Dear L.,--Prince Chira, one of the sons of the King of Siam, came to
see us to-day. He has just returned from St. Petersburg. We were very
glad to see him again. We knew him so well in Copenhagen, where he has
been living for some years. He has been in the Danish army, and,
although only nineteen years old, has passed the most difficult
examinations, and is now an officer. He talks English, French, and
Danish with equal facility. When at Aalholm he entered into all our
games and charades with enthusiasm.
He did not mind at all being dressed up as a Sambo, and favored
particularly a yellow wig. He has very yellowish skin, almond eyes, and
beautiful white teeth. He came to see us straight from the castle,
where he had been to see the King. He was very enthusiastic about his
Majesty (who is not?). He told us how the King had taken the grand
cordon of the Seraphim Order off his own shoulders and hung it on his.
The King being a giant, and Prince Chira about the size of a boy of
ten, you can imagine how the cordon fitted him. Chira said, "I reached
up to about the King's waist, and when the King put the cordon on me it
trailed on the ground, and I kept tripping over it when I left the
room. It is most awkward," he added, laughing, "and I must wear it
to-night at the big dinner at court which the King gives me."
"Leave it with me, and I will have a tuck made in it and send it to you
before dinner." This he did. We measured off how much of a tuck should
be made, and sent it to him in time. He came the next day to thank me
and bid us good-by. He said, "I looked splendid last night _in my
cordon_."
In June and July it is never really dark in these latitudes. The sun
shines till eleven o'clock, the birds sing and bustle about during the
so-called night, and the cocks begin to crow at absurd hours. They must
be perplexed as to what they are doing all these months. The early bird
has to be very early to get off with the worm.
BAYREUTH, _August, 1893_.
Dear L.,--At last my dream of dreams has become a reality--under what
enchanting conditions! Mrs. L., my beloved friend, invited me to stay
three weeks with her in the apartment which she has taken, 28
Opernstrasse, which was the habitation of Wagner's special doctor. Mrs.
L.'s other guests were her sister, her niece, and Mr. and Mrs. Brimmer
from Boston. Johan promised to join us later. Mrs. L, had her own cook
and servants, and we lived like princes of the blood. A walk about the
streets in the morning, then a sumptuous lunch, and then a little
_siesta_ to fit us for the rest (or rather fatigue) of the day.
At a little before four the carriages were at the door and we drove up
the hill to the Shrine, passing the foot-sore and weary pilgrims
toiling on their way. The servant took our hats and coats, for no one
must wear a hat in the audience, and no one needed a coat in this awful
heat.
[Illustration:
THE RIKSDAG OF SWEDEN
From a photograph showing the opening of the Riksdag at Stockholm,
January, 1897. The De Hegermann-Lindencrones were _doyen_ and _doyenne_
of the diplomatic corps; he stands in the gallery on the left, fourth
from end.]
The signal to enter the auditorium is given by a blast of trumpets,
generally the four bars of the most well-known melody in the
to-be-given opera. The only boxes in the theater are in the rear, and
Madame Wagner sits with her family in the middle one. After the people
have taken their seats the house becomes pitch-dark, and from the
depths of the unknown one hears the first notes of the overture. Then
the curtains are noiselessly drawn up. After this no one dares to
breathe--woe to the unlucky one who gets a fit of sneezing or a
tickling in the throat; better die at once than be the recipient of all
the inward curses that are hurled at you! The first act generally lasts
an hour, and the people emerge from the stifling auditorium into the
fresh air with a sigh of relief. The Germans make dashes of kangaroo
leaps toward the casks of beer, and then rush for the tents where they
get something to eat at the price of blood.
The _entr'acte_ lasts an hour; then we hear the blasts of the four
heralds again, which is the signal for the second act to commence, and
so on until ten o'clock at night. Then _home_, where we find a gorgeous
_diner-soupertoire_ which triumphantly ends a day of emotion.
