IT does not take long to discover that my small charge has inherited the temperament of her race. What Carlyle calls “Hohenzollern choler,” and a certain foot-stamping manner of expressing opinion, exhibit themselves at an early stage of our acquaintance. She is a highly-strung, nervous, excitable child of generous wayward impulses, who needs an existence of calm routine for the healthy development and cultivation of her mind, but by the circumstances of her life is kept in a restless vortex of activity which places considerable difficulties in the way of her education.

She is in her tenth year when I first know her, a well-grown child of her age, with rather pale features and a lively, alert expression. She wears her fair hair cut in a straight fringe across her forehead and hanging in long “nursery ringlets” over her shoulders. These ringlets are produced, in what is naturally perfectly straight hair, by the art of her English nurse, whom I often watch with a certain fascination as she brushes the shining strands round her finger, forming without any extraneous aid the most beautiful and regular curls possible.

There are but two people of whom the Princess really stands in awe. Her “Papa” of course is one, and I am not sure if her English nurse does not occupy an almost equal position with His Majesty in this respect. “Nanna” is a disciplinarian of the first water, and like other disciplinarians, brooks no interference with her own laws, which, in a court where many overlapping interests exist, is apt to breed many difficulties. She has been thirteen years in the service of the Empress, has brought up the younger children from birth, watched by them together with their mother many nights when they were ill, and practically saved the life of Prince Joachim, the youngest of the Kaiser’s six sons, by her constant and faithful care of his delicate infancy. But one by one her nurslings have been taken from her, not without a certain fierce opposition on her part. Prussian princes are given early into military hands. It is a tradition of their training, and the shrewd old nurse has a very strong opinion, shared by the Kaiserin, that an inexperienced young officer is no person to be entrusted with the superintendence of a young child’s physical and mental needs. She has battled indomitably, and often successfully, for her charges, invading even the professorial departments; and, aided and abetted by the Court doctor, who naturally considers physical before intellectual development, has often entirely routed the educational authorities, who have had to retire baffled and disconcerted.

But her triumphs were short-lived. An elaborate educational machine equipped with expert professors for every subject, with a carefully thought-out programme, in which every hour of the day is rigidly mapped out, cannot be stayed for the whims of one obstructive woman obviously prejudiced against German institutions. The frequent skirmishes had developed into something of the nature of a campaign. It is not good for children to be, as they frequently are even in less illustrious circles, the centre of warring elements; so at last the inevitable happened, and with much reluctance “Nanna’s” dismissal to England, of course with an ample pension, was finally decided upon. When I first made her acquaintance in Homburg her influence was a waning one; her autocratic rule was loosening—her departure delayed only by the beneficent hand of Majesty, which shrank from the final severance from a faithful if somewhat injudicious servant.

“Nanna” subsequently asserted that I had been specially deputed as an instrument of Providence to console her during those last few weeks; and though I myself am not personally conscious of any qualifications for the office of consoler, I may at any rate lay claim to the credit of having been a very efficient safety-valve for her emotions, which poured over me in a constant flood of retrospect and admonition. She was uncompromisingly British, in spite of her thirteen years’ residence abroad. It was at once her strength and her undoing. She refused to strike her flag to any mere lady-in-waiting or German Ober-Gouvernante, and maintained an inflexible principle of behaviour in situations where the tact and pliability indispensable to diplomatic relations were most needed.

“Do you think I was going to stand her putting the thermometer in the bath-water to see how hot it was?” she asked me indignantly, referring to the absent Ober-Gouvernante; and I agreed that it was the kind of thing that no one could be expected to bear.

She was a good faithful soul, rather crabbed and cross sometimes, and she inspired in the German footmen and housemaids under her orders a good deal of respect and fear, and also, as I subsequently discovered, a certain amount of affection, such as sterling qualities will always earn for themselves somehow; and if the German associations modified nothing in her character, the same cannot be said of her speech, which, while still remaining British in outward form, became in the course of years somewhat warped from its original purity.

“At Christmas,” she told me once, when showing the gifts that the Empress had made to her, “last year I became a set of teaspoons, and the year before I became a lovely silver teapot.” She had obviously confused the German word bekommen, “to get,” with the similar-sounding but different-meaning English word.

