CHAPTER XI

WILHELMSHÖHE

The Court stays here every year during August, when the damp heat of the New Palace, which lies so low, becomes too suffocatingly unbearable. The Emperor in Wilhelmshöhe changes his uniform every afternoon for an ordinary flannel or tweed suit, and wearing a Panama hat, tramps energetically among the woods and hills, working off a little of the adipose tissue which, in spite of his activities, has in the last year or two made some slight encroachment on his straight, lithe figure. He has a horror of growing stout, and keeps the enemy at bay with characteristic pertinacity.

Once at a fancy-dress ball given by Prince Adalbert, his sailor-son at Kiel, the Emperor came to it, unknown to the guests, wearing the dress of his own ancestor the Great Elector, a full-bottomed flowing wig and the long coat and breeches appropriate to the period. During the first part of the ball the dancers were masked, and the Emperor was talking with a lady who, believing him to be the Crown Prince, whom she knew very well, said to him archly:

“Your Imperial Highness is splendidly disguised. How did you make yourself appear so stout? A little cushion stuffed inside somewhere, I suppose?”

His Majesty told this story against himself several times, especially when the lady, who previous to her marriage was attached to the service of the Empress, happened to be present. He would roll his eyes in pretended anger while he said:

“Of course there was no cushion—there was only me; but I believe she said it on purpose. She knew who it was all the time.”

It was a toilsome business to tramp so many miles in the hot sun, and though the Empress herself was at that time a good walker, she had hard work to keep up with her energetic husband, while the Princess frankly confessed that she was half dead after one of “Papa’s” brisk constitutionals. Elderly Germans, especially at Court, do not walk much habitually. They occasionally take exercise of the kind as a “cure,” making it into something of a solemn, ponderous rite, strolling along under the forest trees hat in hand, with frequent pauses to look at the scenery; but this is not what the Emperor understands by walking.

Every Sunday morning the ladies and gentlemen of the suite used to assemble before church time on the terrace opposite the great statue (copied from the Farnese Hercules) which stands away at the top of the hill crowning the artificial rock terraces, caves and cascades made by a former Landgraf of Hesse-Cassel. This statue is so large that a man can stand inside the club upon which Hercules leans. The weather was always judged (or misjudged) according to whether Herkules loomed near or retired into the background. After standing a little, and chatting in the usual desultory way of people who meet often and rarely have new experiences to confide, the Empress and Princess would appear, followed by the Emperor.

On my first visit to Wilhelmshöhe, as we wended our way to the little chapel in one wing of the Palace, the Emperor said that he hoped I would “sing in a loud, deep voice” in church, because the singing was usually very bad. I commented on the slowness of German hymn-singing, and His Majesty told me how surprised he was once, when visiting at Windsor “with Grandmamma” a year or two before she died, to hear the organ burst out suddenly into the Austrian National Anthem, not knowing that it had been adopted as an English hymn-tune.

The way to the chapel was through a long matted corridor hung with queer old-fashioned paintings of distorted-looking animals.

Just before the door of the royal pew hung on each side of the wall two pictures of ferocious cows whose eyes followed with a threatening glare as people went in or out of chapel. Underneath the cows was placed the alms-dish for the contributions of Their Majesties and the Court.

The Emperor and Empress occupied two special gilt and red-velvet chairs, and the Court ordinary cane-bottomed ones—also gilt—which made a great scraping on the floor as we rose to pray or sat down to sing according to the usual German custom.

The congregation consisted chiefly of a few officers and foresters with their wives and children, and a well-meaning choir sang timidly in the gallery up above.

The dining-room and neighbouring salons in Wilhelmshöhe were beautifully furnished in Empire style and in late Louis Quinze. The fine view from the windows, away over the undulating hills beyond Cassel, helped to beguile the rather wearisome standing about and half-hearted after-dinner conversation. One of the old generals who wanted to improve his English always came ponderously in my direction if he saw me glancing at some of the English fashion-papers lying on the table, as he declared himself deeply interested in “ladies’ toilettes.” I was always rather apprehensive when he turned over the leaves, looking at them carefully through his eyeglass, and when he got to the hair “transformations” usually thought it best to retire before he reached pages of a still more intimate nature.

Jerome Bonaparte inhabited Wilhemshöhe for seven years when he was King of Westphalia, and introduced all the Empire sofas and chairs. The salon of the Princess was a delightful room with a parquet floor, panelled and painted white, and the mahogany furniture was upholstered in a most beautiful tone of striped yellow satin. Leading from it was the breakfast-room, with striped red-stain wall-coverings hung with pictures of the children of the House of Hesse-Cassel, to whom the Schloss belonged before they lost it by fighting against Prussia in the war of 1866. These unfortunate infants of two or three years were dressed in stuffy, heavy, thickly-embroidered garments of black and red velvet, and wore stiffly-starched, scratchy-looking ruffs round their poor little chubby necks.

In Wilhelmshöhe Schloss Napoleon III. was lodged after being taken prisoner by the Germans. In the Empress’s sitting-room is the writing-table he used, with the hole burnt in it where he always laid his cigar.

Not far from Wilhelmshöhe, just a pleasant drive of an hour or so, past yellowing cornfields, under rows of apple and cherry trees, lay Wilhelmsthal, a charming country-house lying in a tiny hamlet far from a railway station, also built by an Elector of Hesse and inhabited by the before-mentioned King Jerome. This delightful little summer Schloss has hardly been touched in its arrangements since the Great Napoleon’s brother left it. All the beds remain with the French eagle spreading its wings above the green silk curtains; the Dresden china figures he looked at every day still occupy their places on the shelves; the china timepiece that struck the hour yet stands beside his bed, though it has long ago ceased to measure time. The tourist can lean out of the windows of his bedroom and see the carp, descendants of those he used to feed, or perhaps the very same fish, swimming about in the pond a little distance away. It is a place where time seems to have stood still for the last hundred years.

The Emperor in Wilhelmshöhe liked to ride at about seven o’clock in the morning, while it was still comparatively cool. He was almost invariably accompanied by the Empress, as well as by any other members of his family who happened to be staying at the castle.

It was a pretty sight to watch the procession of horses coming two by two from the stables across the road, each horse led by a groom, while two Sattel Meisters in cocked hats and much embroidered uniforms walked behind them, all being under the command of two officers, the Emperor’s Leib-Stall-Meister and that of the Empress.

A former Master of the Horse to His Majesty, Baron von Holzing-Berstett, was one of the judges at the International Horse Show at Olympia a few years ago.

All the tourists from the hotel opposite used to assemble outside the Schloss gates, under the stern control of two gendarmes, who kept them penned on one side of the road.

The horses were halted in the shadow near the big pillared portico of the Schloss, and as soon as the attendant gentlemen and ladies emerged, were brought up and walked round the terrace by the grooms till a start was made. As a rule the Emperor and Empress were very punctual, and nothing annoyed His Majesty more than to be kept waiting. A lady always rode in attendance on the Empress, but as one of those who could ride—only two out of the four were able to do so—was usually absent on her holidays at this time, I often was called upon to supply the place of the absent Hof-Dame. The Princess, when her lessons began again, had to ride at five in the evening instead of seven, so I very frequently managed two rides a day, and even sometimes three. Often I was summoned in the early morning from my repose by a breathless footman.

