In the Courts of Memory 1858-1875.
by
L. de Hegermann-Lindencrone
Part 7 out of 7
whereas there are some foreheads which ought to have gloves on before they
are kissed."
The young Count, when he returned from the races at Wiesbaden, brought
with him a young American who had been presented to him by a friend of
his, who said that Mr. Brent, of Colorado (that was his name), was very
"original" and _ausserordenlich charmant_. And he was both charming and
(especially) original; but not the type one meets in society.
He was a big, tall, splendidly built fellow with the sweetest face and the
liquidest blue eyes one can imagine. He had a soft, melodious voice and
the most fascinating manner, in spite of his far-Western language. Every
one liked him; my American heart warmed to him instantly, and even the
austere _grande dame_, our hostess, was visibly captivated, and the prim
German governess drank in every word he said, intending, no doubt, to
improve her English, which otherwise she never got a chance to speak.
The two young men arrived yesterday just in time for tea. When the
Countess asked him, in her most velvety tones, "Do you take sugar, Mr.
Brent?" "Yes, ma'am, I do--three lumps, and if it's beety I take four." (I
trembled! What would he say next?) "I've got a real sweet tooth," he said,
with an alluring smile, to which we all succumbed. The governess,
remembering what hers had been before acquiring her expensive false set,
probably wondered how teeth could ever be sweet.
While dressing for dinner I shuddered at the thought of what his dinner
toilet might be; but I cannot say how relieved I was when I saw him appear
(he was the last to appear) dressed in perfect evening dress, in the
latest fashion, except his tie, which was of white satin and very badly
tied. The salon in which we met before dinner is a real museum of rare
pictures, old furniture, and curiosities. The walls are hung with old
Italian faïences and porcelains. A huge buffet, reaching to the ceiling,
is filled with Venetian goblets and majolica vases.
A vast chimneypiece, under which one can stand with ease, is ornamented
with a fine iron bas-relief of the family arms, and a ponderous pair of
andirons which support a heavy iron bar big enough to roast a wild boar
on. Count G---- called Mr. Brent's attention to it, and Mr. Brent said,
pleasantly, "I suppose this is where the ancestors toasted their
patriarchal toes."
At dinner he sat next to the governess, and I could see her trying to
digest his "original" language; and I was near enough to overhear some of
their conversation. For instance, she asked him what his occupation was in
his native land. "Oh," he said, "I do a little of everything, mostly
farming. I've paddled my own canoe since I was a small kid."
"Is there much water in your country-place?" she inquired.
"Don't you mean country? Well, yes, we have quite a few pailfuls over
there, and we don't have to pull a string to let our waterfalls down."
My neighbor must have thought me very inattentive; but I felt that I could
not lose a word of Mr. Brent's conversation. The vestibule (or "Halle," as
they called it), where we went after dinner, used to be occupied by the
_Corps du Garde._ It had vaulted ceilings and great oak beams, and was
filled with hunting implements of all ages arranged in groups on the
walls very artistically; there were cross-bows, fencing-swords, masks,
guns (old and new), pistols, etc. Mr. Brent was very much impressed by
this collection, gazed at the specimens with sparkling admiration, and
remarked to the governess, who was always at his elbow, "I never saw such
a lot of things [meaning the weapons] outside of a shindy."
"What is a shindy?" inquired the governess, always anxious to improve her
knowledge of the language.
"Why, don't you know what a shindy is? No? Well, it's a free fight, where
you kill promiscuous."
"Gott im Himmel!" almost screamed the terrified damsel. "Do you mean to
say that you have killed any one otherwise than in a duel?"
"I can't deny that I have killed a few," Mr. Brent said, cordially, "but
never in cold blood."
"How dreadful!" his listener cried.
"But you see, over there," pointing with his cigar into the vague (toward
Colorado), "if a man insults you, you must kill him then and there, and
you must always be heeled."
"Heeled!" she repeated, puzzled. "Do they always get well?"
Neither understood.
Probably she thinks to this day that a shindy is an exceptionally good
hospital.
The Count said, "This room is a very good specimen of Renaissance style."
Mr. Brent replied, "I don't know what 'renny-saunce' means, but this room
is the style I like"; and added, "It's bully; and to-morrow I'd like to
take a snap-shot of it and of all the company to show mother, if [with his
charming smile] you will let me."
"You shall take that and any other thing you like," said the Count. "How
long do you intend staying in Europe?"
"That depends," answered Mr. Brent. "I came across the pond because the
doctor said I needed rest and change."
"I hope that you have had them both," the Count said, kindly.
"I got the change, all right; but the hotel-keepers got the rest, as the
story goes."
Every one laughed and voted the young and clever American perfectly
delightful.
The Countess extended her jeweled hand when she bade him good night, the
hand that always had been held with reverence and pressed gently to lips,
and felt it seized in a grip which made her wince.
"Madame, you are just as sweet as you can be. I cottoned to you right off
the minute I saw you, just as I did to 'sonny,' over there," pointing to
the noble scion of the house. The governess made a note of the word
"cotton." The Countess was dumfounded; but our young friend seeming so
unconscious of having said or done anything out of the way, she simply,
instead of resenting what in another would have been most offensive,
looked at him with a lovely, motherly smile, and I am sure she wanted to
imprint a kiss on his forehead _à la Russe_.
The next morning the Countess mentioned that she had a quantity of old
tapestries somewhere about in the house. "Where are they?" we all
exclaimed. "Can we not see them?"
"Certainly, but I do not know where they are," answered the Countess.
"They may be in the stables."
We went there, and sure enough we found, after rummaging about in the
large attic, a quantity of old tapestries: three complete subjects
(biblical and pastoral), all of them more or less spoiled by rats and
indiscriminate cutting.
It amused me to see in the servants' dining-room some good old pictures,
while in ours the walls were covered with modern engravings.
We were about thirty at table, and in the servants' hall there were nearly
sixty persons. Lenchen, my old-maid maid, puts on her best and only black-
silk dress every day and spends hours over her toilette for dinner.
Mr. Tweed, the English trainer, says that the stables here are among the
finest in Germany, and that the Count owns the best race-horses in the
land, and is a connoisseur of everything connected with horses.
Our Colorado friend did not seem at all overwhelmed with the splendor of
the stables, but with a knowing eye, examining the horses (feet, fetlocks,
and all), and without further preliminaries, said, "This one is not worth
much, and that one I would not give two cents for, but this fellow,"
pointing to the Count's best racer, "is a beauty."
Mr. Tweed's amazement at this amateur (as he supposed him to be) was
turned into admiration when Mr. Brent walked into the paddock, asked for a
rope, and proceeded to show us how they lasso horses in America. Every one
was delighted at this exhibition.
Then Mr. Tweed brought out the most unruly horse he had, which none of the
English or German grooms could mount. Mr. Brent advanced cautiously, and
with a few coaxing words got the horse to stand quiet long enough for him
to pass his hand caressingly over his neck. But putting the saddle on him
was another matter; the horse absolutely refused to be saddled. So what
did our American friend do but give one mighty spring and land on the
horse's bare back. He dug his strong legs into the sides of the horse, and
though the horse kicked and plunged for a while, it succumbed finally and
was brought in tame and meek.
Nothing could have pleased the Count more than this, and the rest of us
were lost in admiration.
Mr. Brent invited all the stable-boys _en bloc_ to come over to America to
see him; he guessed he "and the boys could teach them a trick or two."
After luncheon Mr. Brent wanted us all to come out on the lawn to be
photographed, particularly the Countess, and said to the young Count, "You
tackle the missis [meaning the Countess], and I'll get the others."
Of course no one refused. How could we resist such a charmer? Who could
ever have believed that this simple, unaffected youth could have so
completely won all hearts?
He said to the Countess while "fixing" her for the group, "I wanted you,
because you remind me so of my dear old mother." The Countess actually
purred with ecstasy; but I don't think she would have liked to be compared
to any "old" thing (mother or not) by anybody else. In this case she
merely looked up at him and smiled sweetly, and as for the _blasé_,
stately Count, he simply would not let him out of his sight.
At last the group was arranged according to Mr. Brent's ideas; the host
and hostess in the center, while the others clustered around them.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, please look pleasant," said Mr. Brent, and we
all took the attitude we remembered to have looked well in on some former
occasion, and hoped we looked "pleasant," and that "mother," when
contemplating us, would approve of us.
The Count's birthday happened to be on one of these days. Mr. Brent, who
had intended to leave, was urged by both him and the Countess to stay. The
young Count said, "Papa would be really unhappy if you went away." "That's
real nice of him; you bet I'll stay, then." On the day itself he was all-
pervading. It was he who hung the heavy garlands and wreaths on the
highest poles, agile as a cat, and draped the flags about the escutcheons
placed everywhere. He helped the ladies arrange the flowers in the
innumerable vases in the salons. He it was who led the applause when the
deputation of young people from the village made their speech, and when
the Count responded, in his most dignified and courtly manner, Mr. Brent
cried out, in a most enthusiastic voice, "Good for you!"
In the evening there were visits from all the surrounding neighborhood;
the ladies wore tiaras and all their jewels, and the gentlemen all their
decorations; there was a grand supper in the state dining-room. Although I
suppose it was the first time Mr. Brent had ever seen such a sight, he did
not seem in the least astonished. He circulated about the distinguished
company and made himself most agreeable indiscriminately to young and old.
He was in full glory, and certainly was the life of the evening, which
finished brilliantly with a grand display of fireworks set off from the
tower, so that they could be seen from far and near.
The next day Mr. Brent left. When he bade me good-by he said: "Good-by,
ma'am. If I have had a good time here, I owe it all to you." "Oh no, you
don't!" I said. "You owe it all to yourself, and you may say to your
mother, from me, that you won all hearts."
He sighed and turned away his head, giving my hand an extra squeeze. "If
you ever come to Colorado, just ask any one for Johnny Brent, and if I
don't stand on my head for you it'll be because I've lost it."