It was at a picnic that I was first presented to His Majesty the Emperor. We had all driven one afternoon in a series of carriages to a beautiful spot in the surrounding hills, where, a little way into the forest which bordered the roadside, a table on trestles was laid for tea. I had already been warned by the Princess of the impending joy.

“You’ll see Papa now, and be introduced,” she said before we started, her face glowing in sympathy with what she supposed I must be feeling. “Won’t it be lovely?”

His Majesty and the gentlemen with whom he is talking volubly when I first catch sight of him are all in uniform, which gleams brightly under the deep green of the pine trees. The German officer, it is well known, wears uniform continually, and adds greatly thereby to the colour and gaiety of the social functions in which he takes part. The Emperor sets an example also in this respect, and on the very few occasions when he appears in mufti loses a great deal of his imposing appearance. Civil dress has with him something of the baffling nature of a disguise, and the ordinary easy lounge tweed suit, which many Englishmen wear with advantage, is distinctly unflattering to him, although he looks well in a frock-coat and silk hat. But he never appears quite himself, never really fits into any but military or naval garments.

“When His Majesty has finished talking you will be introduced,” said one of the ladies-in-waiting. “The Empress will present you, so do not go far away.”

So I stand waiting under the trees, watching the footmen while they place camp-stools and arrange cakes and teacups, and hearing gusts of the Emperor’s conversation, which, being carried on in German, is quite unintelligible to me, though there is one word “Kolossal” which keeps emerging frequently from the rumble of talk.

Presently the group of uniforms breaks up. His Majesty turns towards the Empress, somebody signs to me, and I step out of the shadows and come forward. “Papa’s” keen blue eyes look at me with that characteristically penetrating, alert, rather quizzical brightness which I afterwards learn to know so well. They seem almost too violent a contrast with the deep sunburn of his face. My hand is enveloped in a hearty, almost painful handshake, and I am confronted with a few short, sharp questions.

“From what part of England do I come? Have I ever been in Germany before? What do I think of Homburg? Do I speak German?”

I subsequently have the pleasure of many stimulating discussions with His Majesty, when we debate a variety of questions, from armaments to suffragettes, and are not invariably accordant in our views; but on this occasion our talk is necessarily short and perfunctory.

Presently we are all sitting at the tea-table, but the Emperor remains a little apart, continuing the conversation with his adjutants, dipping from time to time his Zwieback into his tea, as is permitted by German custom.

AusflÜge und Land-Partien—excursions and picnics—are an integral part of German existence in summer-time, and the Hof lags no whit behind in this respect. Though the Emperor detests cold, damp weather, he leads an open-air existence, and loses no opportunity of being im Freien. He breakfasts, drinks tea and eats supper out in the garden whenever the weather permits; and it is probably for this reason more than any other that the principal German meal, Mittagessen, whose elaborateness does not allow it to be served al fresco, still keeps its place in the middle of the day, allowing the simpler supper to be served out of doors in the cool of the evening. It is a charming and healthy custom, this eating under the blue sky, but naturally only possible in the soft, warm Continental climate, where one misses the sharp tang in the air of our sea-girt isle.

Near Homburg lies an ancient Roman fortress, which has been excavated and restored by the Emperor. Excursions either on horseback or by carriage to the Saalburg are a great feature of the stay in Homburg, and often the whole party is permitted to excavate in likely spots for “remains.” The Empress once disinterred a very beautiful bowl, and it is no unusual thing to come across fine specimens of pottery or iron-work. Everybody is supplied with a short wooden implement for digging in the soft loam, and the royalties, including Prince Joachim and the Princess, together with the ladies and gentlemen of the party, labour industriously through a summer afternoon under the direction of Professor Jacobi, who directs the work of excavation and checks any undue exuberance in digging which might lead to disastrous results.