Wagner's operas, which lay about on our tables, all seem to have been
given by him to _meinem lieben Freund_, the doctor. How I regret that
dishonesty did not get the upper hand! How easy it would have been for
me to have purloined a book and its signature, but I am proud to say
that I resisted, and my collection of autographs is to this day devoid
of anything from Richard Wagner, showing that virtue is not always its
own reward, since I regret having been virtuous.
The off days were also delightful. We drove to the Hermitage, lingered
in the grounds belonging to the gentle and clever Margräfin, and
wondered if her tiny little court was not a trifle _ennuyenx_! One
could fancy her sitting under the shady trees of the _charmille_,
sewing beads on some bags, specimens of which were exhibited to us by
an officious menial, and were of the most hideous description. I say
hideous because I hate beads and all their works. I have just finished
reading her memoirs, and I can only think how small their talk must
have been--how narrow their visions!
We drove to the other pretty resort, Bellevue, and meandered about the
rococco gardens, and sat on the stone benches surrounding the lake, and
watched the graceful movements of the swans as they tried to avoid the
spray from the fountains. We tried not to see the native music-lovers
who clustered in crowds about the tables, which were covered with red
checker-board table-covers and drinking-mugs. They sit under these
lovely shady groves for hours, in their thick coats, which they wear in
any season and in any climate, their ponderous field-glasses slung over
their fat shoulders and their pockets bulging with guide-books and
postal cards, swallowing by barrelfuls the cool and beloved beer and
eating _Butterbrod_ by platefuls.
On Saturday evenings Madame Wagner--called familiarly Frau
Cosima--opens her _salon_, and every one goes who can get an
invitation. There is generally music, and the best-artists from the
Opera-house are delighted to sing. Also the inevitable pianist who is
"the finest interpreter of Chopin." (Did you ever know one who was
not?)
Very interesting evenings, these, because one sees all the notabilities
that flock to Bayreuth. Princes, plebeians, and artists meet here in
the limitless brotherhood of music.
Madame Nordica has been singing throughout this season. Her Lohengrin
is Van Dyke, and Gruning plays Tristan to her Isolde. Her voice is
charming, and she acts very well, besides being very good to look at.
She has a promising _affaire de coeur_ with a tenor called Dohme,
Hungarian by birth, and, I should say, anything by nature. He is
handsome, bold, and conceited, and thinks he can sing "Parsifal."
Madame Nordica has, I believe, sung for nothing, on the condition that
her _fiancé_ should make his _début_ here previous to taking the world
by storm, but Madame Cosima, with foresight and precaution, has been
putting him off (and her on) until the last day of the season, which
was yesterday. Then Frau Cosima allowed him to make his appearance,
upon which he donned his tunic, put on the traditional blond wig, took
his spear in hand, and set forth to conquer. His first phrase, "_Das
weiss ich nicht_" which is about all he has to say in the first act,
was coldly received. However, his bare legs and arms were admired from
the rear as he stood his half-hour looking at the Holy Grail. In the
second act, where he resists Kundry's questionable allurements, he did
passably well, though he gave the impression that even for a _reiner
Thor_--the German for a virtuous fool--she had no charms. She was a
masterful, fat, and hideous German lady, and when she twisted a curl
out of her yellow wig and sang, "_Diese Loche_" and cast her painted
lips at him with the threat, "_Diese Lippe_" he remained hopelessly
indifferent, with a not-if-I-know-it expression on his face. He was
neither a singer nor an actor, and did not have a shadow of success.
But he thought he had, and that was enough for him. It is not allowed
in Bayreuth to show any sign of approval (or the contrary) until the
curtain falls on the last act of the last performance. Then the public
calls the artists out _en masse_. Parsifal came with the others, and
looked more like an Arab beggar than anything resembling a Parsifal.
