An Autobiography

My entries in the Diary during that unique journey, and my letters to my mother, are published in my book, “Letters from the Holy Land.” I illustrated it with the water colours I made during our pilgrimage, and I was most delighted to find the little book had an utterly unexpected success. It was nice to find myself among the writers! To have ridden through this land from end to end is to have experienced a pleasure such as no other part of the earth can give us. Had I had no more joy in store for me, that would have been enough.

As the railway was not opened till the following year the mind was not disturbed, and could concentrate on the scenes before it with all the recollection it required. I called our progress “riding through the Bible.” Many a local allusion in both Testaments, which had seemed vague or difficult to appreciate before, opened out, so to say, before one’s happy vision, and gave a substance, a vitality to the Scripture narrative which produced a satisfaction delightful to experience. Perhaps the strongest longing in my childhood’s mind had been to do this journey. To do it as we did, just our two selves, and in the fresh spring weather, was a happy circumstance.

As I look back to that time which we spent amidst the scenes of Our Lord’s revealed life on earth, no portion of it produces such a sense of mental peace as does the night of our arrival on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. There there were no crowds, no distractions, not a thing to jar on the mind. Before and around one, as one sat on the pebbly strand, appeared the very outlines of the hills His eyes had rested on, and far from modern life encroaching on one’s sensitiveness, the cities that lined those sacred shores in His time had disappeared like one of the fleeting cloud shadows which the moon was casting all along their ruined sites. His words came back with a poignant force, “Woe unto thee, Chorazin! Woe unto thee, Bethsaida!.. and thou, Capernaum, which art exalted unto heaven…” Where were they? And the high waves raced foaming and breaking on the shingle, blown by a strong though mild wind that came across from the dark cliffs of the country of the Gadarenes. One seemed to feel His approach where He had so often walked. One can hardly speak of the awe which that feeling brought to the mind. He was quite near!

Undoubtedly the effect of a journey through the Holy Land does permanently impress itself upon one’s life. It is a tremendous experience to be brought thus face to face with the Gospel narrative. We returned to the modern world on May 1st. This time I left Alexandria in company with my husband on June 3rd, and on landing at Venice we at once went on to Verona, where he was anxious to visit the battlefield of Arcole.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE LAST OF EGYPT

HERE at Verona was Italy in her richest dress, her abundant and varied crops filling the landscape, one might say, to overflowing; not a space of soil left untilled, and, all the way along our road to San Bonifacio for Arcole, the snow-capped Alps were shimmering in the blue atmosphere on one hand, and a great teeming plain stretched away to the horizon on the other.

I noticed the fine physique of the peasantry, and their nice ways. Every peasant man we met on the road raised his hat to us as we passed. At San Bonifacio we got out of the carriage and, turning to the right, we walked to Arcole, becoming exclusively Napoleonic on reaching the famous marsh. History says that a soldier saved Napoleon from drowning early in the battle by pulling him out of the water in that marsh, “by the hair!” I pondered this bald statement, and came to the conclusion that the thing must have happened in this wise. Young Bonaparte in those early days wore his hair very long, and gathered up into a queue. Had he been close-cropped, as his later experience in Egypt compelled him to be, the history of the world might have been very different. As I looked into the water from the famous little bridge, I saw the place where the young conqueror slipped and plunged in. The soldier must have caught hold of the pigtail, and with the good grip it afforded him pulled his drowning general out. Between the little bridge and the spot where he sank Napoleon raised the obelisk which we see to-day. Thus do I like to realise interesting events in history.

Our driver on the way back became a dreadful bore, for ever turning on the box to chatter. First he informed us that Arcole was called after Hercules, “a very strong man” (great thumping of biceps to illustrate his meaning), which we knew before. Then, when within sight of the battlefield of Custozza, where our dear Italians got such a “dusting” from the Austrians, he informed us that he had been in the battle, and that the Italians had blasted the enemy. “Li abbiamo fulminati.” “Oh, shut up, do! Basta, caro!”

Our afternoon stroll all over Verona merged into a moonlight one which takes first rank in my Italian chronicles. The effect of a roaring Alpine torrent (for such is the Adige at this season of melting snows) rushing and swirling through the heart of that ancient city, between embankments bordered with domed churches, with towers and palaces, I found quite unique. Mysterious, too, it all felt in the lights and profound shades of the moonlight. Above rose the hills with very striking serrated outlines, crowned with fortresses.

