WASHINGTON PERSONAGES IN THE FIFTIES
When my husband’s parents were members of the Congressional circle in
Washington—1829–’35—the journey to the capital from their home in
northern Alabama was no light undertaking. In those early days
Congressman (afterward Governor, and United States Senator) and Mrs. C.
C. Clay, Sr., travelled by coach to the Federal City, accompanied by
their coloured coachman, Toney (who, because of his expert driving, soon
became notable in Washington), and a maid-servant, Milly, who were
necessary to their comfort and station. Many days were consumed in these
journeys, that lay through Tennessee, the Carolinas and Virginia, during
which the travellers were exposed to all the dangers common to a young
and often unsettled forest country. The tangled woods of the South land,
odorous with the cedar or blossoming with dogwood, mimosa or magnolias,
were often Arcadias of beauty. The land of the sky, now the object of
pilgrimages for the wealthy and become the site of palaces built by
kings of commerce, was then still more beautiful with primeval
freshness. Far as the eye could see, as hills were scaled and valleys
crossed, were verdured slopes and wooded mountain crests. The Palisades
of the Tennessee, as yet scarcely penetrated by Northern tourists, were
then the wonder as they still are the pride of the traveller from the
South.
In 1853, my husband was elected a United States Senator, to take the
seat of a former college friend, Jere Clemens, whose term had just
expired, and succeeding his father C. C. Clay, Sr., after eleven years.
In December of the same year, we began our trip to the capital under
comparatively modern conditions. My several visits to Vermont and New
Jersey Hydropathic Cures, then the fashionable sanitariums, had already
inured me to long journeys. By this time steam railways had been
established, and, though not so systematically connected as to make
possible the taking of long trips over great distances without devious
and tiresome changes, they had lessened the time spent upon the road
between Alabama and Washington very appreciably; but, while in
comparison with those in common use to-day, the cars were primitive,
nevertheless they were marvels of comfort and speed to the travellers of
the fifties. Sleeping cars were not yet invented, but the double-action
seatbacks of the regular coaches, not then, as now, screwed down
inexorably, made it a simple matter to convert two seats into a kind of
couch, on which, with the aid of a pillow, one managed very well to
secure a half repose as the cars moved soberly along.
Our train on that first official journey to Washington proved to be a
kind of inchoative “Congressional Limited.” We found many of our
fellow-passengers to be native Alabamians, the majority being on
government business bent. Among them were my husband’s confrère from
southern Alabama, Senator Fitzpatrick and his wife, and a friendship was
then and there begun among us, which lasted uninterruptedly until death
detached some of the parties to it; also Congressman Dowdell, “dear old
Dowdell,” as my husband and everyone in the House shortly learned to
call him, and James L. Orr of South Carolina, who afterward became
Speaker of the House of Representatives, and Minister to Russia under
President Grant. Mr. Orr, late in 1860, was one of the three
commissioners sent by South Carolina to President Buchanan to arbitrate
on the question of the withdrawal of United States troops from Forts
Sumter and Moultrie, in Charleston Harbour.
Nor should I omit to name the most conspicuous man on that memorable
north-bound train, Congressman W. R. W. Cobb, who called himself the
“maker of Senators,” and whom people called the most successful
vote-poller in the State of Alabama. Mr. Cobb resorted to all sorts of
tricks to catch the popular votes, such as the rattling of tinware and
crockery—he had introduced bills to secure indigent whites from a
seizure for debt that would engulf all their possessions, and in them
had minutely defined all articles that were to be thus exempt, not
scorning to enumerate the smallest items of the kitchen—, and he
delighted in the singing of homely songs composed for stump purposes.
One of these which he was wont to introduce at the end of a speech, and
which always seemed to be especially his own, was called “The Homestead
Bill.” Of this remarkable composition there were a score of verses, at
least, that covered every possible possession which the heart of the
poor man might crave, ranging from land and mules to household
furniture. The song began,
“Uncle Sam is rich enough to give us all a farm!”
and Mr. Cobb would sing it in stentorian tones, winking, as he did so,
to first one and then another of his admiring listeners, and punctuating
his phrases by chewing, with great gusto, a piece of onion and the
coarsest of corn “pone.” These evidences of his democracy gave huge
delight to the masses, though it aroused in me, a young wife, great
indignation, that, in the exigencies of a public career my husband
should be compelled to enter a contest with such a man. To me it was the
meeting of a Damascus blade and a meat-axe, and in my soul I resented
it.
In 1849 this stump-favourite had defeated the brilliant Jere Clemens,
then a candidate for Congress, but immediately thereafter Mr. Clemens
was named for the higher office of U. S. Senator and elected. In 1853 an
exactly similar conjunction of circumstances resulted in the election of
Mr. Clay. I accompanied my husband during the canvass in which he was
defeated, and thereby became, though altogether innocently, the one
obstacle to Mr. Cobb’s usually unanimous election.