Madame Nordica took her _fiancé_ off the next day. She received from
Madame Cosirna a lace fan, with thanks, for her exertions during the
Bayreuth season, but she was repaid enough by the satisfaction of
seeing her _fiancé_ make his _début_, his first and last appearance, I
fancy.
They went to Nuremberg the next day and had rooms near ours. We could
hear her trilling with joy during their dinner duets, and when I went
to see her in her apartment the Conquering Hero told stories about
himself which I accepted at a fifty-per-cent. discount. Madame Nordica
has certainly the loveliest of voices. What a pity the tenor of her
life should not have a better chance to run smooth, for run smooth it
will not with such a _Thor_ in her possession.
STOCKHOLM, _June, 1894_.
Dear L.,--You will wonder why you have not heard from me for such a
long time, but we have just returned from a trip to Norway. You know J.
is accredited there as well as in Sweden, and he has to put in an
occasional appearance, and we thought while he was putting that in we
would put ours in with it. Our party included Nina and Frederick.
For five days we careened over mountains and dales, driving, sailing,
riding Norwegian ponies, and always enjoying ourselves to the utmost.
One who has not seen the Norwegian _fjords_ does not know how beautiful
and picturesque the scenery is. You must come some day and see it for
yourself.
We reached Bergen the 24th of June, the longest day of the year. There
is no question of its being really dark, only between 1 and 2 A.M. you
cannot see to read. It is a lovely time to travel, because you can
travel the whole twenty-four hours.
Bergen is a very pretty town, with clean streets and nice shops. The
jewelry, silver, and fur shops are really quite wonderful, but--there
is always a thorn to every rose--the smell of fish pervades the town.
Go where you will, you cannot escape it. You don't wonder at this when
you visit the fish-markets and see the monsters which are brought out
of the deep every morning. They look like small whales.
Nina and I, with the energy of the American woman who knows what she
wants and knows how to get it, were determined to see Grieg in his
surroundings. We hired a carriage in Bergen and started on our
pilgrimage. It needed not only the energy of an American, but the
tongue of a Dane and the perserverance of Danaides. The Griegs live in
the most unget-at-able place that you can imagine, because he does not
want any one to get at him.
However, after driving for miles and worrying the life out of our
driver by poking him in the back with our umbrellas and asking him if
we had not arrived and when we should arrive, and such useless
questions, our poor tired steed climbed a long hill where the road
suddenly ended its course. We were obliged to leave the carriage and
make the rest of the hill on foot, only to encounter, on arriving at a
gate bearing these large and forbidding letters: "_Her boer Edward
Grieg, som önsker at vaere fri for folk._" ("Here lives Edward Grieg,
who wishes to be let alone.")
But Nina and I were not to be balked by such a trifle as Edward Grieg's
wishes, and with some difficulty we managed to unfasten the hasp of the
wooden gate. We expected to see a dragon or a ferocious bulldog fly at
us, but all was peaceful within, and we walked into the lair without
being molested, and marched boldly to the front door of the villa.
There Mrs. Grieg opened the door to us and was (she said) delighted to
see us. "And," she added, "how happy Grieg will be, too!" This, we
thought, was doubtful, but Grieg pretended to be very "happy."
We stayed as long as we dared, and, on being offered tea and cakes and
urged to stay longer, we were shown, as a great privilege, the little
summer-house at the bottom of the hill where Grieg retires when he
wishes to compose, and where Mrs. Grieg or any other angel dare not to
tread. He has a grand Steinway. This is about the only American thing
which Grieg does not hate. He said that he would have been a rich man
if America had given him a royalty on his music, which is, as he said,
played in every house in America. They bemoaned that they were overrun
by American lady reporters. That was the reason they had put that
notice on the gate--to keep them off the premises. They would beg, he
said, "just to look at the garden and pluck a little _ukrut_ [weed],
and then go away and write all sorts of nonsense, as if they had
dragged all my secrets out of me. They are terrible," he added, "your
lady compatriots."
[Illustration: