Chapter 14

These untamed horses are like those that used to run in the _corsi dei Barberi_ during the carnival in Rome when Rome had carnivals. The Duke was very sure that no one could tame them, much less put a saddle on them; the audience, no doubt, thought the same. There was quite an excitement when the frightened things came rushing into the arena and stood looking about them with terrified eyes. But the cowboys knew very well what to do. They quickly lassoed them, and somehow, before we could see the whole process, they were forced to the ground, plunging about and making desperate efforts to get up. Finally, after many attempts, a saddle was placed on them, and lo and behold! the ferocious wild horses were conquered and, as meek as Mary's little lamb, were ridden around the arena to the accompaniment of great clapping, screaming, and applause. Every one was as enthusiastic as the Duke Sermoneta over the stubborn and agile young Wild-Westers. Then Buffalo Bill's herald came forward and proposed that the Italian _campagna_ boys, who had brought the Duke's horses, should mount the American bucking horses. The Duke gave his consent readily. He was very willing that his men should show what they could do. Well, they showed what they could _not_ do; they could not keep on the horses a minute, even if they managed to get on; they turned somersaults in every direction, fell off, and rolled about on the ground. The audience roared.

Buffalo Bill appeared on a beautiful horse, holding his gray sombrero in his hand, acknowledging the applause. He looks very handsome with his long, fair hair falling on his shoulders and his Charles-the-Second fine face.

The Duke said, "How I should like to speak to that man!"

We said that we knew him and that perhaps we could get him to come to us. I wrote on my card: "It would give M. de Hegermann and myself much pleasure to speak with you. We traveled in the same train with you to California some years ago, if you remember." I sent the card by a little page who was selling popcorn. At the first opportunity Buffalo Bill came, preceded by the boy. He said he "remembered us perfectly." I introduced him to the Duke, who, after having complimented him on his "show" and laughed over the awkward attempts of _his_ boys, asked him if we might see the camp.

No gentleman from the court of Louis XV. could surpass Buffalo Bill's refined and courteous manners. He said if we would wait until the performance was over he would "show us about."

We did wait, and went all over the camp with him, and saw everything that was to be seen, and smelled the different fried things which lurked in every corner. Buffalo Bill beckoned to some of the cowboys to come forward and named them to us. I think they were delighted. They had such good, honest (and even handsome) faces. My heart warmed to them.

One said to me, "Why, you talk English as good as an American!"

"That is not wonderful," I answered; "I am an American."

"Is that so?" he asked. "Well, America's a pretty good place, ain't it? A good sight better than over here--that is what I think," and, pointing to the Duke Sermoneta said, "Is that gent American, too?"

"No," I answered. "He is an Italian. Those were his horses you tamed this afternoon."

"Is that so? Well, I would not like to tell him that them boys of his can't ride worth a cent and the horses ain't worth their hide."

I hoped that Duke Sermoneta had not overheard this conversation.

Buffalo Bill showed us a young Indian woman who had had a baby a few days ago.

"It was baptized this morning," he added. "What do you think it was called?"

"Is it a boy or a girl?" asked the Duke, looking at the brown, wizened face of the little thing, which was swaddled in an old shawl.

"A girl," answered the young mother, in English.

"Then I suppose you called it Roma," I said.

"No," said Buffalo Bill. "It is the custom among the Indians to give to the baby the name of the first thing the mother sees after its birth."

"Then they must have named it Tent," I said.

Buffalo Bill laughed. "No, you must guess again. It was called Saint Peter's."

"Poor little girl!" said the kind-hearted Duke, and put a gold piece in the ready and delighted hand of the mother.

ROME, _1890_.

Dear ----,--Signor Sonsogni, the promoter of music and art, gave several librettos of operas to different composers in Italy, and promised a large reward to the victorious competitor.

Signor Crispi kindly offered me his _loge_, thinking that it would interest me to be present at one of the performances. There had been many of these before, but nothing remarkable had so far been produced.

We arrived in the theater while they were playing a short opera of two acts, which was unfavorably received and quickly condemned with contempt and hisses.

The judges looked bored to death and discouraged, and the audience seemed ready to growl and grumble at anything.

Mugnoni led the orchestra in his usual excitable manner. If any of the operas had been good for anything they would have shown at their best under his masterful baton.

Then came the "Cavalleria Rusticana."

Already when the overture was played the audience was enchanted, and as it progressed the enthusiasm became greater and greater, the excited audience called for the _autore_ (author).

