Ex Libris
C. K. OODEN
THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
MEMORIES OF THE PAST
-
^
MEMORIES OF
THE PAST
BY
ADELAIDE BENECKE
Printed for Private Circulation
1906
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson &■» Co.
At the Ballantyne Press
DA
PHOTOGRAVURE PORTRAITS
Adelaide Benecke Frontispiece
Alfred Benecke to face p. 1
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MEMORIES OF THE PAST
My children have often begged me to
put down for them some of my recoil
lections. I have never yet had the
courage to begin doing this, as I know
I have not the talent to write them down
welly and as I am strangely vague as
to time and dates !
Still, I do feel that my long life has
been so full of rich experiences of happi*
ness, of kindness received from so many,
and of the knowledge of interesting and
great people, that I should like my chik
dren and grandchildren to know some of
the joys that have been mine, so that
they may rejoice with me in having
possessed them. I will therefore just jot
down what comes into my mind as it
comes back to me (1904)4
I am now seventy4hree years old, and
ought to remember more of what is
worth remembering than I do, for few
can look back upon such a happy life
as I ! I was indeed a happy child,
surrounded only by love and joy, and
one of my greatest blessings (and I
constantly maintain, my greatest talent)
has always been that of the capability of
enjoying !
I was born on January o, 1831 ("ein
Sonntagskind ") in Green Heys, Man*
chester — in the house afterwards inhabited
by Charles Halle*. My parents, Charles
and Adelaide Souchay, had not yet lived
long in England. My father was from
Frankfurt, my mother from Hanover.
I was their first child, and have always
thought that that rather accounts for my
being so much more German in my
sympathies than my younger brother and
sisters were. Later on this probably
changed in my sisters, as their married
lives were spent in Germany, but for*
merly my love for Germany was far
stronger than theirs. I always wrote to
my parents in German, whereas I spoke
and wrote to my sisters in English.
When I think back upon my life in
Green Heys, where we lived till about
1840, when we moved to Withington
House, with its large garden, and farther
in the country, I remember scarcely any*
thing but joy ! And no wonder ! I had
not only the greatest love for my parents,
but also the most profound admiration
for my father, and it seemed to me that
all he did and said and thought could
only be right and good and wise. My
brother Charles was about two and a
half years younger than I; he died not
very long after my marriage. My sister
Juliet came next, who married Robert
Lucius. My sister Ida was the youngest
of us. She married Heinrich Thomas;
they first lived in Liverpool and afterwards
in Germany. She was delicate and very
sensitive. One evening, when quite young,
she was found sobbing in bed, and when
asked what was the matter, declared she
had swallowed a needle. Of this she
was quite sure only because she had lost
her needle I After some time, a needle
was found, and shown her, and only
then was she comforted. We were all
three deeply fond of each other, and, thank
God, that never can change! No one
knows what they have always been and
will always be to me.
But I will now go back to my child*
hood. Among my early recollections,
my love for my dolls plays a great part.
They were real live beings to me — not
dolls — and my childhood would have
been poorer without them !
Another thing I remember with pleasure
was reading my favourite "Peter Parley's
Annual." This came out every Christmas,
6
and how I looked forward to it ! having
quite an affection for Peter Parley. But,
alas I one day some one told me there was
no real Peter Parley, and that the books
were written by various people. This
was a real grief to me, I had loved my
"Peter Parley " for years. I seemed to
know the dear old man, and with tears
I had to give up my old friend. Then
what a charm to me were my friends,
our delightful dancing lessons together,
&c. I think no one was ever fonder
of dancing than I. As a child I could
scarcely pass a street organ without
dancing to its music, and once, when I
was taken to some exhibition in Man*
Chester, where a band was playing, I was
found dancing all alone to its strains,
the others having gone on — unable to
tear myself away! My love for dancing
never left me, till the time came for my
children to take my place, which to my
regret they never did, as far as liking the
amusement went. It always seemed to
me a loss in their lives.
It would lead too far to speak of all
the delightful musical enjoyments that fell
to my share : for instance, the bliss of
hearing and seeing Jenny Lind. My
parents were ever ready to let me have
8
these advantages, and I felt, with every
new occasion of the sort, as if it were
almost too good to be true. I often
wonder whether children of the present
day feel that intense delight and surprise
that they are so spoiled, as we used to
feel it.
I was also very fond of my older
friends, among others Mr. and Mrs.
Gruber. (Mr. Gruber was my father's
partner, and his kind wife was our
beloved "Aunt Minny.") They dined
with us every Sunday, and our great
treat was to go to them now and then
for breakfast, when we had our own
9 B
little silver teapot and little cups, and
were made so much of! The only thing
that seriously hurt me in Mr. Gruber,
was that he never liked — and used to
make fun of — my beloved Miss Lynch,
who gave me music lessons for many
years. I was truly fond of her. She
was the only good teacher Manchester
then had (or I should say, the least bad
teacher), for it was a benighted land as
to music, till in 1849 or 1850 Charles
Halle* appeared on the scene. That was
a blessed day for Manchester. It was
like a star coming down from heaven.
But my musical education, alas! was
10
before that, and poor Miss Lynch did all
she could, and was ever patient and kind,
and deeply it used to hurt me when Mr.
Gruber made fun of her! While speaking
of Miss Lynch I cannot resist adding
one or two very pathetic points in the
life of this most kind and lovable friend.
She stood terribly alone in the world,
being a mulatto and having no relations
in Europe, where she had come with her
mother, who died young, leaving her to
fight her way by giving music lessons
and working very hard. She was a very
devout Roman Catholic, and when she
felt herself getting old and losing her
11
health, she made up her mind to go into
a convent. The old servant who had
always lived with her and her mother,
and was all in all to her, was so heart*
broken at this that she said she would
go with her into the convent, for she
could not leave her. This she did, but,
can one realise it ? when it was dis*
covered that they were so deeply attached
to each other, the regulation was made
that they might never meet! Another
rather touching incident was that Miss
Lynch loved music with all her heart.
As she was extremely delicate, she was
advised to choose a convent which was
12
less strict than many others as to fast*
ing, diet, &c. But, to make up for this,
she was forbidden to hear any music that
might be going on in the convent, which
was an unspeakable trial to her. One of
her friends in Manchester, an old Mr.
Markland, a Roman Catholic also, was
so really grieved when he heard this, that
he paid an Italian organ-grinder to play
regularly twice a week just outside the
convent, close under her window. I
think this is such a pathetic little passage
of poor Miss Lynch's sad life. Another
great joy to us was our kind old friend,
Mr. Koch, one of my father's clerks, who
13
also spent most of his Sundays in my
parents' hospitable house, and entered into
all our games and occupations so warmly.
He was very fond of me, particularly, and
proved this to me in many ways. In
speaking of my childhood, I must not
forget to name an accident, though that,
too, adds to the long list of things I like
to think of. One day, I think it was in
1839, m Y father, in fun, carried me down*
stairs on his back, when somehow he
slipped, and we both fell, he upon me. I
felt that my leg was broken, but it was
not very painful, and I did not say what
I thought. Dear old Dr. Partington soon
14
set it, and in a few weeks I was out of
bed again. I was so young that it was
really not a bad affair, and far from the
time of my being in bed being a sad one,
it was one of the nicest times imaginable.
I was so spoiled by every one ! The very
night it happened, old Miss Marsland sent
me some " damson cheese," which I never
see without remembering this! How
many people brought me presents, sat
with me, played with me, read to me!
and kind old Mr. Koch used to come
and sit with me when he knew the
others were at dinner, and I was alone!
A time that made a deep impression
*5
upon me was a journey home from Ger*
many late in the autumn, I fancy in
November, when we were all children.
I forget in what year it was, but as I
remember my delicate, shy, sensitive little
sister Ida was quite young, about four
years old, I fancy it must have been about
1841. Everything seemed to go wrong on
this journey, and poor Mama was quite
convinced, from first to last, that we
should never reach England. It was most
depressing! She was either constantly in
tears or looked deeply melancholy. I have
forgotten the many and various misfor*
tunes, but what I best remember is the
16
terribly thick fog by which we were
suddenly overtaken on the Rhine (before
the days of railroads). The fog grew
denser and denser, till at last, when even^
ing came on, the captain said we must
land in boats ; he did not know where we
were, but saw from the lights through the
fog that we were close to some town.
This proved to be Bacharach; of course
at this season and hour no hotel was
prepared for travellers, no beds were made,
no fires lighted, no food ready! It was
bitterly cold and cheerless. About six
the next morning we were called to go on
to the steamer, as the fog had lifted. So
17 c
we proceeded on our way for a short time,
then, after many stoppages, we at last
reached Coblenz, where we were again
landed. We did not venture to wait any
longer for the steamer, but got on as best
we could by carriages, changing horses,
&c. At last we reached — I forget whether
Bonn or Cologne — having once to walk a
long way. I well remember poor little
Ida crying most bitterly and quietly all
the time from the cold, her poor little
hands and feet aching. Then, when we
arrived at our journey's end, we found
that somehow, while changing horses or
vehicles, our four travelling bags, with all
18
we required on the journey, were lost!
We somehow got to Aix^la^Chapelle ; the
next day we missed our train, and had
to wait for hours there again. Well, I
only know that we did get back to Eng*
land, against poor Mama's expectations,
and that the four lost bags somehow^ long,
long afterwards, were duly returned to us,
having been found at some out'Of'the^way
place. Not a thing had been taken out,
though there was money in them, and
though, as was my father's confiding
custom, they had not been locked.
When we left Green Heys, my early
childhood was over — but not my happy
19
childhood and youth! I was always de*
voted to my lessons and teachers. Among
these was Mr. Bradley, who taught me
Latin, and Mr. Gaskell, who taught me
English literature, &c. I was very much
afraid of him, and often stood a long time
on his doorstep before I had the courage
to knock; but after the first few minutes,
I thoroughly enjoyed my lessons. For
a short time my sister Juliet and I went
to Mr. Jones' day-school in Dover Street,
and I was happy there beyond description.
