Part 3
by Marie, Queen of Rumania
The Saturday Evening Post, 30 December 1933

Grandmama Empress, With My Brother Alfred as a Baby


AS CHILDREN, we thoroughly disliked London, and each time it was a grief when the season came for leaving Eastwell and the joys of the country for Clarence House, for smuts and smoke and gloomy walks in the Green Park, which we abominated.

Clarence House forms one block with St. James's Palace and shares with it a broad strip of garden overlooking the Mall.

One of the miseries of London was the mess one always got into because of the smuts. Any fall upon London soil meant great black stains on clothes, knees or stockings. There was also about it a special greasiness I cannot forget.

We dearly loved, for instance, being taken to play about in Buckingham Palace Gardens, instead of walking in the dreaded Green Park, but the mess we made of ourselves was so great that smocks were always taken with us and put on before our games began, and taken off when we recrossed the road on the way home.

Buckingham Palace Gardens were huge and had delightful, mysterious corners in them, besides quite a large lake. One of our favorite haunts was the part where a big aviary stood on a sort of little hill overgrown with incredibly smutty bushes, which hid it from sight. This hill was the dirtiest, blackest part of the whole garden, the many birds living there adding greatly to its messiness.

The Alps of Buckingham Palace Gardens

BUT there was a charm that never palled about this grimy spot. We called the aviary hill the Alps, and blissfully imagined that we were mountaineering, which consisted of climbing its black, greasy sides or sliding down them till we became filthy beyond description. Besides this, it was the covert of birds of every kind—peacocks, silver-and-gold pheasants, and every sort of duck and goose, which used to swim about in the lake. Wonderful feathers were found upon our Alps, enchanting treasures of indescribable colors, but none outshining the peacock's feathers, which always remained the most fairylike and astounding, with its marvelous eye and divine coloring.

I have only a shadowy recollection of the games we played, but they were wonderful and exciting, and had a whole story woven into them, and each season they were taken up anew. We were imaginative children and each had a part which we played as conscientiously as possible. I must confess that I never accepted a minor part. I was always one of the principal—if not the principal—figures; and certainly if there was a queen in the plot, I always played that role.

We loved dressing up, and my idea of a queen was having a very long train dragging behind me over the floor. But here on the Alps other parts were played, trains being out of place. We were robbers and explorers, pirates and pathfinders, and what not else! But I remember my indignation, which had specially to do with trains, when I was told that the peacock who strutted about so victoriously through our smutty domain was the male, not the female. According to my imagination, the peacock was the queen of the bird world, and the beautiful tail he carried behind him was Her Majesty's court train. What use could a man, even a bird king, have for such a magnificent train?

When, later, Rostand wrote his celebrated Chanticleer, I was much amused to see that, imbued with the same feeling about the logic of dress, he made his faisane wear her lord and master's plumes.

Clarence House garden was much smaller and far less interesting than Buckingham Palace 'Gardens. It was tidy and had no mysterious corners, except quite at the far end, where a certain old Prince of Leiningen and his daughter, Feo, had a studio for sculpture. This part of the garden belonged to St. James's Palace and not to Clarence House, but there was no division between the two except a few scraggy trees masking the wooden baraque of the studio.

This was a world for discoveries, where you could pick up marvelous chips of marble that looked like hoarfrost-covered snow, and where you could flatten and blacken your nose against large panes of glass, peeping in upon the mysterious work going on behind the windows.

Here we discovered extraordinary figures, some in clay, some in red terra-cotta, some in marble with little black spots all over them, and some swathed in dirty sheets or towels, which made of them haunting apparitions. There was also a special smell of wet earth and plaster, not pleasant, but irresistible, because we felt that it meant something—exactly what we did not know, but there was something of creation about it, something to do with the eternal "potter potting with his thumb."

Although we only realized this vaguely, subconsciously we felt that this something had to do with the clay which, in all ages, has been used for 1 creation, for modeling shapes which had secret life in them. Perhaps Pygmalion might have explained, I but he, alas, was not of our times, and the old Prince of Leiningen, master of these premises, although some sort of uncle several times removed, was not a welcoming personality and did not encourage us to I poke about in his field.

Clarence House was not without charm, though it was hopelessly smutty and everything you touched made your fingers black. It had an odor all its own, 1 a mixture of fog, oak wood, cigarette smoke and a i certain Russian scent mama used for burning in the rooms. There was also a particular perfume peculiar to mama's own apartment, a most satisfactory fragrance of Russian leather and cedar wood which had something to do with the furniture she had brought with her all the way from St. Petersburg.

The greatest attraction was a shadowy corner in mama's bedroom where she had hung all her holy images.

With the utmost reverence, not unmixed with curiosity, whenever we dared we would creep toward this corner of mystery and contemplate the many wonderful icons.

Three of the most venerated were crowned by diamond rays that were fixed above the heads of the saints like small suns. Each sun had a wonderful gem at its center, a large sapphire, ruby or emerald. The glamour of these holy pictures cannot be described; all Russia's gorgeousness seemed to shine from these incredibly brilliant diamond rays fixed above the saints' heads. The corner the shrine stood in, being dark, made it all the more thrilling.

And here a little lamp always burned beside the pictures of my mother's parents on their deathbeds, burned like a steady eye watching over mysteries small children might feel, but not fathom.

An Unforgettable Picture of Grief

BESIDES the icons, there were also two pictures in mama's bedroom that enthralled us; one was of a lovely woman, also evidently a saint, carrying a little catacomb lamp in her hand, the light of which was thrown up on her face from below, making it look unearthly and transparent. The other, also hanging in a very shadowy nook, represented the corner of a cloister in Palermo. It was just a few columns with a pumpkin plant growing over one of them and a big pumpkin resting on part of the balustrade. The sunlight on the picture was wonderfully done, bringing out the difference between light and shade in an astonishing way. This picture had a special fascination for all of us children; there was something deeply mysterious and satisfactory about it. I think that it is my sister Ducky who today possesses this picture.

