A semi-millionaire took me in. He told me all his early life of poverty and threw in various reminiscences. I never knew the like of millionaires for telling you of their former miseries. They always do! When the ancient dame saw Mr. Kasson and me talking after dinner, she said to us with a kittenish smile, "Husbands and wives mustn't talk together." Hopeless! We did not even try to explain. The evening was forlorn. There were many dreary drawing-rooms, horribly furnished, but brilliantly lighted. A brawling musical box was supposed to enliven us. We talked in that desultory way that one does with people whom you meet for the first time and never want to meet again. Some of the millionaires hovered among us, but failed to impress us either with their past or present fortunes. Oh, joy! Bedtime came at last.
May 17th.
I have just had time to scribble these few words before the post comes for my letter.
We have been driving about, admiring landscapes, one another, every one else, millionaires! Everything that money can do to spoil Nature has been done here, but Nature will have her own way in the end; and in spite of the millionaires' millions and the incongruity of everything, we cannot but admire this beautiful and wonderful country.
Before our departure the Senator actually knew us one from the other. He said to me, struggling with my names, "Well, Mrs. Lindermann Hegercrone, I am very sorry you are going."
We started on visit No. 2—this time to Mr. Lathrop's beautiful place in Menlo Park. The grounds are perfectly laid out. Flowers of all kinds arranged in parterres, clusters of trees such as I had never seen before, roses as big as sunflowers, and the beautiful sparkling lake in front of the window and the blue mountains in the distance, made the place a perfect paradise. The stables were extra fine, the floor and ceiling being inlaid in two kinds of wood found only in California. The room where the bridles were kept had such beautiful polished panels that they shone like mirrors. There must have been harnesses for twelve horses hanging on the walls. Mr. L. gave me a box made of the thirty different kinds of wood found in California.
The following day we drove with four horses to Mr. Rathbone's, who also has a gorgeous place. His picture-gallery is worthy of a Rothschild.
We left San Francisco for Los Angeles; the directors of the road put everything at our disposition as usual. We had a salon, bed, and dressing-rooms in one car, and Miss Cadwalader and Miss Clymer had similar ones in another. There were kitchen, dining and reading rooms for the whole party, which had now grown to be sixteen in number, Senator Conover and his wife and some officers going with General Taylor to Fort Yuma having joined us.
We went to Santa Monica, which is the fashionable watering-place of these parts. Here we drove on the beach, which is thirty miles long. A gentleman of Los Angeles was attached to our party and showed us the sights. We saw all kinds of ranches—orange, grape, and bee ranches. Then we drove to a Mexican settlement, where they gave us a gorgeous dinner, really worthy of more time than we could give it, for we had to leave at five o'clock for Los Angeles, where we dined again.
The next day we started off on another tour. We drove through twenty-five miles of banana, pineapple, pomegranate groves and vineyards. We tasted all the wines and fruit-syrups, and drank native port and champagne. We had a special train and arrived at Merced the next morning, to start on our Yosemite Valley tour.
May 20th.
Just our luck! The first rain for four months pours down to-day. We drove, nevertheless, from 7 A.M. until 6 P.M. (only stopping for our meals), over barren, sandy, and desolate country. We saw whole flocks of sheep dead and dying by thousands from want of care and drought. We (seven and the driver) were packed away in an open three-seated wagon with four horses, and drove over the dreariest road one can imagine. We passed continually places where the ground was all upturned, evidently either worked-out or abandoned gold-diggings. It was very pathetic when one thought of the work, time, and hopes wasted there. At twelve o'clock we reached Hunter's (the name of the hotel), and then we drove over more dismal plains still to a hotel called Clark's. It must originally have been a lovely place, but now it is spoiled by the gold-diggings. Here we stayed all night in a very rough kind of tavern. During the night we heard the howls of wolves and jackals very near the hotel, which was not pleasant. We started at five o'clock the next morning in a big, open char-à-bancs, and went through the most beautiful forest. The trees are all from one hundred and fifty to two hundred feet high, and from six to seven feet in diameter; hardly any smaller trees among them. And such wonderful ferns! And the ice-plants! This has a brilliant red stalk and flowers coming from under the snow. We were so high up that there was snow on the ground all about us. The trees are perfectly beautiful. The mansanilla, the branches of which are like red coral, and the leaves the lightest of greens, the California laurel, and many others of which I do not know the names, were too beautiful. The white pine has cones one and a half feet long.
We drove up for four hours through the forest, until we reached the height of five thousand feet. Here was a magnificent view, as you may imagine. Then we began going down. That was something dreadful! The driver, with his six horses, drove at a diabolical rate, one foot on the brake, the other planted against the dashboard to keep his balance, holding a tremendously long whip in one hand and the six reins in the other. I shut my eyes and said my prayers. I cannot find words to describe my emotion when I saw the precipice on one side and the mountain on the other, especially when we came to a sharp corner and looked in front, when we actually seemed to be going into space.
We arrived exhausted at the Yosemite Valley, where the feeling of repose at being on flat ground and driving through those green pastures surrounded by the six-thousand-feet-high mountains was delicious. We found the hotel large, comfortable, with a good many other visitors. The table d'hôte dinner was well attended. Outside the hotel we spied an Indian lurking about. They told us that he was the last of the Yosemite tribe; he boasted that he had never spoken to a white man. I am sure no white man would ever care to speak to such an uncouth-looking tramp as he was, dressed in ragged clothes and wearing shabby boots, playing hide-and-seek in the most undignified manner, and utterly unworthy of the traditional Cooper Indian.
J. had time to put in a little fishing. The last of the Yosemites dodged behind the trees, watching him and probably envying him the lone minnow which was brought back in triumph.
The next morning we mounted horses and donkeys and rode up to Cloud's Rest to see the glorious view over the whole Yosemite range. Our horses picked their way most carefully over the stones and water puddles. J. had a donkey who pretended that he was weak in all his four legs. When he went up the mountain his fore legs stumbled at every moment, inviting J. to get off and lead him, and when he came down the mountain his back legs gave way and he sat down, so that J. could not help getting off. The result was that J. had to lead him both up and down and could have dispensed with his services entirely.
The Bride's Veil falls six thousand feet in a straight fall, becoming only a tiny spray and a fine mist before it reaches the rocks at the bottom.
Bright and early the next morning we drove to see Mirror Lake, which was really like a mirror. The air was deliciously fresh and fragrant with spring flowers. We bought some photographs and turned them upside down. The lake and mountains were so mirrored that you could not see which was top or bottom.
The next day being Sunday, we thought we would stay quietly in Yosemite Valley, enjoying the rest and beauty of our surroundings. The hotel was good, and the place was enticing. Here it was that the funniest thing happened we had yet encountered. A deputation of one knocked at our door at an early hour this morning. We had just finished a plain Sunday breakfast of hash, fried potatoes, corn cakes, griddle-cakes, and syrup fresh from the white-pine trees. But I am digressing, and the man is still knocking at our door. J. opened it and let him in. With many hums and haws he said that he had been sent to ask J. if he would read the prayers and preach a sermon in the drawing-room of the hotel, "its being Sunday and you being a minister."
