Chapter VI: Part 6

Liszt, as if he wished to make us forget this untimely incident, played after dinner as he had never played before. But nothing could suppress Count Ludolf--never mind where the _plats_ were, his feet continued to get into them. Right in the middle of Liszt's most exquisite playing our irrepressible host said, in a loud voice:

"If any one wishes to have a game of whist, there are tables in the other room."

Liszt stopped short, but, seeing all our hands raised in holy horror at the thought of exchanging him for a game of whist, consented amiably to remain at the piano.

Liszt honored me by coming to my reception, brought by M. de Keudell--Liszt is always brought. Imagine the delight of my friends who came thus unexpectedly on the great Master. They made a circle around him, trying to edge near enough to get a word with him. He was extremely amiable and seemed pleased to create this manifestation of admiration. (Can one ever have enough?) There are two young musical geniuses here at the Villa Medici, both _premier prix de Rome_. One is Gabriel Pierné, surnamed "_Le Bébé_" because he is so small and looks so boyish--he really does not seem over fourteen years of age--and another, Paul Vidal, who is as good a pianist as Pierné, but not such a promising composer.

I asked Liszt if he would allow these two young artists to play some of their compositions for him. Liszt kindly consented, and the appointed day found them all in the _salon_. Liszt was enchanted (so he said); but how many times has he said, clapping the delighted artist on the shoulder, "_Mon cher, vous avez un très grand talent.... Vous irez loin; vous arriverez_," a great phrase! And then he would sit down at the piano, saying with a smile, "Do you play this?" and play it and crush him to atoms, and they would depart, having _la mort dans l'âme_, and overwhelmed with their imperfections. Instead of encouraging them, he discouraged them, poor fellows! Speaking of young artists in general, he said once, "_Il n'y a personne qui apprécie comme moi les bonnes intentions, mais je n'en aime pas toujours les resultats_."

You may believe that my artistic soul is full of joy when I can collect about me such artists as Liszt, Grieg, Sgambati, Pierné, Vidal, Mme. Helbig, and Countess Gigliucci, not to mention the Queen's _Gentilhomme de la reine_ (Marquis Villamarina), who has the most delicious barytone voice I have ever heard--but he seems to think as little of this divine gift as if it were his umbrella. Vera (the singing-master) was prevented from coming to-day to the Queen's lesson, and Signor Marchetti replaced him. He is a very well-known composer, and has written an opera called "Ruy Blas," which has had quite a success here in Italy. The Queen and I sing a duet from it which is really charming.

Baron Renzis had some theatricals at his pretty villa in Piazza Indipendenza, in which Nina acted the principal _rôle_, in "L'été de St.-Martin." Senateur Alfieri (son of the celebrated Alfieri) took the part of the uncle. One of the thirteen pictures Lenbach painted of Nina was put on the stage and afterward brought before the curtain, but it created no enthusiasm--people did not think it did her justice.

One actor (a young Frenchman) had such a stage-fright that when he had to say this phrase (it was all he had to say), "_Le peintre vous a diablement flattée_," he said, "_Le diable vous a peintrement flattée_," which caused a roar of laughter and hurt Lenbach's feelings....

Massenet has just sent a complete collection of his songs--all six. I like the first two best--"_Poëme d'Avril_" and "_Poëme de Souvenir_." This last he dedicated to me. There stands on the title-page, "_Madame, Vous avez si gracieusement protege le Poëme d'Avril_...", etc. The "_Poëme d'Hiver_," "_Poëme d'Octobre_," and "_Poëme d'Amour_" have pretty things in them, but they are far from being so complete as the first ones. Massenet wrote the date of its composition on each title-page, and a few bars of music.

I took them to the Queen, and we looked them over together. She was enchanted, and thought them the most graceful and refined things she had ever heard. She said, "I envy you having them."

"Would your Majesty like to have some?" I asked.

"Yes, indeed; very much," she replied. "But I could never sing them. You would have to teach me how. They suit your voice, but would they mine? No one can sing them as you do."

"I learnt them with Massenet; that is why," I replied.

I wrote to Massenet and begged him to send the same collection to the Queen, as she had been so delighted with his songs, and added, "Don't forget to put your name, the dates, and a bar or two of music just like what you sent to me."

Most amiably he did what I asked for, and the Queen was more than pleased, and immediately thanked him through the Marquise Villamarina.

Massenet has become a great celebrity now. Twenty years ago, when he was struggling to get on in Paris, Auber and I helped him. I used to pay him five francs an hour for copying manuscripts. Now one pays twenty francs _just to look at him_!

Mr. Morgan, of London, has hired our good friend George Wurts's magnificent apartment in the relic-covered Palazzo Antici-Mattei. Wurts is secretary to the American Legation in Petersburg, but comes occasionally to see his friends in Rome, who all welcome him with delight. Mr. Morgan gives beautiful dinners, and, although he has as many fires as he can possibly have, the huge rooms are freezingly cold, and sometimes we sit wrapped in our mantles.

ROME, _1st of January, 1886_.

My dear Aunt,--All Johan's and my most affectionate greetings: "May the year which commences to-day bring you every joy." I am selfish enough to wish that it will bring _us_ the joy of seeing you. You promised to make us a visit. Why not this spring?

