"Don't you remember," he said, "you called me 'the _Hair_ Apparent' on
account of my long locks?"
"Oh, your Majesty," I said, "how could I have been so rude?"
"It was not rudeness," he said, kindly. "You said what you liked in
those days. You were not then a diplomat's wife."
The day of his departure from Rome we went to the station. The King was
very gracious, and said to Johan, "I hope you and your wife will come
some day to Sweden," and gave my hand an extra-hearty squeeze. A hearty
squeeze from his hand was something to remember!
* * * * *
The Queen has asked me to sing with her, and I go regularly twice a
week to the Quirinal at two o'clock. We sing all kinds of duets,
classical and the ultra-modern. The Queen's singing-master, Signor
Vera, and sometimes the composer, Signor Marchetti, accompany us--they
bring new music which has appeared, which we _déchiffrons_ under their
critical eyes. It is the greatest delight I have to be able to be with
her Majesty in such an informal way. She is so enchanting, so natural,
so gay, and so fascinating. No one can resist her. Am I not a greatly
privileged person? I presented Nina to her last week--her Majesty told
me to bring her with me on one of our singing-lesson days at half past
one--so we had a half-hour of conversation before the singing-master
came. The Queen said, after Nina had gone: "What a beauty she is! She
will set the world on fire."
_May, 1883._
The visit of the newly married couple, Prince Tomaso, brother of the
Queen, and Princess Isabella of Bavaria, has been the occasion of many
festivities.
Yesterday there was a garden party in the Quirinal gardens. It was a
perfect day, and the beautiful toilets of the ladies made the lawn look
like a _parterre_ of living flowers. The grounds are so large that
there were several entertainments going on at the same time without
interfering with one another.
A band of gipsies in their brilliant dresses were singing in one place,
and in a _bosquet_ a troupe of Neapolitans were dancing the tarantella
in their white-stockinged feet. There were booths where you could have
your photograph taken and your fortune told. Everywhere you were given
souvenirs of some kind. One played at the _tombola_ and always got a
prize. Buffets, of course, at every turn. We went from one surprise to
another. The Prince of Naples was omnipresent and seemed to enjoy
himself immensely. Whoever arranged this _fête_ ought to have received
a decoration. Twilight and the obligation of having to dress for the
evening concert put a stop to this delightful afternoon. In the evening
there was a gala concert which was very entertaining. It commenced by a
piece written by the Baron Renzie and very well performed by amateurs,
and some mandolinists, who played several things more or less
acceptably, and then came a long and tedious symphony which was too
classical for the majority of the audience. The Queen and the Duchess
of Genoa seemed to enjoy it. I did, too, but the King looked bored to
death, and the bridegroom went fast to sleep. The Queen, who was
sitting next to him, gave him a vigorous pinch to wake him up. The
pinch had the intended effect, but the groan he gave was almost too
audible. In the interlude when ices were passed the Princess talked
with the wives of the diplomats who were brought up to her. The Queen,
still laughing at her brother's discomfiture, passed about among the
other guests.
_December, 1883._
We returned to Rome a week ago. It was said that their Majesties had
expressed the desire that as many diplomats as possible should be
present when the Crown Prince of Germany came for his visit to the
Quirinal.
During the stay of the Crown-Prince Frederic the crowds waited
patiently outside the Quirinal, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He is
very popular, and whenever he shows himself he is cheered to
_outrance_. Sometimes he came out on the balcony, and once he took the
Prince of Naples up in his strong arms and cried "_Evviva l'Italia_"
The people clapped their hands till they were worn out.
There were fireworks from the Castel St. Angelo in his honor which were
wonderfully fine.
To reach the balconies reserved for the _Corps Diplomatique_ we were
obliged to leave our carriages in a little side-street and go through a
long carpeted passage, the walls of which were hung with fine old
tapestries taken from the Quirinal in order to hide the unsightly
objects concealed behind them. The balconies were erected on the
outside of the dilapidated houses which overlook the Tiber and facing
the Castel St. Angelo. How they ever managed to make this passage is a
mystery! In the daytime one could not see the possibility of cutting
through the labyrinth of these forlorn tumble-down houses. We sat
trembling for fear that the shaky planks would suddenly give way and
plunge us into the whirling Tiber under our feet. The fireworks were
the most gorgeous display of pyrotechnics I ever saw. And the bouquet
as the _finale_ was a magnificent tornado of fire which left a huge "F"
blazing, which lighted up the December night. We were thankful when we
reached home alive.