His leave-taking of the Countess was almost pathetic. He held her hand
long and tenderly, and said, "I can't find any word, ma'am--I mean,
Countess--but--thank you, thank you, that's all I can say."
And the Countess (we thought she would faint) put her hand on his
shoulder. He bent his head, and she kissed him on his forehead; and he
(were the heavens going to fall?) stooped down and kissed her cheek.
The Count said: "Good-by, my boy. Come again to see us"--and going to the
walls where his collection of pistols hung, took one of them and handed it
to him "This will remind you of us, but don't kill any one with it."
"Never," said Mr. Brent. "I will hang it round my neck."
Thus departed our American hero, for who but a hero could have stormed
such a fortress and broken down all the traditional barriers?
A day or two later we received a visit from royalty, in the person of
Prince Frederick Charles of Prussia.
In the evening we played a wonderful game called _taroc_, which was very
intricate and almost impossible to learn. Old Baron Kessler, who undertook
to teach it to me, got so sleepy that he actually yawned in my face.
This Baron Kessler is quite a character--very clever, very artistic, very
musical, and, strange to say, very superstitious. For instance, he wears
an old waistcoat which has certain magical grease-spots on Fridays; on
Mondays his purse must be in the left pocket of his coat, on Thursdays in
his right pocket. He drinks nine times before twelve o'clock on special
days, and has a cigar-case for each different day of the week. He hates
losing at cards, and when he does it is quite an affair; and I am not sure
that prayers are not offered up for him by his family in the chapel on his
baronial estates.
The last thing I saw was a vision of Herr Lenning (the head butler), who
is sometimes a little shaky himself, helping the Baron up the stairs.
Possibly it was the evening of the nine-drink morning.
Next day we all left, except the old Baron, who for reasons of his own
remained.
WEIMAR, _September, 1874._
DEAR M.,--I thought it would be a good idea to go to Weimar, the place
_par excellence_ to study German, the Germans, and their literature;
and, moreover, my boy might go to school there. Mrs. Kingsland had given
me a letter to the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar, and recommended the place,
not because she knew the town, but because she knew the Grand Duke.
Besides, had I not a dear cousin who had written a most attractive book
about Weimar, combined with Liszt and his enchantments?
I was all enthusiasm.
I decided to go to the hotel which Liszt honored. The proprietor put me
into Liszt's very room, where a framed letter of his hung on the wall....
This did not in the least overcome me, as I had several of Liszt's letters
at home. But what did overcome me was that I was charged four times the
price of any other hotel, on Liszt's account!
Weimar may be very pleasant in the season when the little Court sheds its
mild light about; but out of the season, especially at this time of the
year, when there is nothing but dried and fluttering leaves, students, and
dogs in the streets, I found it woeful. It was reeking of Schiller and
Goethe. For two marks you can have a pretty good idea of how these great
men lived and had their being. Everywhere we turned, and we turned
everywhere, there were statues, busts, autographs, writing-desks, beds,
and wash-stands which had belonged to them. I admired everything until my
vocabulary of exclamations was exhausted and my head whirled.
I told Howard, as young as he was, I would not have him Goethed and
Schillered, as he certainly would be if he stayed here; so I changed my
plans and made up my mind to accept the invitation of my friend the
Countess Westphal to make her a visit at her château in Westphalia. We
took a train which dropped us at her station, where she met us and drove
us to Fürstenberg.
Westphalia is renowned for its hams. Perhaps you don't know this,
therefore I tell you. It is also renowned for the independent spirit of
the Westphalians.
FÜRSTENBERG, _1874._
DEAR M.,--This château is a fine old castle, with rounded towers and
mysterious passages, and has a village tucked on to it. The family
consists of the Countess, the Count, and three children, a tutor, a
governess, and everything which belongs to the old families and their
traditions. The mysterious passages possessed no ghosts, for which I was
sorry, though my maid (a timid and naïve old German maiden) thought that
she heard "things" at night when she came up the dark, winding stone
staircase which led to my room.
Life passed quietly at Fürstenberg. Countess Westphal and I amused
ourselves with music and embroidery and listening to the Count's report of
his hunting expeditions.
One day, in a spasm of energy, she proposed to take me to see a friend of
hers, Countess B----, who, she said, lived quite near. We would spend the
night, returning the next day. She thought it would be a very pleasant and
entertaining little excursion for us.
She telegraphed to Countess B---- that we were coming without maids, and
with only necessary baggage; and my maid immediately went to work to pack
what she considered necessary for this visit. She put a dinner-dress, with
high and low waists, as the occasion might require, an extra day-dress,
and all kinds of accessories, filling a good-sized trunk.
We started early the next morning. Countess Westphal was full of happy
expectations; so was I. We were four hours on the way before we reached
our destination; but Countess Westphal cheerfully remarked that time was
of no consequence.
On our arrival at the forlorn little station I looked in vain for the
lordly chariot I thought would be waiting for us. Countess Westphal seemed
astonished also, but with her usual good-nature accounted for the absence
of the chariot by saying that her friend could not possibly have received
the telegram. We lingered about, hoping that some vehicle would appear;
but as none did so, Countess Westphal started off to find one, and she
finally succeeded in tempting a man, for the vast sum of four marks, to
drive us to the _schloss_.
After the coachman had gathered the reins off the back of the old, rickety
horse, I leaned back in my seat and pictured to myself what this beautiful
_schloss_ we were going to would be like.
Of course, it would have a moat around it (all old castles do); it would
have all the modern comforts combined with the traditions of past glories;
it would have avenues of grand old trees and marble statues, and terraces
leading into Italian gardens, and so forth. In fact, my imagination got so
riotous that I forgot to look at the treeless, muddy roads, and I never
noticed the wrenching of the ancient landau in which we were.
As we were jolted over the desolate landscape, Countess Westphal tried to
tell me the family history of the B----s, but I only gathered bits of it
here and there; such as that he was the fourth son of a very distinguished
father and mother, and had no prospect worth speaking of, except the
prospect of the dreary place we were careering over; that they never left
their native heath and had no children, and that they lived on their
estate (being the only thing they had to live on), and so forth and so
forth, all of which went in at the ear next the Countess and went out at
the ear next the road.
Finally we spied the _schloss._ It had been a convent in some former
century, and still had iron bars on the windows. We drove through a muddy
lane, passing a sort of barn with grated loopholes, and stopped before a
courtyard filled with chickens and geese; on the left was a pigsty,
smelling not at all like Westphalian hams, and on the other side a cow-
stable. In front was the _schloss_ and the lady of the manor, the
honorable Countess herself, on the steps, quite by chance, so it seemed.
She led us proudly into the salon. A large bunch of keys hung at her
girdle. I wondered why she needed so many! After the coal-bin, wine-vault,
and sugar-bowl, and linen-closet had been locked up, what more did she
need to lock up? There was no mention that the telegram had been received.
Strange!
Count B---- was not there, "but would be coming soon." I felt that I could
wait. The salon was of the kind that one often sees in houses where the
mistress, having no children and plenty of time, embroiders things. Every
possible object had a coat of arms and huge crowns embroidered on it, so
that you could never forget that you were in the house of ancient
nobility, which had the right to impose its crowns on you. All the chairs,
tables, sideboards, and things on the walls were made out of the horns of
stags and other animals the Count had shot. Sometimes the chairs were
covered with the skin of the same, minus the hair, which was missing and
moth-eaten in spots.
I was taken up-stairs to my bedroom, and I was thankful to see that the
horns and crowns had nearly given out before they finished furnishing the
first story, and that I had an ordinary middle-class chair to sit on.
There were many pictures of Madonnas and saints, from which I inferred
that our hosts were Catholics, and a _prie-dieu_, which, strange to say,
was made of horns; and the mat in front of my bed was a blaze of the
united coats of arms and _two_ crowns! So she was a Countess born, which
accounted for the doubleness.
We were obliged to make _le tour du propriétaire_, and, of course, as
there was no other place to take us to, we went to the stables. There we
admired the two cows (Stella and Bella) with horns. They had their names
painted in blue and white over their respective heads, but they had no
crowns.
Then the Count appeared in very nice clothes. I fancy, while we had been
admiring Stella and Bella, he had been changing his boots. Owing to these
fresh boots we were spared the pigsties. On our return to the house
Countess B---- said, "You know, we don't dress for dinner." I thought with
dismay of my trunk laden with all its superfluous contents, and what a
bore the bringing of it had been, and the opinion my maid would pass on
our noble hosts, who "don't dress for dinner," when she unpacked the
undisturbed finery which she had thought indispensable.
After dinner the conversation was chiefly pastoral, of the kind I do not
join in because I hate it. How many chickens had died, how Bella and
Stella had borne last winter's cold, how many sacks of potatoes had been
spoiled, etc. My Countess enjoyed it immensely, and sat on a horny chair
and sympathized. Our host took pity on me and taught me a patience. I had
known it all my life as "the idiot's delight," but I pretended I had never
heard of it before, and he had the satisfaction of thinking he was
entertaining me--which he wasn't! On the contrary, Job's patience never
could have equaled this one; the Count talked French fluently. The dinner
was not good, nor was it frugal.
The Count said, "Nous n'avons que le stricte nécessaire, rien de plus."
The Countess said, in English, "One can't have in the country all that one
wants."
I could not help feeling that one could not have even the half of what one
wanted, and more than once I caught myself thinking, "None but the brave
deserve this fare." They noticed if you took a second helping, and you
felt that they made a mental note if your glass was filled more than once
with wine. However, it was all very nice, and they were very kind, good
people. It was not the Count's fault if the stags he killed had too many
horns, neither was it the Countess's fault that time hung heavy on her
hands and embroidery occupied them.