I have never forgotten certain pictures seen in childhood; they have remained forever impressed upon my mind.

One I would like to speak about today, as I can still see it as vividly as I did then, when I was quite a small girl.

If I remember rightly, it was in an annual picture exhibition at Berlin. Why we were at Berlin, a town we hardly ever went to, I cannot explain, and all the details have remained perfectly hazy. I cannot even recollect with whom I was, or who took me there, and I only remember two pictures.

One picture was of a small child in poor clothing, stroking, with infinite compassion, a dead deer hung up against a wall. On the child's face was an expression of loving pity, and somehow I felt, when looking at that picture, exactly what the child was feeling.

But the other—the unforgettable picture—was .a large-sized Italian water color with the title Mia Povera Maria—you see, I even remember the title.

It represented a sort of bare chapel, all in rough stone—perhaps the fore part of a church—in which a flower-covered bier had been stood. A dead girl lay upon the bier. Her face was waxen, her hair black, and one could just see her folded hands amongst the flowers.

A young man in peasant dress lay, face hidden, against the coffin, in an attitude of overwhelming distress. In the background crouched an old, witch-Like woman, warming her hands over a brazier, watching the man's grief with eyes too tired to express sorrow.

The picture took hold of me utterly. I could not be moved from before it. There was a world of grief in it which stirred me to my very depths; besides, it was certainly the painting of a great artist. It is a picture that has haunted me ever since. Many years later I found somewhere a photograph of this picture, but never, alas, did I see the original again.

There was never anything morbid in my nature, but all pictures of grief or of dead people moved me strangely—especially the pictures of silent grief—and I would always buy these pictures if I could.

I remember taking tickets for a lottery in that exhibition, with the ardent hope of winning Mia Povera Maria, although it was probably not in the lottery at all. But for years I dreamed of what would have been the joy of possessing that wonderful water color.

But now back again to Clarence House.

Over the principal staircase hung the large head of an elephant my father had shot—in think; his trunk almost touched one as one passed—and in the hall stood a bear on his hind legs, a huge, savage-looking beast holding a small tray between his front paws on which visitors left their cards for the gentleman in waiting. All the corridors were full of trophies of different shoots in distant countries, and there was also a figure in Japanese armor, with a grinning mask. We did not like this ugly fellow with the empty eye sockets. But what we dearly loved were the two official drawing-rooms, which were not often used. One was called the Chinese drawing-room and was full of curios papa had brought from China—beautiful old weapons and bronzes, ivories and embroideries, and also, as far as I can remember, a few precious jades.

Treasures From the Ural

PAPA was a great collector of antiques and also quite a connoisseur. When he died, his collections, unfortunately, did not come to us, but for some reason were taken over by Uncle Bertie, then still Prince of Wales.

The second big salon was full of treasures mama had brought from Russia, all sorts of objects carved from the many semiprecious stones from the Ural—dishes and vases, bowls and cups, Easter eggs and whole writing and toilet-table sets, in particular a valuable collection in a much-prized, extremely hard stone, dark pink with streaks of gray.

We loved fingering these treasures, but it must be added that we were generally severally enjoined not to touch. I cannot, however, affirm that we always respected these orders; the temptation was too great.

Memories of London are of several periods. The Buckingham Palace Gardens times were when we were very small, and these glorious gambols were severely interrupted by days when stiff walks in the Green Park—quite near Clarence House—were de rigueur.

We loathed these walks with an absent-minded governess who was as bored as we were. Besides, what irony to call it the Green Park, when we were severely kept off the grass, which was railed off by a black iron paling a foot high.

There was no virtue in the Green Park except the virtue of walking in it. No interesting people ever walked on its hard little paths, nothing ever happened, nothing was ever seen in that deadly dull place. Only once, by a piece of unexpected good luck, I picked up a wee little bronze idol about an inch high. That was a tremendous find, and is the only agreeable memory I have of the dreary Green Park. This absurd little idol is still in my possession. I wonder who could have dropped it there.

Outside, beyond the dreaded confines of this dreary park, almost opposite the entry to Buckingham Palace, stood the balloon man. He was an everlasting hope. On days when Mademoiselle was in a good humor, she would discover pennies in her pocket, and then we would march triumphantly home with air balls of different hues, a small procession of happy little people crowned with globes of color. But these were rare days; generally Mademoiselle's pockets were as empty of pennies as her heart was of mercy for our boredom.

What extraordinary joy these balloons gave! I loved the pink ones best. There was a delightfully nasty smell about air balls—irresistibly nasty—so that we were forever rubbing our noses against them. And how curiously warm they were to the touch ! And when you drew your fingers across their taut surface, they gave out a special sound, half squeak, half groan.

Papa in His Costume of Old Russia

My Mother, Captain Bourke, Colonel Slade, My Sisters and I On a Visit to Malta

Balloon Ills

OF COURSE we always dreamed that our balloons would be long-lived, but they were inevitably as ephemeral as butterflies. There were three mishaps peculiar to balloons: They would burst, or die away gradually, becoming thin, limp and wrinkly, or they would escape out of your grasp and fly up to the ceiling, where they would float, mocking you from their height, the symbol of happiness just beyond reach.

But blessed be the memory of these balloons! They only cost a penny, but there was a whole fortune of joy within their frail globes.

Pink, blue, green, orange, red, violet, they were bubbles of enchantment, representing the summum of our desires, beckoning to us from just beyond the gates of the Green Park, the unloved.

Belonging to this period was also a curious fear we suffered from, for children have strange fears.

The Clarence House stairs were very steep, rather like the back stairs at Eastwell. Papa and mama gave occasional dinners; many people came to these rather rare feasts, which were an occasion of excitement to the nursery authorities.

We used to be packed off to bed, and then Nana would steal away to the head of the stairs and peer down upon the procession of guests going in or coming out of the dining room, or climbing the stairs toward the drawing-room after the meal was over.

The beauty of the ladies' dresses and the magnificence of their jewels were a special source of interest, and were commented upon for days afterwards.