The next and last evening of the festivities was a gala opera, where
there was a great deal of clapping and enthusiasm which accompanied a
rather poor performance of "Aida." They said that Verdi was in the
audience, but he did not appear, nor was there any demonstration made
for him.
ROME, _January, 1884_.
My dear ----,--There are a few changes in the Embassies. Sir Saville
Lumley has succeeded Sir August Paget at the English Embassy. Sir
Saville's own paintings now cover Lady Paget's chocolate cherubs--only
those above the door and their bulrushes are left to tell the tale.
Monsieur Decrais, the new French Ambassador and his wife, who replace
the De Noailles in the Farnese Palace, are already established. The
iciness of Siberia continues to pervade the palace in spite of all
efforts to warm those vast _salons_, enormous in their proportions--I
do not know how many _métres_ they are to the ceiling. The Carracci
gallery separates the bedrooms from the _salons_. Madame Decrais says
that they are obliged to dress like Eskimos when they cross it, as they
do twenty times a day.
How the Roman climate must have changed since the time when the Romans
went about in togas and sandals and lay on slabs of marble after their
bath!
We are delighted to have our dear friend M. de Schlözer here. He is
Minister to the Vatican, and is (or ought to be) as black as ink, while
we Quirinalers are as white as the driven snow; but he has no prejudice
as to color, nor have we, so we see one another very often and dine
together whenever we can. As soon as his silver was unpacked we were
invited straightway to dinner. His rooms in the Palazzo Capranica
(belonging to the family of Madame Ristori's husband) are as bare as
those he occupied in Washington--barer, even, for here there are no
_portières_. In the _salon_ he had his beloved Steinway grand, one
stiff sofa, four enormous _fauteuils_, destined for his cardinals, a
few small gilt _chaises volantes_ (as he calls little chairs that are
easy to move about), one table on which reposes the last piece of
marble picked up while strolling in the Forum, and, as a supreme
banality, his niece's Christmas present, a _lamp-mat_, on which stands
the lamp in solitary glory.
Schlözer's dinners are of the best, and are most amusing. He
superintends everything himself and gives himself no end of trouble.
Each course as it is served receives an introductory speech: "_Ce paté,
mon cher, est la gloire de ma cuisinière_" etc.
He says that all _volaille_ ought to be carved at the table, therefore
he carves the birds and the chickens himself, brandishing the knife
with gusto while sharpening it.
And as for the wines! Dear me! After filling his glass he holds it
against the light, tastes the wine, smacks his lips, and says: "_Ce vin
de Bordeaux est du '64. Il faut le boire avec recueillement. Je l'ai
débouché moi-même_."
He has a great liking for Lenbach (the famous painter), although they
are utterly different in character and ways. Lenbach is not musical,
and is rather rough and gruff in his manners. Even his best friends
acknowledge that he does not possess the thing called manners. He is
clever and witty in his way, but his way is sarcastic and peevish.
Sometimes when he is talking to you he beams and scowls alternately
behind his spectacles. You think that he is listening to you, but not
at all! He is only thinking out his own thoughts, in which he seems
always to be wrapped.
Lenbach occupies the same apartment in the Palazzo Borghese that
Pauline Bonaparte lived in. Probably the very couch is still there on
which she reclined for her famous statue. You remember what a modest
lady friend said to her, "_Cela m'étonne que vous ayez pu poser comme
cela_!"--meaning, without clothes; to which the Princess replied: "But
why do you wonder? Canova had a fire in the room."
Lenbach asked permission to paint Nina. We did not refuse, and expected
great things. He photographed her twenty times in different poses,
turning her head (physically, not morally) every which way, and painted
thirteen pictures of her, but there was only one (a very pretty profile
in crayon with a pink ear and a little dash of yellow on the hair)
which he thought good enough to give us.
Do not ask me what we have done or whom we have seen. We are out
morning, noon, and night. Every day there is a regular "precession of
the equinoxes"--luncheons, dinners, and _soirées_ galore.