These digging parties, which are only indulged in on rare occasions, sometimes give scope for the exercise of a peculiarly characteristic form of German humour. Often a broken cup or vase or an ancient Roman dagger made in an excellent imitation pÂtÉ of chocolate is previously embedded in the soil, and the ardent excavator, glowing with the success of a great discovery, finds to his chagrin, on reaching home, that at the solemn washing of his find, which always takes place with great ceremony in the presence of the assembled company after supper, not only the encumbering soil but also the whole fabric of the precious antique dissolves away into a hopeless ruin, at once revealing the unkind imposture. This playful joke is easily carried out, since no one is allowed to excavate excepting in carefully indicated spots.

The Emperor at his own expense has rebuilt portions of the old Roman settlement; and the newness of these buildings, the freshly-painted barrack-rooms of the old Roman militia with their Latin inscriptions over the doorways, the brightness of the small glazed bricks of which the walls are constructed, give a somewhat jarring sense of unreality to the whole Burg, and raise the question whether it is advisable or not to attempt to reconstruct the past in quite such a conscientious manner—whether the actual ruins, scanty though they may be, do not tell their tale better than these new up-to-date buildings so curiously well-equipped with modern appliances.

But the buildings have their uses quite apart from intrinsic interest, as is proved one afternoon when the children, including the “Hessians” and “Greeks,” are invited to the Saalburg by the Empress, who is herself present, and a heavy rain coming on, a sort of spurious hockey game, played with croquet mallets, is organized and pursued with the greatest vigour in the “Hall of the Centurions.” The Emperor, who is out driving somewhere in the neighbourhood, arrives with his suite during a crisis in the game, and is much amused to watch the small horde of princelings, among whom his own daughter is very conspicuous, as they chase the ball backwards and forwards, sometimes only missing his own Imperial legs by decimal fractions of inches.

Even in those first early days at Homburg it is at once noticeable what a great difference the presence of the Emperor makes in the atmosphere of the court. A certain vitality and still more a certain amount of strain become visible. Everybody is to be ready to go anywhere and do anything at a moment’s notice—to be always in the appropriate costume necessary for walking, riding, or driving. His Majesty walks a great deal. Often we drive out some distance beyond Homburg among the lovely mountains and forests, and descending from our carriages tramp along at a brisk pace for several miles, when the carriages meet us, and we return. It is altogether a strenuous existence for the entourage, who must always, so to speak, be mobilized for active service, which is probably just what the Emperor wishes. From early morning till night there is hardly a moment of respite from duty, and my own day is a very crowded one, with hardly time left for the necessary frequent changes of costume, which are one of the chief burdens of existence at court.

An elaborate toilette is customary at the midday dinner—something in silk or satin, with a long train—and it must be completed by the inevitable fan and white glacÉ gloves, of which one is worn on the hand, the other carried.

We all assemble before dinner in a large drawing-room, where the ladies and gentlemen of the suite and any visitors who are invited stand about talking till the appearance of the Emperor and Empress. Often the Princess comes in before them with Prince Joachim. The folding-doors are thrown wide open for the entrance of Their Majesties, who always appear at different doors, the Emperor usually being last, and are announced by a footman. Everybody at once stops talking, wheels about and bows simultaneously.

One day the guests at dinner include an elderly lady and gentleman of an old-fashioned German type, who shrink into a corner and look rather clever and scientific. The Princess and Prince Joachim run up and kiss the old lady and shake hands with the old gentleman.

He is Professor von Esmarck, who, when he was a struggling young doctor, fell in love with a Princess—the aunt of the present Empress of Germany—and married her. The elderly lady with the tightly-brushed hair is his wife. They live in a pleasant little house in Homburg, and always dine at the Schloss when the court is staying there.

My own experience would lead me to testify to the truth of what I have read somewhere, that the chief function of a lady-or gentleman-in-waiting is to stand in a draught and smile.

“Standing and waiting,” said my kind Countess, “that is the chief part of our lives; it makes one mentally and bodily weary till one gets used to it.”

Hand-shaking too is practised to a considerable extent. It does not seem to matter how many times people have met before in the day and shaken hands, they generally seem to like to do it again while waiting for dinner. Presumably it helps to pass the time away, and gives an excuse for walking about from group to group. My place at the oval dinner-table is at one end, between Prince Joachim’s governor and his tutor. The Emperor and Empress are seated at the sides, opposite to each other, while the guests, intermingled with court ladies and gentlemen, radiate right and left. Footmen wearing the court livery, which includes rather ill-fitting gaiters, wait behind every chair and the Emperor’s “JÄger” in green uniform attends exclusively to his master’s wants. Red and white wine and champagne are served to all the guests, but neither the Emperor nor the Empress drinks anything but fruit-juice as a beverage. William II has a horror of excessive indulgence in alcohol, and sets his face against it by both precept and example.

