in by a most elegant young person, dressed in the latest fashion, and attended by a second, also most stylish—however, as the tea was all right she did not say anything; neither did I, but I waited a moment after the other ladies had gone and she had a mysterious conversation on the stairs and came in highly amused. It seems the two elegant ladies were the dressmaker and her assistant. When they saw all these ambassadorial equipages at their door—enormous powdered footmen, wigs, cockades, etc., also Hilda's beautiful carriage (Deichmann has splendid horses always and everything perfectly well turned out), their curiosity got the better of them and they felt they must see the swells; so they interviewed the maid, installed her in their rooms to attend to any customer who might come, got into their swell garments, and brought up the tea. Wasn't it funny? Luckily we were all rather elegant. I had been paying some farewell visits, and it so happened that we were all up to the mark. I have sometimes gone to Mlle. Humlicher's on foot in a cloth dress, as it is not far from the Embassy. I am sorry to have done with those afternoons—Mlle. Humlicher plays beautifully—she is a pupil of Rubinstein's and has a real artistic nature.

Friday, March 17th.

I had a line from Lady Salisbury yesterday, asking if to-day at 5 would suit me to receive the ladies and my present. I accepted of course, asking her about how many would come. She answered, between 50 and 60, she thought. As the moment drew near I got rather nervous, for W. said they would certainly make me a little speech and that I would have to reply, and he suggested thinking it over; but that I refused and said I must trust to the inspiration of the moment. I wore my purple satin. The ladies arrived very punctually. There were one or two men, all the personnel, including W., and one or two of my friends, Sir George Arthur, Gevers, etc. Lady Salisbury asked me where I would stand, so I put myself in the middle of the big drawing-room, under the chandelier. Lady Salisbury was spokeswoman, flanked on one side by Lady Spencer, the other by Mrs. Gladstone; all the other ladies, including Ladies Londonderry, Cadogan, Shrewsbury, Harcourt, etc., forming a circle round me. Lady Salisbury made a very pretty little speech, beginning—"Madame Waddington, Ambassadress," and saying they hoped I would sometimes think of England and my English friends, that I had been there so long that I seemed one of themselves, etc., and then handed me a blue velvet étui. I don't know exactly what I replied (I was rather émue and W. just opposite to me was looking at me hard), but evidently only a few words, to say that the ten years I had spent in London had been very happy ones, that France wasn't very far away, and that I hoped to come back often—but I think they understood that I was pleased and grateful for the present, and above all with the feeling that prompted it. The jewel is very handsome, a circle of large, beautiful white diamonds with a large pearl in the centre and another as pendant. It was passed around the company and they all found it very handsome. We had tea in the blue room, and I talked to them all and said what was perfectly true, that they had been ten perfectly happy years we had spent in London, and ten years is a good piece out of one's life. They left me a book with the names of all the "signataires." W. was much pleased, and I fancy it was rather an unusual demonstration. One of these days, when Francis's wife wears it, it will be a historic jewel. After all the company had gone the secretaries stayed on a little while. I think they are all sorry we are going, and they certainly regret W. as a chief. They all say he is so absolutely just.

Albert Gate, Monday, March 27, 1893.

We walked about in the Row this morning. It was cold and raw, not many people. We dined at the Italian Embassy in the evening with Tornielli. The Comtesse is at Naples with her niece, the young Marquise Paulucci, who has just had a fine boy. The dinner was small, mostly colleagues. We sat after dinner in the red drawing-room, which is very picturesque—a fine old carved chimney, enormous, and beautiful old red silk hangings just faded enough to give an old-world look. He has brought quantities of things from his palace in Italy. Lincoln was there. He knows who his successor is—Mr. Bayard. We don't know ours.

Albert Gate, March 29, 1893.

