a fool in her hands; and, whoever had the merit, the neutrality of England continued.  That was, he repeats more than once, a most critical time for Russia; it was an object almost of life and death to the Czar to keep England dawdling in a state of actual though not avowed neutrality.  It is, he argued, a matter of fact, that precisely this result was attained, and “I shall be slow to believe that Madame de Lieven did not deserve a great share of the glory (as you would think it) of making England act weakly under such circumstances; more especially since we know that the Duke did not like the great lady, and may be supposed to have distinctly traced his painful embarrassment to her power.”  So the letters go, interspersed with news, with criticisms of notable persons, with comments enlightening or cynical on passing political events:  with personal matters only now and then; as when he notes the loss of his two sisters; dwells with unwonted feeling on the death of his eldest nephew by consumption; condoles with her on her husband’s illness; gives council, wise or playful, as to the education of her son.  “I am glad to hear that he is good at Greek, Latin, and Mathematics, for that shows his cleverness; glad also to hear that he is occasionally naughty, for that shows his force.  I advise you to claim and exercise as much control as possible, because I am certain that a woman—­especially so gifted a one as you—­knows more, or rather feels more, about the right way of bringing up a boy than any mere man.”

Unbrokenly the correspondence continues:  the intimacy added charm, interest, fragrance to his life, brought out in him all that was genial, playful, humorous.  He fights the admonitions of coming weakness; goes to Sidmouth with a sore throat, but takes his papers and his books.  It is, he says, a deserted little sea-coast place.  “Mrs. Grundy has a small house there, but she does not know me by sight.  If Madame Novikoff were to come, the astonished little town, dazzled first by her, would find itself invaded by theologians, bishops, ambassadors of deceased emperors, and an ex-Prime-Minister.”  But as time goes on he speaks more often of his suffering throat; of gout, increasing deafness, only half a voice:  his last letter is written in July, 1890, to condole with his friend upon her husband’s death.  In October his nurse takes the pen; Madame Novikoff comes back hurriedly from Scotland to find him in his last illness.  “It is very nice,” he told his nurse, “to see dear Madame Novikoff again, but I am going down hill fast, and cannot hope to be well enough to see much of her.”  This is in November, 1890; on New Year’s Eve came the inexorable, “Terminator of delights and Separator of friends.”

CHAPTER VI—­LATER DAYS, AND DEATH

For twenty years Kinglake lived in Hyde Park Place, in bright cheerful rooms looking in one direction across the Park, but on another side into a churchyard.  The churchyard, Lady Gregory tells us, gave him pause on first seeing the rooms.  “I should not like to live here, I should be afraid of ghosts.”  “Oh no, sir, there is always a policeman round the corner.” {24} “Pleaceman X.” has not, perhaps, before been revered as the Shade-compelling son of Maia: