The grass on our small plot has reached the last limit of endurance and
greenness, and is sprouting weeds at a great rate; also our one bush,
though still full of chirpiness, is beginning to show signs of
depression.
We were invited to a spiritualistic _séance_ at the L----'s _salon_.
The Empress Josephine has consented to materialize in America after
having visited the Continent. We saw her, and a more unempress-looking
empress I cannot imagine. To convince a skeptic she displayed her leg
to show how well it had succeeded in taking on flesh. I have no
patience with people who believe such nonsense. The famous spiritualist
Poster is also here in Washington. He is clever in a way, and has made
many converts simply by putting two and two together. We went, of
course, to see him, and came away astounded, but not convinced. He
produced a slate on which were written some wonderful things about a
ring which had a history in J.'s family. J. could not imagine how any
one could have known it. Foster said to me: "I had a premonition that
you were coming to-day. See!" and he pulled up his sleeve and there
stood "Lillie," written in what appeared to be my handwriting in gore,
I suppose--it was red. I urged Baron Bildt to go and see him, knowing
that he liked that sort of thing. The moment he appeared, Foster,
smelling a diplo-rat, said, "Madame Hegermann sent you to me," upon
which Baron Bildt succumbed instantly.
Teresa Carreno, the _Wunderkind_, now a _Wunder-mädchen_, having
arrived at the age when she wisely puts up her hair and lets down her
dresses, is on a concert tour with Wilhelmj (the famous violinist). He
is not as good as Wieniawski, and can't be named in the same breath
with Ole Bull. They came here to lunch, together with Schlözer, who
brought the violin. I invited a good many people to come in the
afternoon--among others, Aristarchi, who looks very absorbed when music
is going on, but with him it means absolutely nothing, because he is a
little deaf, but looks eager in order to seize other people's
impressions.
Wilhelmj played, and Teresa Carreno played, and I sang a song of
Wilhelmj's from the manuscript. He said, "You sing it as if you had
dreamed it." I thought if I had dreamed it I should have dreamed of a
patchwork quilt, there were so many flats and sharps. My eyes and brain
ached.
After a good deal of music Wilhelmj sank in a chair and said, "I can no
more!" and fell to talking about his wines. He is not only a violinist,
but is a wine merchant. Schlözer and J. naturally gave him some large
orders.
Washington is very gay, humming like a top. Everything is going on at
once.
The daily receptions I find the most tiresome things, they are so
monotonous. Women crowd in the _salons_, shake hands, leave a pile of
cards on the tray in the hall, and flit to other spheres.
At a dinner at Senator Chandler's Mr. Blaine took me in, and Eugene
Hale, a Congressman, sat on the other side. They call him "Blaine's
little boy." He was very amusing on the subject of Alexander Agassiz
(the pioneer of my youthful studies, under whose ironical eye I used to
read Schiller), who is just now being lionized, and is lecturing on the
National History of the Peruvians. Agassiz has become a millionaire,
not from the proceeds of his brain, but from copper-mines (Calumet and
Hecla). How his dear old father would have liked to possess some of his
millions.
Sam Ward is the diner-out _par excellence_ here, and is the king of the
lobby _par préférence_. When you want anything pushed through Congress
you have only to apply to Sam Ward, and it is done. I don't know
whether he accomplishes what he undertakes by money or persuasion; it
must be the latter, for I think he is far from being a rich man. His
lobbying is mostly done at the dinner-table. He is a most delightful
talker and full of anecdotes.
Mrs. Robeson's "Sunday evenings" are very popular. She has given up
singing and does not--thank Heaven!--have any music. She thinks it
prevents people from talking (sometimes it does, and sometimes it has
the contrary effect). She prefers the talking, in which she takes the
most active part. Mr. Robeson is the most amiable of hosts, beams and
laughs a great deal.
The _enfant terrible_ is quoted incessantly. She must be overwhelmingly
amusing. She said to her mother when she saw her in evening dress; "Mama,
pull up your collar. You must not show your stomach-ache!" Everything
in anatomy lower than the throat she calls "stomach-ache"--the fountain
of all her woes, I suppose.
Mr. Blaine and Mr. Robeson, supplemented by General Schenck, are great
poker-players. They are continually talking about the game, when they
ought to be talking politics for the benefit of foreigners. You hear
this sort of thing, "Well, you couldn't beat my full house," at which
the diplomats prick up their ears, thinking that there will be
something wonderful in Congress the next day, and decide to go there.
Mr. Brooks, of Cambridge, made his Fourth-of-July oration at our
_soirèe_ on Thursday. This is the funniest thing I have ever heard. Mr.
Evarts almost rolled off his seat. It is supposed to be a speech made
at a Paris _fêtë_ on the Fourth of July, where every speaker got more
patriotic as the evening went on. The last speech was the climax:
"I propose the toast, '_The United States!_'--bordered on the north by
the aurora borealis; on the east by the rising sun; on the west by the
procession of equinoxes; and on the south by eternal chaos!"
WASHINGTON, _April, 1879_.