“You English people,” he says to me on one occasion, “you drink those awful fiery spirits—horrible stuff—whisky, brandy, what not? How can you imbibe such quantities of poisonous liquid—ruining your constitutions? Simply ruining them—whisky-and-soda everywhere—no, it’s awful: I tasted it once—like liquid fire—ugh! Your drinking habits are fearful.”

He admonishes me for our national failings with uplifted finger and serious face, and I try feebly to maintain that, though in the past we have been undeniably guilty and still drink far more than is good for us, yet according to published statistics we are year by year growing more sober—that the percentage of drunkenness in the army is slowly but surely decreasing, that there are fewer crimes owing to drunkenness, and so on—but His Majesty evidently has more faith in his own observations than in any amount of statistics, and continues dubiously to shake his head and his finger at me as though I were personally responsible.

Dinner is finished in about three-quarters of an hour, and at a sign from the Empress every one rises and, the ladies preceding the gentlemen, all file slowly into the salon, where coffee is served and every one stands and drinks it. This standing about after dinner is one of the most tedious of all court duties, lasting sometimes for an hour. As the Emperor and Empress never sit down, but move from one group to another, talking to this or that guest, the rest of us prop ourselves surreptitiously against projecting pieces of furniture and try to look as happy as circumstances permit. The little Princess and Prince Joachim flit from one person to another, wrangling according to custom in subdued undertones so that “Papa” may not hear, trying to tease their mother into some concession, or whispering their experiences into the ears of one of the ladies. There is always a good deal of surreptitious stifled giggling, and it is easy to see that the waiting is an irksome restraint to their active minds.

If there are a great many important guests, the children dine alone with their governor and myself, when they are expected to speak English all the time; but they lapse into German with the greatest facility, especially when the usual zanking begins. They also every evening eat supper together, continuing cheerfully and acrimoniously their criticisms of each other’s conduct. Prince Joachim indulges in the usual cheap sneers at femininity with which many schoolboys goad their sisters into revolt.

“MÄdchen,” he remarks with superb disdain, “die MÄdchen——”

“Speak English,” commands his governor, who is anxious to improve his knowledge of that language.

“Girls,” replies the Prince, speaking with distinct and aggravating deliberation, “Girls cannot be soldiers—zey are no use at all. It is good zat we have but one girl in our family. She cannot be an officer. She cannot fight. She cannot ride——”

“Much better than you—she rides,” returns the incensed Princess. “You who fall off your horse if it gives a little jump. Pfui!” She bangs a spoon on the table to emphasize her indignation.

The Prince is delighted at the success of his efforts, and continues to jeer unmercifully.

“Girls can’t ride,” he reiterates; “zey can’t fight—zey are always crying—zey are always cross——”

“Try to say ‘they,’ not ‘zey,’” I interpose, hoping to divert his thoughts to other subjects.

“Joachim can’t speak English one bit,” says his sister; “he says ‘zey’ and ‘zese’ and ‘zose,’ and ‘I drink your healse.’ He is a silly boy; he can’t jump, he can’t play tennis, he can’t ride——;” and so on ad infinitum.

Twice a week after we have finished supper I take Prince Joachim away and read English with him in his room, while the Governor sits listening in a chair, his long red-striped military grey legs stretched out before him, his hands clasped on his knee, an absorbed, concentrated look in his eyes. The book chosen is Stevenson’s immortal “Treasure Island,” for the Prince has stipulated that whatever we read shall not be about Muster-Kinder, which I interpret as meaning “pattern-children,” the kind abounding in certain books, but happily seldom met with in real life. I consider it a hopeful and healthy sign in the Prince, his objection to Muster-Kinder, and promise that my reading shall be blameless in this particular respect. He seems a little suspicious as we settle down and I open at the first chapter, but before many pages have been turned he is holding his breath to listen, and his verdict on my choice of a book is that it is magnificent—prachtvoll.

