correspondence is something we could never keep up. But our friendship
has lasted without it a long time, my dear girl--forty-two years--for
we met when I was fourteen. I haven't forgotten yet how the whole
school became bearable after you took possession of the other little
white cot in my room. It's a year and a half now since I've seen you,
and I've missed you. Troy is so near; and yet, after all, it is so far,
too, when we realize how seldom we meet. You must give me a whole
winter soon! Yes, for I am going to be alone; Rob is going to marry,
and that's why I am writing you. It is to a Miss Lucy Stone, of Troy.
Do write me about her. Do you know the family? Are they friends of
yours? Rob is fearfully and wonderfully in love; and I can't blame him
after seeing her picture. She is lovely (and charmingly dressed), and I
am sure Rob would never fall in love with any one but a lady. Still, I
want to know if she, or rather her family, are really smart people, or
what. Even if they are "what," I'm sure it won't make any difference to
Rob, and so it mustn't make any difference to me. But it will be a
_relief_ to know that they are friends of yours, or even that you
know them. I pretend not to believe in class distinctions, and I don't;
but when it comes to your own son, somehow or other you do want him to
choose his wife among his own social equals. Between you and me I am
just about broken-hearted. I know it is very wrong of me, but I had
sort of let myself grow very dependent upon him, and always had looked
upon his marriage much as one looks upon death, as inevitable, but
always remote and the end of all things. It still seems like the end of
all things, but in time I shall get used to it. I feel simply ashamed
of myself for feeling as I do now. Of course, if it were given me the
choice, "your son's happiness, woman, or your own selfish comfort," I
wouldn't hesitate a moment, but it's so hard for a mother who has spent
such happy years with her son to realize that his happiness does
altogether and absolutely depend on some one else, and on that one and
no other? And then we always have that terrible doubt,--has he chosen
the right woman for him? Just as if he wasn't, after all, the best
judge for himself. Of course he is; and in time I know I shall be able
to thank God he made this choice, but just now--just to-night--it seems
to me I come nearer to envying you your childless wifehood than I would
ever have thought possible.
Being in this sentimental, unreal city, doesn't help me any! Forgive
this, I'm afraid morbid, letter, and believe me affectionately
always--write me the truth--your school girl friend,
KITTY.
Have they any position whatever in Troy?
A Letter of Introduction
Four Letters
I. From Mrs. Joslyn of New York to Mrs. Lemaire of Washington.
II. The same.
III. From Mrs. Lemaire to Mrs. Joslyn.
IV. From Mr. Hamilton-Locks to the Hon. Forbes Redding of England.
I
_Letter from Mrs. Joslyn of New York to Mrs. Lemaire of Washington,
unsealed and unstamped._
Friday.
My Dear Mrs. Lemaire:
I am very happy to introduce to you Mr. Hamilton-Locks, of London, a
friend of mine, who goes to Washington for the first time. I know I am
giving you both a pleasure in bringing you together, and any courtesy
you may be able to extend to Mr. Hamilton-Locks will be as if shown to
me also.
Always sincerely,
EMILY JOSLYN.
II
_A second Letter from Mrs. Joslyn to Mrs. Lemaire, sent with a
special delivery stamp._
Friday.
My Dear Mrs. Lemaire:
I gave a letter of introduction to you to a young Englishman this
morning. I hasten to write, and beg you, as far as I am concerned, to
pay no attention whatever to it. He was sent over to us by Lady Heton,
a traveling acquaintance, whom we know really nothing of, and it's been
a great bother trying to be civil and everything else to him. I felt
obliged to give him the letter, but you will understand by this that
you are to ignore it quite as much as you like. He is no friend of ours
whatever, merely an acquaintance that has been forced upon us.
We hear you are having such a gay season in Washington. We think of
taking a house there for next winter. Can you manage to keep out of the
political set if you want to? I don't mind ambassadors, but I should
think all the other people would be most ordinary. I suppose you will
come on for the Makeway Ball; won't you? If so, do lunch with me the
day after; don't forget.
Yours, ever sincerely,
EMILY JOSLYN.
III
_Letter from Mrs. Lemaire to Mrs. Joslyn._
Wednesday.
My dear Mrs. Joslyn:
Where is your young Englishman? I adore young Englishmen, and why
doesn't yours come to see me? Did you give him the letter? He has been
in Washington a week, is constantly at the P----'s, and all the
diplomatic corps are entertaining him. The women are mad about him,
he's so awfully good-looking.
