Cuba
DEAR M.,—A dance was given at the Captain-General’s, where all the officers of the German and Spanish men of war were present. It was a very brilliant sight, and we made many delightful acquaintances. Commodore Werner of the German Friedrich Wilhelm, Commodore Livonius of the Elizabeth, besides many other charming officers, as well as many Spanish officers from the Gerona. The Germans danced with more energy than the Cubans are accustomed to, and they stared at the unusual vigor displayed, and accounted for it, saying it was because they were new-comers. In fact, the officers, in their trim uniforms, looked very hot and wilted at the end of the evening. Commodore Werner was a most gallant gentleman, and as we did not dance, he had the leisure to tell me all about his family, his literary tastes, and his admiration for pretty ladies; and he finished by asking if we would do him the honor to lunch on his ship the next day. A handsome young lieutenant (Tirpitz) came to ask me to dance, but Commodore Werner gave him what in other less tropical countries might be called a freezing look, remarking that no one ought to dance in such heat as this. The young lieutenant left us quite subdued; but the heat did not prevent his dancing with many ladies, if not with me.
The next day we went to lunch on the Friedrich Wilhelm, and it was with delight that we sat on the awning-covered deck. The Commodore asked me to give him an idea for some occupation for the sailors, who had so much time on their hands, and, as I happened to know how to plait straw, I proposed showing them how to do it.
The Commodore sent a launch to Havana to get the straw, and we passed the afternoon dividing the time between listening to the music of the ship’s band and tasting different beverages and eating German pretzels and teaching the sailors how to plait.
At five o’clock we were rowed ashore, and welcomed a little fresh breeze which had sprung up.
The following morning the inmates of the hotel were awakened at an early hour by the solemn hymn which belongs to a German serenade. The kind Commodore had sent his band to play for me, and it filled the whole hall.
The early breakfasters were dreadfully put out about it; the brass instruments sounded like a double orchestra, and resounded in these marble halls like volleys of musketry; and as for the hotel-keeper, he has not got over his surprise yet.
We had many pleasant days after this. Each one, we said, would be the last; still we stayed on. One of the German men-of-war gave a ball, the Spanish gave another; each vied with the other to give the finest entertainment. It was a pleasure to go on board the German boats, everything was so spick and span, the sailors so neat and trim, the deck so beautifully kept, and the brasses glistened red-hot in the sun.
I cannot tell you all we did these last days. I was glad to hear that the German sailors had profited by my lessons, and had in a short time plaited straw enough to make some hats for themselves. I shall always feel proud when I see a German sailor with a straw hat, for I shall feel that I laid the foundation of this industry.
One of the afternoons we spent on the Commodore’s boat. I sang for the officers in the cabin, and then, when I was on deck, I sang some of the songs from “Pinafore” for the sailors, whom the Commodore called together to hear me. They grinned from ear to ear when I sang “What, never?” “Hardly ever,” and “Never used a big, big D,” in the captain’s song in “Pinafore.” This was the last time we visited our amiable German host.
I shall post this letter in New York. It will probably reach you before we do.
Our departure was a triumphal procession. The Captain of the Port, devoted to the last, took us in his official steam-launch to our steamer. Flowers, fruit, and souvenirs of all kinds filled our cabin to overflowing, and when we passed the German boats, hats and handkerchiefs were waved aloft, and the bands on the decks played with all their Teutonic might until we were out of hearing distance.
We noticed our tall, handsome lieutenant standing alone on the fore part of the deck. He made a fine naval salute, while the good Commodore waved his handkerchief frantically.
The Captain of the Port accompanied us down the harbor as far as Morro Castle in his steam-launch.
Adieu, dear Havana!
WASHINGTON, April, 1873.
DEAR LAURA,—The weather was atrociously bad when we returned to New York, and as for Boston—it was simply impossible. I began coughing and sneezing as soon as I reached home. So I decided to go to Washington on a visit to Mrs. Robeson, wife of the Secretary of the Navy. She had often asked me; this was an excellent opportunity to accept.
