My dear Aunt,--Is your heart melted with pity, or does it burst with
national pride, and do you disregard such trifles as heat and
exhaustion? I told you in my last letter that the diplomats were
invited _en bloc_ (at the country's expense) to be present at the
opening of the Centennial Exposition. The country provided good rooms
for us at this hotel, where we are invited to spend two days: one of
those days was the day before yesterday, and I think that the other
will be enough for me, for anything more awful than the heat at the
present moment cannot well be conceived. It is as if Philadelphia had
said to its friends, "You provide the exposition, and we'll provide the
heat." There were carriages placed at our disposal for the opening, and
we drove out to the grounds in great style. We were welcomed at the
entrance by some officials and ushered to our seats on the red-hot
platform draped with flags. President Grant then entered, accompanied
by all his Ministers. After the opening speech by the President all the
church-bells in the city began ringing, cannons were fired, the
orchestra burst forth with national hymns--"Star-spangled Banner" and
"Hail, Columbia." People waved handkerchiefs, and the display of
patriotism was overpowering. In coming out, after the President had
left the tribune, the crowd filled in after him, and we had to fight
our way out as best we could.
[Illustration:
DOM PEDRO
Emperor of Brazil.]
The heat, which no thermometer could register--and there was no shade
for the thermometer to register in--and the crowd were something
fearful. People were almost crushed to death, and those who did the
most crushing were the fat policemen, who stood in every one's way and
on every one's toes and barred the whole procession. Johan looked like
an enormous poppy in his red uniform; the sun blazing through the glass
roof almost set him on fire (the diplomats were begged to come in
uniform, and that meant coats padded and buttoned up to the chin).
Johan tells fabulous stories of the number of stout old ladies he
saved, who all threatened to faint away on his decorations. He says he
carried them bodily through the crowd and deposited them on the grass
outside and went back for more. I was miraculously saved. I clasped my
arms around the fat body of a policeman and whispered endearing words
with a foreign accent to the effect that a foreigner who had come there
at the invitation of the country ought to be saved at any cost. He
thought so too, and was very kind and sympathetic, but as I clung to
his padded coat and felt his scorching buttons I wondered whether it
were better to die crushed than to suffer suffocation. However, we were
all saved; even Johan's chamberlain key clung to his back, and his
decorations actually stayed in their places, which I think was
wonderful, considering the stout ladies. My dress left a good deal of
itself behind--only the front breadth held it onto my person; the back
breadths were trampled on as far up as people could trample and were
dirty beyond words.
A large dinner was prepared for us, where patriotic toasts were drunk
galore.
We went out to the grounds the next day and rolled about in what they
call "rolling-chairs," and had things explained to us by some nice
gentlemen with gold-braided caps.
We will go once more to see what we left unseen, and then I turn my
head toward Cambridge.
WASHINGTON, _March, 1877_.
The question of the annual _dîner diplomatique_ was cleverly managed by
Mr. Evarts. Mr. Hayes wanted to suppress wine and give tea and mineral
water, but Mr. Evarts put his foot down. He said that the diplomats
would not understand an official dinner without wine, and proposed,
instead, a _soirée musicale_--in other words, a rout. The diplomats had
a separate entrance (a novelty) from the garden side. There was an
orchestra at the end of the Blue Room which drowned conversation when
you were near it. I noticed that most of the young ladies found it too
near, and sought other corners.
The supper _ne laissait rien à désirer_, and there was a sumptuous
buffet open the whole evening; punch-bowls filled with lemonade were
placed in the different _salons_. On the whole, it was a great success.
I think that the teetotality of the White House displeases as much our
country-people as it does the foreigners. At one of our musical parties
Mr. Blaine came rather late, and, clapping his hands on Johan's
shoulder, said, "My kingdom for a glass of whisky; I have just dined at
the White House." Others call the White House dinners "the life-saving
station."
Mrs. Hayes was very nice to me. She sent me a magnificent basket of
what she called "specimen flowers," which were superb orchids and
begonias. On her card was written, "Thanking you again for the pleasure
you gave me by your singing."
