CHAPTER XIV

Captain Howard Vyse—An Anecdote of Paganini—New Hats for Old Ones—Albert Bingham—Baron Alphonse de Rothschild—Madame Alice Kernave—Gambetta

During the winter months, I was very fond of going on Sundays to Pasdeloup’s concerts, which were held in the Cirque d’Hiver. One Sunday, I met the Vicomte d’Assailly there, who told me that he preferred these concerts to those at the Conservatoire, as at the latter people did not cease to talk the whole time, which was very trying for those who, like himself, really cared for music. He was passionately fond of it. On one occasion, I went to Pasdeloup’s concert with Captain Howard Vyse, formerly of the “Blues,” an Old Etonian, and a friend of my father, who was nicknamed “Punch.” He was placed in a seat near the kettledrums, while I sat some little distance away, as there were very few vacant seats. After the concert I asked Vyse how he had enjoyed it, when he told me that he had never slept better in his life, and had not once heard the kettledrums. He could speak very little French, but he thoroughly enjoyed going to the Palais-Royal Theatre, and would often tell me of a play there which was worth seeing, such as _le Réveillon_, by Meilhac and Halévy, of which he related to me the plot. He was always very lively, and sometimes rather amusing, and at times he would invite himself to dine with us, where he was always very welcome. Once, for some reason or other, my mother did not want him to stay to dinner, and told him that she was afraid she had nothing to give him. However, he asked her what there was, and, on being told, said:—

“If I had ordered the dinner myself, I could not have anything I like better.”

So he remained and dined with us, notwithstanding the excuses my mother had made for the dinner. My father introduced him to the late Lady Louisa Meux, sister of the Marquis of Ailesbury, who lived in quite a palace in the Bois de Boulogne, and had very smart “turn-outs.” She used to give very good dinners and once invited Howard Vyse to dine with her. Whenever afterwards my father wanted to annoy him, he would say that he was sure that Lady Louisa Meux would be pleased to see him at dinner. To which Vyse would answer angrily:—

“However badly I might want a dinner, I would not go there for anything.”

The explanation of this was a secret between my father and Howard Vyse, and evidently an amusing one, since they always laughed heartily over it.

Lady Louisa Meux was very rich and highly eccentric. Her husband was in a lunatic asylum, and she herself was very queer at times. I never knew her myself, but my father said she occasionally reminded him of a sister of his, whom he also considered rather eccentric.

Signor Campobello, whose real name was Campbell, used to sing at a house to which I was sometimes invited of an afternoon. One day, when he had just sung a song, the lady of the house went up to him and asked him, in my hearing, to sing again. He replied:

“You are aware of my charges—five hundred francs each song.” To which she rejoined:—

“I am perfectly well aware of it.”

Campobello’s wife was Madame Sinico, who was also an operatic singer and often sang at Covent Garden.

The Marquise Brian de Bois-Guilbert, a very pretty and distinguished-looking woman, when dining with us one evening, happened to remark how badly professional singers were treated by some people, and related a story of a man and his wife who were invited to dinner by some rich people in Paris on purpose to avoid paying them for singing afterwards. However, after these two singers had had their dinner, they put a louis each on their plates in payment for it, and immediately afterwards left the house, much to the disgust and disappointment of their host and hostess, who had invited them expressly to sing to the other guests. The Marquise herself sang most beautifully and quite like a professional, having learned of the celebrated Professor Duprez (formerly of the Grand Opéra), one of whose very best pupils she was; and when she did so, always insisted that there should be no talking in the room, otherwise she would leave off singing at once. This was no idle threat, as I once saw her carry it out myself.

Captain Berkeley, who was very fond of hearing her sing, would often remark that English people, as a rule, always begin to talk when anyone sings or plays, and he once told a story, which, though I have no doubt it is a very old one, I may as well repeat, for the benefit of those unacquainted with it:

On one occasion, when Paganini was playing a violin solo, and had reached the most pathetic part, he was suddenly interrupted by a certain English peer, who touched his arm and said:—

“_Pardon, Monsieur, mais j’ai besoin de causer avec une dame._”

It appeared that, in order to reach the lady in question, the Englishman had to pass Paganini, and the bow of the violin happened to be in his way.