The rest of the summer saw me at home at Delgany. I must say the “Green Isle” for summer, following Egypt for winter, makes a very pleasant combination. My husband had returned to Alexandria on August 23rd, and I and a wee child followed in November. I had half accomplished my next Academy picture at home, and I took it out to finish in Egypt – “Halt on a Forced March: Retreat to Corunna.” A study of an artillery team this time, giving the look of the spent horses, “lean unto war.” It was very well placed at the Academy in the fresh first room, and well received, but it was too sad a subject, perhaps, so I have it still. There were no half-starved horses in all Wicklow, I am happy to say, look where I would for models. I had well-to-do ones to get tone and colour from, but I bided my time. In Egypt I had plenty of choice, and had I not been able to put the finishing touches to my team there, the picture would never have been so strong – an instance of my favourite definition when I am asked, “What is the secret of success?” “Seize opportunities.”

So on December 10th, 1891, I, with the little child I had safely brought out with me, landed once more at Alexandria. The big charger and the grey Syrian pony had now a black donkey alongside for the desert rides, which were the chief pleasure of our life out there.

But the winter grew sad. On January 7th, 1892, the Khedive Tewfik died rather mysteriously, it was said, but his death was announced as the result of that plague we call the “flu,” which reached even to the East. Just eight days later poor Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence, fell a victim to it, and in the same way died Cardinal Manning. Also some of our own friends at Alexandria went down. And yet never was there more brilliant weather, so softly brilliant that one could hardly realise the presence of danger. All the balls and other festivities were stopped, of course. I had ample time to finish my “Halt on a Forced March” in this long interval, so boring and depressing to Alexandrian society. Soon things returned to pleasantly normal conditions, however, and being free from the studio on sending my picture off, I went in whole-heartedly for the amenities of my official position. The Private View at the far-away Royal Academy was in my mind on the occasion of my giving away the prizes at some athletic sports, for I knew it was just then in full blast, April 29th, 1892. I knew my quiet picture could not make anything of a stir, and I chaffed myself by suggesting that the “three cheers and one cheer more” proposed by the English consul at the end of the prize-giving, which rent the sunset air in that dusty plain in my honour, should be all I ought to expect. It would be a little too much to receive applause in two quarters of the globe at the same moment, allowing for difference of time!

I call upon my Diary again: “May 18th. – We joined a picnic in the very palm grove through which the Turks fled from the French pursuit under Bonaparte to find death in the surf of Aboukir Bay. We were shaded by clumps of pomegranate trees in flower as well as by the waving, rustling palms, and a cool wind blew round us most pleasantly, while the white and grey donkeys that brought us rested in groups, their drivers and the villagers squatting about them in those unconsciously graceful attitudes I love to jot down in my sketch book. The moving shadows of the palm branches on the sand always capture my observation; no other tree shadows produce that effect of ever-interlacing forms. Far away in the radiant light lay the region where the terrible naval battle took place later, to our credit. Altogether our party was surrounded by frightful reminiscences, in the midst of which the picnic went its usual picnicky way. We rode back to Alexandria by the light of the stars.

“May 23rd. – A wonderful day, full of colour, movement and interest. Young Abbas II., the new Khedive, was received here on his arrival from Cairo, the whole population, swelled by strange wild Asiatics from distant parts, filling the streets and squares through which he was to pass. Will, of course, had to receive him at the station. The crowd alone was a pleasure to look at. The Khedive seemed a squat young man with a round pink and white painted face. They say he loves not the English. What I enjoyed above all was the drive we took soon after, all the length of the line of reception, to Ras-el-Tin. Oh, those narrow streets of the old quarter, filled with numberless varieties of Oriental costumes. Now and then the crowd was threaded by troops, some on horseback, some perched on camels, and, to give the finishing touch of variety, the native fire brigade went by, wearing the brass helmets of their London confrères, very surprising headgear bonneting their black and brown faces.”

