silent—I was certainly not going to speak out of turn.
“It is not just Jews who are successful,” the Baron said quietly. “Or suspect.”
“Indeed.” Irene turned toward the fireplace and the high-backed chairs I had so coveted. “I think perhaps His Royal Highness could join our conversation now, instead of merely eavesdropping.”
12.
Family Resemblance
Many times subsequently I had the pleasure of meeting him,
and I found less of the airs of office about him than I have
many times seen displayed by third-rate officials, even in our
own dearly beloved ana highly-spoken of democratic republic .
— WILLIAM F. CODY, A.K.A. BUFFALO BILL
A bemused chuckle issued from beyond the right wing chair facing the fire, sounding uncannily like an apologetic throat-clearing as well.
Then a figure rose from the shelter of the chair like a ghost in a Sheridan Le Fanu story.
No ghost he, but a man to whom the word “portly” would be a compliment. I had seldom seen such a fat man, except in the newspapers.
While I stared, the familiar features took undeniable shape: the heavy-lidded, sleepy eyes, both amiable and arrogant; the neatly trimmed mustache and the beard whitening at the corners of his obscured mouth.
One feature was decidedly not familiar. The Prince of Wales was balding quite markedly. I realized with shock that I was seeing him in intimate circumstances common only to family and friends, not to the public. It also occurred to me that all the photos published of him had been made out of doors, when His Royal Highness wore a dignified top hat or a jaunty yachting cap or sportsman’s cloth cap. Hence I deduced that the Prince was vain as well as in line for the throne, although perhaps the latter fact accounted for the first.
He was staring dumbly at Irene and squinting those already half-shut eyes. “You look like what the photographers call a negative of Sarah Bernhardt in her pale-trousered sculpting ensemble. So you are the formidable Madam Norton. I have met you before, have I not? I never forget a pretty face, even when it is later presented to me above a gentleman’s frock coat.”
She approached him, hand extended.
The Prince of Wales was one man she did not force an American-style handshake upon. Instead, he took her limp offered hand while she executed as pretty a curtsy as I have ever seen done, though performed by a woman in trousers.
“It was many years ago,” Irene said. “How kind of Your Royal Highness to remember.”
“Ah. I do not remember where or when, though.”
“Luckily, Your Highness, I could never forget.”
His sleepy eyes fluttered at this flattery. “I trust so.” He leaned as close as his great bulk would permit, and she honored him with the details.
“It was dinner at William Gilbert’s house, Sir, when I was singing in Iolanthe: The Peer and the Peri . Mr. Gilbert enjoyed inviting the ladies of the chorus for a brush with greatness.”
I hoped only I had noticed that Irene had not specified if the greatness to be so brushed with was that of William Gilbert, the renowned librettist, or of the Prince of Wales. “Bertie,” of course, would leap to the conclusion Irene wished him to swallow like the Queen’s pet Pomeranian diving through a hoop for a bit of the dinner roast. Perhaps royalty did not eat roast, on second thought, but I was certain that the Queen’s Pomeranian, and her eldest son and heir, both leaped on her command.
For a moment I envied Americans their wild, ungoverned state.
Irene was showing no sign of being a republican rather than a royalist now though, as she smiled at the Prince.
“I do remember you.” His pudgy forefinger tapped possessively on the soft silk ascot at Irene’s throat. Only I saw her stiffen. “Quite a forward miss, as I recall. Insisted on a private audience.”
“Which your Royal Highness so kindly granted.”
His walrus eyes began to twinkle. “I remember every moment of it. And now you are
“It is not just Jews who are successful,” the Baron said quietly. “Or suspect.”
“Indeed.” Irene turned toward the fireplace and the high-backed chairs I had so coveted. “I think perhaps His Royal Highness could join our conversation now, instead of merely eavesdropping.”
12.
Family Resemblance
Many times subsequently I had the pleasure of meeting him,
and I found less of the airs of office about him than I have
many times seen displayed by third-rate officials, even in our
own dearly beloved ana highly-spoken of democratic republic .
— WILLIAM F. CODY, A.K.A. BUFFALO BILL
A bemused chuckle issued from beyond the right wing chair facing the fire, sounding uncannily like an apologetic throat-clearing as well.
Then a figure rose from the shelter of the chair like a ghost in a Sheridan Le Fanu story.
No ghost he, but a man to whom the word “portly” would be a compliment. I had seldom seen such a fat man, except in the newspapers.
While I stared, the familiar features took undeniable shape: the heavy-lidded, sleepy eyes, both amiable and arrogant; the neatly trimmed mustache and the beard whitening at the corners of his obscured mouth.
One feature was decidedly not familiar. The Prince of Wales was balding quite markedly. I realized with shock that I was seeing him in intimate circumstances common only to family and friends, not to the public. It also occurred to me that all the photos published of him had been made out of doors, when His Royal Highness wore a dignified top hat or a jaunty yachting cap or sportsman’s cloth cap. Hence I deduced that the Prince was vain as well as in line for the throne, although perhaps the latter fact accounted for the first.
He was staring dumbly at Irene and squinting those already half-shut eyes. “You look like what the photographers call a negative of Sarah Bernhardt in her pale-trousered sculpting ensemble. So you are the formidable Madam Norton. I have met you before, have I not? I never forget a pretty face, even when it is later presented to me above a gentleman’s frock coat.”
She approached him, hand extended.
The Prince of Wales was one man she did not force an American-style handshake upon. Instead, he took her limp offered hand while she executed as pretty a curtsy as I have ever seen done, though performed by a woman in trousers.
“It was many years ago,” Irene said. “How kind of Your Royal Highness to remember.”
“Ah. I do not remember where or when, though.”
“Luckily, Your Highness, I could never forget.”
His sleepy eyes fluttered at this flattery. “I trust so.” He leaned as close as his great bulk would permit, and she honored him with the details.
“It was dinner at William Gilbert’s house, Sir, when I was singing in Iolanthe: The Peer and the Peri . Mr. Gilbert enjoyed inviting the ladies of the chorus for a brush with greatness.”
I hoped only I had noticed that Irene had not specified if the greatness to be so brushed with was that of William Gilbert, the renowned librettist, or of the Prince of Wales. “Bertie,” of course, would leap to the conclusion Irene wished him to swallow like the Queen’s pet Pomeranian diving through a hoop for a bit of the dinner roast. Perhaps royalty did not eat roast, on second thought, but I was certain that the Queen’s Pomeranian, and her eldest son and heir, both leaped on her command.
For a moment I envied Americans their wild, ungoverned state.
Irene was showing no sign of being a republican rather than a royalist now though, as she smiled at the Prince.
“I do remember you.” His pudgy forefinger tapped possessively on the soft silk ascot at Irene’s throat. Only I saw her stiffen. “Quite a forward miss, as I recall. Insisted on a private audience.”
“Which your Royal Highness so kindly granted.”
His walrus eyes began to twinkle. “I remember every moment of it. And now you are
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