Chapter III: Part 3

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]

[1] King George of Greece who was assassinated in 1913.

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.

He is very proud of showing the diamond in his bow which was given to him by the King of Sweden.

He loves to tell the story of King Frederick VII. of Denmark, who said to him: "Where did you learn to play the violin? Who was your teacher?"

Ole Bull answered, "Your Majesty, the pine forests of Norway and the beautiful _fjords_ taught me!"

The King, who had no feeling for such high-flown sentiments, turned to one of his _aides-de-camp_ and said, "_Sikken vrövl_"--the Danish for "What rubbish!"

Mr. John Owen (Mr. Longfellow's shadow) swoops down on us occasionally on the wings of poesy. I don't always comprehend the poesy, and sometimes would like to cut the wings, but Owen can't be stopped. Every event is translated into verse; even my going to Newport by the ten-o'clock train, which sounds prosy enough, inspires him, and the next morning he comes in with a poem. Then we see it in the _Boston Advertiser_, evening edition.

CAMBRIDGE.

A Dane, a friend of Johan's, who had come to America to write a book on American institutions, asked the consul to find him a quiet boarding-house in a quiet street. The consul knew of exactly such a retreat, and directed the Professor to the place. It was not far from the Revere House. He arrived there in the evening, unpacked his treasures, congratulating himself on his cozy quarters and his nice landlady, who asked such a modest price that he jumped at it.

The next morning, at four o'clock, he was awakened by a strange noise, the like of which he had never heard outside a zoological garden. At first he thought he was still dreaming, and turned over to sleep again, but the noise repeated itself. This time it seemed to come from under his bed, and sounded like a lion's roar. Probably a circus had passed and a lion had got loose and was prowling about, seeking what he could devour! He thought of ringing up the house, but demurred, reflecting that whoever answered the bell would probably be the first victim. Again the roar! Fear overcame his humane impulses; he rang, hoping that if the lion's appetite was appeased by the first victim, he might be spared.

The landlady appeared in the flesh, calmly and quietly. "Did you ring, sir?" she asked, placidly.

"I did indeed," he answered. "Will you kindly tell me whether I am awake or asleep? It seems to me that I heard the roar of a lion. Did no one else hear it?"

The landlady hesitated, embarrassed, and answered, "I did, sir--you and I are the only persons in the house."

"Then the lion is waiting for us?" he said, quaking in his slippers.

"I beg your pardon, sir," the woman answered. "I had hoped that you had not noticed anything--"

"Good gracious!" he said, "do you think I can be in the house with a roaring lion and not notice anything?"

"He happens to be hungry this morning, and nothing will keep him quiet," said the kind lady, as if she were talking of her kitten.

"Madam," screamed the infuriated Dane, "one of us is certainly going mad! When I tell you that there is a lion roaming over your house you stand there quietly and tell me that he is hungry?"

"If you will wait a moment, sir, I will explain."

"No explanation is needed, madam. If I can get out of this house alive I will meet you in some other un-lion-visited part of Boston and pay you." And he added, with great sarcasm, "He is probably a pet of yours, and your ex-boarders have furnished his meals."

Instead of being shocked at this, the gentle landlady's eyes beamed with content. "That's just it--he is a pet of mine, and he lives in the back parlor."

"The lion is here in your back parlor, and you have the face to keep boarders?" shrieked the Dane.

"My other boarders have left me."

"I should think so, and this one is going to do like-wise, and without delay"--beginning to put his things in his bag.

She said she was sorry he thought of going, but she could understand he was nervous.

Nervous! If he could have given his feelings words he would have said that never in all his life had he been so scared.

The meek lady before him watched him while he was making up his packages and his mind. What he made up was his reluctance to flee from danger and leave the lion-hearted little woman alone.

"I will not go," he said, in the voice of an early Christian martyr.

"You see, sir, this is how it happened," began the woman. "A very nice sailor came to board here, but could not pay his bill, so to settle with me he offered me his pet dog. I thought it a puppy, and as I had taken a fancy to the little thing--he used to drink milk with the cat out of the same saucer--I consented to keep it."

"And he turned out to be a lion? How did you first notice it?"

