"I have, your Majesty," I answered; "I was here five years ago and had
the honor to be presented to you."
"Really?" said the King. "I don't remember."
"But I've known you longer even than that," I said.
"How so?" asked the King, abruptly.
"When your Majesty was in Paris in 1867."
"That makes us very old friends," he said, smilingly.
Finally, when their Majesties had finished the circle, they met at the
end of the ball-room; every one made a _grande reverence_, and they
bowed graciously in response and withdrew.
We ladies, in walking out, allowed our _manteaux_ to trail behind us.
We entered the room where refreshments were served, and crowded around
the buffet, which groaned under the weight of all sorts of good things.
We drank one another's health and Happy New Year in champagne.
_January, 1881._
Dear Mother,--You would never believe that my official duties weigh as
heavily on me as they do. I received a letter from the Marquise
Villamarina, saying that "her Gracious Sovereign would be pleased to
receive me on the seventh at three o'clock." Therefore, dressed in my
best, I drove to the Quirinal. It is so near our palace that I had
hardly entered the carriage before I had to get out of it. The
gorgeously dressed and long-bearded _concierge_ who stood pompously at
the entrance of the palace waved the carriage to the other end of the
courtyard, and pounded his mace on the pavement in an authoritative
manner.
I mounted the broad, winding staircase, went through the long gallery
lined with lackeys, and reached the _salon_, where the Marquise
Villamarina was waiting to receive me. After the usual greetings she
said, "_Sa Majesté vous attend_," and led me through many _salons_ to
the one where the Queen was. I noticed, as we walked along, that the
Marquise removed her right-hand glove, I took this as a hint that I
should do the same. The Queen was standing when I entered the room. I
made a deep courtesy before going in. She came forward and gave me her
ungloved hand, over which I bowed deeply. The Marquise retired, leaving
me alone with the Queen, who motioned me to sit beside her on the sofa.
She spoke French, and so rapidly that I could hardly follow her. She
was kindness itself, as affable and charming as one could possibly be,
and put me at my ease immediately.
She had a little diamond ball hanging on a chain in the folds of her
dress, the prettiest little watch I ever saw. After a half-hour, which
passed like a flash, the Marquise reappeared in the doorway. This was a
signal for me to take my leave. The Queen rose, gave me her hand, and
said, "Good-by, Madame de Hegermann; I'm so glad to have you here in
Rome."
I should have liked to kiss her hand, but I was told that the wife of a
foreign minister never kisses the hand of any queen save her own.
I feel now that I am really launched. Let us hope that my barque will
ride the waves successfully! In Europe visits are not as with us in
America. Here the residents wait until the stranger makes the first
visit; in America it is just the contrary. I must say I like the
European way best. It would be very awkward for _me_ to receive
visitors now, especially when my household is in its present chaotic
state. I hope it will be only a question of cards for some time yet.
_January 20, 1881._
Dear Mother,--Last night the Princess Palavicini gave what she intended
to be the finest ball of the season, for which no expense was spared.
They had sent to Paris for the cotillon favors, to Nice for flowers to
decorate the magnificent _salons_ of the Palazzo Rospigliosi, and to
Naples for the famous Neapolitan orchestra.
The Princess Palavicini is one of the Queen's ladies of honor, belongs
to one of the most aristocratic families in Italy, and claims to have
the most select society in Rome. The King and the Queen had consented
to grace the ball with their presence. That the King had promised to go
was a great exception, as he has never been willing to go to any
function outside of the Quirinal since the much-talked-of ball at the
Duke di Fiano's. I believe that it is only his keen sense of duty that
makes him attend his own entertainments.
All the guests were assembled and awaiting the arrival of their
Majesties, but they did not come. The reason given was that the present
members of the Ministry took exception to the fact that neither they
nor their wives had been invited. The Ministers sent word to the King
that if their Majesties attended the ball they would give in their
resignations _en bloc_. The result was that the ball was a complete
failure. All the spirit had gone out of the guests, who moved about
aimlessly, talking in groups, and then quietly disappeared. The dancers
of the cotillon waited for the supper, which they said was magnificent
and sufficient for a hungry army.
ROME, _February 1881_.
Dear ----,--The two sons of the King of Sweden (Prince Oscar and Prince
Carl) are here for a fortnight's visit, and are seeing Rome thoroughly
in the company of two chamberlains, two cicerones, and some friends.
The young princes gave a dinner at the Hôtel Quirinal, to which we
were invited. They had engaged the Neapolitan singers from Naples, who
sang the most delightful and lively songs. We felt like dancing a
_saltarello_, and perhaps might have done so if we had been in less
princely presences. The Scandinavian Club gave a feast--the finest and
greatest in the annals of the club--in honor of the two princes, to
welcome the Swedish and Norwegian Minister's bride, and also to
welcome us--a great combination--and to celebrate the carnival by a
fancy ball.