If you want a house in Washington next winter why not rent ours? We are
going to Rome in December.
Yours, always cordially,
GERTRUDE LEMAIRE.
IV
_Letter from Mr. Hamilton-Locks to the Hon. Forbes Redding._
WASHINGTON, January, '97.
My dear Old Chap:
This place is a very good sort, rather like a little English Paris;
more cosmopolitan than Boston, I mean, tho' no other city here seems
quite so lively as New York. The embassy is giving me no end of a good
time. I'm sure I'm more than grateful to your uncle. I find society in
this place is more like European without trying to be, while in New
York they try more, and _aren't_. New York society has an air of its
own, and, I must say, it's a damn fine air, too. Of course, like other
places, it has some frumps, and what Blanche Heton meant by giving me a
letter to a Mrs. Joslyn is more than meets the eye. But we are not
burnt twice by the same flame. The _lady_ gave me in turn a letter to
some one here, and I was so afraid I'd forget and use it by mistake, or
leave it at the woman's door one day when I'd been drinking a good many
whiskeys and sodas and didn't care what I did, that I tore it into bits
and dropped them in an umbrella stand in Mrs. Joslyn's hall five
minutes after she gave it to me. There's no use in running any risks.
And when a woman over here _is_ stupid she's damn stupid. So is she
superlatively fetching when she is charming. And, by Jove! but they
know how to draw the line--all but Mrs. Joslyn.
People over on this side think every Englishman comes over after a
wife, and at first they pretend to be very haughty and independent, and
then if they find out he is not after a wife after all, like your
humble servant, they are quite angry about it.
I hope you're keeping an eye on my dogs for me. Love to Millicent.
Yours,
TED.
Wagner, 1897
_A Letter from Lady Aires to the Countess of Upham, at Homburg_.
BAYREUTH, Aug., 1897.
My dear Rose:
Our stay at Bayreuth is nearly over--the last opera to-morrow; and, to
be frank, I am extremely glad, although of course it has been perfectly
charming. First we heard Parsifal and the Ring; which is four operas,
you know. Why they call them a "Ring" I can't see yet; and I don't like
to ask, it gives the musical people who really know the chance to be so
superior, and they are conceited enough as it is, goodness knows.
Anyone would think it was a disgrace not to have been lullabyed to
sleep when a baby by a symphony orchestra! I'm sure it isn't my fault
if I don't know which is Schumann and which is Schubert; and what's the
difference? (Between you and me I don't care. Of course I adore music,
but it's like a great many other things--you mustn't ask too many
questions!) Well the first day was "Parsifal." It's a _dear_!
Beautiful, perfectly beautiful! I wore my white mulle with my green and
white hat, and if I _do_ say it (and I must, for I'm sure no one else
will say it for me), women are such jealous cats about frocks. I didn't
see a better turned out woman. Such a tremendous lot of smart people as
are here, too. Really you ought to have come. I'm sure you would have
enjoyed it. Between the acts it's quite like Sunday in the park. The
entre-acts are very long, giving us a chance to shake out our frocks
and wake up and amuse ourselves. Some people go up a little hill, or
into some pine woods; but that's rather dull, for you don't meet half
so many others--most everyone stays in front of the theatre. But I must
tell you about "Parsifal." In the first place it is awfully long. And
Parsifal himself is entirely too fat! I am sure such a very good young
person as Parsifal shouldn't have a stomach! There are a lot of sort of
monks in rather fetching pink red cloaks, with pale bluey gray skirts
underneath. (Not at all a bad combination, and gave me an idea for a
costume for up the river.) Their chief is ill, and almost always in
great pain, but it does not prevent his singing the longest of
speeches. Parsifal kills a lovely swan--it flies in _so_ naturally.
Really Wagner was a most wonderful man! Then there is a Gypsy girl; a
sort of snake charmer, who has bottles of things all through the play.
I couldn't make out quite if she were Parsifal's mother or what. But
she is quite mad, and wears only a very uninteresting old brown dress.
I must make this criticism of Wagner: You don't see many pretty dresses
in his operas. Then everyone goes to a banqueting hall, which is also
partly a church. The scenery moves along in a most miraculous way and
the hall is really very lovely. There are children in this scene, and
they lift the chalice, and it glows--an electric light in it you know,
but it's really lovely. And the music is simply heavenly. I assure you
I cried like a baby at this part; I couldn't tell you why, unless it's
the poor wretched creature (Am-- something his name is; I can't find my
programme). He's very handsome. I intend to buy his photograph. He has
to lift the holy cup, and he feels he is unfit to do it. He is a sinner
and wishes he were dead, and somehow or other you feel awfully
sympathetic with him. I know the times I've been to church and knelt
down so ashamed I couldn't lift my head, thinking of some of the
beastly wicked things I've done in my life. And that's just what the
second act is. A crowd of women try to seduce Parsifal, but they are
all German chorus women, and it really doesn't seem such a great
temptation.