It may here be remarked that there are few if any original books in the German language written especially for boys, who have to content themselves with translations of Fenimore Cooper’s works, “Robinson Crusoe” and “The Swiss Family Robinson,” and of late years with the “Adventures” of the famous Sherlock Holmes, who has a great vogue upon the Continent, and whose history may be bought at almost every railway bookstall abroad.

Not only the Prince, but also the Governor, in spite of his thirty years and his military experience, immediately fall under the spell of the story, notwithstanding the many words in it of which they do not know the meaning. When the hour comes to an end and the Prince begs for an extension of his lesson, the Governor pulls out his watch and after a slight hesitation, smilingly grants another ten minutes before bed-time.

“Schnell, schnell,"—“quick, quick,” implores the Prince, and I hurry on towards the fatal Black Spot and the fate of the blind man, and am pressed to come again as soon as possible and not wait till the lesson becomes due, because they both—Prince and Governor—are so anxious to know what happens next.

At the end of the following week the court is to leave Homburg for its permanent residence—if anything so unpermanent can be so termed—in the New Palace near Potsdam, where the Ober-Gouvernante will be waiting to share my multifarious labours, and where I am assured that the regular routine—“only we never have any regular routine, it is always being broken,” sighs the Countess—at any rate an approximate routine may be confidently anticipated.

I pack feverishly in the small intervals of time snatched from my other occupations, and at half-past seven one evening go down to the courtyard, where files of carriages are waiting. I am supposed to accompany the Princess to the station, but at the last moment something is changed and I am sent off with a young adjutant whose English vocabulary is very limited. We drive down the long street, packed with people waiting to see Their Majesties go by. They cheer and wave enthusiastic handkerchiefs at each carriage as it passes, and though we may not usurp the royal prerogative and bow our acknowledgments, we assume affable expressions indicative of vicarious enjoyment of their exuberant loyalty, and so arrive presently at the royal waiting-room, which is gaily decorated with flags and evergreens. A crowd of officers and adjutants are on the steps awaiting the arrival of Their Majesties, and here my Princess comes presently, having driven in with her brother.

In the waiting-room sits the venerable old Duke of Cambridge, who is staying in Homburg and has come to say “farewell” to the Emperor and Empress, whose approach is heralded by a louder burst of cheering, which swells and increases outside the station.

The royal train, painted in blue and cream-colour with gold decorations, is alongside the platform, the regulation red carpet is laid down, maids and valets peep furtively from the windows of distant compartments, footmen are hurrying to and fro, while the ladies and gentlemen of the suite continue their normal occupation of waiting, chatting to each other in the usual desultory manner. Presently Their Majesties emerge from the waiting-room and walk over the red carpet into the train, we all get in after them, and our journey begins among the frantic “hochs!” and “hurrahs!” of the crowd outside.

We in England may believe in our own loyalty, but I doubt if we can compete with a German crowd in giving it expression. We are never able quite to abandon ourselves to the same unrestrained, wild enthusiasm, are always just a little too self-conscious—too afraid of being absurd. The German is untrammelled by considerations of that kind; he revels in his own emotions, encourages his wife and family to revel in theirs, waves patriotic flags on the least provocation, puts his small son of six into a complete miniature Hussar uniform, lets him swagger about in the streets wearing it, to the undiluted envy of other small boys, sings “Heil dir im Sieger-Kranz” (which goes to the same tune as “God Save the King,” and has therefore a pleasantly familiar air to British ears), and is rather proud than ashamed at being moved to tears of national pride as his Kaiser passes by. No nation is more emotionally patriotic than the German, and that patriotism finds its chief centre in the personality of their Emperor.