J. was a little aghast, not exactly understanding, while I was shaking with laughter at the other end of the room, and would not have interfered for worlds for fear of losing a word of the dialogue.
"I read the gospel!" cried J.
"Yes, sir. You're a minister, ain't yer?"
"Well, yes, I am, but not the kind you mean."
The little man said, condescendingly: "We are not particular as to sect. Whether you're a Baptist or Methodist, it makes no difference as long as you will preach."
J. had difficulty in explaining in his best English that preaching was not a specialty of his. He did not add that all he did in that line was to administer occasionally a mild savon which he kept only for family use when we washed our linen at home.
The abashed ambassador left us, shaking his head, and evidently wondering why a minister, whether from Denmark or Lapland, couldn't preach, any more than a doctor who was a doctor couldn't practise.
You may be sure that this episode gave us plenty to laugh about to last all that beautiful day in the valley of Yosemite.
We stopped there altogether three days, and were lost in admiration and wonder at the beauty of everything. The greatest wonder the gentlemen met was the item on the bill for blacking boots, which was fifteen dollars. They paid without a murmur, because they wanted to tell their friends about it when they got home.
We took our leave of beautiful Yosemite Valley, throwing a disdainful look at the boots, and we saw the last of the Yosemites peeping at us from behind the shrubbery. We mounted the stage-coach which was to take us to Mariposa Grove. We drove up the mountain all right, but when the summit was reached the coachman began to whip up his six horses and started galloping them down and turning those corners in such a reckless manner that our hair stood on end; and in answer to our gentle words reminding him that there were human beings in the coach he said, coolly:
"Oh, I guess it'll be all right, but this is my first experience." On a sharp turn of the road we suddenly saw a great white pine about six feet in diameter lying right across our path. It had evidently fallen in the night. Fortunately, the driver saw it and managed to pull up his six horses in time to avoid a catastrophe.
How in the world should we ever get over this obstacle? All our projects would be disarranged if there came a single unexpected delay. A conseil de guerre was held, every one talking at once, and it was decided that the driver should unhitch the horses, and that each lady should hold two of them, while the men were to look about to find timber enough to improvise an inclined plane on both sides of this enormous tree-trunk, so that the coach could be hauled up on one side and dragged down on the other. The gentlemen managed to get the carriage over, then they led the horses over, and lastly we ladies were piloted across.
After a delay of an hour we were able to drive to Mariposa Hotel, where we found eight saddle-horses waiting for us. It was all most exciting, and we enjoyed every moment of the ride through the most beautiful forest in the world. The ordinary trees of this forest would be gigantic in any other part of the globe (six to seven feet in diameter), but when we "struck" the first big tree I almost fell off my horse with wonder. This tree was four hundred feet high and about thirty-three feet in diameter. I knew beforehand that they were monstrously big and high, but I did not know that they had such a beautiful color—a red cinnamon. The first branch was a hundred feet from the ground and six feet in diameter. In the Mariposa Grove there are three hundred of these giants. In one tree, which was partly hollowed out by fire, we seven people sat on horseback. That gives you an idea! We saw a carriage full of travelers drive through a hollow fallen tree as if through a tunnel. One must see these to imagine what they are like. The "Old Giant" was the most imposing and grandest of them all—thirty-seven feet in diameter, and high! One got dizzy trying to see the top, which is really not the top. The winds up there do not allow themselves to be encroached upon, and the young shoots are nipped off as soon as they appear.
We had to sleep at Mariposa Grove (Clark's Hotel) in the evening. We talked of nothing else but the wonderful trees until some one asked me if I was too tired to sing. I was willing enough. There was, in fact, a piano in the parlor—an old, yellow-keyed out-of-tune Chickering which had seen better days somewhere—and a spiral stool very rickety on its legs. There were wax flowers under dusty globes. Though no one of our party cared much for music, and the surroundings were anything but inspiring, still I longed to sing.
I sang a lot of things, and my tired audience no doubt thought I had done enough and ought to go to bed, which I did, after having received their thanks and seeing the heads of the servant-girls and various other heads and forms disappear from the veranda.
May 25th.
We left Clark's early in the morning without having made a second trip to the trees, as we wanted to, but the time was nearing when John Cadwalader was to leave us for his trip around the world. We were already too late as it was, and if anything should happen like another Gulliver across our downward path he would lose the steamer which starts from San Francisco in three days. I sat in the favorite seat next to the driver and waved a long farewell to the beautiful forest which I shall probably never see again.
Here another funny thing happened. Everything funny seems to happen at the end of our trip. The driver (a new one, not the one of yesterday) after a long silence, and having changed a piece of straw he was chewing from one side of his mouth to the other many times, made up his mind to speak. I did not speak first, though I longed to, as I am told it is not wise to speak to the man at the wheel, especially when the wheel happens to be a California coach and six horses.
"A beautiful day," the driver ventured.
"Yes," I said, "it is one of the most beautiful days I have ever seen."
He, after a long pause, said, "Was you in the hotel parlor last night?"
"Yes," I said, "I was."
"Did you hear that lady sing?"
"Yes, I did. Did you?"
"You bet I did. I was standing with the rest of the folks out on the piazza."
How curious it would be to hear a wild Western unvarnished, unprejudiced judgment of myself! "What did you think of her singing?" I asked my companion.
He replied by asking, "Have you ever heard a nightingale, ma'm?"
"Oh yes, many times," I answered, wondering what he would say next.
"Wal, I guess some of them nightingales will have to take a back seat when she sings."
I actually blushed with pride. I considered this was the greatest compliment I had ever had.
We arrived safely, without any adventure, at Sacramento, where John Cadwalader left us, and the rest of the party continued as far as Chicago together, where we bade each other good-by, each going his different way.
CAMBRIDGE, June, 1877.
My dear Sister,—Sarah Bernhardt is playing in Boston now, much to Boston's delight. I went to see her at the Tremont House, where she is staying. She looked enchanting, and was dressed in her most characteristic manner, in a white dress with a border of fur. Fancy, in this heat! She talked about Paris, her latest successes, asked after Nina, and finally—what I wanted most to know—her impressions of America.
This is her first visit. I found that she seemed to be cautious about expressing her opinions. She said she was surprised to see how many people in America understood French. "Really?" I answered. "It did not strike me so the other evening when I heard you in 'La Dame aux Camelias.'" "I don't mean the public," she replied. "It apparently understands very little, and the turning of the leaves of the librettos distracts me so much that I sometimes forget my rôle. At any rate, I wait till the leaves have finished rustling. But in society," she added, "I find that almost every one who is presented to me talks very good French." "Well," I answered, "if Boston didn't speak French I should be ashamed of it." She laughed. "Sometimes," she said, "they do make curious mistakes. I am making note of all I can remember. They will be amusing in the book I am writing. A lady said to me, 'What I admire the most in you, madame, c'est votre température.'" She meant "temperament." "What did you answer to that?" I asked. "I said, 'Oui, madame, il fait très chaud,' which fell unappreciated."
