The English Mission attached to him during his visit consisted of Lord Howe, then a Lord-in-Waiting to the King, as Chef de Mission, General Sir Reginald Talbot, at one time Military Attaché in Paris, Admiral Sir Lewis Beaumont, Captain Ottley and Lieutenant-Colonel Stuart Wortley, the Naval and Military Attachés in Paris, and myself.
One official visit is very like another. Apparently the necessary procedure is that every hour of the visiting Potentate’s day, from 8 a.m. until past midnight, should be filled up; a somewhat exhausting process for all concerned, but as the official visit only lasts from three to four days, as a general rule, no harm to life or health ensues. There is always a banquet, and a review of troops, and the illustrious visitor, be he King or President, invariably receives the resident Corps Diplomatique, as well as a deputation of his own countrymen, in what is theoretically a[290] portion of his own fatherland, namely at the Embassy of his own country. The principal duty of the officers of the Mission, is to see that their illustrious charge and his suite, are produced punctually for all the unending functions, and, generally, to look after their comfort. Though there is a great sameness about these visits, there is nearly always something of interest to remember about them, and President Loubet’s was no exception.
To begin with, it was the first time in history that a French President had been the guest of an English Monarch,—an event in itself,—furthermore, following as quickly as it did on the King’s successful visit to Paris, the arrival of the President in London gave proof of the wish of the French nation to live on better terms with ourselves, and, indeed, from that time onwards, the bitterness and bad feeling between the two countries, that arrived at its culminating point during the time of the Fashoda incident, may be said to have vanished, I hope for ever. In fact, the hatchet was buried.
Though contemporary history is not the subject with which I am dealing, it is interesting to remember that in October of the same year, an arbitration treaty was signed by the Governments of England and France, and, in the following April, what was known as the Anglo-French Agreement, was concluded.
Personally, I was very pleased to have been selected to be in attendance on the President. To begin with, I like Frenchmen. Monsieur Loubet, though of extremely humble origin, was a gentleman. His[291] perfect naturalness and simplicity invested him with a sort of dignity, that was enhanced by the way in which he received every attention and compliment paid him during his visit. He never lost an opportunity of emphasising the fact that every attention he received, was addressed to the “President of the French Republic,” and had nothing to do with “Monsieur Loubet.”
Another reason I was glad to be of the Mission was that it gave me the opportunity of making the acquaintance, however slightly, of M. Delcassé, then French Minister of Foreign Affairs, who had accompanied the President to England. I remember one afternoon, when there were some few hours of interval between the unending functions, I accompanied M. Delcassé and a number of the French gentlemen, on a hurried visit they paid to Windsor. It was typical of Frenchmen, and of their extraordinary quickness of artistic sense, that these very busy public men, who probably had little time to study art, at once rushed at all the best of the many beautiful things in Windsor. What I had often heard of before, was, on that afternoon, brought home to me practically, namely, the great admiration the French have for the work of Sir Thomas Lawrence. It is true that the Lawrences at Windsor are exceptionally fine; though I have the profoundest respect for French taste, I am not sure that they are right in their inclination to prefer Lawrence to Gainsborough and Reynolds, in English Art.
I was present at the great State dinner given by the King at Buckingham Palace, and a very beautiful sight[292] it was. Orchids, and the Windsor gold plate go very well together; but far more beautiful, to my mind, are those splendid family portraits by the three great artists just mentioned, that adorn the walls.
In proposing the toast of the President of the French Republic and the French Nation, King Edward, an admirable after-dinner speaker, was at his very happiest. In the course of his speech he pointed out to the President that he was about to drink his health, out of the beautiful cup, that had been given him at the H?tel de Ville, during his never-to-be-forgotten, and delightful visit to Paris. This little attention might not make any great impression on Englishmen, but Frenchmen are particularly susceptible to any graceful act or word. I happened to be sitting next to M. Mollard, the Ministre du Protocol, who always accompanies the President on his official journeys. He was genuinely delighted and whispered to me:—“Dieu! quel homme que votre Roi! Comme il a la parole heureuse, et comme il montre de l’esprit, et de la finesse!” And Monsieur Mollard, was no mean judge of that important kind of after-dinner speech that is connected with official visits. In the course of M. Loubet’s visit, I once ventured to hope that Monsieur le President was not being completely worn out by the strenuous days he was living. With a typical Frenchman’s shrug of the shoulders, he answered, “Mon Dieu! Commandant, je résiste toujours!”