Mascagni, urged and pushed forward from the sidewings, evidently against his will, appeared, looking very shabby in an old gray suit with trousers turned up, as if he had just come in from the street. His hair was long and unkempt, his face haggard and thin--evidently he had been starved and unwashed for weeks. This really was the case.

He bowed modestly and with a _naïf_ awkwardness which was very pathetic. The Italian public, just as wild in its enthusiasm as it is merciless in its disapproval, rose as one man with a bound and cheered vociferously. But when the Intermezzo was played there was a burst of thundering applause, clapping of hands, and shouts of enthusiasm. I never heard anything like it.

Mascagni was called at least twenty times before the curtain. Any other composer would have beamed all over with joy and pride at such an ovation, but Mascagni only looked shy and bewildered. The tears rolled down my cheeks as I looked at the poor young fellow (he is only twenty years old), who probably that very morning was wondering how he could provide food for his wife and baby. Fancy what his emotions must have been to wake up so unexpectedly to glory and success!

Mascagni, his wife, and his baby lived in a garret, and had not money enough to buy even a candle. The only instrument he had when he wrote the opera was an accordion. His little wife is nineteen, and the baby is one year old.

Italy thought it possessed another Verdi. The next day after his triumph Leghorn (his birthplace) gave him the citizenship of the town. Sonsogni handed him a large sum of money (the promised prize), and Mascagni had orders to begin on another opera. Will that be as good? One says that necessity is the mother of invention; it seems that in this case poverty was the father of "Cavalleria Rusticana."

_1890._

Dear ----,--Johan is named to Stockholm, and we must leave Rome. Needless to say that I am broken-hearted to leave Italy and the Queen.

MILAN, _September 16_.

Dear ----,--We went yesterday to bid good-by to their Majesties, who are at Monza, and for J. to present his letters of _rappel_.

We arrived in time for luncheon; there were no other guests.

After luncheon we sat out under the trees by the side of the pretty lake; there was an awning put there, and we stayed all the afternoon in the shade of the large trees which bordered the lake. The King was very gay; he wanted every one to row out in the small boats that were there; then he and the Prince took another boat and tried to collide. The King pretended that he could not row, and made such hopeless attempts that all those in the other boats were splashed with water.

On taking leave of her Majesty, which was done with a great deal of weeping on my part, she handed me a beautiful sapphire-and-diamond brooch and a very large photograph signed by her dear hand _en souvenir_. The King gave Johan his photograph and the decoration of _la couronne d'Italie_. The day passed only too quickly. I cannot tell you how miserable I was to take leave of their Majesties, who had always been so kind and gracious to me.

But what use is it to mourn my fate. Nothing can change the fact that we are bidding good-by to Italy.

STOCKHOLM, 1890-1897

STOCKHOLM, _October, 1890_.

Dear L.,--We arrived here (our new post) at an early hour in the morning. We found the secretary and carriages waiting for us, and drove to the hotel, where we stayed until our apartment was quite ready. Our furniture from Rome has already arrived, so all we have to do now is, like coffee, to settle.

We have taken the same house that has been the Danish Legation for the last forty years, and where Johan used to live when he was secretary here twenty years ago.

The apartment is very large. It has twenty-four rooms, ten windows on Drottning Gatan, and thirteen on the side-street. The ballroom has five windows (three on one street and two on another); a large _salon_, two smaller _salons_, a library, and a spacious dining-room; and it has (quite rare in Stockholm) a _porte-cochère_. The Chancellery is in the courtyard, having its separate entrance and staircase.

The evening before we left Copenhagen we had the honor of dining with the King and Queen of Denmark, at Amalienborg. It was a family dinner, J. and I being the only guests. After dinner the Queen talked a long time with me and handed me the letter she had written to the Queen of Sweden.

"I told her," she said, "that I was very fond of you, and I knew that she would be equally so. And how the Duke of Nassau [her brother] admired you and your singing."

"If your Majesty hadn't said it, I never would have believed that the Duke liked my singing. I was under the impression that he would have liked me better without the singing."

"Yes," the Queen said, "I confess that he is not musical, and does not like _all_ music, but he really did like to hear you sing. He told me so."

"Of course he knows," I answered, "but he is the last person from whom I expected to receive a compliment."