So that, as long as the daylight lasted, outside every little wayside station and crossing was a palpitating crowd of little girls wearing wreaths of wilted flowers on their heads, of little bare-legged boys waving Prussian flags, of perspiring officials of Vereine—any kind of Association for doing anything—in hot-looking dress-suits and tall chimney-pot hats: there they stood as they had obviously been standing for some hours, wedged together in one solid, impenetrable mass, leaning heavily upon each other in rows against the station railings, while on the platform, where no one else was allowed to intrude, the station-master, in his military-looking blue uniform, remained saluting with his hand at his red cap as the train steamed slowly by. Always the same station and the same crowd it seemed, with just a different name over the booking-office door—the same Eingang and Ausgang, the same brown, alert peasant faces gazing through the railings.

The Princess and Prince Joachim had their supper in the long dining-car of the train, together with the Governor, tutor and myself; and as they imbibed their soup and ate their Kalte Schnitzel were in full view of the shouting crowd.

By means of frequent promptings they were induced to suspend the customary zanking and distribute a few bows among the people, Prince Joachim in particular distinguishing himself by an air of fine courtesy as he raised his round white sailor cap, which he flourished gracefully over his head in answer to the enthusiastic roars that swelled and died outside.

We had to hurry over our meal so as to allow of the table being re-laid for the supper of Their Majesties and the suite, so we swallowed one course after another with headlong speed, curtailing conversation to its utmost limits, and when the last mouthful was despatched the children went to say good-night to their parents while the rest of us retired to the sleeping-coupÉs provided for the night, although it was as yet much too early to think of going to bed.

The royal train, in which I made many journeys, is, as may be imagined, “replete with every modern convenience” of travel, but this did not prevent it oscillating, banging and shaking to an appalling extent. One was hurled backwards and forwards and jolted and jerked with every form of movement known to science. Sometimes we seemed to be moving over rippled granite, and then a horizontal spasm mixed up with weird scrunchings seized the whole train, which appeared to be having some kind of hysterical fit. Occasionally we pulled up with a jolt and jar and remained stationary for a few minutes, before resuming our shuddering, jerking journey, which stretched out every mile into a nightmare length.

Time seems interminably long in such circumstances, and the weary hours dragged on very slowly. An attempt at undressing forced into the foreground the question of how—in view of the difficulty of taking off clothes—one was ever likely to be in a favourable position to put them on again. Brush and comb, hairpins, all went sliding gently away on to the floor; and after washing in a basin in which a miniature tempest of soap-tipped wave-crests was raging, I renounced the adventure of undressing as one needing more intrepidity than I possessed, and lay down uncomfortably in most of my clothes to wait for morning. Through the ventilator came a choking, smoke-laden odour. The pillow, covered with beautifully fine linen, on which I laid my head was hard as the nether millstone and productive of a dislocating feeling in the neck; the sheets and blankets were of the finest and best, but no one wants to go to bed in one’s garments of the day. We were due to arrive in Wildpark, the station of the New Palace, somewhere about eight o’clock—nine hours more of the terrible shaking. I lay down and turned out the electric light, and became for the rest of the night a mere oscillating body, whirled continually back and forth through space. Fortunately the dawn comes early in August, and at the first faint greyness of the atmosphere I sat up giddily and watched the flat Prussian dew-bathed landscape glide by, so different from the hilly region we had come from the night before. Somewhere about five o’clock a low tap comes to my door, and “Nanna,” with her finger on her lip, hands in a cup of tea which she has managed to produce from somewhere.

“I knew you’d not sleep much,” she whispers. “Did you ever know trains shake like this one? You’d think they’d manage to take His Majesty along at a more comfortable pace, wouldn’t you? A royal train indeed! Enough to shake you to pieces.” “Nanna” loses no opportunity of drawing comparisons to the disadvantage of the German nation, which she considers hardly worthy to be governed by the illustrious family she serves.

I drink her tea with much appreciation, and she comes and sits beside me and converses, or I might say talks—for it is more outpouring than conversation—in a hoarse whisper, so that she may not disturb the gentleman who is supposed to be sleeping in the next coupÉ, but is probably lying awake yearning for the end of the journey.

The greyness of the fields departs, they are threaded with gleams of colour as the sun slowly penetrates the clouds; great wreaths and ragged eddies of mist begin to rise, cattle stand about half plunged in an ocean of vapour, the peasants are at work, women with red handkerchiefs tied over their heads kneel among the bright green of the potato crops; the dreary night has departed, a new day is born.