Princess Mary and Princess May had promised to come once to tea before I left and they named to-day. I asked very few people—Duchess of St. Albans, Ladies Arran, Randolph Churchill, Hilda, and some men, Deym, Tornielli, Mensdorff, George Arthur, etc. Lady Randolph is very musical, plays extremely well and is very kind to all the artists. I asked Mlle. Jansen (Swedish), who sang quite beautifully—a fine voice, such a ring in it. She is going to America, and I am sure she will have a great success. Both Princesses were as cordial and nice as possible, said it would seem strange not to see me about everywhere any more. "Of course you will come back to London," Princess Mary said; "but it can never be the same thing—you will be a visitor; now you are living your life with us, and London is your home." Princess May looked very pretty, and so bright that I fancy her engagement is settled—everyone seems to think so. I didn't say anything to her, but when I parted from Princess Mary at the foot of the stairs I couldn't help saying that I heard that very soon all her friends would be able to congratulate her, and that as I was going I would like to think that very happy days were before her. She said "I hope so—I think so," and kissed me. At the door she turned and said, "I wonder when I shall have tea and music again in these rooms. I shall always think with pleasure of the French Embassy." We had a farewell dinner at our cousin's, Mrs. Mostyn's. Lord Herschell was on one side of me and talked a great deal about the banquet at the Mansion House. He said W.'s English was so good, too classical if anything; said he would like very much to hear him speak in French and at the Tribune. He couldn't imagine such a quiet speech and manner in the fiery French Chamber. I told him the Senate was much more sedate than the Chamber (consequently much less amusing) and that he would often hear a perfectly quiet academic speech there.

French Embassy, Good Friday, March 31, 1893.

We went to the afternoon service at St. Paul's, where the anthem was beautiful. There were a great many people, a great many men following the service, and a great many also walking about looking at the tombs and tablets.

We really have not a moment these last days. I shall go over a little before W., about the 12th of next month. We have had all sorts of leave-takings. The Empress Frederick received us the other day—always charming and interesting, but still talking of her visit to Paris, which she can't get over. She said to me, "I would have liked so much to see you in Paris, in your own house. M. Waddington promised me a dinner with all your clever men." "I should have been much pleased and honoured, Majesté; perhaps a little later he may have that pleasure—but I'm afraid——"

We had all a pleasant visit to Princess Louise at Kensington, who said she would certainly let us know when she came to Paris—I think she often comes. We went to White Lodge, of course, where they all look so happy I can't help thinking that the marriage is arranged. We also went, for a farewell cup of tea, to Alma Tadema, who receives once a week in his beautiful studio. He is going to send me an engraving of one of his lovely Greek pictures. His atelier is most picturesque and full of interesting things. He has a set of panels painted by all his artist friends which are gems. He is very attractive himself—so simple. There were a good many people there.

We had a dinner and party (music) last week at Lady Wimborne's. Their entertainments are always successful. The house (Hamilton House) is one of the best in London. Lord B., a great friend of W.'s, took me to get an ice at the buffet, and was deploring W.'s departure. "Such a pity that Waddington had gone back to France after graduating so brilliantly at Cambridge. He would certainly have made the same career in England, and would have been Premier in England, so much better than being Premier in France"—a truly British sentiment (what makes their strength, perhaps), but naif.

To G. K. S.

Albert Gate, Easter Sunday, April 2, 1893.

My last Easter in London, a beautiful bright day. Henrietta, Francis, and I walked down to Westminster Abbey in the morning. It was crowded, as it always is—Easter is such a splendid service—the fine old Easter hymn always the same, with the Hallelujah echoing through the vaults and arches. We had a small dinner in the evening—Jusserand (who had come back to see his friends, of whom he has thousands here), the La Villestreux, the personnel, and a few young people in the evening. I wore my jewel, which they all found very handsome.

French Embassy, April 9th.

Henrietta, Francis, and I went to the Temple Church this morning. It is a grand old place, right in the heart of London. We were met at the door by one of the "benchers," who gave us very good places and took us all over the church and various halls after service. Francis had never been there and was wildly interested, particularly in the tombs of the old Crusaders with their crossed legs. We lunched with quite a party of benchers and their wives in the "parlement" room, a charming room looking out on the river and across a garden filled with roses, streams of sunlight pouring in at all the windows. They told us the War of the Roses, white and red, was planned in those gardens, and asked us if we remembered the old lines:

"If this red rose offend thy sight,

It in thy bosom wear;

'Twill blush to find itself less white

And turn Lancastrian there.:

Yesterday we had a handsome "Diner d'Adieu" at the Turkish Embassy, principally colleagues. Lincoln was there—he too is going, his wife left yesterday. They have raised the United States Legation here to an Embassy, and I hope they will raise the salaries. No one is more asked out or has a better position here than the United States Minister. I always remember the remark of one of our colleagues, Baron Solvyns, who had been long in London and knew it well. We were talking one day about the Corps Diplomatique, small Powers, Embassies, etc., and were discussing who was the most important Ambassador in London. Solvyns said, "There is no doubt about it, the American Minister is the first Ambassador in London."