“Will gnädiges Fräulein please get up at once to ride with Her Majesty? The Countess has a cold. In five minutes the horses will be round.”

So that I became an expert in quick dressing, and generally managed to be ready in time.

The Emperor’s suite was always fairly large, and as each of his sons when he accompanied his father had also his attendant gentleman, often consisted of sixteen or seventeen persons, without counting the officials and grooms.

His Majesty in Wilhelmshöhe nearly always wore the comfortable green Jäger uniform in which to ride, whereas in Neues Palais he almost invariably rode in Hussar uniform. We usually moved off from the Terrace in three or four rows, one behind the other, and the clatter of hoofs was like that of a troop of cavalry. The morning air from the mountains came in gusts fresh and sparkling like wine. As soon as His Majesty appeared round the curve of the drive, the sentry flung open the little iron gate leading on to the road, and the rows of people outside immediately produced and waved their clean pocket-handkerchiefs, which at once aroused apprehensions in the breast of the timid equestrian somewhat doubtful of his own powers. The horses of the Emperor and Empress were, of course, specially trained to ignore these loyal demonstrations, but those of the suite, especially if newly introduced into the stable, sometimes exhibited symptoms of surprise.

Practically only one good riding road exists in the neighbourhood of Wilhelmshöhe, but this is a very delightful one, through the lovely wooded grounds outside the park up into the forest on the mountain slopes, and then across a beautiful stretch of grass along the brow of the hills with a wide view on all sides. As soon as they reached the softer ground in the forest the Emperor and Empress would start off at a brisk stretching canter, followed by the rest of the party. After a night’s rain it was not agreeable to ride in the second and third row, for the dirt cast up by the horses’ hoofs was rather adhesive, not like the hard clean sand of Potsdam, which fell off again as soon as dry. For several miles the canter would be kept up, and then the horses were breathed a little and trotted homewards again. Very often the Empress finished her ride at the big statue of Hercules, where carriages were waiting and grooms to take the horses home.

One day the Princess had ridden alone with me, and we were returning from the “Hercules” together in an automobile. The road down the steep hillside towards the castle is cut in a series of zigzags with very sharp turns, and at the first of these, the chauffeur failing to turn early enough, the car as nearly as possible toppled over the edge, its front wheels being just on the verge when he was able to stop. Another inch would have sent it over, crashing down among the trees. The Princess said afterwards that it was “a thrilling moment,” and I agreed that it was one of those deeply interesting intervals of time which make one feel keenly alive. She did not move or say a word as we hung, but gripped her riding-whip rather hard, and only when the big car slowly backed and turned into a safer position gave a long deep sigh of relief. She rather enjoyed novel sensations, and especially gloried in the description of her own emotions at the critical moment. Like the fat boy in “Pickwick” she wanted to make “your blood run cold” with the narration of hairbreadth escapes and dangerous situations.

When the afternoons were too hot to walk, His Majesty almost invariably played lawn-tennis. Grass courts are non-existent in Germany—at least they are used only by those people who do not take lawn-tennis seriously; and all good courts are made of a kind of concrete first used at Homburg, the composition of which is supposed to be a secret. It is an excellent preparation, possessing a certain elasticity approximating to turf, and has the advantage of drying quickly. Even if turf lawns could be grown as they are in England—and I have never met with any that remotely resembled their close, fine texture—the heavy thunderstorms which prevail in that district during the hot weather would frequently make it impossible to use them.

His Majesty plays lawn-tennis in rather crude-looking shirts and ties, and usually wears a Panama hat. Unlike most men, he looks perhaps less well in such a “get-up” than in anything else. Young officers from the neighbouring barracks are often sent for to join in a set, and the Ober-Gouvernante, who was an expert player, often had to upset all her arrangements for the afternoon on being requested to play with His Majesty. As the Princess grew older she became quite a respectable player, and all the young princes, especially the Crown Prince and Prince Adalbert, were good at the game, which is exceedingly popular in Germany.

In the evenings, when it grew rather cooler, a picnic supper was often eaten in some spot among the hills. Sometimes we drove there in carriages, and it was the pride of the Master of the Horse to turn out four or five four-in-hands, which made a great sensation among the tourists as they emerged from the gates of the Schloss.

The Royal Stables possessed some very fine black Mecklenburg horses which were used on these occasions, but the all-conquering automobile has lately been preferred by His Majesty, who likes to get quickly over the ground, and also to go farther afield than horses can take him.

Those suppers in the hills were very amusing, especially if, as often happened, the Emperor decided that he and the Empress should do some of the cooking. In spite of all assertions to the contrary, the Empress knows nothing whatever about cooking, although a good part of the civilized world pictures her as daily bending over saucepans and mixing ingredients for puddings. The nearest approach to the culinary art which she has ever practised was dexterously “tossing” a pancake, which she did very neatly, and was exceedingly gratified by the applause of the surrounding ladies, one of whom dropped hers on to the ground. It happened, of course, at one of these picnics, which are accompanied by portable stoves and several cooks with the necessary implements and materials of their trade. Some of the gentlemen of the suite, those imbued with the old Prussian spirit of economy which believes in limiting avenues of expenditure, often expressed impatience and disapproval of these suppers.

“Now look!” said one of them to me: “there are four carts for the kitchens alone—horses, coachmen, grooms; think of the work all this has caused these poor cooks"—he glanced at four white-clad individuals who were peaceably pursuing their avocations under the shade of a tree, and appeared to be quite as happy as the rest of us.

“I think they really enjoy it,” I said deprecatingly; “of course it is a trouble—picnics usually are; but there are plenty of horses in the stables—they may as well come out here as not.”

He shook his head and sighed.

“Ah, it is a different spirit,” he said sadly. “My father used to tell me how simply the Old Emperor William lived. Never took more than one adjutant with him, not this crowd"—and he waved his hand at the row of gentlemen whose gaze was concentrated on the Emperor engaged in concocting some kind of a strawberry Bowle. “Never used more than one carriage if he could help it, at most two. Look at that procession"—and his gaze wandered dubiously to the long line of vehicles which stood in the shade a little way down the hill. We could hear the clink of bits and the stamp of the waiting horses.

“The Old Emperor William,” I ventured, “was King of Prussia for a good while before he became German Emperor; he could not change his habits later on. Besides, everybody lives more extravagantly now; even the working classes——”

He groaned and shook his head, and murmured something which sounded disapproving and prophetic of disaster.

One day at dinner in Wilhelmshöhe one of the guests was a water-finder, and when, as usual, we all went out on the terrace, he produced his rod, a ramshackle affair like a piece of iron wire, and we were all invited to try our skill. Many of the gentlemen were frankly sceptical, and the only one of them with whom the rod made any definite movement was the worst unbeliever of them all.