Poor Juliet was very shy and utterly
miserable there, and I am ashamed to
own that I bribed her with all kinds of
20
presents not to say anything about it,
as I felt sure we should be taken away
if it were known. I have no reason to
be proud of this epoch of my life. The
wish that we should go to school was
quite mine, neither my sister Juliet's nor
my parents'. It was long considered
and discussed, and at last it was arranged,
that on a certain day it should be decided,
if we both agreed in wishing it. That last
evening in bed, before the important day,
was a most exciting, and, for my poor
frightened little sister, painful one. We
slept in the same room, and, till a late
hour, I was entreating and persuading and
21
promising her one doll and one toy after
another, if she would but yield to the
wish of my heart, which, poor child, she
at last did, I am sure with many a tear ;
and when we came down to breakfast
the next morning, the die was cast.
Our life in Withington was a very
delightful one. At that time it was really
country, whereas now it is a continuation
of Manchester. The large garden, the
farm, the horses, &c, were a great joy to
us. We also were fortunate in having
many nice friends near. Those of whom
we saw most were the family Birch, who
had lived near us in Green Heys, and
22
later on moved near to us in our new
home. One evening we children had been
spending there, when, instead of sending
the servant to fetch us home, my father
said he would go for us himself (it was
about half* an ^hour's walk). When he
rang the bell and said he had come for
the Miss Souchays, the butler took him,
in the dark, for a man-servant, and said:
"Oh, it's too soon! They're not ready
yet! You'd better sit down in the pantry
and wait for them," which he patiently
did for an hour, being only amused at
the joke and not one bit put out.
For some years I had a most delightful
23
young German companion, quite young,
about nineteen or twenty years old. As
my sisters were much younger than I,
this was a great joy to me. She was a
certain Marie Heinsius, from near Han*
over. We read French and German to*
gether, and in fact spent our days together,
and were very fond of each other. We
once had a very funny adventure. My
dear father was so true and trusting him-
self that he never could believe anything
of others that was not good and true,
and in that school I was, to a degree,
brought up. Miss Heinsius, too, was one
with us in this confidence in mankind.
24
Neither she nor I possessed a watch, but
my father's large golden one hung always
in our schoolroom for our use, and when
we took our walks we took it with us.
One day, on our walk towards Cheadle,
on the broad high road, with a hedge on
one side, Marie Heinsius and I were
talking of the honesty of mankind, and I
said, " If we were to place this watch here
in this hedge by the roadside, where every
one passes by, no one would touch it, and
we should find it here to-morrow/' "Of
course/' said Marie Heinsius, " let us try/'
We laid it in the hedge in a very con'
spicuous place. But we did feel just a
25 d
little uncomfortable, as, after all, the watch
was not our own, and there might be one
thief in the world. So we hid behind a
gate and watched. We saw a labourer
come past and stand still, looking much
surprised. He took the watch, put it into
his pocket, and was going to walk on,
when we rushed out of our hiding-place,
assuring him it was ours, and entreating
him to give it back to us. "That's a
likely tale," said he. "You would leave
your watch in a hedge, and go away,
would you ? I'm not so silly as to believe
that ! / found the watch, and not you ! "
In vain we begged. At last he said,
26
"What's your name, and where do you
live?" We told him it was nearly an
hour's walk, but he insisted on our show-
ing him the house. We walked like cul-
prits, silently, one on each side of him, to
Withington House. He rang the bell and
asked John whether I was Miss Souchay,
and whether that watch belonged to us;
and on hearing that our story was true,
gave it to the servant and walked away.
I went to my father to confess, feeling
rather afraid, and very much ashamed of
myself. But he only said, " You were right,
and have proved your case. Do you think
that man would have walked quietly with
27
you for an hour if he had not been honest ?
He could soon have got away from you."
The watch, the story about which I
have just told, had another adventure
soon afterwards. It always served as
our schoolroom clock, and hung on a
nail in the little schoolroom, which was
used also for all odd occasions. One
evening we were to have a children's
dance, and several servants had to wait,
have their suppers there, &c. My father
told me he thought it might be wiser to
take the watch away for that evening,
and — I forgot it ! The next morning it
was gone. Feeling very guilty, I went
28
to tell him this; but with his ever
angelic patience, he said, "Well, it is
a pity, but it can't be helped. One thing,
however, I must request; that no one
should ever name it ; there were many dif*
ferent people in that room, and I will not
have any one suspected, so I particularly
wish that it should not be mentioned/'
Long, perhaps a year, after this, a
woman came to the door and wished to
see my father. She gave him the watch,
greatly agitated, and said her husband
had played for the children to dance that
evening, had had his tea in that room,
and hung his coat on that particular nail,
29
and when he got home had found that
the watch had dropped into his pocket.
She never could induce him to return it,
as he feared he would be suspected of
stealing it. He had now died, and she
at once brought it back!
Miss Heinsius later on married our
Latin master, Mr. Bradley, an interesting
but very delicate man, who died of con*
sumption a few months later; she, having
been always well and fresh before, evi^
dently was infected, and died of the same
disease, and was buried on the anni*
versary of his death the year after.
Some of the brightest memories of
30
my youth were the times I spent with
Mendelssohn, whom I almost adored.
Whenever he came to Manchester, he, of
course, stayed with my parents, and those
were proud days for old and young. He
was charming and fascinating for all, but
really especially so for children and young
people. Never can I forget the charm of
the stories he used to tell us of his
childhood, &c, when he always called
himself " Peter Meffert." He used to call
me "Wisdom," and we were very good
friends. He was always most kind to
me, and one day, when I thought he had
gone out, and was practising the third
31
"Lied ohne Worte" in the second book,
in the little Withington schoolroom, I
heard some one standing behind me, and
I still feel my shock when I saw that
it was the great master, who said I was
playing it quite wrongly and he would
give me a lesson on it! I have never
forgotten or lost the charm of that lesson,
and love to play that "Lied." Mendelssohn
was never long in Manchester, and my
chief recollections of him are the times we
spent together at my Aunt Iette Benecke's,
on Denmark Hill. Of these the longest
and most delightful was in the year 1842,
when we spent weeks together there.
32
He was fascinating ! so fresh, so full of
life! in fact, no one could be compared to
him. How well I remember his playing
to us one evening when we had been to
a haymaking party at Mrs. Henning's at
Dulwich, to which he had suddenly re^
fused to accompany us, to every one's
great disappointment ! He had meanwhile
composed that lovely "Lied ohne Worte"
in A major, called the ** Friihlingslied."
How charming those hours of twilight
were, when he would play to us over
and over again ! How many interesting
people we saw at Denmark Hill, who
clustered round him! The Moscheles,
33 e
the Benedicts, Mr. Chorley (with his
high voice), the Horsleys, Adelaide Camp*
bell, and many, many others, among whom
was Rubinstein, who was brought by
his tutor to play to Mendelssohn and be
judged by him as to his talent. He was
a boy of, I suppose, about ten years old.
Cecile (his wife) was with Mendelssohn
in England that year; it was altogether
one of those times one never can forget !
It was at the end of that stay at Denmark
Hill that when he, Cecile, and Miss
Bertschinger were leaving for their return
to Germany, already in their cab at the
door, and I was sobbing when I took
34
my leave of them, he jumped out of the
cab, and said, " Ich mochte noch ein Wort
in das Album schreiben," rushed into the
house, and wrote under the little wreath
of flowers which Cecile had painted in
my album:
" Es ritten drei Reiter zum Thore hinaus ! Ade ! **
How charming his appreciation of
Cecile's judgment was, even in music!
If she, in her calm, quiet way, with her
lovely voice, said that she did not like
one of his compositions, how often he
would at once say she was right, simply
bowing to her decision. Never can one
forget her unspeakable charm I Many
35
years after this, I was by her bedside
when she died, at the Fahrthor in Frank*
furt, looking, though after a very hard and
long struggle, so inexpressibly beautiful.
In a later year (1846) I again stayed
at Denmark Hill with him, when his
44 Elijah " was performed for the first time
at Birmingham, under his direction. Of
course we were all there. How well I
remember his own joy, when, with his
beautiful eyes beaming, he shook Benedict's
hand at the end, and said, "I did not know
it was so beautiful." (He had only up to
this time seen it on paper, never heard it.)
I was so deeply attached to Mendelssohn,
36
so enthusiastically admired him, not
only his music but himself, that I can
scarcely imagine what it would have been
not to know him, and certainly one of the
saddest days of my youth was that when
in Frankfurt, in the year 1847, we sud*
denly heard of his death. He had only
been ill a few days. That wonderful brain
had been too active ; it had done its work.
That 4th of November was a sad day for
the musical world, a sad day for the many
who loved and treasured him; and how
many even, who had never seen him, felt
that their lives were poorer, and that a
beautiful star had been extinguished !
37
How touchingly Geibcl wrote in his
poem : " Auf Felix Mendelssohn's Tod " —
"Ich klag', ura uns, denn unser ist das Leid,
Um Deine Kunst, die Du als Heil'ge, ehrtest,
Um Deine lunger, die Du treu sein lehrtest
Und die Du "Waisen lasst, in dieser Zeit!**
• •••••
"la, nur die Trauer bleibt uns unverwehrt,
Die fromm gebeugt an Deines Grabes Schatten
Das Opfer ausgiesst das Dir Dank bescheertj
"Wir hatten Dich, und haben Dich geehrt
Und das sei unser Trost: dass wir Dich hatten
Doch nein! Empor den Kummerschweren Sinn!
Nur das Bedeutungslose fahrt dahin!