It happened that during the campaign Mr. Clay and I stopped at a little
hostelry, that lay in the very centre of one of Mr. Cobb’s strongest
counties. It was little more than a flower-embowered cottage, kept by
“Aunt Hannah,” a kindly soul, whose greatest treasure was a fresh-faced,
pretty daughter, then entering her “teens.” I returned to our room after
a short absence, just in time to see this village beauty before my
mirror, arrayed in all the glory of a beautiful and picturesque hat
which I had left upon the bed during my absence. It was a lovely thing
of the period, which I had but recently brought back from the North,
having purchased it while _en route_ for Doctor Wesselhœft’s Hydropathic
Institute in Brattleboro, Vermont.
The little rustic girl of Alabama looked very winsome and blossomy in
the pretty gew-gaw, and I asked her impulsively if she liked it. Her
confusion was sufficient answer, and I promptly presented it to her, on
condition that she would give me her sunbonnet in return.
The exchange was quickly made, and when Mr. Clay and I departed I wore a
pea-green cambric bonnet, lined with pink and stiffened with pasteboard
slats. I little dreamed that this exchange of millinery, so
unpremeditated, and certainly uncalculating, was a political
master-stroke; but, so it proved. It undermined Mr. Cobb’s Gibraltar;
for at the election that followed, the vote in that county was
practically solid for Mr. Clay, where formerly Mr. Cobb had swept it
clean.
When, upon the train _en route_ for the capital in the winter of ’53,
Senator Fitzpatrick insisted upon presenting the erstwhile triumphant
politician, I took the long, flail-like hand he offered me with no
accentuated cordiality; my reserve, however, seemed not to disturb Mr.
Cobb’s proverbial complacency.
“I’ve got a crow to pick with you, Mrs. Clay,” he began, “for that pink
bonnet trick at old Aunt Hannah’s!”
“And I have a buzzard to pick with you!” I responded promptly, “for
defeating my husband!”
“You ought to feel obliged to me,” retorted the Congressman, continuing
“For I made your husband a Senator!”
“Well,” I rejoined, “I’ll promise not to repeat the bonnet business, if
you’ll give me your word never again to sing against my husband! That’s
unfair, for you know _he_ can’t sing!” which, amid the laughter of our
fellow-passengers, Mr. Cobb promised.
Our entrance into the Federal City was not without its humorous side. We
arrived in the early morning, about two o’clock, driving up to the
National Hotel, where, owing to a mistake on the part of the
night-clerk, an incident occurred with which for many a day I twitted my
husband and our male companions on that eventful occasion.
At that period it was the almost universal custom for Southern gentlemen
to wear soft felt hats, and the fashion was invariable when travelling.
In winter, too, long-distance voyagers as commonly wrapped themselves in
the blanket shawl, which was thrown around the shoulders in picturesque
fashion and was certainly comfortable, if not strictly _à la mode_. My
husband and the other gentlemen of our party were so provided on our
journey northward, and upon our arrival, it must be admitted, none in
that travel-stained and weary company would have been mistaken for a
Washington exquisite of the period.
As our carriage stopped in front of the hotel door, Mr. Dowdell, muffled
to the ears, his soft-brimmed hat well down over his face (for the wind
was keen), stepped out quickly to arrange for our accommodation. The
night was bitterly cold, and the others of our company were glad to
remain under cover until our spokesman returned.
This he did in a moment or two. He appeared crestfallen, and quite at a
loss.
“Nothing here, Clay!” he said to my husband. “Man says they have no
rooms!”
“Nonsense, Dowdell!” was Senator Clay’s response. “You must be mistaken.
Here, step inside while I inquire!” He, muffled as mysteriously, and in
no whit more trust-inspiring than the dejected Mr. Dowdell, strode
confidently in. Not many minutes elapsed ere he, too, returned.
“Well!” he said. “I don’t understand it, but Dowdell’s right! They say
they have no rooms for us!”
At this we were dismayed, and a chorus of exclamations went up from men
and women alike. What were we to do? In a moment, I had resolved.
“There’s some mistake! I don’t believe it,” I said. “I’ll go and see;”
and, notwithstanding my husband’s remonstrances, I hurried out of the
carriage and into the hotel. Stepping to the desk I said to the clerk in
charge: “Is it possible you have no rooms for our party in this large
hostelry? Is it possible, Sir, that at this season, when Congress is
convening, you have reserved no rooms for Congressional guests?” He
stammered out some confused reply, but I hurried on.
“I am Mrs. Clay, of Alabama. You have refused my husband, Senator Clay,
and his friend, Representative Dowdell. What does it mean?”
“Why, certainly, Madam,” he hastened to say, “I have rooms for _those_.”
And forthwith ordered the porters to go for our luggage. Then, reaching
hurriedly for various keys, he added, “I beg your pardon, Madam! I did
not know you were those!”
What he did believe us to be, piloted as we were by two such
brigand-like gentlemen as Senator Clay and Mr. Dowdell, we never knew;
enough that our tired party were soon installed in comfortable
apartments. It was by reason of this significant episode that I first
realized the potency in Washington of conventional apparel and
Congressional titles.
My husband being duly sworn in on the 14th of December, 1853, in a few
days our “mess” was established at the home of Mr. Charles Gardner, at
Thirteenth and G Streets. Here my first season in Washington was spent.
Besides Senator Clay and myself, our party was composed of Senator and
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and Representatives Dowdell and Orr, and to this
little nucleus of congenial spirits were afterward added in our later
residences at historic old Brown’s Hotel and the Ebbitt House, many
whose names are known to the nation.
Though a sad winter for me, for in it I bore and buried my only child,
yet my recollections of that season, as its echoes reached our quiet
parlours, are those of boundless entertainment and bewildering ceremony.
The season was made notable in the fashionable world by the great _fête
champêtre_ given by the British Minister, Mr. Crampton, and the pompous
obsequies of Baron Bodisco, for many years resident Minister from
Russia; but of these I learned only through my ever kind friend, Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, who for months was my one medium of communication with the
fashionable outside world. She was a beautiful woman, with superb
carriage and rare and rich colouring, and possessed, besides, a voice of
great sweetness, with which, during that winter of seclusion, she often
made our simple evenings a delight. While shortly she became a leader in
matters social, Mrs. Fitzpatrick was still more exalted in our own
little circle for her singing of such charming songs as “Roy’s Wife of
Aldivalloch,” and other quaint Scotch ditties. Nor was Mrs. Fitzpatrick
the one musician of our “mess,” for Mr. Dowdell had a goodly voice and
sang with lusty enjoyment the simpler ballads of the day, to say nothing
of many melodious Methodist hymns.
My experiences as an active member of Washington society, therefore,
began in the autumn of 1854 and the succeeding spring, when,
notwithstanding an air of gravity and reserve that was perceptible at
that social pivot, the White House, the gaiety of the capital was
gaining an impetus in what later appeared to me to be a veritable “merry
madness.”
It is true that it did not even then require the insight of a keen
observer to detect in social, as in political gatherings, the constantly
widening division between the Northern and Southern elements gathered in
the Government City. For myself, I knew little of politics,
notwithstanding the fact that from my childhood I had called myself “a
pronounced Jeffersonian Democrat.” Naturally, I was an hereditary
believer in States’ Rights, the real question, which, in an attempt to
settle it, culminated in our Civil War; and I had been bred among the
law-makers of the sturdy young State of Alabama, many of whom had served
at the State and National capitals with marked distinction; but from my
earliest girlhood three lessons had been taught me religiously, viz.: to
be proud alike of my name and blood and section; to read my Bible; and,
last, to know my “Richmond Enquirer.” Often, as an aid to the
performance of this last duty, have I read aloud its full contents, from
the rates of advertisement down, until my dear uncle Tom Tunstall has
fallen asleep over my childish efforts. It is not, then, remarkable
that, upon my arrival, I was at once cognisant of the feeling which was
so thinly concealed between the strenuous parties established in the
capital.
[Illustration:
MRS. BENJAMIN FITZPATRICK
of Alabama
]
During the first half of the Pierce administration, however, though
feeling ran high in the Senate and the House, the surface of social life
was smiling and peaceful. The President had every reason to feel kindly
toward the people of the South who had so unanimously supported him, and
he was as indiscriminating and impartial in his attitude to the opposing
parties as even the most critical could desire; but, gradually, by a
mutual instinct of repulsion that resolved itself into a general
consent, the representatives of the two antagonistic sections seldom met
save at promiscuous assemblages to which the exigencies of public life
compelled them. To be sure, courtesies were exchanged between the wives
of some of the Northern and Southern Senators, and formal calls were
paid on Cabinet days, as etiquette demanded, upon the ladies of the
Cabinet circle; but, by a tacit understanding, even at the
entertainments given at the foreign legations, and at the houses of
famous Washington citizens, this opposition of parties was carefully
considered in the sending out of invitations, in order that no
unfortunate _rencontre_ might occur between uncongenial guests.
The White House, as I have said, was scarcely a place of gaiety. Mrs.