It is six o'clock. I am sitting in my dressing-gown and feeling good for nothing. The diplomatic reception this afternoon was as brilliant as the others which I have described so often. The Queen was, _if possible_, more beautiful and gracious than ever. (I think the same each time I see her.) Every eye followed her. Does there exist in the world a more complete and lovely woman? To-day the Queen's dress was exquisite--a white satin covered with paillettes and beads, the court train of blue velvet heavily embroidered in silver. The tiara of diamonds, with great upward-pointed shaped pearls which her Majesty wore, was the King's New-year gift. "My Christmas present," the Queen told me.

The King seemed more talkative than usual; he spoke a long time with each person and smiled and laughed continually. Politics must be _easy_--like honors in whist. There is evidently no trouble in that quarter.

_March._

Dear ----,--I have permission to tell the great secret. Nina is engaged to the young Dane I wrote to you about--a Count Raben-Levetzau. He is very charming and belongs to one of the best families in Denmark. We went to the German Ambassador's (Herr von Keudell's) ball last evening at the Palazzo Caffarelli, which the King and the Queen honored with their presence. As soon as I could, I approached the Queen, who was sitting in one of the gilded chairs on the _estrade_ which does duty for a throne, and told her of Nina's engagement. She came forward to the edge of the platform and, beckoning Nina to come to her, held out her hand and kissed her on both cheeks before the whole assemblage. Of course, the news circulated as quick as lightning. When the King heard it he came straight up to us, and I presented Frederick to him. His Majesty was most affable, and said, smilingly, to Nina:

"Are we really going to lose you? We shall miss our beautiful stella" (star). And turning to Frederick, he said: "I do not give my consent _at all_. I think that I will forbid the banns."

Every one crowded around Nina, eager to congratulate her. Frederick was as radiant as a new-blossomed _fiancé_ could possibly be.

_March._

We are as busy as bees. The trousseau is being made by the nuns in the Trinita de Monti convent. The Queen sent Nina a beautiful point-lace fan with mother-of-pearl sticks. The Queen of Denmark sent her a bracelet with diamonds and pearls. Count Raben's family and all the colleagues have given her beautiful presents.

_April 10th._

It is all over--Nina is married and gone.

Day before yesterday was a day of emotions. In the morning we went at ten o'clock to the Campidoglio, where the magistrate's offices are and where the _sindaco_ (the Marquis Guiccioli, a great friend of Nina's) performed the civil marriage. He particularly wished to do this _en personne_ as a special favor. He made a charming and affectionate speech and gave the pen we signed the contract with to Nina. Then we drove home, changed our dresses, and were ready at two o'clock for the real marriage at the church.

The church was filled to the last pew. When Nina came in on Johan's arm there was a murmur of admiration. She looked exquisitely in her bridal gown, and as she turned round before descending the altar steps and threw back her veil she was a vision of beauty, and I am sure she will be a "joy for ever." All Rome came to the reception at our house.

While at Sorrento we went one afternoon to take tea with the Marion Crawfords. They have a charming villa on the rocks. They seemed very glad to see us, and showed us all over the villa and their pretty garden. "My den," as Mr. Crawford called his sunny and comfortable library quite worthy of the lion he is. They are a very handsome couple. She is as sympathetic as he is, and they both talk in the most entertaining and lively manner. We had a delightful afternoon.

I was asked to sing at a charity concert to be given in the magnificent _Salle de Gardes_ in the Barberini Palace. The concert was arranged by all the most fashionable ladies in Rome, who with the ladies of the court were _dames patronesses_.

I accepted, as the Queen expressed the wish that I should. She even selected the songs she thought best for the occasion, and was present with all the court, which, of course, gave great _éclat_ to the concert.

Every place was taken, and, enormous as was the _salle_, it was crammed to its limit, people standing up by hundreds. Sarah Bernhardt, being in Rome, promised to lend her aid; she recited a monologue in her soft, melodious voice, but so low that it could hardly have been heard farther than the first few rows of seats.

I sang the "Rossignol" and Liszt's "_Que disaient ils?_" to Sgambati's accompaniment. Madame Helbig played the accompaniment of the "Capriciosa" of Blumenthal, the one that has all those wonderful cadenzas which run rampant through the different keys. Madame Helbig is a marvelous musician. I must tell you what she did. When I was soaring all alone up in the clouds without any earthly help in that long cadenza, she foresaw that I was not coming down on the right note and changed the key from four sharps to four flats without any one noticing it, thereby saving me from dire disaster.

Any musician can change from sharps to flats, but she was reading this very difficult accompaniment almost at first sight and before a large audience. I think that it was a tremendous _tour de force_.

AALHOLM, _August, 1886_.

My dear Aunt,--Did you receive the newspaper cuttings I sent you describing the home-coming of Frederick and Nina? Did they not read like fairy tales?

Aalholm Castle is situated on the sea. It is one of the most historic places in the country, and seems to have been bandied back and forth to pay the different kings' debts.

Christopher II. was imprisoned here (the prisons still exist), and two more moldy and unpleasant places to be shut up in cannot well be imagined. The guards used to walk up and down in front of the aperture through which food was passed to the unfortunate and damp monarch.

