FEW people will disagree with me, I expect, when I say that Lady Holland, widow of the fourth Lord Holland, of Holland House, was the very type of a woman of the world, full of social tact, savoir faire, with just a tinge of scepticism and haughtiness. Lady Holland was certainly rather foreign in her ways, not insular enough, according to some old-fashioned Britons. But, being a thorough, unconventional Moscovite myself, I fully pardoned her that shortcoming. In fact I never call to mind, without pleasant feelings, her Sunday dinner-parties. She seemed to prefer that day for all her gatherings, quite ignoring the righteous indignation of some rigid Sabbatarians.

These Holland House dinner-parties had another peculiarity: men were never allowed to remain over their wine and cigars, and to gossip soi-disant politics, which I am told in reality amounts to discussing their female friends. The dining couples, once united by the hostess, could divorce each other only on returning to the drawing-room from whence they started; this law admitting no exception. The first time I went to one of these parties I had the good fortune to be taken in to dinner by Lord Houghton (né Monckton-Milnes), poet and man of letters, author of “The Monographs,” &c. On my right hand I had the author of the “Crimean War,” who, however, will probably live much longer in the memory of the reading world as the delightful writer of “Eothen.”

I remarked to my neighbours how fortunate I was to have such good sources of historical information so near at hand.

“It is kind of you to say so,” remarked Kinglake, speaking very gently and almost inaudibly; “but as to historians, they are sometimes very badly treated.”

“What do you mean?” asked I, rather puzzled.

“Well,” continued Kinglake quietly, as if discussing some grave topic, “just take my case for example. As you know, I am supposed to be an historian. The other day I got a letter which really touched me; it was signed by two people, husband and wife, and came from one of our Colonies. They described their grief. Their only child, it seemed, had been killed in the Crimea. For some incomprehensible reason they were most anxious to have “their beloved darling” mentioned in my History of the Crimean War. Surprised but flattered, I replied by return of post—a thing I have not done for many, many years—that I would be happy to do my best for their comfort, provided they sent me the necessary particulars. Again a letter, written and signed by both mother and father, arrived, but with the following cruel addition: “We have no particulars whatever. He was killed on the spot, like many others, and anything you may kindly invent will be welcome; we leave it entirely to your judgment.”

No sooner had Kinglake finished his story than we were interrupted by a loud voice and still louder laughter from the other end of the table, where sat the quasi-poet and fine critic, Hayward, telling some anecdotes, as usual piquant, but, I am sorry to say, not always quite proper. Lady Holland seemed amused, and so were many of her guests. I felt rather embarrassed; but, of course, tried not to show it to my neighbours. In order to say something, I remarked to Kinglake, who had mentioned to me his intimacy with the “naughty Hayward,” that he and his friend differed very much in their manners. Kinglake smiled: “I think we do. But the other day I called on him, and his old housemaid said, ‘Come in, sir, Mr. Hayward is always glad to see you; and no wonder, you are so very like each other, just as if you were children of the same mother.’”

“Well,” said I, “has Disraeli not somewhere compared the silent, mysterious Venetian gondolas to your rattling hansoms?”

“Just so,” rejoined Kinglake; “but we both agree in one case I am as desirous as he is to call on you, if allowed.”

This was the commencement of my friendship with Kinglake.

His first visit to me, however, seemed likely to nip our acquaintance in its very bud. In a certain sense it was a perfect failure. Just as Kinglake called, and had begun talking to me about Lord Stratford de Redcliffe, whom he continued to call “the great Eltchi,” in came a lady. I introduced my visitors to each other according to our Russian fashion.

“Mr. Kinglake!” exclaimed she, “the great author? So glad to meet you! I want you to come to my ball. Some royalties are sure to be there. There is really no good ball without royalties,” added she, to our great amazement; “but in our democratic days I am glad to have celebrities as well. I am a great admirer of your works, Mr. Kinglake. But tell me, are you in favour of Louis Napoleon or opposed to him? Do you admire him?”

Poor Kinglake, rather bewildered and looking like a dying dove, answered slowly:—

“I am afraid I cannot exactly say that I admire him particularly.”

“Don’t you? Well, after all, that does not matter much. Now I must go; I never pay long visits.”

Off she went—not a minute too soon.

“The dear lady must have only a platonic love for your books,” said I, “and has not possessed herself of their contents, or she would remember your graphic picture of Louis Napoleon as a man whose two hands write simultaneously in quite opposite directions.”

“I generally only inspire platonic affections,” remarked Kinglake, good naturedly, and we both laughed.