Pierce’s first appearance in public occurred at the Presidential levee,
late in 1853. An invalid for several years, she had recently received a
shock, which was still a subject of pitying conversation throughout the
country. It had left a terrible impress upon Mrs. Pierce’s spirits.
While travelling from her home in New Hampshire to Washington to witness
her husband’s exaltation as the President of the United States, an
accident, occurring at Norwalk, Connecticut, suddenly deprived her of
her little son, the last surviving of her several children. At her first
public appearance at the White House, clad in black velvet and diamonds,
her natural pallor being thereby greatly accentuated, a universal
sympathy was awakened for her. To us who knew her, the stricken heart
was none the less apparent because hidden under such brave and jewelled
apparel, which she had donned, the better to go through the ordeal
exacted by “the dear people.”
I had made the acquaintance of General and Mrs. Pierce during the
preceding year while on a visit to the New England States; my husband’s
father had been the President’s confrère in the Senate early in the
forties; and my brother-in-law, Colonel Hugh Lawson Clay, had fought
beside the New Hampshire General in the Mexican War. The occupants of
the Executive Mansion therefore were no strangers to us; yet Mrs.
Pierce’s sweet graciousness and adaptability came freshly to me as I saw
her assume her place as the social head of the nation. Her sympathetic
nature and very kind heart, qualities not always to be perceived through
the formalities of governmental etiquette, were demonstrated to me on
many occasions. My own ill-health proved to be a bond between us, and,
while custom forbade the paying of calls by the wife of the Chief
Magistrate upon the wives of Senators, I was indebted to Mrs. Pierce for
many acts of friendliness, not the least of which were occasional drives
with her in the Presidential equipage.
A favourite drive in those days was throughout the length of
Pennsylvania Avenue, then but sparsely and irregularly built up. The
greatest contrasts in architecture existed, hovels often all but
touching the mansions of the rich. The great boulevard was a perfect
romping ground for the winds. Chevy Chase and Georgetown were popular
objective points, and the banks of the Potomac, in shad-seining season,
were alive with gay sight-seers. The markets of Washington have always
excelled, affording every luxury of earth and sea, and that at a price
which gives to the owner of even a moderate purse a leaning toward
epicureanism. In the houses of the rich the serving of dinners became a
fine art.
On the first occasion of my dining at the President’s table, I was
struck with the spaciousness of the White House, and the air of
simplicity which everywhere pervaded. Very elaborate alterations were
made in the mansion for Mr. Pierce’s successor, but in the day of
President and Mrs. Pierce it remained practically as unimposing as in
the time of President Monroe.
The most remarkable features in all the mansion, to my then unaccustomed
eyes, were the gold spoons which were used invariably at all State
dinners. They were said to have been brought from Paris by President
Monroe, who had been roundly criticised for introducing into the White
House a table accessory so undemocratic! Besides these extraordinary
golden implements, there were as remarkable bouquets, made at the
government greenhouses. They were stiff and formal things, as big round
as a breakfast plate, and invariably composed of a half-dozen wired
japonicas ornamented with a pretentious cape of marvellously wrought
lace-paper. At every plate, at every State dinner, lay one of these
memorable rigid bouquets. This fashion, originating at the White House,
was taken up by all Washington. For an entire season the japonica was
the only flower seen at the houses of the fashionable or mixing in the
toilettes of the belles.
But if, for that, my first winter in Washington, the White House itself
was sober, the houses of the rich Senators and citizens of Washington,
of the brilliant diplomatic corps, and of some of the Cabinet Ministers,
made ample amends for it. In the fifties American hospitality acquired a
reputation, and that of the capital was synonymous with an unceasing, an
augmenting round of dinners and dances, receptions and balls. A hundred
hostesses renowned for their beauty and wit and vivacity vied with each
other in evolving novel social relaxations. Notable among these were
Mrs. Slidell, Mrs. Jacob Thompson, Miss Belle Cass, and the daughters of
Secretary Guthrie; Mrs. Senator Toombs and Mrs. Ogle Tayloe, the
Riggses, the Countess de Sartiges and Mrs. Cobb, wife of that jolly
Falstaff of President Buchanan’s Cabinet, Howell Cobb. Mrs. Cobb was of
the celebrated Lamar family, so famous for its brilliant and brave men,
and lovely women. Highly cultured, modest as a wild wood-violet,
inclined, moreover, to reserve, she was nevertheless capable of
engrossing the attention of the most cultivated minds in the capital,
and a conversation with her was ever a thing to be remembered. No more
hospitable home was known in Washington than that of the Cobbs. The
Secretary was a _bon vivant_, and his home the rendezvous of the
epicurean as well as the witty and the intellectual.