French Embassy, April 12, 1893.

My last letter from Albert Gate, Dear. Yesterday all our small things, silver, house linen, etc., departed. The packing seemed well done. We put everything that was to go in the ballroom (little Dresden figures, glasses, silver ornaments), nothing packed, all spread out, on tables. A man came and made an inventory, packs everything in a great van that comes to the door and arrives at our door in the Rue Dumont d'Urville, where equally everything is taken out and unpacked. He says nothing will be broken. It is certainly a very easy way of moving, and I shall be anxious to see how they arrive. The Florians had their furniture taken over like that, and I think one table was a little démantibulée. We leave to-morrow; we being Henrietta and I. W. stays some little time still. I take over all the French servants, both coachmen, and my victoria and horses, as I must settle myself for the spring in the Paris house. W. sends over one of the secretaries, M. Lecomte, with us, and the colleagues are all coming to the station to say good-bye. The rooms look melancholy to-night, so many things gone; piano of course and all books and small tables, screens, etc.—all the gros mobilier belongs to the Embassy. We sat some time talking, just we three: W., Henrietta, and I, after dinner. W. has just been named one of the Directeurs du Canal de Suez. I think he will find plenty of occupation when he gets back.

Paris, 31, Rue Dumont d'Urville, April 16, 1893.

Here I am, Dear, back in my little salon, writing at my table in the corner by the window, and rather distracted by the quantities of carriages passing. There is so much more movement in the street than when we left ten years ago, and I have got accustomed to such a quiet bedroom and salon. All our living rooms (except the dining-room) at Albert Gate gave on the Park, so we never heard the rattle and noise of carriages over pavements, and as no cabs nor camions are allowed in the Park the passing never disturbed us. We came over very comfortably on Thursday. All our colleagues were at the station to see us off, and I think they are sorry to say good-bye. We found our voiture-salon filled with flowers. Sir George Arthur and S. came over with us. It was very cold and very rough. All the men disappeared at once, but Henrietta and I remained on deck and were quite happy, well wrapped up with rugs, and tarpaulins stretched in front of us to keep out the wet. Lecomte had arranged our lunch in the private room of the buffet at Calais (where W. and I always breakfasted when we came over) and it was comfortable to see a bright fire. I am ashamed to say that the ladies of the party eat a very good breakfast. The men looked rather white, and certainly were not good "fourchettes" at that meal. At Dover we had found Lord William Seymour in uniform, with his aide-de-camp, wife and daughter waiting for us. He took me on the boat, and to the cabin, where there were more flowers, and stayed until the last moment, giving the captain all manner of instructions for my comfort, and particularly to see that my cabin was warm, with plenty of rugs, etc. I never went near it. I think Adelaïde and Bonny had a very comfortable time there. Francis met us at the Gare du Nord, much pleased to have us back. We went to Henrietta's to dine. I was glad to come home directly after dinner and go to bed. Well, Dear, there is one chapter of my life closed—I wonder what the future reserves for us. I shall be uncomfortable for a few days until my van arrives. It left the same day we did, and the man said it would take a week to bring the things over, but I shall not expect them for ten days. I found quantities of cards and notes here, and Louise and Henrietta of course will give me dinner or anything else I want until I can get quite settled. Hubert got over only to-day. The sea was so rough he wouldn't cross on Thursday; he waited a day at Folkestone, and another at Boulogne, to rest the horses which had been knocked about. W. writes that the Embassy seems absolutely empty. Still he dines out every night (at the club when he hasn't an invitation) and will come over as soon as he can. The house looks so small after the big rooms at Albert Gate, and the stable and little cour minute. It sounded so familiar to hear the carriage coming in under the voûte, and also the street cries. I daresay in a few days I shall take up my ordinary Paris life, and London will seem a dream—like Moscow.