At the termination of the visit, the English Mission accompanied the President and his Staff as far as Dover, and there my companions and I took leave of the very[293] courteous, and nice old gentleman, that was Monsieur Loubet. I was to see him again before very long, for, during the semi-private visit that the King and Queen paid to Paris a few years later, during which they lived at the British Embassy, Monsieur and Madame Loubet, then living very simply en bourgeois, after the expiration of his term of office as President, came to the Embassy to take tea with his late hosts, and former guest.
In the autumn of 1903 I was in attendance when the King went to Marienbad for a cure, and for the next few years I was nearly always there for a portion of August and September, sometimes of my own accord, but more generally in waiting, and moreover for a succession of spring seasons, during his customary visits to Biarritz, I was nearly always on duty, at any rate for a part of his stay there.
I used greatly to like doing my turn of duty abroad, especially at those two very pleasant health resorts, the more so as it was evident that his visits to them really did King Edward a great deal of good. Like his mother, Queen Victoria, before him, he revelled in the strong air that can be breathed in mountainous countries and at the seaside. Moreover, the waters of Marienbad were good without being too strong, and during those last years of his life I think he was never better than after his Marienbad cure. He had been there once or twice as Prince of Wales, but, as far as I can recollect, after he came to the Throne, except for the year of his illness before his Coronation, I do not think that he ever missed a season there, but regarded his annual visit as a necessary sequel to the London season.
[294]
A certain number of English people have always patronised Marienbad, notably the late Sir Henry and Lady Campbell-Bannerman, and the late Mr. Labouchere. Of course, as soon as the King made a practice of going there for his cure, quite a number of English people suddenly discovered the extraordinarily healing properties of these Bohemian Springs, and the little “Kur Ort” became quite as fashionable with English people as with foreigners. It really had many good points. I cannot speak with any authority on the efficacy of the waters from a personal point of view, for I only drank them for one season, when the outstanding effect I noticed, was, that such little memory as I ever possessed vanished entirely, a most inconvenient symptom for an Equerry-in-Waiting. During all my subsequent visits I contented myself with an “air” cure, and some parts of Marienbad being upwards of 2000 feet above the sea-level, the air is of the most approved quality, and all meals being taken practically out of doors, and long walks forming part of the cure, every one is in the open air all day long. After the early morning walk, during which time most of the water-drinking was done, the whole community, from the King downwards, used to eat their solitary egg and drink the best coffee in the world, at one of the numerous open-air cafés that lay in all directions. After breakfast, there was generally more drinking and walking, and three or four times a week, some sort of Marienbad bath. Some patients, I fancy, wallowed in mud. Personally, I escaped with some delightful baths, in which some pine extract was mixed up, and most agreeable they were. Then, after[295] luncheon, there were delightful walks and drives to be taken, to say nothing of golf.
A SHOOTING PARTY AT MARIENBAD
But the golf-course at Marienbad needs further mention. To begin with, it owed its very existence to King Edward. It was he who “squared” the authorities, from the Abbot of Tepl downwards, to give the necessary ground, and, moreover, he gave it his generous patronage, by constantly stopping for tea there, on his return from his afternoon drives, and in a still more practical form, by giving the most beautiful prizes for competitors of both sexes.
Having mentioned the Abbot of Tepl, and being on the subject of Marienbad amusements, I must go on to say a little more about the Religious Community of which he is the head, and the sport to be had in the neighbourhood, and I feel that I cannot do this better than to quote from an Introduction I once wrote for a book of the Badminton Series:—
“As an amusing specimen of a somewhat peculiar ‘branch’ of the sport in question (the shooting of driven birds), I remember well King Edward accepting an invitation from the Abbot of Tepl to a partridge-drive on the Tepl estates, which surround the famous old Monastery of that name. For those who have never ‘made a cure’ at Marienbad, I must explain that the Religious Order in question owns not only the Springs and Baths of Marienbad, but also a vast tract of agricultural land, which is farmed by the monks and their tenants. The Abbot himself is a great dignitary of the Roman Catholic Church; he has a seat in the Austrian House of Lords, and his principal duty is to administer the vast properties belonging to the Monastery, which has existed without intermission from the thirteenth century to our own time.