People were begged to come in costume, which, to be amiable, every one
was delighted to do. The costumes were not original. Roman peasants
were abundant. This costume needs only a towel folded square and put on
the head, and a Roman apron, easily obtained at the Campo di Fiore for
a song. Flower-girls with hats turned up on the side and baskets of
flowers were also popular. The handsome Prince Carl, who is six feet
six, needed only a helmet to personify to perfection a youthful god
Mars. Prince Oscar merely wore his naval mess-jacket. Herr Ross (the
Norwegian artist) was the head and spirit of the ball and directed
everything. He was dressed appropriately as a _pierrot_, with a wand in
his hand, and pirouetted about to his heart's content.
All was done on the most economical basis, as the club is entirely
composed of artists, who, consequently, are poor. The lines were drawn
apparently at the food, but in _skaals_ (toasts)--the thing dearest the
Scandinavian heart--they were extremely liberal and reckless. All six
of us were toasted to a crisp brown, and at each separate toast we
stood up and listened to the tale of our virtues.
The celebrated Ibsen honored this feast with his presence, and
especially honored the Chianti and Genzano wines, which were served
copiously, in _fiascos_. When you see Ibsen, with his lion face and
tangle of hair, for the first time, you are fascinated by him, knowing
what a genius he is, but when you talk with him, and feel his piercing,
critical eyes looking at you from under his bushy brows, and see his
cruel, satirical smile, you are a little prejudiced against him. We
meet him often at our friend Ross's studio at afternoon teas, where
there is always a little music. Ibsen sits sullen, silent, and
indifferent. He does not like music, and does not disguise his dislike.
This is not, as you may imagine, inspiring to the performers. In fact,
just to look at him takes all the life out of you. He is a veritable
wet blanket. I have read all his works in the original. I think they
lose a great deal in being translated. The Norwegian language is very
curt and concise, each word conveying almost the meaning of two in
English, which enables the author to paint a whole situation in a few
words. I can see the difference, in reading the English translations,
and where they fail to convey his real meaning. Strangers who wish to
see Ibsen must go to the cheap Italian restaurant, "Falcone," where he
sits before a small iron table, eating deviled devil-fish. No wonder
that he is morbid and his plays weird!
_February, 1881._
Dear Mother,--I know you would like to hear about the first ball at the
Quirinal. It was very splendid. Since the last and famous ball at the
Tuileries I had seen nothing like it. When we had mounted the
guard-lined staircase and passed through innumerable _salons_ we were
received by the _Grande Maîtresse_, surrounded by numerous _dames de
palais_, all so beautiful that I wondered if they had been chosen for
their beauty alone. I never saw so many handsome women grouped
together. Numerous chamberlains preceded us into the ballroom and
showed us the benches where the _Corps Diplomatique_ have their places.
The benches looked inviting enough, with their red-velvet coverings and
their gilded legs, but I did not feel as if I should care to sit on
them for hours.
Madame Minghetti sat on one of the _taborets_ on one side of the
throne, and Madame Cairoli (wife of the Minister of Foreign Affairs)
occupied the _taboret_ on the other side. These two ladies are the only
ones who have the right to sit on the little square stools that are
called _taborets_.
We waited in our places until we heard the orchestra start the national
hymn, then every one stood up as the King and the Queen entered arm in
arm, followed by splendidly dressed and bejeweled _dames d'honneur_ and
the numerous suite. Their Majesties went to the throne, stood there a
moment, then stepped down and spoke to the two ladies on the
_taborets_. The _quadrille d'honneur_ commenced almost immediately.
Count Wimphen approached the Queen, making the deepest of bows, offered
her his hand, and led her to her place on the floor. M. de Keudell and
the Countess Wimphen took their places opposite the Queen. There were
only two other couples. Every one stood while this quadrille was being
danced.
The Queen looked exquisite, and seemed to be in the best of spirits.
She was the _point de mire_ of all eyes. She wore a superb gown of
light-blue brocade, the front entirely trimmed with old Venetian lace.
Her necklace and tiara were of enormous pearls and diamonds. She was
truly a vision of beauty and queenly grace.
After the _quadrille d'honneur_ the dancing became general. The Queen
first talked to the Ambassadresses, then to the wives of the Ministers,
sitting down on the bench beside the lady she desired to converse with,
the one on the other side moving on discreetly to make more room for
the Queen.
The King never came anywhere near the ladies, but talked only with the
gentlemen, frequently keeping one by his side and addressing him while
he talked with another.
The dancing continued until the Queen had returned from a tour of the
other _salons_, where she had been talking with those assembled there.
Re-entering the ballroom, preceded as always by her chamberlains and
followed by her ladies, she joined the King, and both, bowing
graciously as if to say good night, retired.
[Illustration:
QUEEN MARGHERITA
Mother of the present King of Italy as she appeared in 1886. The tiara
was a present from the King on the preceding Christmas. In the necklace
are some of the crown jewels, pearls and six remarkable emeralds.]
ROME, _February, 1881_.