The Emperor was very annoyed at their unbelief, and said that he was going to send the gentleman with the divining-rod to South Africa, where he would be able to discover not only springs of water, but diamonds and gold. His Majesty had recently been gratified by the fresh discovery of small diamonds in German-African territory, and exhibited with great glee his cigarette-case in which they had been mounted. He explained to us all that they had been found, not, as is usual, embedded in blue clay, but lying on the surface loose in the sand, and that one of the German workers on the new railway had gathered up a handful in a few minutes. He also gave it as his opinion that they had blown along from some as yet undiscovered mine somewhere in the hills.

I suggested in a whisper to the Princess, who was very triumphant over these German diamonds, that they had probably blown over the frontier from British territory, and she immediately communicated this theory of mine to her father.

“No, no!” roared the Emperor in pretended anger. “Blew over from British territory indeed! nothing of the kind!” He scowled portentously and—as was his habit—shook a monitory finger in my direction.

When the Court returned to Neues Palais from Wilhelmshöhe after the Emperor returned from the great autumn manœuvres, as long as the fine weather lasted—and the autumn in Potsdam is wonderfully beautiful—he would make excursions on his little river steamer the Alexandria along the beautiful chain of lakes which is one of the great charms of that district.

The private landing-stage had been built by His Majesty of wood in quaint Norwegian style, with two large waiting-rooms and a wide balcony overlooking the water. Ranged on shelves round the rooms was every variety of Norwegian bowl; some brightly-painted red ones with dragon beak and tail, others very beautifully carved in Norwegian patterns. They had most of them been brought back from Norway by the Emperor himself. The chairs were of the uncompromisingly hard Norwegian peasant type, made entirely of wood and without any attempt at adaptation to human contours. The sailors who manned the Alexandria were some of the crew of the Hohenzollern, and looked very smart in their white-duck uniforms.

As a rule we went in the steamer to the Pfauen-Insel or Isle of Peacocks, where was a very queer little Schloss, built to resemble an imitation ruin, though the imitation was very badly done. It had been a favourite resort of Queen Louise of Prussia and her husband, and in the cupboards upstairs were still to be found some most extraordinary-looking old bonnets of hers of the coal-scuttle type. Not far from the Schloss was a Rutsch-Bahn or toboggan slide, which the Princess liked immensely, and always insisted that I should join her in one of the dreadful “rushes,” which were accomplished in little boxes something like sleighs, with room for two people inside and one man outside, who had to stand on the runners and push off from the top. We went down at a tremendous pace, finally landing on the grass at the bottom, where we bumped terrifically till the impetus was spent. The man behind always had to lean over the inside occupants and grasp at two handles in front of the car.

In a sheltered angle of the Schloss itself the supper-table was spread by the footmen with the cold viands which had been brought from the New Palace. All round lay the shining water, and there was a constant rustling and whispering of the reeds as they bowed and curtsied to the night wind. Sometimes on the warm September evenings the Emperor would remain a long time at table talking and smoking by the light of candles, enclosed in tall glass chimneys to protect them from the draught. No one was permitted to smoke excepting His Majesty—chiefly, I believe, because the Empress has a very strong dislike to the odour of tobacco.

Usually the “visitors’ book” of the Schloss was produced some time during the evening, and every one present signed it. It contained many interesting signatures of long-dead-and-gone celebrities, and the firm, clear writing of the Emperor and Empress Frederick occurred frequently, as well as that of the “Old Emperor” and Bismarck.

If during the cruise the weather turned colder, the supper was taken to the landing-stage—the Matrosen Station, as it was called—and eaten there in the Norwegian rooms, the guests sitting uncomfortably on the Norwegian chairs. No opportunity of eating out of doors was ever lost, and when time did not allow of an excursion, supper was served on the terrace just outside the windows of the palace, where the orange trees scented the air, and the mosquitoes were kept at bay by braziers of charcoal on which juniper berries were burned.

Sometimes, instead of going by water to Pfauen-Insel, the court drove in carriages to Sacrow, a small Schloss uninhabited except by the Kastellan and his wife, situated in a lovely tangled wilderness of garden overlooking the water. To get to the other side it was necessary to use the ferry, and when the Princess crossed it in the afternoon with her ponies, she would assist the ferryman to warp his craft over the river. Once when we went to Sacrow with an automobile, the shirt-sleeved waiter from the adjacent restaurant, the blue-jerseyed man in charge of the ferry and the Princess worked all in a row, walking slowly along the rope, gravely performing their task together, while the two chauffeurs in their elegant royal livery regarded this pleasantly democratic picture with hardly concealed surprise and amusement.

The woods round Sacrow were the most beautiful of any in the neighbourhood, threaded with sandy paths which skirted the water side. In one part were the kennels of the Königliche Meute or royal pack of hounds, which we visited once or twice in the summer-time before the hunting began.

During the autumn and winter these hounds hunted two or three times a week at Döberitz after wild boar, carted from one of the Emperor’s neighbouring forests. The meets were attended almost exclusively by the officers of the regiments stationed in Potsdam, and very often by the Emperor. The Empress, although very fond of riding, was not at all keen on hunting, and rarely appeared except on St. Hubert’s Day, which is a very ceremonial occasion, the horses being decorated with green ribbons, and every one riding in pink with chimney-pot hat, whereas on ordinary occasions the round velvet hunting-cap and black coat may be worn.

The Emperor invariably gives a hunting dinner on the evening of this day, when all the gentlemen invited appear in pink, each one wearing in the buttonhole of his coat the spray of oak-leaves which is the trophy presented to everybody “in at the death.” When the Emperor is present at a hunt, he himself distributes the bunches of oak-leaves; otherwise it is one of the duties of the M.F.H.

The riding-horses of His Majesty are mostly big-boned weight-carriers of English or Irish breed, trained in the royal stables for six months or so before being ridden by the Emperor.

Those of the Empress are in charge of a second official, who is responsible for their good behaviour.

Once, as Their Majesties rode together in the early morning in the neighbourhood of Potsdam, the horse of the Empress stumbled and fell, turning a complete somersault and throwing its rider on to her head, fortunately without serious injury, thanks to the hard straw hat she was wearing.

It is a very dreadful business for an Empress to fall from her horse, even when she receives no particular harm. It usually happens before a crowd of people, some of whom are necessarily held responsible for the accident; and on this occasion one or two of the officials became hysterical and shed tears, while the Emperor, under the stress of the incident, used some rather sharp and very excusable words of censure. The adjutants scattered themselves wildly over the surface of the earth in search of a doctor, while Princes Oskar and Joachim, who were also riding with their parents, did the same.