“_Si ce ri est pas vrai, c’est très bien trouvé_,” as Captain Berkeley observed at the time he told me the story. Let us hope that the lady was worthy of the interruption. Possibly she was a Venus, in which case there may have been some excuse for this infatuated peer, whoever he may have been.

The Marquise de Brian de Bois-Guilbert used to pay frequent visits to the Duchesse d’Abrantès at her fine Château de Bailleul, where the latter’s sister-in-law, the Comtesse de Faverney, painted a portrait of the Marquise, which she showed me. It was a very fine one, and, unlike most amateur productions, really resembled the original. The Duchesse d’Abrantès was then a lovely young blonde, and one of the best portraits that I ever saw of her was one which she gave to the Marquise. She was taken in her garden, standing by a favourite horse, with her arm round the animal’s neck.

In reference to the Duchesse d’Abrantès, the Marquise once observed, in the course of a letter to me:—

“_Her whole family is greatly respected at Versailles, not only because it is illustrious, but because it is very pious and very charitable. What kindness of heart, perfect courtesy, and exquisite and truly Christian benevolence do we find in these illustrious families! I repeat: nothing is comparable to the courtesy and perfect breeding of the French nobility, which is doubly kind when one happens to have fallen into misfortune. Its soul is as lofty as its rank is elevated; its heart is excellent. The greatest nobility resides at Versailles, for it is in greater security there than anywhere else._”

And she added:

“_On m’a surnommée ici la rose blanche, puis la blanche apparition, et j’ai de grand succès de beauté, distinction, chose rare parmi les femmes; pour mon talent, on est en extase._”

I went, in later years, to a very smart ball given by the Marquise de Blocqueville, at which I met the Comtesse de la Taille des Essarts and her daughter Gabrielle. The latter, with whom I danced, was a fair girl, who afterwards married the Marquis de Gabriac. I took the Comtesse, who was an English lady and a friend of my mother’s, in to supper. When I left the ball, I looked for my opera-hat, which was quite new, and found a very old one in its place. They told me at the _vestiaire_ that they thought the Marquis de Rey had taken mine. I accordingly sent him the hat with a note, asking the return of mine, and received an answer, saying that he was not the person who had left this old hat, as his was quite new, and he would have no particular desire to exchange it.

“_Je regrette_,” he wrote, “_d’avoir à vous annoncer que le chapeau que vous m’avez fait remettre hier n’est pas à moi; l’échange que vous supposez n’est pas de mon fait; MON chapeau étant entre mes mains.... Ayez donc la bonté de le faire reprendre chez mon concierge, numéro 11, rue des Saints-Pères, etc., etc._”

At the same time, the Marquis expressed the hope that I should find my own hat, but this I never did.

The above incident reminds me of a story I heard about General Ronald Lane, of the Rifle Brigade, who was at one time Equerry to the Duke of Connaught. The gallant officer in question went, many years ago, to a ball in London, wearing a perfectly new hat, and, on leaving, found, as I had done, an old one in its place. He must evidently have determined to pay someone out for the loss of his hat, for the next time he went to a ball, which he did soon afterwards, he took this old hat with him, and, leaving the house early, had time to select the newest of the hats in the cloak-room and one that fitted him perfectly.

“You can see for yourself,” said he to the attendant, “that this old hat can’t possibly belong to me. I must look for it, and I shall soon find it.”

In this way, he secured an almost better hat than the one he had lost, and, of course, he left the old hat in its place.