“Bohemia in general, and the B?hmischer Wald,—above which Marienbad is situated,—in particular, is famous for its[296] partridges; but driving them was a new form of sport as far as the monks themselves were concerned. It had been their practice from time immemorial to have them shot by any obliging man who happened to own a gun, for the purpose of supplying their table. However, for so distinguished a guest as King Edward an exception had to be made, so the Abbot, with the assistance of a travelling Englishman, arranged a partridge-drive on the most approved pattern. The performance began with a Gargantuan luncheon in the refectory of the Monastery, at which repast the whole of the King’s party, which included several ladies, was present. So long was the bill of fare, and, it may be added, so excellent were its items, that it was well past two in the afternoon before the guns were posted. On arriving at the butts, which had been beautifully constructed for the occasion, it was evident that the services of the whole population of the neighbourhood for miles round had been called into requisition. Those employed as drivers and flankers were under the immediate command of some of the more venerable members of the fraternity; those who came as spectators, unfortunately for the bag, wandered about at their own sweet will. The Abbot himself, in a very short shooting-coat over his white cassock, a most rakish wide-awake hat on his head, and an enormous cigar in his mouth, took up a commanding position in the King’s butt, various horns sounded, and the fun began. Partridges there were in plenty; but, unfortunately, the monks had felt inspired to fly two gigantic kites, with the laudable desire of concentrating the birds and driving them over the King’s butt. The desired result of concentration was undoubtedly obtained, but the general effect of the kites was to cause the birds to run down the furrows instead of flying over the guns, and this, combined with the intense caution and self-restraint that had to be exercised by the shooters, in order to avoid hitting either a flanker, or one of the numerous spectators before alluded to, resulted in a remarkably small bag. However, it was all excellent fun, and no one was more amused at the incongruity of the whole chasse, than the King himself.
“Shortly afterwards King Edward had a very different experience in the same neighbourhood, when partridge-driving with Count Trautmansdorff. In a short day’s shooting the[297] party bagged 500 brace of partridge, the King himself accounting for 100 brace to his own gun. Though it hardly comes under the province of sport, perhaps I may be permitted to mention that the following winter Count Trautmansdorff was one of the guests at Sandringham during the best shooting week there, and also that not long afterwards the Abbot of Tepl was invited to Windsor, and found himself being taken round the Castle and shown its treasures by the King himself.”
Another distraction at Marienbad was the comparative proximity of Karlsbad. Karlsbad was by way of being far gayer, and more fashionable, than its humbler neighbour, and certainly the hotels and shops were on a more luxurious scale. The King generally went over there for the day, once or twice in the season. One of the constant Cure guests there in those days, used to be Monsieur Clemenceau, and, as a general rule, the late Grand Duke Alexis, and several other members of the Imperial Family, were to be found at Karlsbad. Indeed, it was greatly patronised by Russians in general.
On looking back on those seasons at Marienbad, it is curious to remember what a kaleidoscope of people of all countries, and some of considerable distinction, are associated with the place. To begin with, in early times there were Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, Mr. Henry Labouchere, and Miss Maxine Elliott—I was going to write, then at the height of her beauty, but she is always beautiful—her sister, Lady Forbes Robertson, in those days, if I may dare use the expression, a flapper. Another marvellously beautiful woman, Princess Mirko of Montenegro, was there for a season with her husband, who was one of the numerous[298] progeny of the old Prince Nicholas of that curious little principality. Prince Mirko died (so I heard) in Vienna, having disowned his country, during the War. The lady in question was, I believe, the daughter of some Serbian General, and was certainly one of the most lovely women I have ever met in my life. Another constant visitor was that remarkably astute, and still more remarkably antipathetic personage, who was then Prince Ferdinand of Bulgaria. The late Prince Kinsky, Slatin Pasha, and Count Tassito Festitics, with his wife and daughter, were occasional visitors; Count Szapary was another Hungarian who occasionally indulged in a cure, and on one occasion he arrived at Marienbad with his own Tzigane band, so one night, after dining at a restaurant, he gave us a regular concert, conducting his band himself on the cymballen. Amongst the more regular visitors were a host of friends of mine, such as Sir Charles Mathews, Mr. Charles Gill, and Mr. Charles Hawtrey, the latter, mimicking his doctor, the celebrated Dr. Ott, to his (perfectly unconscious) face, was as good as he ever was, on any stage.