She is bored with reporters, who besiege her from morning till night. One—a woman—who sat with note-book in hand for ages ("une éternité" she said) reporting, the next day sent her the newspaper in which a column was filled with the manner she treated her nails. Not one word about "mon art"! "Some of my admirateurs" she said, "pay their fabulous compliments through an interpreter." She thought this was ridiculous. When I got up to leave she said, "Chère madame, you know Mr. Longfellow?" "Yes," I replied, "very well." "Could you not arrange that I might make his bust? You can tell him that you know my work, and that I can do it if he will let me."
I told her that I would try. She was profuse in her thanks in anticipation, but, alas! Mr. Longfellow, when I spoke to him, turned a cold shoulder on the idea. He begged me to assure Sarah Bernhardt nothing would have given him more pleasure, but, with a playful wink, "I am leaving for Portland in a few days, and I am afraid she will have left Boston when I come back"—thus cutting the Gordian (k)not with a snap. But, evidently regretting his curtness, he said, "Tell her if she is at liberty to-morrow I will offer her a cup of tea." Then he added: "You must come and chaperon me. It would not do to leave me alone with such a dangerous and captivating visitor." He invited Mr. Howells and Oliver Wendell Holmes to meet her. I wrote to Sarah Bernhardt what the result of my interview was and gave the invitation. She sent back a short "I will come." The next afternoon I met her at Mr. Longfellow's. When we were drinking our tea she said, "Cher M. Longfellow, I would like so much to have made your bust, but I am so occupied that I really have not the time." And he answered her in the most suave manner, "I would have been delighted to sit for you, but, unfortunately, I am leaving for the country to-morrow." How clever people are!
Mr. Longfellow speaks French like a native. He said: "I saw you the other evening in 'Phèdre.' I saw Rachel in it fifty years ago, but you surpass her. You are magnificent, for you are plus vivante. I wish I could make my praises vocal—chanter vos louanges."
"I wish that you could make me vocal," she said. "How much finer my Phèdre would be if I could sing, and not be obliged to depend upon some horrible soprano behind the scenes!"
"You don't need any extra attraction," Mr. Longfellow said. "I wish I could make you feel what I felt."
"You can," she said, "and you do—by your poetry."
"Can you read my poetry?"
"Yes. I read your 'He-a-vatere.'"
"My—Oh yes—'Hiawatha.' But you surely do not understand that?"
"Yes, yes, indeed I do," she said. "Chaque mot."
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW
JAMES G. BLAINE When Speaker of the House of Representatives.
JAMES G. BLAINE
When Speaker of the House of Representatives.
"You are wonderful," he said, and fearing that she might be tempted to recite "chaque mot" of his "Hiawatha," hastened to present Mr. Holmes, who was all attention.
At last the tea-party came to an end. We all accompanied her to her carriage, and as she was about to get in she turned with a sudden impulse, threw her arms round Mr. Longfellow's neck, and said, "Vous étes adorable," and kissed him on his cheek. He did not, seem displeased, but as she drove away he turned to me and said, "You see I did need a chaperon."
Johan has just come home from Boston, bringing incredible stories about having talked in a machine called telephone. It was nothing but a wire, one end in Boston and the other end in Cambridge. He said he could hear quite plainly what the person in Cambridge said. Mr. Graham Bell, our neighbor, has invented this. How wonderful it must be! He has put up wires about Boston, but not farther than Cambridge—yet. He was ambitious enough to suggest Providence. "What!" cried the members of the committee. "You think you can talk along a wire in the air over that distance?" "Let me just try it," said Bell. "I will bear half the expense of putting up the wire if you will bear the other half."
He was ultra-convinced of his success when, on talking to his brother in Cambridge from Boston in order to invite him to dinner, adding, "Bring your mother-in-law," he heard, distinctly but feebly, the old lady's voice: "Good gracious! Again! What a bore!"
There is also another invention, called phonograph, where the human voice is reproduced, and can go on for ever being reproduced. I sang in one through a horn, and they transposed this on a platina roll and wound it off. Then they put it on another disk, and I heard my voice—for the first time in my life. If that is my voice, I don't want to hear it again! I could not believe that it could be so awful! A high, squeaky, nasal sound; I was ashamed of it. And the faster the man turned the crank the higher and squeakier the voice became. The intonation—the pronunciation—I could recognize as my own, but the voice!... Dear me!
[Johan, desiring me to know his family, suggested that we spend the Christmas holidays in Denmark, and we arrived safely after a slow and very stormy voyage.]
"BJÖRNEMOSE," December 20, 1877.
Dear Mother,—Denmark looks very friendly under its mantle of snow, glistening with its varnish of ice. It is lovely weather. The sun shines brightly, but it is as cold as Greenland. They tell me it is a very mild winter. Compared with Alaska, it may be! The house, which is heated only by large porcelain stoves, is particularly cold. These stoves are filled with wood in the early morning, and when the wood is burned out they shut the door and the porcelain tiles retain the heat—still, the ladies all wear shawls over their shoulders and shiver. I go and lean my back up against the huge white monument, but this is not considered good form.
The Baltic Sea, which is at the foot of the snow-covered lawn, is filled with floating ice. It must be lovely here in the summer, when one can see the opposite shores of Thuro across the blue water.
My new family, taken singly and collectively, is delightful. I shall tell you later about the dear, genial General—my father-in-law—the kind mother, and the three devoted sisters. Now I shall only write—as I promised you—my first impressions.
We live in a manner which is, I fancy, called "patriarchal," and which reminds me continually of Frederika Bremer's book called Home. A great many things in the way of food are new to me. For instance, there is a soup made of beer, brown bread, and cream, and another made of the insides of a goose, with its long neck and thin legs, boiled with prunes, apples, and vinegar. Then rice porridge is served as soup and mixed with hot beer, cinnamon, butter, and cream. These all seem very queer, but they taste very good, I asked for oatmeal porridge, but I was told that oatmeal was used only for cataplasms. Corn is known only as ornamental shrubbery, and tomatoes, alas! are totally unknown.
Every one I have met so far has been most kind and hospitable. We have been invited out to dinner several times. I will describe the first one, which was unique as a début.
The distances are enormous between country houses in this land; and, as the hour named for dinner was six o'clock, we had to begin dressing in the afternoon at the early hour of three. At four we were packed in the family landau, with a mountain of rugs and different things to keep our feet warm. We jogged along the hard, slippery highroad at a monotonous pace; and, as it is dark at four o'clock, nothing could have been more conducive to slumber and peaceful dreams. Finally we arrived. Every one was standing up when we entered the salon. There seemed to be a great number of people. I was presented to all the ladies, and the gentlemen were brought up one by one and named to me. They bowed, shook my hand, and retired. I noticed that all the ladies wore long trailing skirts—lilac or gray—and had real flowers in their hair and on their bosoms. Dinner was announced. Then there came a pause. The host and the hostess were looking about for some one to undertake me—some one who could tale Engelsk (talk English). Finally they decided upon a lank, spectacled gentleman, who offered me his arm and took me in.
My father-in-law, who was the person highest in rank, sat on the left of the hostess. I thought this peculiar, but such is the custom here. From the moment we sat down until we rose from the table my English-speaking friend never stopped talking. He told me he had learned my language when a boy, but had forgotten a great deal; if he had said he had forgotten it entirely he would have been nearer the truth.
He wanted to tell me the family history of a gentleman opposite us, and began by saying: "Do you see that gentleman? He has been washing you all the time."
