ALTHOUGH making personal acquaintance with thirty of the numerous palaces and country-houses belonging to the Emperor, I only resided in nine, and of these the Neues Palais, or New Palace, near Potsdam easily held the first place in my affections. For one thing it bore the aspect of a permanent home, while other perhaps more beautiful royal residences partook of the nature of an hotel, in which one never quite settled down, but remained with boxes only partially unpacked, waiting for the notice of departure.

This fine Palace, situated about twenty miles from Berlin, was built in the style of Louis XV known as Rococo, on a very marshy piece of ground by Frederick the Great, that most notable Hohenzollern whose spirit still dominates the Prussian nation. Why he did not choose a better site, where good sites are so many, must always remain one of those mysteries which deepen with time.

“It was probably in a spirit of pure obstinacy,” said one German officer with whom I discussed the subject. “People said it was impossible to build a palace on such a spot, and so he set out to prove that it was not. He also wished to show that there was still money left in his coffers after the Silesian wars. But he did not really want the palace, and never lived in it for any length of time.”

It is a cheerful-looking red building, with queer dimpled monstrous cherub heads and wreaths of flowers in yellow sandstone engirdling the upper windows. On the edge of the roof and along the terrace below stand rows of pseudo-Greek sandstone statues in flowing draperies, with whose features the frost often takes liberties, making necessary a yearly renovation and replacement of noses and fingers. Along the raised terraces and against the railings stand large orange-trees in tubs, which are every autumn taken up to the “Orangerie” and brought back to their places in the spring.

On one side lies the big Sand-Hof or gravelled courtyard, divided by high iron railings edged with grass and flowers from the Mopke, the fine wide space where in former days Frederick drilled his soldiers. On the other side of the Mopke stand the royal stables, the kitchens, the chapel of the Palace, and, divided by a beautiful stone arcade, the two “Communs,” in one of which is housed the Palace guard, which occupies the ground floor, while the Commandant and his family inhabit the first floor.

The Sand-Hof faces the apartments of the Emperor and Empress, which on the other side have an outlook onto the spacious garden, laid out in trim beds, with fountains on each side—a garden to look at rather than to walk in; but hidden away in corners behind big beech hedges, are other shady gardens of trees—rose-gardens, with grassy lawns, the children’s garden, one with a tea-house, where the Emperor and Empress breakfast in the summer-time with their family.

Most old palaces that I have seen are conspicuous for their splendour and still more for their inconvenience—they are structurally almost incapable of being adapted to modern requirements; and the Neues Palais is no exception to this rule, though wonders have been done in the matter of the installation of adequate heating apparatus and bathrooms. Most of this work was accomplished under the superintendence and on the initiative of the late Empress Frederick, whose practical, energetic mind seems to have grappled successfully with the great problems of plumbing and domestic efficiency which present themselves with perhaps more insistence in palaces than elsewhere.

But there was no way of overcoming the difficulty caused by the lack of any passage in the wing where the apartment of the Princess was situated on the first floor—the Prinzen-Wohnung or Dwelling of the Princes as it is called. Here two magnificent salons had been transformed into bedrooms, one for the Princess, one for the Ober-Gouvernante. These were obviously originally intended for reception-rooms, having doors at each end and in the middle, and were the only means of communication between the sitting-room and dining-room, so that whoever passed from one to the other was perforce obliged to traverse the whole length of one of these rooms, unless they went downstairs and passed through the courtyard to another staircase, which was what the servants had to do in all weathers.

In a smaller but very beautiful salon forming the entrance to the Prinzen-Wohnung a cooking-stove had been placed in the massive marble fireplace for the purpose of keeping dishes warm, for all the food of the Palace is prepared in a kitchen situated in the “Communs,” a building on the far side of the Mopke communicating with the Palace by a long underground passage along which the dishes are brought.

Here it may be pointed out that all the stables, carriages, kitchens, etc., as well as the palaces themselves, are always officially styled “royal,” not “imperial,” as they belong to the Kingdom of Prussia and are not part of the appanage of the Empire.