Mrs. Robeson is a fine woman, built on ministerial, lines, and looks like a war-ship in review rig. They have an amusing house. Their Sunday evenings are the rendezvous of clever people; the men are particularly entertaining—Mr. Blaine, Mr. Bayard, and other shining lights.
She is musical, and sings with pleasure. She has a luscious mezzo-soprano. She sang “Robin Adair” on one of these occasions with so much conviction that it seemed as though she was routing Robin from his first sleep. Then she sang a French song in a childish voice (she thought it was a backfisch song); but I think it was anything but that, for I noticed some Scandi-knavish glances between the Danish and Swedish Ministers, which made me suspicious.
There is a delightful German Minister (Mr. Schlözer) here, who is very musical; though he does not know a note of music, he can improvise for hours.
SOMMERBERG, July, 1874.
DEAR MAMA,—My last letter was from Dinard, where I was nestling in the bosom of my family and enjoying the repose and the rest that family bosoms alone can give. I told you of my intention to visit Helen at her place on the Rhine, and here I am enjoying another kind of rest: the rest of my income.
Paul is at present Minister in Madrid; Helen and I lead a very quiet life. Driving to Wiesbaden to see the Nassaus and other friends is our favorite occupation. We linger in the shady walks of the park, look in at the gambling-rooms, sometimes we go to the races, and always come home tired. And then, how we enjoy the garden and the beautiful view over the Rhine! Some days we go out riding in the lovely forest, which leads to the most prettily situated little “bad” place in the world—Schlangenbad.
Helen has in her stables three horses, two of which are the “fat ponies” and the third is the war-horse that Paul used in the French-German campaign. We take the war horse in turn, as he has to be exercised. When it is my day I shudder at the thought of it. Riding is not my strong point; in fact, it is my weakest point, and I feel that I am not at all in my element; and when I see the tall beast being led up to the door, and I know that at a given moment I am to be fired up on to his back, my heart sinks. He has a gentle way with him which makes the process of getting on him extremely difficult. Just as my foot is in the groom’s hand, and I say one—two—three, and am in midair, the horse moves gently to one side, and I either land on the hard pommel or, more often, I fill an empty space between the horse and the groom, which is awkward. However, when, after repeated efforts, I do manage to hit the saddle on the right place I stick there.
He is full of fancies—this horse—and reminiscences, and sometimes gets the idea into his head that he hears the bugle-call to arms. Then off he goes to join his imaginary companions, and charges the trees or anything that occurs to him, and nothing on earth can stop him, certainly nothing on his back can. My hair comes down and my hat flies off, and I feel I am not doing the haute école in proper style. Fortunately Helen and I are alone, and as the war-horse is miles in front of the “fat pony,” she does not see the école I am doing, and I rather enjoy the wild way we career over space. I do not attempt to guide his martial steps, but let him come into camp when he feels inclined.
The groom is never surprised if I come an hour too late. I fancy he knows what I have gone through: brambles, branches, and—agony.
SOMMERBERG, July, 1874.
I have just returned from a delightful visit to the Prince and Princess Metternich. It was very hot the day I left here, and the sun poured down on the broad, white roads which lead from Sommerberg to the station. On my arrival at Johannisberg Prince Metternich was waiting for me with a calèche à la Daumont.
Our jaunty postilion blew his little horn incessantly as we galloped through the village and up the long, steep hill which leads to the château. The walls on both sides of the badly paved, narrow road were high and unpicturesque—not a tree to be seen; vineyards, vineyards everywhere —nothing but vineyards.
The château is a very ugly building, of no particular kind of architecture, looking more like a barn than a castle. It is shaped like an enormous E, without towers or ornamentation of any kind.