"Was einmal tief lebendig lebt* und war
Das hat auch Kraft zu sein fur immerdarl
Dem Element gehort die Handvoll Staub,
Und weiter Nichts — der lichte Gottes'funken
Ist nicht zugleich, — auch nicht fur uns, versunken,
Und gltiht nur reiner, durch der Erde Raub:
38
Das tst des Genius Recht, dass ungekrankt
Vom Hauch des Todes, uber' in Grab im Blauen
Er athmend fort'spielt, auch mit geist'gen Thranen
Gottlieb befruchtend, tausend Seelen tranket!"
In the year 1843, m Y brother and I spent
a delightful time with our parents in
Germany, chiefly in Berlin, Leipzig, and
Dresden. During this time, Mendels-
sohn's "Midsummer Night's Dream "
was performed for the first time, in
the Neue Palais, Potsdam. Charley and
I, to our delight, were allowed to be
taken (it was Mendelssohn's proposal)
to the rehearsal there, the day before
the performance. It made a great im-
pression upon me, though I was perhaps
39
too young to enjoy it as I should have
done a few years later. I still see before
me the old poet Tieck, who, I believe, had
arranged the play for the music, and who
sat on the stage to direct and criticise.
He was very old, and completely bent
double, his head almost touching his
knees. We got back rather late that night
to Berlin, after a thrice happy day. The
actual performance took place the next
evening — an evening or night I have often
thought of. We were staying at "Mai*
wald's Hotel." We had no maid with us,
and, strange to say, our parents thought the
safest plan for us, while they were away,
40
would be that we two children should
be locked up in our room, and the key left
downstairs with the portier ! It now seems
incomprehensible, but this was done, and I
well recollect our feeling of fright at being
locked up there till our parents' return,
late in the night. I also remember how
horrified Mendelssohn was the next day
when he heard of it, and how he made our
parents promise never to repeat this plan.
How charming he was with children and
young people! This stay in Germany
was indeed delightful. How my brother
Charley and Joachim used to enjoy play^
ing and romping together! Joachim was
41 F
born in the same year as I (1831), so he
was about two years older than Charley;
he was such a boyish, natural lad, though
he had already had many a triumph, and
the great violinist David had said he could
teach him nothing more.
When I was seventeen years old, we
spent some months at Frankfurt a/M. at
the Russische Hof, where we had a suite
of rooms, and where we were very happy.
The chief reason of this stay was that I
was to be confirmed there, by Pfarrer
Schrader, and I had, besides, various
lessons — Latin from Mr. Lehn, singing
lessons, piano from Mr. Schadel, of whom
42
I was very fond. He took great pains
with me, and was interested very kindly
in me, and these lessons were certainly
some of my greatest joys. Another very
great pleasure was the Cacilien^verein,
under Messer, a very strict and almost rude
but excellent director. How I did enjoy
those evenings! My grandmother Souchay
was then living still, at the Fahrthor, and
many of my parents' evenings were spent
with her, while we children generally
stayed at home, busy with preparing our
lessons. We (my brother Charley and I)
had private preparation, and lessons from
Pfarrer Schrader, for our Confirmation.
43
I had the kind of "Schwarmerei " for Mr.
Schrader, which in my younger days all
girls had in Germany for their " Religions
Lehrer." Several of our Mitconfirman*
tinnen and I had a " Kranzchen," and
happy were the afternoons when we met
at each other's houses. My chief friends
were Elise Fasi, Emma Schmitson, Marie
Schrader, Marie Rommel and Clara Kienen.
I was also very fond of my Frankfurt re*
lations, my grandmother, the Schlemmers,
the Edward Souchays, the Jeanrenauds,
&c, who were all so kind to us ! It was
a delightful life. Our days were enjoy*
ment from beginning to end. They began
44
very early, by a swimming lesson from
Herr Gerlach, a very rough swimming*
master !
It was rather an unpleasant moment
when, one day, he told me to mount
a very high ladder, and, when he gave the
signal, to jump and dive down into the
water. When I stood up there, I simply
could not jump, feeling as though my feet
were glued to the rung, till this coarse
man screamed up to me, "Wanns Du
jetzt nicht spring'st, schmeiss' ich Dieh
nunner;" and when I saw him begin to
ascend the ladder, I did jump!
Happy, however, as the time was, it
45
was far from a calm time, for we were
there through the stormy months of 1848,
during the Frankfurter " Vor^Parlament,"
&c. t when not only Frankfurt but all the
world was in constant excitement. It
was the time when some new alarm was
constantly arising — such as the Sensen
Manner (men with scythes) passing through
Frankfurt; we watched this weird pn>
cession from our balcony at the Russische
Hof with such interest. It really was
very awful ! One cannot forget the terrible
silence while they marched past, holding
up their scythes. Every man, during that
time, was sworn in as special constable,
46
and my father, among others, was out
patrolling for nights together, and we felt
terribly nervous very often! The Confix
mation impressed us as a very solemn act.
How often since, have I wished I could
go through it all again in later life, with
my own views and opinions about these
questions, and being instructed by a man
whose views I admired and looked up to!
Soon after my Confirmation came the
sad day of leaving my beloved Frankfurt.
I thought I never could be happy again!
It had been such a lovely time! so full of
kindness from every one, of enjoyment, of
interest, of friendships formed, &c.
47
Soon after leaving Frankfurt, my parents
went to Ems and Homburg, and I was
sent for a few weeks to Kreuznach, with
Miss Mahrlen, our governess, who had
been with us many years. She was
very devoted to us all, and I was very
fond of her, but she was very dutiful
and proper and particular, and felt, evi*
dently, the responsibility of the sole care
of a girl of seventeen, which rather de*
pressed and tried her, and made her a
less cheerful companion than was always
pleasant to me, and I fear she did not
find her life a sinecure.
We did not know many people at
4 8
Kreuznach, but among these was Wit-
helm Souchay, the son of Mark Andre'
Souchay, a cousin of my father's, from
Ltibeck. We had never met before, and
as we were both deeply interested in music,
and he played the violin very beautifully,
and also accompanied me very well when
I sang, we saw much of each other, and
spent many an enjoyable hour together.
We never met again till fifty^six years after
this (of which meeting I shall speak later
on), but in our old age, through a chance,
concerning some songs he had at that
time composed for me, we began to cor*
respond, and the mutual recollections of
49 G
our early youth led us to keep up a cor^
respondence, which is a real and great
pleasure, I think, to both of us. He is
now (1906) an old man of nearly eighty
years old, and his letters are so beautiful,
so bright still, and so full of interest, that
they are always quite refreshing.
After our ten months in Germany we
recommenced our life at Withington. I
was older and all was different, but it was
again a charming life! I went on with
all my lessons like a schoolgirl, and my
dancing lessons with a very nice Mrs.
Elliston played a part. Soon Mr. Halle*
came to Manchester, and his coming really
50
made a great change, for it is impossible
to imagine how benighted Manchester was
as to music before his advent. How many-
lovely concerts I now heard! How de*
lightful, too, Hallos visits were, who so
often brought such charming friends with
him, among others Ernst the violinist,
who then already looked like a dying man,
but played with a tone which went to
one's very heart; for my taste, a tone in*
comparably finer and more pathetic than
any I have ever heard 1 And Hallos les^
sons! How can I describe the delight
they were to me! Had I but had these
years before, I think I really might have
51
played pretty well! Even this short time
was better than if I had had no lessons
from him. Among my many enjoyments
at this age, one great one was that of
dancing, and I suppose I must have
shown this very perceptibly, for people
always used to say to me, "I can see
how you are enjoying yourself/* I re*
member many delightful balls, but one in
particular, when I was just grown up, at
Withington, which went off so brightly, and
gave us all so much pleasure, that when
the guests had left, my mother declared, to
our intense joy, that she would like the
whole thing repeated two days afterwards.
52
She had this put into the Manchester
paper the next day, and the second ball
was just as nice as the first one, giving
equal pleasure to hosts and guests. Only
too quickly my happy childhood was over.
I had never wished to be grown up, be*
cause it seemed to me impossible that I
could ever be happier than I was at the
dear home of my childhood, surrounded
by so much love, by so many friends,
deeply interested in my lessons and occu^
pations, in the dear old days!
Time went on — and in the summer of
1849 mv sister Juliet and I spent a few
very happy and, for my life, all'important
53
weeks at Aunt Iette's at Denmark Hill. I
had not been there long when I felt pretty
sure that my inward life would be a very
different one when I returned to dear old
Withington to what it was when I left it.
Alfred Benecke was almost a daily visitor
at Denmark Hill, but he very soon be*
came a daily one — and though I could
not quite believe in the possibility of
my lovely dream becoming true, it did
very soon cross my heart, that it no
longer belonged only to me. When we
left for Manchester he was at the
station, and I felt a great pang to say
goodbye to such a beautiful time, and a
54
very distinct hope and belief that we two
should soon meet again.
Soon after our return to Withington,
the Benecke family all came to stay there,
and as they were a great number, several
of our family, one of whom I was, went
to stay at Eltville, my Uncle John's house,
which was close by, to make room. On
July nth, a lovely summer day, there was
a large haymaking party at Eltville, and
the hayfield was full of merry people.
Suddenly I saw approaching the joyous
party my Alfred! . . . We all went in to
a late tea, after which many of the guests
went home, but Alfred and I found our
55
way into the garden. How long we stayed
there I know not, but there my dream
became a reality, and I knew the secret
that for ever and ever our two hearts
were one, and would share every joy and
every grief, to the end of our lives. . . .
We both knew that my parents* permission
was certain; still, we could not separate
without having seen and told them of our
happiness, and we found a little hidden
path for getting out of the Eltville garden
without passing the house, about 10 o'clock
at night, and went over to Withington,
where all were still up. Kind old Uncle
John had begun to feel uncomfortable about
56
us, and followed us in the distance. We
met at the door of Withington House!