"Washing me?" I exclaimed. "What do you mean?"
"Yes, the one with the gray hairs and the bird."
I looked about for a canary perched on some one's nose.
"It is a pity," he went on to say, "that he has no shield."
"How is that?" I asked. "I thought every one had a shield of some sort?" To make it clearer to me, he said, uln Danish we call a shield a barn."
"Is he a farmer?" said I, much puzzled.
"Oh dear, no! He is a lawyer like me."
"Then what does he want with a barn?"
"Every couple [pronounced copol] wants burn," he replied.
"What is it they want?" I asked. "What do you call burn?"
"Burn," he explained, "is pluriel for barn. Eight barn, two burn."
"What?" I cried, "eight barns to burn! Why do they want to burn eight barns? They must be crazy!"
All this will sound to you as idiotic as it did to me, but you will get the explanation at the end of the chapter, as I did—on the drive home—the two hours of which were entirely taken up in laughing at the mistakes of the good lawyer, who did his best.
Our conversation languished after this. My brain could not bear such a strain. Suddenly he got up from his chair. I thought that he was going to take himself and his English away, but after he had quaffed a whole glass of wine, at one swallow, bowed over it, and pointed his empty glass at Johan, he resumed his seat, and conversation flowed again.
It seems that Johan had honored him with a friendly nod and an uplifted glass, which obliged him to arise and acknowledge the compliment.
In Denmark there is a great deal of skaal-drinking (skaal, in Danish, means drinking a toast). I think there must be an eleventh commandment—"Thou shalt not omit to skaal." The host drinks with every one, and every one drinks with every one else. It seems to me to be rather a cheap way of being amiable, but it looks very friendly and sociable. When a person of high rank drinks with one of lower the latter stands while emptying his glass.
When we left the table I did not feel that my Danish had gained much, and certainly my partner's English had not improved. However, we seemed to have conversed in a very spirited manner, which must have impressed the lookers-on with a sense of my partner's talent for languages.
On our return to the salon we found more petroleum-lamps, and the candelabra lighted to exaggeration with wax candles. The lamp-shades, which I thought were quite ingenious, were of paper, and contained dried ferns and even flattened-out butterflies between two sheets of shiny tissue-paper. The salon had dark walls on which hung a collection of family portraits. Ladies with puckered mouths and wasp-like waists had necks adorned with gorgeous pearls, which had apparently gone to an early grave with their wearers. I saw no similar ones on the necks of the present generation. After the coffee was served and a certain time allowed for breathing, the daughter of the house sat down, without being begged, at an upright piano, and attacked the "Moonlight Sonata." This seemed to be the signal for the ladies to bring out their work-bags.
The knitting made a pleasing accompaniment to the moonlight of the sonata, as if pelicans were gnashing their teeth in the dimness. The sterner sex made a dash for the various albums and literature on the round table in the center of the room, and turned the leaves with a gentle flutter. The sonata was finished in dead silence. As it was performed by one of the family, no applause was necessary. I was asked to sing; and, though I do not like to sing after dinner, I consented, not to be disobliging. Before taking my seat on the revolving piano-stool I looked with a severe eye at the knitting-needles. The ladies certainly did try to make less noise, but they went on knitting, all the same.
The flushed-with-success lawyer, wishing to show his appreciation of my singing, leaned gracefully across the piano, and said, "Kammerherrinde [that is my title], you sing as if you had a beard in your throat."
"A what?" I gasped. "A beard?"
"Yes! a beautiful beard," and added, with a conscious smile, "I sing myself."
Good heavens! I thought, and asked, "Do you know what a beard is?"
"In Danish we call a beard a fugle" (pronounced fool.)
"Then," I said, pretending to be offended, "I sing like a fool?"
"Exactly," he said with enthusiasm, his eyes beaming with joy through his spectacles.
This was hopeless. I moved gently away from the man who "talked English."
The candles had burned down almost to their bobèches, and we were beginning to forget that we had eaten a dinner of fifteen courses, when in came a procession of servants with piles of plates in their arms and trays of smördröd (sandwiches), tea, beer (in bottles), and cakes, which are called here kicks. Everything seemed very tempting except the things handed about by the stable-boy, who was dressed for the occasion in a livery, much too large, and was preceded and followed by a mixed odor of stable and almond soap.
What struck me as unusual was that the host named the hour for his guests to go home. Therefore all the carriages were before the door at the same time.
Johan explained the mistakes on the way home.
"The man with the gray hairs and the beard" (pronounced like heard) had been watching me. Shield meant child! A child in Danish is et barn, which sounds the same as eight barn. Two children (in Danish) are to börn, pronounced toe burn. Bird he pronounced like beard, because it was written so. A bird in Danish is fugle (fool).
Do you wonder that I was somewhat bewildered?
January, 1878.
Dear Mother,—After Christmas Johan and I went to Copenhagen, where I was presented to the King and the Queen. I was first received by the Grande Maîtresse, Madame de Raben, and three dames d'honneur, who were all pleasant but ceremonious. When the Queen entered the room and I was presented to her she was most gracious and affable. She motioned me to sit down beside her on the sofa. She said that she had heard much about me. She spoke of my father-in-law, whom she loved, and Johan, whom she liked so much. She was most interested to hear about you and the children. She had heard that Nina promised to be a beauty.
"If children would only grow up to their promises!" I said.
"Mine have," said the Queen; "they are all beautiful."
She showed me the photographs of the Princess of Wales and the Grand-Duchess Dagmar of Russia. If they resemble their pictures they must indeed be beautiful.
The salon in which we sat was filled with drawings, pastels, and photographs, and was so crowded with furniture that one could hardly move about.
"I've been told," the Queen said, "that you have a splendid voice and sing wonderfully. You must come some day and sing for me; I love music." Then we talked music, the most delightful of subjects. The King came in. He was also perfectly charming, and as kind as possible. He is about sixty years old, but looks younger, having a wonderfully youthful figure and a very handsome face. The King preferred to speak French, but the Queen liked better to talk English, which she does to perfection.
"Have you learned Danish yet?" the King asked me.
"Alas! your Majesty," I answered, "though I try very hard to learn, I have not mastered it yet, and only dare to inflict it on my family."
"You will not find it difficult," he said. "You will learn it in time."
"I hope so, your Majesty—Time is a good teacher."
He told me an anecdote about Queen Desiree, of Sweden, wife of Bernadotte, who on her arrival in Stockholm did not know one word of Swedish.
She was taught certain phrases to use at her first reception when ladies were presented to her. She was to say, "Are you married, madame?" and then, "Have you any children?" Of course, she did not understand the answers. "She was very unlucky," the King laughed, "and got things mixed up, and once began her conversation with a lady by asking, 'Have you any children?'"
The lady hastened to answer, "Yes, your Majesty, I have seven?"
"Are you married?" asked the Queen, very graciously.
"You must not do anything like that," said the King, smilingly.
I promised that I would try not to.
The Grande Maîtresse came in, and I thought it was the signal for me to go—which apparently it was. There was a little pause; then the Queen held out her hand and said, "I hope to see you again very soon." The King shook hands kindly with me, and I reached the antechamber, escorted by the ladies.