But we children, left in our white cots to go to sleep like good little girls, suffered tortures from some sort of cruel hallucination that Nana was going to fall over the banister whilst looking down upon the guests.

This idea tortured us. It became indeed a veritable nightmare, till occasionally we would, like Wee Willie Winkie, steal out in our nightgowns to assure ourselves that the terrible disaster had not taken place.

When we caught a glimpse of her alive and well, looking down, deeply interested in what she saw beneath, we would scuttle back to our beds again like frightened white mice.

Nana was kind, but severe. Her face was of the heroic type, with clear-cut, rather hard features of a somewhat imperial cast. Like all self-respecting nurses of the old type, she ruled with a rod of iron and kept us in almost military subjection.

Nana had invented an instrument of torture called "the strap," which was nothing but a strip of leather the end of which was cut into many fingers. This strap was used for whipping, or was supposed to be used that way, but I cannot remember its ever having been really used; but it always hung on one or other of our beds as a warning to the unruly.

Nursery Nostrums

There were two straps, a brown and a black one, and for some reason we decreed that the black strap was much the worse of the two; it was the chief bogy.

Nana was also of the days when medicines were not made pleasant to take. They had to be accepted in all their unalloyed nastiness, and three of these have remained nightmare memories. There was, first and foremost, castor oil, which used to be taken out of a warmed silver tablespoon, for none of mama's castor-oil pills ever found their way to the nursery. Then there was a gritty rhubarb mixture that used to be stirred with horrible deliberation in a small wineglass; it was a loathsome concoction, and the imbibing thereof was a tragedy that never went off without scenes of revolt.

The third of those remedies, another powder, was bad enough, but all the same the least of the three evils, and would be given in a spoon sweetened by red currant jelly, which has made that particular jelly impossible to me for all time.

Ah, but I was forgetting another gruesome mixture which was called sirup of squills, which was inflicted upon you when, for some reason, it was considered necessary that you should be sick. Sirup of squills never failed to produce this probably salutary, but certainly unpleasant, effect.

Nana, presiding over the medicine chest, had the grimness of the Fates deciding over human destinies.

How clearly I still see her, and also the black and brown straps hanging, as sinister warning against any insubordination, at the foot of our beds.

Outside our night nursery, in the corridor, stood an old grandfather's clock which played a chime each time it struck; that and the sound of Big Ben booming out into the night are two sounds peculiar to nursery days, to its joys and fears, its hopes, tears and revolts.

And dear old Nana Pitcathly was the grim goddess of the nursery, as Mademoiselle was tyrant of the schoolroom, whom we loved less than Nana; though, looking back, I believe that Nana was much the severer of the two.

But there are also pleasanter remembrances of the Clarence House schoolroom. It was there that I had my first taste of toffee, and it was there that Les Malheurs de Sophie and many another enchanting book were read to us.

It was also from this room that we used to hear the Life Guards or the Blues pass on their way to change guard.

They passed with a jingle of metal which could be heard even when the window was shut. But what a torture it was to remain glued to your chair instead of jumping up to look down upon their extraordinary perfection!

From afar one heard the tramp of horses' hoofs approaching. They were coming. Nearer, nearer; now one could hear the champing of bits, the sound of metal against metal, the clinking of chains, and by their very sound one visualized how bright and shiny they were. Nearer, nearer! Now they were just under our windows; the narrow street reverberated with their tread. Then fainter and fainter would the glorious tramp become; they were moving away, away; they had come, passed and gone.

To the later London period belonged the rides in Hyde Park, a wonderful advancement.

At Eastwell we had possessed one pony for all three of us—a fat, irresistible animal called Tommy. The three of us shared Tommy, taking him in turns.

Our rides on Tommy had been most unscientific, crudely instructed by a groom or coachman, but they had from the first taught us the feel of a horse, taught us to be fearless and, above all, given us the idea that we could ride, and this is half the battle.

Riding in Rotten Row

In London an absurd old riding master, called Mr. Lumley, had been excavated from somewhere, and he it was who polished up our knowledge, first round and round Clarence House garden, and finally, to our delight, we were allowed out into the field of our dearest ambitions, Rotten Row. It was old Lumley who provided the horses for these rides.

I cannot exactly remember what age we were then; anyhow we were small mites and our joy and excitement was huge.

Never shall I forget the sensation of gleeful enchantment it was, starting off on these rides, accompanied by the careworn Mr. Lumley in top hat, with something of the air of an anxious hen about him. A fearfully correct old hen, though—correct with the correctness that can be attained solely by riding or dancing masters.

Those rides in Hyde Park were bliss. Old Lumley was sometimes cross and always absent-minded, but he could not damp our spirits. His legs were thin, his face looked mummified and his meager gray hair was brushed forwards under his top hat to hide his sunken temples. Old Lumley was, in fact, rather a pathetic figure.

I think he must have given lessons right into his ripest old age, for, many years later, when quite emancipated from riding lessons, I met him again in the Row and greeted him with a shout of recognition. He looked at me with a blank stare, as though we had never shared the joys and the cares of the Row together. I suppose I was more changed than he was. In his early days I was a wee girlie; now P do not know exactly what I was—"Nicht Fisch und nicht Fleisch," as the Germans would have said. But I was sadly mortified to be cut dead by my old riding master. His face was more careworn than ever; he had perhaps become just a little drier and thinner, but otherwise he had not changed at all.

Into this period enters also a certain amount of theatergoing. This joy fell but seldom to our share, but when it did, it was a tremendously exciting event.

The very smell of a London theater and of the beautiful bouquets we would find in our box when we arrived, what joy! There was a kind of dark, velvety, red rose, very wide open, with rounded petals, specially characteristic of these bouquets. In Paris these roses are now sometimes given to me, but they immediately carry me back to the London theaters and to that glorious sensation of excited expectation before the curtain went up.

One of the plays I best remember is Macbeth, with Irving and Ellen Terry, a wonderful representation; but the apparition of Banquo's ghost was so appallingly well done that for nights afterwards we could not sleep without a light in our room.