Later Aalholm came into Count Raben's family (in the eighteenth century). There are, of course, all sorts of legends and ghostly stories which, as in all ancient castles, are, with the family specter, absolutely necessary. Women in gauzy drapery have been seen roaming about in dark corridors, horses have been heard rattling their chains in the courtyard. Mirrors also do something, but I forget what. However, no phantoms, I believe, have been noticed during this generation; probably the building which is going on now has discouraged them on their prowling tours and routed them from their lairs. I have watched with interest for the last three weeks the workmen who are making a hole in the massive walls in a room next to mine. The walls are about ten feet thick and are made of great boulders, the space between being filled with mortar which time has made as hard as iron.

Every king or owner of Aalholm since the time it has stood on its legs seems to have had different ideas about windows. One sees on its tired old exterior traces of every kind and every period. Some round, some a mere slit in the wall, some with arches all helter-skelter, without any regard to symmetry or style.

Each owner made his window, and each successor bricked it up and put his window in its place. The building is very long, with two towers. It looks at a distance like a huge dachshund with head and tail sticking up. There is a chapel in one wing, which no one ever enters, and there is a theater in another wing, where in old times there were given plays.

The park is beautiful beyond words. You come across some old graves of vikings, of which nothing is left save the stones they used for the making of them. The treasures that they contained have long since been removed by a wise government in order to fill the national museums. Many gold and silver coins have been picked up _in the grounds_, and are turned to use by making tankards and bowls, and very pretty and interesting they are. On the walls of the large hall there are inscriptions which were made in the sixteenth century to commemorate the visits of different monarchs. King Frederick II., 1585, must have had many friends with him. Like our modern guest-book, each guest left his name and motto, which was painted on the walls, with his motto and his particular sign, such as a mug or a rake (I hope these did not refer to his personal attributes). One that King Frederick wrote seems to me to be very pathetic, and makes one think that his friends must have been ultra-treacherous and false. It reads: "_Mein hilf in Gott. Wildbracht allein ist treu_." ("God is my help. Wildbracht [the name of his dog] alone is faithful.") Don't you think that has a sad note in it?

alone is faithful.--Frederick II., King of Denmark and Norway." Right: "God forgets not His own.--Soffia, Queen of Denmark." Those below were made by members of the court, who attached their individual marks instead of signatures.]

MILAN, HOTEL MILAN, _October 17, 1886_.

Dear Aunt M----,--Just think what luck I have had. They say that everything comes to those who wait, and what I have waited for has come at last. I have seen and made the acquaintance of Verdi, the famous. He always stops at this hotel, because he is a friend of the proprietor's, Mr. Spatz, who, knowing my desire to meet Verdi, said that he would arrange an interview. This he kindly did. Verdi received me in his _salon_. He looks just like his photographs--very interesting face with burning eyes. His welcome was just warm enough not to be cold. The conversation opened, of course, on music. I said that I admired his music more than that of any other composer in the world. This was stretching a point, but it brought a pale smile to his verdigris countenance (this is unworthy of the worst punster). I told him that I often had the honor of singing with the Queen, and that we sang many duets from his operas. He did not seem to be much impressed by this miracle and received it with amiable indifference.

I longed to hear him talk, but with the exception of a few "_veramentes_" and "_grazies_" he remained passive and silent. By way of saying something he asked me if I had heard Tamagno in "Othello."

"Yes," I said. "I cannot think of anything more splendid. I never heard anything to equal him, and Monsieur Maurel is equally fine, is he not?"

"His singing is well enough," answered Verdi, "but his accent is deplorable."

After this the conversation languished, and I feared it would die for want of fuel. I felt that I had been spinning my web in vain--that I might catch some other fly, but not Verdi, when suddenly he said:

"You tell me that you sing often with the Queen. Which duets of mine do you sing?" he asked with seeming interest.

I named several.

"What voice has the Queen? Soprano or contralto?"

"The Queen's voice is mezzo-soprano," I answered.

"And yours?" he asked.

"Mine is about the same, equally mezzo-soprano."

This seemed to amuse him.

"Do you think the Queen would like to have me write something [quite jocosely] equally mezzo-soprano?"

"I am sure that the Queen," I answered, gushingly, "would be overjoyed."

"_Bene_," said the great _maestro_ with a smile. "Then I win."

"How enchanting!" I cried, crimson with enthusiasm. "But may I beg one thing?"

"Beg! _Je vous en prie_."

"_Fa dieze_ [F sharp] is a weak point in both our voices."

"_Bene_," he said, waving his hand toward his piano. "I will write a duet for you, and only put one G minor in it."

"G minor!" I exclaimed. "Why, that is--"

He interrupted, "Have you ever noticed that G minor is much easier to sing than P sharp?"

He did not wait for my assurance that I did not notice any difference, but said, suddenly, "When do you go to Monza?"

"We are waiting to hear. Perhaps to-morrow."

"Ah," he said, thoughtfully, as if turning over in his mind whether or not he could have the duet ready.

MONZA, _October 19th_.

Bonghi came yesterday. At the request of the Queen he read aloud my sketch of the Hamlet legend before the _promenade en voiture_. The Queen thanked me and said that she was going to keep the manuscript, but Bonghi cut my literary wings by pronouncing in his brusque way that, although it was interesting and he liked the contents, it was badly written.

"_Chère madame_," he said, "you write very well, but you do not know the art of punctuating. You write as the water runs, as the arrow flies; therefore, in reading what you have written I have no time to breathe. I cannot separate the different ideas. A comma means a _point d'arrêt_, a moment of repose. Every period should be an instant in which to digest a thought."