Other friends who were apt to do a Marienbad Season were, the late General Sir Lawrence Oliphant, one of the most amusing and quick-witted of men, Mr. Henry Chaplin, Colonel Mark Lockwood, and Sir John Fisher—now known respectively as Lords Chaplin, Lambourne, and Fisher; then amongst well-known Parisians I may quote Princesse Murat, the Marquise de Ganay, Comtesse de Chevigné, M. and Madame Jean de Reszke, Count Boni de Castellane,[299] and Count Joseph de Gontaut-Biron, and I must not forget the British Ambassadors at Vienna, Sir Edward Goschen and Sir Fairfax Cartwright, who invariably settled down at Marienbad during the King’s stay there, accompanied by one or two Secretaries of their Embassy.
In the course of his earlier visits, the King generally went over once or twice in the Season to the seat of the late Count Metternich. Metternichs of sorts used to, and I suppose still, swarm in both Germany and Austria; but this particular Metternich was the direct descendant of the great man of that name who flourished during the Napoleonic era. Amongst his other properties was the celebrated Johannisberg Vineyard on the Rhine, and I must say, that a glass or two of real Johannisberg Cabinet of one of the great vintage years, at luncheon made a man take a very roseate view of life, even of that dullest of so-called sports,—a deer-drive in the woods, which generally used to follow the Metternich luncheon parties.
An annual fête that was regularly celebrated at Marienbad during King Edward’s sojourn there, was the birthday of the late Emperor Franz Josef of Austria. The King made a practice of entertaining the various officials of the neighbourhood, in honour of the occasion. The guests consisted mainly of the officers commanding the troops of the district, any hoch geboren Austrians who might happen to be there, the principal municipal authorities, and last, but by no means least, our friend the Abbot of Tepl.
Almost the pleasantest memory of Marienbad that[300] remains to me, is that, of our breakfasts under the trees at one of the outdoor cafés, where a number of us met after the morning drink. Sir Edward Goschen, Colonel Mark Lockwood, Mr. Charles Gill, Mr. Charles Hawtrey, and generally about the same number of ladies, used to assemble round, what was really a very festive board, and consume coffee and eggs with the appetite that follows a two-hours’ walk in keen mountain air, and the good spirits engendered by the consciousness, that the greater part of the water-drinking business was over for the day.
As I have already mentioned, I was generally in attendance on the late King during, anyhow, a portion of his yearly stay at Biarritz, and, being very fond of the little place, I have also frequented it a good deal when not on duty. Biarritz was eminently social, as not only were there a good many charming villas in the neighbourhood, owned by French residents, but in what was called the English Season, English visitors abounded. A great deal of entertaining was done first and last, principally by my previously mentioned friend, Consuelo Duchess of Manchester, who often took a villa there, and also by an extraordinarily hospitable American lady, who, I regret to say, died not long ago, Mrs. Moore by name. She had practically lived in France all her life, and her apartment in Paris had always a lighted candle, for she loved entertaining, and was an excellent hostess. She talked the most impossible French, with a strong American accent, and mixed her metaphors to such an extent that she became a sort of Mrs. Malaprop, to[301] the huge delight of her French friends. I never quite believed in the authenticity of the numerous malapropisms for which she was made responsible; I verily believe that she could speak French extremely well, and that she really was only amusing herself, when she spoke in the extraordinary jargon that she affected. Anyhow, her parties were the greatest fun, and not only all Biarritz, but all Paris went to them.