My next audience was with the Crown Princess. She is the daughter of the late King of Sweden (Carl XV.) and niece of the present King Oscar, whom I used to know in Paris. This audience was not so ceremonious as the one I had had with the Queen. There was only one lady-in-waiting, who received me in the salon adjoining that of the Princess. She accompanied me to the door, presented me, and withdrew, leaving us together. In the beginning the conversation palled somewhat. I had been warned that it was not etiquette for me to start any subject of conversation, though I might enlarge on it once it had been broached. The Crown Princess was so kind as to speak of something which she thought would interest me, and the conventional half-hour passed pleasantly and quickly.
I had other audiences. The Queen Dowager, the widow of King Christian VIII., lives in one of the four palaces in the square of Amalienborg. She is very stately, and received me with great etiquette. She was dressed in a stiff black brocade dress, with a white lace head-dress over her bandeaux; she wore short, white, tight kid gloves. She spoke French, and was most kind, telling me a great deal about Denmark and its history, which interested me very much.
As Mademoiselle de Rosen, her first dame d'honneur, re-entered the room I made my courtesy, kissed the Queen's hand, and the audience was over.
Johan accompanied me to the fourth audience, which for me was the most difficult one. It was with the Princess Caroline, widow of Prince Ferdinand, brother of King Christian VIII., who died when he was heir-apparent to the throne. She spoke only Danish to us, so I sat and gazed about, not understanding a word she said to Johan.
She wore flaxen braids wound above her ears, through which the cotton showed like the petal of a flower. She had a lace cap on her head with long lace ends, and these caught in everything she wore—her eye-glasses, her neck-chain, her rings and bracelets, and she seemed to do nothing but try to extricate herself while talking. This she did steadily, in order (I suppose) to prevent any one else from talking. She is so deaf that she cannot hear a word. She had once been burned, and the effects of that, with the mark of former smallpox, makes her face look far from handsome. But all these things have not prevented her from reaching the ripe old age of eighty.
Johan supplied what little there was of conversation on our side. She asked him, "How did you come to Denmark?" He, enchanted to be asked something he could answer, replied that he had come on one of the big German boats, and, to accentuate the fact that it was something big he came in, he made a wide circular movement with his arms and became quite eloquent, flattering himself that he was very interesting. The Princess fixed a pair of earnest eyes on him, and said, in hushed tones, "And what became of the child?"
We took our leave. In stooping to kiss her Royal Highness's hand her cap caught in an ornament I had on my bonnet, and there we stood tied together. Johan tried in vain to undo us, but was obliged to call in the lady-in-waiting, who finally disentangled us.
DENMARK, January, 1878.
Dear Mother,—The Queen of Denmark is an adorable and lovely queen. I am happy to call her my Queen.
A few days after my audience we were invited to a dinner at Amalienborg. We met in the salon, before their Majesties came in. When they had made a little cercle and said a word to every one, dinner was announced. The King gave one arm to the Queen and the other to the Princess Anne of Hesse—the Queen's sister-in-law. The King and the Queen sat next to each other. There were about forty people at table. Admiral Bille took me in; he talked English perfectly, and was—like all naval officers!—very charming.
The Queen said to me: "I should so like to hear you sing. Will you come to-morrow? I will send my carriage for you, and please don't forget to bring some music."
As if I should forget! I was only too delighted.
The next morning the Queen sent her own coupé for me at eleven o'clock. I felt very grand; all the people in the street bowed and courtesied, thinking I was one of the royal family. I let down the glasses on both sides of the coupé so that every one could have a chance to bow.
I was at once ushered into the Queen's salon by an old red-liveried majordomo who had many decorations on his breast. The Queen was alone with the Grande Maîtresse, and after having talked a little she said, "Now we'll have some music," and led the way into the ballroom, where there were two pianos. The Queen sat on the sofa, wearing an expression that was half pre-indulgent and half expectant. The Grande Maîtresse, who was there, not in her official character, but as a musician, accompanied me when I sang "Voi che sapete." When I came to the phrase, "Non trovo pace notte ne di," the Queen raised her hand to her eyes, which were filled with tears, and after I had finished, said, "Please sing another."
I spread out the music of "Biondina" in front of the eye-glasses of the Grande Maîtresse, but the first bars convinced me that if I were to sing that song, she was not to play it, and, against all etiquette, I placed my hands over hers and gently pushed her off the seat, saying, "May I?"
I confess I deserved the daggers she looked at me, but the Queen only laughed and said, "You are quite right; you must play that for yourself."
The Queen seemed to be delighted, and after some more music I returned to the hotel in the same regal manner I had come.
COPENHAGEN, February, 1878.
Dear Mother,—Some days have passed between this and my last letter, but I have been very busy. I have tried to do some sight-seeing—there are many interesting and enchanting things to see here. Then I have had a great many visits to pay, and I go often to sing with the Queen.
Yesterday I lunched at the palace. The Queen had said to me before: "When you come to me, come straight to my room. Don't bother about going first to the dames d'honneur. The servant has orders."
So yesterday, when I arrived, the old decorated servant who sits in the antechamber simply opened the door of the Queen's private apartments, where I found her and the Princess Thyra alone.
The Queen said, "You will stay to luncheon, will you not?" I hesitated, as we had invited some friends to lunch with us, but that was evidently no obstacle. She said: "Never mind that. I will send word to your husband that I have kept you." Of course I stayed. We had a great deal of music. I sang "Beware" for the first time. The Queen said, "Oh, the King must hear that," and rang the bell, sending the servant to beg Prince Valdemar to come in.
On his appearing, the Queen said, "Valdemar, you must tell papa that he must come." Prince Valdemar soon returned, saying, "Papa has lumbago, and says he cannot come." The Queen shook her head, evidently not believing in the lumbago, and said, "Lumbago or not, papa must come, even if we have to bring him."
The King came without being "brought," and I sang "Beware" for him, and then "Ma mère était bohémienne," the Queen accompanying me in both.
"Now," said the Queen, "please sing that song which you play for yourself—the one with such a dash." She meant "Biondina."
"Please, madame," said the King, when I had finished, "sing 'Beware' again."
Then we went down a little side-staircase for luncheon. The dining-room is quite small and looks out upon the square. The table could not have seated more than twelve people. Besides the King and Queen, there were Prince Hans and Prince Wilhelm (brothers of the King), Prince Valdemar, Princess Thyra, and myself. There were no ladies or gentlemen in waiting, except the King's adjutant.
On a side-table were the warm meats, vegetables, and several cold dishes. No servants were allowed in the room. It is the only meal when the family are quite alone together; the serving was all done by the royalties themselves. I felt quite shy when the King proposed to shell my shrimps for me! "Oh, your Majesty," I said, "I can do that myself!"
"No," said he, "I am sure you cannot. At any rate, not as it ought to be done."
He was quite right. I never could have done it so dexterously as he did. He took the shells off and put the shrimps on some bread—they looked like little pink worms. I did not dare to get up and serve myself at the side-table, and rather than be waited on by royalty I preferred eating little and going away hungry.
The King was very gay. He asked me how I was getting on with my Danish. I told him some of my mistakes, at which they all laughed.
COPENHAGEN, February, 1878.
