Dear L.,--You might think that we are nearly exhausted, but health and
energy seem to assert themselves, and we bob up like those weighted
playthings children have. We have turned heads-up from our journey to
Denmark. We celebrated our silver wedding at Aalholm. I won't bother
you with the usual phrase, "How the time has flown!" Twenty-five
years! You have seen what an ordinary wedding in Denmark is like. You
can coat this one with silver, and then you will but know half the
excitement. The setting being Aalholm, the chief actors J. and I, the
chorus being family and friends, you may imagine that this _fête_ left
nothing to be desired. Guests came from everywhere to the number of
forty. Even our best man came from Norway. Deputations and telegrams
dropped on us by the hundreds; presents of silver in every form and
shape. My dress was silver, and silver sprays in my hair, and J. wore
them in his buttonhole. The dinner arranged by Frederick on viking
lines was splendid. Speeches at every change of plates. I wept tears
of pathos. An address of five hundred names, adorned with water-color
sketches of our different Legations, bearing a silver cover and a coat
of arms, was presented by the Danish colony in Paris. It was all very
touching and gratifying.
The famous beauty, Countess Castiglione, departed this world a few
days ago. She was the woman most talked of in the sixties.
When I first saw her she was already _passée_. There is nothing that
has not been said about her, but of this I know absolutely very
little. She used to live in Passy, and was called "_La recluse du
passé_." She was so extraordinarily dressed and always created a
sensation.
For the last thirty years no notice had been taken of her. I quote the
_Figaro_:
"Countess Castiglione in her day was considered the most beautiful
woman living. A classical beauty, but entirely without charm. For the
last years she has lived, after having arrived at the age of eighty,
in a dismal apartment in the Place Vendôme, friendless, forgotten, and
neglected."
All her mirrors were covered with black stuff of some kind; she did
not wish to see the sad relics of her beauty.
At eleven o'clock every evening she took a walk with her maid around
the Place Vendôme. She stayed in bed all day, never rising till
twilight, and receiving no one but one or two old admirers who were
faithful to the end.
Her things (_haillons_ they were called in official language) were
sold at auction--piles of old ball-shoes, head-gear, gloves stiffened
with moisture and age. Apparently, she never gave anything away, but
hoarded her treasures, which after her death were swept in corners and
smelled of mold and damp.
We are named to Berlin. I am very sorry to leave Paris; I was getting
quite accustomed to its little ways. Johan went to the Elysées to
present his _lettres de rappel_. It seems only yesterday he went to
present his _lettres de créance_. The President gave him the Grand
Cordon of the _Légion d'honneur_, and to me the beautiful _service de
Sevres_ called "_La Chasse_," a _surtout de table_ of five pieces.
This is only given to royalty or Ambassadors. One cannot buy it, as it
belongs to the French government. I heard that they hesitated between
giving me that or a piece of Gobelin tapestry. I was glad they chose
the _surtout de table_. It will be useful in two ways--as a subject of
conversation and as a beautiful souvenir of our stay in Paris.