The train rattles and jerks its way along. “Nanna’s” voice continues to croon in my ear words of warning, admonishment, advice. I listen without hearing or comprehension. Her voice is as some soothing accompaniment to my thoughts, giving a pleasant sense of companionship without exacting much attention.

Somewhere about seven o’clock another soft tap is heard and the door slides back, revealing a footman with another tray of tea and Zwieback—those nice brown crunchy toast-like biscuits which pervade the Fatherland.

“You’ll have your proper breakfast when you arrive at the New Palace,” whispers “Nanna,” “but you’ll not get it much before nine. You’d better have some more.”

I accept the fresh tea with pleasure, and listen as I drink it to the movement in the corridor. There is a sliding of doors, a sound of subdued voices—everybody is getting up. Nanna disappears to dress her Princess, who has slept soundly all night—happy capacity of childhood!—and when I peep out into the corridor I see some of the ladies-in-waiting already dressed, looking rather wearily out of the window. A man comes in and makes my bed-clothes disappear in some miraculous manner, leaving behind him, instead of the two sleeping berths, in one of which I had lain awake so long, just the ordinary seat of a first-class carriage, of which the upper berth now forms the padded back.

Some of the ladies kindly come and sit beside me and point out interesting objects of the landscape. The Countess is one of them, and grows quite excited when at length a round green dome is visible over some trees.

“There, there!” she cries, “that is the roof of the New Palace; we shall be there very soon—I hope you will be very happy there,” and she squeezes my hand in the kindly sympathetic, sentimental, but very delightful manner of old-fashioned Germans. She feels that it is an important day of my life, the moment when I enter what she calls the “real home” of the Emperor and Empress.

“Like Windsor to your King and Queen,” she explains, fearing that the forty castles which the Emperor possesses may create some confusion in my ideas. “Here is their real ‘home,’ you know.”

The train, which has been proceeding much more evenly since we entered the Prussian district, glides smoothly into a station, coming gently and imperceptibly to a stop. A few officers in uniform are waiting at the door of the simple, picturesque wooden Warte-Saal—which a few years later is to be replaced by a substantial stone building provided with lifts and luxurious and artistically-furnished waiting-rooms.

There is a sudden opening of carriage-doors and activity of footmen and “JÄgers.” The Emperor, enveloped in a long grey cavalry cloak, strides across the platform with the Empress and his children, salutes the waiting officers, pauses for a word with each, and then drives away. A long row of carriages is in waiting. Everything seems admirably organized; no confusion, no waiting. My turn comes, and I am whirled away out of the station yard across a road where people are standing kept in order by a green-clad Gendarm, along a pleasant tree-shaded avenue, past some sentries who guard a small iron gate, over the Mopke, a big open gravelled space bordered by fine buildings on each side, and past the front of the huge Palace, which reminds one a little of Versailles and is built in French Rococo style. I descend at a broad flight of stone steps, and am ushered by a pleasant-faced footman through what looks like a window, but is really a door, into a corridor, up a wooden staircase, painted white, to the apartment which is to be my future home for the next few years. It is a lofty, pleasant room, and in spite of its bare, uninhabited look, has an air of brightness and repose. The sunshine floods it with gleams of welcome; outside are trees in which the birds are singing; a little dog in the courtyard below, a quaint little beast of the dachshund breed, looks up at me as I stand at the open French windows and gives his tail a deprecatory wag. He is obviously determined to be friendly.

The New Palace has an alluring aspect. It is very palatial of course, looked at as a whole; but there is something very home-like, gracious, and friendly in this particular corner of it, in the smiling flowers which grow on each balcony, in the canary whose notes can be heard trilling from the dining-room of the Princess close at hand, in the pleasant face of a white-capped elderly housemaid, who enters with a bow and a Guten-Tag, and an expression of delight at my arrival. She comes and shakes hands, and says something congratulatory and welcoming. It is very German, and strikes one as intensely pleasant and human, this obvious kindness and goodwill. From this hour Frau Pusch—the housemaid—is the cushion and buffer of my existence, intervening between me and a harsh world. She teaches me German, mends and irons my clothes, packs and unpacks, fetches and carries, is always cheerful and smiling.