I felt crushed by this, but tried to defend myself by saying that I had only written it for one indulgent eye, and ended lamely by promising that the next time I wrote anything I would be more careful. "I will do as Mark Twain did--put the punctuations at the end, and one can take one's choice."

We had some music again this evening. The Duke played some solos on his violoncello. He has a beautiful instrument. If Amati made cellos (perhaps he did), he must have made this one.

At dinner I sat next to him.

He said, "I was very much interested in what you wrote about Hamlet."

"In spite of the lack of commas?" I asked.

"Yes, in spite of the lack of commas. But I wonder if all you wrote was true?"

"How can we ever find out?"

"I hate to think of him as a myth."

"Please don't think of him as a myth. Think of him as you always have; otherwise you will owe me a grudge."

Looking across the table to Signor Bonghi, he said: "He is a wonderful man. I like his name, too--Ruggiero Bonghi, _tout court_."

"It sounds," I said, "so full of strength and power and straight to the point, with no accessories, doesn't it?"

"You say that to _me_, who have twenty-four names."

"Twenty-four! Dear me! Do you know them all?"

"I must confess that I do not, but I will look them up in the Gotha and write them out for you."

"Twenty-four," I repeated. "How out of breath the priest who baptized you must have been!"

"Oh," cried the Prince, "he did not mind; he got a louis [twenty-franc piece] for each name."

ROME, PALAZZO SFORZA-CESARINI, _January, 1887_.

My dear Aunt,--After the reception of the Diplomats on the 1st of January we moved from Palazzo Tittoni to this, our new home.

We have in the largest _salon_ an enormous and gorgeously sculptured chimneypiece which has a tiny fire-place that, when crammed full of wood, and after we have puffed our lungs out blowing on it and prodded it with tongs, etc., consents to smile and warm the chair nearest to it, but nothing else.

The ceiling (a work of art of some old master) is way up in the clouds; I am almost obliged to use an opera-glass to see which are angels' or cherubs' legs up there in the blue.

The figures in the corners, I suppose, represent Faith, Hope, and Charity; the fourth must be the Goddess of Plenty. She is emptying an enormous cornucopia over our heads of the most tempting fruit, which makes my mouth water and makes me wish she would drop some of it in my lap.

This palace used to belong to that nice hospitable family you've heard about--_the Borgias_. I dare say they did a good deal of their poisoning in these very _salons_.

We were rather agitated the other day when a hole was discovered in one of the walls. I put my hand way down in it as far as I could and pulled out a little bottle which contained some dark liquid. Poison, for sure! It looked very suspicious. Giuseppe, our Italian butler, who is as Italian as an Italian can be, was frightened out of his senses (the few he possesses) and held the bottle at arm's-length.

To test the contents of the vial he put half of it in some food he gave to a thin and forlorn cat who hovered about our kitchen, and for whom Giuseppe cherished no love. However, the cat survived with eight of its lives. Then a rabbit a friend of Giuseppe's wanted to get rid of was given the rest. He also lived and thrived. After these experiments we don't think much of Borgia poisons.

One of the rooms behind the _salon_ (so large that it is divided into four) has the most beautiful frescoed ceiling. It is a pity that it is so dark there that one cannot see it properly. Perhaps originally it was a chapel and the frescoes were easier seen when the altar-candles were burning. But can one imagine a Borgia needing a chapel or a Borgia ever praying?

Just around the corner from us is the _campo di fiori_ (field of flowers), where one might expect to buy flowers, but it is the one thing you do not find there. Everything else, from church ornaments to umbrellas, from silver candlesticks to old clothes, you can buy for a song not so musical as Mendelssohn's "without words"; on the contrary, the buying of the most insignificant object is accompanied by a volume of words screamed after the non-buyer in true Jewish style.

Then around another corner you come across the Torso, made famous by that witty tailor called Pasquino, where he placarded his satirical witticisms; his post-office for anonymous letters!

We have just come home from the Pantheon. There is held every year for the anniversary of King Victor Emmanuel's death a memorial service _pour le repos de son âme_. If it had been my soul it would never have reposed; it would have jumped up and clapped its wings to applaud the music, which, though always beautiful, to-day was divine.

I even forgot to freeze during the long two hours we stayed in the icy-cold building, open to wind and weather above and full of piercing draughts below. The marble pavement, which has collected damp and mold since 27 B.C., has long since become so wavy and uneven that you walk very unsteadily over it; the costly marbles of which the pavement is made in fine mosaic-work have sunken away from their contours centuries ago, so that now you only realize how beautiful it must have been in its prime.

The high and imposing catafalque, erected for this occasion, which filled the whole center of the large _basilique_, reaching almost to the dome, was surrounded by enormous candelabra containing wax candles as big as birch-trees.

The ministers of state and the diplomats had a _loge_ reserved for them next to the orchestra, and, although there were carpets and rugs under our feet, the humidity and cold penetrated to the marrow of our stateful and diplomatic bones.

There were tiers of seats for people who were fortunate enough to procure tickets.

Gayarré, the wonderful Spanish tenor, sang several solos, each one more exquisite than the other. I have never heard a more beautiful voice, and certainly have never heard a more perfect artist. The way he phrases and manages his voice is a lesson in itself.

Tamagno, the famous Italian tenor, sings wonderfully also, but very differently. He gives out all the voice he has, and you are overcome with the strength and power and the compass of his unique voice. He is the _tenor robusto par excellence_ of the world.

One cannot compare the two singers. Gayarré has the real quality of a tenor, exquisitely tender, suave, and still powerful. He has a way of keeping his voice bottled up until a grand climax; then he lets it swell out in a triumphal burst.

This funeral service is a very long and fatiguing affair. I pity the _carabinieri_ (the soldiers) who are on service that day. Although they are men chosen for their powerful build, some of them cannot endure the fatigue of standing "at arms" the two hours that the service lasts. I suppose the poor things are put there from early dawn, and there they must stand, stiff and straight, with uplifted sword, without moving a muscle. We saw one (not this year, but last) faint dead away and drop in a heap on the marble steps of the altar. His sword and casque made a great clatter when they fell and rattled over the pavement. Four of his comrades rushed in, picked him up, and carried him out, staggering under his weight. He was replaced by another _carabinier_ noiselessly and so quickly that you hardly knew that anything had happened.

The Argentina Theater attempted to give Wagner's Ring. It was a dismal performance. Wagner is not at his best in an Italian setting, with all the gas turned on and the scenery half tumbling down and the orchestra fiddling in full view.

In the first act of "Rheingold," where the three maidens are swimming, the poor girls, with hair of unequal lengths, sprawled about, their arms clutching at air, and held up to the roof by visible and shaky ropes, half the time forgetting to sing in their wild efforts to keep themselves from falling, separated from the audience only by a gauze curtain which was transparency itself.

DENMARK, _July, 1887_.

My dear Aunt,--Denmark in July is ideal. It is never too warm in the day and always cool at night.

I have been spending a few days with Howard on his farm.

On the Fourth of July Howard wished to give the peasants in the neighborhood an entertainment to celebrate his country's "glorious Fourth." He hoped to inspire them with due enthusiasm and give them a good day's sport.

The Danish peasant's idea of amusement is to walk leisurely to the place of rendezvous, to sit quietly and rest from his week's hard work, eat plenty of Smörrebrod (sandwiches), drink barrels of beer, have tobacco _ad libitum_, and finally to leave as lazily as he came.

This feast was going to be otherwise. Everything was to be done _à l'Américaine_. The Fourth fell on a Sunday, and the farmers all accepted and came on the stroke of the clock, dressed in their Sunday-best clothes, which are of heavy broadcloth, made in the fashion of Louis Philippe, voluminous over the hips, thick, heavy-soled boots, and with long snake-like pipes hanging from their mouths.

Howard had arranged all sorts of _gymkhana_ sports, for which prizes were to be given. There were to be the long jump, the high jump, a running-race, catching the greased pig, pole-climbing, a race in a bag, and so forth.

"They shall have a high old time," said Howard.

Their dismay only equaled their astonishment when they were told what was expected of them. What! Jump, run, and be tied up in bags and climb poles? Was this the way that they were going to amuse themselves on this hot day? Were soiling their clothes, perspiring, and suffering tortures in their tight boots the delightful, reposeful feast they had been invited to? Their inborn politeness would not allow them to do otherwise than obey the wishes of their host. They tried their best to perform the feats put down on the program.

Their week's work of mowing, cutting trees, plowing, threshing, and the different things belonging to a farmer's life seemed child's play compared with this so-called enjoyment.

They did not understand why they got prizes for deeds they had not done, and received the box of cigars or silver mug with unperturbed serenity.

Consternation and resignation were the only expressions on their faces. Neither did they understand when they were told to cry "Hurrah!" and wave their hats after Howard should finish his oration. That he made standing on a table. He expatiated on the beauty of liberty and the soul-inspiring feeling of independence, and became quite eloquent. They cheered in a spiritless and cheerless manner. For them liberty was a high-sounding word which meant nothing. An enlightened government provided them with all they needed. Why have the bother to choose your doctor or your priest when all that is done for you? Only to pay taxes. Can anything be more simple?

The games H. tried to teach them were not successful. They stood in a circle and were told (Howard rubbed his hands in a dainty manner) that "this is the way we wash our clothes." This did not appeal to them; they knew too well how they washed theirs, and they saw no fun in imitating such every-day affairs as washing and ironing.

Every way "we did" things had to be explained at length and translated into Danish. And the most inexplicable of all the games was "Oranges and lemons." When they were asked if they wanted oranges or lemons; they all answered, truthfully and conscientiously, "Oranges." Who in his senses would prefer a sour lemon to a juicy orange? The result was that the battle was very one-sided--all oranges and only one lemon.

The dance was also rather dismal. The musicians played some national waltzes, and the guests shuffled about on the sanded floor, treading a slow measure and on one another's toes; the women held on to their partners by their shoulders, and the men clutched the women round their bulky waists. However, they all kept the measure, and some of the men really danced quite well.

The _finale_ was the fireworks. It ought to have been a grand display, but the rockets were damp, the "wheels," which ought to have wheeled up in the air, merely whizzed on the ground and seemed to make for the nearest guest in an absolutely vicious manner. All the things that ought to have gone off stayed and sputtered.

As an entertainment it was a failure. The guests, however, had plenty to eat and drink, and carried away pockets full of tobacco and cigars, but it was rather pathetic to see the worn-out and weary farmers dragging their tired limbs slowly and ponderously down the avenue with a look of "Why all this?" depicted on their faces.

MONZA, _October 17th_.