Ellen Terry, with her long red plaits, was a lovely incarnation of Macbeth's fierce queen, especially in the scene when, all in white, she came down the stairs walking in her sleep and trying to wash the blood off her hands.

Stage Struck, by the Lord Harry

But my mother could not stand Henry Irving, and my father disliked him still more and tried to make us see his affectations, especially his stage limp and his snarl in the scenes when he simulated anger or rage. In spite of these criticisms, we children had a sneaking liking for Irving, even at his worst.

I shall never forget what living interest the gallery in England took in any drama; the villain was always hissed or whistled at, whilst the hero was applauded not for his acting but for his actions.

We also saw Irving in a very sentimental piece about Charles I—all to the advantage of Charles I, of course; and we, naturally being stout royalists, loathed Cromwell with all our souls.

But our hero of heroes on the stage was The Lord Harry, played by Wilson Barrett, who was, according to our ideas, the very incarnation of all that was most perfect, man and hero blending into one. Wilson Barrett was Lord Harry.

This piece was also of the sentimental kind. Lord Harry was a brave, virtuous, beautiful, self-sacrificing Cavalier, splendid enough to satisfy our dearest dreams of perfection. He ravished us so completely that for years we cherished the memory of this play, and whenever asked what we would like to see, it was always Lord Harry, till finally mama, although she, too, was an admirer of Wilson Barrett, sent us to see Charley's Aunt, instead.

This gross farce made us laugh till our sides ached, but all the time we regretted Lord Harry.

Music had no great part in our education. Mama confessed to me later that her one desire had been to have a Wunderkind. Her ambition was that one or the other of us should have some startling talent—music, painting, singing, dancing, mathematics—anything, so long as it were tremendous. When none of us showed any predisposition to become anything out of the ordinary, she gave us up as lost causes and disappointments; it was no good, therefore, educating such little nonentities in any special way, so our ear was never formed and for a long time we had execrable taste in music.

But all the same I can remember the shiver of real joy that ran through me when mama sometimes sat down at the piano and played.

She had white, plump, short-fingered hands; her touch was exquisitely soft and velvety. Her playing was like running water. I remember especially a Romance of Rubinstein and a posthumous Prelude of Chopin which used to melt my heart within me. So I must, all the same, have felt music, even at that early age.

Ducky and, later, Baby Bee were the musical ones of the family. I had talent only for drawing and painting, a talent which my sisters shared; but there was a time when I was first in this art.

Excursions in Fairyland

It was mama who initiated us into the joys of Grimm and Andersen; especially Andersen, whose fairy-tales are the fairy-tales of the world.

Mama read beautifully, and could read by the hour, but she never allowed us to sit with idle hands; we had always to be working at something or other—crocheting, knitting or drawing.

We loved above all the story of The Little Mermaid; we wept rivers of tears over that eternally pathetic tale, and no matter how often it was read—for children always want to hear stories over and over again—each time it moved us in the same way.

Andersen has remained my ideal for all time, and today, when I myself try my hand at fairy stories, I always try to write them à la manière d' Andersen, who, better than anyone else, knew his art and can wring both smiles and tears from the stoniest heart.

Mama always spoke English with us. She would never teach us Russian, declaring that she did not wish to hear her beloved mother tongue mutilated by her own children. She adored us, gave up her life to us, but for all that, she had little faith in us—that was the strange, strange thing.

We were not Wunderkinder, so, even in later years, when each developed some humble talent of her own, although she encouraged us, it was always patronizingly and with a touch of contempt. She never took us seriously; we were of a younger generation, nor had we been educated as perfectly as she had been; and, above all, we were Protestants, and therefore some parts of our souls were shut off from hers.

Beloved, big-hearted, generous mama, built on grand lines, but always a seeker, restless in her own soul; one who, in looking for complete perfection, often, almost unjustly, overlooked what might have been true sources of joy had she not always been hankering after an ideal implanted in her by those who brought her up.

Like all human beings, she was full of Sehnsucht, but she need not have been so lonely had she only trusted her children a little more.

One summer was spent in Scotland instead of at Osborne. This was the only time I ever went to Scotland, and my memory of it is full of enchantment.

Grandmama Queen, the all-powerful, had lent us a wee house called Abergeldie Maines, where we spent the first part of the summer with our governess. Later, towards autumn, mama came and we moved to a rather bigger house or cottage called Birk Hall. I have but a vague vision left of this house, but it cannot have been a very big one, as we all three, Ducky, Sandra and I, slept in one huge bed. This was exciting, if not particularly comfortable. Two slept with their heads toward the top of the bed, the other with her head against the foot, her feet separating the other two sleepers. Why this arrangement had been found necessary I cannot explain, as I have no vision of the inside of the house except of that one bedroom.

But all the outside impressions have remained clear and luminous. We simply adored Scotland, with its low, undulating, heather-covered hills, its moors and burns, its mists and lochs. There was something infinitely poetical and just a little mysterious about it which touched some special chord in me. Much, much later, having discovered the books of Fiona Macleod, I loved them with the same intensity as I loved Scotland the only time I was ever there. There was something enveloped and hazy about it, something legendary, which powerfully moved the soul within me—something kindred to my spirit, if I may thus express myself.

Grandmama Queen at Balmoral

Grandmama came to Balmoral in autumn, if I rightly remember. This was the home of her heart. She dearly loved her "Scotchies"; almost every inhabitant was a personal acquaintance, and even the royal apartments were hung and upholstered with Balmoral tartan; carpets, chairs, curtains, everything was striped with grays, reds and black. This form of decoration was more patriotic than artistic and had a way of flickering before your eyes and confusing your brain.

Here also, though the life led in the Highlands was more cozy and homelike, less official and severe, grand-mama spread that atmosphere so special to her; here, too, her presence was felt in all things, even when she was not actually seen.

Queen Victoria! Even then she was becoming an almost legendary figure; how much more so, therefore, today when looking back upon her! She had lasted so long that one could hardly imagine the world continuing to turn without her.