Fortunately we would go away next day, so what did it matter? But getting
away was a very different thing from coming. When the Countess Westphal
suggested it, and said that we intended to take a certain train, the faces
of our hosts presented a blank look of apprehension! Their horses were
plowing! What should we do? The doctor, they said, who lived in the
village, had a carriage, but the horse was sick; there was, however, the
_schimmel_ of the baker, which, fortunately, was in good health, and
perhaps, in conjunction with the wagon of the doctor, one could manage. It
sounded like a gigantic exercise of Ollendorff:
"Avez-vous le cheval du boulanger?"
"Non, mais j'ai le soulier du boucher," etc.
After what seemed an eternity, the wagon of the doctor appeared, so did
the _schimmel_. The wagon of the doctor, usually dragged by two animals,
had a pole in the middle, to which the _schimmel_ was attached, giving him
a very sidelong gait. The question now was, who was to drive the
_schimmel_ attached to the pole?
The young man who milked the cows, killed the pigs, dressed the Count,
picked the fruit, drove the Countess, waited at table, served everybody,
did everything, and smelled _awfully_ of the stables--could he be spared?
Well, he was spared, and off we started majestically, but sideways, waving
a courtly adieu. We reached home in a drenching rain, wondering what on
earth ever possessed us to want to go to visit the noble B----s. I don't
think I ever want to see that establishment again, and I don't think I
ever shall.
FÜRSTENBERG, _December._
DEAR M.,--The Duke of Nassau had promised to come here to shoot wild
boars, for which this forest is celebrated. Count Westphal sent
invitations far and wide to call his hunting friends together. Before the
arrival of the Duke, carriage after carriage entered the courtyard; oceans
of fur-coats, gun-cases, valises, bags, and fur-lined rugs were thrown
about in the hall, to be sorted out afterward. Then the Duke drove up in a
sleigh with four horses, his aide-de-camp, two postilions, and a friend,
both of them so wrapped up in _pelisses_ and immense fur-caps that
you could only see the tips of their red noses, like danger signals on
railroads. No wonder! They had had three hours of this cold sleigh-ride!
The quiet old _schloss_ was transformed. Each guest had his own servant
and _chasseur._ The servants helped to wait at dinner. The _chasseurs_
cleaned the guns, lounged about smoking their pipes, and looking most
picturesque in their Tyrolean hats, with their leather gaiters, short
green jackets, and leather belts, in which they carried their hunting-
knives and cartridges.
His Highness (who is very short and what one calls thick-set) was
accompanied by a secretary, a _chasseur,_ a valet, two postilions, two
grooms, and four horses. He had six guns, six trunks, and endless coats of
different warmth. In the twinkling of an eye cigar-cases, pipes,
photographs, writing-paper (of his own monogram), and masses of
_etceteras_ were spread about in his salon, as if he could not even look
in his mirror without having these familiar objects before his eyes.
At twelve o'clock, high--very high--lunch was served. The servants brought
in the eatables in monstrous quantities, and disappeared; the guests
helped themselves and one another, and when without occupation fed the
fire, where logs smoldered all day.
At a reasonable hour, after cigars and cigarettes had been smoked, the
sleighs were ordered to be in readiness in the courtyard. Thirty or forty
_treibers_ (beaters) had been out since early morn. The Count has fourteen
thousand acres to be beaten, therefore an early start was necessary.
The hunters swallowed a bitter pill when they asked us ladies to accompany
them; but they knew their hostess would not let them go without her at
least, so why not take the tame bores while shooting the wild ones?
They portioned off one lady and one gentleman to each sleigh. These
sleighs are very small, and contrived for the confusion of mankind. You
sit in a bag of sheep's skin, or perhaps the bag is simply two whole
skinned sheep sewed together. You must stretch your legs, thus pinioned on
the sides, out as far as they reach; then the driver puts a board over
them, on which he perches himself, nearly over the horse's tail, and off
you go. I cannot imagine what a man does with his legs if he has very long
ones.
The poor horses are so dressed up that, if they could see themselves, they
would not know if they were toy rabbits or Chinese pagodas. Over the horse
is a huge net, which not only covers him from head to tail, but protects
those in the sleigh from the snow flying in their faces. I should think
that this net would be excellent in summer to keep the flies off; it does
certainly suggest mosquito-netted beds and summer heat. Over the net is an
arrangement which looks like a brass lyre, adorned with innumerable brass
bells, which jingle and tinkle as we trot along, and make noise enough to
awake all the echoes in the forest. On each side of the horse's head hang
long, white, horse-hair tails.
What did we look like as we proceeded on our way? A procession of eight
sleighs, combining a _ranz des vaches_, a summer bed, and an antiquary
shop!
Arrived at the rendezvous, Count Westphal placed his guests by different
trees. The best place, of course, fell to the Duke, and I had the honor to
stand behind him and his gun. I hoped that neither would go off! The Duke
is very near-sighted and wears double-barreled spectacles, which have
windows on the sides, so that he can look around the corner without
turning his head.
Every one was requested to be perfectly quiet, otherwise there would be
disaster all along the line. I could keep quiet very well, _for a time_,
but the back view of a man crowned with a Tyrolean hat, and terminating in
a monstrous pair of overshoes lined with straw, lost its interest after a
while, and I began to look at the scenery. It must be lovely here in the
summer. The valley, where a little brook meandered gracefully through the
meadow (now ice and snow), bordered on both sides by high pine woods, must
then be covered with flowers and fresh green grass, and full of light and
shadow.
His Highness and I were under a splendid oak, and there we stood waiting
for something to happen. The Duke, the oak, and I were silence
personified. A dead branch would crack, or the trunks of smaller and
ignorant pines would knock together, and the Duke would look around the
corner and say "Chut!" in a low voice, thinking I was playing a tattoo on
the tree.
"Now the beaters are on the scent!" he said. After this I hardly dared to
breathe.
"They have to drive the boar with the wind," he whispered.
"I thought they did it with sticks," I answered in a low tone.
To this remark he did not pay the slightest attention. Between a sneeze
and a cough--we were rapidly catching our deaths--he said, under his
breath, "If they smell us they go away."
The _treibers_ work in couples, Count Westphal leading them. It is
not etiquette for the host to shoot; he must leave all the chances of
glory to his guests. Among the _treibers_ were various servants and
_chasseurs_ carrying extra guns and short daggers for the final despatch
(_le coup de grâce_). We heard them coming nearer and nearer, but we saw
no boar. Many other animals came wonderingly forward: some foxes, trailing
their long tails gracefully over the snow, looked about them and trotted
off; a furtive deer cautiously peered around with ears erect and trotted
off also; but it is not for such as these we stand ankle-deep in the snow,
shivering with cold and half frozen. A shot now would spoil all the sport.
One has a longing to talk when one is told to be quiet. I can't remember
ever having thought of so many clever things I wanted to say as when I
stood behind the ducal back--things that would be forever lost! And I
tried to enter them and fix them in my brain, to be produced later; but,
alas!
The Duke (being, as I said, very short-sighted) came near shooting one of
his own servants. The man who carried his extra gun had tied the two ends
of a sack in which he carried various things, and put it over his head to
keep his ears warm. Just as the Duke was raising his gun, thinking that if
it was not a boar it was something else, I ventured a gentle whisper,
"C'est votre domestique, Monseigneur." "Merci!" he whispered back, in much
the same tone he would have used had I restored him a dropped pocket-
handkerchief.
Finally (there must be an end to everything) we saw beneath us, on the
plains, three wild boars leaping in the snow, followed by a great many
more. They had the movements of a porpoise as he dives in and out of the
water, and of an ungraceful and hideous pig when hopping along.
The Duke fired his two shots, and let us hope two boars fell. The others
flew to right and left, except one ugly beast, who came straight toward
our own tree. I must say that in that moment my little heart was in my
throat, and I realized that the tree was too high to climb and too small
to hide behind. The Duke said, in a husky voice, "Don't move, for God's
sake, even if they come toward us!"
This was cheery! Abraham's blind obedience was nothing to mine! Here was
I, a stranger in a foreign land, about to sacrifice my life on the shrine
of a wild boar! Count Metternich, behind the next tree, fired and killed
the brute, so I was none the worse save for a good fright. It was high
time to kill him, for he began charging at the beaters, and threatened to
make it lively for us; and if Count Metternich had not, in the nick of
time, sent a bullet into him, I doubt whether I should be writing this
little account to you at this moment.
There was a great deal of shouting, and the hounds were baying at the top
of their lungs, and every one was talking at the same time and explaining
things which every one knew. Counting the guests, the servants, the
trackers, the dilettantes, there were seventy people on the spot; and I
must say, though we were _transis de froid_, it was an exhilarating sight
--the snow is such a beautiful _mise en scène_. However, we were glad to
get back into the sheep-skin bags and draw the fur rugs up to our noses,
and though I had so many brilliant things to say under the tree I could
not think of one of them on our way home.
Fourteen big, ugly boars were brought and laid to rest in the large hall,
on biers of pine branches, with a pine branch artistically in the mouth of
each. They weighed from one to three hundred pounds and smelled
abominably; but they were immensely admired by their slayers, who
pretended to recognize their own booty (don't read "beauty," for they were
anything but beautiful) and to claim them for their own. Each hunter has
the right to the jaws and teeth, which they have mounted and hang on their
walls as trophies.
Count Westphal has his smoking-room filled to overflowing with jaws,
teeth, and chamois heads, etc. They make a most imposing display, and add
feathers to his already well-garnished cap.
Howard said, in French, to the Duke, in his sweet little voice, looking up
into his face, "I am so sorry for you!"
"Why?" inquired the Duke.
"Because the Prussians have taken your country."
We all trembled, not knowing how the Duke would take this; but he took it
very kindly, and, patting Howard on the back, said: "Thank you, my little
friend. I am sorry also, but there is nothing to be done; but thank you
all the same." And his eyes filled with tears.