The sitting-room I occupied first on coming to the Neues Palais remained just as it had been at the time it was built, somewhere about 1770. Its walls were covered with small irregular pieces of dark blue glass set in cement and carried up into the centre of the ceiling, in which was inserted a circle of small mirrors where at night, if one chanced to look up, one saw the lamplight reflected. Over the big marble chimneypiece, bearing the cipher of Frederick the Great, was another high mirror of the same period (Louis XV) with a golden-rayed sun fixed in its upper part. I never was able to learn the meaning of this sun, which was repeated in other palaces built by the famous King of Prussia.

Above the blue salon was an equally spacious bedroom situated at an angle of the palace wing with bull’s-eye windows looking north and east. It was furnished, like most German bedrooms, to serve also as a sitting-room, and contained a sofa, a large centre table, and a big escritoire, besides the necessary cupboards and wardrobes. It was heated in winter by one of those tall chocolate-coloured tiled stoves called Kachel-Ofen which are so much used in Germany. In cold weather the Ofen was lit with wood at an early hour of the morning, and was supposed, after consuming a few logs, to have absorbed enough heat for the rest of the day. Though offensive to a sense of beauty, the Kachel-Ofen may generally be trusted to keep the temperature warm at a minimum of expenditure in fuel.

“I don’t know why English people always want to look at a fire,” said one German lady, defending the superior economy and effectiveness of the national heating system. “It isn’t the look of a fire that warms you. I never felt the cold so much anywhere as in England. All that beautiful coal warming the chimney, while I sat shivering two yards away from it!”

Our life at the Neues Palais is less strenuous than at Homburg. For one thing the Ober-Gouvernante is there, a pale, dark-eyed German in whose hands, although she herself has no teaching to do, lies the chief responsibility of the education of the Princess. Then there is the tutor who gives all the German lessons. He has not been in Homburg, where there was only room to lodge the tutor of Prince Joachim.

The day of the Princess begins with breakfast at half-past seven, excepting on Sundays and at holiday times, when she takes it at nine with her parents and brother. Never was there any child who galloped through the first meal of the day with such reckless rapidity. In vain did I inveigh against this habit of bolting food, and dwell on the horrors, the least of which must be an incurable red nose, which invariably lie in wait for those thoughtless persons who ignore the duty of mastication; in vain did I quote Mr. Gladstone’s dictum on the subject, which, though it amused and interested her, in no way led to her betterment.

“At fifty, nay at forty—or even sooner, Princess,” I would say, “you will be a hopeless martyr to an outraged internal system. Look at Carlyle, the man who wrote about Frederick the Great. His whole life was made bitter, the happiness of his wife destroyed, his manners and temper spoiled, just because as a little boy——”

At this point she usually flung down her knife and fork with a clatter, and, the last mouthful still unconsumed, at her accustomed whirlwind pace, quite unperturbed at what might happen at forty, departed to her mother the Empress, who always liked to see her daughter before lessons began.

At two minutes to eight she returned breathlessly—she was always breathless in those early days—to the schoolroom, a rather dull, stately apartment, with oil-paintings of Prussian Queens and Electresses of Brandenburg decorating the walls. In their stiff brocade dresses they gazed out of their gold frames with simpering fixity at the two large blackboards, the schooldesk, the lesson-and exercise-books neatly piled on the two plain deal tables.

Her footman, an elderly, conscientious, invaluable servant of boundless tact and experience, and of the greatest assistance in those difficult early days, would give a glance round to see that everything was there—clean dusters, chalk, sponge and water. The lady on duty—myself or the Ober-Gouvernante—would be installed with book or needlework in the least obtrusive corner, trying to look absolutely absorbed in her own thoughts, for the tutor naturally desired and had a right to demand deep concentration on the part of his pupil and the elimination of all possibilities of distraction. So that when the location of the schoolroom had to be changed to the other side of the Hof, where the carriages arrived bringing gentlemen for audiences with the Emperor, studies were often pursued in semi-twilight, the blinds being kept permanently down to shut out as much as possible of the sights and sounds of the outside world. Sometimes a gentle knock came at the door, which opened, revealing the smilingly-apologetic face of the Empress. She would slip in and take the place of the lady and pursue her work, while listening to the lesson. These incursions of Her Majesty were not always regarded favourably by the tutor, who feared that they distracted the Princess and made her less attentive.

