JOURNEY HOME—THE NILE—LORD KITCHENER

Our sojourn in Japan was all too short, and we sailed from Yokohama in a ship of the Empress Line on May 12. Capturing a spare day at 170° longitude, we reached Vancouver on the Queen’s Birthday. Our thirteen days’ voyage was somewhat tedious, as I do not think that we passed a single ship on the whole transit. The weather was dull and grey, and there was a continuous rolling sea, but I must say for our ship that no one suffered from sea-sickness. She lived up to the repute which we had heard concerning these liners; they were broad and steady, and I for one was duly grateful.

We had some pleasant fellow-passengers, including Orlando Bridgeman (now Lord Bradford) and his cousin Mr. William Bridgeman (now a prominent politician). A voyage otherwise singularly devoid of excitement was agitated by the discovery of one or more cases of small-pox among the Chinese on board. Every effort was made to keep this dark, but when the ukase went forth that every passenger who had not been vaccinated recently must undergo the operation, no doubt remained as to the truth of the rumours current. Fortunately my husband, my daughter, myself, and my maid had all been vaccinated just before leaving Sydney, but we still felt anxious about possible quarantine at Victoria—the port on the Island of Vancouver—the town being on the mainland. Nothing happened, however, and if the ship’s doctor perjured himself, and if the captain did not contradict him, I trust that the Recording Angel did not set it down, as the relief of the passengers was indeed great.

The truth afterwards so forcibly expressed by Rudyard Kipling was brought home to us when landing on Canadian shores:

“Take ’old of the Wings o’ the mornin’,
An’ flop round the earth till you’re dead;
But you won’t get away from the tune that they play
To the bloomin’ old rag over’ead.”

Every morning at Sydney we were aroused by “God Save the Queen” from the men-of-war in the harbour just below Government House, and at Vancouver we found the whole population busy celebrating Queen Victoria’s Birthday. At the hotel nobody was left in charge but a boy of fourteen, a most intelligent youth who somehow lodged and fed us. Next day we were anxious to find him and recognise his kind attentions before leaving, but evidently in his case sport outweighed possible tips, for he had gone to the races without giving us a chance.

Vancouver had a curiously unfinished appearance when we saw it, houses just arising and streets laid out but not completed. I have heard, and fully believe, that it has since become a very fine city, rising as it does just within the Gateway to the Pacific, though it is of Victoria that Rudyard Kipling (to quote him again) sings:

“From East to West the tested chain holds fast,
The well-forged link rings true.”

The Directors of the Canadian Pacific had most kindly assigned a private car to our use, but we had arrived a little before we had been expected, and as our time was limited we travelled in the ordinary train as far as Glacier, where we slept and the car caught us up.

Glacier in the Rockies well deserved its name, as we found ourselves once more in the midst of ice and frozen snow such as we had not seen except on distant mountains for over two years. We were allowed to attach the car to the through trains, and detach it to wait for another, as desired, which gave us the chance of seeing not only the great mountains and waterfalls as we flew by, but also of admiring at leisure some of the more famous places.

From Winnipeg our luxurious car with its bedrooms and living-rooms all complete took us down as far as St. Paul in the States, where we joined the ordinary train for Chicago. I think that it was at St. Paul that we had our first aggravating experience of American independence, which contrasted with the courtesy of Japan. A number of passengers had some twenty-five minutes to secure luncheon (or dinner, I forget which) before the departure of the next train. Unfortunately they depended almost entirely on the ministrations of a tall and gaily attired young woman; still more unfortunately one or two of them rashly requested her to make haste. Her vengeance was tranquil but sure. She slowly and deliberately walked round, placing a glass of iced water near each guest. It was hot enough to render iced water acceptable, but not to the exclusion of other food.

We included Chicago in our wanderings for the purpose of seeing the great Exhibition which was by way of celebrating the fourth centenary of Columbus’s discovery of America. A schoolboy once described the life and exploits of Columbus to this effect: “Columbus was a man who could make an egg stand on end without breaking it. He landed in America and saw a Chief and a party of men and said to them, ‘Are you the savages?’ ‘Yes,’ said the Chief; ‘are you Columbus?’ ‘Yes,’ said Columbus. Then the Chief turned to his men and said, ‘It’s of no use; we’re discovered at last.’” Whether Columbus would have taken the trouble to discover America if he could have seen in a vision New York, Niagara, and a few other phenomena I know not, but I am sure he would have never gone out of his way to discover Chicago.