The King was very fond of making excursions by motor-car after he had finished off his morning business, and lovely drives could be taken to St. Sebastian, Fuentarabia, and in the Pyrenees. On one occasion he motored over, with a large party of friends, to Pau, to see what was then the greatest wonder of the age, namely, Mr. Wilbur Wright and his brother actually flying in the air.
But as far as I was personally concerned when not on duty there, my greatest amusement was to play golf on that sporting little course, part of which lies on top of the cliffs, and part at their feet, close to the sea. There was also a pack of fox-hounds, but if anybody was keen about hunting, and could not manage to hunt in England, Pau was, on the whole, infinitely preferable to Biarritz, as there was much less woodland, and in some parts quite a fine grass country. For the fortunate people who always winter away from England, and are fond of creature comforts and easy journeys, there is nothing like the South of France; the difficulty was to choose between the two French Departments, the Alpes-Maritimes and the Basses-Pyrénées. I have listened to endless arguments as to their respective[302] merits, and, as usual, there is a great deal to be said on both sides.
Both at Pau and Biarritz there was a great deal of very fair sport to be obtained, as between them they could produce two packs of fox-hounds, a certain amount of wild shooting, excellent fishing, for in some of the valleys in the neighbourhood of Pau there are first-class trout streams, and some good salmon are to be taken occasionally. Moreover, both towns rejoice in a Club, that of Pau being one of the most comfortable establishments of the sort I have ever come across, and there is plenty of golf. But, mild as is the climate, it is, nevertheless, a grey Northern winter. On the Riviera, it is the genuine South, with its brilliant sunshine and colour, and masses of flowers, and, moreover, that general air of gaiety that seems to spring naturally from sunshine and colour. Then, again, the Riviera is wonderfully beautiful. A stroll round the promontory of Monaco on a fine morning at Christmas time, is one of the most satisfactory promenades in the world, and there were few pleasanter places than Monte Carlo until it became spoiled, as Venice and Florence, and, indeed, as all the pleasantest and most beautiful places in the world were, in recent years, by the invasion of that most atrocious sample, of a very odious race,—I mean the low-class German tourist. Swarms of these detestable people used to be let loose in Monte Carlo, arriving in cheap trains from Germany, and spoiling everything by their horrible manners, and general shoddiness. The normal population of Monte Carlo may have consisted of scamps, male and female,[303] but, at any rate, until the wholesale arrival of the Germans they were well-mannered and well-dressed scamps, and were not eyesores to the surrounding scenery.
There have always been numerous legendary suicides connected with Monte Carlo. In old days, these scandals used to be freely invented by some of the local newspapers, until a decent subsidy was obtained from the Casino Company, when they invariably and unaccountably (?) ceased. I do not suppose that in reality there have been more suicides at Monte Carlo than in any other place where there is a constantly shifting and cosmopolitan population, but, oddly enough, I witnessed one once, and without any particular feeling of regret. There had been a particularly vile specimen of the German tourist, playing a very small game at a table I had been patronising in the afternoon, who made himself odious to every one in his vicinity by his noise and bad manners. That evening, I happened to be dining early and alone in the Restaurant of the H?tel de Paris before going to the Opera. I had just begun my dinner, and was seated close to the windows that look out on the Rond Point, just outside the steps of the Casino. It was about the hour that most people would be dressing for dinner, so the little “Place” was quite deserted. Suddenly I saw a figure come hurrying down the steps, and when it reached the Rond Point I recognised the man who had made himself so objectionable in the rooms during the afternoon. Just as he arrived opposite the window he produced a revolver and shot himself. And[304] then what interested me, was the intervention of the Police. The “Place,” which before had seemed quite deserted, swarmed with them; they appeared to come out of the ground. In a trice the suicide,—for the man, I am sure, was dead,—was seated in a victoria, with an agent de police by his side, and driven rapidly away. The last I saw was Monsieur l’Agent putting the man’s hat on with a sort of fatherly air, as if saying, “It is all right; you are not the least hurt, only a little frightened.” The local newspaper subsidies must have been in full blast just then, for I never heard nor read any mention of the incident.