but so many things upon it, it was evidently never meant to be opened.”  He moved toward it, Liszt following, asking Comtesse A. if it could be opened.  The things were quickly removed.  Hatzfeldt sat down and played a few bars in rather a halting fashion.  After a moment Liszt said:  “No, no, it is not quite that.”  Hatzfeldt got up.  Liszt seated himself at the piano, played two or three bits of songs, or waltzes, then, always talking to Hatzfeldt, let his fingers wander over the keys and by degrees broke into a nocturne and a wild Hungarian march.  It was very curious; his fingers looked as if they were made of yellow ivory, so thin and long, and of course there wasn’t any strength or execution in his playing—­it was the touch of an old man, but a master—­quite unlike anything I have ever heard.  When he got up, he said:  “Oh, well, I didn’t think the old fingers had any music left in them.”  We tried to thank him, but he wouldn’t listen to us, immediately talked about something else.  When he had gone we complimented the ambassador on the way in which he had managed the thing.  Hatzfeldt was a charming colleague, very clever, very musical, a thorough man of the world.  I was always pleased when he was next to me at dinner—­I was sure of a pleasant hour.  He had been many years in Paris during the brilliant days of the Empire, knew everybody there worth knowing.  He had the reputation, notwithstanding his long stay in Paris, of being very anti-French.  I could hardly judge of that, as he never talked politics to me.  It may very likely have been true, but not more marked with him than with the generality of Anglo-Saxons and Northern races, who rather look down upon the Latins, hardly giving them credit for their splendid dash and pluck—­to say nothing of their brains.  I have lived in a great many countries, and always think that as a people, I mean the uneducated mass, the French are the most intelligent nation in the world.  I have never been thrown with the Japanese—­am told they are extraordinarily intelligent.

We had a dinner one night for Mr. Gladstone, his wife, and a daughter.  Mr. Gladstone made himself quite charming, spoke French fairly well, and knew more about every subject discussed than any one else in the room.  He was certainly a wonderful man, such extraordinary versatility and such a memory.  It was rather pretty to see Mrs. Gladstone when her husband was talking.  She was quite absorbed by him, couldn’t talk to her neighbours.  They wanted very much to go to the Conciergerie to see the prison where the unfortunate Marie Antoinette passed the last days of her unhappy life, and Mr. Gladstone, inspired by the subject, made us a sort of conference on the French Revolution and the causes which led up to it, culminating in the Terror and the execution of the King and Queen.  He spoke in English (we were a little group standing at the door—­they were just going), in beautiful academic language, and it was most interesting, graphic, and exact.  Even W., who knew him well and admired him immensely, was struck by his brilliant improvisation.