My sister-in-law, Mrs. Rowland Leigh, has told me that her grandfather sold a great part of the land on which Chicago now stands for a pony for her grandmother to ride upon. With all due respect he made a great mistake in facilitating the erection of this overgrown, bumptious, and obtrusive city. It may have improved in the past thirty years, but I can conceive of no way in which it could have become attractive.

It was horribly hot when we arrived, but a chilling and unhealthy wind blew from Lake Michigan, on which it stands, which gave us all chest colds, and we heard that these were prevalent throughout the city. Then the streets were badly laid and dirty. I think that the inhabitants burnt some peculiar kind of smoky fuel. They were very proud of this Exhibition, which looked well, on the lines of the White City at Shepherd’s Bush. It was made of Phormium tenax (New Zealand flax) plastered over with white composition, and as it stood near some part of the Lake which had been arranged to accommodate it the white buildings reflected in the blue water had a picturesque effect. The only part of the interior which really impressed me was a building (not white) representing the old monastery where Columbus had lived for some time in Spain. This was filled with a very interesting loan collection of objects connected with his life and times.

The citizens of Chicago had invited a large variety of crowned heads and princely personages to attend the Exhibition as their guests, but previous engagements had been more prevalent than acceptances. They had succeeded in securing a Spanish Duke who was a lineal descendant of Columbus, and he and his family had been the prominent features of their ceremonies to date. Shortly before we came great excitement had arisen because it was announced that the Infanta Eulalia, aunt of the King of Spain, and a real genuine Princess, would honour the city and Exhibition with her royal presence. Two problems had thereupon to be solved. What would they do with the Duke? They no longer wanted a minor luminary when a star of the first magnitude was about to dawn above their horizon. That was promptly settled. They put the poor grandee into a train for New York on a Friday and told him that they would continue to frank him until the Monday, after which date he would be “on his own.” He was said to have declared himself highly satisfied with the arrangement, as this would leave him free to enjoy himself after his own fashion during the remainder of his sojourn in America. I only hope that they had paid his return tickets by steamboat, but I never heard how that was managed.

The Duke being thus disposed of, problem two required far more serious consideration. The Mayor of Chicago was a “man of the people” and had never condescended to wear a tall hat, in fact he had such a bush of hair that he could not have got one on to his head; and as a sort of socialist Samson whose political strength lay in his locks, he had steadily declined to cut it. So day by day the Chicago papers came out with: “Will H. [I forget his exact name] cut his hair?” “Will he wear a tall hat?” And when the great day came and the Infanta was met at the station by the Conscript Fathers, a pÆan of joy found voice in print: “He wore a tall hat.” “He has cut his hair.” I cannot say whether the pillars of the municipal house fell upon him at the next election.

I do not feel sure of the official designation of the sturdy citizens who ultimately received the Infanta. They may have constituted the Municipality or the Council of the Exhibition, very likely both combined. One thing, however, is certain: no Princess of Romance was more jealously guarded by father, enchanter, giant, or dwarf than Eulalia by her Chicago hosts. The first knight-errant to meet his fate was our old Athens friend, Mr. Fearn. He was Head of the Foreign Section of the Exhibition, a highly cultured man, had held a diplomatic post in Spain, where he had known the Infanta, and could speak Spanish. When he heard that she was coming he engaged sixteen rooms at the Virginia Hotel (where we were staying) and arranged to give her a reception. Could this be allowed? Oh, no! Mr. Fearn could converse with her in her own tongue and no one else would be able to understand what was said—the party had to be cancelled.

Then H.R.H. was to visit the Foreign Section, and Mr. Fearn, who naturally expected to be on duty, invited various friends, including ourselves, to be present in the Gallery of the rather fine Entrance Hall. Mr. Fearn, Head of the Section, to receive the Princess on arrival? Not at all—why, she might think that he was the most important person present. Mr. Fearn might hide where he pleased, but was to form no part of the Reception Committee.

They wanted to take away his Gallery, but there he put his foot down. His friends were coming and must have their seats. So he sat with us and we watched the proceedings from above. I must say that they were singularly unimpressive. The Infanta arrived escorted by some big, uncomfortable-looking men, while a few little girls strewed a few small flowers on the pavement in front of her. I heard afterwards that H.R.H., who was distinctly a lady of spirit, was thoroughly bored with her escort, and instead of spending the hours which they would have desired in gazing on tinned pork, jam-pots, and machinery, insisted on disporting herself in a kind of fair called, I think, the Midway Pleasance, where there were rows of little shops and a beer-garden. She forced her cortÈge to accompany her into the latter and to sit down and drink beer there. They were duly scandalised, but could not protest. The Infanta was put up at the P—— Hotel owned by a couple of the same name. The husband had avowedly risen from the ranks, and the wife, being very pretty and having great social aspirations, had left Mr. P. at home when she journeyed to Europe. They were very rich and had a house in Chicago in the most fashionable quarter on the shores of the Lake, and gave a great party for the Princess to which were bidden all the Élite of the city.

It appeared, however, that the royal guest did not discover till just as she was setting forth that her hosts were identical with her innkeepers, and the blue blood of Spain did not at all approve the combination. It was too late to back out of the engagement, but her attitude at the party induced rather a frost, and her temper was not improved by the fact that a cup of coffee was upset over her gown.

I cannot say that I saw this, for, though we received a card for the entertainment, it came so late that we did not feel called upon to make an effort to attend. The lady’s sense of humour, however, was quite sufficient to enable her to see the quaint side of her reception generally, in fact I chanced to hear when back in England that she had given to some of our royal family much the same account that is here recorded. It is not to be assumed, nevertheless, that Chicago Society does not include charming and kindly people. Among the most prominent were, and doubtless are, the McCormicks, some of whom we had known in London, and who exerted themselves to show us hospitality. Mrs. McCormick, head of the clan, gave us a noble luncheon, previous to which we were introduced to about thirty McCormicks by birth or marriage. “I guess you’ve got right round,” said one when we had shaken hands with them all. Mrs. McCormick Goodhart took us to see a great spectacle called “America,” arranged at a large theatre by Imre Kiralfy, subsequently of White City fame.

The colour scheme was excellent. The historical scenes presented might be called eclectic. The Discovery of America was conducted by a page in white satin who stood on the prow of Columbus’s ship and pointed with his hand to the shore. Behind him in the vessel were grouped men-at-arms whose gold helmets were quite untarnished by sea-spray. Perhaps they had been kept in air-tight boxes till the Discovery was imminent and then brought out to do honour to the occasion. The next scene which I recollect was the arrival of the Pilgrim Fathers in an Indian village. The Fathers, in square-cut coats and Puritan headgear, stood round the village green, and did not turn a hair, while young women danced a ballet in front of them. After all, I saw a ballet danced in after years at the Church Pageant at Fulham, so there is no reason why the Pilgrim Fathers should not have enjoyed one when it came their way. The final climax, however, was a grand agricultural spectacle with a great dance of young persons with reaping-hooks. This was a just tribute to the McCormick family, who were the great manufacturers of agricultural implements and thereby promoted the prosperity of Chicago.

On leaving Chicago we wended our way to Niagara. I am free to confess that we had seen so much grandeur and beauty, and particularly such picturesque waterfalls, in Japan, that we did not approach any scene in the New World with the thrill of expectation which we might have nursed had we come fresh from more prosaic surroundings, but Niagara swept away any vestige of indifference or sight-weariness. It is not for me to describe it. I can only say that we were awe-struck by the unending waters rushing with their mighty volume between the rocks and beneath the sun. When we sometimes tried to select the sights which we had seen most worthy of inclusion in the Nine Wonders of the World, neither my husband nor I ever hesitated to place Niagara among the foremost.

At New York we stayed two or three nights waiting for our ship. It was very hot, and most of our American friends away at the seaside or in the country. My chief impressions were that the waiting at the otherwise comfortable Waldorf Hotel was the slowest I had ever come across; and that the amount of things “verboten” in the Central Park was worthy of Berlin. In one place you might not drive, in another you might not ride, in a third mounted police were prepared to arrest you if you tried to walk. Really, except in wartime, England is the one place where you can do as you like. However, I am sure that New York had many charms if we had had time and opportunity to find them out.

We sailed in the White Star ship Majestic, and after a pleasant crossing reached England towards the end of June 1893. The country was terribly burnt up after a hot and dry spell, but we were very happy to be at home again, and to find our friends and relations awaiting us at Euston.