Prince Oskar discovered no doctor, but did manage to find a droschky with a miserable-looking horse and a very dirty, unkempt driver, who was sitting peacefully dreaming on his box in front of a house, waiting for his “fare,” a young officer, to come out. Prince Oskar immediately ordered him to come and drive Her Majesty home, but the droschky-driver demurred, saying he was already engaged and could not leave his fare in the lurch. The Prince insisted, but the faithful cabman, perhaps doubtful of the bona fides of the affair, still refused the proffered honour of driving the Empress home; so finally the Prince drew his sword and bade him in the name of military authority (paramount in Germany) to proceed with him at once to the indicated spot, bringing his droschky with him. So grumbling loudly all the way, the disgusted Jehu did as he was bid, obviously still convinced that he was the victim of some practical joke, and presently found himself the centre of a brilliant but agitated circle of people, all talking and suggesting different things.

Her Majesty, who protested at being treated as an injured person, as she felt perfectly well except for the momentary alarm, would have much preferred to remount her horse and ride home quietly without so much unnecessary fuss; but had perforce to get into the evil-smelling, dirty vehicle with her lady-in-waiting, and escorted by her two sons and one or two crestfallen officials, arrived home, where a very frightened young military doctor, who had been somehow unearthed from a neighbouring barracks, thought after a short examination that it was advisable for the Empress to keep her bed. He was then dismissed with appropriate thanks, and the Court doctor, who had been summoned from Berlin, immediately ordered Her Majesty to get up and go about as usual. The flutter in the Palace that day was indescribable, and one of the strangest things was the absolute divergence of opinion among the spectators of the accident. No two of them agreed as to the exact manner in which it took place, and the discussions about unimportant details grew almost acrimonious.

The droschky-driver reaped most advantage from the occurrence, and still relates to an admiring Potsdam the part he played in extricating Her Majesty from a serious dilemma.

CHAPTER XII

CADINEN

Once, with a sudden determination to see how the Empress was getting on, the Emperor made a descent of three or four days, announcing his coming only a few hours beforehand. A kind of general shuffle of apartments had to be made instantly, everybody packing up their things and squeezing themselves into little out-of-the-way holes and corners. Every house in the village having a decent spare room was requisitioned, but only two were available, the rest being impossible; and somebody suggested a tent on the lawn, but unfortunately there were no tents.

Most of His Majesty’s adjutants had to use the train, shunted on to a siding, as an hotel, sleeping and dressing there in much discomfort; for it is one thing to live simply, divested of life’s superfluities, and quite another to retain a courtier-like appearance in the midst of an absolute dearth of means to that end.

“We have only accommodation for a tooth-brush and a cake of soap, yet must change into four different costumes every day,” complained one unfortunate Kammer-Herr.

Fortunately it only lasted for four days, and then the Emperor and his suite departed to more comfortable and roomy quarters.

But on our first visit we had the house to ourselves and plenty of space in which to move about.

The journey from Berlin is long and slow, and appears interminable. The train passed through very flat, uninteresting country, especially during the last few miles, where the railway approaches the Frisches Haff, that curious bay formed by the waters of the sluggish Vistula, separated from the Gulf of Danzig by a thin strip of sand which stretches some hundred miles along the coast.

Cadinen is about ten miles from Elbing, which is reached from there by a train which puffs leisurely up and down the single branch line at long intervals of the day. The station platform at this little village, when I first knew it, was practically non-existent. One descended from the blue-and-gold royal train right on to the meadow. Great purple columbines, yellow and blue lupines, seemed to be almost growing over the line itself. No road was visible excepting a sandy cart-track, full of ruts, where three or four of the royal carriages, looking entirely out of place, were waiting to take us up to the Schloss. One felt that a farm-cart drawn by a yoke of oxen would have been more appropriate.

We bumped towards the Schloss, the coachman wisely eschewing the track and driving over the meadow itself, past a Zigelei (tile-factory) belonging to the Emperor, and up a shady lane of ancient and weathered oaks, till we came to one of those stucco, villa-like country-houses usual in the Fatherland, which makes it easy to understand why the Germans fall into raptures over ours in England.

It stood, with a small interval of untidy lawn, close to the road and opposite the village green and duck-pond, around which other houses were clustered. At the back was what is called a park in Germany, but the term has no relation to the English idea of a park, and means simply an extensive garden and orchard. A lovely avenue of chestnut trees was the chief beauty of the garden. They unfortunately grew close up to the house, and made some of the bedrooms so dark that on dull days one could not read or write without a lamp on the writing-table, which was very inconvenient, especially as our rooms had to serve as combined sitting-and bed-rooms.

The Empress and the Princess had with them all their servants, including housemaids, from the New Palace, but peasant-women of the neighbourhood waited upon the suite—clean, strong, healthy-looking people who usually worked barefoot in the fields for a wage of threepence or fourpence a day, but at the advent of the court were thrust into print gowns and boots, and, wearing little flat caps on their heads, pervaded the house, smiling broadly. They spoke with an engaging West-Prussian accent, and only came for an hour or two in the mornings, and again in the afternoons for another short spell of work. In the intervals they went back to their occupations in the fields, for the Inspektor did not approve of their absence just at the busy harvest time. They were all of them Catholics, for the Reformation never penetrated to that district, and among them is much Polish blood.

In the rather untidy but pleasant Schloss garden was an ornamental pond, from which arose at every moment of the day and night, never ceasing, never changing, a pitiful moaning cry, which speedily got on to everybody’s nerves, and was possibly the reason why all the grown-up people felt rather snappy and cross during the first few days. It had somewhat the effect on one’s mind of a squeaking slate-pencil, and speedily became intolerable, for it penetrated the house, and nowhere was there a refuge from the nerve-rending noise.

It was the cry of the Unken, a peculiarly loathsome kind of frog which inhabited the pond, where large green frogs whose note was a comparatively cheerful kind of cackle lived in harmony with these almost invisible but painfully audible pests.

The term Unken-ruf (Unken-cry) is used in Germany to express any persistently ominous prediction, and is a very expressive term, for there are few things more depressing to the spirits than the call of these tiny black creatures.

Rendered desperate, however, by our sufferings, the little Hessian princes produced a butterfly net and managed after some trouble to catch a good many of the Unken, which floated on the top of the pond, and were practically invisible except for a tiny green spot which projected over each eye. The princes speedily became very expert at locating them, and enjoyed excellent sport every day after dinner, catching over a hundred in two or three days. The horrid, slimy, glutinous things—which the Princess handled without any qualms—were a bright flame-colour underneath and deep black above. They were carefully transferred in a water-can to the Haff, which was not far away, and every one felt much benefited by their change of quarters.

The chief charm of Cadinen was its idyllic simplicity. There were no tourists, no “respectable” people, just simple workers in the fields and crowds of barefooted, sunburnt children. Pigs, sheep, and chickens pervaded the place, all of them belonging to His Majesty, who had purchased the whole estate just as it stood and proceeded with characteristic energy to improve it. Gradually he changed the prevailing simplicity of everything, and built new stables as well as a large automobile garage, containing ample accommodation for grooms and chauffeurs. He pulled down the old picturesque houses, where the children and pigs and chickens had lived together in happy amity, and erected some very pretty gabled cottages, the plans of which had been sent to him from England—charming cottages, with roses climbing over the door and wire netting round the grass plot to keep out the hens, not forgetting a nice convenient pigsty at the back—but the barefooted peasant women with the handkerchiefs tied over their heads never looked very much at home in them, and were always sighing after the old, dirty, insanitary houses around whose memory their heart-fibres still clung.