At a ball given by an American in Paris, the celebrated composer Waldteufel was conducting one of his own very delightful waltzes, which he used at times to play in rather slow time, putting always a great deal of expression into them, when the master of the house came up to him and asked if he would mind playing the waltz a trifle faster, since it would suit the dancers better. Waldteufel, whose _amour-propre_ was wounded by this request, immediately afterwards struck up the “Dead March in Saul,” and since then no one dared to interfere with him when he was conducting his orchestra, which he did at all the principal balls, though his fee was £150 for the night. It was very interesting to watch him conduct his orchestra, which was excellent, though by no means numerous. At times, he played the violin and led the orchestra somewhat in the manner of Edward Strauss, though he went through more peculiar movements with his arms and legs than even the latter does. Edward Strauss always seems to dance himself when he conducts his orchestra and plays waltzes and polkas, and looks pleasant; but Waldteufel always looked furious. I remember at balls, when I was dancing a cotillion or a waltz, I used to be rather afraid of him, as one never knew at any time what eccentricity he might not be prompted to indulge in. Sometimes, he would stop his orchestra in the middle of a dance; at others, he would play an overture when you were expecting a waltz. In fact, with him one had to be prepared for anything. But the Americans in Paris were such beautiful dancers that these eccentricities rather pleased them, and, besides, they could dance to almost any _tempo._

The Marquis de Grandmaison used often to dine with us in the Rue d’Albe. He was a very strongly-built, clean-shaven man, and wore his hair very short; so much so, indeed, that one day, when he had given a photograph of himself to my father, the latter said:—

“You look, my dear fellow, as if you had undergone ten years’ penal servitude!”

Grandmaison laughed, as he always enjoyed a joke, even when it was at his own expense. Generally, he would retaliate, and my father and he used to make fun of one another. The Marquis, who belonged to one of the noblest families in France, and was a very wealthy man, owned a beautiful hôtel in Paris. He had lived in the United States and spoke English like an American. He was very fond of practical jokes, and would make us all laugh at the tricks he had played on various people. My mother rather liked him, but at times he was almost too noisy; in fact, very like a schoolboy, as he was up to all kinds of fun. He belonged to the Jockey Club, and generally drove a fine four-in-hand to the races at Longchamps, and he was very fond of racing.

The Marquis de Bois-Hébert, the husband of the well-known author, used also to drive a very fine four-in-hand in Paris at this time. I knew him very well and have mentioned him in my book, “Society Recollections in Paris and Vienna.”

The late Hon. Albert Bingham, brother of Lord Clanmorris, who drew the pictures in Lady Brassey’s well-known book, used often to dine with us in the Rue d’Albe, and sometimes brought with him a little pug-dog called Félice, who was a great favourite, particularly with the ladies. Bingham was a very pleasant man, with plenty of conversation, and was most popular in Paris. He was very nice-looking and a good draughtsman, besides being clever in other ways. I remember him getting me an invitation to dine with the Naylor-Leylands, who had a fine hôtel in the Avenue d’Antin, in which the kitchen was at the top of the house. The Naylor-Leylands had as their secretary a man who had formerly been a captain in the Rifle Brigade. I was at Eton with Albert Bingham’s nephew, Lord Clanmorris, who entered the Rifle Brigade. I met him afterwards in town and also in Paris. He married soon after the last time I saw him. He has recently died.

The Piétris sometimes came to see us in the Rue d’Albe, and, on the marriage of the eldest daughter, Marie, I was invited to the wedding, at which the two younger sisters acted as bridesmaids, and also to the ball given just before the married couple started on their honeymoon. About two hundred people were present at this ball, and the supper was an excellent one, with champagne. I danced with Mlle. Julie Piétri, who was a beautiful dancer, and looked very pretty that evening in a dress of pink tulle, with pearls as ornaments.

When Captain Hubert de Burgh, formerly of the 11th Hussars, who was an Old Etonian and a nephew of the Earl of Cardigan, dined with us, as he often did, my mother always said that she felt sure that he would break a wine-glass; and he invariably did so. This was previous to his being attacked by the sad spinal complaint from which he died. One day, in the Champs-Elysées, he fell in love at sight with a German lady whom my father knew, and she told him that she had also fallen in love with de Burgh. My father introduced them to each other, and de Burgh afterwards left the lady his entire fortune. At one time my father always went with him to the different race-meetings round Paris.

In later years, Mr. Tugwell, a banker from Bath, who was on a visit to Paris, was very anxious to see Ferrières, the magnificent country-seat of the late Baron Alphonse de Rothschild. Accordingly, having obtained permission from the Baron himself, who happened to be in Paris at the time, we went there by train.