Some months before she reached her tenth year the little Princess had a young resident tutor, who was provided with rooms in the Palace and shared some of the duties of Prince Joachim’s governor, accompanying the two children and the lady “on duty” in their afternoon walks. Prince Joachim’s own tutor, the one who had been in Homburg, was a married Professor living in Berlin, a very clever man, who afterwards, on the Prince’s departure for Ploen, became tutor to the Princess, journeying daily backwards and forwards to Berlin.

German educational methods are astonishingly thorough, and make serious demands upon a growing child’s brain and capacity. It is difficult to know whether to condemn or admire them most. They are so thoroughly efficient—given a child who can stand the strain; but what of the thousands who cannot? I suppose every civilized nation, not excepting England, is or has been guilty in this respect; and the Germany of to-day is beginning to demand, in the interests of the health of her future citizens, some relaxation of the tremendous claims made on the growing child.

Education in Germany seems to be strictly standardized. At a certain age every child, be he prince or peasant, will be in a certain class, learning certain subjects; each year he will move a grade higher, or if he does not, the whole family will feel that some dreadful irretrievable disgrace has befallen it. The mother will creep about the house sighing and swallowing her tears, the father will wear a corrugated brow and perceive looming in the distance a son who is a zwei-jÄhriger, that is, who must give two years instead of one to military service, since he has not passed the necessary examination which reduces the term by twelve months. This is one of the most terrible things which can happen to a German household.

Girls, though not coming quite under the same conditions, have to work just as hard as boys, and are quite as keen to be “versetzt"—to get their remove.

So those first lessons of the Princess with that energetic cheerful young tutor who had such an excellent persistent method of teaching grammar and arithmetic, those studies abhorrent to the minds of many children, were followed by me with the greatest interest.

That a child of the age of the Princess should be expected to say with scarcely a moment’s hesitation how much nineteen times eighteen make, or to multiply mentally 342 by 439, appears to the unmathematical mind almost unreasonable, yet the solution of these problems is an everyday feat in every German school. But the answers did not always follow as quickly as the tutor desired, and often the results were wrong, in which case one paralysing hour of arithmetic was followed by another.

Sometimes—with great diffidence, for it was entirely outside the range of my duties—I would suggest to the tutor that the interposition of a history or geography lesson might make a salutary change and enable the perplexed child’s brain to recover its tone. The tutor always listened very politely to my expression of opinion, and, though obviously disagreeing, deferred to my desire, after carefully hinting to the Princess that it was a concession to feminine weakness of character—which made her very angry with me, and she would insist on having more arithmetic straight away.

To any one who has studied German grammar, especially those terrible prepositions which are always lying in ambush to trip up the unwary, it is not necessary to dilate on its subtle sinuosities.

One day at the end of a lesson the tutor, glowing from a vivid and rapid description and analysis of some of the more intricate German constructions, showing the malleability of the language and the tortuosity into which the pedantic mind of man, for his own base purposes, can twist it, turned to me from his pupil’s discontented, puzzled face, for corroboration of his own enthusiastic laudation.

“Nicht wahr, Meess?” he said, as he closed his book. “Is not grammar one of the most beautiful, most interesting studies to which one can devote one’s mind?”

“It is the most hateful, unnecessary thing possible,” I replied rather hastily; “we never consciously use it when we speak, we forget it as soon as we can. I detest it.”

If I had thrown one of the Dresden china vases on the mantelpiece at his head he could not have shown more surprise. First, I suppose, at my lax ideas of duty, for was I not there to uphold the pedagogic principle in season and out of season? Secondly at my attack on Grammar itself—Grammar! the chief corner-stone of the temple of Academic Knowledge—which had been born of the ages, and would persist long after we had perished from the earth.

All this was plainly to be read in the eye with which he regarded me. The silence that ensued was almost painful, the child too astonished, the tutor too nonplussed to speak.