But then the girl who was ugly in the other act comes on very beautiful
(but hideously dressed, why don't they get Worth or Doucet, I wonder,
to help them?) and she sings a great deal and very loud, and kisses
Parsifal, and then everything goes suddenly to wrack and ruin. I shall
never dare kiss any very good young man again--not after that! In the
last act, this same creature, looking more like Act I., washes
Parsifal's feet. I should hate to play that part, but it's all very
pretty and affecting, and the music--well there are no words to
describe it. And the whole rest of the act is too wonderful! Really you
have to cry. Of course, it's too long, and you're awfully hungry, but
there is a rather smart restaurant now, where everybody goes afterward
to get their spirits back; which reminds me that Mrs. Gordon turned up
yesterday and appeared at the restaurant at night, affording us a good
deal of amusement. First she started to courtesy to the Royalties, who
don't want to be noticed. This she perceived in the middle of her
courtesy, and cut it short in a quick way, which made her look exactly
as if _something_ important in her toilet had burst or broken. Then she
flew all over from room to room, trying to find a table that suited
her, disturbing the whole atmosphere, like meteors are said to do in
the skies, and creating the impression, or trying to, that she owned
the entire place. She won't be happy here, for it isn't easy for anyone
else to own anything where Frau Wagner is installed; which reminds me
to stop this gossip and tell you seriously about the other operas.
The first of the Ring is the Valkyrie; you can remember it because of
Lord Dunraven's yacht. And they swim around in the water; which is, I
suppose, why he called it so. But no; on second thoughts, that isn't it
at all. The first opera is Rheingold, and it's the Rhine maidens that
go swimming about. How absurd of Dunraven to have made such a mistake.
I like the Rheingold awfully. The first act looks just like water, and
the music is so pretty. Then, in the second act, there are two splendid
big men--one in white, the other in black bear skins--who are rather
fetching. The Rheingold is the least sociable of the operas, as there
is no entre-act. But it is fortunately a great deal the shortest. I
think it is one of my favorites. I seem to know more what Wagner is
about in it. I don't believe he knows himself what he is about some of
the time in the Valkyrie. This second opera is awfully long. However,
it has two good entre-acts, when you can walk around and talk to
everybody; and I can assure you we have plenty to say after having been
kept quiet for over an hour in the dark theatre. The chairs are so
uncomfortable, and if you move somebody hisses. There is not much
politeness in Bayreuth. We don't get as good a view of the stage as
some people, but we have splendid places; the Countess of ---- is in
front of us, her sister right beside me, and behind are the ----s, and
near by Lady ----. So you see we couldn't possibly have better seats.
For the Valkyrie I wore a new mauve and pale green frock. I don't think
you've seen it. The bill was atrocious. I sha'n't pay it; but the
costume is a great success. Portions of this second opera are awfully
tiresome, first one couple and then another, going on for hours about
nothing, but there are some exquisite clouds that move and grow and
scatter exactly like nature, only more so, and make up a little for the
dull people. I notice one thing: _all_ the gods and goddesses have
always such troubles. There isn't a single happy creature among them,
not even Wotan, who is god of them all, and wears a silly gold curl
over one eye. I think it lowers his whole dignity; but they make a
great many mistakes like that. Of course, one oughtn't to think of
these things, but should simply listen to and enjoy the beautiful
music, but my nature is so sensitive I can't help it. There are a lot
of Valkyrie, you know, who wear a sort of antique dress-reform costume,
not pretty, and ride through the air on deliciously funny-looking
horses. And Brunhilde, the leader of them, a rather nice person,
behaves quite like a human being in "Siegfried," the next opera, which
I will tell you about later. In "Valkyrie" you think she is going to be
burnt up, but in "Siegfried" she is saved after all. I suppose there is
some sort of Biblical idea about hell. You recognized the Bible very
often in "Parsifal." I much prefer Siegfried as a person to Parsifal.