My daughter was just in time for two or three balls at the end of the London season, the first being at Bridgewater House. She and I were both delighted to find that our friends had not forgotten us, and that she had no lack of partners on her somewhat belated “coming out.” We were also in time to welcome our friends at a garden party at Osterley, and to entertain some of them from Saturdays to Mondays in July.

Then began many pleasant summers when friends young and old came to our garden parties, and also to spend Sundays with us at Osterley, or to stay with us in the autumn and winter at Middleton. Looking back at their names in our Visitors’ Book, it is at once sad to feel how many have passed away and consoling to think of the happy days in which they shared, and particularly to remember how some, now married and proud parents of children, found their fate in the gardens at Osterley or in the boat on the Lake.

It would be difficult to say much of individuals, but I could not omit recording that among our best and dearest friends were Lord and Lady Northcote. I find their names first in the list of those who stayed with us July 1st-3rd, 1893, and their friendship never failed us—his lasted till death and hers is with me still.

Before, however, I attempt any reminiscences of our special friends, I would mention yet two more expeditions which had incidents of some interest.

In 1895 Lady Galloway and I were again in Rome, and I believe that it was on this occasion that we were received by Queen Margaret, whose husband King Umberto was still alive. She was a charming and beautiful woman with masses of auburn hair. She spoke English perfectly and told us how much she admired English literature, but I was rather amused by her expressing particular preference for The Strand Magazine—quite comprehensible really, as even when one knows a foreign tongue fairly well, it is always easier to read short stories and articles in it than profounder works. She also liked much of Rudyard Kipling, but found some of his writings too difficult. Later on I sent Her Majesty the “Recessional,” and her lady-in-waiting wrote to say that she had read and re-read the beautiful verses.

A former Italian Ambassador told me that when the present King was still quite young some members of the Government wanted him removed from the care of women and his education confided to men. The Queen, however, said, “Leave him to me, and I will make a man of him.” “And,” added my informant, “she did!”

Later in the year my husband engaged a dahabyah, the Herodotus, to take us up the Nile, and we left England on January 22nd, 1896, to join it. Margaret and Mary went with us, and we sailed from Marseilles for Alexandria in the SÉnÉgal, a Messageries boat which was one of the most wretched old tubs that I have ever encountered. How it contrived to reach Alexandria in a storm was a mystery, the solution of which reflects great credit on its captain. We had a peculiar lady among our fellow-passengers, who, when Columbus was mentioned, remarked that he was the man who went to sea in a sack. We believe that she confused him with Monte Cristo.

Anyhow we reached Cairo at last, where we were joined by Lady Galloway, who had been staying with Lord and Lady Cromer at the Agency, and we joined our dahabyah—a very comfortable one—at Gingeh on February 4th. As we had a steam-tug attached, we were happily independent of wind and current, and could stop when we pleased—no small consideration. We realised this when, reaching Luxor three days later, we met with friends who had been toiling upstream for a month, unable to visit any antiquities on the way, as whenever they wanted to do so the wind, or other phenomena, became favourable to progress. I ought not to omit having met Nubar Pasha, the Egyptian statesman, at Cairo, a dear old man, with a high esteem for the English, who, he said, had a great respect for themselves, and for public opinion. At first sight those two sentiments seem not altogether compatible, but on thinking over his remark one perceives how they balance each other.

At El Ballianeh, another stopping-place on our voyage to Luxor, we found the town decorated in honour of the Khedive’s lately married sister, who was making an expedition up the Nile. Her husband, having modern tendencies, was anxious that she should ride like the English ladies, and had ordered a riding-habit for her, but only one boot, as he only saw one of the Englishwomen’s feet. Had he lived in the present year of grace his vision would not have been so limited.

Near Karnak, E. F. Benson and his sister were busy excavating the Temple of Mant. Miss Benson had a concession and excavated many treasures, while her brother no doubt drew out of the desert his inspiration for The Image in the Sand, published some years later.

In pre-war days we used to say that the Nile was like Piccadilly and Luxor resembled the Bachelors’ Club, so many friends and acquaintances passed up and down the river, but on this particular voyage the aspect which most impressed my husband and myself was the dominating influence of the Sirdar, Lord Kitchener. We only saw him personally for a few minutes, as he was with his staff on a tour of inspection, but wherever we met officers of any description there was an alertness, and a constant reference to “The Sirdar!” “The Sirdar has ordered,” “The Sirdar wishes.” A state of tension was quite evident, and soon proved to be justified.