As usual, the feminine mind made the quickest self-recovery. The triumphant mien, the flush of joy, the sheer delight expressed in the attitude of the Princess as she rose up from her chair showed that she had come to a crisis in the history of her childhood. She had reached the point where teachers cease to be oracles, where they fall into their right perspective, where differences of opinion may be conceded, and where absolute right and wrong begin to disappear. In her voice was a new tone.

“Hurrah!” she shouted, with a distinct accent of revolt. “There! You see, Herr Schmidt, there are other people who can’t bear grammar. Hurrah! I’ve heard the truth about grammar at last!”

And it being the end of the lesson, the bell of release ringing at the moment a hearty peal, as though in derision of grammar, she danced a sort of Indian war-dance in exultation at its discomfiture in front of her tutor, took me by the hand, and dragged me away, leaving Herr Schmidt, who, to do him justice, was a man before he was a pedagogue, convulsed with good-natured laughter.

The Princess was not at all a docile or an industrious child; her work was careless, owing chiefly to the usual breathless rapidity with which she did everything. Her spelling was phonetic, and she was indignant at English irregularities in this respect. Still she was ambitious and fond of approval, especially from her brother Prince Oscar.

The Crown Prince and Prince Fritz were, at the time of which I write, in Bonn studying at the University, Prince Adalbert at Kiel or roaming about the world on a warship, as he had chosen the navy for a profession; and the next two brothers, Princes August-Wilhelm and Oscar, together in Ploen, where they lived in a pleasant country house with their governor and various teachers, and enjoyed the companionship of the young cadets of the aristocratic school—the Eton of Germany—which is close at hand.

Morning lessons end at twelve o’clock, and then there is a short walk until it is time to dress for the one-o’clock FrÜhstÜcks-tafel, which is usually eaten in the company of the Emperor and Empress and the ladies and gentlemen of the suite.

We dine in the Apollo Saal, a wonderful room decorated with painted panels which rouse the indignation of the Ober-Gouvernante, who objects to the scanty draperies and fleshiness of the simpering nymphs and Cupids who eternally disport themselves among the never-fading garlands of flowers of the Rococo Period. She cannot reconcile them with the otherwise estimable tastes and qualities of Frederick the Great, nor realize that great minds are composed of a variety of opposing ingredients, and that even famous statesmen and warriors must occasionally relax the sternness of their mental outlook.

The menu or Speise-Karte of the royal table is invariably written in German, not French; and occasionally English dishes appear on it, their names slightly disguised—as for example “Apple-pei” or “Brot-pudding.”

Conversation at the FrÜhstÜcks-tafel or luncheon, which is really the principal meal of the day in Germany, to which business men in Berlin usually devote a couple of hours, is always very animated and amusing when the Emperor is present, as he is a noted raconteur and possesses a highly-developed sense of humour, which helps to mitigate the boredom of the ceremonies which dog his footsteps. One day he related with the greatest gusto how, on returning from a walk alone with the Empress, he was refused admission through one of the gates by the sentry stationed there—who must have been a very unobservant person, or brought up in a remote portion of the Empire where picture-postcards do not penetrate. The soldier was very apologetic, but firm, and addressed the Emperor as “Herr Lieutenant,” finally relenting when told that the “Herr Lieutenant” wished to visit Herr von Scholl, a FlÜgel-adjutant (aide-de-camp or equerry) who lived in the Palace.

German is the language usually spoken at the Royal table, except when English-speaking visitors are present: but few of the officers or adjutants have a very extensive knowledge of any language but their own. The Boer War had at this time only just come to an end, and there was a good deal of anti-English feeling exhibited everywhere, especially in the newspapers; but at the Court itself, although the criticism of our military methods does not take, as may be expected, a very laudatory tone, there is a frank recognition of the difficulties of the situation and a genuine deprecation of the spiteful venom of the newspaper articles, which accuse English officers and soldiers of every form of ignoble conduct that it is possible for the journalistic mind to imagine.

Soon after the Germans had a native war of their own on their hands against the tribe of the Hereros in South-West Africa; and if they were spared the succession of disasters suffered by the English, they added nothing to their own military glory, and learned a great deal of the difficulties of skirmishing in an uninhabited country where none of the rules of war in which they have been trained seem to apply. Their war lasted for four years, and long before it was finished the last lingering newspaper scandal against English soldiers died away.