I, with the little child, left for home on June 7th, viâ Genoa, well provided with a good stock of studies of camels and Camel Corps troopers. These were for my 8-foot picture, destined for the next Academy. Many a camel had I stalked about the Ramleh desert to watch its mannerisms in movement. I got quite to revel in camels. Usually that interesting beast is made utterly uninteresting in pictures, whereas if you know him personally he is full of surprises and one never gets to the end of him.

The voyage to my dear old Genoa was full of beautiful sights, with one exception. I don’t know what old Naples was like – I know it was frightfully dirty – but I saw it modernised into a very horrid town, a smudge of ugliness on one of the ideal beauties of the world. It gave me a shock on beholding it as we entered the harbour, and so I leave the town itself severely alone, with its new, barrack-like buildings looking gaunt and gritty in the burning June sunshine. The cloisters of the Certosa at Sant’ Elmo are very beautiful, and I much enjoyed the church and the splendid “Descent from the Cross” of Spagnoletto. There was just time for a dash up there before leaving at 12 noon. As we steamed out towards Ischia I got the oft-painted (and, alas! oleographed) view of Vesuvius across the whole extent of the bay from off Posilipo. Certainly nowhere on earth can a fairer scene be beheld, and greater grace of coast and mountain outline. Then the fair scene melted away into the tender haze of the June afternoon – blue and tender grey, the volcanic islands one by one disappeared and the day of my first sight of the Bay of Naples closed.

June 12th was a most memorable day, a day of deepest, sweetest, and saddest impressions and memories for me. In the afternoon I made ready for our approach to that part of the world where the brightest years of my childhood were spent – the Gulf of Genoa. In order not to lose one moment away from the contemplation of what we were approaching, I packed up all our things before three o’clock, did all the fin de voyage paying and tipping, and then, my mind free for concentration, I stationed myself at the starboard bulwark, binocular in hand. At long last I saw in the haze of the lovely afternoon a shadowy outline of rocky mountain which my heart, rather than my eyes, told me was Porto Fino, for never had I seen it before from out at sea, at that angle. But I knew where to look for it, and while to the other passengers we seemed still out of sight of land I saw the shadowy form. Then little by little the whole coast grew out of the haze and I saw again, one after the other, the houses we lived in from Ruta to Albaro. With the powerful glass I had I could see Villa de’ Franchi and its sundial, and see how many windows were open or shut at Villa Quartara as we passed Albaro, and see the old, well-loved pine tree and cypress avenue of the latter palazzo.

“The sight of Genoa in the lurid sunset glow, with its steep, conical mountains behind it, crowned with forts, half shrouded in dark grey clouds, was very impressive. ‘La Superba’ looked her proudest thus seen full face from the sea, seated on her rocky throne. By the by, when will people give up translating ‘superba’ by ‘superb’? It is rather trying. ‘Genoa the Superb’! Ugh!”

I worked away well in the pleasant seclusion of Delgany, at my 8-foot canvas whereon I carried very far forward my “Review of the Native Camel Corps at Cairo.” I had already a water-colour drawing of this subject, which I had made while the scene was fresh in my mind’s eye. I had been indebted to the then General commanding at Cairo for the facilities afforded me to see, at close quarters, a charge of the native Camel Corps, which impressed me indelibly. I had driven out of Cairo to the desert, where the manœuvres were taking place, and, getting out of the carriage opposite the saluting base, I placed myself in front of the advancing squadrons, so timing things that I got well clear at the right moment. I wanted as much of a full-face view as possible. The attitudes of the men, wielding their whips, the movements of the camels, the whole rush of the thing gave me such a sensation of advancing force that, as soon as the “Halt!” was sounded, and the 300 animals had flung themselves on their knees with the roar and snarl peculiar to those creatures when required to exert themselves, I hastened back to Shepheard’s and marked down the salient points. The men were of all shades, from fellaheen yellow to the bluest black of Nubia, and it was a striking moment when they all leapt off their saddles (as the camels collapsed), panting, and beginning to re-set their disordered accoutrements. In those days the saddles were covered with red morocco leather, with fringed strips that flew out in the wind, adding, for the artist, a welcome aid to the representation of motion. Now, of course, that precious bit of colour is gone, and the necessity for khaki invisibility reaches even to the camel saddle, which is now a stiff and unattractive dun-coloured object.

For my last and most brilliant visit to Egypt I took out our eldest little girl, and a very enjoyable trip we had, viâ Genoa. Of course, I took out the picture to finish it on its native sands. I had the richest choice of military camels, arms and accoutrements, and a native trooper or two, as models, but only for studies. I was careful to have no posed model to paint from in the studio, otherwise good-bye to movement. These graceful Orientals become the stupidest, stiff lay figures the moment you ask them to pose as models. Besides, the sincere Mohammedans refuse to be painted at all. I have never used a Kodak myself, finding snapshots of little value, but quick sketches done unbeknown to the sketchee and a good memory serve much better. The picture, I grieve to say, was hung not very kindly at the Academy, but at the Paris Salon it was received with all the appreciation I could desire.

What pleased me particularly in this last sojourn in Egypt was our visit to Cairo, where I was so happy during my first experience, when I described my sensations as being comparable to swimming in Oriental colour, light, and picturesqueness. The only thing that jarred was the tyranny of Cairo society, which compelled one to appear at the diversions, whether one liked it or not. Nevertheless, I gained a very thorough knowledge of the wondrously beautiful mosques, having the advantage of the guidance of one who knew them all intimately – Dean Butcher. It was a true pleasure to have him as cicerone, and I am grateful to him for his most kindly giving up his time for little C. and me. My husband had long ago been acquainted with every nook and corner of Cairo, but Dean Butcher had made a special study of these mosques, and I think he was pleased with the way we took in the fascinating information he gave me and the child.

It’s a far cry from Cairo to Aldershot! On November 1st, 1893, my husband’s command of the 2nd Infantry Brigade began there. Much as I loved Egypt, it was a great delight for me to know that the parting from the children was not to be repeated. I had had Egypt to my heart’s content.

After returning home from Egypt, at Delgany, on June 17th, 1893, I set up my next big picture, “The Réveil in the Bivouac of the Scots Greys on the Morning of Waterloo – Early Dawn.” I was able to make all my twilight studies at home, all out of doors; not a thing painted in the studio. I pressed many people into my service as models, and I think I got the light on their fine Irish faces very true to nature. I even caught an Irish dragoon home on leave in the village, whose splendid profile I saw at once would be very telling.

CHAPTER XIX

ALDERSHOT

AND now our Irish home under the glorious Wicklow Mountains broke up, and I was to become acquainted with life in the great English camp. The huts for officers were still standing at that time, wooden bungalows of the quaintest fashion, all the more pleasing to me for being unlike ordinary houses. The old court-martial hut became my studio, four skylights having been placed in it, and I was quite happy there. I worked hard at “The Réveil,” and finished it in that unconventional workshop.

To say that Aldershot society was brilliant would be very wide of the mark. How could it be? But to us there was a very great attraction close by, at Farnborough. There lived a woman who was and ever will be a very remarkable figure in history, the Empress Eugénie. She hadn’t forgotten my husband’s connection with her beloved son’s tragic story out in South Africa, nor her interview with him at Camden Place, and his management of the Prince’s funeral at Durban. We often took tea with her on Sundays during our Aldershot period, her “At Home” day for intimate friends and relatives, at the big house on the hill. She became very fond of talking politics with Sair William, and always in English, and she used to sit in that confidential way foreign politicians have, expressive of the whispered divulgence of tremendous secrets and of occult plots and plans in various parts of the world. She talked incessantly with him, but was a bad listener; and if a subject came up in conversation which did not interest her, a sharp snap or two of her fan would soon bring things to a stop.

Entries from the Aldershot Diary:

“January 9th, 1894. – We went to the memorial service at the Empress’s church in commemoration of the death of Napoleon III. After Mass we went down to the crypt, where another short service was chanted and the tombs of the Emperor and Prince Imperial were incensed. Between the two lies the one awaiting the pathetic widow who was kneeling there shrouded with black, a motionless, solitary figure, for whom one felt a very deep respect.

“March 14th. – Delightful dinner at Government House, where the Duke and Duchess of Connaught proved most cheery host and hostess. He took me to dinner, and we talked other than banalities. All the other generals’ wives and the generals and heads of departments were there to the number of twenty-two.