My father and mother were expecting our
visit. Then followed the joyous first days
of our engagement, when my heart was
so full of my new happiness that I felt
as if I must tell every one how gladly it
throbbed !
Our engagement, which lasted till March
14, 1850, was a time full of happiness,
and rich in love from every side! Life
seemed to have nothing in it but peace
and hope and radiance, and many are the
delightful recollections of those months!
I wished this time to go on, as far as
57 h
possible, in the old way, and enjoyed all
doubly, feeling that I should soon have to
say good-bye to lessons and my old home
life!
Mr. Gaskell's lessons remained a great
pleasure to the end — but Mr. Hallos were
more than a pleasure, and how often I
wished I had been able to begin these
years ago. His beautiful concerts, too,
were such a joy to me ! And the delight*
ful Choral Society, which I never missed
if I could help it ! During our engagement
my parents and I went to Germany, where
Alfred accompanied us. How proud I felt
to introduce him to my old friends there!
58
We stayed at Heidelberg and Frankfurt
among other places, and I have often re*
joiced in having been able to introduce
my future husband to my grandmother
Souchay among others.
Every one welcomed us most warmly,
and I remember a very sweet evening at
the dear old " Fahrthor," where some one
had arranged a very beautiful " Standchen **
(Mannerquartett) for us. My old Kranz*
chen, too, had invited us one afternoon,
as they wished to make Alfred's acquaint'
ance. I do not think that can have been
a great pleasure to him! Even I was
quite glad when that ordeal was over!
59
The last few days before our wedding
were very busy, and full of very mixed
feelings. The leaving such an ideal
home, the saying good-bye to so many
old friends . . . ! How well I remember
paying my farewell visits ; for instance, that
to old Mrs. Birch, whose parting advice
was " never to keep accounts," as she had
learned in her long married life that this
was a constant worry and loss of time,
and that, after all, it made no difference.
The money that was spent was gone, and
why keep yourself informed where to ?
Neither my mother nor my fianci at all
admired this advice! The day before my
60
marriage, Mama and I went to say good*
bye to old Aunt Schunck at Chorlton
Abbey, in Green Heys, and I cannot resist
putting down a little incident which has
often amused me to think of, as it shows
me how different I must have been to the
girls of the present day. It also makes
me think what a trial I must often have
been to my poor Mama, from whom in
many ways I was so different. On the
day I mentioned, I had made myself very
smart for my visits, when, in walking
through Green Heys, we met old Mr.
Woods, the old, bent, greyhaired farmer,
in whose fields we children had spent so
61
many happy hours. He was walking
slowly along, in his white smock-frock,
carrying his two big milkpails, when he
saw us. In one moment he put down his
cans, and rushed across the road, " to em*
brace and kiss once more his dear Ady
Souchay, whom he had known as a baby,
and carried in his arms many and many
a time — before she went away and got
married." The part of the story that
made such an impression upon me was
that I was touched and delighted at this
dear old milkman's affection, and was per^
fectly astounded at Mama's great indigna*
tion, and at her saying she could not
62
believe that the poor old man could be
sober !
March 14, 1850, was our wedding day;
at Withington Church we were married
by the Rev. Theophilus Bennet, the nice,
good-natured Irish curate who was so
fond of hunting and riding, but was "not
quite sure" that it was the right thing
for a clergyman to do, and I fancy was
always rather sorry when he met one of
his parishioners. We were the first couple
that were married in Withington Church,
and according to an old English custom,
a large Bible was presented to the bride
at the altar in those cases. My new
63
brother-in-law, Herman Benecke, carried
it for me. It was a very cold morning,
and was even snowing when we came out
of church. Of this day of grief and joy,
of partings, of love and affection from all
sides, of agitation, glad and sad, I can say
no more, except that after the large meet*
ing, chiefly of relations and old friends, we
drove to Roseberry in Derbyshire, to a
sweet, quiet little hotel called "The Pea*
cock," where we arrived in sunshine, and
that our old coachman, "Tom," drove us
the first part of the way, and that I never
shall forget the moment, when I felt
as if my heart must burst, when, on
64
passing the little garden gate which opens
into the Withington Road, my dear Papa
had reached it — running, of course, all the
way through the garden — in time to wave
his sweet and sad farewell to us, as we
passed once more, and parted from my
dear old home, to enter into a new and
unknown life, full of hope; but — who
knows the untried land ? I, nineteen years
old, had no doubt of the love and joy
before me, and my only pang was the
leaving all that was so dear to me, my
only doubt whether I could deserve such
bliss, my only wonder that this beautiful
dream could be fulfilled. My dear Papa!
65 1
I still see before me his beautiful earnest
face! What a father he had been to me,
and how intensely I loved and admired
him! We had only a short wedding tour
in Devonshire, and rejoiced to arrive at
our dear little house on Champion Hill,
which Alfred had made so pretty for me.
It was full of reminders of past and
present, and the very picture of comfort.
The two nice young servants Aunt Iette
had engaged for us received us — Martha
the cook and Jane the housemaid. They
had made all so bright and nice. (How
often, in later times, I have thought how
nice it was, to have only two servants ! )
66
The picture of Withington House hung
in the dear little drawing-room, and it
was months before I discovered that my
good old friend, Mr. Koch, had had it
painted for me without telling me who
was the donor. It only came out through
Mama happening to read aloud a letter
from me, in his presence, in which I had
expressed how happy its possession made
me. This so touched the good old man
that the secret oozed out.
What shall I say of our first years of
home life? We were very kindly re^
ceived by every one, and we had many
delightful, interesting friends. Never, from
6 7
the first evening of our arrival in the dear
little Champion Hill house, with its pretty-
view, and its bright little garden, did I feel
strange for a moment ; I had all I could
have pictured to myself, to make me more
than contented. My dear husband's only-
thought was to make me happy, and he
spoiled me then and all my life, as few
wives have been spoiled. It was not
like coming to a new world for me, as I
knew the little house before, where my
brother-in-law Herman, with his amiable
wife, Kate, had lived for years before us.
And I also knew many of the friends
who gave me such a warm welcome.
68
And had I not a feeling almost like that
of a daughter in the house of my kindest
of aunts, Aunt Iette, who, as well as
Uncle William, made me feel as though I
belonged to them! Aunt Iette remained
to her last day the same motherly friend
to me* She died in 1893, loved and
missed by all who knew her, young and
old. Her children are still as affec^
tionate as ever to me. Their number is
now, alas! much smaller than it was,
and the three who still live together at
Denmark Hill — Lily, Cecile, and Charley —
and I, meet as often as we can, though far
too seldom.
69
The first few years of our life were
busy ones for Alfred. There were no
Saturday and Bank Holidays then, and I
passed long days alone ; and twice a week,
on mail days, he came home very late at
night, at ten or eleven o'clock. But this
was the same with all men of business,
and I never felt lonely, having many
friends, and my music, which was such a
pleasant occupation. Some of our dearest
friends were the family Cross. Florence,
the youngest, was born two days later
than Amy, and has always remained one
of her dearest friends, and no words can
express what that whole family, old and
70
young, has been to me all my life. One
and all, parents and children, had a charm
I have never known in any one else!
Alas! most of them are no longer living.
The fascinating Zibbie (afterwards Mrs.
Hall), the sweet Mary, the original
Eleanor, died long ago. Emily Otter, my
sweet friend, died only in 1905. Florence
Eve has been, and will always be, as
she was, one of my life's jewels.
I was much interested in starting a
"Choral Society" under the direction of
Ernst Pauer, a young pianist who had
just come to London, and had plenty of
time to help me. This was a source
71
of great pleasure to me. He also gave me
some lessons. Another time I played a
good deal with Louis Riess's accompany
ment. Then I played duets with Wilhelm
Ganz. I also took a few singing lessons
from Mathilde Graumann, who soon mar*
ried Marches!, and is still the celebrated
teacher, Mme. Marchesi, in Paris, now
above eighty years old. I had many
musical advantages and pleasures, which
have helped me to keep up my music to
a certain degree. No one knows what a
joy my singing has been to me, though
chiefly to myself, as I had never had
my voice properly trained, as is always
72
thought an utter necessity nowadays.
I never had a fine or a strong voice, but
I doubt whether any one ever derived
more real pleasure from singing the many
beautiful songs that seemed part of
my life, than I did. I had always been
spoiled by my mother's and my sister
Juliet's beautiful accompaniments, and
that was always my difficulty, but in
that again I was most fortunate.
One of our great friends, who often
came to accompany me, was Dr. Beneke,
who was at the German Hospital; an*
other equally sympathetic accompanist
was Dr. Becker, our ever^welcome friend
73 K
(Prince Albert's librarian). Not only
was he a most delightful friend to us,
but a very interesting one also, as he
had so much to tell us of his charming
life at Court, where he was in a delight*
ful position of real intimacy with Prince
Albert, for whom he was quite enthusiastic,
and was also much connected with the
education of all the royal children. He
came to us very often, and through him
we saw and heard all sorts of interesting
things. Among others, he took me into
Buckingham Palace on the occasion of
the Princess Royal's marriage to the
Crown Prince of Prussia, and I stood at
74
the foot of the staircase inside the Palace
and saw the whole party come down
the stairs, being so close that I could
have touched them; and when the bridal
party had driven off to church, I was
shown through many of the private rooms
— for instance, the nurseries, where the
children's toys were standing about just
as in a private house,
I also for a time had Adolph Riess
regularly to accompany me. We saw
much, too, of the MacGregors, and Mrs.