The Emperor was very angry and impatient one day with a woman who expressed some of this regret, and told her she was ungrateful; yet it was obviously not ingratitude that prompted her to speak, but rather a wistful retrospect, a sorrowful longing for the scenes associated with all the joys she had ever known. Even the duck-pond, that enchanted spot where the Princess from her window watched every evening the farm horses as they waded in and drank delicately just in the yellow and scarlet glory of the sunset, where the herd of cows came and stood in the water, switching their tails and taking long, deliberate draughts every evening after milking-time—all was done away with, the pond filled up, the green levelled and kept smoothly rolled. No children or dogs played on it any more, the horses and cattle went another way home, and sentries, those adjutants of royalty, were posted where erstwhile the geese had waddled across the grass.

Fortunately it was some time before all these improvements were made. No sentries marred those early years in Cadinen. Only one or two green Gendarms wandered about the place or sat somnolently in the sunshine. The clink of the blacksmith’s shop penetrated the open windows of the schoolroom as the Princess read with her tutor. The blacksmith was a most delightful man, who had been at sea and travelled far afield, and was still young and handsome, with a pleasant-faced wife and two little children, one of whom, Lenchen, squinted most frightfully, but was a great friend of the Princess.

“Every year it seems to me that Lenchen squints worse,” she would sigh after the first interview; “but perhaps it is because I haven’t seen her for so long. She is going to be operated on next winter. She would be quite pretty if her eyes were right.”

A village forge has been from time immemorial an irresistible attraction to children, and it was surprising how all roads in Cadinen seemed somehow to lead past the blacksmith’s, who was always either fitting shoes on horses, or mending a ploughshare, or doing something interesting of that kind.

“So useful,” said the Princess as she gazed—“so much better than learning the date of the Silesian Wars, isn’t it?”

Sometimes she helped to blow the bellows.

A tiny chapel, capable of holding about twenty people, had been built on the top of a very steep hill in the “park.” Every Sunday morning we toiled pantingly up to Gottes-Dienst. A stalwart clergyman came over from Elbing to hold the service, and always stood at the door of the church and shook hands with each worshipper, saying, “God greet you.” He seemed almost a size too large for the chapel, so tall and broad was he. From the doorway was a wide view over the Haff, which was always muddy in colour except at sunrise, when it was blue, and at sunset, when it turned yellow and pink and sometimes blood-red; but beyond it there was always a clear strip of deeper blue—the waters of the Baltic, or Ost-See (East Sea) as it is called in Germany. We grew to know the Haff very well, for every afternoon the children were taken across it in a little steamer to bathe at a tiny place called Kahlberg, which lay on the farther shore.

This small steamer, called the Radaune, was hired from somebody in Danzig for a few weeks every summer, and manned by three mariners whom the children considered with much reason to be the cleverest and most delightful men they had ever met. One named Vigand was captain and steersman, another attended to the machinery, and a third just hovered generally around, fetching out camp-stools and answering questions, at which he showed himself most fluent and explanatory.

Prince Joachim, under Vigand’s strict tuition, took lessons in steering; and the duties of the man at the engine were not so arduous but that he found time to pop his head up on deck and join in the conversation for several minutes at a time.

The doctor and both the tutors, two maids and two footmen, also two dogs, always accompanied us; for we took tea on to the shore as well as bath towels and changes of dry garments, as the Princess had a knack of falling into a wave fully dressed, so that one had to be prepared for emergencies.

The Haff itself was a greasy, oily, rather smelly stretch of water in the hot weather—so stagnant that a small weed grew on its surface—but it suffered occasional violent storms, which dispelled the oily greasiness but tossed the tiny steamer up and down in a manner most disagreeable to indifferent sailors. Fortunately it only took half an hour to get to the opposite side, but even that was too long for some people, and they succumbed to the horrors of sea-sickness almost in sight of port.

Arrived on the other side, we had, until a small pier was built, to get into a boat and row to shore, then walk over a strip of sand, which took perhaps seven or eight minutes, and there on the other side lay the sand-dunes with the beautiful clean Baltic Sea dimpling in a curve of white foam.

In the distance away to the left could be seen the houses and “pensions” of the tiny fishing village of Kahlberg, to which visitors came in the season. The far end of the shore was strictly reserved for the use of the royal children, so that they were able to enjoy themselves without restriction.

It was perhaps the most uninteresting bit of coast to be found anywhere. The Baltic is practically tideless, and the shore has no rocks to break the long monotony of sand which stretches away for a hundred miles eastward. The sun blazed down fiercely with the usual untempered glare of seaside places; nowhere was there the least shelter from the intense heat; but the Princess and her brother and cousins thought it the loveliest spot on earth, for it was the only seaside place they knew. They paddled in the waves and dug sand castles, and, after great discussions and consultations with the doctor, were at last allowed to bathe, which filled them all to the brim with happiness.

Five minutes was the absolute limit of time allowed for us to disport ourselves in the water, and the lady-in-waiting stood watch in hand on the shore and called “Time’s up—come out,” at the end of what seemed a mere flash of seconds.

“Why, we haven’t had time to get our bathing-dresses wet,” the Princess would remonstrate, and then would commence a heated argument to the effect that the Countess must have misread the time. This lady, in a position somewhat analogous to that of an unfortunate hen who sees her ducklings in the water, would stand on the shore gesticulating, commanding, imploring with ever-increasing vehemence, while the Princess, secure in her impregnable position, and fully alive to the advantages of lengthened discussion, would duck under the water and emerge splutteringly to shriek, “One minute more, dear Countess, one minute more: I know your watch is fast—you said so this morning,” and she would plunge under again, while the outraged Countess, angered by this illogical reasoning, would threaten to stop the bathing altogether; and at last, by the most circuitous route, the dripping Princess would emerge.

This scene was enacted almost daily, even when the doctor conceded ten minutes in the ocean instead of five. Often, when the Princess was enjoying herself exceedingly, she would plunge under as soon as the Countess opened her mouth to speak and make a tremendous noise and splashing. Once I heard her shriek “Our future lies on the water,” as a wave swallowed her up and nothing but a row of pink toes remained visible.

After bathing we had tea, which was always brought to the shore in stone screw-topped bottles and drunk out of silver tumblers. After tea everybody looked for Bernstein or amber—for the coast of the Baltic is the only place in Europe where it is found, and Danzig is famous as a centre for very beautiful artistic specimens of cups and vases ornamented with pieces of this stone.

When it was time to return to the steamer on the far side of the sand-dunes, a long row of spectators, many of them with cameras, was always waiting to see us embark; and often a somewhat shy, reluctant child, propelled forward by some invisible agency in the rear, would present the Princess with a rose or a bunch of flowers.

The joy with which all the children met Vigand and the other members of the crew after their short separation was very touching. The engine-man exhibited the versatility of his accomplishments, and a talent for domesticity, by drying all the soaked garments, especially stockings, of which the consumption was large, in the mysterious region down below.