Probably the most brilliant of all the embassies, until the coming of
Lord and Lady Napier, was that of France. The Countess de Sartiges, who
presided over it, was an unsurpassed hostess, besides being a woman of
much _manner_ and personal beauty; and, as did many others of the suite,
she entertained on a lavish scale.
Mrs. Slidell, wife of the Senator from Louisiana, whose daughter
Mathilde is now the wife of the Parisian banker, Baron Erlanger, became
famous in the fifties for her matinée dances at which all the beauties
and beaux of Washington thronged. Previous to her marriage with Senator
Slidell she was Mlle. des Londes of New Orleans. A leader in all things
fashionable, she was also one of the most devout worshippers at St.
Aloysius’s church. I remember with what astonishment and admiration I
watched her devotions one Sunday morning when, as the guest of Senator
Mallory, himself a strict Romanist, I attended that church for the
purpose of hearing a mass sung.
I knew Mrs. Slidell as the devotée of fashion, the wearer of
unapproachable Parisian gowns, the giver of unsurpassed entertainments,
the smiling, tireless hostess; but that Sunday morning as I saw her
enter a pew just ahead of Senator Mallory and myself, sink upon her
knees, and, with her eyes fixed upon the cross, repeating her prayers
with a concentration that proved the sincerity of them, I felt as if
another and greater side of her nature were being revealed to me. I
never met her thereafter without a remembrance of that morning flitting
through my mind.
During the early spring of 1854 I heard much of the imposing ceremonials
attending the funeral of Baron Alexandre de Bodisco, Minister from
Russia since 1838, the days of Van Buren. His young wife, a native of
Georgetown, was one of the first to draw the attention of foreigners to
the beauty of American women. The romantic old diplomat had learned to
admire his future wife when, as a little girl, upon her daily return
from school, he carried her books for her. Her beauty developed with her
growth, and, before she was really of an age to appear in society,
though already spoken of as the most beautiful woman in Georgetown,
Harriet Williams became the Baroness de Bodisco, and was carried abroad
for presentation at the Russian Court. Her appearance in that critical
circle created a _furore_, echoes of which preceded her return to
America. I have heard it said that this young bride was the first woman
to whom was given the title, “the American Rose.”
I remember an amusing incident in which this lovely Baroness,
unconsciously to herself, played the part of instructress to me. It was
at one of my earliest dinners at the White House, ere I had thoroughly
familiarised myself with the gastronomic novelties devised by the
Gautiers (then the leading restaurateurs and confectioners of the
capital), and the other foreign _chefs_ who vied with them. Scarcely a
dinner of consequence but saw some surprise in the way of a heretofore
unknown dish. Many a time I have seen some one distinguished for his
_aplomb_ look about helplessly as the feast progressed, and gaze
questioningly at the preparation before him, as if uncertain as to how
it should be manipulated. Whenever I was in doubt as to the proper thing
to do at these dignified dinners, I turned, as was natural, to those
whose longer experience in the gay world was calculated to establish
them as exemplars to the novice.
On the evening of which I write, the courses had proceeded without the
appearance of unusual or alarm-inspiring dishes until we had neared the
end of the _menu_, when I saw a waiter approaching with a large salver
on which were dozens of mysterious parallelograms of paper, each of
which was about five inches long and three broad, and appeared to be
full of some novel conserve. Beside them lay a silver trowel. The
packages were folded daintily, the gilt edges of their wrapping
glittering attractively. What they contained I could not guess, nor
could I imagine what we were supposed to do with them.
However, while still struggling to read the mystery of the salver, my
eye fell upon Mme. de Bodisco, my _vis-à-vis_. She was a mountain of
lace and jewels, of blonde beauty and composure, for even at this early
period her proportions were larger than those which by common consent
are accredited to the sylph. I could have no better instructress than
this lady of international renown. I watched her; saw her take up the
little trowel, deftly remove one of the packages from the salver to her
plate, and composedly proceed to empty the paper receptacle of its
contents—a delicious glacé. My suspense was at an end. I followed her
example, very well satisfied with my good fortune in escaping a pitfall
which a moment ago I felt sure yawned before me, for this method of
serving creams and ices was the latest of culinary novelties.
I wondered if there were others at the great board who were equally
uncertain as to what to do with the carefully concealed dainties.
Looking down to the other side of the table, I saw our friend Mr. Blank,
of Virginia, hesitatingly regarding the pile of paper which the waiter
was holding toward him. Presently, as if resigned to his fate, he took
up the trowel and began to devote considerable energy to an attempt to
dig out the contents of the package nearest him, when, as I glanced
toward him, he looked up, full of self-consciousness, and turned his
gaze directly upon me. His expression told plainly of growing
consternation.