MacGregor accompanied me, or we played
together. Alfred was always so good in
urging me to hear music, and to how
75
many delightful concerts I used to go; and
a still greater pleasure was that of seeing
many artists at our house, Madame
Schumann stayed with us several times,
I forget in what year she first played in
England, but well remember that first
concert. She, Joachim, and Stockhausen
came to London together. Music was
then at a very different ebb in England
to what it is now, and Schumann was
simply perfectly unknown. Madame
Schumann was determined to introduce
him in England, and persisted in play^
ing his compositions. He was neither
understood nor liked, and both her playing
7 6
of his compositions and Stockhausen's
perfect singing of his beautiful songs
enraged people. The first concert was
a matine'e at the Hanover Square Rooms*
I had arranged to be there t and take
the three artists home with me for
dinner. No one applauded. It was most
painful ; in fact, here and there, there was
a sort of suppressed hissing! After the
concert I went into the artists' room.
What a scene! Madame Schumann in
tears, and sobbing ; Stockhausen in a rage,
having torn his music to bits; Joachim
trying to pacify both.
Is it not strange to think of that, and
77
of how Madame Schumann and Schu*
mann's music was appreciated and loved
in later years? Our drive home. was very-
painful, but in the course of the evening,
after a rest, the sky brightened, and all were
very amiable. Our first staying visitors
were our dear old friends Mr. and Mrs.
Gruber, on their way to Germany, very
soon after our marriage. How proud we
felt to show our guests our pretty little
home! Alfred was always so kind and
hospitable, and so genial to every one,
and I always had the name, even when
a little girl, of inviting every one I met.
I must say it has been one of my great
78
pleasures to see many friends at our
home. About a year after our marriage
a Dusseldorf artist, named Schex, called
on us, very warmly recommended by my
grandfather Dethmar. He often came
to us, but it soon became obvious that
he got no orders for portraits, and was
using up all his means, and earning
nothing. One day he entreated me to
allow him to paint my portrait in order
to have something to show. I was very
much disinclined for it, but Alfred thought
we ought to say "yes," and it was done.
When it was finished we thought it
would be best to give a large party
79
and exhibit it. This was our first
large party — a dance ! and a great event
for us, and I confess a great plea-
sure.
Our house was tiny t and our friends
many, and we really did take a good deal
of trouble, and I do believe the success
was chiefly owing to the pleasure that
everything gave to those who knew the
difficulties of it. The only possible room
to dance in was our dining-room — the
only possible supper-room, our bedroom;
these two had to be cleared of all fur-
niture, some of which was carried into
the garden, but much of it into an
80
upstairs bedroom, where we had to sleep
that night, and which was so full of
tables and cupboards and sideboards that
I literally had to dress standing on the
bed. Such things could not happen nowa*
days, but I can only say it much increased
the charm for us. Many friends had
been most kind in helping me all day
with arranging the flowers, cutting up
" hering'Salat," &c, and it really was
all very nice. Mr. Schex's picture was
placed in the drawing-room and much
admired, and on that very evening he got
so many orders, that it was indeed well
worth the effort of our party. Among
81 l
these was one for the portrait of our
friend, Mrs, Havenith, which certainly-
turned out to be his best picture. She
was not young, but very handsome, and
very delicate, the mother of seven chik
dren. About a year after this Mr. Hav^
enith died; later on Mr. Schex married
her, knowing that she had probably not
long to live, but determined to be a
good stepfather to her children, which
promise he nobly performed.
In the year 1851 our oldest child, Ida,
was born. The very first nurse I had
for her was Charlotte Frost, the only
nurse I ever had for all our children,
82
and long after they were grown up she
stayed on as our maid, always travelling
with us, &c. She left us, old, and very
feeble, after thirty^seven years of faithful
service, and lived with some nieces in
Brighton till her death. I do not believe
there ever was a more faithful person
in the world. She would have died for
any of our children! As Amy was ex*
tremely delicate, even very ill for some
years, she always travelled with us wher^
ever we went, and nursed and cared for
her devotedly. One year, Amy being
stronger, my husband and I much wished
to give ourselves a treat, and travel without
83
a servant, when we were going to spend
a few months in Italy. How often I
tried to tell poor old Charlotte this, and
had not the courage! At last it had to
be done. She stared at me in utter amaze^
ment, as if I were demented. At last
she said, "You cannot know what you
are saying. Suppose one of you were
ill, and I not with you. And who is
to pack for you and brush your clothes,
and who is to hold Miss Amy's parasol
when she is sketching, and carry her
things for her ? " All I could say was
useless, till at last I said we wished to
save ourselves the expense of taking her,
84
upon which she replied, "Well, there is
some sense in that! But it's your own
fault that I am such an expense* Why-
do you take second class for me, and
not third when we travel ? Why do you
take a bedroom when you know how
gladly I would lie on the floor by Miss
Amy's bedside? Well, suppose now I
were to give up one year's wages, or
suppose I paid for my living while we
were away, would not that do ? " Of
course she went abroad with us. This
story is only one of many proofs of her
attachment.
We have all our lives been most
85
fortunate with our servants. This was,
however, not owing to my management,
for nothing was such a trial to me
in my housekeeping as having to find
fault with them, and my husband often
told me I really ought to be more firm
and strict. One day, I found a little
marble vase we had bought on our wed*
ding tour, smashed. I thought I must
now pretend to be very angry, so I told
the girl under whose care it was, how
vexed I was at her carelessness, and that I
knew her master would be much annoyed
about it, as he was so fond of that vase.
She quietly let me have my say, and then
86
exclaimed, "Please, ma'am, Master broke
it himself this morning." And I felt duly-
punished for my hypocritical scolding.
One of our most faithful servants was
a great original, our coachman, Kingston.
He was with us about thirty years. He,
too, was touchingly fond of us all. Our
children all loved him, and when Frank
was quite a little fellow, he said one day,
"When I die, I should like to fly to
heaven with that angel, Kingston." It
was very difficult to make him feel that
when his poor old hand shook so ter*
ribly, when he was more than seventy
years old, we could not safely let him
87
continue to drive. My husband told him
he should keep his old position, his old
rooms over the stable, and his old wages,
if he would only kindly permit him to
have a second man for driving, and at
last he consented to this. Another faiths
ful servant was Bick, the gardener, who
was with us twenty^seven years. One
day we found out that every time we
went away for the winter, he retired to
bed, for months, as he had some ailment
of which we did not know, and was for*
bidden to go out in the cold or damp.
Of course we assured him we would
pension him, but we had the hardest
88
work to make him leave. He declared
he would not go, saying, "I am very
comfortable here. I have a nice cottage
in which I have always said I would live
and die. I can give my orders from my
bed. I don't see it! If you had had
a plant in your garden for twenty^seven
years would you uproot it ? * However,
at last he did "see it/' and is still alive
(1906) and very comfortable. I ought not
to leave unsaid a very unusual fact in
my mention of this old gardener. When
we began giving him his pension, he
actually refused to accept it, as he said
he thought he would be able to work in
89 m
the summer, and to live quite comfort'
ably, unless he were ill, in which case he
would get quite as much as he would
want from the clubs he had paid into for
many years — at any rate during the first
months of his illness. It was therefore
arranged by his wish that he should be
sure to let us know if at any time of his
life he received less than 12s. per week,
which we would always make up to
him. For many years he did not ask us
for anything. Then he became quite an
invalid, and still assured us his clubs
paid more than he really required. Later
on, when those paid him only 4s. per
90
week for his life, I sent him 8s., when he
assured me he only required 4s. from
me, as the club allowed him 4s* and his
children gave him 4s. This is such a
rare case of honesty that I cannot leave it
unmentioned. But I will go back to our
oldest child, Ida. She was always a
quiet, studious little girl, fond of reading
and her lessons, and when grown up she
took much more interest in life in London
than in the country, having more oppor*
tunities to hear lectures and occupy her-
self with social questions, such as the
Charity Organisation Society, educational
questions, &c. (Later on she was for
91
some time a Poor Law Guardian.) All
these occupations she could not find so
well in the country, and she early showed
the decided wish to leave her home, and
live in London. This was a great trial
to my husband, who considered her too
young to leave her parental roof alone,
but she was so decided in her wish that
he gave way after a hard struggle, and
later on, we often felt that it was far
happier for her to live her own life,
which she had thought out for herself,
and in which she was of great use, and
worked energetically and conscientiously
for many years. She went to live in
92
London in 1883, at first in lodgings, and
then in a nice little flat at Hampstead,
spending Saturday and Sunday mostly
with us at Cleveland. Later on, when
we spent our winters at Cannes, she often
came to us for some weeks, and she made
several other journeys, partly for health,
partly for enjoyment, once to America,
once to Greece, &c. Ida was very fond
of her uncle Ernest, who lived in Paris,
at the pretty Abbe* aux Bois, and often
spent weeks with him there, which they
both much enjoyed. She also stayed
several times with my mother at Wies^
baden, and was with her when she died.
93
Our second daughter, Juliet, was born
in 1852. She was very different to her
sister Ida in every respect, both outwardly
and inwardly. She gave her teachers, &c,
much more trouble than her older, indus*
trious little sister, and often rebelled against
them. But she was a very sweet and
bright part of our home life, and a great
favourite of her grandfather's. In 1875 she
married August von Stralendorff, who
lived in Manchester. On the evening of
her engagement, when I told our faithful
old nurse Charlotte about it, she burst
into tears and sobs, and was utterly upset !
She kept on exclaiming with real grief,
94
" Oh, I shall never get over it ! I feel just
as if Pd been shot ! It's all very well for
you: you must have known about it, but
no one ever told me anything about it.
