Kinglake was the kindest of friends, and was always the first to be told of all joys or troubles. But once I saw him really angry with me. I had been dining with Count Beust the night before. Kinglake, or (as I and my other friends used to call him) “Eothen,” came at his usual hour, and asked how I liked my party at the Embassy?  “Oh, very much indeed,” replied I. “Mr. Gladstone took me in to dinner, and we talked a great deal, first of the Old Catholic movement, which he sincerely admires; then of Dollinger; Mr. Gladstone exhibited a remarkable knowledge of the Eastern Church and her superiority over Romanism; then of you and your books.”

No sooner had I uttered these words than Kinglake jumped from his chair. He—usually such a “downright slow-coach,” as he called himself; he so very quiet and gentle in his manners—began pacing excitedly up and down the room.

“Why have you done this?” exclaimed he. “Why have you mentioned me? Had you no better subject?”

I was startled. “Why not?” I asked in return. “I never conceal either my friends or my friendships.”

“But you ought never to have mentioned me to Gladstone. He dislikes me, and it may do you harm in his opinion.”

If this was not kind, I do not know what kindness means. There are two examples of this which I should like also to mention. My book on “Russia and England,” from 1876 to 1880—thanks chiefly to Mr. Froude’s Preface and Mr. Gladstone’s very kind review of it in the Nineteenth Century, as well as Emile de Laveleye’s article in the Revue des Deux Mondes—had created an unexpected sensation. The Jingo camp was full of bitter attacks upon me, which I accepted with gratitude as the only possible compliment from such a source. Some of these were simply absurd, and only made me laugh. But Kinglake was vexed, and determined to counteract the attack. In order to achieve that object he interrupted his usual work—the last volume of his “Crimean War”—and actually wrote a paper on the Eastern Question in the Quarterly Review, the beginning of which was nothing but a glowing panegyric of my work. Nobody at that time, except the Editor, knew the authorship of that unexpected demonstration in the very heart of Toryism; and, of course, had it been written by a man less known and valued in the literary world, nothing of this kind could ever have appeared in such a quarter. The second part, referring not at all to me, but very bitterly to Russia and her political situation, was added by someone else, with the object of toning down Kinglake’s views, but I personally continued to have the benefit of his defence. That number of the Quarterly puzzled everybody as to the authorship of the article, and created a stir, but to Kinglake and myself it was the source of many amusing discussions.

Another and still greater proof of Kinglake’s kindness was given me, and has for ever sealed my gratitude to his memory.

A very great blow fell upon me in the year 1876. My brother Nicholas was killed at the head of a small, badly armed detachment of Serbian volunteers. He fought to the last, and even when seriously wounded, and only supported by two Montenegrins, he still advanced towards the Turkish troops. On that occasion many English friends, such as Mr. Gladstone, Carlyle, Froude, Tyndall, С. P. Villiers, and others, showed me heartfelt sympathy. Kinglake came one day quite early, about ten o’clock—a very unusual time for his visits—and said he had been thinking about my brother, and, if I cared, would be glad to mention him in the preface to his popular edition of the “Crimean War.” I thanked him, and gave him all the English, American, and French articles, as well as the official telegrams from King Milan of Serbia, which I had referring to that great misfortune to my family. Days, weeks, months passed. The end of my sojourn in England was speedily approaching, and I thought Kinglake had given up the idea of the promised preface. As he was writing about a war belonging to another epoch, I quite understood the difficulty of mentioning events which had taken place twenty years later. I never referred to the subject again. On the eve of my departure for Russia, Kinglake came and said: “I have been long about it, but you know I am always slow. Here is my belated manuscript, however, and I shall send it off at once.” I seized the preface and read it. The references to my brother were extremely kind, and actually reproduced all the details published by the correspondents, some of whom were on the spot at the time of his death. But what he said about Russia—about our Church, about our Emperor—seemed to me so unjust, so baseless, and so wrong, that I felt beside myself with indignation.

I sat before the fire, Kinglake looking at his manuscript.

I got up. “What have you done?” I exclaimed. “How can you for one minute suppose that I will allow my brother’s name to appear in a libel upon Russia? This is nothing but a libel, a libel, I say; and—no matter what happens as a result of my action—unless half of this awful preface is taken out at once, I throw your manuscript into the fire. How could you write such a thing? how could you throw away my friendship for ever in such a way?”

Kinglake, dear, kind Kinglake, listened, said nothing, but gave me a red pencil. “Take out what you like. Do not be angry. After all, you may be right.” I took out almost three-quarters of his preface, and so, mutilated by my hand, it now adorns the popular editions of the “Crimean War.” I should never have mentioned the episode had not Kinglake himself described it to Hayward; in other words, communicated it to the world at large.

It may not be generally known, but this labour of twenty-six years, his magnum opus, was in reality nothing but a token of gratitude to Lord Raglan.

Being a civilian, Kinglake, when expressing a wish to accompany the expedition to the Crimea, met with great opposition from the military authorities, in spite of which; however, Lord Raglan took him there.

In return for this friendly act, Kinglake determined to study the art of war and to write the history of Lord Raglan’s campaign. When this was brought down to the time of his friend’s death, Kinglake considered his work completed.

But was “great Eltchi” not right in allowing the civilian Kinglake to accompany his troops during the Turkish war of 1854?

Our great strategist, Todleben—whose name will for ever be connected with the heroic defence of Sebastopol—visited Kinglake in London, and entertained him in the Crimea a few years after the conclusion of peace. The General was very fond of him personally. Could anybody, knowing Kinglake, help being so?