Prince Joachim’s steering was occasionally somewhat erratic, but improved day by day, until he was able to take us into haven and bring up alongside the pier in a most masterly manner.

When the Empress and the two older princes arrived, they also accompanied us to Kahlberg, and were introduced to Vigand and the rest of the crew with great joy, as these heroes had been described in detail to Her Majesty long before she saw them, and their manifold virtues and talents dinned incessantly into her ears.

The Princess became at this time frequently reminiscent of a week she had once passed on her mother’s yacht, the Iduna. The chief personality on board appeared to be the English cook, who hailed, I believe, from Brighton, and always addressed Her Majesty as “mum.” His culinary talents excited the rapture of the Princess, who went into ecstasies over his porridge and curries and other toothsome dishes. One of his brothers was steward on board and waited at table, and had the peculiarity of invariably stubbing his toe against the raised threshold of the dining saloon whenever he came in or out, flying, so to speak, headlong into the saloon or alley-way. But the cook’s talents were so pronounced that the Empress asked him for various English recipes, which I was called upon to translate into German—a very difficult task for any one unacquainted with the technical terms of German cookery.

Sometimes the Princess would drive in her pony-cart along the road in the direction of Frauenburg, famous as the dwelling-place of Copernicus. These drives were not an undiluted joy to her, for the small bare-legged peasant children insisted on presenting flowers all along the route, which meant pulling up the ponies every five minutes to avoid driving over some staggering infant of tender years who, escorted by an elder sister, clasping in its grubby little paw some herbage torn from the nearest hedge, would precipitate itself recklessly into the path of the carriage. The flowers, generally intermixed with bunches of over-ripe wild strawberries had all to be taken into the carriage, and exuded their green sap and berry-juice liberally on to the cushions and the dresses of the occupants.

Frauenburg was a quaint old town, the capital of the great Prussian diocese of Ermland, formerly under the jurisdiction of the Teutonic Knights, who possessed large territories in that neighbourhood. In 1309 the executive officers of this great order of fighting monks established themselves in the castle of Marienburg, a few miles beyond Elbing, which the Emperor has recently restored to its old glory, having entirely rebuilt it, as far as possible, in exact accordance with the former building, which had almost crumbled to decay.

Cadinen often suffered from severe thunderstorms, which came on with great suddenness. One day, when for some reason we did not go to Kahlberg, the children and their teachers went in two open carriages for a long drive. Prince Joachim, who was an ardent whip, drove one of them, and we were getting along very merrily, several miles away from home, when suddenly heavy drops began to fall, and the thunder rumbled threateningly. Fortunately a big Garten-Restaurant with ample stabling accommodation was close at hand, so we immediately drove into the yard, and the carriages and horses were just put under shelter as the rain came tumbling down in torrents. We all sat in a sort of covered glass veranda and played games for an hour, when, the weather having cleared up, we started off again. To the great joy of the children, almost as soon as the horses’ heads turned homewards, two closed royal carriages were perceived hastening in our direction, obviously bringing succour for half-drowned persons, for they were piled up inside with cloaks and rugs of every description. The consternation written legibly on the faces of the coachmen made the whole crew of children burst into irrepressible laughter, it pictured so visibly the agitation of mind into which the entire Schloss had been thrown.

“Yes,” remarked the Princess callously, “as soon as the storm came on I could see the Countess wringing her hands and putting us to bed and the doctor coming to feel our pulses.”

Naturally both Countess and doctor were much relieved that their precautions had been unnecessary, and we were praised for being “so sensible” as to take refuge in the restaurant; but it was a very lucky chance that we happened to be near one, as in that lonely region they were but sparsely distributed, and we might have gone many miles before finding another.

The Emperor, among other properties on the estate, became owner of a Zigelei or tile-factory, of which there are many hundreds along this coast, which possesses a peculiar variety of clay, very suitable for the manufacture of bricks and tiles. The old Cathedral of Frauenburg, of which Copernicus, though he was never a priest, was canon, is built entirely of brick, for there is no stone in the neighbourhood. The Emperor’s factory has in the last few years begun the experimental manufacture of the finer kinds of porcelain, and produces year by year many artistic objects which are sold in Berlin.

During the many wet days of our stay in Cadinen, the children found great occupation in modelling various articles out of the prepared clay, which were afterwards sent to the factory to be burned. Some little fern-pots and vases, the product of her amateur efforts, were regarded with great pride by the Princess.

The Emperor took the greatest interest in his factory, and never failed to visit it as often as he could do so, inspecting and criticizing every department. He has built delightful houses and cottages for the heads of departments and the workers. Some people scoff at it as a piece of costly, needless extravagance, and object to the Emperor’s competition with other factories. It is run chiefly, however, as a practical scientific experiment, and although a good deal of cheap pottery is made and sold to the general public at current market prices, it aims at artistic development as well as the invention and discovery of colours and new glazes. From his travels the Emperor is always bringing here some piece of antique porcelain, Italian, Greek or Roman, which may suggest something new in form or colouring. He is so keen himself that he is bound to inspire keenness in others.

Once or twice I have been round the factory with the Emperor and Empress, who would stay there for an hour or two sometimes on their way to or from Rominten. His Majesty always took the whole of his suite with him, and liked them to be as interested as himself. On one occasion, from the heaped shelves of the warehouses he hurled—there is no other word which quite expresses it—terra-cotta busts of himself and large vases and other pottery of the same material at the members of the suite. My share of the spoil was a bust of himself and two flower-vases. We all emerged carrying our property, and the officers in uniform looked rather comical with large terra-cotta plaques under each arm or cradling a bust carefully against the shoulder.

In fine weather the Princess sometimes rode in the forest, but during the second and third year of her visit to Cadinen she devoted herself entirely to bathing and did not ride as well. As, however, there were twenty riding-horses available, I always got up at half-past five, and rode alone with a Sattel-Meister through the beautiful forest, which was of quite a different nature to that of Potsdam. It had a wild delightful freshness, with dimpling brooks appearing out of the greenery; great rocks and boulders stood at the turn of every path, with ferns growing from their crevices. The roads were not so good as those to which we had been accustomed, as they were full of tenacious and slippery beds of clay, and quite dangerous after rain, as were the fourteen little wooden bridges which crossed the wimpling stream which meandered aimlessly but beautifully through the trees. But when it was impossible to ride in the forest, there were the cornfields, and the stubble-fields from which the oats had been cleared were magnificent for a good stretching gallop. Those early rides lengthened the day a good deal.

At five o’clock the Lampier, the old man who trimmed the lamps and cleaned the shoes, would knock softly at my door according to orders. I would rouse up hastily and dress, and then creep warily past the rooms where every one slept, and down the back staircase into the yard, where, in the morning sunshine, the wrinkled old Hühner-frau was feeding her flock of ducks and chickens; then, slipping like a conspirator through the wet bushes into the stable-yard round the corner, I would come upon the smiling Sattel-Meister in his neat uniform, standing beside two horses held by stable-boys. We would bow to each other in ceremonious German fashion, mount, and away into the glory of the dewy morning; for however wet and stormy the after part of the day might be, the mornings were always fair and smiling.