Ferrières is one of the most beautiful properties in the world, and enjoys quite a European reputation for its magnificence. We went all over the château itself, entering nearly every room. On our arrival at the top of the house, I recollect seeing some very elaborate coffins, covered with gold, standing up against the outside walls of certain rooms. The servant who showed us over the house explained to us about these coffins, and said whose they were; but I was only too pleased to go down the staircase again and see them no more. The servant showed us some of the beautiful _objets d’art_ and paintings which adorned the walls, and told us that the house contained _objets d’art_ to the value of nearly one hundred million francs. Baron Alphonse was the wealthiest of all the Rothschilds, and all the most remarkable _objets d’art_ which had been amassed by the family in years gone by had been collected and placed in the Château de Ferrières. We were told that Rothschild rarely ever gave permission for visitors to see the inside of the château, as he did not wish journalists and others to describe the interior of this splendid house and the wealth it contained, which, we were assured, exceeded that of any other in Europe. Tugwell, who could not speak French, was delighted to find that one of the gardeners had lived as head gardener on his estate near Bath, and had also been a gardener in the service of the Prince of Wales, afterwards King Edward VII. This man showed us over the greenhouses, and told us that he was one of twenty-seven gardeners employed at Ferrières, and that the collection of orchids was the finest in Europe; and Tugwell, who had a very fine collection himself, admitted, after seeing them, that such must be the case.

Baron Alphonse de Rothschild was a fair man with a long beard. He used, at one time, to ride a very fine chestnut horse, and to go every morning, accompanied by his daughter, also on horseback, to the Bois de Boulogne, returning to his hôtel in time for _déjeuner_ at twelve o’clock. Mlle. de Rothschild died quite young, and the Baron, who never seemed to get over her death, died himself not long afterwards.

On one occasion, I went to the Chantilly and to le Vésinet races, and was shown over the splendid estate of the Duc d’Aumale. Colonel McCall, a friend of my father, was Equerry to the Duke, and his son, who was an Old Etonian, served in my regiment, which he commanded in later years. The Duc d’Aumale bequeathed this splendid property to the French nation. Le Vésinet races were not of much account, and were only kept going by the support of the royal owner of Chantilly.

I went, of course, to Versailles to see the magnificent château and the beautiful gardens, which are laid out in the most charming manner imaginable, and, though often imitated, have never been equalled. Le Petit Trianon, with its splendid collection of roses of every possible _nuance_—the “Souvenir à la Malmaison,” “Prince Noir,” “La France,” “Niphetos,” “Boule de Neige,” and so forth—greatly enhance the charm of that part of the gardens; and when the great fountains are playing, the view from the terrace is quite fairy-like in its wonderful beauty, and the château looks like one of those magic palaces described in the “Arabian Nights.” When there is a display of fireworks and the fountains are lit up by various coloured lights, you may almost imagine yourself in fairyland or living in the days of the Caliph Haroun Alrashid, particularly if one happens to be in the company of a fair lady, as I was in that of Mlle. Renée Leclerc.

I went once to Enghien with my mother and the Marquise Brian de Bois-Guilbert, where we listened to a fine Prussian military band, which played, as the Marquise observed, better than most French military bands. It was, however, depressing to reflect that the Prussians were then in occupation and so near Paris. Enghien is a nice little place, with an artificial lake and some fine houses, and the public garden, where the band plays of an afternoon, is a very pretty one. The Marquise de Bois-Guilbert stayed there during the War, and for some time afterwards, before returning to Paris, where she usually lived.

I once visited the Fair of Saint-Germain with some friends. In one of the shows a woman conjuror singled me out, and asked me to hold a gold coin in my hand. Then, telling me to keep my hand tightly closed, she went away to a considerable distance, counted up to three and fired off a pistol. Afterwards, she asked me to open my hand and to count aloud in French the pieces it contained, which I found numbered over thirty. How the trick was performed I have never had the slightest idea to this day.

I was once at the Cirque d’Hiver, in Paris, when a woman was blindfolded on the stage; after which her husband came up to me and asked if I had a foreign bank-note about me. I gave him an Austrian one, which he held in his hand, and the woman immediately cried out:

“Austrian ten-florin note, Number 178150.”