Nevertheless, Todleben never looked upon the “History of the Crimean War” as a specimen of scientific and authoritative work. He spoke once in my house to that effect.

“But is it not most interesting?” interrupted I, rather impatiently. “Can you not read it with breathless interest, like a delightful novel?”

“Just so,” replied Todleben, smiling at my impatience. “Like a novel, not military history!”

There was not a particle of petty vanity about our great Todleben, or he would not have minimized the historical value of a work which speaks of him in such glowing terms.

A characteristic and quite authentic anecdote corroborates my view. I had it at first hand.

A German travelling once from Berlin to St. Petersburg met a Russian, who seemed to be a man of great experience in military questions.

Being a soldier himself, the German, delighted with his companion, became very talkative and frank. “I admire the Russian army immensely,” said he. “There is no better in the world. But there is one thing about you Russians which I cannot tolerate.”

“What is that?” inquired the other, evidently interested.

“You have no hero-worship; you have no Carlyle to teach you that feeling. You only admire foreign heroes. Towards your own you remain perfectly indifferent. Let me give you an example. But tell me first what you think yourself of General Todleben?”

“Well,” said the Russian, speaking without the slightest enthusiasm, “he certainly did his duty not worse than anybody else. There are many in Russia just as good, if not better.”

“There!” exclaimed the German triumphantly, “was I not right? A man who everywhere would be considered a glory to his country, whose statue would be in every city, whose portrait in every military school, you speak of him as if he were nothing more than a simple mediocrity!”

The Russian tried to change the subject. Upon many questions they fully agreed, so much so that further meetings were agreed upon. On reaching St. Petersburg, the German presented his card; the Russian had to do the same. It was only then that his name was disclosed. He was General Todleben himself.

But to return to Kinglake. He and I often disagreed, or perhaps I should rather say, agreed to differ. I admired the absence of duelling in England—a practice where the question of honour is decided sometimes by mere chance, sometimes by mechanical skill in shooting or fencing. Besides, our three best poets, Poushkine, Lermontoff, and Griboyedoff, lost their lives in that mad fashion. Even later the slightest cause could forfeit the most precious life in Russia, as in Germany and France.

Kinglake, on the contrary, blamed the “Iron Duke” for having suppressed duels, “which,” he said, “kept up a better tone in society.”

I heard from one of  “Eothen’s” friends that soon after the Crimean War he sent a challenge and went to Boulogne, expecting his adversary to follow. A week having passed without the adversary putting in an appearance, Kinglake returned disgusted to London. I never knew the details of that incident.

Kinglake was also all for war. He used to say that the facing of death had an ennobling influence on humanity; that peace would emasculate the world.

“Besides,” he continued, “population, when too dense, is not at its best.”

“But in Russia,” I rejoined, “we are not peopled sufficiently. It is a well-known fact that, if we have no proletariat, it is because there is more work than workers. This is, perhaps, an advantage Russia has over other European countries.”

On the other hand, I, though the daughter of a man who earned his St. George’s Cross on a battlefield, sister of two soldiers, and wife of another, was always dreaming of peace; and even now I personally believe firmly that Russia, with her remarkably kind and pacific Emperor, would willingly have consented to a general disarmament, if that grand move had simultaneously been taken by all the Great Powers, as was proved by the Hague Conference, started by our Emperor and opposed by the German Kaiser.

Sometimes, vexed with my lack of demonstrative power against the necessities of war, I brought great authorities to my aid.

“I wish you had come earlier yesterday,” I remarked to him once; “you would have met John Bright. He was at first speaking in favour of Free Trade, which, I dare say, for an island like England was the best system to introduce, but he also talked of war. ‘I believe,’ said Bright, with his strikingly melodious voice and with peculiar emphasis, ‘that half the people who discuss that terrible subject have not the slightest idea what they are talking about. It is the essence of all the sufferings, the horrors, the crimes, of which man is capable.’”

Kinglake interrupted: “Oh, Bright is nothing but a Quaker!”

Here I ventured to remark that, the other day, in passing the monument to the Crimean War, I said to myself: “This is the only result for England of the Crimean War of 1854.” “Oh!” interrupted Bright. “But the ‘a’ at the end of the word should be put at the beginning of the phrase (A Crime).”

“I dislike your ‘but,’” interrupted I. “The Quakers deserve trust and admiration; there is no hypocrisy, no sham about them. They are true to themselves and their doctrines. Morally they stand very high and are so generous.”

If I were arguing the subject now I might have quoted a great French writer and statesman, Jules Simon. He proposed that all civilized nations should pledge themselves not to enforce military service for more than one year upon any of their recruits.

Jules Simon added: “The friends of peace must never rest until this military reform is carried. It will immensely reduce the military burden of Europe, under which it is staggering towards bankruptcy.

“In diminishing the military force by one-half, or by two-thirds, it would practically reduce the standing armies of Europe to a militia, powerful for defence, weak for offence. Defence, not Defiance, would then become the motto for all.”

Of course, the difficulty was to get a splendid measure like this carried simultaneously by all the Great Powers. But Russia, whose military character certainly could not be questioned, would, I feel sure, have been ready to support what Kinglake derided as “the Quaker’s view.” There is real power in self-control, and in keeping the peace. . . . He repeatedly spoke of his strong desire to be cremated. This was done at Woking. Kinglake was eighty-one when he died, on January 2, 1891, but his mind was powerful and bright to his last day.

I called on him frequently during the trying time of his illness, and only when all was over did I fully realize the loss of my old and exceptionally kind friend.

But his death had a far greater importance. His self-control, his wonderfully courageous calm before the final event, could be compared to the splendid examples exhibited by the heroes of our last Great War.