In a way, she was arbiter of our different fates. For all members of her family, her "yes" and her "no" counted tremendously. She was not averse from interfering in the most private questions. She was the central power directing things. Even mama, who, according to us, was omnipotent, had to count with Queen Victoria, had to listen to her and, if she had not exactly to obey, had anyhow to argue out all differences of opinion. But as she was strong-willed and autocratic, I can imagine that these arguments were tough.

The grand little old lady in her white widow's cap and her flounced, black-silk gown, who seldom raised her voice except when accentuating certain words, was a tremendous, sometimes almost a fearful force.

Right into their ripe years her sons and daughters were in great awe of "dearest mama"; they avoided discussing her will, and her veto made them tremble. They spoke to her with bated breath; and even when not present, she was never mentioned except with lowered voice.

Looking back upon Queen Victoria, especially from these days of negation, I cannot help marveling at the prestige she possessed. There was something fetishlike about it. I sometimes wonder if she realized this tremendous effect she had upon others, if she was conscious of that atmosphere that emanated from her, if it was really due to her personality or to the religious hush others created around her.

It is natural that children should be awed in the presence of one who was like the earth around which satellites circled, but that this should affect big and small alike is wonderful. Was it the times she belonged to? Was it because she had lasted so long? Was it because she lived so shut away from the world, surrounding herself with that atmosphere of mournful abstinence from all joys of life? I do not pretend to be able to answer these questions. I was too young then, and later, when grown up, I saw too little of her. The fact remains that she was a tremendous presence, if not personality, and her places, whilst she breathed within their walls, had something of shrines about them, which were approached with awe not unmixed with anxiety.

Victoria's Royal Simplicity

There was also a quite special thrill when, from afar, you saw grand-mama's outrider come trotting down the road ahead of her carriage. Grandmama never drove without an outrider.

Solemn-faced, in a livery as impeccably black and neat as the clothes of a bishop, mounted on a stolid, dappled gray, groomed to the superlative perfection only English stables can attain, this forerunner of the royal presence would appear round the bend of the road. Trot, trot, trot, trot—the very sound made your heart beat with expectation. That black-coated rider with a face that never smiled—never, in fact, expressed anything but almost magnificent reliability—was more uniquely royal and effective than any flare of trumpets or bright-coated military escort could have been. Trot, trot, trot, trot, and here was Her Majesty's carriage, drawn by grays as superbly sleek and well-bred as the one that had heralded their coming; and seated within the open barouche, a wee little old lady with an exquisitely old-fashioned hat and antediluvian, sloping-shouldered mantle, black, with sometimes a touch of white.

Nothing showy about her, no attempt at effect of any kind, the whole turnout simple, unadorned, but what a thrill the passing of that simple carriage gave you!

Trot, trot, trot, trot, deep curtsies, the waving of hands and handkerchiefs, smiles on every face, a responding smile from the little old lady in the carriage—only just a glimpse, but how the memory remained with you. Trot, trot—a diminishing sound. You stood staring after the carriage, the horses, the outrider; trot, trot, fainter, fainter, till it died quite away.

Grandmama Queen!

We did not see much of grandmama during that autumn, but I remember one drive with her to a far-off loch amongst the hills, called Due, or Dhu, Loch.

Grandmama's drives were a very essential part of her well-regulated life. She drove out every single day, no matter what the weather, and almost always in an open carriage. No rain, storm or cold stopped her; her drives were as inevitable as sunrise or sunset; no event, good or bad, not even a catastrophe, seemed to make any difference to grandmama's drives. And into the bargain, they were exceedingly lengthy drives.

Round about Balmoral, Queen Victoria had had small stone houses built at the different spots where she was most fond of driving, and tea was often taken at one or the other of these little houses. She then returned home, if possible, by another route.

The Lonely Loch

The only time in Scotland I remember having been honored by an invitation to drive with grandmama was to this far-off Due Loch, and my excitement was great.

I have but a vague memory of the road leading to the Due Loch, but the loch itself I can still see perfectly well. A small, dark, rather sinister-looking loch, lying deep amongst more or less barren hills, stony and grim. Legend would have it that the sun never shone on the Due Loch; that was why it was so somber, so sad-looking, like a face that never smiled.

I stood before its gloomy waters and stared at it with awe. It fascinated me; I felt that all sorts of stories could be woven around its secretive-looking gloom.

"Due" means "mournful," and certainly some sinister tale was attached to this lake, but no one told it to me then and now I have no one to ask. The grown-ups probably never realized how much I would have liked to know why the sun never shone into the Due Loch! It is also probable that I never asked; children are often curiously reticent in asking for explanations about things that interest them, particularly when they have only overheard a conversation, and its story had not been especially told to them. They are afraid of making fools of themselves, not quite sure if they had been supposed to listen or not.

All my English uncles and aunts were curiously absent-minded. They only occasionally seemed to wake up to the consciousness that you were there at all; they also had a disconcerting way of seeming to draw you into a conversation, and when you responded their minds had already wandered far away and your timid answer found itself lost on the air, a poor, forlorn and ashamed thing, suddenly despised and homeless.

There was no intended unkindness in this; it was simply that at one moment you existed for them and at the next their thoughts had already taken such an entirely different channel that they simply felt and saw you no more.

But children want to be very much seen, felt and heard, and those who make you feel thinner than air humiliate you terribly.

Even our father had this absentmindedness characteristic of the family; he sometimes simply looked through you.

Mama had one great joy at Balmoral. There were quantities of mushrooms, or at least what mama called mushrooms, but which people in England contemptuously termed toadstools. All Russians are great connoisseurs of mushrooms, and in their country exquisite dishes are made of them. There is an especial kind with thick, stony stems and brown-gray heads. In Germany these are called Steinpilze and are a great delicacy. The kind mama gathered in such quantities at Balmoral were second cousins to these—poorer relations, but just as delicious when well prepared with a cream sauce spiced with a certain herb. This species has a predilection for growing under birch trees.