In one disastrous slaughter of a German detachment ambushed by natives, the only son of the captain of the Emperor’s little river-steamer perished. The poor old grief-stricken father for a long time refused to believe the news. “My son was a doctor,” he would say obstinately; “he was not a soldier. How can he be killed? Doctors are not in the fighting-line. Their place is in the rear of the troops.”

Often young officers in khaki who have volunteered for service in SÜd-West-Afrika are invited to luncheon before their departure for the seat of war. They are strong, handsome, cheery young men, full of courage and enthusiasm; and the Princess sighs and wishes that she too could go to the war and fight, which aspirations Prince Joachim crushes in the heavy masculine manner.

After FrÜhstÜck is finished, and we are able at last to escape from the long, tedious waiting that follows, the children go out together. Sometimes the Princess drives those wonderful Turkish ponies, which make quite a sensation in the quiet old Potsdam streets whenever they appear; while Prince Joachim has a dog-cart of his own drawn by a wise old cob called “Freier,” who continually gets the reins under his tail but stops immediately till disentangled. Twice a week the Princess rides on horseback, and after a preliminary trial with the Sattel-Meister I am pronounced competent to accompany her. She is delighted to have my society, for hitherto she has had no companion in her rides.

Close to the Neues Palais is the lovely Wildpark, a beautiful forest, traversed by sandy paths, under great avenues of spreading beech; and here, under the supervision of the Sattel-Meister, accompanied by a couple of small grooms, we indulge in many exhilarating gallops. The Princess soon develops into a practised and fearless horsewoman, with an excellent seat in the saddle and a light hand. Before long she is learning to jump logs and hedges, to the mingled horror and admiration of Her Majesty and the Court. Our gallops become lang-gestreckt. We ride a good long way in a very short time. The Sattel-Meister, who is a severe but judicious teacher, smiles amiably and proudly at us both as we pull up our sweating horses at the lodge gates of the Wildpark preparatory to the sober walk home.

Presently we are promoted to rides on the Bornstedter Feld, the big cavalry exercise ground about half a mile away, a sandy plain where we can let out our horses and settle down for a long, swinging gallop. Nothing makes the Princess so happy, so good-tempered, as these rides. They are just the outlets she needs for some of her exuberant vitality. She returns from them glowing with satisfaction, and is invariably unhappy and irritable if by any chance they are stopped.

There comes a red-letter day when she is allowed to ride at half-past seven to the Bornstedter Feld to see the Emperor review a detachment of artillery bound for the Herero War. The Princess cannot sleep for joy the night before. She is almost overcome with the mingled fear and delight of riding “with Papa.” She sends to my room early next morning in case I should oversleep myself, and is ready long before the appointed time in her little blue riding-habit and straw hat. Down below in the Sand-hof the horses are waiting for the Emperor and Empress and the large suite which invariably accompanies them when they ride. Our own steeds are in a little group apart in a corner. There has been a sprinkle of rain, but the sun is now shining. We drink a cup of tea and nibble at a roll, but are too excited to eat much. It is a dubious, an apprehensive joy to ride with “Papa.” We are fearful of not acquitting ourselves with distinction. Supposing our horses do anything unexpected, anything wrong?

We go down to the Sand-Hof and mount, and ride slowly up and down waiting. The lady in attendance on the Empress is already there, and a good many adjutants, naval and military, in full-dress uniform. They all come up and make polite observations to the Princess—flattering, complimentary remarks such as elderly gentlemen are in the habit of making to little girls. There is a great clattering of swords on the flagged terrace, and presently out comes the Emperor in his gay Hussar uniform. He bows and mounts, and those on horseback have to bring their horses to the “front” as he passes. The Empress comes from another door, is quickly in the saddle, and she and the Princess join the Emperor and ride through the big gates on to the Mopke in line together. The guard stands stiffly with presented arms as the cavalcade passes over the wide drive into the beautiful avenue of trees under which we pass. The attendant ladies and gentlemen have formed up into two rows behind Their Majesties, while a group of grooms and minor officials ride in the rear. It is a pretty sight, with the sunlight sending shafts of gold from the accoutrements, and lighting up the gay uniforms and trappings of the horses.

