fond," notwithstanding all the years she has lived in Germany, the Empress is absolutely English still in her heart). They think that life in England--London--spoils one for everything else. I told her I didn't think I was to be pitied for living in Paris--after all, my boy was a Frenchman and all his interests were in France. She asked about Francis, how old he was, and couldn't believe that I was going back to feter his 21 years, and thought it was fortunate for him that his early education had been in England. [Illustration: The Empress Frederick, wearing the Order of the Black Eagle The last portrait of the Empress by the artist Angeli] We talked a little about French literature--I think she reads everything--and she asked about Bayreuth, were there many French people there. I told her the Director of the Grand Opera, among others, who wants to have the "Meistersinger" in France, but Mdme. Wagner is rather unwilling--the choruses, she thinks, are too difficult either to translate or to sing with the true spirit in any other language. The Empress said, "She is quite right; it is one of the most difficult of Wagner's operas, and essentially German in plot and structure. It scarcely bears translation in English and in French would be impossible; neither is the music, in my mind, at all suited to the French character. The mythical legend of the Cycle would appeal more to the French, I think, than the ordinary German life." I daresay she is right. When she congedied me I talked some little time to Prince Solms, Reischach, and others. Then it was getting time for us to go, as we had to take the 4.30 train back to Frankfort. I was standing by the window, from which there is a fine open view over plain and woods, when the Empress came up to say good-bye. She supposed I was going back to France, where I would find my boy. "You are very fortunate to have him still with you; it gives such an interest to your life." She kissed me, and then said sadly, "_My_ task is done--I am quite alone." I watched her go out of the room, across the hall, and up the great staircase, with her long black dress trailing behind, alone--as she said. It must be an awful solitude for her--living there in her beautiful house, filled with art treasures of all kinds, and with friends near all summer at Hombourg, Wiesbaden, etc., who are only too happy to go to her--but her real life is over, and she is as far away from Germany and the throbbing pulse of the nation as if she were a cloistered nun.