Mama would bring home baskets full of these, but to her great mortification the royal cooks only admitted the well-known, common, white mushrooms which are pink inside; all others were suspicious and nothing would induce them to serve up that "Russian stuff" on the Queen of England's table.

It was on this occasion that I first heard the expression "toadstool," which was certainly a most disdainful way of denominating mama's precious gatherings. She had much fun with grandmama over this, and finally, I believe, the royal kitchen was prevailed upon to cook these uncertain-looking vegetables, and everybody; even the most insular inhabitant of the court, thoroughly enjoyed them.

In Russia, mushroom picking is a veritable science; there are no end of good mushrooms—or call them toadstools if you prefer—and at an early age mama had made real experts of her children. We could, without the slightest hesitation, distinguish the good from the bad, the harmless from the poisonous.

A Mushroom Mix-Up

Mushroom hunting is good fun, but it was never my specialty. Ducky had inherited mama's passion for this form of amusement, and my daughter, Elisabeth, in her turn has continued the tradition; she can spend hours hunting for mushrooms. Somehow I was awkward about finding mushrooms, which was a great humiliation to me. I would bring only three or four to Ducky's dozens, and this I felt as a really painful inferiority, an inferiority that was well rubbed into me. I even remember a comic-tragic scene in connection with one of these mushroom hunts; but this was at Coburg, not at Balmoral.

Mama had a Russian diplomat friend called Count Lamsdorf —nephew of the well-known Count Lamsdorfan exceedingly well-mannered, pale, fair, nice-looking young man. Overcorrect and rather effeminate, we little girls were not quite sure if we liked or disliked Count Lamsdorf. He was a frequent guest in our house, but his correctness never melted into anything more than tepid joviality.

One day we had all gone mushroom hunting in a wood well known as good ground for that special kind of sport. Elegant and polite to a degree, even out in the woods, Count Lamsdorf had also been enlisted amongst the ranks of the mushroom pickers.

Everybody had found quantities except me, who seemed to have no eyes in my head. It was quite like searching for Easter eggs, and I positively seemed to have been smitten with blindness. At certain moments the searchers came together from the different ends of the forest to compare their finds, but each time my basket was empty.

By degrees I was growing exasperated, but was for a time able to mask my discomfiture with a smile on the wrong side of my mouth. Little knowing how near the end of my patience I was, everybody began to tease me, and I felt deeply humiliated.

Finally a signal was given that the search was at an end, and everybody flocked together to examine one an-other's harvest. Mine was poor; I had hardly anything to show, and the teasing began anew. Count Lamsdorf, who had been lucky, added his few polite words of mockery to the louder raillery of the others. But this was just too much. His innocent words made the cup of my bitterness overflow, and to the horror of my mother and the discomfiture of my sisters, like the real little fool that I was, I burst into tears.

Dismay on all sides! I even managed to bring out a few words laden with resentment which I hurled at the head of the much-abashed count, who, for some reason, had become in my eyes the chief offender. I am afraid that I was even thoroughly rude, for I was no longer mistress of my emotions.

Never-to-be-Forgotten Kiss

Mama used all the tact she could, trying to pooh-pooh the stupid fuss I was making. The much-puzzled guest, full of remorse, pronounced words of humblest repentance, but I stolidly maintained my absurd attitude of offense.

Finally, taking me kindly by the shoulders, mama pushed me toward the mortified gentleman:

"Va, ma chère, embrasse le Comte et que tout soit oublié." Embrasse le Comte! Kiss him! Consternation.

He was not a cousin or an uncle; he was only a disconcertingly ceremonious gentleman with pale cheeks and paler hair, and much too polite to be looked upon as a friend. Kiss him! I was dumfounded.

"Child, go on! Don't make a fuss!"

And there, with the whole forest as witness, with my sisters gaping at me open-mouthed, but full of pity, I actually had to kiss that pale and Overcorrect gentleman, who, almost as shy as I, took off his hat—oh, I well remember that taking off of his hat!—so as to meet worthily this scene of reconciliation.

But was it reconciliation? Ah, there's the rub. It was an unheard-of happening, but reconciliation?

I am afraid, from that day onward, poor Count Lamsdorf was a thorn in my flesh, and each one of his visits was a torture to the foolish little girl who was never again able to forget that, one day, with all the trees of the wood looking on, she had had to kiss him, an overpolite gentleman who was neither uncle nor cousin.

In childhood, your parents' friends play a great part. Some you admit directly; they know how to gain your confidence, they become your friends too. Against others, for some reason, you nurse a certain prejudice, probably most unfairly, but you simply cannot like them; they do not fit in.

Then there are those precious few who, even if they pay no particular attention to you, are passionately admired and adored from the first moment, sometimes simply because you admire their looks, and sometimes just because there is that strange, inexplicable affinity between you and them, that magnetism which attracts beings to each other for no apparent reason—it just is.

All through life I was inordinately attracted to a beautiful face; and I remember certain guests who were received at Eastwell, that shone with a starlike radiance that I never again forgot. They were real events.

Two women, very different in type, belong to this category. One was Lady Georgine Dudley; the other was Lady Randolph Churchill.

Lady Dudley, as also Lady Helen Vincent, has always remained my ideal of typical English beauty. There was a perfection about Lady Dudley's loveliness which is unforgettable, though I saw her but very seldom.

Lady Randolph was a more flashing beauty, might almost have been taken for an Italian or Spaniard. Her eyes were large and dark, her mouth mobile with delicious, almost mischievous curves, her hair blue-black and glossy; she had something of a Creole about her. She was very animated and laughed a lot, showing beautiful white teeth, and always looked happy and amused.

For some reason, she and my mother were very good friends. I was much too young to know what attracted them to each other, because they were certainly very different; but we used to see them often together, and we entirely approved of Lady Randolph.

Mama would play duets with her on the piano in the big Eastwell library. We were often in the room during the time—occupied with our own games—the two ladies, absorbed in their music, quite forgetting our presence. It still makes me smile to remember how one day Ducky and I were amusing ourselves with a pair of mechanical frogs which had been given to us; green tin monsters that, when wound up, crouched, hesitating awhile, then made sudden, most disconcerting leaps at the moment you least expected. These frogs were an endless source of amusement.