WASHINGTON, _March, 1877_.
My dear Mother,--We are now having a visit of the Queen of the Sandwich
Islands. I suppose in Europe she would show to great advantage, but
here her blackness is at a low premium. There was a large reception for
her Royal Blackness at the White House, where all the diplomats were
present. The queen talked with people with the aid of an interpreter.
Her remarks necessarily being restricted, she said about the same thing
to every one. She was bristling with jewelry, and the large white
pearls on her broad, black bosom took on extra splendor. Robert (our
colored valet), who was waiting in the corridor, caught sight of her as
she walked by, and remarked, when he reached home, to my maid that he
was "surprised that they should make such a fuss over a colored
person"; and he attempted to turn his flat nose in the air; but, as it
is not the kind that turns, it refused.
Robert wears a conspicuous decoration in his buttonhole whenever we
have a dinner. The first time Johan noticed it he almost fainted away,
as he knows every decoration under the sun, and, thinking it looked
like the _Légion d'Honneur_, he proposed to question Robert about it;
but Robert eluded the master's clutch as the door-bell was ringing.
Johan was considerably disturbed until he learned the truth, which was
that Robert belonged to a reading-club--a Browning and Tennyson
club--and this was its badge. Our colleagues thought he was the
Minister from Hayti!
WASHINGTON, _Spring, 1877_.
Dear Mother,--I must tell you the honor which has been conferred on me.
I have been admitted into the enchanted circle of the Brain Club. I am
an honorary member. Mrs. Dahlgren is the president, and I suppose all
the set of intellectuals, "_Les élus des élus_" belong to it. I have
only been twice to the meetings. I think I am a failure as far as
brains go, but the members like my singing, and I am only called upon
to take an active part when the members are falling off their chairs,
trying with literary efforts to keep awake.
The first meeting was a ghastly affair. The subject to be discussed was
the "Metamorphosis of Negative Matter." You may imagine that I was
staggered. I had no more idea what negative matter was than the
inhabitants of Mars. They took us alphabetically. When they got to "H,"
Mrs. Dahlgren (who, as president, sat in a comfortable chair with arms
to it, while the others sat on hard dining-room, cane-bottomed chairs)
turned to me and said, "Has Mrs. _Hegermann_ anything to say concerning
the Metamorphosis of Negative Matter?" I had on my blue velvet gown,
and thought of it fast becoming chair-stamped, and I wondered if
negative matter would comprise that. However, I wisely refrained from
speech, and shook a sad smile from my closed lips.
"H" to "K" had a great deal to say. Every one looked wise and wore an
appearance of interest. They slid down to "L." Then Mrs. Dahlgren said,
"Has Mrs. _Lindencrone_ anything to say on the Metamorphosis of
Negative Matter?" I answered that I had not discovered anything since
the last time they asked me. They were not accustomed to one lady
having two names, each beginning with a capital letter.
The members had a beautiful time when they got to "R." Up rose a gaunt
female who knew all about it and seemed positive about the "Negative"
part. We were pulled suddenly up to time, and some one turned upon poor
me and asked if I agreed. I answered hastily, "Certainly I do." Dear
me! What had I said? Half the company rose with a bound. "Do you,
really?" they asked in chorus. "That is more than we do. We cannot at
all agree with a theory which is utterly false from the base." How I
wished I knew what the false base had been. Was it the Negative, or the
Metamorphosis, or the Matter? I murmured humbly, hiding behind a lame
neutrality, that I had mistaken the cause for the effect. They all
turned and looked at me with fierce eyes. I think they were staggered
at this colossal utterance, for they gave up discussing, and "S" to "Z"
never had a chance to say anything. Then they adjourned to the
supper-room. After having eaten scalloped oysters and chicken salad, no
more questions were discussed.