Dear ----,--Mrs. Elliot brought Ouida to see me on my reception-day.
Ouida is, I am afraid, a little bit of a _poseuse_, but geniuses have
privileges which cannot be endured in ordinary people. She was dressed
with a lofty disregard of Roman climate and its possibilities, and in
utter defiance of common sense. She wore a dress open at the throat,
with short sleeves, and the thinnest of shoes and stockings, which she
managed to show more than was quite necessary. She spoke in an affected
voice, and looked about her continually as if people were watching her
and taking notes.
Among the ladies of the Queen here are three Americans who have married
Italians and have entered the charmed circle of the court. Their
services are only required upon certain gala occasions. One is the
daughter of Hickson Fields (whom we used to know so well in Paris), who
has married Prince Brancaccio. Another American lady, the wife of
Prince Cenci, who is of the same family as the lady with the turban.
Both the Prince and the Princess are at court, he as chamberlain and
she as _dame de palais_. He is called the "_Boeuf à la mode_," not
because he in any way looks like a _boeuf_, but because he is
fine-looking, masterful, and _à la mode_.
Count Gianotti, first master of ceremonies, has also an American wife.
She was a Miss Kinney, a daughter of Mrs. Kinney whom we knew in
Washington. She is tall and striking-looking. Her Friday receptions are
well attended, especially when she lets it be known that there will be
_particularly_ fine music. While the artist at the piano thinks he is
making a heavy and great success and is wrestling with his _arpeggios_
on a small piano, the guests come and go and rattle their teacups,
regardless of the noise, while the music goes on. This is often the
case in Roman _salons_.
The Marquis de Noailles is the French Ambassador. You recollect him and
the Marquise, who were in Washington the first year we were there. He,
as you know, is of the bluest blood of France. She is of Polish
extraction and lived in Paris, where she had a _succès de beauté_ in
the Napoleonic days. After her first husband's death (Count
Schwieskoska) she married de Noailles. They have an offspring, an
_enfant terrible_, if there ever was one, who is about nine years old,
and a worse torment never existed. Nobody on earth has the slightest
control over him--neither father, mother, nor tutor. The Marquis makes
excuses for his bringing-up by saying that, having had a very severe,
rod-using father himself, he was determined that if he ever had a child
he would spare the rod. He can flatter himself that he has thoroughly
succeeded in spoiling the child.
When we were at a very large and official dinner at the Farnese Palace
(the French Embassy), where the beautifully decorated tables filled the
whole length of the Carracci Gallery, the guests were amazed as seeing
Doudou (the name of the infant) come in on a velocipede and ride round
and round the table, all the servants dodging about to avoid collision,
holding their platters high in the air, for fear of being tripped up
and spilling the food. The astonished guests expected every moment to
have their chairs knocked from under them. This made this
should-be-magnificent dinner into a sort of circus. No persuasion or
threats could induce this terrible child to go away, and he continued
during the dinner to do his velocipede exercises. He must be a very
trying boy. His mother told me herself that he forces both her and his
father to take castor or any other oil when the doctor prescribes it
for him. People tell horrible stories about him. I am sure you will say
what every one else says--"Why don't his parents give him a good
spanking?"
At a small dinner at the English Embassy I met the celebrated tenor,
Mario. I had not seen him since in Paris in 1868, when he was singing
with Alboni and Patti in "Rigoletto." Alboni once invited the Duke and
the Duchess of Newcastle, Mr. Tom Hohler, and ourselves to dinner to
meet Mario in her cozy apartment in the Avenue Kleber. I was perfectly
fascinated by Mario and thought him the beau ideal of a Lothario. His
voice was melodious and _caressante_, as the French say, and altogether
his manners were those of a charmer. It was a most interesting dinner,
and I was all ears, not wanting to lose a word of what Alboni and he
said. What they talked about most was their many reminiscences, and
almost each of their phrases commenced, "_Vous rappelez vous_?" and
then came the reminiscence. After fourteen years I meet him here, a
grandpapa, traveling with his daughter. He is now the Marquis di Candia
(having resumed his title), _et l'homme du monde parfait_; he is
seventy years old and has a gray and rather scanty beard instead of the
smooth, carefully trimmed brown one of _autrefois_. Why do captivating
and fascinating creatures, such as he was, ever grow old? But, as Auber
used to say, "the only way to become old is to live a long time."
At the Embassy dinner he did not sit next to me, alas! but afterward we
sat on the sofa and talked of Alboni, Paris, and music. I told him that
the first time I had heard him sing was in America, when he sang with
Grisi.
"So long ago?" he said. "Why, you couldn't have been born!"
"Oh yes," I answered; "I was born, and old enough to appreciate your
singing. I have never forgotten it, nor your voice. One will never hear
anything like it again. Have you quite given up singing?" I asked.
"Why, I am a grandfather! You would not have a grandfather sing, would
you?"
"I would," I answered, "if the grandfather was Mario."