After luncheon to-day we went out on the terrace to drink our coffee. The sun was warm and the air deliciously cool, a typical Italian autumn day. As we sat there we heard some mysterious noise which came from the side of the park where the avenue terminates and is divided from the deer-park by a large iron gate.

Looking down the avenue, we saw a man peering through the bars of the gate. He had a bear with him. Her Majesty was curious to see them and ordered the gate unlocked and the man and the bear permitted to enter. The man was quite young, with soft black eyes and dazzling teeth. He led the bear by a heavy iron chain passed through a ring in its nose. The Queen went down the steps and talked with him.

"Will he bite me if I pat him?" she asked.

"No, signora; he is very good" ("_E molto buono_"). He hesitated a moment, and then said, "Signora, will you tell me which of the ladies there is the _Regina_?" The Queen was immensely amused, and answered, "I am the Queen" ("_Son io la Regina_"). The young fellow was quite overcome, and threw himself on the ground and kissed the hem of her dress.

"How did you tame the bear?" inquired her Majesty.

He answered in a very agitated voice: "_Maesta_, it was very easy. Bears are not difficult to tame. One must only be kind and patient."

"You look," said the Queen, "as if _you_ were very kind and patient."

The young Italian passed his hand lovingly over his companion's shaggy head, and as he looked up at the beautiful and smiling Queen his eyes filled with tears. "I love him," he said, simply; "he is my only friend." We, who stood near enough to hear, were trembling on the verge of weeping. He added, "We never leave each other; we eat and sleep together, and all I have I share with him."

I saw tears in the Queen's eyes, which she quickly wiped away; and, turning to the man, she asked, "Can he do any tricks?"

"_Si, maesta_, he can lie on his back and put his paws up in the air and hum."

This did not seem much of a trick, probably being a bear's customary attitude.

"Well," said the Queen, "let us see what he can do."

But, although the bear was addressed in terms of tenderest endearment and although we hoped that he would obey his master and do honor to the occasion, he did nothing of the kind. On the contrary, instead of lying down and humming he stood up his full height on his hind legs and began to waltz, swaying his long, plump body and shaking his thick, brown fur.

He opened his mouth wide, showing his white teeth and his great red tongue, and looked as if he were laughing and as if it was the funniest thing in the world that he was doing.

"He does not seem to be very obedient," smiled her Majesty.

"He is afraid," said the man, trying to make excuses for his pet.

"You must come again," said the Queen, "when your bear is better trained," and, turning to Signor Borea (her chamberlain), told him to give the man some money and direct him to the forester's lodge, where some food should be given to him.

The young Italian's face beamed with joy when he beheld the vast sum (twenty lire) he had received, and led his disobedient companion away in disgrace; but the bear, quite unconscious of being in disgrace, turned his head for a last friendly glance, walked on his hind legs in his clumsy and swaggering manner, but with a certain dignity, down the avenue.

The King, who was with us on the terrace, had been a silent witness of the whole scene, and, not being able to resist the promptings of his kind heart, followed the couple. We saw him put a gold piece in the brown palm of the poor fellow, whose "only friend" had failed him on this unique occasion. He seemed quite overcome by this Danaë-like shower of gold, and hesitated before taking the piece, thinking, perhaps, that on this occasion honesty might be the best policy, and said:

"The Queen has already given me much."

"That does not matter," said the King. "You must take what _I_ give you. Do you know who I am?"

"No, signor. Are you Garibaldi?"

The King laughed. "No, I am not Garibaldi; I am the King."

This second surprise was too much for the little man, and he almost fell down in his emotion.

What his dreams were that night must have been like one of the Arabian Nights.

REGGIO, _October 17th_.

Dear ----,--Count Spaletti has a very fine _château_ (a large park and a beautiful forest), where he and his family live in patriarchal style. It is the true Italian traditional home-life in every respect.

There is on the farm a large building in which the famous Parmesan cheese is made. We were shown the entire process from the milking of the cows down to the great wheels (which look like millstones) and the completed cheese. Milking is a process with which you are, perhaps, not familiar. It is done with the help of a maiden and a three-legged stool, while the cow goes on chewing the worn-out cud of her last meal, occasionally giving a Cenci-like glance of approbation.

But I won't tell you about that; I will let you in the secrets of Parmesan-cheese making, so that when you are eating it grated on macaroni you may know what an old stager you have to do with. The milk is put in great vats just as it comes from the _mesdames les vaches_; there it remains, occasionally turned around, not churned, with a wooden paddle, until it becomes a solid substance.

When it is hard enough to handle it is put into large round wooden forms and allowed to remain untouched--for how long do you think? _One year!_ Then they put it under the oil _régime_--that is to say, olive-oil is poured through the cheese at regular intervals until the rind is as black and thick as leather. In four years it is ready to be sold. Each cheese weighs several hundred pounds, is a foot thick, and is as big as a cart-wheel. We eat it every day for luncheon and dinner. I like it so much better, fresh and straight from the farm (if anything four years old can be called fresh), than when stale and grated.

ROME, _1888_.

My dear Aunt,--Leo XIII.'s jubilee has been the means of bringing the world to Rome. Every day during these last weeks we have watched the carts passing our house piled with huge cases which contained the presents destined for the Holy Father.