No one quite knew when and where the Mahdi would attack, everybody was on the look-out for hidden Dervishes. At Assouan we had luncheon with the officers stationed there, Major Jackson (now Sir Herbert) and others, who were most hospitable and amusing. I must confess that though they were more than ready for the Dervishes, they were specially hot against the French. Of course at that time the feeling on both sides was very bitter; it was long before the days of the entente, and any French officer who made friends with an Englishman had a very bad mark put against his name by his superiors.

Either at Assouan or PhilÆ, where Captain Lyons entertained us, we heard a comical story of a tall Englishman in a cafÉ at Cairo. He was alone, and three or four French officers who were sitting at a little table began to make insulting remarks about the English. This man kept silent until one of them put out his foot as he passed, plainly intending to trip him up. Thereupon he seized his assailant and used him as a kind of cudgel or flail wherewith to belabour his companions. Naturally the others jumped up and attacked in their turn, and the Englishman, outnumbered, must have had the worst of it had not the girl behind the counter suddenly taken his part and aimed a well-directed shower of empty bottles at the Frenchmen, who thereupon found discretion the better part of valour and retreated.

Major Jackson gave us a graphic account of the arrival of Slatin Pasha after his escape from Omdurman after eleven years’ captivity. He said that a dirty little Arab merchant arrived at his quarters claiming to be Slatin Pasha. He knew that Slatin had been prisoner, but did not know of his escape, and felt doubtful of his identity. “However,” said he, “I put him into a bedroom and gave him some clothes and a cake of Sunlight Soap, and there came out a neat little Austrian gentleman.” I have always thought what a large bakshish Major Jackson might have received from the proprietor of Sunlight Soap had he given them that tale for publication. I believe that Major Burnaby had £100 for mentioning the effect of Cockle’s Pills on some native chief in his Ride to Khiva. However, Slatin managed to convince his hosts that he was himself, despite that he had almost forgotten European customs and languages during his long slavery. At Assouan we were obliged to abandon our nice dahabyah and transfer ourselves to a shaky and hot stern-wheeler called the Tanjore, as the large dahabyah could not travel above the First Cataract and we wanted to go to Wady Halfa. There was some doubt as to whether we could go at all, and the stern-wheeler had to form one of a fleet of four which were bound to keep together and each to carry an escort of six or seven Soudanese soldiers for protection. What would have happened had a strong force of dervishes attacked us I do not know, but fortunately we were unmolested. Of the other three stern-wheelers one was taken by the Bradley Martins, Cravens, and Mrs. Sherman, and the other two were public.

We had an object-lesson on the advantages of a reputation for being unamiable. On board one of the public stern-wheelers was a certain F. R., author and journalist, with his wife and daughter. Jersey overheard Cook’s representative giving special injunctions to the agent in charge of this boat to keep F. R. in good humour, as he might make himself very disagreeable. Whether he did anything to damage the firm I know not, but I know that he bored his fellow-passengers so much that on the return journey they either transferred themselves to the fourth boat or waited for another, anything rather than travel back with the R.’s. So the R.’s secured a whole stern-wheeler to themselves.

I have carefully refrained from any description of the well-known temples and tombs, which record the past glories of the cities of the Nile, but I must say a word of the wonderful rock temple of Rameses II at Abu Simbal, close on the river banks. We saw it by moonlight, which added much to the effect of the great pylon cut in the rock with its four sitting figures of the king, each 66 feet high. Small figures stand by the knees of the colossi, who look solemnly out over the river unmoved by the passing centuries. Inside the rock is a large corridor with eight great Osiride figures guarding its columns, and within are smaller chambers with sculptured walls.

I would also recall among the less important relics of the past the small ruined Temple of Dakkeh. It was built in Ptolemaic times by an Ethiopian monarch singularly free from superstition. It was the custom of these kings to kill themselves when ordered to do so by the priests in the name of the gods, but when his spiritual advisers ventured to send such a message to King Erzamenes, he went with his soldiers and killed the priests instead.

I do not know whether the story lingered on the banks of the Nile till our times, but the instinct of this king seems to have been reincarnated in an Arab, or Egyptian, soldier who related to an English officer his first experience of an aeroplane during the late war. This man was enlisted by the Turks during their invasion of Egypt and afterwards captured by the British. Said he, “I saw a bird, oh, such a beautiful bird, flying in the sky. My officer told me to shoot it, but I did not want to kill that beautiful bird, so I killed my officer.” Certainly if one wished to disobey an unreasonable order it was the simplest method of escaping punishment.