Mr. Schurz, as Secretary of the Interior, was to receive a conclave of
Indians, and could not refuse Mrs. Lawrence, Miss Chapman, and myself
when we begged to be present at the interview. They came to make some
contracts. The interpreter, or agent, or whatever he was, who had them
in charge proposed to dress them suitably for the occasion, but when he
heard there were to be ladies present he added colored and striped
shirts, which, the Indians insisted upon wearing over their embroidered
buckskin trousers. They caused a sensation as they came out of the
clothes-shop. They had feather head-dresses and braids of hair hanging
down by the sides of their brown cheeks. They wore bracelets on their
bare arms and blankets over their shoulders. They sat in a semicircle
around Mr. Schurz. After Mr. Schurz had heard what the interpreter had
to say he and the other members of the committee (they call them
"undershirts") talked together for a while, and Mr. Schurz said, "I
cannot accept," which was translated to the chief, who looked more
sullen and treacherous than before. Then there was a burst of wild
Indian, and the chief held forth in a deep bass voice, I fancy giving
pieces of his mind to Mr. Schurz, which were translated in a milder
form. Mrs. Lawrence, who looks at everything in a rosy, sentimental
light, thought they looked high-spirited and noble. I, who am prosaic
to my finger-tips, thought they looked conceited, brutal, and
obstinate. They all sat with their tomahawks laid by the side of their
chairs. The chief was not insensible to the beauty of Miss Chapman, and
sat behind his outspread fingers, gazing at her and her jewelry. We
were glad to get away from the barbarous-looking people. All the same,
the interview was very interesting.
* * * * *
General and Mrs. Albert Meyer gave a dinner in honor of the President
and Mrs. Hayes, to which some diplomats were invited. You know Mr.
Meyer is the man called "Old Prob," because he tells one beforehand
what weather one can expect for the next picnic.
This was the first dinner that the Presidential couple had gone to, and
we were a little curious to see how it would be managed. As neither Mr.
nor Mrs. Hayes drinks wine, they were served all the different known
brands of mineral waters, milk, and tea. But the others got wine. Mr.
Meyer was very funny when he took up his glass, looked at it
critically, and said, "I recommend this vintage." The President did not
seem to mind these _plaisanteries_. We were curious to see what they
would do when _punch à la Romaine_, which stood on the menu in a little
paragraph by itself, would be served. It was a rather strong punch (too
strong for any of the diplomats) and the glasses were deep, but they
seemed to enjoy this glimpse into the depths of perdition and did not
leave a mouthful. Taking it, you see, with a spoon made a difference.
The Lesseps were among the guests. There are thirteen little Lesseps
somewhere; only one daughter is with them. Monsieur Lesseps is
twenty-five years older than Madame, if not more. When the three came
in the _salon_, young Miss Bayard said, "The girl is taking her mother
and grandfather into society."
A weird menu was at the side of each plate; it was in French--on
account, I suppose, of the Lesseps. One of the items was _L'estomac de
dinde à l'ambassadrice, pommes sautees_. Mr. John Hay, who sat next to
me, remarked, ironically, "Why do they not write their menu in plain
English?"
"I think," I answered, "that it is better in French. How would 'turkey
to an ambassadress's stomach' or 'jumped potatoes' sound?"
He could find no answer to this.
Madame Lesseps confided to me in our coffee-cups that she and her
husband were in "Vasheengton _en touristes, mais aussi, ils avaient des
affaires_." The _affaires_ are no less than the Panama Canal.
CAMBRIDGE, _Summer, 1879_.
Ole Bull (the great violinist) has taken James Russell Lowell's house
in Cambridge. He is remarried, and lives here with his wife and
daughter. He has a magnificent head, and that broad, expansive smile
which seems to belong to geniuses. Liszt had one like it.
He and Mrs. Bull come here often on Sunday evenings, and sometimes he
brings his violin. Mrs. B. accompanies him, and he plays divinely.
There is no violinist on earth that can compare with him. There may be
many who have as brilliant a technique, but none who has his _feu
sacrè_ and the tremendous magnetism which creates such enthusiasm that
you are carried away. The sterner sex pretend that they can resist him,
but certainly no woman can.
He is very proud of showing the diamond in his bow which was given to
him by the King of Sweden.
He loves to tell the story of King Frederick VII. of Denmark, who said
to him: "Where did you learn to play the violin? Who was your teacher?"
Ole Bull answered, "Your Majesty, the pine forests of Norway and the
beautiful _fjords_ taught me!"
The King, who had no feeling for such high-flown sentiments, turned to
one of his _aides-de-camp_ and said, "_Sikken vrövl_"--the Danish for
"What rubbish!"
Mr. John Owen (Mr. Longfellow's shadow) swoops down on us occasionally
on the wings of poesy. I don't always comprehend the poesy, and
sometimes would like to cut the wings, but Owen can't be stopped. Every
event is translated into verse; even my going to Newport by the
ten-o'clock train, which sounds prosy enough, inspires him, and the
next morning he comes in with a poem. Then we see it in the _Boston
Advertiser_, evening edition.
[Illustration:
OLE BULL
From a photograph taken in New York in 1880.]