“March 25th. – To a brilliant dinner at Government House to meet the Duke of Cambridge. Good old George was in splendid form, and asked me if I remembered the lunch we gave him at Alexandria. It was a most cheery evening. We sat down about twenty-eight, of whom only six were ladies. Grenfell, our old friend of Genoese days, and Evelyn Wood were there.

“May 17th. – A glorious day for the Queen’s Review, which was certainly a dazzling spectacle. Dear old Queen, it is many a long year since she reviewed the Aldershot Division; nor would she have come but that her son is now in supreme command here. Old people say it was like old times, only that she has shrunk into a tinier woman than ever she was, and by the side of the towering Duchess of Coburg in that spacious carriage she looked indeed tiny, and nearly extinguished under a large grey sunshade. A good place was reserved for my little carriage close to the Royal Enclosure, and I enjoyed the congenial scene to the utmost. Was I not in my element? The review took place on Laffan’s Plain, a glorious sweep of intense green turf which I often take little Martin to for our morning walk, and no Aldershot dust annoyed us. I was very proud of the general commanding the 2nd Brigade riding past the saluting base at the head of his troops on that mighty charger, ‘Heart of Oak,’ that fine golden bay, set off to the utmost advantage by the ceremonial saddle-cloth and housings of blue and gold. That general gives the salute with a very free sweep of the sword arm. The march past took a long time. As to the crowd of officers behind the Queen’s carriage, my eyes positively ached with the sight of all that scarlet and gold. I must say this scarlet is pushed too far to my mind. It must have now reached the highest pitch of dyeing powers. It was a duller tone at Waterloo; and certainly still more artistic when Cromwell first ordered his men to wear it. But I may be wrong, and it is certainly very splendid. The Duke of Cambridge and Prince of Wales were on huge black chargers, and wore field marshals’ uniforms. It was pretty to see the Duke of Connaught – who, at the head of his staff, in front of the division drawn up in line, had sat awaiting the Queen’s arrival – canter up to his mother and salute her as her carriage drove into the enclosure. Then he cantered back to his place, a very graceful rider, and the review began. I managed to do good work at ‘The Réveil’ in forenoon. What a contrast and rest to the eyes that picture is after such glittering spectacles as to-day’s. War versus Parade! It was pathetic to see the Queen to-day with her soldiers. She cannot pass them in review many more times.

“The Empress Eugénie has returned, and we had a long interview with her the other day at her beautiful home at Farnborough. She is by no means the wreck and shadow some people are pleased to describe her as being, but has the remains of a certain masculine power which I suppose was very masterful in the great old days of her splendour. She is not too tall, and has a fine, upright figure. She lives apparently altogether in the memory of her son, and is surrounded by his portraits and relics, including drawings showing him making his heroic stand, alone, forsaken, against the savage enemy. I feel, as an Englishwoman, very uneasy and remorseful while listening to that poor mother, with her tearful eyes, as she speaks of her dead boy, who need not have been sacrificed. There is no trace in her words of anger or reproach or contempt, only most appealing grief. She has one window in the hall full to a height of many feet of the tall grass which grows on the spot where her treasured son was done to death by seventeen assegai wounds, all received full in front. I remember his taking us over some artillery stables, I think, at Woolwich once. He had a charming face. The Empress rightly described to us the quality of the blue of his eyes – ‘the blue sky seen in water.’

“We often go to her beautiful church these fine summer days. Her only infirmity appears to be her rheumatism, which necessitates some one giving her his arm to ascend or descend the sanctuary steps when she goes to or comes from her prie-Dieu to the right of the altar. Sometimes it is M. Franceschini Pietri, sometimes it is the faithful old servant Uhlmann who performs this duty.

“August 13th.– We have had the Queen down again for another review in splendid (Queen’s) weather. The night before the review Her Majesty gave a dinner at the Pavilion to her generals, and for the first time in her life sat down at table with them. Will gave me a most interesting account. In the night there was a great military tattoo, which I witnessed with C. from General Utterson’s grounds. Very effective, if a little too spun out. Will and the others were standing about the Queen’s and the Empress Eugénie’s carriages all the time, in the grass soaked with the heavy night dew, and felt all rather blue and bored. In the Queen’s carriage all was glum, while the Empress with her party chatted helpfully in hers to fill up the time. It was pitch dark but for the torches carried by long lines of troops in the distance.