To G. K. S.

Bayreuth, Saturday, July 31, 1897.^[12]

We arrived Thursday evening from Nuremberg in a pouring rain, which continued all day Friday, and detestable it was—streets crowded, everybody's umbrella running into one and catching in your veil (really twice in mine), mud everywhere, carriages scarce and dear. Our rooms are comfortable, Mary de Bunsen got them for us, a good-sized salon (with a piano), three bedrooms, and two maids' rooms. We have our early breakfast and supper, but dine out. Our experience at the Sonne was not very agreeable—a long, hot dining-room, quantities of hungry people and no servants to speak of. I was rather interested in my neighbour, a long, thin American, a Western man from Iowa I think, a school-master. He told me he had been saving for years to get money enough "to come across" (as he said) and hear "Parsifal." He had taught himself German in the evenings when his class was finished. The man was in such a quiver of delighted anticipation that it was a pleasure to see him. I told him I was sure he would not be disappointed, as Van Dyck was to sing "Parsifal." There were quite a number of priests at table, and one heard a little French, but the talk was principally German and English. We got up to the theatre easily enough, as carriages were going backward and forward all the time. The opera, "Parsifal," was beautifully given—Van Dyck as good as ever. I always think he stands so wonderfully in that scene where he has his back to the public and is absorbed by all he sees. He told me it was one of his most difficult parts. We had great difficulty in getting our coffee between the acts, and greater still in finding our carriage at the end. The crowd, and scramble, and mud were something awful.

Friday, August 6th.

We are leaving this afternoon, having had an enchanting week. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, the whole Ring beautifully given. All the music is racing through my brain, from the lovely wave chorus of the swimming Rhine maidens to the magnificent end of the "Götterdämmerung" with all the different motifs worked in. They played the funeral march of "Siegfried" splendidly. It is a curious life one leads here. In the morning everybody walks about the town—the streets are narrow and it is amusing to be hailed from windows over small shops, grocers', bakers', watchmakers', by friends who are lodging there. About 3 a sort of restless excitement is in the air and one sees a long procession mounting the hill to the Opera House, everyone absorbed by the one idea. There are quantities of people we know. I didn't go and see Mdme. Wagner this time, as Henrietta and Pauline don't know her. Her evenings, the off night, are very interesting. One sees all the distinguished people of any kind at her house, all the artists, critics, etc. Of course no one ventures to criticise the music—merely the execution.

Meingeningen, Biebrich, Sunday, August 15, 1897.

I have been here two or three days and am glad to have some quiet hours in the garden after the fatigue and excitement of Bayreuth. Four Wagner operas in succession is a strain on one's brain (not that I wouldn't do it straight over again this week if I could, but one wants the rest between). The crowd at Bayreuth the day we started was something wonderful, as of course everyone leaves after their série—there is nothing to do or see in the town. At Nuremberg, too, the scramble to get something to eat was funny, as there were two courants, all of us leaving Bayreuth, and just as many more arriving to take our places. There is always a crowd at the Nuremberg station, though they have multiplied little buffets outside the regular salles d'attente with coffee, beer, sausages, etc. We were late all along the line, and again there was such a crowd at the big Frankfort station that I could not get my trunks in time to take the first train for Mosbach—however, I arrived finally and was pleased to see Heinrich's broad, good-humoured face, and we drove at once to the house, where Mary was waiting for me with supper. We talked a little, but even that took us on to 2 o'clock, as it was after midnight when I arrived.

We have seen various people, and made expeditions to Wiesbaden. We wrote to the Empress Frederick's lady-in-waiting the other day (Countess Perponcher, whom Mary knows very well) to say that I was here near Cronberg, and would be so pleased if the Empress would receive me. The answer has just come, asking me to lunch at Cronberg on Wednesday. I am delighted to go—first to see the Empress, and then to see the house, which is filled with beautiful things. The Empress has travelled so much, and been so much in Italy, and has bought all sorts of treasures.