I cannot recollect which of us hit upon the idea of setting these springing creatures under the chairs of the two music enthusiasts, but what fun it would be!

Breaking Up a Concert

We well realized that, carried away on the wings of melody, they were entirely oblivious of our existence. From time to time, one or the other would exclaim at the difficulty of certain passages, there would be a second's hesitation, a little, apologetic laugh, and then they would be off again as though their lives depended upon their fingers.

Softly we two miscreants stole over the floor, as quiet as mice, no sound revealing our nearness, and set our jumping freaks under the chairs of our betters. No two Red Indians could have made a more wily approach.

The springing creatures crouched, hesitated and sprang, right upon the heels of the piano players! It had been superbly calculated, the effect was instantaneous and complete.

Shrieks, laughter! And of course a scolding.

But the scolding was drowned by the laughter, and I remember Lady Randolph's white teeth and mama's apology for her children's misbehavior.

Another peculiarity of Lady Randolph's was a special sort of comb that she wore at the back of her chignon—a light tortoise-shell comb decorated with little round knobs. This comb I admired tremendously; it certainly added to that Spanish look she had and was just exactly the sort of comb she should have worn.

Certain details of dress used to strike me at an early age, and they still remain sticking in my memory while more important facts have been entirely wiped out.

There was, for instance, a ruby-red bonnet—oh, yes, a bonnet, because in those days that was both the smart and correct thing for married ladies to wear. There was a great difference, in my childhood, between what a young girl and a married lady wore. In our times, the granny can easily be seen in the same dress, or almost, as her granddaughter dancing at her first ball! If I am exaggerating, forgive me, but I do not think that I am far wrong.

This ruby-red velvet bonnet that I remember, was worn by a certain Frau von Königseck when one day she came to meet my parents at the Coburg station. It was a quite flat affair with a broad bow on the top, and was fixed by a piece of red velvet ribbon under her chin. Queen Alexandra has been photographed in bonnets of this shape.

Frau von Königseck was neither elegant nor pretty, but her bonnet was—according to my childish appreciation—lovely, and has remained unforgettable to this day.

A Belgian Fashion Plate

But there was especially a certain dress worn by an aunt during the time of Queen Victoria's first Jubilee that I still have in mind. The aunt was Louisa of Coburg, wife of Uncle Philip of Coburg Kohary, brother of King Ferdinand of Bulgaria. She was the eldest daughter of King Leopold II of Belgium and one of the Grandes Élégantes of her time. Her love for dress, in fact, was what the Puritans would have called sinful, and was certainly ruinous and did much to make of her a difficult wife.

Otherwise she was a good-natured, if somewhat foolish, lady who loved to be paid attention, even if it was only to be teased by others. In fact, she was very much disappointed when one forgot to tease her. She wanted to be teased about her clothes, her habits, her ideas, her flirtations. She loved to be considered somewhat eccentric, which she was in a way that was innocent enough had it not been so expensive.

We children called her Aunt Philipa, which, according to us, cleverly united her and her husband's name, Philip and Louisa.

Aunt Philipa was, because of the exaggerated number of her clothes, a grand source of interest to us younger ones. It was like going to the theater. Even when she came to stay for only a few days, she would bring so many hats that no cupboards sufficed, so she generally pinned them all the way up the curtains, as far as her arms could reach.

There was a memorable occasion at Reinhardsbrunn when two of her hats were burned on a stove and one was eaten up by the dogs. Aunt Philipa was very fair and had the small eyes and long nose of her father; but all the same she was a decorative person in a showy sort of way, and dress helped her greatly, though mama, of course, thoroughly disapproved of the eccentricity of her fashions.

She had a killing way of laughing, her nose playing a great part and her eyes nearly disappearing during the process; it was, besides, a slow laugh which began gradually and went on for a long time increasing in volume, even after everybody else had finished laughing. She seemed to relish, so to say, the physical pleasure of laughing.

My parents poked fun at her all the time, and this used to make her expand with a sort of childish glee. Her absurdities were discussed and everybody made a point of inquiring with exaggerated interest how many dresses, hats, cloaks, tea gowns, and so on, she had brought with her. Clothes, in fact, were her very raison d'être.

She would change her attire at every hour of the day, and there was always a little bag, or so-called reticule, to match each dress, and goodness only knows with what these mysterious little bags were filled—powder and paint, mirror, scents and sachets, smoking pastilles, nail polish, cigarettes, and so on. She was always fiddling about in her little reticule.

During the Jubilee she was our parents' guest at Clarence House, and her toilettes were the excitement of the whole household, from the scullery maid to the lady in waiting. The memorable dress in question was an astonishing creation; one mass of small beads shimmering between fire red and sapphire blue. I had never before seen anything like this dress, nor perhaps since! It was a "stunner," as the schoolboy would have said; it knocked you down and, as it was in the time of the bustle, it was not only astonishing as to color but complicated as to shape. She received ovations from all sides and, much gratified, started one of her slow, long laughs that went on and on, increasing in volume, whilst she screwed up her small eyes till they almost vanished.

Later on, Aunt Philipa disappeared out of our lives, and her end was less gay and brilliant than her beginning. Poor Aunt Philipa!

I would like you now to follow me on a flying visit to Russia, that great, mysterious, stupendous Russia of the Czars, now so tragically a thing of the past, but which was mama's Russia. You must forgive me if, at first, I show it to you as I perceived it through my childish vision, with all its phenomenal prestige and grandeur. A formidable erection of power and splendor, comparable to nothing else except, no doubt, the Far East, which I have never seen.

The Russia of the Czars

Russia! My astonished child's eyes see gigantic palaces, wonderful parks, fountains, gardens. They see astounding family gatherings, military displays, religious ceremonies in churches all glittering with gold. They see jewels so fantastic that you can hardly imagine that they are real, quick-trotting horses with flowing manes and tails, and their flanks so shining that you could mirror your face in them. They see whole regiments of Cossacks, wild-looking, but so picturesque that they could fit into the most fantastic tales. And some of these same Cossacks, standing in long red coats, high fur caps and armed to the teeth, before the doors of their masters; their breasts are barred with cartridges stuck into silver braid, their heelless black boots have many folds around the ankles and pervade the atmosphere with a pleasant fragrance of Russian leather. My eyes also see long corridors and, so to say, overlife-sized halls and drawing-rooms, opening out one into the other; and our feet patter timidly over wide expanses of floors, so vast and so polished that we have the impression of walking on ice. And everywhere a quite special odor; a mixture of turpentine, Russian leather, cigarette smoke and scent, uniquely characteristic of these imperial palaces.

"Imperial" is indeed the word, fantastic, fairylike, legendary, mille et une nuits—all superlatives are suitable and permissible in this Russia of the Czars, this glamour-filled Russia that is no more.

And it is mama who is leading us little English girls by the hand, leading us into all this; mama who came out of it all, who belongs to it still; mama who makes the sign of the cross in her own chapel of the many images, which is but a wee reflection of the huge glory of Russia's churches which once were hers.

Because all this was hers before she came to sober England. That giant with the gray hair and closely cut whiskers, with the rather forbidding face but kindly eyes and mouth, is her father, the Emperor, and those younger giants—so many of them that you get quite bewildered—are her brothers and cousins, and the other older giants are her uncles. They all bend down to kiss you in turns; they have far to bend because they are tall like trees, and they all smell deliciously of Russian leather, cigarettes and the best-quality scent. I remember them always in uniform, and they are altogether wonderful and unbelievable, quite like people out of fairy stories that you did not imagine really existed till you went to Russia, mama's Russia, the home from which she came.

Children's Paradise

And everybody loved you and spoiled you and gave you good things to eat, or hung lovely little crosses or lockets set with precious stones round your neck. The servants kissed your hands, and at every corner there was some old friend of mama's who burst out on you and hugged you and made the sign of the cross over your forehead. And when you finally reached your own rooms, there on the center table stood two dishes, one with sweets, the other with biscuits. These biscuits and sweets were renewed each day. The sweets were varied, and nowhere else in the wide world were they as good. Long-shaped fruit drops wrapped in white paper with little fringed edges of blue, red or yellow, according to the sweet inside. Flat cream caramels too luscious for words—these also wrapped in thick white paper—double fondants of coffee, and also those little paper baskets of fresh strawberry sweets already described as one of the "ecstasies."

Then other sweets were brought in big boxes—round slabs of fruit paste, a specialty of Moscow, and dried fruit and berries conserved in white, flour-like sugar, a specialty from Kiev.

And when you went out for walks in the park, there was a sailor or two who went with you, specially deputized to look after and amuse the royal and imperial children during their walks. These sailors became your most cherished friends and companions. Each day when you stepped over the terrace down into the garden, there they stood, all smiles, with some little surprise ready for you—a bunch of wild strawberries, a wonderful stick half peeled, as though a white ribbon had been wound round it, a little wooden flute, a hoop and what not else. The youngest of us, not yet able to walk any distance, was solemnly pushed about in a perambulator in the shape of a silver swan. There were lakes and sand heaps, wee Russian cottages, and a tiny farm with a real live cow, which belonged to mama as a child. The farm, not the cow, which was certainly no longer the same.

Those are my first visions of Russia. Emperor Alexander II's Russia, Grand-papa Emperor—mama's father. But in my earliest childhood he vanishes from the scene to give place to Alexander III—Uncle Sasha, as we called him—mama's eldest brother.

It was in London that mama heard of her father's assassination. I remember quite well our being brought down to her room and the terrible shock it was to find mama in tears.

Mama weeping, an overwhelming, unheard-of cataclysm. It was something which upset all our ideas about the natural order of things. Children wept, but grown-up people! That was something fundamentally unnatural, something that shook the very basis of our beliefs. Of course there was consternation in our ranks, and a hurried departure was arranged; mama, as far as I remember, taking us with her.

But this is all such a long, long time ago, and I was so very small then, that I may be mixing things up. But curiously enough, I still have a dim recollection of standing at a window of the Winter Palace and seeing an endless and gorgeous funeral procession pass by, but was it grandpapa's or grand-mama's funeral? I really do not know. All this is in a haze.

But I do still remember grandpapa. There are three pictures which remain to me of him. One is of a family breakfast outside on a terrace at Tsarskoe Selo, grandpapa at the head of the table, I think, and we, as tiny mites, running round from one guest to another with little sand cakes on the palms of our hands and grandpapa pretending to taste them.

Recollections of an Emperor

A rather clearer picture is of grand-papa coming into the big night nursery—this was also at Tsarskoe—where we were down with measles. I was the last to catch the infection, and grand-papa was still able to kiss me.

I can still see, through the mist that time is spreading over these remembrances, grandpapa bending toward me, the tall, tall man to the wee little girl, and how absurdly proud I was that I could still be kissed. But when he came next day I, too, was amongst the invalids, and I, no more than the others, dared ask for a kiss.

The third picture is of grandpapa in a small carriage, driving a wonderful trotter, coal black and as shiny as a shield. Mama is seated beside him and I am standing between his knees. That is all, and even that is so blurred that it might have been only a dream.

Of Grandmama Empress my recollections are still more vague. On a journey somewhere we were brought to her in the train. She was lying on a very low bed that was all draped in sky blue. I have the hazy vision of a pale, emaciated woman with a thin, waxen face and long, white, beautiful hands. I remember we had been taken away from our tea, which did not please us very much, and we stared nonunderstandingly at the very sad-looking woman in her blue-curtained bed.

I think that she was being transported somewhere to the south of France. She had already been an invalid for several years and, as I have heard since, had more reasons than ill-health for being sad.

That is my only recollection of Grandmama Empress, mama's mama.

Editor's Note—This is the third of a series of articles by Marie, Queen of Rumania. The next will appear in an early issue.