The Princess was at the door, and welcomed me most affectionately, and with her were the other guests: the handsome Duchess d’Ossuna, Count Zichy, Count Kevenhüller, Count Fitz-James, and Commandant Duperré. The immense hall, which occupies the entire center of the house, has five windows giving out on the courtyard and five on the terrace, and is comfortably furnished with all kinds of arm-chairs, rugs, and so forth. A grand piano stood in one corner near the window, and over this window was an awning (an original idea of the Princess, to put an awning inside, instead of outside of the window). An unusually large table, covered with quaint books, periodicals, and the latest novels, stood in the middle of the room, and there were plants, palms, and flowers everywhere.
The Princess showed me the different rooms. Her boudoir was hung with embroidered satin. One room I liked particularly; the walls were covered with the coarsest kind of écru linen, on which were sewed pink pigeons cut out of cretonne; even the ceiling had its pigeons flying away in the distance. Another room was entirely furnished in cashmere shawls—a present from the Shah himself. There must have been a great many, to have covered the walls and all the divans.
Nowhere could the Princess have had such a chance to show what she could do as here, in the transforming of this barrack into a livable place. I admired everything immensely. She told me that she thought she was very practical, because, when they leave here, all the hangings can be taken down and folded and put away, so that the next year they are just as good as new.
They only stay here two months every year (July and August); the enormous display of flowers on the long terrace before the château is also temporary. There are at least four to five hundred pots of flowers, mostly geraniums, which make a brilliant effect for the time being, as long as the family are here; then they go back to the greenhouse.
Tea was served in the hall; every one was in the gayest of spirits, and crowded around the piano to hear Prince Metternich’s last waltz, which was very inspiring. After the music was finished and the tea-table removed, I was shown to my rooms; I reached them by a tiny winding staircase, the walls of which were hung with Adrianople (turkey red), and covered with miniatures and fine engravings.
Dinner was served very sumptuously; the servants were in plush breeches and had powdered hair. I sat on the left of Prince Metternich and next to Count Kevenhüller, who is a Knight of Malta. I said to the Prince, “A Knight of Malta always suggests to my mind romance and the Middle Ages.”
“It shows,” the Prince replied, “how naïve you are. It is true that he is middle-aged, but he has not a ray of romance in him. Don’t trust him! Maltese Knights and Maltese cats do their killing on the sly.”
During the dinner delicious Johannisberg was served alternately with ordinary beer. Conversation alternated with laughter, and after dinner albums and music alternated with flirtations. The Prince played some of his charming new songs. On the piano was a beautifully bound book containing them. He pointed to it, saying, “I have had this made for you,” and showed me the title-page, where he had written, “À l’Inspiratrice!” I was tremendously pleased and sang all the songs, one after the other. The Prince has had leisure to compose a great deal since he retired into private life. He is wonderfully talented—not only for music, but for painting. Everything he does he does better than any one else.
He said that during the war, when he was obliged to stay in Bordeaux, he would have died of ennui if he had not had his music and drawing to occupy him, especially as the Princess and the children were not with him, and he was dreadfully lonely.
It was a lovely night, and we walked till very late on the terrace and gazed at the view across the Rhine, over the miles of vineyards and little villages sparkling with lights.
The Prince told me all about the Empress’s flight from the Tuileries after the catastrophe of Sedan. He said that when the news came to the Embassy that the mob was about to enter the Tuileries he communicated with Count Nigra (the Italian Ambassador), and they decided to go there instantly, to offer their services to the Empress.
When they arrived there they saw the mob already before the gates. They left their carriages on the quay, and entered by a door into the gallery of the Louvre, and hurried to the apartment of the Empress. There they found her with Madame Le Breton. She was very calm and collected, already dressed in a black-silk gown, and evidently prepared for flight. She had in her hand a small traveling-bag, which contained some papers and a few jewels.
Seeing them, she exclaimed, “Tell me, what shall I do?”
The Prince said, “What does General Trochu advise, your Majesty?”
“Trochu!” she repeated. “I have sent for him twice, but he does not trouble himself to answer or to come to me.”
Then the Prince said, “Count Nigra and I are here to put ourselves entirely at your Majesty’s service.”
The Empress thanked them and said: “What do you think best for me to do? You see how helpless I am.”