“To-day was made memorable by the review held of our brilliant little division by the German Emperor on Laffan’s Plain, in perfect weather. He wore the uniform of our Royal Dragoons, of which regiment he is honorary colonel, and rode a bay horse as finely trained as a circus horse (and rather suggestive of one, as are his others, too, that are here), with the curb reins passing somewhere towards the rider’s knees, which supply the place of the left hand, half the size of the right and apparently almost powerless. The poor fellow’s shoulders are padded, too, and one sees a hiatus between the false, square shoulder and the real one, which is very sloping. But the general appearance was gallant, and the young man seemed full of gaiety and martial spirit. He took the salute, of course, and was a striking figure under the Union Jack which waved over his British helmet. Then followed a little episode which, if rather theatrical, was enlivening, and a pretty surprise. As the Royal Dragoons’ turn came to pass the saluting base the Kaiser drew his sword and, darting away from his post, placed himself at the head of his British regiment, the Duke of Connaught replacing him at the flagstaff pro tem. The Kaiser couldn’t salute himself, of course, so saluted the Duke, and, when the Dragoons were clear, back he came at a circus canter to resume his post and continue to receive the salute of the passing legions, as before. We all clapped him for this graceful compliment. It was smartly done. The detachment (seventy-five in number) had been sent over from Dublin on purpose for this little display. In the evening Will dined at Government House in a nest of Germans, who seemed afraid to sit well upon their chairs in the august presence of their Emperor, and sat on the very edge. One particularly corpulent general was very nearly slipping off. I went to the evening reception, no wives being asked to the dinner, as the dining-room is so small and the German suite so voluminous.

“I was at once presented to H.I.M., who talked to me, like a good boy, about my painting and about the army, which he said he greatly admired for its appearance. He is just now a keen Anglo-maniac (sic)! We shall have him dressing one of his regiments in kilts next. He is not at all as hard-looking as I expected, but not at all healthy. His face, seen near, is unwholesome in its colour and texture, and the eyes have that boiled look which suggests a want of clarity in the system, it seems to me. He is nice and natural in his manner and in the expression of his face, with light brown moustache brushed up on his cheeks. He wore the mess dress of the Royal Dragoons, and his right hand was twinkling with very ‘loud’ rings on every finger, coiled serpents with jewelled eyes.

“August 14th.– A glorious sham fight in the Long Valley and heights for the Kaiser. I shall always remember his appearance as, at the head of a large and brilliant staff of Germans and English, he came suddenly galloping up to the mound where I was standing with the children, riding, this time, a white horse and wearing his silver English Dragoon helmet without the plume. He seemed joyous as his eye took in the lovely landscape and he sat some minutes looking down on the scene, gesticulating as he brightly spoke to the deferential pickelhauben that bent down around him. He then dashed off down the hill and crested another, with, if you please, C. on her father’s huge grey second charger careering after the gallant band, and escaping for an anxious (to me) half-hour from my surveillance. The child looked like a fly on that enormous animal which overtopped the crowd of staff horses. Adieu to the old gunpowder smoke. It has cleared away for ever. One sees too much nowadays, and that mystery of effect, so awful and so grand, caused by the lurid smoke, is gone. How much writers and painters owe to the old black powder of the days gone by!

“September 23rd.– Had a delightful evening, for we dined with the Empress Eugénie. I seemed to be basking in the ‘Napoleonic Idea’ as I sat at that table and saw my glass engraved with the Imperial ‘N,’ and was aware of the historical portraits of the Bonaparte Era that hung round the room. The Empress was full of bright conversation and chaff; and I find, as I see her oftener, that she has plenty of humour and enjoys a joke greatly. We didn’t go in arm in arm, men and women, but Sa Majesté signed to me and another woman to go in on either side of her. She called to Will to come and sit on her right. I was very happy and in my element. Oh! how the mind feels relieved and expanded in that atmosphere. We had music after dinner, and I had long talks on Egypt with the Empress, whose recollections of that bright land are particularly brilliant, she having been there during the jubilant ceremonies in connection with the opening of the Suez Canal. One year before the great calamities to her and her husband! She told me that just for a freak she walked several times in and out between the two pillars on the Piazzetta at Venice, that time, to brave Fate, who, it was said, punished those who dared to do this. ‘Then les évènements followed,’ she added. Well might she say that life is an up and down existence. She waved her hand up and down, very high and very low, as she said it, with a very weary sigh. Her face is often very beautiful; those eyes drooping at the outer corners look particularly lovely as they are bent downwards, and her white hair is arranged most gracefully. She is always in black.