Dear Mother,—After our music and luncheon the other day at the palace the Queen asked me if I would like to drive with her to see Bernstorff Castle, where they spend their summers. I accepted the invitation with delight. To drive with her was bliss indeed.
Bernstorff is about an hour's drive from Copenhagen. When the open landau appeared in the porte-cochère the Queen got in; I sat on her left and the lady of honor sat opposite. The Danish royal livery is a bright red covered with braid. The coachman's coat has many red capes, one on top of the other, looking like huge pen-wipers. J. had told me it was not etiquette for any one driving with the Queen to bow. We happened to pass J. walking with a friend of his, and it seemed odd that I was obliged to cut him dead.
When people see the Queen's carriage coming they stop their own, and the ladies get out on the sidewalk and make deep courtesies. Gentlemen bow very low and stand holding their hats in their hands until the royal carriage has passed.
The castle of Bernstorff is neither large nor imposing, but looks home-like and comfortable. The Queen showed me all over it—her private rooms, and even upstairs where her atelier is; she paints charmingly—as well as she plays the piano.
She pointed out on the window-panes of a room over the principal salon different things that her daughters had written with their diamond rings on the glass: "Farewell, my beautiful clouds!—Alexandra." "Till the next time.—Dagmar." "A bientôt—Willie" (the young King of Greece).[1]
She told me that Bernstorff was the first home she and the King had lived in after their marriage, when he was Prince, and they love it so much that they prefer it to the larger castles. They go to Fredensborg in the autumn. The Grand-Duchess Dagmar and the Princess of Wales, when they come to Bernstorff in the summer, sleep in the room which they shared as children.
I cannot tell you how nice the royal family are to me.
We were present at a state ball at Christiansborg. On arriving we passed up a magnificent staircase and went through many large salons, the walls of which were covered with fine tapestries and old Spanish leather, and a long gallery of beautiful pictures, before we reached the salon where I belonged according to my rank (every one is placed according to the rules of the protocol).
Their Majesties entered. The Queen looked dazzlingly brilliant. She wore all the crown jewels and had some splendid pearls on her neck. The King looked superb in his uniform. They were followed by the Princess Thyra (the young and sympathetic Princess with eyes like a gazelle), and the youngest son, Prince Valdemar.
The Crown Prince and Princess were already there. She also had some wonderful jewels, inherited, they said, from her mother, who was of the royal family of Holland.
Their Majesties were very gracious to me. The King even did me the honor to waltz with me. He dances like a young man of twenty. He went from one lady to another and gave them each a turn. I was taken to supper by a person whose duty it was to attend to me—I forget his name. The King danced the cotillon. You will hardly see that anywhere else—a gentleman of sixty dancing a cotillon.
The principal street in Copenhagen is Ostergade, where all the best shops are. It is very narrow. People sometimes stop and hold conversations across the street, and perambulating nurses, lingering at the shop windows, hold up the traffic.
There is a very pretty square called Amagertorv, where all the peasant women assemble, looking very picturesque in their national dresses, with their little velvet caps embroidered in gold, and their Quaker-like bonnets with a fichu tied over them. They quite fill up the square with flowers, fruits, and vegetables, and stand in the open air by their wares in spite of wind, rain, and weather.
Around the corner, in front of Christiansborg Castle, by the canal, your nose will inform you that this is the fish-market, where the fish are brought every morning, wriggling and gasping in the nets in which they have been caught overnight. It is a very interesting sight to see all the hundreds of boats in the canal, which runs through the center of the town.
The other evening there was a large musical soirée given at Amalienborg. I won't tell you the names of those who were present, as you would not know them, but they are the most prominent names here.
Their Majesties sat in two gilded arm-chairs, in front of which was a rug. There was a barytone from the Royal Theater who sang some Danish songs; then the Princess Thyra and an English lady and I sang the trio from "Elijah," and a quartette with the barytone. I sang several times alone. There was an English lady, whose name I do not remember, who played a solo on the cornet à piston. Her face was hidden by her music, which was on a stand in front of her. After I had sung the "Caro Nome" from "Rigoletto," and the English lady had played her solo, the deaf Princess Caroline—who, with her ears filled with cotton and encompassed by her flaxen braids, sat in front—said, in a loud and penetrating voice, "I like that lady's singing better than the other one's"—meaning me. Every one laughed. I had never had a cornet à piston as a rival before.
March 1, 1878.
Dear Mother,—Our last day here. I lunched at Amalienborg, and was the only stranger present. The King, who sat next to me, said, "I feel quite hurt that you have never asked me for my photograph."
"But I have one," I answered, "which I bought. I dare not ask your Majesty to sign it."
"One must always dare," he answered, smilingly. "May I 'dare' to ask you to accept one from me?" He got up from the table and left the room, being absent for a few minutes. When the door opened again we saw the King standing outside, trying to carry a large picture. His Majesty had gone up to the room in which the picture hung, and the servant who had taken it from the wall brought it to the door of the dining-room, whence the King carried it in himself. The mark of the dusty cord still showed on his shoulder. It was a life-size portrait of himself painted in oil.
He said, "Will you accept this?"
I could not believe my ears. This for me! I hesitated.
The Queen said, "My dear, you must take it, since the King desires it."
"But," I replied, "how can I?"
Her Majesty answered, "Your husband would not like you to refuse. Take it!—you must!" and added, "The ribbon [the blue Order of the Elephant] is beautifully painted"—as if the rest were not!
The Princess Thyra said, "Papa has only had six portraits painted of himself. This one is painted by Mr. Shytte. I don't think that it is half handsome enough for papa. Do you?"
"Well," said the King, "I shall have it sent to your hotel." I could not thank his Majesty enough, and I am sure I looked as embarrassed as I felt.
As we were going away the next day, this was my last visit to the Queen. On bidding me good-by she pressed something into my hand and said, "You leave me so many souvenirs! I have only one for you, and here it is."
It was a lovely locket of turquoises. On opening it I found the Queen's portrait on one side and the Princess Thyra's on the other.
She kissed me, and I kissed her hand, with tears in my eyes.
We return to Björnemose to bid our parents good-by; then farewell to Denmark.
We leave in four days for New York.
WASHINGTON, February, 1879.
Dear Mother,—Monsieur de Schlözer is one of the colleagues whom we like best. I wish you knew him! I do not know anything more delightful than to see him and Carl Schurz together. They are not unlike in character; they are both witty, refined, always seeing the beautiful in everything, almost boyish in their enthusiasm, and clever, cela va sans dire, to their finger-tips. They bring each other out, and they both appear at their best, which is saying a great deal. We consider that we are fortunate to number them among our intimes.
Would it interest you to know how these intimes amuse themselves? Life is so simple in Washington, and there are so few distractions outside of society, that we only have our social pleasures to take the place of theaters and public entertainments. It is unlike Paris and other capitals in this respect.
We have organized a club which we call "The National Rational International Dining Club," to which belong Mrs. Bigelow Lawrence, her sister Miss Chapman, Mr. de Schlözer, Carl Schurz, Aristarchi Bey (the Turkish Minister), Count Dönhoff (Secretary to the German Legation), and ourselves. So when we are free, and not invited elsewhere, we dine together at one another's houses. I am the president, Mrs. Lawrence the vice-president, Schurz the treasurer, Schlözer the sergeant-at-arms, and Johan has the most difficult—and (as Mr. Schurz calls it) the "onerous"—duty of recognizing and calling attention to the jokes, which in his conscientious attempts to seize he often loses entirely.