At Wady Halfa we were delightfully entertained at tea and dinner by Colonel Hunter (now Sir Archibald). Dinner in his pretty garden was indeed a pleasant change from our jolting stern-wheeler. Previously he took us to see the 500 camels—riding and baggage—of the camel-corps. All were absolutely ready for action. Like the horses of Branksome Hall in the “Lay of the Last Minstrel,” who “ready and wight stood saddled in stable day and night,” these camels lay in rows with all their kit on or near them—nothing to be done when the order of advance should be given except to fill their water-flasks. All this with the shadow of the Sirdar pointing towards them—to fall even sooner than the officers perchance anticipated.

While our boat waited at Wady Halfa we made a short expedition, two hours by train on a local military railway, to Sarras, which was then the Egyptian frontier. Egyptian officers showed us the Fort on a hill with two Krupp and two Maxim guns. There were one or two other little forts on heights, and below was the camp with tents, huts, camels, and horses. From the hill we looked out at the country beyond, a mass of small hills rising from a sandy desert, all barren and arid. It gave a weird impression to stand thus on the uttermost outpost of civilisation wondering what of death and terror lay beyond.

Seven years previously, in July 1889, Sir Herbert Kitchener (as he then was) had written to my husband from the Egyptian Headquarters at Assouan, and thus described the Dervishes:

There was certainly real anxiety about them even during our expedition, and it was thought better for our stern-wheelers to anchor in the middle of the stream at night, when far from barracks, for fear of attack. I think, however, that it was at Assouan, a well-guarded centre, that the Bradley Martins came to implore Jersey to come and reassure poor Mrs. Sherman, Mrs. Bradley Martin’s kind old mother. She had heard some firing in connection with Ramadan, and told her family that she knew that their dahabyah had been captured by dervishes and that they were keeping it from her. Why she thought that the dervishes were considerate enough to keep out of her cabin I do not know, nor why she consented to believe my husband and not her own children. However, it is not uncommon for people to attach more weight to the opinion of an outsider than to that of the relatives whom they see every day.

Before returning to Cairo we tied up near Helouan and rode there along a good road with trees on either side. Helouan itself struck us as resembling the modern part of a Riviera town pitched in the desert. Neither trees nor verandahs mitigated the glare of the sun, unless a few clumps near the sulphur baths did duty as shade for the whole place. There were numerous hotels and boarding-houses, though I recorded the opinion, which I saw no reason to modify on a visit some years later, that there seemed no particular reason for people to go there unless preparatory to committing suicide. However, I suppose that the Races and the Baths constituted the attraction, and it may have become more adapted to a semi-tropical climate since we saw it.

Before we said farewell to the Herodotus the crew gave us a “musical and dramatic” entertainment. The comic part was largely supplied by the cook’s boy, who represented a European clad in a remarkably battered suit and ordered about a luckless native workman. The great joke was repeatedly to offer him as a seat the ship’s mallet (with which posts for tying up were driven into the bank) and to withdraw it the moment he tried to sit down. His face, and subsequent flogging of the joker, were hailed with shrieks of laughter. Similar pranks interspersed with singing, dancing, and tambourine playing were witnessed by an appreciative audience, including eight or ten native friends of the sailors, who were supplied with coffee and cigarettes.

On March 12th we reached Cairo and, with regret, left our comfortable dahabyah for the Ghezireh Palace Hotel. On the 14th came the rumour that orders had come from England that troops should advance on Dongola. There was the more excitement as it was asserted, and I believe truly, that the Government had taken this decisive step without previous consultation with either Lord Cromer or the Sirdar. However, all was ready, and the climax came when in September 1898 the Dervishes were defeated by Sir Herbert Kitchener, the Mahdi slain, and Gordon avenged.

On October 7th of that year Sir Herbert wrote from Cairo, in answer to my congratulations:

How unjust were newspaper attacks on a man unfailingly humane! Kitchener’s reception in England towards the end of the year was a wild triumph—more than he appreciated, for he complained to me of the way in which the populace mobbed him at Charing Cross Station and pulled at his clothes. I remember at Dover, either that year or on his return from South Africa, meeting the mistress of an Elementary School whom I knew who was taking her scholars to see him land “as an object lesson,” an object lesson being permitted in school hours. The children might certainly have had many less useful lessons.

Lord Kitchener (as he had then become) spent a Sunday with us at Osterley, June 17-19th, 1899. I well recollect a conversation which I had with him on that occasion. He expressed his dissatisfaction at his military work being ended. “I should like to begin again as a simple captain if I could have something fresh to do.” “Why,” said I, “you are Governor-General of the Soudan, surely there is great work to do there.” No, that was not the sort of job he wanted. “Well,” I told him, “you need not worry yourself, you are sure to be wanted soon for something else.”

Little did he think, still less did I, that exactly six months later, on December 18th, orders would reach him at Khartum to join Lord Roberts as Chief of the Staff, in South Africa. He started at once, and met his Commander-in-Chief at Gibraltar on 27th. Indeed a fresh and stirring act in the drama of his life opened before him. Later on, when he had succeeded Lord Roberts in the supreme command, he wrote (January 1902) thanking me for a little diary which I had sent him, and continued:

What would he have said of the Irish of twenty years later?

After his return from South Africa I was much amused by the account he gave us of receiving the O.M. medal from King Edward, who was ill at the time. When he arrived at Buckingham Palace he was taken to the King’s bedroom, but kept waiting behind a large screen at the entrance in company with Queen Alexandra, who kept exclaiming, “This is most extraordinary!” At last they were admitted to the royal presence, when the King drew out the order from under his pillow. The recipient had evidently been kept waiting while somebody went to fetch it.

I have other recollections of Lord Kitchener at Osterley, though I cannot exactly date them. One Sunday some of us had been to church, and on our return found George Peel extended in a garden chair, looking positively white with anxiety. He confided to us that Kitchener and M. Jusserand of the French Embassy had been marching up and down near the Lake at the bottom of the garden violently discussing Egypt and Fashoda, and he was afraid lest the Englishman should throw the Frenchman into the Lake—which, considering their respective sizes, would not have been difficult. They certainly parted friends, and Kitchener mentions in one of his letters: “I saw Jusserand in Paris, but he said nothing to me about his engagement. I must write to him.”

Another meeting which took place at one of our garden parties was with Mrs. Louis Botha. I was walking with the General when I saw her coming down the steps from the house. He and I went forward to meet her, and it was really touching to see the evident pleasure with which she responded to the warm greetings of her husband’s former opponent. She, like her husband, knew the generous nature of the man.

Lord Kitchener certainly knew what he wanted even in little things, but even he could not always get it.

Just when he was appointed to the Mediterranean Command (which I am sure that he had no intention of taking up) he came down to see us one afternoon, and amused himself by sorting our Chinese from our Japanese china, the latter kind being in his eyes “no good.” Tired of this, he suddenly said, “Now, let us go into the garden and pick strawberries.” “But,” said I, “there are no strawberries growing out-of-doors in May.” “Oh,” he exclaimed, “I thought when we came to Osterley we always picked strawberries.” Fortunately I had some hot-house ones ready at tea.

At King Edward’s Durbar at Delhi Lord Kitchener’s camp adjoined that of the Governor of Bombay, Lord Northcote, with whom we were staying. He arrived a day or two after we did, came over to see us, and took me back to inspect the arrangements of his camp, including the beautiful plate with which he had been presented. He was extremely happy, and most anxious to make me avow the superiority of his establishment to ours, which I would not admit. At last in triumph he showed me a fender-seat and said, “Anyhow, Lady Northcote has not a fender-seat.” But I finally crushed him with, “No, but we have a billiard-table!”

I must allow that there was a general suspicion that all would not go smoothly between two such master minds as his and the Viceroy’s. Those are high politics with which I would not deal beyond saying that the impression of most people who know India is that the power ultimately given to the Commander-in-Chief was well as long as Lord Kitchener held it, but too much for a weaker successor in a day of world-upheaval.

The last time I saw him was in the July before the Great War, when he came down to tea, and talked cheerfully of all he was doing at Broome Park, and of the trees he intended to plant, and how I must come over from Lady Northcote’s at Eastwell Park and see his improvements. He certainly then had no idea of what lay before him. In a last letter written from the War Office (I think in 1915, but it is only dated “25th”) he speaks of trying to motor down some evening, but naturally never had time.

The final tragedy ended a great life, but he had done his work.