“Will has accepted the extension of his command here to my great pleasure; the chief charm to us in this place is the neighbourhood of the Empress. That makes Farnborough unique. Not only is she so interesting, but now and then there are visitors at her house whose very names are sonorous memories. The other day as we came into her presence she went up to Will and asked him to let Prince Murat, Ney (Prince de la Moscowa) and Masséna (duc de Rivoli), see some of the regiments in his brigade at their barracks. When the inspection was over these three illustrious Names came to lunch with us, and I sat between Murat and Masséna, with le Brave des Braves opposite. What’s in a name? Everything, sometimes. I thought myself a very favoured creature last Sunday as I sat by Eugénie at her tea table and she sprinkled my muffin with salt out of her little muffineer. I am glad to know she likes me and she is very fond of Will. One Sunday she and I and the Marquise de Gallifet were sitting together, and the Empress was talking to the latter about ‘The Roll Call,’ pronouncing the name in English, but Madame, who looked somewhat stony and unsympathetic, could not pronounce the name when the Empress asked her to, and made a very funny thing out of it. The Empress tried to teach her, making fun of her attempts which became more and more comic, combined with her frigid expression. At last the Empress turned to me and asked me to show how it ought to be said in the proper way; but, as she had just given me an enormous chocolate cream, I was for the moment unable to pronounce anything with this thing in my cheek, and she went into fits of laughter as I made several attempts to say the unfortunate name. So it was never pronounced, and Madame la Marquise looked on as though she thought we were both rather childish, which made the Empress laugh the more. The least thing, if it is at all comical, sends her into one of her laughing fits which are very catching – except by Gallifets.

“Talking of camel riding (and they say she rode like a Bedouin in the desert) I sent her into another fit which brought the tears to her eyes by saying I always forgot ‘quel bout de mon chameau se lève le premier’ at starting. But she sent me into one of my own particular fits the other day. I was telling her, in answer to her enquiry as to insuring pictures on sending them by sea, that I thought only their total loss would be paid for, and what the artist considered an injury of a grave nature amounting to total loss might not be so considered by the insurance company. ‘And if,’ she said, ‘you have a portrait and a hole is made right through one of the eyes?’ Here she slowly closed her left eye and looked at me stolidly with the right, to represent the injured effigy, ‘would you not get compensation?’ The one-eyed portrait continued to look at me out of the forlorn single eye with every vestige of expression gone, and I laughed so much that I begged her to become herself again, but she wouldn’t, for a long time.

“There has been a great deal of pheasant shooting, particularly at the De Worms’ at Henley Park, where a chef at £500 a year has made that hospitable house very attractive; but there has been one shoot at Farnboro’ made memorable by Franceschini Pietri distinguishing himself with his erratic gunnery. Suddenly he was seen on a shutter, screaming, as the servants bore him to the house. Every one thought he was wounded, but it turned out he was sure he had hit somebody else, which happily wasn’t true. People are shy of having him, after that, at their shoots, especially Baron de Worms, who showed me how he accoutred himself by padding and goggles, one day, bullet-proof against that excitable little southerner, who was a member of the party at Henley Park.”

After one of the Empress’s dinners at Farnboro’ Hill, a small dinner of intimate friends, we had fun over a lottery which she had arranged, making everything go off in the most sprightly French way. What easy, pleasant society it was! One admired the courage which put on this brightness, though all knew that the dead weight on the poor heart was there, so that others should not feel depressed. Even with these kind semblances of cheeriness no one could be unmindful of the abiding sorrow in that woman’s face.