The next day he gave Howard his portrait, with, "Pour mon petit ami,
Howard, d'un pauvre chassé.--Adolf, Duc de Nassau." Very nice of him,
wasn't it?
In the evening they played cards, with interruptions such as "Der
verfluchte Kerl," meaning "a boar that refused to be shot," or "I could
easily have killed him if my gun," etc., till every one, sleepy and tired,
had no more conversation to exchange, and the Duke left, as he said, to
write letters, and we simpler mortals did not mind saying that we were
dead beat and went to bed.
The next day being Sunday, I sang in the little church (Catholic, of
course, as Westphalia is of that religion). The organist and I had many
rehearsals in the _schloss,_ but none in the church, so I had never
made acquaintance with the village organ. If I had, I don't think I should
have chosen the _Ave Maria_ of Cherubini, which has a final amble with the
organ, sounding well enough on the piano; but on that particular organ it
sounded like two hens cackling and chasing each other. I had to mount the
spiral staircase behind the belfry and wobble over the rickety planks
before reaching the organ-loft. Fortunately, Count Metternich went with me
and promised to stay with me till the bitter end; at any rate, he piloted
me to the loft. The organ was put up in the church when the church was
built, in the year Westphalia asserted herself, whenever that was; I
should say B.C. some time. It was probably good at that time, but it must
have deteriorated steadily ever since; and now, in this year of grace,
owns only one row of keys, of which several notes don't work. There are
several pipes which don't pipe, and an octave of useless pedals, which the
organist does not pretend to work, as he does not know how. However, there
is no use describing a village organ; every one knows what it is. Suffice
to say that I sang my _Ave Maria_ to it, and the Duke and my hosts, miles
below me, said it was very fine, and that the church had never heard the
like before, and never would again. Certainly _not from me!_...
The village itself is a pretty little village and very quaint; it has
belonged to the _schloss,_ as the _schloss_ has to it, for centuries. The
houses are painted white, and the beams of oak are painted black.
On the principal cross-beams are inscriptions from the Bible, cut in the
oak, and the names of the people who built the house. There is one:
"Joseph and Katinka, worthy of the grace of God, on whom He cannot fail to
shower blessings. For they believe in Him." The date of their marriage and
their virtues are carved also (fortunately they don't add the names of all
their descendants). Sometimes the sentences are too long for the beam over
the door, and you have to follow their virtues all down the next beam.
This is perplexing on account of the German verb (which is like dessert at
dinner--the best thing, but at the end), and _gehabt_ or _geworden_ is
sometimes as far down as the foot-scraper. Some houses are like barns: one
roof shelters many families, having their little booths under one
covering, and they sit peacefully at their work in front of their homes
smoking the pipe of peace, and at the same time cure the celebrated hams
which hang from the ceiling. I won't say all hams are cured in this way,
because, I suppose, there are regular establishments which cure
professionally. But I have seen many family hams curing in these barns.
The costumes of the women are wonderful, full of complexities; you have to
turn them around before you can tell if she is a man or a woman; they wear
hats like a coal-carrier in England, pantaloons, an apron, and--well! the
Countess had a woman brought to the _schloss_ and undressed, so that
we could see how she was dressed. I ought to send a photograph, because I
can never describe her. There is a bodice of black satin, short in the
back, over a plastron of pasteboard of the same, and a huge black-satin
cravat sticking out on both sides of her cheeks, a wadded skirt of blue
alpaca, and pink leg-of-mutton sleeves. I can make nothing of this
description when I read it. I hope you can!
Count Metternich entertained us all the afternoon talking about himself.
He has fought with the Emperor Maximilian in Mexico, and when he speaks of
him the tears roll down his bronzed cheeks. He has fought in all Don
Carlos's battles, and is a strong partisan of the Carlist party. His
description of Don Carlos makes one quite like him (I mean Don Carlos). He
said that Don Carlos goes about in a simple black uniform and _béret_
(the red cap of the Pyrenees), with the gold tassels and the Order of the
Golden Fleece on his neck (I call that fantastic, don't you?). During his
campaign he suddenly swoops down upon people, no matter what their
condition is, and immediately there is a sentinel placed before the door.
The _consigne_ is not strict: any one can come and go as he pleases:
photographers, autographers, reporters, without hindrance, and there is a
general invitation to tea at headquarters. He has an army of volunteers,
of whom the Count is one. The rations are one-half pound of meat, one-half
pound of bread, and three-quarters liter of Navarre wine, which the Count
says is more fit to eat than to drink, "it is so fat." Navarre furnishes
the wine gratis, and promises to furnish twenty-four thousand rations
daily as long as the war lasts. The artillery is "not good," Count
Metternich added, but the officers are "colossal," a word in German that
expresses everything.
Count Metternich is the greatest gentleman jockey in the world; he has not
got a whole bone in his body. They call him _der Mexicano_, as he is so
bronzed and dark-skinned and has been in Mexico.
But he cannot rival Count Westphal, who, in his time, was not only the
greatest gentleman jockey, but a hero. At a famous race, where he was to
ride the horse of Count Fürstenberg, he fell, breaking his collar-bone and
his left arm; he picked himself up and managed to remount his horse. He
held the reins in his mouth, and with the unbroken arm walloped the horse,
got in first, and then fainted away.
It was the pluckiest thing ever seen, and won for him not only the race,
but the greatest fame and his Countess, who made him promise never to ride
in a race again, and he never has. She told me that many ladies fainted
and men wept, so great was the excitement and enthusiasm! Count
Fürstenberg had a bronze statue made of the horse, and it stands on Count
Westphal's table now, and is an everlasting subject of conversation.
The Duke invited us all to come to Lippspringe. He and all the hunting-men
have clubbed together and have hired the estate from the Baron B----, who
owns both house and country and is fabulously rich, so people say. Here
these gentlemen (I think there are twenty of them) go to pass two months
every year to hunt foxes. There are forty couples of foxhounds, which have
been imported from England.
There were eight of us, and we quite filled the four-horse break, servants
and baggage followed later. We arrived at Paderborn, a thriving and
interesting town of historical renown (see Baedeker). A two hours' drive
left us rather cold and stiff, but we lunched on the carriage to save
time. At the hotel we found a relay of four fresh horses harnessed in the
principal street, the English grooms exciting great admiration by their
neat get-up and their well-polished boots, and by the masterful manner
they swore in English.
After racing through the quiet streets at a tearing pace, we arrived at
the villa (_alias_ club-house) at six o'clock, in time to dress for
dinner at eight. The gentlemen appeared in regular hunting-dress: red
evening coats, white buckskin trousers, top-boots, white cravats, and
white vests; the ladies were _décolletées en grande toilette_.
Our dinner lasted till ten o'clock. The French chef served a delicious
repast; everything was faultless even to the minutest details; the
servants were powdered, plushed, and shod to perfection. Then we went to
the drawing-room, where cards, smoking, billiards, and flirtation went on
simultaneously until the small hour of one, when we retired to our rooms.
Countess Westphal and I had adjoining rooms, very prettily furnished in
chintz. Everything was in the most English style.
It is the correct thing here to affect awful clothes in the daytime. The
Baron (_der alte Herr_), when not hunting, wears an Italian brigand
costume (short breeches, tight leggings, stout boots) and some animal's
front teeth sewed on his Tyrolean hat to hold the little feathers. But in
the evening, oh, dear me! nothing is equal to his elegance.
The next day the gentlemen (twenty in number), all splendidly mounted on
English hunters, rode off at eleven o'clock, masses of grooms and
_piqueurs_, with lots of hunting-horns and the dogs. We ladies
followed in the break. The masters of the hounds were already at the
rendezvous on the hill. They soon started a fox, and then the dogs tore
off yelping and barking, and the riders riding like mad; and we waited in
the carriages, sorry not to be with them. The red coats looked well
against the background; the dogs, all of the same pattern, were rushing
about in groups with their tails in the air; but while our eyes were
following them the fox ran right under our noses, within a hair's-breadth
of our wheels. Of course the dogs lost the scent, and there was a general
standstill until another fox was routed out, and off they flew again.
_Der alte Herr_ is very much thought of in these parts; he was the only
one who dared oppose the House of Peers in Berlin in the question of
war with Austria in 1866, and made such an astounding speech that he was
obliged to retire from politics and take to fox-hunting. He gave the
speech to me to read, and--I--well!--I didn't read it!
The Westphalians seem to go on the let-us-alone principle; they seem to be
anti-everything--from Bismarck and Protestantism downward. I sang the last
evening of our stay here. The piano belonging to this hunting-lodge is as
old as the _alte Herr_, and must have been here for years, and even at
that must be an heirloom. The keys were yellow with age and misuse, and
if it had ever been in tune it had forgotten all about it now and was out
of it altogether. I picked the notes out which were still good, and by
singing Gounod's "Biondina" in a loud voice and playing its dashing
accompaniment with gusto, I managed to keep myself awake. As for the tired
hunters who had been in the saddle all day, they were so worn out that
nothing short of a brass band could rouse them long enough for them to
keep their eyes open.
The next day we bade our hosts good-by and, thanking them for our
delightful visit, we departed. I wonder if the gentlemen liked being
trespassed upon as much as we did who did the trespassing. However, they
were polite enough to say that they had never enjoyed anything so much as
our visit, and especially my singing. What humbugs! I was polite enough
not to say that I had _never_ enjoyed anything so _little_ as singing for
sleepy fox-hunters.
ROME, _January, 1875._
DEAR MOTHER,--I am here in Rome, staying with my friends the Haseltines,
who have a beautiful apartment that they have arranged in the most
sumptuous and artistic manner in the Palazzo Altieri. Mr. Haseltine has
two enormous rooms for his studio and has filled them with his faultless
pictures, which are immensely admired and appreciated. His water-colors
are perfection.