Curtains of filmy cobwebs, threaded with beadlets of dew, spanned every twig, while gorgeous beds of lupines ranging from white through pale and deep heliotrope to dark purple, great upstanding masses of campanulas, tall yellow foxgloves, and other flowers unknown to me bordered the field paths through which we rode. The shimmering yellow of the bearded rye, the darker reddish-brown of the wheat, rippled like a sea by the breath of morning, the vivid emerald of the potato fields, the glorious chrome and sulphur of the yellow lupines grown as cattle fodder, mingled with the subtle green of the forest trees, and the long-drawn-out blue thread of the distant Baltic, all dappled and gleaming in the dawn, blended together in a riot of luminous colour.

The peasant women working in bands of twenty or thirty among the potatoes would lift up their friendly brown faces, and wave a hand and smile as we galloped past. Occasionally we came unexpectedly on one of them kneeling before a tiny wooden shrine almost hidden in the standing corn.

The last Sunday of our stay in Cadinen was always devoted to the Kinder-Fest, or treat for the school-children, given by the Empress.

The youth of the village was scrubbed and washed and starched and ironed to a pitch of painful perfection, but none of the children wore anything in the shape of finery, and nobody thought of curling or waving their abundant locks for the occasion. The girls’ tight pigtails were tied, if anything, a trifle tighter, while the boys’ heads were cropped almost to the bone. The most conspicuous change in their attire was the presence of shoes and stockings, which obviously severely handicapped their activities. All the light-footed boys and girls, who usually skipped untrammelled down the grassy lanes, became slow-footed, slouching, awkward louts, moving with a stiff propriety which was as much the effect of footgear as of respect for royalty.

The festivities began by coffee and cake at three o’clock, for tea is unknown in that district. The cake was a kind of bread with currants stuck in it at long intervals, and the coffee, which we will hope was not as strong as it looked, was imbibed by infants of the tenderest age, babes in arms sipping it eagerly from their mothers’ cups apparently without any evil effects.

The Empress and the Princes and Princess waited on the small sunburnt guests, and saw that they were well supplied, and after tea was finished games were played.

“The very stupidest games I ever saw,” said the Princess, who preferred something more exciting than “Here we go round the Mulberry-Bush,” or its German equivalent. So she immediately organized sack-races among the boys, helping to tuck the small urchins into their sacks, and instructing them how to hop along, cheering on the blacksmith’s son, whom she obviously desired to see the winner.

All the mothers, most of whom appeared to be employed at the Schloss as housemaids, clustered round in their clean print dresses, watching the sports with the deepest interest; while the green-clad foresters, the Inspektor and his family, the fishermen from the Haff, also stood in a respectful semicircle, gravely and seriously absorbed in the sack-races.

At half-past six the Fest was finished, and everybody dispersed homewards; but at the Schloss the children often continued the Fest on their own account. On one occasion, after supper, Prince Joachim, having by some mysterious means discovered that one of the footmen as well as a cook were performers on the harmonica, a sort of improved accordion, proposed that they should be sent for and an impromptu dance held on the lawn.

The cook arrived first in his white cap and apron, looking rather embarrassed at being called upon to perform before royalty. He made a deep bow to Her Majesty, and was then conducted by the young Princes to the garden seat and requested to begin at once, so he flung himself with the ardour of a true musician into a waltz, and they all skipped merrily round upon the grass. Presently a rather fat red-faced footman arrived with a second harmonica, bowed, and took his place beside the cook, and the two went hard at it, the cook playing the air while the footman made the accompanying harmonies. Occasional discords arose, whereupon they regarded each other sternly, each tacitly accusing the other; but it never disturbed the rhythm, and the dancers hopped energetically round in spite of the heat and their hard day’s work.

The cook, possessing an artistic soul, always waved his head in time to the music, gazing upwards to the stars; but the fat footman, being a man of another temperament, sat stolidly, moving nothing but his fingers.

Bed-time for the children was long passed when the musicians were reluctantly dismissed with the warm thanks of the Empress, and cook and footman retired in a series of graceful bows to their respective spheres.

The last day of Cadinen comes. The luggage has been packed and carried downstairs and loaded into carts by a quarter-section of soldiers sent over from Elbing for the purpose. The brown-faced youths penetrate every room, grinning amiably, and shoulder everything they can find, while harassed footmen rush about with lists in their hands, which they consult hurriedly.

The train is waiting, the Land-Rat is waiting, the Inspektor, the Zigelei-Direktor, In the dusk, as we drive down to the station, beyond which glimmers the long line of the Haff, we pass rows of workpeople, who timidly wave hats and aprons as Her Majesty goes by.

We are quickly in the train, and stand at the windows, waving our hands vigorously as it moves off. The fields fade away into the distance, the blue cornflowers on the edge of the railway banks nod farewell, a solitary stork can be seen wending his way homewards on wide-sweeping wings. The darkness falls and blots it out. When the dawn comes we are nearing Potsdam once more, and on the whole rather glad to be back again, for, as the Princess says, “Cadinen’s very nice, but ‘there’s no place like home,’ is there?”

CHAPTER XIII

ROMINTEN

Every autumn towards the end of November came to the New Palace great loads of antlers labelled “Rominter Heide,” magnificent outspreading trophies of His Majesty’s gun.

Then one day the Princess announced, to the consternation of her governesses, aghast at the possibility of further interruptions to her education, that “Papa” was building a new wing to the Jagdhaus, so that “Mamma” and she herself might join him there.

“Won’t it be lovely?” she said with sparkling eyes, and danced about the room in a manner expressive of the deepest delight.

“When you are grown up and done with lessons, Princess,” suggested the Ober-Gouvernante.

“Not a bit when I am grown up, but now this very autumn. Papa says so; the house is getting on splendidly. It will all be ready by September.”

If “Papa” said a thing would happen, it naturally did, let who might disapprove; so that a few weeks later the Princess in her brand-new hunting-dress, accompanied by a blackboard, a desk, a large chest of school-books, a tutor and myself, went off in the highest spirits to join Their Majesties’ special train at Berlin.

The Emperor and Empress were already in the train when their daughter arrived, and there was a very large suite with them, including Prince Philip Eulenburg, who a year or two later fell into disgrace, and from being the most trusted, most sought-after of all the Emperor’s friends, was banished entirely from Court and seen no more.

The Empress was attended by one only of her ladies—the youngest of the four resident Hof-Damen, who would be on duty the whole time; but as in Rominten there are no ceremonious occasions and no constant changes of costume—one of the chief burdens of Court life—the duties of the lady-and gentleman-in-waiting are comparatively light.

We had a very merry supper in the train, the Emperor being in an extremely happy, not to say hilarious mood, his face constantly crinkled with laughter. He told one small anecdote after another, some of them almost childish, but irresistibly comic when accompanied by his infectious laugh. One was of a child at a Volks-Schule who wrote an essay on the Lion as follows: “The Lion is a fearful beast with four legs and a tail. He has a still more terrible wife called the Tiger.”

The royal hunt uniform, which is only worn by those in the royal service or by persons to whom the Emperor grants permission, is extremely picturesque, being of a soft olive-green, with high tanned-leather boots and a belt round the waist from which is suspended the Hirschfänger or short hunting-knife. In the soft green hat, turned up at both sides, is generally fastened either the tail-feathers of the capercailzie, or the beard of a gemsbock, which sticks up like a shaving-brush at the back.

At supper everybody was wearing ordinary costume, but they all assembled at breakfast next morning after their night in the train in complete hunting-dress, even to the footmen who waited at table. Although I possessed no uniform, unwilling to be a jarring note in the hunting-harmony, I had provided myself with a suitable green Sports-Kostüm, while the Princess had a regulation green Letevka (Norfolk jacket) and hunting-knife all complete.

The train passed through the station of Cadinen, but it was a further journey of eight hours to reach Gross-Rominten, distant some seven or eight miles from the hunting-lodge itself.

The usual rows of flower-crowned school-children lined the path and threw flowers into the carriages and automobiles. All the population of the country-side had, of course, turned out to see Their Majesties, and through a flutter of handkerchiefs and waving of hats the procession of carriages passed, presently entering the great 90,000-acre forest.

Formerly the village where the Emperor has built himself a house was called Teer-bude, which might be translated Tarbooth. It was a poor place, inhabited by people who made a spare living by distilling tar from the pine-trees; and although the forest belonged to the Crown it had not been properly developed and was in a somewhat neglected condition.

A little stream called the Rominte ran through the district, so the Emperor changed the name of the place to Rominten, and with characteristic energy and determination set himself to build and improve.

His frequent visits to Norway had given him a love for the houses there, built of pine logs; and having all the necessary material at hand, he determined to build in the Norwegian style of architecture.

The road to this Jagd-Schloss lay through long vistas of pines, which grow here to an enormous height—though a few years ago the devastations of a caterpillar called die Nonne (the Nun) had destroyed a great many of the trees and made fearful havoc. The road wound past places where whole plantations had perished and all the young trees were “in mourning"—that is to say, they each had bands of tar-smeared paper round their trunks to prevent the inroads of the insidious enemy. The Emperor tried to persuade one lady that these black bands had been put on the trees because an Ober-Förster was dead; but being of a sceptical turn of mind, and knowing a little about forestry, she accepted the Imperial explanation with some reserve.

At the entrance to the village of Rominten itself, young pine trees cut from the woods had been set at intervals along the road and triumphal garlands of pine-branches stretched across it. Before the entrance to the Schloss were ranged lines of sturdy woodmen and foresters in their smart uniforms of soft olive-green, holding torches in their hands, for the night falls early in this region and the immense trees growing so close to the house intercept a good deal of light. In the inner gravelled space between the two parts into which the Schloss is divided were waiting the head-foresters, gentlemen of education and culture, who are trained for some years in the excellent schools of forestry which are to be found in Germany.

Baron Speck von Sternburg, whose brother was at that time German Ambassador in Washington, was also there to meet Their Majesties. He is the Head Administrator of the whole forest, lives and moves among it from year to year, and knows every stag almost that roams its immense solitudes. He is responsible for the Emperor’s sport, makes all preliminary arrangements, knows by heart the habits, almost the thoughts of the deer, and can tell at what particular moment they will come out to browse on the open meadows that are to be found dotted about like small green islands in the vast ocean of trees.

All the head foresters’ houses are in telephonic communication with the Schloss itself, so that they can send word at once of any animal paying an unexpected visit, as sometimes wolves and elk have been known to wander over the Russian frontier close by.

The Emperor, almost before he has well descended from his carriage, plunges at once into hunting-talk with Herr von Sternburg, while the Empress and the Princess, after greetings and introductions, enter the house to explore their new habitation. The Schloss is really two houses, built entirely of pine logs, connected by an overhead gallery supported on massive pine stems as thick as the masts of a ship. In every room the walls consist of the bare logs, which have been trimmed into a slightly oval form and then laid one on the top of the other, the whole being smoothly varnished. Tables and chairs are made of the same wood, and the green carpets of a moss-like pattern carry on the woodland suggestion.

The roof is deep and low, and the upper story has a gallery running its length, which overshadows the windows of the lower rooms, making them rather dark. The fireplaces and chimneys are made of unglazed red brick, and the fire of logs is built on a wide flat hearth, raised a little above the floor level. They too are, of course, also Norwegian in character, running up in a Gothic pinnacled form. All is very simple and solidly, almost ruggedly, built. The log walls have one drawback. Smells and sounds penetrate their crevices very easily. If the footman in the basement indulges in a cigar, the Empress in her sitting-room upstairs is instantly aware of it.

The dining-room, which is in the part of the house occupied by the Emperor, is a fine building with a high-pitched roof of massive beams, from which hang many splendid trophies of the chase, fallen to His Majesty’s gun. There is a long wide window to the left, two large brick fireplaces at the end, a sideboard with a buttery-hatch into the kitchen, and wooden chairs surrounding the massive table which are quite penitential in their hardness; yet, since Majesty sits on them without any ameliorating interposition of cushions, no one dare complain. In a few days’ time they become more endurable.

The Emperor once overheard some comment of mine relative to their unyieldingness.

“What’s the matter with the chairs?” he says sharply, bulging his eyes at me in the usual Imperial manner. “Don’t you like them?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I reply meekly, “I think they are beautiful chairs, but somewhat—er—harsh—on first acquaintance.”

“Harsh!” he laughs derisively—“I hope they are. Time you came here and learned to do without cushions. Here we live hardily.” He laughs like a delighted schoolboy, and asks every day afterwards if the chairs are getting a little softer.

Certain friends of His Majesty came every year with him to Rominten. First and foremost among them all was that Prince Philip Eulenburg before mentioned, a pale, grey-haired, somewhat weary-looking man with a pallid, fleeting smile, something of a visionary, with a nature attracted to music and art, as well as towards all that is strange or abnormal in life. He was a born raconteur, like the Emperor, but told his tales in a quiet, soft, subtle voice, with a grave face and a certain fascinating charm of manner. One could easily understand how the robust personality of the Emperor, so frank, so generous, so open-hearted, was attracted to the somewhat reserved, mysterious, gentle nature of this brilliant man, who yearly entertained His Majesty at his own home, Schloss Liebenberg, and was the repository of his thoughts and aspirations.

He, however, disappeared. Rominten knew him no more. Yet probably no one was more missed than he whose name was never afterwards mentioned there. I can still see his pale face emerge from behind the red curtains of the gallery when he came to the tea-table of the Empress and sat down to entertain us with his store of literary and artistic reminiscences. He had the look even then of an ill man, whose nerves are not in the best condition, who is pursued by some haunting spectre, some fear from which he cannot escape.