"Well, sir, I soon saw he attracted attention in the street. He wanted to fight all the other animals, and attacked everything from a horse to a milk-pan. It was when I was giving him a bath that I noticed that his tail was beginning to bunch out at the end and his under-jaw was growing pointed. Then the awful thought came to me--it was not a dog, but a lion! This was a dreadful moment, for I loved him, and he was fond of me, and I could not part with him. He grew and grew--his body lengthened out and his paws became enormous, and his shaggy hair covered his head. But it was when he tried to get up in my lap, and became angry because my lap was not big enough to hold him, that he growled so that I became afraid. Then I had bars put up before the door of my back parlor, which was my former dining-room, and I keep him there."

"Do you feed him yourself?"

"Yes, sir, but it takes a fortune to keep him in meat."

"How old do you think he is?" the Dane asked, beginning now to feel a respectful admiration for the lone woman who preferred to give up boarders rather than give up her companion.

"That I do not know," she replied, "but from his size and voice I should say he was full-grown."

"I can vouch for his voice. Will you show him to me?" He had never seen a lion boarding in a back parlor, and rather fancied the novelty. He told the consul afterward that he had never seen a finer specimen of the Bengal lion. To his mistress he was obedient and meek as a lamb. She could do anything she liked with him; she passed her hand lovingly over his great head, caressing his tawny locks, while the lion looked at her with soft and tender eyes, and stuck out his enormous tongue to lick her hand.

The Dane stayed on, like the good man he was. He had not the heart to deprive the little woman of the few dollars he paid for his room, which would go toward buying food for her pet. He himself became very fond of "Leo," and would surreptitiously spend all his spare money at the butcher's, who must have wondered, when he sent the quarters of beef, how such a small family could consume so much--and the Dane would pass hours feeding the lion with tidbits held on the end of his umbrella.

We were told afterward that the police discovered that the noises coming from the house were not the usual Boston east winds, and, having found out from what they proceeded, suggested that the Zoological Gardens should buy the animal, for which they paid an enormous price. So the sailor did pay his debt, after all!

CAMBRIDGE, _March, 1880_.

Dear L.,--I love to write to you; my thoughts run away with me, my pen flies like a bird over the paper. You need not remind me of the fact that my handwriting is execrable. I know it, therefore don't waft it across America. Spare me this mortification. Tear the letters up after reading them, or _before_, if you like. When I see the stacks of never-looked-through letters being dragged from one place to the other, tied up in their old faded ribbons, I feel that I do not wish mine to have the same fate.

I read the other day H.'s lively letters full of dash, written in her happy girlhood, and think of her as she is now, the tired mother of six children, without a sparkle of humor left in her, and nothing more spicy in her epistles than a lengthy account of the coal bill or the children's measles. All the life taken out of her for ever! Just deadly dull!

I feel in the above pathetic mood whenever I look out of my window and see the veteran Washington elm facing wind and weather, bravely waiting the end. With what care they bolster up its weary limbs, saw off its withered branches, and deluge its old roots! They spend days belting and tarring its waist, trying to destroy the perverse caterpillars; but with all this they can never give it back its fresh and green youth. It goes on patiently year after year putting forth its leaves in spring and coquetting in its summer garb with its younger rivals. In autumn the pretty colored leaves fly away, and it remains bare and grim under its coating of snow and ice. Some day it will blow down, and nothing but the monumental stone will be left on which future generations will read, "Under this tree George Washington first took command of the American Army, July 3, 1775."

If I stay in Cambridge long enough I shall become a beacon of wisdom. Every one is so learned. If I happen to meet a lady in the street she will begin to talk of the "old masters" as if it were as natural a subject of conversation as the weather.

Washington, _March 23, 1880_.

Johan has this moment received the news that he is transferred to Rome. We feel dreadfully sad to leave Washington and all our dear friends. Our good Schlözer would say "_Que faire? La diplomatie a des exigences qu'il ne faut pas négliger_."

The Queen of Denmark writes, "I hope that you are sure that I never omit to name your husband when a change is coming on in diplomacy, and I hope soon to see something advance to fulfil my wish. Alas, no great benefit to me personally, as you will not live in Copenhagen, but you would come here in an easier way, and you would be in Europe. Farewell, dear Lilly, farewell, and think of me as I of you. Yours.... Louise. The King's best compliments."