As we pass our schoolroom window I perceive the Ober-Gouvernante standing there, and it suddenly strikes me—I had quite forgotten for the time—that we are due to begin lessons at eight o’clock and it is now a quarter to. Appalling thought! Well, we shall obviously not be there. I dismiss any misgivings as I realize the rapture expressed in the Princess’s back; and when for an instant we have a chance of speech together, I carefully refrain from mentioning the tutor and the vacant schoolroom.

The line of waiting guns on the artillery field drawn by funny little rough Siberian ponies, who look very strong and unkempt and are driven by men in khaki, strike the Princess as something very unusual. From babyhood she has been familiar with troops on parade in their gayest, most expensive, least practical uniforms, or with troops at manoeuvres on the march, dusty and sunburned and travel-stained; but never before has she seen men stripped of the superfluities of the barrack-room, prepared simply for the grim realities of war in a far-away country. All the beautiful reds and blues left at home, the shining guns painted khaki-colour, the men in loose almost ill-fitting garments sitting on these queer little horses. It is very unfamiliar—almost unnatural. The fine young commanding officer makes his report to the Emperor. The horses have only been a fortnight under training, but already acquit themselves well and trot and gallop past in an exemplary manner at the word of command. The little ceremony is soon over, the small group cheer their Majesties heartily, and as the Emperor departs he calls out “Adieu, Kameraden,” and as with one voice they answer “Adieu, MajestÄt.” We leave them standing on the sky-line, brave, plucky youths burning with zeal and patriotism. They fade into the blue background; and while the Emperor and Empress prolong their ride a little farther, the Princess and I trot the nearest way home to those deserted lessons.

The gardens of the Neues Palais are separated only by a slender railing from those of the small Palace of Sans Souci, notable as the residence of Frederick the Great. On the hill behind the Palace, almost over-shadowing it, stands the famous windmill, the centre of certain legendary and probably apocryphal tales. The Palace of Sans Souci and its beautiful grounds—called the Neuer Garten—remain always open to the public, and on Sundays they are crowded with tourists and visitors from the surrounding neighbourhood. It is the day when the big fountains play, one of them decorated with flowers, seen dimly through the falling water; the day when their Majesties are sure to drive or walk through the gardens to the Garrison Church, which they usually attend in Potsdam, where Frederick the Great lies buried. Still more it is the day when with good luck the Princess may be seen driving with her Turkish ponies. For it must be realized that Germany—not possessing an early closing day or a Saturday half-holiday—spends its Sunday afternoons for all its Protestantism in the pure pursuit of pleasure. Extra trains, extra steamboats, extra trams are run, the open-air restaurants do a roaring trade, every public garden, every road is overrun with perspiring families, and with soldiers walking out with stodgy-looking maid-servants in tartan blouses and tight green cotton gloves.

On Sunday the Princess and Prince Joachim entertain their small friends to tea and supper. First of all they take them for a drive somewhere in the neighbourhood, to the huge delight of the tourists, who shriek and cheer and wave pocket-handkerchiefs and rush apoplectically, with the greatest risk to their health, from remote corners of the Neuer Garten, scudding, these fat fathers and mothers, in their hot Sunday clothes along the sandy walks, yelling breathlessly to each other “Die Prinzessin! Die kleine Prinzessin. Ach! wie niedlich!” They are enraptured with the lovely ponies and the blue-lined victoria and the little fair-haired Princess, who usually has two friends stuffed tightly in besides her, while a carriage follows with some more, and Prince Joachim has his cartload of boys.

It was remarkable that, however much we attempted to let the boys play by themselves and keep the girls to purely feminine amusements, it invariably ended in the amalgamation of the two parties; that the running and jumping, the gymnastics over the parallel bars, the games of hide-and-seek were always keener and swifter when the Princess was taking part. There were few boys who could beat her at that age in running or jumping, and when the Prince’s Governor jeered at a boy for behaving like a MÄdchen, it was easy to retort that one MÄdchen could out-jump and out-run all his boys, and that he had better speak more respectfully in future of the sex.