I sing twice a week with the Queen--red-letter days for me. I look
forward with joy to passing that hour with her. I never knew any one so
full of interest, humor, and intelligence. It is delightful to see her
when she is amused. She can laugh so heartily, and no one, when there
is occasion for sympathy, is more ready to give it. Her kind eyes can
fill with tears as quickly as they can see the fun in a situation.
Nina and I go out every morning from ten to twelve. Johan is then busy
with his despatches and shut up in the chancellery. It is the fashion
during those hours to drive in a cab in the _Corso_. It is not
considered _chic_ to go out in one's own carriage until the afternoon.
I am glad of the excuse of buying even a paper of pins in order to be
out in the sunshine.
Another queer fashion is that on Sundays gentlemen (the highest of the
high) who have their own fine equipages, of which on week-days they are
so proud, drive to the fashionable places, like Villa Borghese and
Villa Doria, in _cabs_. Sometimes you will see the beaux most in vogue
squeezed (three or four of them) in a little _botte_ (the Italian name
for cab), looking very uncomfortable. But as it is the thing to do,
they are proud and happy to do it. But on other days!--horrible!
Nevertheless, it is on Sundays (_especially_ on Sundays) that Principe
Massimo causes people to stop and stare because he drives abroad on
that day in his high-seated phaeton, his long side-whiskers floating in
the wind, his servants in their conspicuous dark-red liveries covered
with armorial braid, pale-blue cuffs and collars, sitting behind him.
Then it is that the Romans say to themselves, Our aristocracy is not
yet dead.
Our colleagues, the de W.'s, had a _loge_ in the Argentina Theater and
invited us the other evening to go with them to see the great Salvini
in "Hamlet." The theater was filled to the uppermost galleries; you
could not have wedged in another person. The people in the audience,
when not applauding, were as silent as so many mice; this is unlike the
usual theater-going Italian, who reads and rustles his evening paper
all through the performance, looking up occasionally to hiss.
Salvini surpassed himself, perhaps on account of the presence of her
Majesty, whose eyes never wandered from the stage, except in the
_entr'actes_, when she responded to the ovation the public always makes
wherever she appears. She rose and bowed with her sweet smile, the
smile which wins all hearts.
There was only one hitch during the performance, and that was when
Hamlet and Polonius fought the duel; the latter, unfortunately, missed
his aim and speared Hamlet's wig with his sword, on which it stuck in
spite of the most desperate efforts to shake it off. Salvini, all
unconscious, continued fencing until he caught sight of his wig
dangling in the air and, realizing his un-Hamlet-like bald head, backed
out into the side-wing, leaving Polonius to get off the stage as best
he could.
In the _entr'acte_ Monsieur de W. and I talked over the play, and,
unfortunately, I said, "Did Hamlet ever exist?" A bomb exploding under
our noses could not have been more disastrous! He burst out in
indignant tones, and we almost came to literary blows in our violent
discussion. M. de W. insists upon it that Shakespeare knew all about
Hamlet and where he lived, the medieval clothes he wore, and that he
was the sepulchral Prince with whom we are so familiar; that Ophelia
was a very misused and unhappy young lady, who drowned herself in a
water-lily pond; and that Hamlet's papa used to come nights and scare
the life out of the courtiers.
"Wait a little," I said. "I flatter myself that I know the story of
Hamlet thoroughly. I spent all last summer studying the old Danish
chronicle, which was written in Latin in 1200 by a monk called Saxo
Grammaticus, then translated into old-fashioned Danish, which I
translated, to amuse myself, into English. If what Saxo says is true
Hamlet lived about two or three hundred years before Christ."
"Impossible!" almost screamed my friend.
I went on, regardless of M. de W.'s dangerous attitude: "Denmark at
that time was divided into several kingdoms, and Hamlet's father was
king in a part of Jutland, which, let us say, was as small as Rhode
Island--"
"What nonsense!" interrupted M. de W., indignantly.
"He probably went about in fur-covered legs and a sheepskin over his
shoulders, as was then the fashion. He was called Amleth; Shakespeare
simply transposed the h. He was a naughty little boy, vicious and
revengeful. He despised his mother and hated his uncle, who was his
stepfather."