From this I fancy it was the gracious Queen whose finger pointed to the post Rome. This will be the last letter you will get from me from this side of the Atlantic, as I am going to be very busy--as busy as the bee I only hope that people will let the busy B.

ROME, 1880-1890

ROME, PALAZZO ROSPIGLIOSI, _December, 1880_.

Dear Mother,--We are now almost settled in the Eternal City, after a process which has seemed to me as eternal as the city itself, and I am so far established as to be able to take up the threads of my new life. The first of these will be this letter to you.

We found an apartment in this palace which is large and comfortable. It looks onto the Piazza Quirinal on one side, and on the other into the courtyard, where we see the procession of tourists with red Baedekers under their arms, filing into the Palazetto to admire the famous "Aurora."

Johan had been received by King Umberto before I arrived. The ceremony seems to have been full of splendor and surrounded with etiquette. A magnificent gala coach drawn by two splendid horses brought Signor Peruzzi (master of ceremonies), accompanied by an escort of carabineers, to the Hôtel Bristol, where Johan was stopping, attracting a large crowd in the Piazza Barberini--less than this is sufficient to collect gazers-on in Italy, where the natives pass most of their time in gazing at nothing at all.

As the carriage entered the _grande cour_ of the palace, the guards presented arms and the military band played. A second master of ceremonies met Johan at the foot of the principal staircase, while the Grand Master of Ceremonies waited for him at the head of it. Accompanied by these gentlemen, Johan passed through the long gallery, which was lined on both sides by the civil and military members of the household. At the extreme end of the gallery stood the prefect of the palace, Signor Visone, who preceded Johan to the King's apartment and retired after having announced him to his Majesty. This seems complicated, but you see it takes all these functionaries to present a Minister to a King.

Johan had prepared his obligatory speech about _les bonnes relations_ which had always existed between Italy and Denmark, and so forth, but the King did not give him the opportunity to make any speech at all. He held out his hand and said in a most friendly and cordial manner, "_Je suis bien content de vous voir, et j'èspère que vous vous plairez parmi nous_." His Majesty then asked Johan about King Christian, and spoke about the visit he had made to Denmark some years ago. Before the end of the audience Johan succeeded in making the King accept his _lettres de créance_, and presented the greetings of King Christian; but the speech remained unspoken.

The contrast seemed very striking between the ceremonious manner in which he was conducted to the King, and the simple and unconventional manner in which he was received by his Majesty.

Yesterday I asked for an audience with the Queen. The Marquise Villamarina (the _Grande Maîtresse_) wrote that the Queen, though desiring to see me, thought it better to defer the audience until after the reception of the _Corps Diplomatique_, which was to take place in a few days. I am rather glad of the few days of rest before the first of January, as I am completely tired out.

_January, 1881._

Dear Mother,--The great event of the season has just taken place! The _Corps Diplomatique_ has been received by their Majesties at the Quirinal, and I have made my first official appearance and worn my first court train. This splendid ceremony took place at two o'clock in the afternoon, a rather trying time to be _décolletée_ and look your best. In my letter from Paris I told you about my dress made by Worth. It really is quite lovely--white brocade, with the tulle front--all embroidered with iridescent beads and pearls. The _manteau de cour_ is of white satin, trimmed with Valenciennes lace and ruches of chiffon. I wore my diamond tiara, my pearls on my neck, and everything I owned in the way of jewelry pinned on me somewhere.

Johan was in full gala uniform--the red one--on the back of which was the chamberlain's key on the blue ribbon.

On arriving at the Quirinal we drove through the _porte-cochère_ and stopped at the grand staircase, which was lined all the way up by the tall and handsome guards, dressed in their brilliant uniforms.

We were received in the _salon_ adjoining the throne-room by the Marquise Villamarina and the _Préfet du Palais_. In crossing this _salon_ one lets one's train drag on the floor and proceeds, peacock-like, toward the ballroom. It seems that this is the proper thing to do, as it is expected of you to allow all beholders to admire your train and to verify its length. It must be four and a half yards long. I was told that the train of one of the diplomatic ladies last year was not long enough, and she was officially reproached. She excused herself by saying that she thought it would go "_that once_," but she found that it didn't go, and it was considered very disrespectful of her to disregard the court's regulations.

On entering the ballroom you pick up your train and go to your place--for every lady has her place according to her _ancienneté_. I, being the wife of the newest Minister, was naturally at the very end, and next to me was the newest Minister himself. While waiting for their Majesties you let your train fall, and it lies in a heap at your left side.

Behind each lady was a red-velvet _fauteuil_, in which she could rest for a moment, if her colleagues would screen her from public view by "closing up," according to military language. We did not, fortunately, have long to wait. The doors were opened and their Majesties entered. The ladies courtesied low, and the gentlemen bowed reverentially.

I was quite overcome by the Queen's dazzling beauty and regal presence. She wore a beautiful dress of very pale salmon-colored satin, embroidered in the same color. A red-velvet _manteau de cour_ covered with heavy embossed silver embroidery hung from her shoulders. Her jewels were handsomer than anything I had ever seen before, even more magnificent than those of the Empress Eugénie. The King and Queen separated. The King turned to the _doyen_ of the _Corps Diplomatique_, talked a long time with him, and then passed on, having a word for each gentleman, not overlooking even the youngest secretary.

The Queen went directly toward the Countess Wimphen, the _doyenne_, and, holding out her hand, leaned forward as if to kiss her cheek. The Ambassadress sank almost to the ground. Then the Queen talked with all the Ambassadresses and to the Ministers' wives. Madame Westenberg, the wife of the Minister from Holland, being the _plus ancienne_ of these, stood, full of importance at the head of her flock. The Queen's ready mind found something of interest to say to every one, and she seemed brimming over with conversation. There were continual glances between their Majesties, as if they were mutually comparing notes, which I fancy were something like this, "You'd better hurry, or I shall finish before you do."

Every time the Queen turned, Marquis Guiccioli (the Queen's chamberlain) bent down to the ground and arranged her train, spreading it out flat on the floor. When the Queen caught sight of me a smile of recognition passed over her face, and when she gave me her hand she said: "I am so glad to see you again, and so happy to know that we are going to have you in Rome. I've never forgotten your singing. Your voice is still ringing in my ears."

I answered, "I have never forgotten your Majesty's kindness to me when I was here before."

"I remember so well," she said, "how beautifully you and the Marquise Villamarina sang that duet from 'La Pavorita.' We shall have some music later, I hope," and she added, "The King was delighted with Monsieur de Hegermann."

I said that Monsieur de Hegermann was very much flattered by the King's gracious manner when the King received him.

On leaving me the Queen crossed the room, directing her steps toward the _doyen_ Ambassador. In the mean while the King came toward the ladies, passing rapidly from one to the other. He made quick work of us, as he did most of the talking himself, hardly ever waiting for an answer.

He said to me, "The Queen tells me that you have been here before."

"I have, your Majesty," I answered; "I was here five years ago and had the honor to be presented to you."

"Really?" said the King. "I don't remember."

"But I've known you longer even than that," I said.

"How so?" asked the King, abruptly.

"When your Majesty was in Paris in 1867."

"That makes us very old friends," he said, smilingly.

Finally, when their Majesties had finished the circle, they met at the end of the ball-room; every one made a _grande reverence_, and they bowed graciously in response and withdrew.

We ladies, in walking out, allowed our _manteaux_ to trail behind us. We entered the room where refreshments were served, and crowded around the buffet, which groaned under the weight of all sorts of good things. We drank one another's health and Happy New Year in champagne.

_January, 1881._

Dear Mother,--You would never believe that my official duties weigh as heavily on me as they do. I received a letter from the Marquise Villamarina, saying that "her Gracious Sovereign would be pleased to receive me on the seventh at three o'clock." Therefore, dressed in my best, I drove to the Quirinal. It is so near our palace that I had hardly entered the carriage before I had to get out of it. The gorgeously dressed and long-bearded _concierge_ who stood pompously at the entrance of the palace waved the carriage to the other end of the courtyard, and pounded his mace on the pavement in an authoritative manner.