The "rational" part is the menu. We are allowed a soup, one roast, one vegetable and dessert, and two wines, one of which, according to the regulations, must be good. We do not even need so much, for there is more laughing than eating. A stuffed goose from the Smithsonian Institution serves as a milieu de table, and is sent, on the day of the dinner, to the person who gives it.
We always have music. Schurz and Schlözer play the piano alternately, and I do the singing. I must say that a more appreciative audience than our co-diners cannot be imagined.
We have laws and by-laws written on large foolscap paper, bearing a huge seal which looks very official. Mr. Schurz carries it in his inside pocket, and sometimes at large dinners he pulls it out and begins reading it with the greatest attention, and every one at the table believes that there is something very important going on in politics. But we, the initiated, know that the document is the law of the N.R.I. Dining Club. Then, when all eyes are fastened on him, he puts the paper deliberately back in his pocket, with a sly wink at the members.
Mr. Schurz is now Secretary of the Interior, and a great personage. When one thinks that he hardly knew a word of our language when he came to this country (a young man of twenty), and that now he is one of our first orators, one cannot help but admire him. Because he has entirely identified himself with the politics of our country he has risen to the high position which he now holds. You said, when you heard him deliver that oration at Harvard College, that you were astonished that any foreigner could have such complete command of the language. He is integrity itself, with a great mind free from all guile, and is filled with the enthusiasm and vivacity of youth. During the revolutionary movement in Germany in 1848 he helped a political friend escape from the Schandau prison, and on account of that was himself condemned to death. However, he managed to evade pursuit and took refuge in America, where he has lived ever since.
Le Chevalier, as we call Senator Bayard, because he is so entirely sans reproche, sent his photograph to Mrs. T. and wrote on the back of it, "Avec les regards de T. Bayard." She showed it to her friends with the scathing remark, "People should not write French if they don't understand the language." Others, who understood the language, thought it very clever.
Schlözer has let it be known in the Foreign Office in Berlin that a secretary who has money to spend is more desirable in America than one who has not. He thinks that it is more advantageous for a young man to travel through the country and learn things than to sit copying despatches in the chancellerie in Washington.
In this respect Count Dönhoff, his new secretary, ought to satisfy him, for never was a person so determined to see everything, know everybody, and do all that is doing. He begged Mr. Schurz to give him permission to accompany General Adam, who, because he knew the Indians and their little ways and how to deal with them, was sent out to Montana to rescue the family of one of the commissioners who had been captured.
These two gentlemen (Adam and Dönhoff) went to the place where the women and children were concealed, and remained there a week, trying to induce the Indians to give them up. They were finally successful, but it was known afterward that the Indians during the time they were there were holding council every night to decide whether or not they would hang the two "pale-faces" to the first tree in the morning.
Both Schurz and Schlözer were relieved to see Count Dönhoff when he returned safe and sound. They reproached themselves for allowing him to start on such an expedition, as it was a very reckless adventure, and a great risk for him.
WASHINGTON, March, 1879.
My dear Mother,—We have taken the Fant House for this winter. People say it is haunted. As yet we have not seen any ghosts nor found any skeletons in the closets. The possible ghosts have no terrors for me. On the contrary, I should love to meet one face to face! But the rats are plentiful and have probably played ghosts' parts and given the house its reputation. Those we have here are so bold and assertive that I have become quite accustomed to them. I meet them on the staircase, and they politely wait for me to pass. One old fellow—I call him Alcibiades, because he is so audacious—actually gnaws at our door, as if begging to be allowed to come in and join us. We put poison in every attractive way we can think of all about, but they seem to like it and thrive upon it. Johan, having had a Danish sailor recommended to him, allows him to live in a room up-stairs and to help a little in the house while waiting for a boat. He is very masterful in his movements, and handles the crockery as if it were buckets of water, and draws back the portieres as if he were hauling at the main-sheet.
Mr. Robeson (Secretary of the Navy), who ought to know le dernier cri on the subject of the habits of rats, told us that the only way to get rid of them was to catch one and dress him up in a jacket and trousers—red preferable—tie a bell round his neck, and let him loose. "Then," he said, "the rat would run about among his companions and indicate the pressure brought upon rats, and soon there would not be one left in the house."
This was an idyl for our sailor. He spent most of his days making a jacket with which to clothe the rat, and actually did catch one (I hoped he was not my friend of the staircase) and proceeded to put him into this sailor-made costume, which was not an easy thing to do, and had he not been accustomed to bracing up stays and other nautical work he never could have accomplished the thing. However, he did accomplish it; he tied the bell on the rat's neck and let him loose.
The remedy (though uttered from an official mouth for which we have great respect) was worse than the evil. The rat refused to run about to warn his friends. On the contrary, he would not move, but looked imploringly into the eyes of his tormentor, as if begging to be allowed to die in his normal skin. Then, I believe, he went and sulked in a corner and committed suicide—he was so mortified. We said one rat in a corner was worse than twelve on the staircase.
The Outreys (the French Minister) had their diplomatic reception, and sent cards to every one they knew and many they did not know. The ladies who went expected Madame Outrey to be dressed in the latest fashion; being the wife of the French Minister, it was her duty to let society into the secrets of Parisian "modes," but she was dressed in a simple, might-have-been-made-at-home black gown. This exasperated the ladies (who had gone with an eye to copying) to such a degree that many went home with pent-up and wounded feelings, as if they had been defrauded of their rights and without supper—which, had they stayed, they would have found to be the latest thing in suppers.
WASHINGTON.
The grass on our small plot has reached the last limit of endurance and greenness, and is sprouting weeds at a great rate; also our one bush, though still full of chirpiness, is beginning to show signs of depression.
We were invited to a spiritualistic séance at the L____'s salon. The Empress Josephine has consented to materialize in America after having visited the Continent. We saw her, and a more unempress-looking empress I cannot imagine. To convince a skeptic she displayed her leg to show how well it had succeeded in taking on flesh. I have no patience with people who believe such nonsense. The famous spiritualist Poster is also here in Washington. He is clever in a way, and has made many converts simply by putting two and two together. We went, of course, to see him, and came away astounded, but not convinced. He produced a slate on which were written some wonderful things about a ring which had a history in J.'s family. J. could not imagine how any one could have known it. Foster said to me: "I had a premonition that you were coming to-day. See!" and he pulled up his sleeve and there stood "Lillie," written in what appeared to be my handwriting in gore, I suppose—it was red. I urged Baron Bildt to go and see him, knowing that he liked that sort of thing. The moment he appeared, Foster, smelling a diplo-rat, said, "Madame Hegermann sent you to me," upon which Baron Bildt succumbed instantly.
Teresa Carreno, the Wunderkind, now a Wunder-mädchen, having arrived at the age when she wisely puts up her hair and lets down her dresses, is on a concert tour with Wilhelmj (the famous violinist). He is not as good as Wieniawski, and can't be named in the same breath with Ole Bull. They came here to lunch, together with Schlözer, who brought the violin. I invited a good many people to come in the afternoon—among others, Aristarchi, who looks very absorbed when music is going on, but with him it means absolutely nothing, because he is a little deaf, but looks eager in order to seize other people's impressions.