I was asked to sing. I am afraid that I am only looked upon as a bird
on these mighty occasions. On the piano-stool I felt myself safe, and I
sang. In the middle of my song some heavy person leaning against a
shaky bookcase uprooted it, and it fell with a crash on the floor. I
halted midway in my song. People rushing in from the supper-room asked,
"What is the matter?" "Negative," answered Miss Loring, quick as
thought, at which they all laughed. Mr. Brooks, to cover the confusion,
said in a loud voice, "This is not the first time Madame Hegermann has
brought down the house." There was more laughter, and I sat down again
at the piano and sang "Tender and True," an exquisite song written by
Mrs. Lincoln about a young soldier killed during the war, who wore to
the last a knot of blue ribbon his sweetheart had given him.
M. de Schlözer is bubbling over with joy, for he has the famous
pianist, von Bülow, staying with him at the German Legation. He says
von Bülow is most amiable about playing, and plays whenever he is
asked. His technique is wonderful and perfect. The ladies in Washington
are wild over him, and figuratively throw themselves at his feet. He is
giving two concerts here, and everybody has taken tickets. M. de
Schlözer gave last evening one of his memorable dinners, followed by
music. I know two people who enjoyed it--Schlözer and myself. Schlözer
was going to ask Julian Sturgis, but Julian Sturgis had on some former
occasion crossed his legs and looked distrait or had shown in some such
trivial manner that he was bored, which so exasperated Schlözer that he
barred him out, and invited Mr. Bayard instead, who perhaps loved music
less, but showed no outward signs of boredom.
Von Bülow is not only a wonderful pianist, but a very clever man of the
world. He sent me a book written by Wagner about music and wrote on the
first page "_Voici un livre qui vous intéressera. De la part du mari de
la femme de l'auteur_." Clever, isn't it? You know that Madame Wagner
is the daughter of Liszt. She ran away from von Bülow in order to marry
Wagner.
Bülow dedicated a song to me, called "Adieu." It is pretty enough to
sing when he plays the accompaniment, but otherwise I do not care for
it. I sang it after dinner, and every one said it was charming, but I
had the feeling that the ladies were more interested in my toilette
than in Bülow's song. I don't blame them, for my dress _is_ lovely
(Worth called it "_un rêve_"), but I fancy I look like a Corot autumn
sunset reflected in a stagnant lily-pond. It is of light salmon-colored
satin, with a tulle overskirt and clusters of water-lilies here and
there. I could have bought a real Corot with the same money.
Mr. Blaine, who is at present Speaker of the House, and Mr. Roscoe
Conkling, one of the Senators from New York, are the two most prominent
members of the Republican party, but are personally deadly enemies.
Mr. Blaine is an excellent talker, very popular with the ladies. In a
drawing-room, he is generally found in a corner, quoting poetry (a
specialty of his) to some handsome lady. He knows all the poetry in the
world! They say that he is the best Speaker the House has ever known;
it is quite wonderful to see the rapidity with which he counts the Ayes
and Noes, pointing at each voter with the handle of his club. He grasps
a situation in an instant, and gives a quick retort when he thinks it
is deserved. Roscoe Conkling is quite a different type. He is very
dignified and pompous--perhaps a little theatrical; not at all a
society man, and, though he may be less vain than Mr. Blaine, he has
the appearance of being more so.
The foreign Ministers have the "right of the floor," which means they
have the right to enter the House of Representatives when they like. On
one great occasion a member of the House offered M. de Schlözer his
seat, which happened to be between two members who suddenly got up and
began the most heated discussion over Schlözer's head. He found the
situation dangerous and wished himself elsewhere. He said he felt like
the Biblical baby when the two mothers were wrangling before the great
Solomon. However, the storm spent itself in words, and fortunately the
disputants did not come to blows.
Johan says he was very much struck the first time he went to Congress
by seeing two opposing members, after bitterly attacking each other for
hours, walk quietly away arm-in-arm, obviously the best of friends.
A little incident which occurred in the Senate amused Johan very much.
Roscoe Conkling begged a colleague sitting next to him to read out loud
something he wished to quote in his speech while he paused to draw a
breath. The colleague read, and Conkling, without a word of thanks,
took back the book; but when a colored man brought him a cup of tea
(which he always takes during his speeches) he stood up and in a very
loud voice, making a solemn bow, said, "I thank you, sir!"