The streets are filled with pilgrims from everywhere. One cannot look in any direction without seeing processions of nuns, priests, and monks of all nations and denominations, from the dingy brown Franciscans, the Capucines with their white mantles displaying their bare legs, to the youthful disciples of the Propaganda in their brilliant scarlet cassocks, not to speak of the _forestiere_ armed with their red Baedekers, who are doing Rome and at the same time _doing_ the Pope's Jubilee.

Everything and every one on the way to the Vatican.

We went to see the gifts, which are exposed in many rooms on the ground floor of the Vatican. There was an enormous quantity of things of every description, useful, ornamental, and superfluous. The windmills, bells, every sort of vehicle, rowboats, sailboats, and every modern invention had been put out in the Vatican gardens.

You can have no idea of the incredible amount of slippers sent (thousands of them); church _vêtements_ by the hundreds, embroidered by millions of women who must have worked themselves blind; the most exquisite articles of needlework, incrusted with pearls and precious stones which have probably cost a mint of money.

The Princess del Drago's gift was a large diamond cross with an enormous emerald in the center, an heirloom from her mother, the Queen of Spain. There were many other private gifts which were equally valuable. Almost a ship-load of canned fruits and vegetables sent from America; these were arranged in a gigantic pyramid. Just to look at them made my mouth water and me homesick.

Ridiculous objects from _naïf_ donors, such as babies' socks and jackets, and silver things for a lady's toilet-table, and other equally inappropriate things, must have surprised the Pope when he saw them. I have not mentioned the millions of francs the Pope received in money; he can easily dispose of that; and he intends, I believe, to make presents to every church in Italy of the different objects which can be useful. But what can he do with the babies' socks?

On last Thursday the Pope said mass in St. Peter's. It was the great event of the year.

As we are accredited to the Quirinal, of course I never can have the opportunity to be received by his Holiness; therefore I was very glad when the monsignore who is still _Dantefying_ us offered to give me a _carte d'entrée_.

I was obliged to be at St. Peter's at a very early hour, and succeeded, owing to having a "friend at court" (the Swedish chamberlain to the Pope, Marquis de Lagergren), in getting an excellent place where I had a good view of the Pope and the whole ceremony. Ladies are dressed entirely in black, with black veils instead of hats, on these occasions.

There was a great deal of noise in the church--much scraping of chairs, rather loud talking, people being shown to their seats, and, above all other noises, _the organ_.

I cannot honestly say that the music was beautiful. With the exception of the days when the best singers of the Pope's choir sing, the music in St. Peter's is not good. The organ is as antiquated as the organist, who plays with all the stops pulled out.

The center of the church was filled with wooden benches and chairs. The altar was brilliantly lighted with hundreds of wax candles; the columns around it were hung with tawdry red damask curtains, which, in my opinion, rather took from the dignity of this magnificent church.

The Swiss Guards ushered people to their seats. They looked very picturesque in their costumes of bright red and yellow, slashed sleeves, and brass helmets.

In due time the serious and somber chamberlains, in their black satin and velvet costumes, appeared; next came the bishops, in their purple robes; and directly preceding his Holiness the Pope were the cardinals, in red. Then came the twelve men carrying the gold pontifical chair in which the Pope was seated; they walked very solemnly and slowly.

Every one dropped on his knees, and the Pope raised his thin white hand to bless the kneeling crowd.

He mounted the steps of the high altar and began reading mass. His voice was very feeble and scarcely audible.

It was very impressive. It would be impossible to give you an idea of the intense solemnity of this scene, especially for me, as I have no talent for description. Women wept and waved their wet handkerchiefs; the sterner sex would have done the same, I dare say, if they had not been ashamed to show so much emotion.

_March 10, 1888_.

The Emperor Wilhelm of Germany died yesterday. Though he was so very old, the news of his death was unexpected and cast a gloom over Rome. Of course, all gaieties are ended, and court mourning ordered for three weeks. King Umberto left directly for Genoa to meet the new Emperor, who started from San Remo on his way to Berlin. The dinner for King Umberto's birthday, which was to have been on the 14th, has been _décommandé_.

The Prince of Naples has already left for Berlin to represent the King at the Emperor's funeral--his first official act since he has become of age.

_May 1, 1888._

My dear Aunt,--My letters are very uninteresting. I cannot help it. There is nothing going on in society. In fact, many of the Italians have left Rome, and the colleagues are resting on their oars--those who have any to rest on. I am resting on my "Pinafore" oars. How lucky we had it when we did!

Taking advantage of this moment of inactivity, the Roman ladies arranged a charity performance, for which Marquise Del Grillo (Madame Ristori) promised to give her services. She chose the famous play "Marie Antoinette," which is supposed to be one of her best. The tickets were to be procured only from the ladies of the committee (of which I was one), and, though they cost a fabulous price, the theater was crammed to suffocation.

Madame Ristori's acting was, of course, perfect, her voice musical, her Italian delicious, and her gestures were faultless. If one might dare criticize such an artist, one could say that her movements might have been a little more queenly, but a queen's grace and dignity must be very difficult to acquire from sheer imagination. Also her dress was far from what it ought to have been. I am sure no French dressmaker had the making of _that_ gown. In the first act Marie Antoinette, in the _apothéose_ of her glory, wore voluminous skirts and crinoline, according to the famous picture. Madame Ristori wore a crinoline, to be sure; but her dress was too short in front and showed her low-heeled shoes of white satin, and when she moved about her gown of heavy brocade swayed from side to side like a pendulum.

