Chapter L: Guinevere to King Arthur (3)

On the other hand, I cannot help adding that educated society shares to a certain extent the prejudice of the rabble, since it shares their pleasures. The boxes are always full when Shakespeare is on the bill, and last night the play was well received; the disgusting jokes and the extravagant ravings duly listened to and applauded by men, women, lawyers, merchants, lords, and sailors. One and all they seemed to breathe with delight the obnoxious vapours of that earth which is made up of the remains of corpses. Compare this deliberate brutality, which educated men have tried to justify in books, with the mildness of the penal laws and the real executions, and explain it if you can! As for me, I will not visit the playhouse again until the question is solved.

HERR MÜLLER

_Letter from Sir Richard C---- to his Cousin_

ROME, _January 4, 1787_.

I have been here a fortnight and have been able more or less to look round. I wrote a long letter to Horace yesterday in which I described at great length the journey from Venice, so I will not repeat to you what I have already written to him.

Rome is a great deal altered since I was here last, ten years ago. It is being spoilt, and such damage as the Goths and Vandals left undone is now being accomplished by the modern architects. I am afraid that by the time the next generation is grown up the beautiful Rome that we have known and loved will have entirely disappeared, and that when our sons and daughters make the pilgrimage which we looked upon as the reward of our studies and the greatest privilege of our youth, they will find a new city, elegant no doubt, and not without grandeur, but devoid of that special charm, that rare and solemn dignity, which clothed the city as we knew it. Of course, certain of the monuments and works of art will always remain, and nothing can prevent Nature from performing her careless miracles. No defacing hand will be allowed to touch the trees that grow in the Coliseum, or to desecrate the verdure and the luxuriant vegetation which is allowed to run riot in the baths of Caracalla. Again, no modern artist will be allowed to lay hands on the grassy Forum, or to intrude upon the Gardens of the Borghese Palace which remind one of the fabled meadows and parterres of Elysium. But it is in the body of the city that the barbarians of the present day are allowed to commit their impious sacrilege, and it is not only a melancholy and bitter task to trace the remains of antiquity in the Rome of to-day, but it is even difficult to recognize in what now exists the city as she was when we were last here together.

The weather has so far not been very favourable. The _sirocco_ is blowing, and daily brings with it a quantity of rain, but it is warm, warmer than it ever is in London. Rome is, I need scarcely tell you, very full of visitors at this moment, and it is especially crowded with our dear countrymen, whom I sedulously try to avoid, for I have not come to Rome, as do so many of our friends, for the purpose of continuing London life, and of hearing and helping to increase the scandal and the tittle-tattle with which we are only too familiar. It is for this reason that I have thus far shunned society, and the only people I have seen are artists and students, of whom there are many. Most of them are Germans, and several of these have received me with great civility and kindness, and afforded me much useful assistance in visiting the museums and conducting my trifling researches.

So far I have not seen much. The new museum is a very fine institution, and possesses many treasures. I have visited the ruins of the palace of the Caesars, the Coliseum, which impressed me more than ever by its size and solemnity, the Sistine Chapel, and St. Peter’s, on to the roof of which I climbed in order to enjoy the view.

The theatres are opened once more, and a few nights ago I went to the opera. Anfossi is here, and they gave “Alessandro nel Indie” (which is tedious) followed by a ballet representing the Siege and Fall of Troy, which I greatly enjoyed. I have also seen, since I have been here, Goldoni’s “Locandiera.” As you know, all parts here are played by men; and all the dancers in the ballet are men also. They act with ease and naturalness, and their facial play is especially remarkable.

From the moment I arrived in Rome until yesterday I was oppressed and somewhat saddened by the feeling--whether this was the result of the sirocco or of the shock of seeing so many unexpected changes I do not know--that I was not in any way in touch with Rome. I never seemed to say to myself “This is Rome indeed!” nor to experience that peculiar charm which I remember feeling so acutely when I was here last. It was in vain that I brooded over the ruins, admired the monuments of antiquity, and the masterpieces of the Italian painters; it was in vain that I lingered on the Palatine in the twilight, or roamed in the Baths of Diocletian. I admired with my reason, but I did not feel with my heart as before. Something was wanting. But yesterday the magic returned.

I went for a walk by myself along the Appian Way to the tomb of Metella. It was a gray day; it had been raining nearly all the morning, but by the time I started the rain had ceased, though a layer of high, piled-up clouds remained; the air was mild and almost sultry.

I walked along the Appian Way, and the desolation of the Campagna, with its fragments of broken arches, its ruined aqueducts and the distant hills, which on a day like this seem curiously near and distinct, came over me. In the distance, above Rome itself, the clouds had slightly lifted, and St. Peter’s was lit up by a watery gleam of light. I cannot describe to you the beauty and the melancholy of the scene.

All at once, while I was standing by the grassy plain and looking towards Rome, I became aware of a plaintive sound: a Roman shepherd boy dressed in sheepskins was tootling one or two monotonous notes on a wooden pipe. His music seemed to complete the landscape, and to express the very spirit of the Campagna, which brings home to me the Rome of ancient days more poignantly and more nearly than all monuments and museums.