He's not such a _very_ good boy. There's more an air of athletics,
football, rowing, and all that about Siegfried, while Parsifal smacks
just a little, I think, of the Young Men's Christian Association. You
can _kiss_ Siegfried with impunity, too; in fact, it saved Brunhilde's
life, and I wouldn't mind running a few risks myself to be saved in the
same way! You get perfectly drunk with this music of the last act of
Siegfried. Of course, my dear, you know I am now writing about the
_third_ opera, "Siegfried." You must follow me closely, for it's very
easy to get confused about them. "Siegfried" is awfully long, too, and
the first act--well, I don't mind telling you I slept a good deal. You
see, the theatre gets so stuffy, and then one is digesting one's
luncheon, and the stage is so dark, and I maintain that the music
soothes you. I wore, of course, another dress, something quiet, as it
was rainy, but I saw no one who looked any better. Between the first
and second acts I managed to get a bow and a hand-shake from the
Prince, to the visible envy of Mrs. Gordon. I wish you could see the
dear beast. She flutters around the royalties every minute, like a
nervous bird, and as if they were her nest of eggs and a bad little boy
was in the neighborhood. I _hate_ snobs; don't you? I am lunching, by
the way, with Mrs. G. to-morrow. Quite a big, smart party of us, I
hear.
That funny dragon comes in "Siegfried," you know, and of course it is
much more amusing here than in Covent Garden or New York. But it's the
last act that I _love_! Such passionate music! Brunhilde falls madly in
love with Siegfried, who is, of course, ever so many years younger than
she. But it's just like us women, especially when we are Brunhilde's
age. For I suppose she's forty something, as she was grown up and went
to sleep before Siegfried was born, and when he kisses her he seems to
be quite a man! By the way, Brunhilde was put to sleep for interfering
somehow or other in the love affairs of Siegfried's mother and father,
who are really sister and brother. If you think of it, the story is
extremely indecent, but operatic things never seem to be shocking;
music, apparently, covers a multitude of naughtiness, like charity is
reported to do. Very likely that's why Mrs. ---- is always doing so
much for institutions and what not--for her sins, I suppose. I always
thought she was a naughty old hypocrite! By the way, there is a comic
character in "Siegfried," and in one of the others, I forget which,
called Mime--a funny little dwarf, the sort of thing they put in a
Christmas pantomime to amuse the children.
_Later._
I have just come from the "Götterdämmerung," the last opera, and I am
completely exhausted. I am as if I were in a dream, and can only think
and feel and write of this beautiful, beautiful music and scenery. I am
absolutely absorbed in it. Some people took the train for Nuremberg
right after the performance. I am sure I never could have. I really
can't believe they _felt_ the thing. Our train goes at 1:45. Such a
nice hour; one doesn't have to hurry in the morning, and can have one's
hair done properly. I have a charming new way of doing the hair. I got
it from a Frenchwoman who sat just in front of me in the theatre
to-day, and when it was light enough I studied the arrangement till I
got it by heart. You want something like that to do during the long
duets. Otherwise your attention is apt to wander from the opera, or you
get sleepy. To go back to the opera, it began with the same scene that
Siegfried finished with, which was rather disappointing, but a real
horse came on and behaved as quiet as a lamb, with Brunhilde screaming
like mad all about him. I suppose they put cotton in his ears, or
something. The scene changed (without letting us go out for a rest,
which I thought something of a sell) to the house, where Siegfried
falls in love with another woman (Oh, these men!) I forgot to tell you,
my mind is so full of the music, that I wore my new Russell & Allen
winter frock, and I caught lots of people taking it in. But, dear me,
how badly the German women dress! I haven't seen a single _chic_ one
among them since I've been here, I don't believe I shall come to
Bayreuth again. Besides, the music is too wearing. The Rhine maidens
come back in this act! It is most wonderful the way they swim about!
But, as far as I can gather, they are rather nasty cats. One thing I
will say, though: I think Wagner's on the side of the women; for, in
spite of Brunhilde's being in love with little more than a boy, she has
all your sympathies. So has Siegfried, too; which is odd. I really
sobbed when he died, he was so good-looking, and seemed so sad. This
whole opera is very depressing. We reach Munich to-morrow night at 7;
and I propose going to the Residenz Theatre there, and seeing a light
opera just for contrast. But how bad the shops are at Munich. I believe
there are some good pictures, but I think one sees so many pictures in
Europe; don't you?