[Illustration:
TWO YOUNG QUEENS
From a photograph, taken in 1878, of the two daughters of the King of
Denmark. They were then the Princess of Wales and the Grand Duchess
Dagmar. They are now the widows of two European sovereigns, Dowager
Queen Alexandra of England and the Dowager Empress of Russia. They
spend their summers together in a small cottage near Copenhagen.
Alexandra is on the right of the picture.]
"Why?" asked, in a milder tone, M. de W.
"Because his mother and the uncle, wishing to marry and mount the
throne, killed Hamlet's father. Hamlet passed his youth haunted by
thoughts of revenge and how he could punish the two sinners."
"It was clever of Shakespeare to let the father do the haunting and
leave to Hamlet the _rôle_ of a guileless and sentimental youth; the
authorities do not agree as to whether Hamlet was really a fool or only
pretended to be one."
"Fool he certainly was not," I replied. "He was clever enough to play
the part of one, and he played it so well that no one, even at that
time, could make out what he really was."
"Then," declared M. de W., "Shakespeare got that part of it
right--perhaps you will concede that much. How about Hamlet's grave?
Surely there is no humbug about that? I have seen it myself. Has it
been there since two hundred years B.C.?"
"Hamlet's grave at Helsingör is an interesting bit of imagination. A
unique instance of inaccuracy on the part of the Danes! Hamlet lived to
be king in his little land and was buried where he died--if he ever
lived--as an Irishman would say."
"How confusing you are," said my opponent. "You destroy my dearest
illusions--I, who adore Shakespeare's Hamlet."
"I adore Shakespeare's Hamlet, too, but I do not adore Saxo's. Hamlet's
love for his father was the only redeeming point about him. Did you
know that he married the daughter of the King of England?"
"Shakespeare only mentions Ophelia, and we are led to believe that
Hamlet died unmarried."
"Well," I answered, "if Saxo is right, he was married, had lots of
children, and continued the dynasty till _dato_."
"Go on! You interest me."
"He made himself very disagreeable at home with his silly talk and his
hatred of the King and the Queen. In a conversation he had with his
mother he flung away all disguise and also hurled some unpleasant and
extremely unvarnished truths full in the maternal face."
"That does not speak well for him," said Mr. de W.
"To get rid of him," I continued, warming to my subject, "the Danish
court sent him to the English court with a nice letter of introduction,
and at the same time sent a letter to the King of England, begging him
to have Hamlet killed somehow or other, but clever Hamlet stole and
read the letter and killed the messenger himself."
"That shows he was no fool," acknowledged M. de W.
"The King of England gave him a fine dinner, and I think the English
court must have opened its eyes when Hamlet pushed away the food,
saying it was '_too bad to eat_.' He told them that the bread tasted of
dead men's bones and the wine of blood, and, worst of all, that the
Queen was not a born lady. When the court asked with one voice how he
dared breathe such an insult he answered that there were three things
that proved that what he said was true."
"It would amuse me to know what the three things were," said M. de W.
"One was," I said, "that the Queen held up her dress while walking;
another, that she threw a shawl over her head; and the last, that she
picked her teeth and chewed the contents! I actually blush for the
Danes when I read the account of that dinner."
"I confess," laughed de W., "that that _was_ pretty bad. Tell me some
more."
"The courtiers hurried to examine into affairs and found that
everything that Hamlet said was true. The poor Queen was horribly
mortified, for they discovered that her papa had been a peasant."
"I suppose," said M. de W., "that the court forbade the banns after
that."
"No," I said, "Hamlet went home with his bride, and the royal Danish
court of Jutland made an enormous feast for the home-coming of the
princely couple. _This_ was the thing that Hamlet had waited for all
his life. Saxo hurries over this harrowing episode. Hamlet succeeded in
getting all the guests dead drunk, then he pulled the tapestries all
down on top of them and set fire to the palace and burned them all up.
What do you think of your adorable Hamlet now?"
"I think," said M. de W., curtly, "all things considered, that Hamlet
was a damn fool!"
"I thought so too until I read the speech he made to his subjects when
he mounted the throne. It was the most beautiful bit of sentiment, the
tenderest tribute to his dead father, and showed his undaunted love for
his country. I am sorry that Shakespeare made no mention of this."
Mr. Story, who was with us, said he once heard a lady say she did not
care much for Shakespeare, because he was "so full of quotations."