I never was able to discover how this was done.

I went once with Madame Saint-Hilaire, who wrote some interesting novels, published by Dentu, of the Palais Royal, and her pretty daughter, Madame Alice Kernave, who had been an actress in St. Petersburg, to a _séance_ of spirit-rapping and table-turning, in which they both firmly believed. But, to tell the truth, I did not think much of it, though the _séances_ were always very well attended. I did not mind being kept in the dark when I sat near Madame Alice Kernave, but when I went there alone with her mother on one occasion I felt rather nervous. I never went again, but frequently visited the daughter, whom I admired at that time. She had received, while in St. Petersburg, very handsome presents from a Russian gentleman, who, she told me, had recently died. She was looking for a good engagement in _la haute comédie_, in which she was very clever. I met her some years afterwards at Nice, where she was acting at the theatre, when she told me that she had lived in great luxury while her Russian friend was alive, but since then had been obliged to live more economically in Paris.

[Illustration: Madame Alice Kernave.

[_To face p. 164._]

[Illustration: The late Earl of Berkeley.

[_To face p. 165._]

I remember that once the Baron de Vay, a Russian, who lived during the summer at a villa he owned at Vévey, in Switzerland, called on my mother, in the Rue d’Albe, with his daughter, a pretty little girl of fourteen. In the course of conversation, the Baron mentioned that he made a rule of never knowing certain people for more than a fortnight, after which he always dropped their acquaintance, if he possibly could, for, as he explained, in that space of time he learned all their good qualities and none of their faults. I could not help thinking at the time, and I am still of the same opinion, that he was a most fortunate man to be able to do so. The Baron only spoke French and Russian, and did not know a word of English.

In later years, when the Earl of Berkeley was living with his wife and his sister-in-law, the Baronne van Havre, in the Rue de Saint-Pétersbourg, he took a fancy to the streich melodion (or viola zither), which is somewhat like the streich zither, and Sighicelli, the famous violinist of the Grand Opéra, came every evening to give us lessons, when we all three played together. The streich melodion is a favourite instrument in Vienna, where thirty or forty of them are at times played together by young girls in society at the Musik Vereins Saal, and the effect is quite charming. Some evenings, Taffanel, the flute-player of the Grand Opéra, brought his silver flute, and really enchanted all whom Berkeley invited to his house. I remember that, one evening, Captain Francis Lowther, the father of Miss Toupie Lowther, the well-known lawn-tennis player, came there. He was a son of the Earl of Lonsdale and a friend of my father. He told Berkeley how well he spoke foreign languages, particularly French, when the latter replied that there was very little merit in his being able to do so, as he had spoken them all his life.

At the house of some American friends of ours I had the privilege of meeting the same evening two of the greatest men of their time: General Grant and Gambetta. General Grant appeared to me to be a short, stoutly-built and rather stern-looking man. On being presented to him, I happened to remark that the day had been a fine one, to which he replied:—

“I beg to differ from you, sir; the wind was a bitterly cold one from the North.”

I afterwards spoke in praise of Paris, and said how much I preferred it to London, so far as its theatres and other amusements were concerned. The General replied that he was much pleased with what he had seen of Paris, but that London and the English interested him far more. He then asked me several questions about England and the British Army, which I answered to the best of my ability. My answers seemed to please him, since he asked me to give him my address, and called on me with his son the very next day; but I happened most unfortunately to be out. My impression of Grant was that he was a very kind-hearted man, but that he did not carry his heart on his sleeve.

Gambetta shook hands with me like the General, but, instead of letting go of my hand, kept it in his, the while he made a very long speech in French, which was so florid that I was quite carried away by his eloquence, and forgot almost where I was. He did not seem to expect a reply; anyway, he contented himself with one or two monosyllables from me, and praised England, the English, and the English Army in the most high-flown language. My impression of Gambetta was that he was a passionate, warm-hearted son of the Midi, who certainly wore his heart on his sleeve. His appearance was not in his favour, as he was excessively stout and had a bad figure, but his attractive, captivating manner more than atoned for his physical defects.