I shook my head in withering pseudo-rebuke and swiftly indicated to him
“to take a whole one.” Fortunately, he was quick-witted and caught my
meaning, and, taking the hint, took likewise the cream without further
mishap. After dinner we retired to the green-room, where, as was the
custom, coffee and liqueurs were served. Here Mr. Blank approached, and,
shaking my hand most gratefully, he whispered, “God bless my soul, Mrs.
Clay! You’re the sweetest woman in the world! But for your goodness,
heaven only knows what would have happened! Perhaps,” and he sipped his
liqueur contemplatively, “perhaps I might have been struggling with
that, _that problem_ yet!”
I met Mme. de Bodisco many times during her widowhood, and was present
at old St. John’s when her second marriage, with Captain Scott of Her
British Majesty’s Life Guards, was celebrated. It was early in the
Buchanan administration, and the bride was given away by the President.
While St. John’s, I may add, was often referred to as a fashionable
centre, yet much of genuine piety throve there, too.
Mme. de Bodisco, who, during her widowhood, had continued her belleship
and had received, it was said, many offers of marriage from
distinguished men, capitulated at last to the young guardsman just
named. Great therefore was the interest in the second nuptials of so
popular a beauty. Old St. John’s was crowded with the most distinguished
personages in the capital. The aisles of the old edifice are narrow, and
the march of the bride and the President to the altar was memorable, not
only because of the distinction, but also by reason of the imposing
proportions of both principals in it. In fact, the plumpness of the
stately bride and the President’s ample figure, made the walk, side by
side, an almost impossible feat. The difficulty was overcome, however,
by the tactfulness of the President, who led the lady slightly in
advance of himself until the chancel was reached. Here the slender young
groom, garbed in the scarlet and gold uniform of his rank, stepped
forward to claim her, and, though it was seen that he stood upon a
hassock in order to lessen the difference in height between himself and
his bride, it was everywhere admitted that Captain Scott was a handsome
and gallant groom, and worthy the prize he had won.
This was Mme. de Bodisco’s last appearance in Washington. With her
husband she went to India, where, it was said, the climate soon made
havoc of her health and beauty; but her fame lingered long on the lips
of her hosts of admirers in Washington. Nor did the name of de Bodisco
disappear from the social list, for, though his sons were sent to
Russia, there to be educated, Waldemar de Bodisco, nephew of the late
Minister, long continued to be the most popular leader of the German in
Washington.
Throughout the fifties, and indeed for several preceding decades, the
foreign representatives and their suites formed a very important element
in society in the capital. In some degree their members, the majority of
whom were travelled and accomplished, and many representative of the
highest culture in Europe, were our critics, if not our mentors. The
standard of education was higher in Europe fifty years ago than in our
own land, and to be a favourite at the foreign legations was equivalent
to a certificate of accomplishment and social charms. An acquaintance
with the languages necessarily was not the least of these.
The celebrated Octavia Walton, afterward famous as Mme. Le Vert, won her
first social distinction in Washington, where, chaperoned by Mrs. C. C.
Clay, Sr., a recognition of her grace and beauty, her intellectuality
and charming manner was instantaneous. At a time when a knowledge of the
foreign tongues was seldom acquired by American women, Miss Walton, who
spoke French, Spanish and Italian with ease, speedily became the
favourite of the Legations, and thence began her fame which afterward
became international.
During my early residence in Washington, Addie Cutts (who became first
the wife of Stephen A. Douglas and some years after his death married
General Williams) was the admired of all foreigners. Miss Cutts was the
niece of Mrs. Greenhow, a wealthy and brilliant woman of the capital,
and, when she became Mrs. Douglas, held a remarkable sway for years. As
a linguist Miss Cutts was reputed to be greatly gifted. If she spoke the
many languages of which she was said to be mistress but half so
eloquently as she uttered her own when, in 1865, she appealed to
President Johnson on behalf of “her loved friend” my husband, the
explanation of her remarkable nightly levees of the late fifties is
readily found.
Though never, strictly speaking, a member of our “mess,” Mrs. Douglas
and I were always firm friends. While she was still Miss Cutts, and
feeling keenly the deprivations that fall to the lot of the beautiful
daughter of a poor department clerk,[1] she once complained to me
poutingly of the cost of gloves.
“Nonsense,” I answered. “Were I Addie Cutts, with hands that might have
been chiselled by Phidias, I would never disguise them in gloves,
whatever the fashion!”