I have met many of your friends whom you will be glad to hear about; to
begin with, the Richard Greenoughs, our cousins. We had much to talk
about, as we had not seen each other since Paris, when he made that bust
of me. They are the most delightful people, so talented in their different
ways, and are full of interest in everything which concerns me. She has
just published a book called _Mary Magdalene_, which I think is perfectly
wonderful.
I have made the acquaintance of William Story (the sculptor). He spoke of
you and Aunt Maria as his oldest and dearest friends, and therefore
claimed the right to call me Lillie.
I have not only seen him, but I have been Mrs. Story, Miss Story, and the
third story in the Palazzo Barberini, where they live, and I have already
counted many times the tiresome one hundred and twenty-two steps which
lead to their apartment, and have dined frequently with them in their
chilly Roman dining-room. This room is only warmed by the little apparatus
which in Rome passes for a stove. It has a thin leg that sticks out of a
hole in the side of the house and could warm a flea at a pinch.
The hay on the stone floor made the thin carpet warmer to my cold toes,
which, in their evening shoes, were away down below zero, but my cold and
bare shoulders shivered in this Greenland icy-mountain temperature which
belongs to Roman palaces. This was before I was an _habituée_; but after I
had become one I wore, like the other jewel-bedecked dames, woolen
stockings and fur-lined overshoes. The contrast must be funny, if one
could see above board and under board at the same time.
The Storys generally have a lion for dinner and for their evening
entertainments. My invitations to their dinners always read thus: "Dear
Mrs. Moulton,--We are going to have (mentioning the lion) to dinner. Will
you not join us, and if you would kindly bring a little music it would be
such a," etc. No beating about the bush there! The other evening Miss
Hosmer--female rival of Mr. Story in the sculpturing line--was the lion of
the occasion, and was three-quarters of an hour late, her excuse being
that she was studying the problem of perpetual motion. Mr. Story, who is a
wit, said he wished the motion had been perpetuated in a _botta_ (which is
Italian for cab).
_February 1st._
Last Thursday, at nine o'clock in the morning, a card was brought to my
bedroom. Imagine my astonishment when I read the name of Baroness de
C----, the wife of the French Ambassador to the Vatican. What could she
want at that early hour? I had heard many stories of her absent-
mindedness. I thought that nothing less than being very absent-minded, or
else the wish to secure my help for some charity concert, could account
for this matutinal visit, especially as I knew her so slightly.
To my great surprise she had only come to invite me to dinner, and never
mentioned the word charity concert or music. I thought this very strange;
but as she is so _distraite_ she probably did not know what time of day it
was, and imagined she was making an afternoon visit.
One of the stories about her is that once she went to pay a formal call on
one of her colleagues, and stayed on and on until the poor hostess was in
despair, as it was getting late. Suddenly the ambassadress got up and
said, "Pardon, dear Madame, I am very much engaged, and if you have
nothing further to say to me I should be very grateful if you would leave
me." The Baroness had been under the impression that she was in her own
salon. They say that, one day, when she was walking in the Vatican gardens
with the Pope, and they were talking politics, she said to him, "Oh, all
this will be arranged as soon as the Pope dies!"
Well, we went to the dinner, which was quite a large one, and among the
guests was Signor Tosti, which would seem to denote that there _was_,
after all, "music in the air"; and sure enough, shortly after dinner the
ambassadress begged me to sing some _petite chose_, and asked Tosti to
accompany me. Neither of us refused, and I sang some of his songs which
I happened to know, and some of my own, which I could play for myself.
However, I felt myself recompensed, for when she thanked me she asked if I
had ever been present at any of the Pope's receptions.
I told her that I had not had the opportunity since I had been here.
"The Pope has a reception to-morrow morning," said she. "Would you care to
go? If so, I should be delighted to take you."
"Oh," I said, "that is the thing of all others I should like to do!"
"Then," said she, "I will call for you and take you in my carriage."
This function requires a black dress, black veil, and a general funereal
appearance and gloveless hands. Happily she did not forget, but came in
her coupé at the appointed time to fetch me, and we drove to the Vatican.
The ambassadress was received at the entrance with bows and smiles of
recognition by the numerous _camerieri_ and other splendidly dressed
persons, and we were led through endless beautiful rooms before arriving
at the gallery where we were to wait. It was not long before his Holiness
(Pius IX.) appeared, followed by his suite of monsignors and prelates. I
never was so impressed in my life as when I saw him. He wore a white-cloth
_soutane_ and white-embroidered _calotte_ and red slippers, and looked so
kind and full of benevolence that he seemed goodness personified. I knelt
down almost with pleasure on the cold floor when he addressed me, and I
kissed the emerald ring which he wore on his third finger as if I had been
a born Catholic and had done such things all my life.
He asked me in English from which country I came, and when I answered,
"America, your Holiness," he said, "What part of America?" I replied,
"From Boston, Holy Father."
"It is a gallant town," the Pope remarked; "I have been there myself."
Having finished speaking with the men (all the ladies stood together on
one side of the room and the men on the other), the Pope went to the end
of the gallery. We all noticed that he seemed much agitated, and wondered
why, and what could have happened to ruffle his benign face. It soon
became known that there was an Englishman present who refused to kneel,
although ordered to do so by the irate chamberlain, and who stood stolidly
with arms folded, looking down with a sneer upon his better-behaved
companions.
His Holiness made a rather lengthy discourse, and did not conceal his
displeasure, alluding very pointedly to the unpardonable attitude of the
stranger.
On leaving the gallery he turned around a last time, made the sign of the
cross, giving us his blessing, and left us very much impressed. I looked
about for my companion, but could not see her anywhere. Had she forgotten
me and left me there to my fate? It would not be unlike her to do so.
I saw myself, in my mind's eye, being led out of the Vatican by the
striped yellow and black legs and halberded guards, and obliged to find my
way home alone; but on peering about in all the corners I caught sight of
her seated on a bench fervently saying her prayers, evidently under the
impression that she was in church during mass. As we were about to enter
the coupé she hesitated before giving any orders to the servant, possibly
not remembering where I had lived. But the footman, being accustomed to
her vagaries, did not wait, and as he knew where to deposit me, I was
landed safely at the Palazzo Altieri.
_February 15th._
The Storys gave "The Merchant of Venice" the other evening. They had put
up in one of the salons a very pretty little stage; the fashionable world
was _au complet_, and, after having made our bows to Mrs. Story, we took
our places in the theater. Mr. Story was Shylock, and acted extremely
well. Edith was very good as Portia. Waldo and Julian both took part. Mr.
and Mrs. Prank Lascelles, of the English Embassy, both dressed in black
velvet, played the married couple to the life, but did not look at all
Italian. The whole performance was really wonderfully well done and most
successful; the enthusiasm was sincere and warmed the cold hands by the
frequent clapping. We were so glad to be enthusiastic!
Mr. Story gave me his book called _Roba di Roma_, which I will tell you
does _not_ mean Italian robes--you might think so; it means things about
Rome. I will also tell you, in case that your Italian does not go so far,
that when I say that the Storys live in the third _piano_. I do not mean
an upright or a grand--_piano_ is the Italian for story.
Madame Minghetti--the wife of the famous statesman--receives every Sunday
twilight. Rome flocks there to hear music and to admire the artistic
manner in which the rooms are arranged; flirtations are rife in the twilit
corners, in which the salon abounds. As Madame Minghetti is very musical
and appreciative, all the people one meets there pretend to be musical and
appreciative, and do not talk or flirt during the music; so when I sing
"Medjé" in the growing crepuscule I feel in perfect sympathy with my
audience. Tosti and I alternate at the piano when there is nothing better.
If no one else enjoys us, we enjoy each other.
I have always wanted very much to see the famous Garibaldi, and knowing he
was in Rome I was determined to get a glimpse of him. But how could it be
done? I had been told that he was almost unapproachable, and that he
disliked strangers above all.
However, where there is a will there seems to come a way; at any rate,
there did come one, and this is how it came:
At dinner at the French Embassy J sat next to Prince Odescalchi, and told
him of my desire to see Garibaldi. He said: "Perhaps I can manage it for
you. I have a friend who knows a friend of Garibaldi, and it might be
arranged through him."
"Then," I said, "your friend who is a friend of Garibaldi's will let you
know, and as you are a friend of my friend you will let _her_ know,
and she will let _me_ know."
"It sounds very complicated," he answered, laughing, "and is perhaps
impossible; but we will do our best."
No more than two days after this dinner there came a message from the
Prince to say that, if Mrs. Haseltine and I would drive out to Garibaldi's
villa, the friend and the friend of the friend would be there to meet us
and present us. This we did, and found the two gentlemen awaiting us at
the gate. I felt my heart beat a little faster at the thought of seeing
the great hero.
Garibaldi was sitting in his garden, in a big, easy, wicker chair, and
looked rather grumpy, I thought (probably he was annoyed at being
disturbed). But he apparently made up his mind to accept the inevitable,
and, rising, came toward us, and on our being presented stretched out a
welcoming hand.
He had on a rather soiled cape, and a _foulard,_ the worse for wear,
around his neck, where the historical red shirt was visible. His head,
with its long hair, was covered with a velvet _calotte._ He looked
more like an invalid basking in the sun with a shawl over his legs than he
did like the hero of my imagination, and the only time he did look at all
military was when he turned sharply to his parrot, who kept up an
incessant chattering, and said, in a voice full of command, "Taci!" which
the parrot did not in the least seem to mind (I hope Garibaldi's soldiers
obeyed him better).
Garibaldi apologized for the parrot's bad manners by saying, "He is very
unruly, but he talks well"; and added, with a rusty smile, "Better than
his master."
"I don't agree with you," I said. "I can understand you, whereas I can't
even tell what language he is speaking."
"He comes from Brazil, and was given to me by a lady."
"Does he only speak Brazilian?" I asked.
"Oh no, he can speak a little Italian; he can say 'Io t'amo' and 'Caro
mio'."
"That shows how well the lady educated him. Will he not say 'Io t'amo' for
me? I should so love to hear him."