I presume you know Brunhilde behaves rather like Dido in the end:
nearly everybody, more or less, is murdered off, and there is a sort of
Madame Tussaud exhibition in the clouds at the curtain. Of course, I
haven't really given you any sort of an idea about it at all. There are
no words that will adequately describe it, only I promised to give you
a detailed personal account; and I have done so. The reason we are
going to Munich is we can't get a sleeper yet, everything is so
crowded. Isn't it disgusting. This last opera is rather too noisy at
times, and awfully long--longer than the others. But there's a men's
ballet in it that is rather nice; not dancing, you know, but singing
and posing and walking about, with imitation bare legs, most of them.
But I think the best thing about the opera is it leaves you in such an
exalted mood. I know I won't be able to think of small or worldly
things for weeks, much less write about them. Before I forget it, be
sure and write me if it's true that Mrs. ---- and Sir George ---- are
both at Homburg, at the same hotel. I hear they are, and there's no
end of talk about it. But then I find there's no end of talk about
everything and everybody. It is not that people mean badly, but one has
to pass the time somehow. I think I love best of all the Rheingold
music. It is like a jeweller's shop window in Bond street; it seems
to shine and glitter and sparkle. You see very few jewels here in
Bayreuth; of course, there's very little chance to display them. Women
wear the usual small string of pearls. That's about all. As most
everyone wore one I wear two, with a different pendant each day. I
like to be just a little original, and keep my own individuality.
Well, now I must tumble into bed or I shall lose my beauty sleep. I'd
hate to have my figure get like these German singers. I wonder why! I'd
have myself strapped between boards--I'd do _something_. Good-bye, my
dear. Write me all the gossip you can get a hold of. I haven't sent you
any in this, but that you couldn't expect. It was impossible that this
letter should be anything but Wagner, Wagner, Wagner. I wish you could
have been here with me--you'd have seen heaps of your friends. Of
course I ought to tell you one thing, because I felt it myself: there's
nothing catchy about the music.
Lovingly,
FANNY.
Art
A Letter
_A second Letter from Lady Aires to the Countess of Upham._
Munich.
My dear Rose:
It was very thoughtful of you to write me so soon, and Aubrey and I
wish very much we could join you, but our money is all spent and we
must hurry back to England, where we can economize by making cheap
visits among our friends for a couple of months. In December we go to
New York to spend the winter with mother. You never go home, do you?
I am so glad you felt you got so complete an idea of Wagner from my
letter. I was a little afraid I hadn't done the whole thing justice,
but I assure you there were many more people there than I thought of
suggesting, and the operas, tho' long, are very delightful.
Here in Munich the chief thing is the picture gallery, as of course at
this time of year all fashionable society is away and the theatres and
opera either closed or giving second-rate performances. There are more
musées than you really care to visit, and are full of masterpieces,
many quite as atrocious as masterpieces so often are. The principal
one--its name begins with a P--is the one we've been to.
I wish you could see the Rubens, or else it's the Van Dykes--I forget
which, but they are beautiful; and when one thinks how long ago they
were painted, it's wonderful, isn't it? One thing awfully interesting
about a picture gallery is to see the absurd difference in women's
dress now and in former times; don't you think so? And sometimes one
gets ideas for one's self.
This particular gallery is altogether one of the most satisfactory I've
ever been in. It wasn't crowded full of Baedeker people and that sort
of thing. In the second room we went in we met Lord and Lady Jenks and
the Countess of Towns. That was the room where we saw a portrait the
living image of Janet Cowther. We all shrieked with laughter! You know
how she has what my vulgar little brother calls an "ingrowing face"--it
sinks in instead of coming out, so that the poor creature can't know
what it seems like to have a real profile. It's extraordinary that
there should have been two such faces in the world--don't you think
so?--even with two or three hundred years between them. The portrait
was painted by--dear me! I can't remember, but it was some one we all
know. There's one thing I shouldn't mind, and that is knowing the
lady's corset maker; I'd like to give his address to Janet, because, my
dear, in spite of her face he had made the lady's figure beautiful. I
think that's really the nicest part of a picture gallery--seeing comic
likenesses to your friends.
Lady Jenks and I sat down on an uncomfortable bench without any back
and talked away for nearly an hour. What an amusing creature she is!
Has stories to tell about everybody under the sun. By the way, she
vowed you and your husband got on awfully, and only lived together as a
matter of form! I took up your cudgels, my dear, and told her it wasn't
true in any particular; that Ned adored you and was an angel. Of
course, he got drunk--that I knew, as all the world did, but you were
used to that. It isn't true, is it? He never struck you? I'm sure he
didn't! You'd have told a good friend like me; wouldn't you?