Oh dear, oh dear!" The poor old thing
was really quite ill, and I had to send for
the doctor for her. The parting from our
Juliet was a great pang to us both, for
she was very young and a great joy to
us. But, on the other hand, to see her
so happy and so loved by her husband
was a great comfort to us both, and I
think I may say that the old story about
sons and mothers-in-law did not come true
in our case. August has always been an
95
affectionate son to me, and their seven
dear children a great joy to their grand-
parents. Happily they have always liked
to be with us, and our only regret has
been that we could not see more of them,
which, of course, schools, our spending
six months of the year at Cannes, &c,
made impossible. The only two of Juliet's
children who have been to us in our
Cannes home are Ulric (before going to
Canada) and Inez, who has several times
paid us a visit there, which, I am glad
to say, she much enjoyed. They are
now all grown up, except the youngest,
Gerald, who is still (1906) at Charterhouse.
96
Juliet's two youngest children, who
were always very devoted to each other,
were once overheard, when they were
quite young, in the following nice little
conversation : —
Gladys to Gerald. "I don't think I
should much care to go to heaven/'
Gerald. "Oh, / should! I think it
would be so nice to see so many of
one's relations and ancestors/'
Gladys- "But if we did see them, we
shouldn't know them/'
Gerald. "Oh, that would be quite
easy, Jesus would just take us by the
hand and introduce us to them/'
97 N
In 1854 our first boy, Alfred, was
born. It was really remarkable by what
a number of accidents and illnesses he
was pursued in his childhood, and even
later in his life. When four years old
he fell from the top to the bottom of
the stairs, and was insensible for hours.
When a few years older he had an awful
fall from the verandah of the Champion
Hill house, falling on to the stones of
the kitchen area, twelve feet high; he
broke no bones, but rather hurt his head,
and bit through his tongue, which
bled profusely. He was unconscious for
hours, and we were terribly anxious, as
98
was also our good friend Dr. Elliot. He
sent for his partner, Dr. Nichol, who
horrified me by saying, " If this child lives,
he ought to have a good whipping for
climbing on to that rail." He did quite
recover, but got no whipping. Another
time his lip was cut through by a stick.
Again, at school, a boy threw a bottle at
him and cut his forehead deeply. Another
boy bent back his finger and broke the
bone; the finger remained quite crooked,
which put an end to his violin playing,
which I now confess I did not much
regret, as I never thought he had much
talent. When he was about sixteen he
99
was travelling with his father in France;
when near Lyons they saw from the rail*
way carriage a shepherd flinging a large
stone at the train. Of course it must
needs enter the window at which he sat,
breaking it, and hitting him with great
force above the eye. It bled so violently
that they were obliged to get out at the
next station and have it sewn up. When
grown up, he had a very serious acci^
dent playing cricket. Later on, he went
to America on business, fell down on the
ship, which was rolling heavily, and
put out his knee. It is wonderful that
he got over all these accidents, but also
100
wonderful that they still pursue him. He
has lately spent two years at Johannesburg,
where he fell down and broke a rib and
much hurt his ankle. When a young
man Alfred went to India, where he married
Nellie, the daughter of General Kempster.
They have only one child, Norah, who
is now studying singing in Paris, where
her mother and she have spent some
years, while Alfred was in South Africa,
from where he has now returned, having
hoped in vain to find some position there.
Norah is a dear girl and very musical,
and has worked very hard, and most
warmly do I hope her exertions may
101
be crowned with the success which she
deserves.
Amy, our fourth child, was born in 1857.
She was a delicate and very tender-hearted
little thing. When quite young I had
been nursing my daughter Juliet through
scarlet fever, and had taken it myself, and
I recollect being much touched by hearing
a gentle little knock at my door, one day
when I was in bed, and her weak little
voice calling out to me, "Mama, I have
stroked the cow/* which meant a great
deal, as the poor child was always so
terribly frightened of cows, and I could
not induce her to go near one, and she
102
thought this act of heroism would please
me. In the year 1885 we spent a few
weeks at Berlin in November, and the
last day of our stay there Amy felt very
ill. She had a great wish to get home,
and we ventured the journey. It proved
a very serious illness, one which lasted
for years, years of deep anxiety to us,
which perhaps linked us even more closely
together. Most patiently she bore her
great pain, and I have often thought she
could not have pulled through if she had
not had such energy. By Sir William
Jenner's advice, we spent the winter of 1886
to 1887 at San Remo in the Villa Giulia.
103
In many ways we enjoyed it, especially
as our darling got much better, but in
February, the terrible earthquake was a
great shock to us, and although we were
some of the very few who did not leave
San Remo after it, we were thankful
when the day arrived for our departure.
Our house was not really injured, but
so many of the small mountain^towns
and villages suffered so terribly, and one
could not for a moment lose the impression
of the sad things one heard of every day,
and saw, when one drove about to try
to bring a little help to the sufferers. It
happened quite early on the morning of
104
Ash* Wednesday, when we were awakened
by the terrible loud rumbling noise under
ground, exactly like the roaring of wild
beasts, and only became aware of the
cause, when our beds were violently
shaken. It was an awful moment, never
to be forgotten. The scenes afterwards
were most remarkable, the streets and
gardens full of people, too frightened to
go back to their homes. It was such a
heavenly morning, so clear and still. Most
people left San Remo at once; the hotels
were closed, the shops shut up — it was
like a dead city! A little mountain town
about four hours off, called Bayardo, had
105 o
suffered terribly, 250 people all having
been killed by a church falling in. That
winter, the American singer David Bispham,
who has since become so celebrated, was
spending at San Remo. At that time he
had not meant to become an artist, but
his splendid voice and talent were a great
pleasure to every one. After the earthquake
he showed wonderful energy and kindness
in helping in every way, visiting the most
damaged places himself, and rendering
assistance in the most noble way. We
stayed six weeks longer, but sad weeks
they were. When the next winter came,
we could not make up our minds to go
106
abroad again, and Sir W. Jenner allowed
Amy to try Hastings, but she was there
taken ill again, and we had to spend many
months there before we could bring her
home, instead of a few weeks, as we had
hoped; and when the next winter came,
it was decided that we must make it a
rule to spend it in a warmer clime. We
could not face San Remo again, so we
settled in 1889 at Cannes, where we have
spent every winter since. Amy is our
youngest daughter, and has been our
constant companion. She has been the
light of our home, the joy of her
father and me: also a most precious
107
aunt to her nephews and nieces,
often recalling to my mind Stevenson's
words : —
TO AUNTIES
** Chief of our Aunts/' not only I
But all our dozens of nurslings cry,
"What did the other children do?
And what were children, wanting you ? M
And not only as aunt and daughter
and friend to so many has she played
such a part in our home life, she has
also given pleasure to many by her talent
for painting and her artistic nature,
Our youngest child, Frank, was born
in 1867, just while we were going through
an awful time of anxiety, as Alfred had
108
been sent home from Mr, Andresen's
school at Finchley Road with typhoid
fever, which he had most seriously, being
unconscious for six weeks, Frank was
a very sweet little fellow; I wish I could
recall some of his pretty little sayings.
I remember his once asking me, when
quite a little boy, "Mama, why is God
so particularly fond of mice ? " When
I said I did not know that He was, he
said, "But you taught me in my evening
prayer to say to Him, * Pity mice implicitly '
(the words in the prayer are Pity my
simplicity), and so I always thought mice
were God's special favourites V*
109
Frank was so much younger than all
the others that he stood much alone. For
a time he had a tutor named Bulley, from
whom he did not learn much, but who
was devoted to him and his companion,
Will Meredith, who joined him in his
lessons. He had the very original plan
of punishing Frank when Will had been
naughty, and vice versa ; thinking it would
make more impression.
Frank tried farming in Kent, but alas!
without success, and then went out to
New Zealand. The parting from him
and the separation has been one of the
greatest, perhaps the greatest of our trials,
no
but happily he seems contented with his
very lonely and simple life in his new
country, which is our comfort in thinking
of him. He writes affectionately, and I
know our thoughts often meet.
Our first governess, when our two
oldest girls were still very young, was
Miss Bourne (later Mrs. Campbell), who
was with us many years, in fact till we
moved to Cleveland Lodge, going abroad
with us several times, and proving herself
a most devoted friend ; she faithfully helped
with nursing when Alfred had typhoid
fever, when he was about fourteen years
old. Ida and Juliet were chiefly educated at
ill
Miss Thornley's school, which was close
to our house, and they lived at home and
spent their mornings there, where they
had, among other advantages, that of
having very interesting lectures on Shake*
speare and General Literature from George
Macdonald. They had various music
masters, I fear none who were very
satisfactory. Their first one was a
miserable Mr. Bres, then they had a good
master but not very sympathetic, called
Ergmann, and later on a very sweet Miss
Pignatel, who was replaced by Miss Sarah
Carmichael. Amy also had lessons from
Mr. Giinther, whom I always considered
112
a good master, but whom she so dis^
liked that I fear he quite for the time
killed her wish to learn music. How^
ever, she was never strong enough to
learn both music and painting well, and
begged to be allowed to devote all
her time to painting, which I think was
the right thing, though I have often felt
that she had a truly musical nature.
After we came to Cleveland Lodge, we
had a German governess for the girls, who
stayed on for Amy after Ida and Juliet were
grown up. Her name was Gardthausen.
I fear they did not enjoy their lessons with
her as I wish they could have done.
113 p
Alfred spent some years at Marlborough
College, and very much he enjoyed them.
For some time he had also had a very
nice tutor, Mr. Harbord.
For many years we went to the Ger^
man Church while at Champion Hill,
where Mr. Meyer was the clergyman,
but later on we very much preferred the
Independent Chapel, of which Mr. Bald'
win Brown was the minister, a man
whose sermons we extremely liked, and
who also, as a man and friend, was very
sympathetic to us. Later, when living at
Cleveland, we went to the English Church.
I remember with pleasure my Sundays at
114
Withington before my marriage, when I
often went with my father to Mr. John
James Taylor's Unitarian Chapel, or
later on to Mr. Marotzky's German
Church.