But, in spite of tender pleadings, the parrot refused to do anything but
scream in his native tongue.
Garibaldi talked Italian in a soft voice with his friend and French to us.
He asked a few questions as to our nationality, and made some other
commonplace remarks. When I told him I was an American he seemed to unbend
a little, and said, "I like the Americans; they are an honorable, just,
and intelligent people."
He must have read admiration in my eyes, for he "laid himself out" (so his
friend said) to be amiable. Amiability toward strangers was evidently not
his customary attitude.
He went so far as to give me his photograph, and wrote "Miss Moulton" on
it with a hand far from clean; but it was the hand of a brave man, and I
liked it all the better for being dirty. It seemed somehow to belong to a
hero. I think that I would have been disappointed if he had had clean
hands and well-trimmed finger-nails. On our taking leave of him he
conjured up a wan smile and said, very pleasantly, giving us his ink-
stained hand, "A rivederci."
[Illustration: GIUSEPPE GARIBALDI]
I wondered if he really meant that he wanted to see us again; I doubt it,
and did not take his remark seriously. On the contrary, I had the feeling
that he was more than indifferent to the pleasure our visit had given him.
When we were driving back to Rome the horses took fright and began running
away. They careered like wildfire through the gates of the Porta del
Popolo, and bumped into a cart drawn by oxen and overloaded with wine-
casks. Fortunately one of the horses fell down, and we came to a
standstill. The coachman got down from the box and discovered that one of
the wheels was twisted, the pole broken, and other damage done. We were
obliged to leave the carriage and walk down the Corso to find a cab.
Just as we were getting into one we saw on the opposite side of the street
a man who, while he was cleaning the windows in the third story of a
house, lost his balance and fell into the street.
We dreaded to know what had happened, and avoided the crowd which quickly
collected, thus shutting out whatever had happened from our view. We
hurried home, trembling from our different emotions.
The next morning I awoke from my sleep, having had a most vivid dream. I
thought I was in a shop, and the man serving me said, "If you take any
numbers in the next lottery, take numbers 2, 18, and 9." This was
extraordinary, and I immediately told the family about it: 2, 18, 9 (three
numbers meant a _terno_, in other words, a _fortune_). Mr. H---- said,
"Let us look out these numbers in the _Libro di Sogni_ (the Book of
Dreams)," and sent out to buy the book. Imagine our feelings! Number 2
meant _caduta d'una finestra_ (fall from a window); number 18 meant _morte
subito_ (sudden death), and number 9 meant _ospedale_ (hospital).
Just what had happened; the man had fallen from the window and had been
carried dead to the hospital!
Perhaps you don't know what a tremendous part the lottery plays in Italy;
it is to an Italian what sausages and beer are to a German. An Italian
will spend his last _soldo_ to buy a ticket. He simply cannot live
without it. The numbers are drawn every Saturday morning at twelve
o'clock, and are instantly exposed in all the tobacco-shops in the town.
An hour after, whether lucky or unlucky, the Italian buys a new ticket for
the following week, and lives on hope and dreams until the next Saturday;
and when any event happens or any dream comes to him he searches in the
dream-book for a number corresponding to them, and he is off like
lightning to buy a ticket. I was told that the Marquis Rudini, on hearing
that his mother had met her death in a railroad accident, sought in the
dream-book for the number attached to "railroad accident," and bought a
ticket before going to get her remains.
A winning _terno_ brings its lucky owner I don't know exactly how much--
but I know it is something enormous.
Well, this would be a _terno_ worth having. My dream, coming as it did
straight from the blue, must be infallibility itself, and we felt
perfectly sure that the three magical numbers would bring a fortune for
every one of us, and we all sent out and bought tickets with all the money
we could spare.
This was on Thursday, and we should have to wait two whole days before we
became the roaring millionaires we certainly were going to be, and we
strutted about thinking what presents we would make, what jewels we would
buy; in fact, how we would use our fortunes! We sat up late at night
discussing the wisest and best way to invest our money, and I could not
sleep for fear of a _contre-coup_ in the shape of another dream. For
instance, if I should dream of a cat miauling on a roof, it would mean
disappointment. It would never do to give fate a chance like that!
Imagine with what feverish excitement we awoke on that Saturday, and how
we watched the numbers, gazing from the carriage-windows, at the tobacco-
shop! Well, not one of those numbers came out! We drove home in silence,
with our feathers all drooping. However, we had had the sensation of being
millionaires for those two days (ecstatic but short!), and felt that we
had been defrauded by an unjust and cruel fate.
Unsympathetic Mr. Marshal said, mockingly: "How could you expect anything
else, when you go on excursions with the Marquis Maurriti [that was the
name of Garibaldi's friend]? You might have known that you would come to
grief."
"Unfeeling man! Why should we come to grief?" we cried with impatience.
"Because, did you not know that he has the _mal'occhio_ [the evil eye]? I
thought every one knew it," said he, making signs with his fingers to
counteract the effect of the devil and all his works. We said indignantly,
"If every one knows it, why were we not told?" Our tormentor continued;
"There is no doubt about it, and nothing can better prove that people are
afraid of him than that when, the other evening, he gave a _soirée_ and
invited all Rome, only half a dozen people out of some five hundred
ventured to go. The mountains of sandwiches, the cart-loads of cakes, the
seas of lemonade, set forth on the supper-table, were attacked only by the
courageous few."
"How dreadful to have such a thing said about you! Who can prove that he
or any one else has got the evil eye?"
"Sometimes there is no foundation for the report; perhaps some one, out of
spite or jealousy, spreads the rumor, and there you are."
"Does it not need more than a rumor?" I asked.
"Not much; but we must not talk about him, or something dreadful will
happen to us."
"Do you also believe in such rank nonsense?" I asked.
"Of course I do!" Mr. Marshal replied. "You can see for yourself. If you
had not gone with him your horses would not have run away, and you would
surely have got your million."
"Well, we have escaped death and destruction and the million; perhaps we
ought to be thankful. But in his case I would go and shut myself up in a
monastery and have done with it."
"No monastery would take him. No brotherhood would brother _him_."
"You can't make me believe in the evil eye. Neither shall I ever believe
in dreams again."
You will hardly believe how many acquaintances I have made here. I think I
know all Rome, from the Quirinal and the Vatican down. The Haseltines know
nearly every one, and whom they don't know I _do_.
We were invited to see the Colosseum and the Forum illuminations, and were
asked to go to the Villino, which stands in the gardens of the Palace of
the Caesars, just over the Forum.
That there would be a very select company we had been told; but we did not
expect to see King Victor Emanuel, Prince Umberto, and Princess
Margherita, who, with their numerous suites and many invited guests, quite
filled the small rooms of the Villino. I was presented to them all.
I found the Princess perfectly bewitching and charming beyond words; the
Prince was very amiable, and the King royally indifferent and visibly
bored. That sums up my impressions.
At the risk of committing _lèse majesté_, I must say that the King is
more than plain. He has the most enormous mustaches, wide-open eyes, and a
very gruff, military voice, speaking little, but staring much. The Prince,
whom I had seen in Paris during the Exposition, talked mostly about Paris
and of his admiration of the Emperor and Empress. The Princess was
fascinating, and captivated me on the spot by her affability and her
natural and sweet manner.
The Colosseum looked rather theatrical in the glare of the red and green
Bengal lights, and I think it lost a great deal of its dignity and
grandeur by this cheap method of illumination.
I met there a Spanish gentleman whom I used to know in Paris years ago. He
was at that time the Marquis de Lema, a middle-aged beau, who was always
ready to fill any gap in society where a noble marquis was needed.
He began life, strange to say, as a journalist, and as such made himself
so useful to the ex-King of Naples that the King, to reward him, hired the
famous Farnesina Palace for ninety-nine years. Here the former Marquis,
who is now Duke di Ripalda, lives very much aggrandized as a descendant of
the Cid, glorying in his ancestorship.
He was very glad to see me again, he said, and to prove it came often to
dine with us.
One day he asked Mrs. Lawrence, Miss Chapman, and myself to take tea with
him in the romantic garden of the Farnesina. Mrs. Lawrence said it was
like a dream, walking under the orange-trees and looking down on the old
Tiber, which makes a sudden turn at the bottom of the broad terrace.
Her dream came suddenly to an end when she saw the stale cakes and the
weak and watery tea and oily chocolate which, out of politeness, we felt
obliged to swallow; and the nightmare set in when she saw his apartment on
the first floor, furnished by himself with his own individual taste, which
was simply awful. But who cares for the mother-of-pearl inlaid furniture
covered with hideous modern blue brocade and the multicolored carpets in
which his coat of arms were woven, when one can look at his Sodomas and
Correggios and Raphaels? His coat of arms, which is a sword with "Si, si,
no, no," is displayed everywhere throughout the palace.
The "_cid-evant_" Marquis told us that the Cid had given the sword to
one of his ancestors, and remarked that it signified that his forefathers
had very decided characters, and that it was either yes or no with them. I
thought it might work the other way; it might just as well mean that the
ancestors did not know their own minds, and that first it was _yes_ and
then it was _no_ with them. The Duke, in a truly grandiose manner, lays no
restriction on the public, but throws his whole palace open every first
and fifteenth of the month, and allows people to roam at their pleasure
through all the rooms; they can even sit on the blue brocade furniture if
they like, and there is no officious guide ordering people about with
their, "This way, Madame," or "Don't sit down," "Don't walk on the
carpet," or "Don't spit on the floor."
On the ground floor are the celebrated frescoes of "Psyche," painted by
Raphael, and in the large gallery there is a little design on the walls to
which the Duke called our attention, saying it was Michelangelo's
visiting-card, and told us that Michelangelo came one day, and, finding
Raphael absent, took up his palette and painted this little picture, which
still remains on the walls, framed and with a glass over it.
Mrs. Lawrence told us of a new acquaintance she had made, a Baron
Montenaro, who said he was the last (the very last) of the Rienzis, a
descendant of Cola di. The last tribune left! "Is it not romantic?" cried
Mrs. Lawrence, and was all eyes and ears. But prosaic Duke di Ripalda
said, "How can he say he is the last of the Rienzis, when he has a married
brother who has prospects of a small tribune of his own?"
ROME, _April, 1875._
Mrs. Polk (widow of the former President Polk) and her two daughters are
very much liked here. I call Miss Polk _la maîtresse demoiselle_, because
she rules every one with a high and masterful hand.
They had some wonderful tableaux recently at their palace (Salviati),
which were most beautiful and artistically arranged by different artists.
They had turned a long gallery which had once served as a ballroom into
the theater. I was asked to sing in a tableau representing a Bohemian
hall, where, as a background, Bohemian peasants in brilliant costumes sat
and stood about. I was also dressed in a Bohemian dress, and leaned
against a pillar and held a tambourine in my hand. Tosti played the
accompaniment of "Ma Mère était Bohémienne," which was most appropriate to
the occasion.
The Princess Margherita sat in the front row, and a more sympathetic and
lovelier face could never have inspired a singer. She insisted upon my
repeating my song, which rather bored the other performers, as they had to
stand quiet while the song was going on. Tosti made the accompaniment
wonderfully well, considering that I had only played it once for him.
After the tableaux, and when the Princess had retired to a little salon
placed at her disposal, she sent word to ask me to come to her, as she
wished to speak with me. I was overjoyed to see her again, as the short
interview at the Villino could hardly be called an interview. The
Princess said; "I have heard a great deal about your singing; but I did
not believe any amateur could sing as you do. Your phrasing and expression
are quite perfect!" She finished by asking me to come to the Quirinal to
see her, "and perhaps have a little music"; and added, "The Marquis
Villamarina sings beautifully, and you shall hear him." The Princess is so
lovely, no words can describe her charm and the sweet expression of her
face. Her smile is a dream.
I had intended leaving Rome the very day she fixed for my going to her,
but of course I postponed my departure and I went, and had a most
delightful afternoon. It was the first time that I had seen the Quirinal
and I was very much interested. One of the numerous _laquais_ who were
standing about in the antechamber when I arrived preceded me into a
salon where I found the Marquise Villamarina (first lady-in-waiting of the
Princess). She came toward me, saying that the Princess was looking
forward with pleasure to seeing me, and added that she hoped that I had
thought to bring some music. I followed her through several very spacious
salons until we reached a salon which evidently was the music-room, as
there were two grand pianos and a quantity of music-books placed on
shelves. Here I found the Princess waiting for me, and she received me
with much cordiality.
The Marquis Villamarina has a most enchanting voice, liquid and velvety,
the kind that one only hears in Italy. Signor Tosti (the composer) was
already at the piano and accompanied the Marquis in "Ti rapirei, mio ben,"
a song he composed and dedicated to him. The Princess sang a very charming
old Italian song. She has a mezzo-soprano voice and sings with great taste
and sweetness. She, the Marquis, and I sang a trio of Gordigiani; then the
Princess asked me to sing the "Ma Mère était Bohémienne," which i had sung
at the tableaux. I also sang "Beware!" which she had never heard and which
she was perfectly delighted with, and I promised to send her the music. It
was a great pleasure to sing in this intimate and _sans façon_ way, with
the most sympathetic and charming of Princesses. Chocolate, tea, and
little cakes were served, which I supposed was the signal for departure.
The Princess, on bidding me good-by, gave me her hand and said, "I hope to
see you soon again."
"Alas!" I replied, "I am leaving Rome to-morrow," and as I stooped down to
kiss her hand she drew me to her and said, "I am sorry that you are going,
I hoped that you were staying longer," and kissed me on both cheeks.
PARIS, _May, 1875._
I have had a lazy month. Mrs. Moulton was delighted to have me back again,
and I was glad to rest after all my junketing. Just think, I was almost a
year in Germany!
Nina has had the measles, fortunately lightly; I was _garde malade_, and
stayed with her in her sick-room.
Howard goes to a day-school not far from the Rue de Courcelles every
morning, and comes home at two o'clock and shows with pride the book the
teacher gives him to show. They must mean it to be shown, otherwise so
much trouble would not be taken to make such lengthy and marvelous
accounts of his prowess, the numbers running up in the thousands, and
notations all through, such as _très bien, verbes sans faute_, and _dictés
parfaits_. He can repeat all the departments of France backward and
forward, and goes through the verbs, regular and irregular, like a
machine. The French love these irregular verbs, so irregular sometimes
that they border on frivolity. He has learned some rather inane patriotic
poetry, which he recites with a childish dramatic swagger.
This is about all they teach in this school; but the _rapports_ are
worth the money: they deceive the parents, making them believe their geese
are swans of the first water.
PARIS, _May._
We have had real pleasure in hearing a young _pianiste_ from Venezuela
called Teresa Careño. She is a _wunderkind_. Her mother says she is nine
years old; she looks twelve, but may be sixteen. No one can ever tell how
old a _wunderkind_ really is. Her playing is marvelous, her technic
perfect. She knows about two hundred pieces by heart, is extremely pretty
and attractive, and performs whenever she is asked. I think she has a
great career before her, and she has already got the toss-back of her
black hair in the most approved pianist manner. "Elle ne manque rien," the
great Saint-Saëns said. One can't imagine that she could play better than
she does; but she thinks that she is by no means perfect.
Though I said that I had led a _dolce-far-niente_ existence, and had been
lazy, I have been dreadfully busy and have been on the go from morning
till night: I might call it a _dolce-far-molto_ existence. I spend hours,
which ought to be better spent, in shops. I simply revel in them.
You have heard of the famous actress Sarah Bernhardt. Well, she is not
only an actress, but she is a sculptress, and is a very good one. She is
now playing at the Vaudeville. But I must begin at the beginning, the
whole thing was so amusing,
You remember Mrs. Bradley? You used to scold me for calling her "the
Omelette." They are living now in Paris; her hair and complexion are just
as yellow as they used to be; but her dresses are yellower. Beaumont said
that she was "Une étude en jaune."
The other evening she had a box at the theater, and asked me to go to hear
Sarah Bernhardt in "Le fils Giboyer." Her son, the immaculate Bostonian,
went with us. He is a duplicate of his mother's yellowness. I took Nina,
who looked extremely pretty: she was beaming with excitement; her cheeks
were flushed, and her curly, golden hair made a halo about her delicate
features. Every one stared at her when we entered the box. During the
second act I let her take my place in front, and, observe how virtue is
rewarded! In the following _entr'acte_ the _ouvreuse_ came in suddenly
without knocking (_ouvreuses_ never knock! that is one of their many
privileges) and begged to _parler à_ Monsieur. Imagine the chaste George's
feelings when he was told that the famous Sarah wished to speak with him,
and, moreover, desired him to come behind the scenes to her dressing-room.
What a situation! His red hair blushed to the very roots, and his yellow
face became n sunset. However, one is or one is not a man. He proved
himself to be one who could face danger when the time came.
Trembling at the thought of Boston, the virtuous, hearing of it, he saw in
his mind's eye the height the Puritan brows of his most distinguished
family would reach when the news would be spread over the town, and a
certain biblical scene passed before his mental vision.
He gave his lemon-colored mustache a final fascinating twist, and, humming
to himself "Hail, the conquering hero comes!" he buckled on his sword and
went--all his colors flying.
We waited breathlessly for his return, which was much sooner than we
expected, and the smile he wore was not that of a conquering hero; it was
another kind of a smile. Well, what do you think Madame Sarah wanted?
Merely to know if the child in the box was his! His! His unmarried hair
stood on end; he was so taken aback that he only had breath to mutter, "I
am not married, Madame."
Then in her most dramatic tones she demanded, "Who is the child, then?"
He told her.
"Where does this Madame Moulton live?" she asked.
He told her that also. Then, with a dismissing wave of the hand, Sarah
bade him farewell. It was all over. He had survived! Boston would never
know.
The next day I received a note from Sarah Bernhardt, asking me if I would
allow her to make a bust of _la charmante petite fille_. I answered that I
should be delighted. Then came another note telling me at what time
_l'enfant_ should come for the first sitting.
I took Nina to the studio, which was beyond the Boulevard de Courcelles in
a courtyard. It was enchanting to watch the artist at work. She was
dressed like a man: she wore white trousers and jacket, and a white
_foulard_ tied artistically about her head. She had short and frizzly
hair, and she showed us how she did it, gathering the four corners as if
it were a handkerchief, with the ends sticking up on the top of her head.
She smoked cigarettes all the time she was working.
She posed Nina in the attitude she thought interesting, with head down and
eyes up--a rather tiring position. And to keep _l'enfant_ quiet she
devised all sorts of things. Sometimes she would rehearse her rôles in the
voice they speak of as golden; because it coins gold for her, I suppose.
The rehearsing of her rôles was not so amusing, as there were no
_répliques_; but what kept Nina most quiet was when Sarah told her of the
album she was making for her. Every artist she knew was working at some
offering, and when it would be finished Nina was to have it. She would
expatiate for hours on the smallest details. Meissonier, for instance, was
painting a water-color, a scene of the war: a German regiment attacking a
French inn, which was being defended by French soldiers. Then Gounod was
writing a bit of music dedicated to _la charmante modèle_, and so forth.
Nina would listen with open mouth and glistening eyes, and at every
sitting she would say, "Et mon album?" expecting each time to see it
forthcoming. But it never came forth. It only existed in Madame
Bernhardt's fertile brain. It had no other object than to keep the model
still. It seemed cruel to deceive the child. Even to the last, when Nina
had said for the last time, "And shall I have my album to-day?" Sarah
answered that it was not _quite_ ready, as the binding was not
satisfactory, and other tales, which, if not true, had the desired effect,
and she finished the bust. It was not a very good likeness, but a very
pretty artistic effort, and was sent to the next Exposition, receiving
"honorable mention," perhaps more honorable than we mentioned her at home.