Tuesday, August 17, 1897.

Last night we went to the opera at Wiesbaden. It was "Hansel and Gretel," beautifully given—the orchestra very good and the angel scene with all the angels coming down a sort of ladder and circling round the sleeping children quite exquisite. It was a funny contrast to the London and Paris Opera. Mary and I started off about 5.30 in ordinary summer dress—foulard and voile. We went to the great confectioner at Wiesbaden for our tea and cakes, and a little before 7 walked across to the Opera. There we took off our hats and jackets, hung them up on a little peg, found our seats without any trouble, and had a very pleasant evening. The entr'actes are much shorter than in France, so that we were out a little before 10. The drive home was lovely on a bright starlight summer night; about three-quarters of an hour. It was such an easy, independent way of going, without the complications of a man to go with us, servant to take our cloaks, etc. I often think I should like to live a little in Germany, there is so much that I like in the country, and life seems so easy, though I believe German women wouldn't say so. They all seemed weighed down with cares, and apparently all with very small incomes. I wonder if you have read Hauptmann's "Versunkene Glocke"; I am fascinated by it. It was a little difficult reading at first on account of the sort of patois, but it is a wonderful book, so weird and full of sentiment. I will finish my letter after our day at Cronberg.

Thursday, August 19, 1897.

We had a charming day; I am so glad we went. We started a little after ten for Frankfort, where we had a wait of 20 minutes. I wore my black voile and a little black and jet toque in which I put a white aigrette, and white gloves, so as not to be too black. The trajet is short from Frankfort to Cronberg, about an hour. We found two carriages (rather pretty victorias in wood natural colour and cushions the same colour—they looked very chic and country) and tall powdered footmen in the black and silver Imperial livery. There were two or three people in the second carriage whom I didn't recognise at first, but made out when we arrived. Val Prinsep, the artist, and his wife, a very pretty woman, and a German lady, also an artist I think. The Castle is not far from the station, and Cronberg (the town) is rather picturesque. The house is large—nothing particular in the way of architecture, but stands well in a fair-sized park. We were received in a fine hall, with pictures, carvings, and plenty of old furniture. Countess Perponcher and Baron Reischach received us. Count Seckendorff was not there, which I regretted, as I like him very much and should have been glad to see him again. Countess Perponcher took us to a small room on the ground floor where we left our parasols, wraps, etc., and then we went through one or two handsome rooms into a large salon where the company was already assembled. Lady Layard and her niece were staying in the house, also Prince Albert Solms (our old friend) with his wife. He is very ill, poor fellow, and can hardly get about. Some English friends arrived from Hombourg—Lady Cork, Lord Algy Lennox. About 1.30 the Empress came—always the same charming manner, and always her sad eyes. I thought she looked thinner and paler perhaps, but not ill. We went immediately to luncheon—the Empress first, alone, all of us following. Baron Reischach sat opposite to her, between me and Lady Cork. The talk was easy, the Empress talking a great deal. Val Prinsep too did his share, and Lady Cork is always clever and original. After luncheon we went back to the big drawing-room and looked at some of the beautiful things. Angeli's last portrait of the Empress had just come and had been placed (temporarily only) in a corner where the light was not very good. It is a fine picture—the Empress all in black with her splendid pearl necklace, seated on a sort of carved throne, or high-backed chair—all the shading dark, the only bit of colour the yellow ribbon of the Black Eagle. It is a striking picture and very like her, but so inexpressibly sad. She called each one of us in turn to come and sit by her. She spoke very warmly of W. to me, and asked me if I didn't regret my London life, and if I did not find it very difficult to settle down in France after having lived ten years in London, "the great centre of the world." It is curious how universal that feeling is with English people (and "au fond," notwithstanding all the years she has lived in Germany, the Empress is absolutely English still in her heart). They think that life in England—London—spoils one for everything else. I told her I didn't think I was to be pitied for living in Paris—after all, my boy was a Frenchman and all his interests were in France. She asked about Francis, how old he was, and couldn't believe that I was going back to fêter his 21 years, and thought it was fortunate for him that his early education had been in England.