The veil which had hung over me during all these days was abruptly lifted. The old spell and the old charm returned, and I could say to myself: “This is Rome! I have at last found what I was seeking.”

I had remained for some time musing, when I suddenly noticed that a man was sitting not far from me, seated on a stool and making a sketch in water-colour of a broken archway. He had been there the whole time, but I had not noticed him. I do not know why, but I felt a desire to speak to some one, and I approached him and asked in French if he could tell me the time. He answered me civilly, and by his accent I perceived that he was a German, one of the artists no doubt who are here so numerous, although I did not remember having seen him before. He was extremely handsome--I should say between thirty and forty--and though his face was young, his eyes had a penetrating sadness about them, an almost tragic expression, as though they had sounded bitter depths of experience.

We fell into conversation, and he told me that he was a German, that his name was Müller, and that he was spending some months in Rome. I said that I presumed he was an artist; he replied that he was only now learning the rudiments of the art of drawing, but that he had begun too late, and that he would never be anything but a dilettante.

As he spoke he folded up his sketching-book, for it was already too dark to draw, and we walked towards the city together. He said he had never been to Rome before, but that he had been steeped ever since his youth in the culture of antiquity, and the monuments and the pictures which he had seen since his arrival were to him like old friends with whom he had frequently corresponded, but whom he had never seen in the flesh. But all previous study, he said, as far as Rome was concerned, struck him as being ineffectual as soon as he arrived in the city, because he was sure that it is only in Rome itself that one can prepare oneself to study Rome. He had not been here many weeks, but so far, the three things which had impressed him most were the Rotunda, which he considered the thing most _spiritually_ great he had seen, St. Peter’s, and the Apollo Belvidere, which he thought, as a work of genius, was the greatest of all; for although he had seen innumerable casts of this work, and indeed possessed one himself, it was as though he had never seen the statue before.

I told him that he was to be congratulated on never having seen Rome before, since his impressions would not be marred by the memories of a Rome more unspoiled and more charming. He said that he was only too keenly aware of the havoc which the modern architects had wrought, and that he feared that in twenty years’ time Rome would be unrecognizable.

“But perhaps,” he added, “we are mistaken. Rome has an assimilative power so great that it is able to suffer any amount of alteration, vandalism, superstructure, and addition, without losing anything of its eternal character and divinity. In Rome there is a continuity with which nothing can interfere.” And he added that he thought there was something in the atmosphere, the vegetation, the very grass and the weeds of the place which acted like a spell and softened what was ugly and modern, reconciled all differences, and reduced all discords into an eternal harmony which was the genius of the city.

We talked of other matters also, and I found that he was well versed in ancient and modern literature, and had an intimate knowledge of English. He admired the plays of Shakespeare; with Dryden he was less well acquainted, but he possessed a knowledge very striking in a foreigner of the untrodden byways of our literature. For instance, he told me that he had read the plays of Marlowe with great interest, especially the tragical history of Dr. Faustus. This, he told me, was a favourite theme for German writers; in the last few years there had been almost a hundred plays written on the subject.

I asked him if he wrote himself. He said he had done so, and had begun many books, but that he found it difficult to finish them.

“I have dabbled,” he said, “in art, in science, and in literature; they all interest me equally. But I am affected by the malady of our age, which is dilettantism, and I fear I shall be nothing but a dilettante all my life.”

I asked him if he was engaged on any literary labour at present. He said he was thinking of writing a poem on the subject of Dr. Faustus, and that he had indeed already written fragments of it. I expressed my surprise that he should choose a subject which he had himself told me had already been used by a multitude of writers. He then smiled, and said:

“Everything has been thought and everything has been said already. What we have to do is to think it and to say it again. The Greeks,” he went on, “never bothered themselves to search for new subjects. They wrote new plays on old themes. Likewise many generations of painters found sufficient subject-matter in the Madonna and Child. I mean,” he said, “to follow their example. Dr. Faustus shall be for me what the Madonna and Child were to them.”

We separated at the gate, after a most pleasant conversation. Herr Müller expressed a wish to see me again, and he told me that he was staying with an artist called Tishbein.

_January 6._

I received this morning your letter dated December 18. I shall stay here until the Carnival, and then to Naples, where, they say, Vesuvius is in eruption. The German artist whom I met the other day turns out to be a celebrity. His real name is _Goethe_, and he is the author of “The Sorrows of Werther,” a book which you have probably not read, but of which you must certainly have heard, for it created a considerable stir about (I think) twelve years ago.

HEINE IN PARIS

_Fragment of an unpublished letter from Lady G---- to Lord C----_

PARIS, 183--.

My dear Uncle H----,

We arrived in Paris last night.... (Here I omit a passage regarding the children of a family some of whom still survive.) Last night we spent a very agreeable evening at Madame Jaubert’s. There were a great many people present, for we had been invited to meet the celebrated Bellini. There were many people I did not know, and many others who were introduced to me whose names did not reach me. Signor Bellini himself came early. His appearance is charming; he is just like a fat child, pink and white, amiable and good-natured, and not in the least conceited or pretentious. Soon afterwards Prince and Princess Belgiojoso arrived. This was the first time I had set eyes on the Princess. Her beauty and the grace of her person have not, indeed, been exaggerated. She resembles a classical statue, but her face has an expression which recalls later and more romantic times. Her features are regular, but there is something mysterious and rather _strange_ about her face and her dark orbs. Her hair is like ebony, but her skin is very white, and she smiles with a kind of wearied look, as though she were a Chinese idol. Her hands and her hair are most beautiful, and she walks into a room as if there could not be the slightest doubt that she is the most beautiful woman there. And this is true, although perhaps she is too slender. She was elegantly dressed in violet velvet, trimmed with fur, which showed her graceful figure and disappeared in the folds of a black skirt; she wore a black lace mantilla, which she took off when she came into the room. She talks well, and her voice is musical, but, at the same time, it has a cold ring like a crystal glass being tapped. Of course one could not help seeing that she was agreeable and accomplished, but I could not restrain a wicked wish to see her dethroned from her pedestal. It is impossible to say that she gives herself airs, but at the same time there is something _irritating_ about her beauty.

As soon as they arrived, Madame Jaubert took the Prince to the pianoforte and said he must sing a duet with Madame de Vergennes, and that it should be the duet out of the “Pirate,” as Bellini was there. The Prince said that he was loth to sing before the Master, but Madame Jaubert appealed to Bellini, and they both succeeded in persuading him. Madame de Vergennes herself accompanied at the pianoforte. The Prince has a real tenor voice, his _méthode_ is excellent, and they sang the duet as it should be sung. Madame Jaubert said to me that if you ask musicians to a party you must let them play an active part at once in public, but if, on the other hand, you invite politicians and literary men it is best to place them in corners and let them talk.

Bellini was childish about the music: he danced with delight when they had finished, and clapped his hands and said: “Do sing it again!” Somebody suggested their singing a French song, but Bellini said: “No, no, please sing some more of my own music: I do enjoy it so much more, and you know it is much better.” So they sang something from “Norma,” and after that the trio from “The Comte Ory,” in which the Prince, M. du Tillet, and a young girl took part, with Madame de Vergennes at the pianoforte.

When the trio was over, Madame Jaubert interrupted the music, although we were all anxious to hear more, I myself among others; but she took me aside and whispered to me that you must always stop music _before_ people have had enough, because the moment they have one second too much of it they will go away with the impression that they have spent a tiresome evening. I think she was right. But there was a young man there, a M. de Musset--he writes--who was both obstinate and persistent, and never ceased for a moment asking for more. Madame Jaubert was firm and turned a deaf ear to him. This young man was introduced to me: he is good-looking and well-mannered, but sulky and overdressed. He is in love with Princess Belgiojoso, and this I suppose affected him on this occasion because she was paying but scant attention to him, and talked incessantly to Major Fraser, who was there.

Gradually the greater part of the people took their departure, and we all sat down round the table in a small room and talked about table-turning and spirits. Then, I forget how, the conversation turned upon caricatures, and Princess Belgiojoso said, with a lovely smile, that nobody had ever been able to caricature her. Upon which M. de Musset instantly accepted the challenge and said he would make a caricature of the Princess at once. He fetched a scrap-book which was in the room, and a pencil, and on a blank page, drew, in four strokes, her face and figure in profile, exaggerating her thinness and making an enormous black eye. It exactly resembled her; we all craned over the table to look at it, and she took up the book and said in a tone of the utmost indifference: “Really, M. de Musset, it is unfair that you should have all the talents,” and she shut the book.

Madame Jaubert took the book and put it away, and I heard her whisper to M. de Musset: “You have burnt your boats.” He turned round and looked at the Princess and his eyes filled with tears, and at that moment I felt that I could have gladly chastised her.

After that we went in to supper. Almost everybody had gone; the only people who remained were Prince and Princess Belgiojoso, M. de Musset, Major Fraser, Mlle. de Rutières, a lovely Créole, the Comte d’Alton-Shée, Bellini, and Herr Heine, the German writer. I sat between him and Prince Belgiojoso. M. de Musset was on Madame Jaubert’s left, Bellini and the Princess were sitting opposite us.

Herr Heine, like all Germans, is a trifle tiring and long-winded; of course he is cultivated and accomplished, and they say he has written most interesting books, but I cannot read a word of German. He talks French well, but he is heavy and continues a subject long after one has sufficiently discussed it. This is so different from the French, who skate over every topic so lightly and never dwell too long on any subject, and understand what you want to say before you have half said it. All the same, you see at once that he is an interesting man, and every now and then he says something truly remarkable. He wears big spectacles, and his hair, which is very fair, is cut straight and is rather long and bunches over his low collar. He astonished everybody at supper by saying that the perpetual praise of Goethe and Byron tired him.

“I cannot understand you Parisians,” he said, “when you talk about poetry. You go out of the way to search out and idolize all sorts of foreign poets when you have got a real native poet who is worth all these foreigners put together.” Somebody said “Victor Hugo.” “Nothing of the sort,” he answered, “Victor Hugo is like a wheel which turns round and round in space without any intellectual cog-wheel. It is all words, words, words. But he has no thought and no real feeling. He is screaming at the top of his voice about nothing.”

“Then who is our great poet?” asked Madame Jaubert.

“Why, M. de Musset, of course,” said Herr Heine.

We all laughed, and Madame Jaubert said it was a very pretty compliment. M. de Musset himself appreciated the joke quite as much as we did. But they say he really does write very well, rather in the same manner as Lord Francis Egerton.

M. de Musset remained sulky all through supper. Once or twice he said things across the table to Princess Belgiojoso, and she answered him as if she were an empty portfolio from which her real self was absent. We talked about music; Herr Heine said we were all barbarians as far as music was concerned; that it was true the Italians had a notion of what tune meant, but that the French, and especially the Parisians, did not know the difference between music and pastry. Somebody asked him how he could say such things after what we had heard that evening, and appealed to Bellini as to whether his music had ever been better interpreted.

“Ah, Bellini is a genius,” said Herr Heine, and he turned to him and added: “You are a great genius, Bellini, but you will have to expiate your genius by an early death. You are condemned to die. All great geniuses die young--very young, and you will die like Raphael and Mozart.”

“Don’t talk like that! for Heaven’s sake don’t say that!” said Bellini. “Please do not speak about death. Forbid him to talk like that,” he said to the Princess.

“Perhaps my fears are groundless,” Herr Heine said to the Princess. “Perhaps Bellini is not a genius after all. Besides which I have never heard a note of his music. I purposely came in this evening after it was all over. Is he a genius, Princess? What do you think?” Then he addressed himself again to Bellini: “Let us hope, my dear friend, that the world has made a mistake about you, and that you are not a genius after all. It is a bad thing to be. It is the gift of the wicked fairy. The good fairies have given you every other gift, the face of a cherub, the simplicity of a child, and the digestion of an ostrich. Let us hope the bad fairy did not come in and spoil it all by giving you genius.”

Bellini laughed, but I suspect he did not appreciate the joke.

Princess Belgiojoso said that Herr Heine had no right to talk like that, for he was a poet himself.

“A poet, yes,” he answered, “but not a genius. That is quite a different thing. I have never been accused of that, not even in my own country.”

“But no man is a prophet in his own country,” said Madame Jaubert.

“I am neither a prophet in my own country nor in any one else’s,” said Herr Heine. “My countrymen think I am frivolous, and the French think I am German and heavy. When I am with people like you they think I am an old professor, and when I am with professors they consider I am a frivolous _mondain_. When I am with Conservatives I am reckoned a Revolutionary, and by Revolutionaries I am considered a Reactionary. And when I am among the geniuses,” he said, bowing with an ironical smile towards Bellini, “I become a pedant, a philosopher, and an ignoramus, almost as bad as M. Cousin.”

“I wondered,” said Madame Jaubert, “whether we should get through the evening without an allusion to M. Cousin.”

“When I die,” said Herr Heine, “I should like a stool to be placed on either side of my tomb, with an inscription: ‘Here lies a man who fell from Heaven between two stools.’”

“Geniuses,” said M. de Musset....

(The end of the letter is missing)

_P.S._--Bellini died suddenly to-day, so Herr Heine’s prophecy came true.

SMITH MAJOR

_Letter from a Private Schoolboy to a Public Schoolboy_

ST. JAMES, _March 4, 1885_.

Dear Chinee,

Thanks awfuly for your letter. Eton must be jolly. I am glad I’m coming next term instead of at Micalmass. I shall be glad to leave this beastly hole. Wilson ma. has got a scholarship at Westminster and we were going to have a whole holiday extra only now its stopped worse luck! Yesterday the Head went to London and Mac sent a message to the First Div. to say we wernt to dig in Wilderness while the Head was away. Middleton brought the message and Wilson ma. told him to go and ask Mac if the message was genuine. Middleton thought he was ragging but he said: “You must take my message you Second Division squit if you don’t I’ll smack your head.” So Middleton did. Mac was in an awful wax and sent for Wilson and asked him what he meant by it. Wilson said it was a joke--he never thought Middleton would take the message.

When the Head came back we were all sent for after tea and there was a pi-jaw. Wilson had his First Div. privileges taken away for the rest of the term, and the Holiday was stopped.

The other day Mason missed three Guatemalar green parrots from his stamp collexion which he had swoped with Jackson for a toad. It was a beastly swindel because the toad was blind. Jackson who is always sucking up to Colly sneeked about the stamps and Mac said he knew it was someone in his Div. who had bagged the stamps and if the chap didn’t own up he’d give the whole Div. an electric shock with his beastly battery.

Nobody owned up and the whole Second Div. had to join hands and they said Mac gave them the biggest shock theyd ever had. They didnt care but when it was over Middleton took the battery and threw it at Mac’s head. We all thought hed be expelled but Mac didn’t even sneek to the Head which was jolly decent of him. Mac can be awfully decent sometimes. After this Butler began to blub and then he said he had bagged the stamps but he meant to give them back. Mac told Butler he would find himself in Queer Street. We all knew what that meant and didnt we just tell him! Nothing happened till Monday morning--then at reeding over the Head gave the Second Div. a jaw. He said they were mutinus and as bad as feenians--a feenian is a man who eats mustard with mutton--and that Butler was a thief and a traitor worse than Gladstone. Butler’s pater is a liberal and some of the chaps say he’s a pal of Gladstone’s and you can just think how the Head gave it him. Butler was swished. Simpson ma. and Pearse held him down and he squeeled like anything. The Head gave him fifteen from the shoulder which Gordon says is against the law. The Head had a glass of shery before the swishing.

Last week there was elexions going on. The Head got a notice from the Reding Club asking him to vote for the Lib. Wasnt he waxy! He read us out the letter at tea and jawed about the Church and State and said he would send back the letter with some coppers in it so that they would have to pay 8_d._ He said a radical was worse than a feenian. We were taken to the elexion and we all wore blue ribbons in our buttonholes. The Libs werent allowed to go. There are only seven but I believe Rowley’s pater is a lib. although he swears he isnt.

Next week we are going to have athletic sports. I think I shall win the hurdel race and the high. Campbell’s sister’s name is Ann. Mason saw it at the end of a letter. Now we all call him Mary Ann. He’s awfully sick about it.

There’s a new chap called Gunter--a little beast. He’s the cheekiest squit I’ve ever seen. Colly reported him for stealing sugar from the pantry and he was warned that if he did anything again he would be turned out of the choir and swiped although it was his first term. He _has_ got cheek! He called Alston who is now top of the First Div. and captain of the Eleven, Piggy. Alston smacked his head. Fancy a Fourth Div. squit calling Alston piggy! Only the Head dares do that. He’s awfully dirty too and never washes. Colly nabbed him smacking Melton mi. with a slipper and he was reported again so he was swished. The Head said it was the first time a new chap had ever been swished and afterwards he kicked the Head’s straw hat through the Hall. We don’t know yet what will happen but we think he’ll be expeled.

I got into a row with Mac last week. While we were having tea he passed up that Bell and me were to stop talking. It never got to us and Mac sent for me afterwards and said he knew what I was up to and I’d better look out or I’d find myself in Queer Street and he stopped me talking for a week.

The Head’s reading us out an awfully good Book called “Tresure Island” and he’s just finished a better one called “The Last Abot of Glasconbury.” In the First Div. we do have to swot but in the First Set with Colly for maths and French we don’t do a stroke of work. You should hear Lambert the frenchy cheek him. He goes up to him and asks him whether one ought to pronounce _yeux_ youks or yeks and Colly doesn’t dare pronounce it and says he ought to know. Then Lambert says “I’ve forgotten Sir I really don’t know how to.”

Yesterday in school we lit some patent pills which you burn and a snake comes out. Colly who is awfully blind asked what I was doing. I just had time to put it in my desk and said I had dropped my pen. Only one bung and he believed it! On Valentine’s Day we sent Colly some sweets with biter alows inside them the stuff Mac puts on Watson’s fingers when he bites his nails and he eat them.

Last week the Choir expedition came off. They went to Reding to see the biskits made and then to Bath. If I was staying on next term I should be in the Eleven and get my flanels.

I forgot to tell you another awful row there’s been. Hetherington who is a new chap sits next to Ferguson at dinner. Ferguson always bags his sausage at breakfast on Sundays. The other day the Matron found a letter in Ferguson’s drawer written by Hetherington to Ferguson saying, “Dear Mister Ferguson. May I please have my sausage next Sunday. I’m so hungry.” Ferguson was swished but he didn’t care a rap. The Head says he’s callus. I had an awfully good catty. I shot Hichens mi. in the back of his head by mistake and it bled awfuly. I thought I was in for it but the Head only bagged my catty for the rest of the term. We sent for a lot of snakes and green lizzards from Covent Garden and most of us bought some. I bought a Salamander but it died. Up to the Head one can’t keep a toad in one’s desk as we used to when we were in Colly’s div. We still have Hashed Cat and Dead Fly pudding on Thursdays and nobody eats it and Mac still asks us why we arnt hungry. But I’m in training now for the sports and don’t eat pudding at all. None of us do.

Please write and tell me about the sort of things a chap ought to know before going to Eton.

Yours ever,
P. SMITH.

I’m Smith ma. now because my minor’s here. He isnt bad.

FROM SATURDAY TO MONDAY

_Letter from a Frenchwoman to an English Friend in Italy_

HOTEL RITZ, LONDON.
_Monday, June 1909_.

My very dear Mary,

Here is the second tome of my first impressions of your country and your compatriots, which I promised to share with you. After the town the country! After one day of the London season, the English country life, the home, the Sunday at home! I have spent what you call a Saturday week-end, or a Sunday over. I will relate you all my adventures, and tell you in all frankness the good and the bad.

The sister of our dear Jackie invited me for the Saturday week-end to her beautiful _chateau_. By misfortune our dear Jackie was prevented from coming himself. He was kept all Sunday at the Foreign Office to help to copy out telegrams! Is it not ignoble to spoil his holiday like that? Jackie, who has so little holiday, and who works so hard in Paris! His sister--perhaps you know her--is Lady Arlington, the wife of Sir Arlington. Their _chateau_ is in Surrey. I had never been presented to her, but she wrote me most amiably and proposed three trains I might take. I chose the first, which arrived at half-past four, and found an auto at the station. After five minutes we arrived at the _chateau_, which is fine, but rather heavy: style, Louis XIV, outside. In the interior, a mixture--Queen Elizabeth, Vandyke, Maple, Modern style, Morris. _Je n’aime pas les mélanges._ But the English comfort always seduces me. The chintzes, the flowers, the nick-nacks, the thousand little nothings! Oh, it is charming! When I arrived I was shown into a large hall, all panelled (the panelling repainted) with some fine pictures (some Vandykes and a Sir Joshua) and some horrors. And a picture of Lady Arlington by a modern French painter; a nightmare like a coloured photograph! There was a large tea table and a buffet all prepared, but neither the master nor the mistress of the house there to receive me. In the corner of the room a pale young man was sitting reading a book. He got up when I entered and looked embarrassed and said nothing. I did not know whether it was Sir Arlington or not. Then he said: “It has stopped raining; I think I will go out.” And he abandoned me to my fate!

I waited five minutes, ten minutes, one quarter of an hour; then Lady Arlington entered. She is not like Jackie at all, but a blonde, very tall, handsome, and striking. She was dressed simply (but not well) in white serge, and I was embarrassed, because they had told me the English were all that is most elegant for Saturday week-ends, and I was very dressed, with a big hat, with a lace veil, and ... (a page of technical details omitted). Lady Arlington was most amiable, and did not seem at all embarrassed at not having been there to receive me. She gave me tea.

Presently other guests entered; they had all been at Ascot Races--some of them staying in this house, others coming in their autos from neighbouring _chateaux_. They were all simply dressed, the men in _tennis_. I felt red with shame to be the only one dressed. Lady Arlington did not present one single person to me. Two pretty young women arrived (one a real Sir Joshua and the other a Greuze), and an older lady--very handsome--who began to talk _politique_. Also a great many men, most of them bald although young; they all sat down and we drank tea. Then the master of the house arrived, a tall man with a beard, _très, très bien_, like a Vandyke. He seemed timid. Lady Arlington said to him: “You know Madame,” and then stopped, as though she had forgotten my name.

We of course talked of dear Jackie at once, but when I said it was a shame to disturb his holiday, Lady Arlington said, “Oh yes,” as though she did not understand. Then a man who had not been presented to me began to talk to me. He is no longer in his first youth, but very beautiful and gentle like a seigneur in a Pinturicchio, and we discussed Sargent’s pictures and art in general. I found him very well-informed, intelligent, and even erudite; he has written a book about _Villon_. Then more people arrived: an old man with a beard, who my “Italian nobleman” whispered to me was Wreathall, the celebrated novelist. He is, between us, a _raseur_, and told stories enough to make one sleep about ghosts in a kitchen. There also arrived two American ladies, one a real American, full of life; the other just like an Englishwoman, and, to speak the truth, one would not have known she was American except by her clothes; she was dressed well, just like a Frenchwoman.

Then came some sportsmen, some clubmen, and a little man with a _pince-nez_. They all talked together about their friends, calling everybody by their little names; for example, Janie, and Letty, and Tommy, and Bobbie, so all that was Greek to me. Soon everybody disappeared into the garden by twos, and I was left alone with Lady Arlington and my “Italian nobleman!” The pale young man who was there when I arrived gave a glance into the hall and went out again. Lady Arlington told me he was a celebrated M.P., and very remarkable. I continued to discuss art and history, in which he was so strong, with my “Italian nobleman,” until at last Lady Arlington said she was sure I would like rest, and she conducted me to my bedroom, a ravishing room furnished with all the English comfort, looking over the superb garden with its admirable lawns.

I was glad to go to my room, so as to have plenty of time to make my toilet, because they had told me the English are so exact. I disembarrass myself of my things and put on a dressing-gown. I lie down, and presently I hear cries from the garden; I look out of the window and I see in the distance they are playing at croquet with great gaiety. I am almost tempted to go downstairs once more, but as I am already undressed I have not the energy; so I remain in my room and read a book, and at half-past seven my maid comes, so that I was ready almost before half-past eight, the dinner hour. When the dinner gong rang, and I left my room to descend, some of the men were only just coming in from the garden. I was the first downstairs.

There was no one in the salon except the little man with the _pince-nez_. He said nothing at all at first, but after five minutes he said he was glad it had stopped raining, and after that not a word. We did not sit down at table until nine. Sir Arlington gave me the arm, and on the other side was an oldish distinguished man with well cut features, _très bien_, with good manners, but so devoted to his neighbouress that he paid no attention to me. She was a beauty, but dressed, it is inconceivable! _Fagotée, ma chère!_ If you could have seen it! It was to cry about! Her dress was made in Paris too, but all put on anyhow.

Sir Arlington is a delicious gentleman, but _distrait_; he cares only for birds and animals, and often undertakes long expeditions for sport in Africa. I asked him who all the people were, and imagine, he had no idea who was the small man with the _pince-nez_, or several of the others. He said: “Those are my wife’s literary friends; they are very nice, but too clever for me.” He is modest, like all the Englishmen. Lady Arlington has, it appears, the mania for _hommes de lettres_ as well as for music, gardening, and a thousand other things, although, between us, she is _une sotte--bête comme une oie et poseuse_! and always making exaggerated exclamations, such as How thrilling! How darling! and always in ecstasy about nothing. I talked with Sir Arlington nearly all dinner, as my other neighbour was so occupied. There was no general conversation, and we were twenty-two at table.

After dinner, according to the British custom, the ladies went into the drawing-room; they broke up into groups, the young women sat on a sofa and two or three others--the Americans also--grouped themselves round them. The others talked _tête-à-tête_. Lady Arlington sat beside me, with another lady who seemed to be very pleased that I was French, and just as we had begun to talk Lady Arlington left us and joined the group by the sofa. The lady who remained with me talked of nothing but Paris and French things, and what a salad! Cafés chantants, Réjane, De Bussy, Fursy, and Maeterlinck, and all _à côté_! The men stayed very late, but came out at last, and then Lady Arlington arranged the Bridge. There were four tables; everybody played except the M.P., who sat down and began reading a book; the novelist, who went to bed; the little man with the _pince-nez_, who I discovered was a celebrated painter; my “Italian nobleman,” and the political lady. She took the M.P. away from his book, and settled herself down in a corner with him for the rest of the evening.

Lady Arlington took my “Italian nobleman” apart and said something to him in a whisper, and I heard him answer: “I have been talking to her the whole afternoon.” Then she went up to the painter and said something to him, and he came and sat down beside me. We talked French literature and theatres; he is intelligent, but twenty years in behind about everything French, and though I was told he was an _homme d’esprit_, I could not understand his allusions nor his pleasantries.

The Bridge went on late; it was already half-past twelve when we went to bed. Lady Arlington asked me if I would have breakfast in my room, but I, who wanted to see a real English breakfast, decided to descend. I was resolved to make no mistake about my clothes, so I came down the next morning at ten in a dress I had got for the _Mont Dore_, a simple jacket and a short skirt. Imagine my astonishment! Everybody was dressed in muslins, as elegant as possible, _grandes toilettes_. Lady Arlington was dressed in white and silver and green and gold, half _décolletée_, with a huge green hat. I am not wicked, you know, but she looked like a great white parrot with her blonde coiffure! It is only English complexions which can support such toilettes in the morning.

After breakfast Lady Arlington and the M.P. went to the church; she said that afterwards she would show me her “Friendship’s Garden,” which I suppose is a garden reserved for her intimate friends. The guests went into the garden and sat under the trees in small groups; nearly every one had a book, and I found that wherever I went I made a desert, a _vide_, and everybody said they must go and write letters. After a time I went in doors, also to write letters, and in every drawing room I found a _tête-à-tête_! I waited for Lady Arlington, but Sir Arlington found me and asked me to take a walk, and he took me to see his stables and the park, which is a dream. I asked about the garden, but he said that was his wife’s, and that he did not occupy himself with it; but he showed me all that was practical and interesting. It was admirable. I came in all out of breath before the lunch, and had just time to go upstairs and change my dress.

This time I thought I would be right, and I put on my most elegant Worth dress. But no! I come downstairs, I find everybody sitting at the lunch, and they have once more changed into short skirts and flannels. It was despairing! There was only one empty place left, between the painter and the M.P. I talked French _politique_ with him; he was amiable, but I could not see what they find remarkable in him.

After lunch the tennis; it was not very hot, and Lady Arlington and some of the other guests went out, and one of the young women (she who was so pretty) quarrelled with one of the other women, and although everybody tried to calm her, she would not listen and went into the house, crying, my dear, crying hot tears, and there she remained for the rest of the afternoon! I did not know what the drama was about. Then everybody disappeared; the “Italian nobleman” (always so well meaning and so modest) proposed to me to look on at the tennis. We sat down on chairs with the painter and the novelist until tea was brought.

At tea another man arrived from London, a lord, I forget his name, middle-aged and very gay; he at once got himself presented to me; we played a new game called croquet-golf until dinner. The others did not seem to appreciate him so much, perhaps he shocked the English reserve; he is full of _en-train_ and the English humour. At dinner Sir Arlington again gave me the arm. After dinner everybody played Bridge once more, but I had the joy to find my friend the new arrival, who talked to me the whole evening and regaled me with his drollery, and made a thousand farces, causing me to die of laughing, simply (imagine how!) by drawing pigs with his eyes shut!

This morning I returned to London, on which I will write you further impressions soon. I adore England, the men are so well informed and full of humour, the women are beautiful, but why do not they learn to put on clothes, and why are they so dressed and yet so untidy? Oh how different you are from us!

Your friend,
JEANNE.

A RUSSIAN SAILOR

_Letter from a Russian Sailor to his Brother_

COWES, _July 23 (August 6), 1909_.
(St. Trafim’s Day.)

My dear brother Ivan,

I am alive and well, and I hope you are alive and well, and that all the family are thriving, and I beg you to greet my father, my stepmother, my brother Andrew, my sister, little Peter, and all my near ones from me. Please also greet Dimitri Ivanovitch and Paul Borisovitch and Anna Nikolaevna. We arrived yesterday in this country. It belongs to the English, who possess so many countries. Their great Queen is no longer alive, but there is now a King in her place who is a blood relation of our Emperor.

We were sent on shore yesterday to buy provisions. Everything is very cheap, except _vodka_, which costs three roubles a small bottle. But the English drink a _vodka_ of their own which is also very dear, and they drink a kind of beer which we do not care for much. The houses are all built of brick and warmed with coal. Even the working men live in stone houses and heat them with coal. There is no wood anywhere. The houses and the streets are kept clean, and the people, even the gentry, obey the police, and are humble when they are given orders. The English are Christians, and like white men in all respects. They are not heathens. Most of them are rich, and they have many lacqueys who obey their masters like dumb slaves, and dare not look them in the face when they speak to them.

The English food is nasty, and there is little to eat, although all eat meat every day, except the very poor, who seldom receive alms from the passers-by. There are here many beggars in the streets, but nobody gives them food or money. We gave a cripple a quarter of a rouble and he was surprised.

There are many luxurious ships in the harbour all painted white and pretty to look at. At night they are lit up by electricity. The English Fleet is here, too, and it is very big, and the ships are fine, and we were heavy-hearted when we looked at it and thought of our brave sailors who had been obliged to fight like lions for their dear country. But there is no help for it, and if Providence wills we shall one day have another fleet bigger than the first. The tide is strong here, and dangerous for us who do not know where the rocks are, and when we ask nobody can explain, for the English do not speak Russian at all. I only know three things in English: “Plenty whisky,” which means _vodka_; “five o’clock,” which means _shabash_ (all over); and “alright,” which means “I thank you.”

The English sailors are like ours, but they have little to eat or drink. The laws are strict here, and if a man who has taken drink walks about in the streets he is put in prison. If that happened in Russia we should mutiny. Moreover, it is forbidden to smoke almost everywhere. This is strange, as the English smoke a great deal; but they are an obedient people, and clean. They respect their laws.

On shore it is merry. There are many clowns and acrobats dancing and singing, just as though it were a fair. But the English do not know how to sing, and they do not dance at all. Although there is much merrymaking I have not seen one drunken man, so much afraid are they of being put in prison.

The English have a Duma, but an Englishman who speaks Russian told us that it was just like ours, and that they did nothing but talk there. He also told us that the English women had mutinied because so many of them had been put in prison for beating the police, and that they were being starved in the prisons until they should submit. This seems to us cruel, but the English are often not kind to women and animals, and they say the women interfere in what is not their business, just as they do at home.

The English have no army, only mercenaries who are paid money. Some of them are niggers. I asked the man who talked Russian why it was that if men were paid so much to be soldiers every one was not a soldier. He said that soldiers were sent away to foreign climates, and that men did not respect soldiers in England. It is also like that in China. The sailors are much respected and much loved, and they are all Englishmen, and white men, and not mercenaries. They are merry people, too.

The English naval officers are clean shaven, which makes them look very funny, but they are good officers and know their business. The police are dressed in long great-coats and carry no weapons, because the English people are docile and submissive; and they have few hooligans here, although they say that in London there are many hooligans, but these are hanged.

Yesterday we went to Portsmouth, a town, for we could not buy what we wanted in this place, which is only a village, although all the houses are built of stone. Portsmouth is a beautiful town, with many shops, palaces, theatres, and churches, and full of beautiful women who are all married to sailors. It is the custom of the place to obey the sailors in everything, and not to rob them. The English sailors are rich, much richer than some of our generals. They spend their money generously and treat everybody. They would be robbed in Russia, but here everybody lives in terror of the police, and I am told that if a poor man is arrested there is no chance of his not being condemned to prison. They are strict, so they say, in their prisons, and the “unfortunates” are not allowed even to speak to each other or to smoke. Fancy this happening in Russia! If they are very bad they are sent to America! But this only happens to the very bad criminals.