She gave me a duplicate of it made of terra-cotta.
Don't expect any more letters, for I shall be very busy before my
departure for America, which is next week, and then I shall.... Well,
wait!
Good-by.
INDEX
AGASSIZ, Professor, "Father Nature" helped to pay for his new house.
Amateur theatricals.
American songs at the French court.
American soul-probes, intimate questions answered by the Emperor,
the Empress and Prosper Mérimée.
Americans seeking a hotel.
Anti-slavery anecdotes;
Joshua Green's forgetfulness;
Phillips Brooks's story of a convert's confession.
Auber, the composer, introduced by the Duke de Persigny;
writes a cadenza for Alabieff's "Rossignol";
at Meyerbeer's funeral;
his life in Paris;
"Le Rêve d'Amour" at eighty-three;
describes the slaughter of Generals Thomas and Lecomte;
his friendship with Massenet;
entertains Madame at breakfast during the siege;
dies on the ramparts.
BALL costumes.
Ball of the Plebiscite.
Bancroft, George, historian, presents a souvenir of an enjoyable evening.
Bernhardt, Sara, makes a bust of Madame's daughter Nina.
"Beware!", Longfellow's words set to music by Charles Moulton,
wins praise.
Birthday joy for Count Pourtales.
Blind Tom imitates Auber.
Brignoli, in his prime.
Brooks, Phillips, anecdote by.
Brunswick's wicked duke and his famous crime;
his silken wig.
CAREÑO, TERESA, a _wunderkind_ at nine;
plays in Paris.
Carl XIV. of Sweden at the Exposition.
Castellane, Countess, exhibits her stable at a fancy ball.
Castiglione, Countess, as "Salammbô";
as "La Vérité".
Changarnier, General, in the lancers.
Charades and amateur theatricals.
Charity, singing for.
Cinderella coach, Mrs. Moulton's.
Compiègne and its festivities;
its grand officials and its guests;
ceremonies at the table;
dress etiquette.
Costumes for Compiègne.
Croquet at night with lamps;
imperial players;
beaten with a despised ivory mallet.
Cuba visited;
an old Harvard friend lands the party in Havana;
high officials escort Madame all over the island;
assisted by old acquaintances;
a curious Cuban waltz;
a hot time in Morro Castle;
international courtesies on the war-ships;
fame had preceded Madame;
discovers and visits Jules Alphonso;
news of Napoleon's death;
a German serenade;
"Pinafore" for the sailors;
a triumphal departure.
Curls from the "Magasin du Bon Dieu" cause a sensation.
D'AOUST'S, Marquis, operetta.
De Bassano, Duchess, _grande maîtresse_.
Delle Sedie, music-teacher, and his theories.
Delsarte and his emotion diagrams;
his "tabac,";
the Emperor's joke;
Madame visits him during the siege;
his evening dress.
De Morny, Duke (Queen Hortense's son), and his protégé;
as a librettist, with music by Offenbach;
his death.
Doré caricatures nobility.
EMERALDS from the Khedive.
Eugénie, Empress, skates with Madame;
"a beautiful apparition,";
in collision with an American;
at the play in Compiègne;
her flight from the Tuileries after Sedan assisted by Prince Metternich;
takes refuge with Dr. Evans;
widow and exile at Chiselhurst.
Evans, Dr., American dentist, shelters the fleeing Empress after Sedan.
Exposition of 1867.
GALLIFET, Marquis de, tells of his silver plate;
criticizes English idioms.
Garcia, Manuel, teacher of singing, engaged;
first impressions and lessons;
"Bel raggio" the first song.
Garibaldi in retirement;
autographs his portrait.
Gautier, Théophile, dinner companion, tells of his educated cats;
his poetical tribute to Madame.
Germans in Versailles.
Germany and the Rhineland;
visit to the Metternichs' château, Johannisberg;
reminiscences of the war;
famous Johannisberg wine;
a gentlemanly American bronco-buster captures the Westphals;
at Weimar;
calling on a noble farmer;
boar-hunting in Westphalia.
Gold button of the Imperial Hunt, a gift from Napoleon;
worn at a _chasse-à-tir_;
at a mock battle.
Gounod "hums" deliciously.
Green corn and a clay pipe at Fontainebleau.
Green, Joshua, and his Creator.
Gudin, William, artist, and his collection of cigars and cigarettes.
HATZFELDT, Count, married to Madame's sister Helen;
Bismarck's secretary;
his opinion of Napoleon;
German minister to Madrid.
Hegermann-Lindencrone, Madame Lillie de, prefatory note.
IN London society.
Imperial gifts.
Imperial hunt fashions and cruelty to animals;
the dog's share.
"LA DIVA DU MONDE"--Strakosch tempts Madame to sing in concert;
an immediate success;
story of a floral harp;
a trying moment in oratorio;
news of Mr. Moulton's illness and sudden death.
Lincoln, President, at the Sanitary Fair;
compliments Madame;
news of his assassination.
Lind's, Jenny, American memories;
comparing trills;
duets with.
Liszt plays Auber's music and praises Massenet;
his letter to Madame.
Locket souvenirs.
Longfellow, the poet disapproves of but forgives a joke.
Lowell, James Russell, cousin, a substitute for Longfellow in the
Agassiz school.
MARGHERITA, Princess of Italy, entertains Madame at the Quirinal.
Massenet at Petit Val, the Moultons' country seat.
Maximilian's death in Mexico.
Mechanical piano dance music, a substitute for Waldteufel;
Madame takes a turn.
Melody, tears, and a "speech" in Rochester's "pen".
Mérimée, Prosper, "entrancing";
his long love affair.
Metternich, Prince, Austrian ambassador to France;
describes Rossini's home life;
entertains Madame at Johannisberg;
dedicates a volume, _A l'Inspiratice_.
Metternich, Princess, leader in society and fashion;
her enormous cigars;
one of her famous dances;
her home at Johannisberg.
Moulton, Charles, engaged to marry;
his family and musical talents;
author of "Beware!";
his illness and sudden death.
Musard, Madame, and her petroleum stock.
NAPOLEON III., Emperor, introduced to Madame on the ice by Prince Murat;
skates with Madame;
invites Madame to sing at the Tuileries;
the domino his favorite disguise;
dances the Virginia reel;
places Madame next to him at dinner;
a distorted joke;
takes command of the army;
his death.
New York mansion of the late fifties.
Nilsson in "Traviata";
her famous appetite.
OFFENBACH, JACQUES, composer,
writes the music for a play by the Duke de Morny.
Old family origins.
PATTI, reminiscences of.
Petit Val, the Moultons' country seat;
its princely neighbors and guests;
Napoleon builds a bridge for;
the nightingale in the cedar;
in the path of the German army;
Madame views ruin all around;
dining with the invaders;
conquering with song;
rescued by the American Minister Washburn.
Picnic at Grand Trianon.
Pierrefonds, ancient château, excursion to;
restored by Architect Viollet-le-Duc;
second visit to.
Prince Imperial as "Pan";
leaves for the war with the Emperor;
"le baptême du feu".
Prince Oscar's tributes of punch, bracelets, and poetry;
duet with;
visits Delsarte.
RIGAULT, RAOUL, Communard prefect of Paris, insults Madame;
decrees many arrests;
gives orders for the massacre of forty hostages.
Roman days with the Haseltines;
Sculptor Story and his family;
an Italian "Mrs. Malaprop";
audience with the Pope;
visit to Garibaldi;
an accident, a dream, and a lottery ticket;
presented to the royal family;
a typical nobleman;
President Polk's widow entertains;
Madame a guest at the Quirinal;
Tosti as accompanist.
Rossini, Gioachino, his home and his wigs;
highly praises Madame's voice;
severely criticizes Wagner but praises "Tannhäuser;"
approves of Gounod.
Rothschild, Baroness Alphonse, gives a concert with no one to hear it but
herself and Madame.
Rue de Courcelles and the Moulton Hotel during the siege;
Père Moulton's prevision;
farming and dairying in the conservatory;
visited by Courbet, the Communard artist;
Auber tells of the saturnalia;
Mère Moulton leaves for Dinard;
a notable dinner party has peas from Petit Val;
Massenet and Auber at the piano;
Whist under difficulties;
shut in;
despoiled of horse, but the cow is saved;
under fire;
succoring a wounded fugitive;
refuge at Dinard.
SCHOOL-DAYS at Cambridge under Professor Agassiz;
Character sketches of the tutors, the best in Harvard.
Skating on the lake at Suresnes with baby Nina;
meets and teaches Napoleon and Eugénie;
in the Bois.
Strauss, at the Metternich ball, conducts "The Blue Danube" waltz.
Sullivan's "Prodigal Son."
THEATER at Compiègne.
Three famous artists amuse the invalid.
"Three Little Kittens."
Tips a burden at Compiègne;
Père Moulton objects and they are abolished.
VIRGINIA reel with the Emperor;
Madame de Persigny gets a fall.
WAGNER, RICHARD, severe and critical.
Waldteufel, waltz-master, at the piano.
War clouds rising;
a distressing dinner;
war declared;
false news of victories.
War play and a Virginia reel with the Emperor.
War scenes in Paris and its environs;
the Commune proclaimed;
murder of the peacemakers;
shooting of Generals Thomas and Lecomte;
Madame ministers in the hospitals;
two pathetic German patients;
an American victim;
through the mob to Worth's _atelier_;
bearding the Communard prefect Rigault;
seizure of the Moulton carriage;
fall of the Column Vendôme;
slaughter of the hostages;
MacMahon captures the city.
Washburn, American minister;
"only a post-office,";
in the Assembly;
getting passports.
Worth's _atelier_ during the Commune.
THE END
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