“January 9th, 1895.– The anniversary of the Emperor Napoleon’s death come round again. There was quite a little stir during the service in the church. The catafalque, heaped up with flowers, was surrounded with scores of lighted tapers as it lay before the altar. A young priest, in a laced cotta, went up to it to set a leaf or flower or something in its place, when instantly one of his lace sleeves blazed. Almost simultaneously the General, in full uniform, springing up the altar steps without the smallest click of his sword, was at the priest’s side, beating out the fire. Not another soul in that crowded place had seen anything. That was like Will! We laid wreaths on the tombs in the crypt.”

An entry in March of that year records good progress with “The Dawn of Waterloo,” and mentions that we had the honour of receiving the Empress Frederick and her hosts, the Connaughts, and their suites, who came to see the picture. I found the Empress still more like her mother than when I first saw her, when she and the Crown Prince Frederick dined at the Goschens’ – a memorable dinner, when the fine, serious-looking and bearded Frederick told my husband he would desire nothing better for his sons than that they should follow in his footsteps. The Empress was beaming – that is exactly the word – and a few minutes after coming into the drawing-room she showed that she was anxious to get on to the studio, to save the light. So out we sallied, walking two and two, a formidable procession, and we were nearly half an hour in the little court-martial hut. They all had tea with us afterwards, quite filling the tiny drawing-room. The Empress was very small, and as she talked to me, looking up into my face, I thought her the most taking little woman I ever saw. She had what I call the “Victoria charm,” which all her sisters shared with her – absolutely unstudied, homely, and exceedingly friendly. At least it so appeared to me in a high degree in her that day. But what a sorrow she had had to bear!

The picture was taken to the Club House, there to be shown for three days to the division before Sending-in Day. The idea was Will’s, but I got the thanks – undeserved, as I had been reluctant to brave the dust on the wet paint. Crowds went to see it, from the generals down to the traditional last drummer.

I thought the Academicians were again unkind in the placing of my picture, and a trip to Paris was all the more welcome as a diversion, for there I was able to seek consolation in the treat of a plunge into the best art in the “City of Light.” One interesting day in May found us at Malmaison, the country house of Napoleon and Josephine. There is always something mournful in a house no longer tenanted which once echoed the talk, the laughter, the comings and goings, the pleasant and arresting sounds of voices that are long silent. But this house, of all houses! It was absolutely stripped of everything but Napoleon’s billiard table, and the worm-eaten bookshelves in his little musty study the only “fixtures” left. The ceilings we found in holes; that garden, once so much admired and enjoyed, choked with dusty nettles. We went into every room – the one where poor derelict Josephine died; the guests’ bedrooms; the dining-room where Napoleon took his hurried meals; the library where he studied; the billiard-room, where he himself often took part in a game surrounded by “fair women and brave men” in the glitter of gorgeous uniforms and radiant toilettes. One lends one’s mind’s ear to the daily and nightly sounds outside – the clatter of horses’ hoofs as the staff ride in and out of the courtyards with momentous despatches; the sharp words of command; the announcement of urgent arrivals demanding instant hearing. We found our minds revelling in suchlike imaginings. The chapel, the coach-houses, the great iron gates were all there, but seen as in a dream.

We were back at Aldershot on May 30th. “The Queen’s Ball, at Buckingham Palace, brilliant as ever. The Shahzada, the Ameer of Afghanistan’s son, was the guest of the evening, as it is our policy just now to do him particular honour, after having made his father ‘sit up.’ A pale, wretched-looking Oriental, bored to tears! The usual delightful medley of men of every nationality, civilised and semi-civilised, was there in full splendour, but the rush of that crowd for the supper-room, in the wake of royalty, was most unseemly. Every one got jammed, and it was most unpleasant to have steel cartridge boxes and sword hilts sticking into one’s bare arms in the pressure. I think there was something wrong this time with the doors. I was much complimented that night on my ‘Dawn of Waterloo,’ but that was an inadequate salve to my wounded feelings.

“June 15th.– A great review here in honour of the young Shahzada, who is being so highly honoured this season. I don’t think I ever saw such a large staff as surrounded that pallid princeling as he rode on to the field. The whole thing was a long affair, and our bored visitor refreshed himself occasionally with consolatory snuff. The whole of the cavalry finished up, as usual, with a charge ‘stem on,’ and as the formidable onrush neared the weedy youth he began to turn his horse round, possibly suspecting deep-laid treachery.”