Miss Cutts entered into the enjoyment of the wealth and position which
her marriage with Stephen A. Douglas gave her, with the regal manner of
a princess. Her toilettes were of the richest and at all times were
models of taste and picturesqueness. The effect she produced upon
strangers was invariably one of instant admiration. Writing to me in
1863, my cousin, Mrs. Paul Hammond (who, before her marriage, had spent
a winter with me at Washington), thus recalled her meeting with the
noted beauty:
“Yesterday, with its green leaves and pearl-white flowers, called to my
memory how Mrs. Douglas looked when I first saw her. She was receiving
at her own house in a crêpe dress looped with pearls, and her hair was
ornamented with green leaves and lilies. She was a beautiful picture!”
I had the pleasure, on one occasion, of bringing together Mrs. Douglas
and Miss Betty Beirne, the tallest and the shortest belles of their
time. They had long desired to meet, and each viewed the other with
astonishment and pleasure. Miss Beirne, who afterward became the wife of
Porcher Miles of South Carolina, was one of the tiniest of women, as
Mrs. Douglas was one of the queenliest, and both were toasted
continually in the capital.
During the incumbency of Mr. Crampton, he being a bachelor, few
functions were given at the British Embassy which ladies attended. Not
that the Minister and his suite were eremites. On the contrary, Mr.
Crampton was exceedingly fond of “cutting a figure.” His traps were
especially conspicuous on the Washington avenues. Always his own
reinsman, the Minister’s fast tandem driving and the stiffly upright
“tiger” behind him, for several years were one of the sights of the
city. In social life the British Embassy was admirably represented by
Mr. Lumley, Chargé d’Affaires, an affable young man who entered frankly
into the life of the city and won the friendly feeling of all who met
him. He was one of the four young men who took each the novel part of
the elephant’s leg at a most amusing impromptu affair given by Mrs.
George Riggs in honour of the girl _prima donna_, Adelina Patti. It was,
I think, the evening of the latter’s début in “la Traviata.” Her
appearance was the occasion of one of the most brilliant audiences ever
seen in Washington. Everyone of note was present, and the glistening of
silk and the flash of jewels no doubt contributed their quota of
stimulus to the youthful star.
Within a day of the performance, Senator Clay and I received a note from
Mrs. Riggs, inviting us informally, not to say secretly, to an
after-the-opera supper, to meet the new diva and her supporting artists.
We responded cordially and drove to the Riggs residence shortly after
the close of the performance.
There, upon our arrival, we found representatives from all the foreign
legations, Patti’s entire troupe, and perhaps a dozen others, exclusive
of the family of our hostess. The _prima donna_ soon came in, a lovely
little maiden in evening dress, with a manner as winsome as was her
appearance. The entertainment now began by graceful compliment from all
present to the new opera queen, after which Mr. Riggs led her to the
dining-room where the sumptuous supper was spread.
The table was almost as wide as that of the White House. Its dazzling
silver and gold and crystal vessels, and viands well worthy these
receptacles, made a brilliant centre around which the decorated
foreigners seemed appropriately to cluster. The little cantatrice’s
undisguised pleasure was good to see. She had worked hard during the
performance of the opera, and her appetite was keen. She did ample
justice, therefore, to Mrs. Riggs’s good cheer, and goblets were kept
brimming for quite two hours.
This important part of the programme over, a young Englishman, by name
Mr. Palmer, who, as the Chevalier Bertinatti (the Sardinian Minister)
whispered to me, had been asked “to make some leetle fun for leetle Mees
Patti,” opened the evening’s merriment by an amusing exhibition of
legerdemain. Mr. Palmer, at that time a favourite music-teacher, who
spent his time between Washington and Baltimore, Philadelphia and New
York, having in each city numerous fashionable pupils, afterward became
known to the world as the great prestidigitator, Heller.
On the evening of the Riggses’ supper the young magician was in his best
form. Handkerchiefs and trinkets disappeared mysteriously, only to come
to light again in the most unexpected places, until the company became
almost silent with wonder. Mr. Palmer’s last trick required a pack of
cards, which were promptly forthcoming. Selecting the queen of hearts,
he said, looking archly in the direction of the diminutive Patti: “This
is also a queen; but she is a naughty girl and we will not have her!”
saying which, with a whiff and a toss, he threw the card into the air,
where it vanished!
Everyone was mystified; but Baron de Staeckl, the Russian Minister,
incontinently broke the spell Mr. Palmer was weaving around us by
picking up a card and pronouncing the same formula. Then, as all waited
to see what he was about to do, in a most serio-comic manner he deftly
and deliberately crammed it down Mr. Palmer’s collar! Amid peals of
laughter from all present, the young man gave place to other and more
general entertainment, in which the most dignified ambassadors indulged
with the hilarity of schoolboys.