Still, I was rather vexed to afford him such poor company. If he shares the French views of Dis moi qui te hante, je dirai qui tu es, thought I, he will never call on me again. Fortunately, he not only came again but, in the course of the winter, became a daily caller. For some of the people he met he certainly had no great liking. One of them was a bishop. His lordship—solemn as a butler, yet sweet, oh, so desperately sweet that you would give a kingdom for a slice of lemon after an hour’s intercourse with him!—somehow jarred upon his nerves. Whenever he found me alone he was sure to ask, “Is Peter Paul, Bishop of Claridge’s, coming soon?” It was a standing joke, which somehow always amused me. His other pet aversion was an old diplomatist of European fame, who actually had done some useful work in his life, but, unfortunately, had a curious soprano voice, rather piercing, and who uttered his words so quickly, especially when he endeavoured to speak English, that poor Kinglake, who was already rather deaf, could never follow him. This dear “dip.” was always called “The Penny Trumpet,” and his appearance was the signal for Kinglake’s exit from my rooms.

He found me once surrounded with children’s books which I was going to send as Christmas presents. To my amusement he took one of them, “The Book of Nonsense,” and said: “This is for my benefit. I will write here my own inspirations, unless you object.” I willingly consented, and in the course of a whole winter’s season, whenever we were alone, he would write down some nonsense verses. The most charmingly absurd are those in which I am described, and which he signed, “Peter Paul, Bishop of Claridge’s”—the name followed by the picture of a mitre.

I sometimes had musical parties, one of which was favoured with Kinglake’s presence. He came unobserved, took a chair in the corner of the room, and remained as silent as a mouse all the time. I expressed my satisfaction at seeing him. “You seem to be fond of music,” said I. “But which music do you prefer?—purely classical or Wagner or Chopin? I am afraid you know nothing about our great Glinka.”

“In a certain sense I am musical,” replied he; “but only in one sense.”

“Tell me your taste exactly,” I continued. “I will put Beethoven, or anybody else, at your disposal next time; you understand me?”

“Partly,” rejoined Kinglake, with a serious face, but laughing eyes. “I consider music a very useful element in life. It certainly has an educational influence, which is very precious.”

“So it has,” exclaimed I. “Undoubtedly. It is a great, beneficent element, and one of our superiorities over the quadrupeds,” added I, jokingly.

“No, pardon me. That I cannot endorse,” remarked Kinglake, with that twinkle of his eyes, which was his peculiar characteristic. “Dogs howl sometimes very loudly, you know. Frankly speaking, I only care for the drum.”

“Oh!” rejoined I, “if you are not better than the Shah of Persia, who preferred the tuning of the orchestral instruments to their united harmonies, I shall consider this explanation as final, and will warn you off whenever I have music again,” which I did invariably. “But if so, what on earth was the ‘educational influence’ you referred to?” asked I.

“Well,” explained he, smiling mischievously, “nothing exercises my patience better.”

Soon after this explanation there was a musical party at Harrington House. Several amateurs gave songs, and my turn came. I at first refused, but yielded on being pressed. I chose the shortest song I knew, and quickly finished. To my surprise Kinglake complimented me on my performance. “Surely,” exclaimed I, “my voice did not remind you of your favourite drum?”

“No; but don’t you see, when others begin, they never stop, whilst your singing always comes to an end.”

Kinglake was the kindest of friends, and was always the first to be told of all my 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 Döllinger; 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 really 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 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 made me only laugh. But Kinglake was vexed, and determined to counteract the attack. In order to achieve that object he interrupted his usual work—the later volumes 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 to the 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, 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 Servian 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, C.P. Villiers, and many others, showed me heartfelt sympathy. Kinglake came one day quite early, about 10 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 I had referring to that great misfortune of my familу. 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 the 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 MS. 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 MS. 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 Lord Raglan’s history. When this was brought down to the time of his friend’s death, Kinglake considered his work completed.

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 minimised 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 it?” enquired 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 managed 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 two best poets, Poushkine and Lermontoff lost their lives in that mad fashion. Even now the slightest cause may forfeit the most precious life in Russia, as well 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 when he was comparatively young—about the time of 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 battle-field, 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 consent to a general disarmament, if that grand move were simultaneously taken by all the great Powers.

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

“I wish you had come earlier yesterday,” remarked I to him once; “you would have met John Bright. He was at first speaking in favour of Free Trade, which, I daresay, 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!”

“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.”

If I were arguing the subject now I might have quoted a great French writer and statesman, Jules Simon. He proposes that all civilised nations should pledge themselves not to enforce military service for more than one year upon any of their recruits. Jules Simon adds; “The friends of peace must never rest until the 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 is to get a splendid measure like this carried simultaneously by all the great Powers. But Russia, whose military character certainly cannot be questioned, would, I feel sure, be ready to support what Kinglake decided as “the Quaker’s view.” There is real power in self-control and in keeping the peace.

Surely these views are absolutely demanded by Christian civilisation. But dear Kinglake liked to describe himself as a heathen, and this argument used to bring many of our discussions to an abrupt stop. In his own case the fighting spirit was certainly conspicuous during his last illness, which he bore with stoical courage. He repeatedly spoke of his strong desire to be cremated. This was done at Woking. Kinglake was eighty-one when he died, on January 2nd, 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 realise the loss of my old and exceptionally kind friend.

O.K.