One recognized the great artist in the scene in the prison, where she bade the king and her children adieu. This was very touching, and there was not a dry eye in the audience. I know that _I_ sniffed and wept and blew my nose, and was quite ashamed of showing my feelings so explosively.

I went to see her on her reception-day (the next Friday) and found her in her every-day surroundings, her pretty daughter hovering about with teacups and cakes, everything looking very home-like and prosaic, and Marie Antoinette eating sandwiches with a healthy appetite and talking of the latest gossip. I could hardly believe that I had shed so many tears over her sad fate a few nights ago.

* * * * *

The sad news of the death of Emperor Frederick came day before yesterday from San Remo. Every one had been expecting his death for months. The Italians loved him, and mourn him as if he had been their own. There is court mourning for three weeks.

MONZA, _October 1, 1888_.

My dear Aunt,--You ought to have a map of Europe continually under your eyes, and little pins to stick in the places where we last were. Space and distance are nothing to your "wandering jew(el)s." Going from Italy to Denmark and back again twice a year, we are obliged to traverse the whole of Europe, and, as "all roads lead to Rome," we can choose the one we like best.

Wherever we go we are enigmas to our fellow-travelers, who can never decide what nation we belong to. Johan talks Danish to me; we talk French to the governess, German to the valet, Italian to my maid, and English alternately. I think we would have puzzled the builders of the tower of Babel at that confusing moment when they all burst forth in unknown tongues.

ROME, _October 15, 1888_.

My dear Aunt,--We are having a series of entertainments in honor of the new Kaiser. This is his first official visit since he has become Emperor. He arrived here on the 11th at four o'clock.

We were invited by M. and Mme. Huffer to see the _entrée_. They being Germans, their decorations surpassed all others. Carpets out of every window, flags flying, and the German coat of arms placed in every available spot on their beautiful palace in the Via Nazionale. The King, accompanied by the Prince of Naples, followed by the Duke of Genoa, Duc d'Aosta, M. Crispi, Marquis Gravina, and Marquis Guiccioli, and other notabilities, drove to the station through a double line of troops on both sides of the street.

The usually dirty waiting-room in the station was hung with tapestries taken from the Quirinal and the splendid Louis XV. furniture taken from the beautiful Palace of Caserta.

The train which preceded the Emperor's, decked out with garlands and flags, came in sight, the traditional red carpet was laid down, the final orders shouted, and the Imperial train appeared. The soldiers presented arms, and the military bands struck up the German national hymn. The King wore the uniform of a general. He advanced to meet his Imperial guest. They embraced and kissed each other on both cheeks, then they presented the princes and the different members of their suites.

The Emperor was in the red uniform of the Hussars and looked very young and handsome.

In the first _berline_ (as they call the demi-gala blue landaus) were the Emperor and the King; in the second were the Prince of Naples and Prince Henry of Prussia (the Emperor's brother); in the third the Duc d'Aosta and the Duke of Genoa; in the fourth, Count Herbert Bismarck and the German Ambassador (Count Solms). The other carriages, of which there must have been ten, contained the military and civil members of both the sovereigns.

There was a great demonstration in front of the Quirinal Palace. The Emperor and the King came out on the balcony amid screams of "_Eh! viva!_" One old man--a German, I suppose--who was covered with medals shouted at the top of his lungs. "_Hoch!_" hoping to make a sensation, but the Emperor made no sign that he heard it.

The next day (Friday), as had been arranged long beforehand, the Emperor made his visit to the Pope; the carriage from the Quirinal brought him to the residence of Herr von Schlözer (the German Minister to the Vatican), where the Emperor lunched and changed his uniform.

Schlözer's account of the luncheon was very amusing. His household was apparently not arranged for the reception of emperors. He and his secretary were in great straits to provide the proper luxuries for their august guest. Schlözer possessed nothing so frivolous as a mirror, therefore he sent to borrow ours. We sent him the one we thought best suited to the occasion. It was so different from Schlözer's modest belongings that the Emperor's quick eye guessed instantly that it was a stranger, and said, "Where did this come from?"

I give you Herr von Schlözer's account in his own language.

"I had no extra toilet things to put into the Emperor's room, but, fortunately, I had bought a cake of soap in Berlin; this I put on a piece of marble I had picked up in the Forum, which I thought would do for a soap-dish. The Emperor went into the adjoining room to change his uniform, and suddenly appeared in the doorway, holding out his wet hands, and said, '_Mein liebe_ Schlözer, can't you give me a towel?' _Donnerwetter!_ said Schlözer, that was the one thing that I had forgotten."

The luncheon was (excepting the famous wines on which he prides himself) of the simplest kind of Italian repasts, of which macaroni, frittura mista, and cutlets with saffron (_à la Milanais_) formed the chief feature. The Emperor was in the best of spirits and enjoyed it all, interlarded as it was with Schlözer's unique remarks.

The Emperor's own horses and carriages and _piqueurs_ (brought expressly from Berlin for this one visit to the Pope) were waiting before the German Legation to convey his Majesty and Herr von Schlözer to the Vatican. The whole route through which they drove was lined with a double row of the national troops to the very steps of the Vatican. Every window was filled with people anxious to catch a glimpse of the handsome and youthful Emperor as he passed by in his open victoria; Prince Henry and Count Bismarck followed in another of the Emperor's carriages.