[Illustration:
ADELINA PATTI
Aged Sixteen
]
From the foregoing incident it will be seen that Baron de Staeckl was
the buffo of the evening. He was a large man of inspiring, not to say
portly figure, and his lapels glittered with the insignia of honours
that had been conferred upon him. Like his predecessor, the late Baron
de Bodisco, he had allied himself with our country by marrying an
American girl, a native of New Haven, whose family name I have now
forgotten. She was a lovely and amiable hostess, whose unassuming manner
never lost a certain pleasing modesty, notwithstanding the compliments
she, too, invariably evoked. Her table was remarkable for its
napery—Russian linen for the larger part, with embroidered monograms of
unusual size and perfection of workmanship, which were said to be the
handiwork of Slav needlewomen. Although I had enjoyed their hospitality
and had met the de Staeckles frequently elsewhere, until this evening at
the Riggses’ home I had never suspected the genial Baron’s full capacity
for the enjoyment of pure nonsense.
There were many amateur musicians among the guests, first among them
being the Sicilian Minister, Massoni. He was a finished vocalist, with a
full operatic repertory at his easy command. His son Lorenzo was as fine
a pianist, and accompanied his father with a sympathy that was most
rare. That evening the Massonis responded again and again to the eager
urgings of the other guests, but at last the Minister, doubtless
desiring to “cut it short,” broke into the “Anvil Chorus.” Instantly he
was joined by the entire company.
At the opening strain, the jolly Baron de Staeckl disappeared for a
second, but ere we had finished, his glittering form was seen to
re-enter the door, with a stride like Vulcan’s and an air as mighty. In
one hand he held a pair of Mrs. Riggs’s glowing brass tongs, in the
other a poker, with which, in faultless rhythm, he was beating time to
his own deep-bellowing basso. He stalked to the centre of the room with
all the pomposity of a genuine king of _opera bouffe_, a sly twinkle in
his eye being the only hint to the beholders that he was conscious of
his own ludicrous appearance.
Meantime, Mile. Patti had mounted a chair, where her liquid notes in alt
joined the deep ones of the baron. As he stopped in the centre of the
room, however, the little diva’s amusement reached a climax. She clapped
her hands and fairly shouted with glee. Her mirth was infectious and
quite upset the solemnity of the basso. Breaking into a sonorous roar of
laughter, he made as hasty an exit as his cumbrous form would allow. I
think a walrus would have succeeded as gracefully.
We were about to withdraw from this gay scene when the Chevalier
Bertinatti, with the utmost enthusiasm, begged us to stay. “You must!”
he cried. “Ze elephant is coming! I assure you zere ees not hees equal
for ze fun!” A moment more and we fully agreed with him. Even as he
spoke, the doors opened and Mr. Palmer bounded in, a gorgeously got-up
ring-master. I saw my own crimson opera cloak about his shoulders and a
turban formed of many coloured _rebozos_ of other guests twisted
together in truly artistic manner.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he began grandiloquently, “I have the honour to
present to your astonished eyes the grand elephant, Hannibal, costing to
import twenty thousand dollars, and weighing six thousand pounds! An
elephant, ladies and gentlemen, whose average cost is three and one-half
dollars a pound! He is a marvellous animal, ladies and gentlemen,
warranted to be as intrepid as his namesake! He has been called a
vicious creature, but in the present company I intend to prove him as
docile as—the ladies themselves! Advance, Hannibal!”
He threw himself prone upon the floor as the wide doors opened and
“Hannibal” lumbered in, deliberately wagging his trunk from side to
side, in a manner that was startlingly lifelike.
Arrived at the prostrate ring-master, he put out one shapeless leg (at
the bottom of which a handsomely shod man’s foot appeared) and touched
the prostrate one lightly, as if fearful of hurting him; he advanced and
retreated several times, wagging his trunk the while; until, at last, at
the urgings of the recumbent hero, the animal stepped cleanly over him.
Now, with a motion of triumph, Mr. Palmer sprang up and, crossing his
arms proudly over his bosom, cried, “Ladies and gentlemen! I _live_!”
and awaited the applause which rang out merrily. Then, leaping lightly
upon his docile pet’s back, the latter galloped madly around the room
and made for the door amid screams and shouts of laughter.
In the mad exit, however, the mystery of the elephant was revealed; for
his hide, the rubber cover of Mrs. Riggs’s grand piano, slipped from the
shoulders of the hilarious young men who supported it, and “Hannibal”
disappeared in a confusion of brilliant opera cloaks, black coats,
fleeing patent-leathers, and trailing piano cover!
This climax was a fitting close to our evening’s funmaking. As our host
accompanied us to the door, he said slyly to my husband, “Not a word of
this, Clay! To-night must be as secret as a Democratic caucus, or we
shall all be tabooed.”