On November 29, 1852, my parents
celebrated their silver wedding at Witlv
ington. They wished no notice to be
taken of the day except by their own
children, who all assembled around them,
except my brother, who was then staying
at Hamburg. We went to Manchester
the day before, with our two little girls,
and received the "silver couple " in the
morning with flowers, presents, &c. In
"5
the evening we were sitting quietly to
gether when my father was called out to
speak to a "working man" who wished
to see him. This was our friend Mr.
Kling, one of the older members of the
German Colony, in fancy dress, who
begged to be admitted with his friends
— and a stream of German friends, old
and young, followed, all in different Ger*
man peasants' costumes, carrying some
of them their children, most of them fruit
and flowers in baskets, also more sub'
stantial gifts for the supper table, for
they stayed all the evening. It really
was a lovely picture. Madame Wiegmann,
116
the talented artist, had helped with
the arrangement, and it was charming
and most touching and overpowering to
hear all the congratulations and marks of
affection and gratitude to our dear parents,
who were, of course, delighted, though at
first overcome. When all were grouped
and had shaken hands with the "silver
couple," a poem was recited, which, I be-
lieve, Mr. Kling had composed, and I
need not say what a joy it all was to
parents and children. The evening ended
very merrily with healtlvdrinking, &c.
Mr. William Rohmer represented an
organ-grinder, and played some merry
117
dances, to which the children danced;
in short, it was a lovely scene.
The following is the poem which was
recited : —
** Es ist uns eben zu Ohren gekommen,
Und haben wir freudigen Sinnes vernommen,
Wie heute, es sind nun zwanzig und fiinf Jahr
Aus Karl und Adelheid ward ein gliicklich' Paar !
Da haben wir uns denn aufgemacht
Damit der Gliickwunsch werd' angebracht
Trotz Wind und "Wetter, trotz Sturm und Regen,
Zu treten freudig Euch entgegen!
In hellen Haufen zogen wir aus
Zu begriissen dieses gluckliche Haus,
Und kommen zu dem frohen Feste —
Wir hoffen, als willkommene Gaste.
Alt und Jung und Gross und Klein
Jeder will der Erste sein
118
Bruder, Schwester und Verwandte
Treue Freunde und Bekannte,
Alle drangen sich herbei
Dass der Jubel voll, auch, sei!
Und gar lieblich anzuschauen
Nah'n sich jetzt die holden Frauen
Aus den heimathlichen Gauen:
Julie, Thecla und Marie,
Constanz, Adelheid, Sophie
Augen schwarz, und braun und blau
Blondinen, Briinetten, nicht Eine grau!
Schwer beladen mit den Gaben
Durch die uns Dian* und Ceres laben
Legen sie zu Euren Fiissen!
Mdchten sie mit Euch geniessen!
Bachus stellt sich auch wohl ein
Denn das Fest erst kront der Wein.
Freude strahlend in Geberde
Folgen, dann die Herrn der Erde
119
Leer sind ihre Hande wohl
Doch das Herz zum Springen voll!
Alle wiinschen hundert Jahr'
Noch dem lieben Jubelpaar
Gliicklich in der Kinder Schar!
Alle rufen mit mir aus:
Heil und Gliick stets diesem Haus!"
When our children were young we went
to Germany with them several times,
chiefly to stay with my mother*in4aw,
who lived at Buckeburg* When we had
only two children we spent some weeks
there. Charlotte our nurse, and the two
English "babies," were quite a sight in
the little German town (I believe the
smallest principality in Germany), and
120
ever so many people used to come in
to see them washed and dressed. The
"Fiirst" von Btickeburg was one of the
richest German princes, an old man, but
known for his stinginess. His wife was
an intimate friend of my mother-in-law's,
and they were always most friendly to
us. Many stories existed relating to this
royal couple. Certainly the extraordinarily
shabby furniture of their palace, the stuff*
ing peeping out of all their chairs, &c,
told a tale. It was related that the prince
had given his greatcoat, which was quite
worn-out, to his gamekeeper. The next
day, when he was going out to shoot, it
121 Q
rained, and he could not make up his
mind to wear his new one. He there*
fore borrowed the old one for the day.
He was putting some sandwiches into
his pocket when they kept falling on to
the ground, upon which he exclaimed,
"Oh, to be sure, I forgot that I cut
out the pockets before giving away the
coat, as they were still quite good."
While we were there, a Court ball took
place, to which we were invited. When
we wanted to order a fly, my mother*
in4aw said, "Oh, every one always
sends for the state carriage on such
occasions! You see, the prince pays his
122
coachman no wages, and he lives by
these things."
The ball began very early (it was
summer), and it was not quite dark
when we arrived; the candles were just
being lighted, and as soon as one
was lighted, the prince followed and
blew it out, saying, "It is not dark
enough yet. It is too extravagant to
light so many candles at this time."
When the dancing began, the Ftirstinn
came to me, saying, "I am so sorry
the music is so bad to-night. The first
violinist is ill, so I hope you will
be lenient. Of course you must be
123
accustomed to so much better music
at Vauxhall Gardens." It was like a
peep into the old-world times*
When Frank was about three months
old (in 1 1867) we left Champion Hill, which
had been indeed a happy home to us for
seventeen years, and spent the winter with
all our children in Leipzig, where Ida and
Juliet were confirmed by Pastor Dreydorff,
going at once, when we returned to Eng^
land in 1868, to live at Cleveland Lodge,
Dorking, our sweet home to the present
day. It was a great wrench to us to
leave so many old friends, among them
the Schwartz's, Triers, and others, but
124
we had various reasons for wishing to
live more in the country*
We had long spoken of this move.
Alfred's health had not been quite
satisfactory, and it was thought that
farther away from the town would be
better for him. Besides this we imagined
that in many ways for the children, as
they grew older, the country interests
would have a great charm. Our circle
of friends had grown so large that we
longed for a little more quiet, which we
could only get by going further away
from London. We were, however, quite
undecided as to the neighbourhood which
125
would suit us, when, in the year 1867,
on Juliet's birthday, we took the children
for a day into the country to Box Hill.
We lunched in the little Burford Bridge
Inn garden, where it was very sweet, and
the children were so happy. We asked
the waiter whether we could have heard
that there was a house to let somewhere
near, belonging to a Mr. Wylie, and he
told us it was close by, but he did not
know whether it was to let. This was
Cleveland Lodge, and we walked up to
it. On reaching the front door, we rang
the bell, but I said to Alfred, "No, I
could not live in that house! In fact
126
there is no house to be seen. It is like
the door of a little dissenting chapel."
But when the door opened, and we saw
that lovely garden and that sweet, com*
fortable^looking hall, going first through
a small greenhouse, filled with lovely ferns
and flowers, we were simply enchanted,
and much cast down by the servant saying
Mr. and Mrs. Wylie were out, but he had
never heard that they were leaving, and
thought it must be a mistake. He said
he was sure we might just go through
the downstairs rooms and the garden,
which we did. It was a glorious day in
June, and we felt as if we were dreaming
127
when we entered the sweet drawing-room,
so tastefully furnished, and so full of
pretty things, its bow-windows open to
the charmingly kept garden filled with
lovely flowers, the picture framed, as it
were, by the beautiful background of Box
Hill. We wandered all over the sweet
place, and said to each other, "Either
this must be our new home, or we will
stay at Champion Hill." The next day
Alfred called on Mr. Wylie in the city,
and found that they really did mean to
let their house; we made use of the first
possible day to see the place thoroughly,
fell more and more in love with it, and
128
to our unspeakable joy, all was soon
decided, and Cleveland Lodge was to be
our future home. What fortunate people
we thought ourselves! and we never
altered our first impression. It was * love
at first sight." While we were in Germany
our excellent Clara, the housemaid, who
had lived many years with us, and was
one in a thousand, a real jewel, managed
the whole move for us, and when we
returned to England, we spent two or
three days at the Burford Bridge Hotel
while all was got quite ready, and very
soon were settled in our new home.
I recollect so well that some time after
129 R
this, my parents came to spend a few-
days with us ! We had purposely not
written too much about it all, wishing
to see their first unbiassed impressions,
and their delight and surprise were a
great joy to us. They were charmed
with everything. We took them the sweet
drive through the Denbies with our then
very simple carriage arrangements ; a
pretty large landau with only one horse
and a very ordinary coachman, who was
not with us long.
The time at Leipzig was a very de^
lightful one in many ways. Our children
had many interesting lessons, and we
130
enjoyed the music there extremely, and
were most kindly received by the
Schuncks and many other friends. The
object of our going, however, was to my
mind not carried out successfully. My
great wish had been to have my children
prepared for confirmation by Schwartz
of Gotha, who was and has remained
and will remain my ideal of a teacher
and guide of religion. How often I have
found myself wishing that I had been
under his influence at that time of my
life — his religion was so completely that
of love and charity and large-hearted^
ness! Unfortunately we were dissuaded
131
from going to Gotha for various reasons;
the climate was considered bad for young
children, and Schwartz was thought too
unorthodox or freethinking, and we were
advised to have them confirmed by Drey*
dorff, which I have never ceased to regret,
for he called forth no sort of enthusiasm
in them.
On returning to England, we soon
grew very fond of our new home at
Cleveland Lodge. The country life and
lovely garden have been a very great
pleasure to us; and we have been able
to give much pleasure to others, also,
through them. My husband was always
132
genial and hospitable to all, and loved to
see his friends around him. We had
many very nice people among our new
neighbours, too. It would lead too far to
enumerate them; but some of those who
soon became part of our intimate circle
were Sir Thomas land Lady Paine and their
daughters, who have remained amongst
our best friends. I should also like
here to name our kind and valued friends,
Mr. Clark and his family. He was our
doctor, and our help and comfort in many
an anxious hour. He was equally sym^
pathising and attentive, not only as medi*
cal man but also as friend, and deeply
133
did Amy and I feel his death in the year
1906.