Wilhelmj played, and Teresa Carreno played, and I sang a song of Wilhelmj's from the manuscript. He said, "You sing it as if you had dreamed it." I thought if I had dreamed it I should have dreamed of a patchwork quilt, there were so many flats and sharps. My eyes and brain ached.
After a good deal of music Wilhelmj sank in a chair and said, "I can no more!" and fell to talking about his wines. He is not only a violinist, but is a wine merchant. Schlözer and J. naturally gave him some large orders.
Washington is very gay, humming like a top. Everything is going on at once.
The daily receptions I find the most tiresome things, they are so monotonous. Women crowd in the salons, shake hands, leave a pile of cards on the tray in the hall, and flit to other spheres.
At a dinner at Senator Chandler's Mr. Blaine took me in, and Eugene Hale, a Congressman, sat on the other side. They call him "Blaine's little boy." He was very amusing on the subject of Alexander Agassiz (the pioneer of my youthful studies, under whose ironical eye I used to read Schiller), who is just now being lionized, and is lecturing on the National History of the Peruvians. Agassiz has become a millionaire, not from the proceeds of his brain, but from copper-mines (Calumet and Hecla). How his dear old father would have liked to possess some of his millions.
Sam Ward is the diner-out par excellence here, and is the king of the lobby par préférence. When you want anything pushed through Congress you have only to apply to Sam Ward, and it is done. I don't know whether he accomplishes what he undertakes by money or persuasion; it must be the latter, for I think he is far from being a rich man. His lobbying is mostly done at the dinner-table. He is a most delightful talker and full of anecdotes.
Mrs. Robeson's "Sunday evenings" are very popular. She has given up singing and does not—thank Heaven!—have any music. She thinks it prevents people from talking (sometimes it does, and sometimes it has the contrary effect). She prefers the talking, in which she takes the most active part. Mr. Robeson is the most amiable of hosts, beams and laughs a great deal.
The enfant terrible is quoted incessantly. She must be overwhelmingly amusing. She said to her mother when she saw her in evening dress; "Mama, pull up your collar. You must not show your stomach-ache!" Everything in anatomy lower than the throat she calls "stomach-ache"—the fountain of all her woes, I suppose.
Mr. Blaine and Mr. Robeson, supplemented by General Schenck, are great poker-players. They are continually talking about the game, when they ought to be talking politics for the benefit of foreigners. You hear this sort of thing, "Well, you couldn't beat my full house," at which the diplomats prick up their ears, thinking that there will be something wonderful in Congress the next day, and decide to go there.
Mr. Brooks, of Cambridge, made his Fourth-of-July oration at our soirèe on Thursday. This is the funniest thing I have ever heard. Mr. Evarts almost rolled off his seat. It is supposed to be a speech made at a Paris fêtë on the Fourth of July, where every speaker got more patriotic as the evening went on. The last speech was the climax:
"I propose the toast, 'The United States!'—bordered on the north by the aurora borealis; on the east by the rising sun; on the west by the procession of equinoxes; and on the south by eternal chaos!"
WASHINGTON, April, 1879.
Mr. Schurz, as Secretary of the Interior, was to receive a conclave of Indians, and could not refuse Mrs. Lawrence, Miss Chapman, and myself when we begged to be present at the interview. They came to make some contracts. The interpreter, or agent, or whatever he was, who had them in charge proposed to dress them suitably for the occasion, but when he heard there were to be ladies present he added colored and striped shirts, which, the Indians insisted upon wearing over their embroidered buckskin trousers. They caused a sensation as they came out of the clothes-shop. They had feather head-dresses and braids of hair hanging down by the sides of their brown cheeks. They wore bracelets on their bare arms and blankets over their shoulders. They sat in a semicircle around Mr. Schurz. After Mr. Schurz had heard what the interpreter had to say he and the other members of the committee (they call them "undershirts") talked together for a while, and Mr. Schurz said, "I cannot accept," which was translated to the chief, who looked more sullen and treacherous than before. Then there was a burst of wild Indian, and the chief held forth in a deep bass voice, I fancy giving pieces of his mind to Mr. Schurz, which were translated in a milder form. Mrs. Lawrence, who looks at everything in a rosy, sentimental light, thought they looked high-spirited and noble. I, who am prosaic to my finger-tips, thought they looked conceited, brutal, and obstinate. They all sat with their tomahawks laid by the side of their chairs. The chief was not insensible to the beauty of Miss Chapman, and sat behind his outspread fingers, gazing at her and her jewelry. We were glad to get away from the barbarous-looking people. All the same, the interview was very interesting.
General and Mrs. Albert Meyer gave a dinner in honor of the President and Mrs. Hayes, to which some diplomats were invited. You know Mr. Meyer is the man called "Old Prob," because he tells one beforehand what weather one can expect for the next picnic.
This was the first dinner that the Presidential couple had gone to, and we were a little curious to see how it would be managed. As neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hayes drinks wine, they were served all the different known brands of mineral waters, milk, and tea. But the others got wine. Mr. Meyer was very funny when he took up his glass, looked at it critically, and said, "I recommend this vintage." The President did not seem to mind these plaisanteries. We were curious to see what they would do when punch à la Romaine, which stood on the menu in a little paragraph by itself, would be served. It was a rather strong punch (too strong for any of the diplomats) and the glasses were deep, but they seemed to enjoy this glimpse into the depths of perdition and did not leave a mouthful. Taking it, you see, with a spoon made a difference.
The Lesseps were among the guests. There are thirteen little Lesseps somewhere; only one daughter is with them. Monsieur Lesseps is twenty-five years older than Madame, if not more. When the three came in the salon, young Miss Bayard said, "The girl is taking her mother and grandfather into society."
A weird menu was at the side of each plate; it was in French—on account, I suppose, of the Lesseps. One of the items was L'estomac de dinde à l'ambassadrice, pommes sautees. Mr. John Hay, who sat next to me, remarked, ironically, "Why do they not write their menu in plain English?"
"I think," I answered, "that it is better in French. How would 'turkey to an ambassadress's stomach' or 'jumped potatoes' sound?"
He could find no answer to this.
Madame Lesseps confided to me in our coffee-cups that she and her husband were in "Vasheengton en touristes, mais aussi, ils avaient des affaires." The affaires are no less than the Panama Canal.
CAMBRIDGE, Summer, 1879.
Ole Bull (the great violinist) has taken James Russell Lowell's house in Cambridge. He is remarried, and lives here with his wife and daughter. He has a magnificent head, and that broad, expansive smile which seems to belong to geniuses. Liszt had one like it.
He and Mrs. Bull come here often on Sunday evenings, and sometimes he brings his violin. Mrs. B. accompanies him, and he plays divinely. There is no violinist on earth that can compare with him. There may be many who have as brilliant a technique, but none who has his feu sacrè and the tremendous magnetism which creates such enthusiasm that you are carried away. The sterner sex pretend that they can resist him, but certainly no woman can.