The Prince answered that, according to their judgment, the wisest thing for her Majesty to do would be to leave Paris at once, and added that his carriage was there and she could make use of it.
She then put on her hat and cloak and said, “I am ready to follow you.”
They went through the Pavilion de Flore and through the Galerie du Louvre until they reached a small door leading out on to the quay, where the two coupes were waiting. The Prince had already thought of one or two friends to whom the Empress could go and remain until they joined her, to help her to devise some means for leaving Paris. He said that during the long walk through the gallery the Empress remained calm and self-possessed, though one could see that she was suffering intensely.
They reached the quay without hindrance and found the carriages. The Prince opened the door of his and gave his orders to his coachman; but the Empress suddenly refused, saying that she preferred to go in a cab, and begged them not to follow her.
There was a cab-stand directly opposite where they stood. They hailed one, and she and Madame Le Breton were about to get in when a little boy cried out, “Voilà l’Impératrice!” Count Nigra, quick as thought, turned on the boy and said in a loud voice, “Comment! tu cries ‘Vive la Prusse!” and boxed his ears, so that attention should be diverted from the Empress.
The Prince gave the names of the streets and the numbers of the houses to the cabman where he had proposed to the Empress to go, and the ladies drove away.
“Did you not follow her?” I asked.
“Yes” he answered. “In spite of the Empress’s wishes, after allowing enough time for her to get well on her way, we drove to the two addresses given, but did not find her at either of them. We could not imagine what had happened to her.”
“What had happened to her?” I asked.
“It was only after hours of the greatest anxiety that we ourselves knew. About six o’clock I received a note from the Empress saying that she had gone to the two houses we had named, but that no one was there, and then, not knowing what to do, had in despair thought of Dr. Evans, the dentist, and had driven to his house, where she was in safety for the moment.”
“What a dreadful moment for the Empress! How did she dare to send the note to you?”
“It was imprudent,” said the Prince; “but she intrusted it to Dr. Crane, who happened to be dining with Dr. Evans. He brought it to me and gave it into my own hands.”
“Did you go to see her?”
“Yes, I went to see her; but strict orders had been given not to let any one enter, not even me.”
The Prince showed me this letter, which he kept locked up in a desk. Seeing the tears in my eyes, he said, giving me the envelope, “I know you will value this, and I beg you will keep it.”
À Son Altesse Le Prince de Metternich
L. Napoléon.]
I told him that I would value it more than any one possibly could, and did not know how to thank him enough.
He told me a great deal more about the Empress, her hardships and trials, and how brave she had been through them all. She never uttered a word of reproach against any one, except against Trochu, whom she called an arch-traitor. He told me also of the last time he had seen her Majesty at Chiselhurst, and how sad this interview had been. The beautiful and adored Empress of France now a widow and an exile! I was sorry that our conversation was interrupted—I could have listened for hours; but tea was announced, and we were obliged to leave the library.
The next day the Prince and his friends were deeply engaged in making a kite; they tried everything imaginable to coax it to fly, but it refused. The Prince even mounted a ladder, hoping to catch the wind by holding it higher; but all in vain. The moment he let go, down flapped the kite with almost human spitefulness.
After the Prince had said saperlotte! twenty times, they gave up the kite and played tennis, a new game, over which he is as enthusiastic as he used to be over croquet, until the blast of a horn announced the arrival of the archducal four-in-hand, which they were expecting.
Then there was a hurried putting on of coats and wiping of perspiring brows, and they all went forward to receive the Archduke Louis, who had driven over from Wiesbaden to spend the day, bringing with him some younger gentlemen.
Prince Metternich immediately proposed their playing tennis. Some of them were eager to do so, but the Archduke, being fatigued by his long drive, begged to go to his room until luncheon.
Then, while the gentlemen were playing tennis, the Princess took me to the kitchen-garden to show me the American green-corn, planted from seeds which we had given to her at Petit Val four years ago. She told me, with great joy, that we were to have some for dinner.