One of our very valued friends has
been Arthur Severn, the well-known waters
colour painter, who often came to see us.
He was very kind to Amy, in taking
great interest in her painting. Through
him she was enabled to make the ac*
quaintance of Ruskin, and even to stay
with him and the Severns at Brantwood
several times, which was always a great
enjoyment to her,
One act of friendship of Mr. Severn's
I can never sufficiently thank him for.
He made the beautiful pencil drawing of
134
my husband, the reproduction of which
is in this book, and which has charmed
every one who has seen it, and is to me
an invaluable possession.
Some of our dearest friends were the
daughters of the charming old Canon
Tinling, Rhoda and Beatrice. We often
met, both in England and abroad.
Among others we knew rather an ork
ginal old lady, a Mrs. Gough Nichols,
who had been a widow many years.
One day she invited all her friends to
celebrate her Golden Wedding Day! It
was a very large party, with tents for
meals, music, fireworks in the evening,
135
and every sort of amusement. She her*
self, a very handsome old lady, was
dressed very elegantly, and made a charm*
ing hostess, explaining to her friends that
she could not see why she should not
celebrate the anniversary of the day that
had made her such a proud and happy
woman, and ask her children and grand*
children and friends to rejoice with her,
though her husband was no longer there
to spend it with them; and that she
knew he would have liked to see so
many people around them on that day.
The years fled on, our children grew
up, some married, some left home; and
136
we had, of course like every one, our
trials and anxieties, as well as more than
our share of joy and gladness. The
links of the old chain of friends of course
grew fewer and fewer. My dear father
died at Withington in 1872. How he
was mourned, not only by his nearest
and dearest, but by all who knew him, no
words can say. My mother later on left
England and bought a house at Wies^
baden, where we often stayed with her,
and spent very delightful days. She died
there in 1890. After her death we three
sisters and my husband spent a sad but
in a way very happy time in her house
137 s
together, wishing to arrange all her affairs
as she would have liked. She loved
giving pleasure to others, and we spent
our time together there thinking and talk*
ing of what she had been, and what the
old home had been to us, and selecting
and sending off very many keepsakes
which we thought she would have liked
many of her old friends to have. We
sisters also each took our share of the
many personal treasures she had left, and
I cannot help remembering with warm
gratitude how sweetly my husband helped
us in all this, and how not a word was
uttered by him all those weeks that was
not soothing and comforting and kind,
138
and also how clearly we three sisters felt,
during that time, how we had always
understood each other, and should always,
to the end, be bound together by a chain
which nothing could break or bend. It
was a precious time to all of us, and I
think my sisters must have felt what
a real and loving brother they had in my
husband. I can truly say that one of
the reasons that I was so happy in my
marriage was, that he was so completely
one of our family.
Our life at Cannes, where we for many
years spent six months of every year, was
very enjoyable. I could tell of many
pleasant visitors we had in our nice Villa
139
Florence, and my husband loved it. In
the year 1900 (on March 14th) we spent
there one of the most beautiful days
of our long married life — our Golden
Wedding Day! Our first wedding day
was joyous indeed, for it gave us to one
another, and that, thank Heaven! told
our whole life's happy story. Our Silver
Wedding Day, spent at Mentone with all
our children (Juliet and August von
Stralendorff met us there on their way
back from Italy, where they had been for
their wedding tour), found us even surer
of one another's love, for the hopes of the
first one had been more than realised,
and now the Golden Wedding Day was
140
the crowning point, and gratitude to God
filled both our hearts for the long life of
bliss, for the permission to bear together
all the happiness, and all the sadness; for
we had had trials — who has not ? — but
they were lightened by each only bearing
half the load. The clouds that had here
and there been spread over our sunny
sky may perhaps have brought us even
nearer together, if that were possible.
This Golden Wedding Day was celebrated
quietly but very brightly. My two dear
sisters came to Cannes for it, also Ida,
and of course the Alfreds, who then lived
at San Remo. Juliet was not able to
come, and poor Frank was far away.
141
But letters and messages from all parts
showed us that we were not forgotten, as
well as the beautiful presents from all
sides and the lovely flowers from our
Cannes friends with which the house was
decorated when we stepped out of our
bedroom door in the morning. The sun
shone upon it all so brilliantly, too; the
whole day was like a lovely dream.
This ought perhaps to end my "talk
of other days." Our married life was
almost over, and how few can tell of such
fifty years as we had been permitted
to spend with one another !
My dear husband's time for rest had
almost come, for in the very year of our
142
Golden Wedding, in November 1900, he
quietly closed his eyes after three days'
illness, and without any acute suffering,
and the saddest day of all my life had
come. We had been at Cannes only ten
days — -Cannes, that he loved so dearly.
How we had looked forward to our
winter there! Never can I forget the
warm sympathy, which helped me so
much, from all our friends at Cannes — in
fact from every one, for he was known
and liked by all with whom long years
had brought him in contact there; and
"the kind old gentleman in grey with his
red tie," always in the same costume and
always with the same genial smile for
143
every one, was missed by all. Soon after
his death, I went into a little shop to
pay a small bill I had found. The old
man in the shop told me how often he
missed the kind face, and added, "I have
always much wanted to know whether
your husband was an Englishman ?
Surely, he cannot have been." I assured
him he had been, when he again said,
" No, it is impossible ; for the English
are not only rude but brutal (pas seule-
ment brusque, mais m&me brutal). They
simply ask for what they want, never
say ' Please ' or ' Thank you/ while he had
always a kind word, a pleasant smile,
a friendly inquiry or message for every
144
*
one. No, he cannot have been an
Englishman."
That afternoon the kind old Bishop
of Gibraltar called on me, and I told him
this story. At first he said, "Yes, it is
so. We are a rude nation." Then he
thought for a moment, and continued,
" No ; I am not sure about it. I think
it is more that we are a shy nation;
we are afraid of our bad French, afraid
of being laughed at," and I think he
was right. But the little incident, at all
events, was a pleasant proof to me of
how much my husband was liked.
Dr. Bright, our kind friend, was a
great comfort to me, and was indeed
145 T
right when he said, with tears in his
eyes, "I can only say, it was beautiful,
a beautiful end to a beautiful life."
And I can say with all my heart —
"I hold it true, whatever befall,
I feel it when I sorrow most,
'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all!*'
I have many blessings left, and dear
children, sisters, and friends to help me,
one of whom (Mr. Davies) has been
most valuable to me also, in arranging
things that I could not have done alone,
and has been ever kindly ready to advise
me. My life never can be the same to
me again, but never can be without the
146
rays of sunshine left to light up its lone^
liness with the remembrance of brighter
days.
I can say no more!
It has been a great pleasure to me to
jot down these old recollections, as it has
made me again live through my long
life. I fear they may be tedious to my
children and grandchildren, for whom I
have written them just as they came into
my head, but they will have patience
with and forgive their loving Mother and
Grandmother, „^« W ^, WT ,
A. BENECKE.
P.S. — I cannot resist adding a short
postscript to this little account of my
147
experiences, as what I should like to
mention has been such a great pleasure
to me since my life has changed so much
at Cannes, that I should be sorry to omit
naming it among the events of my later
years.
In the year 1902 the daughter of the
Wilhelm Souchay whom I have named
in the beginning of my little book, Emilie,
spent the winter at Cannes with her hus^
band, Senator Behn from Lubeck, who
was then very ill. We saw a great deal
of them, and grew very fond of each
other. They intended to come again the
next year, but this plan did not come
true on account of Mr. Behn's death. It
148
was a great joy to me to make Emilie
Behn's acquaintance. The year after that,
she and her sister Cornelie Behn gave
Amy and me the great pleasure of spend-
ing some weeks with us at Cleveland,
They were in every way most sympa-
thetic to both of us, and this new bond
made it a delight to their father and me to
dream on the old dream of many years
ago. In the year 1904 Amy and I travelled
home from Cannes by way of Germany,
as I had long wished to see it once more,
though I much dreaded going to all the
dear old places and people my husband and
I had seen together, without him. We
went to Otto von Lucius' wedding at
149
Berlin (where, among other guests, were
Ellen von Kempis, with her three sweet
little girls), to Frankfurt, Dresden, Leipzig,
Bamberg, and it was a most delightful
journey. Deeply was I touched at the
affection and kindness of all I came
across. At Frankfurt, where I had spent
so many happy days formerly, my niece,
Helene Schmidt, and her husband and
daughters gave us a most warm welcome,
and our nephew, Walter Benecke, with
his wife, and our niece Nellie Mtiller, with
her husband and daughters, kindly came
to Frankfurt to see us, and many were
the pleasant hours we spent with them,
in the Schmidts* pretty and hospitable
150
house. At Berlin I had a great surprise
and pleasure. My old friend Wilhelm
Souchay, when he heard that I was
coming there, most kindly also came to
see me from Lubeck, bringing his wife
and daughters also. One of these (Frau
Lotte Klugmann) is married there, and at
her house we spent a delightful evening,
where they were all assembled. It was
just fifty'Six years since we had met, and
we enjoyed talking of and recollecting
together things and people long, long
gone by. He reminded me that the last
song I sang to him was Mendelssohn's
* Schlummre und traume von kommender Zeit
Die Dir sich bald musz entfalten:
151
Traume, mein Kind, von Freude und Lcid
Traume von lieben Gestalten:
Mogen auch Viele noch kommen und gehen
Miissen Dir neue doch wieder erstehen!
Bleibe nur fein geduldig!" —
And of many things we thought and
spoke together when we were both very
young. Now we are both old, and both
have lived a happy life. We had lost
sight of each other for many years, and
it was a joy to meet again.
Printed by Ballantynb, Hanson <5r* Co.
Edinburgh &* London
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