After luncheon we were invited to visit the famous wine-vaults. The intendant appeared with the keys, and, accompanied by a subordinate, we followed him down the stairs to the heavily bolted oak door, which he opened with a flourish. The first thing we saw, on entering, was Willkommen in transparencies in front of the entrance.
These cellars had the same dimensions as the castle, one hundred feet each way. Rows and rows of large casks placed close together lined the walls, and each cask had a lighted candle upon it embedded in plaster. Lamps hung at intervals from the vaulted ceiling, giving a weird look to the long alleys, which seemed to stretch out for miles through the dim vista.
We walked on. Every little while we came to what the Prince called a cabaret, and what the Princess called more poetically a bosquet, but which literally was a table and chairs surrounded by plants. The smell of the wine was overpowering. When we reached bosquet No. 1 the intendant handed each of us a full glass of Johannisberg, the same that was served at the table; at bosquet No. 2 we received only half a glass of a finer quality. At bosquet No. 3, on the walls of which were the initials of the Duchess d’Ossuna (E. O., formed by candles), we only got a liqueur glassful.
The farther we went the older, and therefore the more valuable, the wine was, and the less we were given. When we reached bosquet No. 6, the last stop, we were allowed a discreet sip from a sherry glass, which was passed on from one to the other like a loving-cup.
We were told that the wines from the years 1862 and 1863 are considered to be the best. It is strange that they are entirely different from each other; the first is very sweet and the second is very dry.
What was my surprise to see here, “I know a Lillie fair to see,” against the walls designed in candles. The Princess told me that the Prince had been a long time making this, and I hope I showed due appreciation of the compliment. I was immensely flattered.
The wine is the color of amber, or pale yellow, according to the year, and tastes delicious; the aroma reminds one of sandalwood.
The wines of the best years are only sold in bottles bearing the cachet of the Prince’s arms, and the autograph of the intendant; the color of the seal denotes the quality. Cabinet bleu is the best that can be bought; the less fine qualities are sold in barrels.
You will be interested to hear how they gather the grapes. It is very carefully done: each bunch is picked like a flower, and each grape is selected with the greatest care; any grape with the slightest imperfection is discarded. They remain longer on the vines here than anywhere else, so that the sweetness of the grape is doubly concentrated.
A good year will produce from sixty to eighty thousand bottles, and bring in an income of one hundred and fifty thousand marks.
The company which built the railroad through the grounds had to pay an enormous sum for the land, every inch of which is worth its weight in gold.
You may imagine the despair of the intendant when he sees so much of this valuable land taken for the croquet and tennis games; but the last straw is—the corn!
One of the guests here, Duchess d’Ossuna, is a very striking and handsome lady who has been a great beauty and is still, though now about forty years old. Her husband is one of the richest men in Spain, but is in such wretched health that she has expected hourly to be a widow for many years.
Coming away from the insidious fumes of the wine into the hot air, and leaving the dark cellars for the glaring broad daylight, made us all feel a little lightheaded. I noticed that the Archduke had to be gently and with due discretion aided up the steps.
He dropped into the first available bench and said, solemnly and with conviction: “To see this wine makes one want to taste it; to taste it makes one want to drink it; to drink it makes one want to dream.”
I hope that you appreciate this profound saying; it ought not to be lost to posterity.
We left him, thinking he would prefer the society of his adjutant to ours. I knew that I preferred mine to any one else’s, and went to my room, mounting its winding staircase, which I thought wound more than was necessary. Taking guests into wine-cellars is the great joke here, and it never fails.
Every one was in exuberant spirits at dinner. I wish I could remember half of the clever things that were said. The corn came on amid screams of delight. Our hostess ate thirteen ears, which, if reduced to kernels, would have made about one ordinary ear, there was so much cob and so little corn. The Princess enjoyed them hugely.
Coffee was served on the terrace. Later we had music in the hall, and before the departure of the Archduke there was a fine display of fireworks sent off from the terrace, which must have looked splendid from a distance.
SOMMERBERG, August, 1874.
DEAR M.,—Prince Emil Wittgenstein and his wife have a pretty villa at Walhuf, directly on the Rhine, and they invited Helen and me to dine and spend the night there. Prince Wittgenstein promised to show us some wonderful manifestations from spiritland. Helen is not a believer, neither am I, but the Prince thinks I am, and, as Helen could not leave her guests, I went alone.
The Prince wrote that he had induced, with great difficulty (and probably with a great deal of expense), the much-talked-of Miss Cook to come with her sister to pay them a visit at their villa. Miss Cook is the medium through whom the Empress Josephine and Katie King (a lady unknown to the world, except as being the daughter of a certain old sea-captain, called John King, who roamed the seas a hundred years ago and pirated) manifest themselves.
I was delighted to have this chance of seeing Miss Cook, because I had read in the English papers that she had lately been shown up as a gigantic fraud. At one of her séances in London, just as she was in the act of materializing in conjunction with the Empress Josephine, a gentleman, disregarding all rules of etiquette, sprang from the audience and seized her in his arms; but instead of melting, as a proper spirit would have done, the incensed Empress screamed and scratched and tore herself away, actually leaving bits of her raiment in his hands. This rude gentleman swears that the imperial nails seemed wholly of earthly texture, and that the scratches were as thorough and lasted as well as if made by any common mortal.
Since this incident Miss Cook had thought it wiser to retire into private life, and has secured a husband calling himself Corner. Prince Wittgenstein found her, and, wishing to convert his wife, could think of no better way than to let her see Miss Cook materialize. The wife and her friend, Princess Croy, are avowed disbelievers.
Our dinner was dull beyond words. There were the Prince Nicholas-Nassau and his wife; the Duke Esslingen, who is nearly blind, without a wife but with convictions; Count and Countess de Vay, and the two English ladies already mentioned. Miss Cook, alias Mrs. Corner, is a washed-out blond, rather barmaidish-looking English girl of medium (oh dear! I really did not mean to) height and apparently very anemic.
After dinner we were led into the room in which the séance was to take place, and were seated round a large table, and told to hold our tongues and one another’s hands; the gas was turned down to the lowest point, the lamps screwed down, and there we sat and waited and waited.
The poor host was chagrined beyond utterance; something was the matter with the magnetic current. Sometimes he would tap on the table to attract the attention of the spirit underneath, but nothing helped; the spirits were obstinate and remained silent.
I ventured to ask the Duke, by the side of whom I sat and held on to, in what manner the spirits made known their answers. He said that one knock meant “yes,” no knock meant “no,” and two knocks meant “doubtful.” At last we heard a timid knock in the direction of Mrs. Corner. Then every one was alert. Prince Wittgenstein addressed the spot and whispered in his most seductive tones, “Dear spirit, will you not manifest yourself?” Two knocks (doubtful).
“Is the company seated right?” (Silence, meaning “no.”)
“Is the company congenial?” (Silence.)
To find out who the uncongenial person was, every one asked, in turn, “Is it I?” until Princess Wittgenstein put the question, upon which came a vigorous single knock.
“My dear,” said the Prince, “I am sorry to say it, but you must go.”
So she left, nothing loath. We all thought for sure something would happen now, but nothing did.
Prince Wittgenstein commenced the same inquiries, whether the company was now congenial; but it seemed that Princess de Croy was de trop, and she was also obliged to leave the room. (You see, the spirits did not like to single out the hostess alone.) Now we were reduced to nine believers with moist hands.
Would the Empress not now appear? We waited long enough for her to make up her mind; but it seemed that neither her mind nor anything else was ready to be made up. The spirits were perhaps willing, but the flesh was too weak. Then Mrs. Corner remembered that at the last sitting the Empress had declared that she would never appear on German soil (her feelings having been wounded during the Franco-German War).
There still remained Katie King. We had not heard from her yet. Prince Wittgenstein addressed the table under his fingers: “Oh, dear spirits, do do something! Anything would be acceptable!” How could he or she resist such humble pleadings?
Then some one felt a cold wind pass over his face. Surely something was happening now!
“It must be Katie King about to materialize,” said the hopeful Prince.
Then we saw a dim light. We strained our eyes to the utmost to discover what it was. I should have said, if I had been truthful, that to me it looked like a carefully shaded candle; but I held my tongue. The hand of my neighbor was fast becoming jelly in mine, and I would have given worlds to have got my hand out of the current; but I did not dare to interfere with it, and I continued to hold on to the jelly. Whoever was being materialized was doing it so slowly, and without any kind of system, that we hardly had the patience to sit it out. Then a tambourine walked up some one’s arm, Prince Nassau’s spectacles were pulled off his august nose by invisible hands (of course, who else would have dared?), thus making him more near-sighted than ever. His wife’s necklace of turquoises was unclasped from her neck and hooked on to the neck of the acolyte sister; but on anxious and repeated demands to have it returned, it was replaced, much to the owner’s relief. Prince Wittgenstein thought it silly of her to have so little confidence. Suddenly, while necklaces were changing necks, we saw what looked like a cloud of gauze. We held our breaths, the raps under the table redoubled, and there were all sorts of by-play, such as hair-pulling and arm-pinching, but no Katie. The gauze which was going to be her gave up trying and disappeared altogether. “Never mind,” said the Prince. “It does not matter [I thought so, too.] She will come to-morrow night.”
This was very depressing; even Prince Wittgenstein was utterly discouraged and decided to break up the séance, and, groping his way to the nearest lamp, turned it up. We went into the other salon, where we found the two discarded ladies sitting peacefully before a samovar and playing a game of two-handed poker.
Miss Cook told Prince Wittgenstein that Katie King would probably materialize if she had the promise of getting a sapphire ring which he wore (a beautiful sapphire). Miss Cook suggested that if this ring could be hung up on a certain tree in the garden Katie King would come and get it, and would certainly materialize the next evening. Prince Wittgenstein was credulous enough to pander to this modest wish, and hung up the desired ring, hoping Katie King would return it when she was in the flesh. But Miss Cook had a succession of fainting fits which necessitated her sudden departure for England, so we never saw Katie King, neither did Prince Wittgenstein ever get his ring back, as far as I know.
September, 1874.
Last Tuesday we three—Count and Countess Westphal and I—left Wiesbaden, slept at Frankfort, and starting the next morning at eleven o’clock, we arrived at our destination at 5.00 P.M. We found three carriages; one for us and two for the maids and luggage. Halfway to the castle we met, driving the lightest and prettiest of basket-wagons, our host and hostess, Count and Countess W—; the latter got into the carriage with us and one of us took her place by the side of the host. We passed through the village, which had but one street, irregular and narrow, and we were in constant danger of running over the shoals of little children who stood stupidly in the middle of it, gazing at us with open eyes and mouth.
The Schloss is a very large, square building, with rounded towers in the four corners. It has been remodeled, added to, and adorned so many times that it is difficult to tell to which style of architecture it belongs. The chapel is in an angle and opens on to the paved courtyard.
Our first evening was spent quietly making acquaintance with the other guests. The next morning we lunched at eleven o’clock, the gentlemen in knickerbockers and shooting attire, the ladies in sensible gowns of light material over silk petticoats. Simplicity is the order of the day. Our lunch consists of many courses, and we might have lingered for hours if the sight of the postman coming up the avenue had not given us the excuse to leave the table and devote ourselves to our correspondence, which had to be done in double-quick time, as the postman only waited a short fifteen minutes, long enough to imbibe the welcome cup of coffee or the glass of beer which he found waiting him in the kitchen. The Countess, although the mother of a young man twenty-four years of age, has a pink-and-white complexion and a fine, statuesque figure. She is a Russian lady by birth, and does a lot of kissing, as seems to be the custom in Russia. She told me that when a gentleman of a certain position kisses your hand you must kiss his forehead.
“Isn’t this rather cruel toward the ladies?” I said.
“Why,” she asked, “do you think it is cruel?”
“Ladies sometimes have on gloves when they give their hands to be kissed, 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.