As their Majesties retired, the Queen held out her hand, and when I stooped to kiss it she kissed me affectionately on both cheeks. The King, on shaking hands with me, said, "_God Reise_" which is Danish for _bon voyage_.

The first days in a new post are always very busy ones. My first visit was to _the doyenne_ of the _Corps Diplomatique_, Baroness Ph. She gave me a list of visits to be made, and a quantity of her own cards with _pour présenter_ with mine.

Yesterday J. was received by the King, and presented his _lettres de créance_.

Although J. had been Secretary of Legation, and had been groomsman at the marriage in Stockholm of the Crown Prince of Denmark to Princess Louise (niece of King Oscar), and was very well known to the King, all the regular formalities had to be gone through with. J. made his traditional official speech to the King, both standing; and the King solemnly answered with an elaborate assurance that the relations between Sweden and Denmark had always been of the best and that they would remain so.

When the ceremonious utterances were ended, the King put his arm on J.'s shoulder and said: "Now let us sit down and have a good talk together of old times." The King "thee-and-thoued" Johan, and said, "_Her, du. Naar kommer din husfru?_" which in English means, "Listen thou. When is thy wife coming?" It is so strange that the Swedish language has no word for _you_. One must either address people by their title, which is sometimes very awkward, or else say _thou_.

I was dreadfully puzzled when I first came here. Right opposite my window was a sign, "_Dam Bad Rum!_" I said: "How queer! People generally cry up their wares, not down. Who ever heard of a seller saying that his rum was as bad as that?" I found out afterward that the sign was merely to let people know that a ladies' bath-room was to be found there.

The next excitement was my audience with the Queen, and thereby hangs, if not a tale, a teapot with a tempest in it. I must tell you all about it. I hope you will appreciate the tremendously complicated position in which I was placed.

It seems that in the time of Queen Christina of Sweden, one hundred and fifty years ago, the ladies of her court wore black silk or satin dresses and sleeves of a certain pattern. The court has seen no reason to make any change of dress since that time. To-day it wears the same style of dress and the same _sleeves_--the cause of the tempest!

In answer to my request for an audience I received a letter from the _grande maîtresse_, saying that the Queen would receive me on Thursday next; the _doyenne_ of the _Corps Diplomatique_ would present me. Then followed instructions: my dress was to be a black satin ball-dress, a train of four meters, lined with black silk, _décolleté_, white _glacé_ gloves, _et les manches de cour_. I had no idea what _les manches de cour_ were, and, naturally, I went to the _doyenne_ to find out.

If I had announced that I intended to throw a bomb under the King's nose the effect could not have been more startling than when I said those fatal words, "_Les manches de cour_."

_Madame la doyenne_ was so overcome that for a moment speech left her. She proceeded to tell me that in order to keep on the right side of the colleagues it would be advisable _not_ to wear the sleeves.

"Why not?" I asked, perplexed. "My husband says it is only on this one occasion that a foreign minister's wife is required to wear the sleeves."

She acknowledged that this was true, but the diplomatic ladies had refused to wear them, and it was as much as peace and happiness were worth to displease the colleagues.

"How can they refuse?" I asked.

She explained that the idea of wearing the sleeves was disagreeable to them; therefore the court had passed over the point and made a compromise: the Queen received them at the summer palace, Drottningholm, _en toilette de ville_. In this way the difficulty had been temporarily overcome, but now it seemed they wished me to draw the chestnuts out of the fire.

"What am I to do?" I asked. "The only thing I can see is to leave Stockholm, my home, and my family, and come back in the summer when I can wear a bonnet."

I meant this as a tremendous satire, but she took it quite seriously and said, "That would be wiser."

I smiled and, handing her the letter I had in my hand, I said, "In this letter from the _grande maîtresse_ she said you were to present me."

"Of course I am to present you, but I refuse to wear the sleeves."

"If such is the case," I said, "what would you advise me to do?"

She answered: "I would advise you to avoid wearing the sleeves. You will make a precedent which all the _Corps Diplomatique_ will resent."

"Why should the ladies object to the sleeves?" I ventured to ask. "Are they so unbecoming?"

"It is not that they are unbecoming, but the Ministers' wives dislike being dictated to. They say that they represent their sovereigns, and object to be told what they shall wear and what they shall _not_ wear."

I remarked that at the Court of St. James's no lady ever dreamt of objecting to wear the three plumes and the long tulle veil prescribed by _that_ court, and I could not see any difference so long as it was their Majesties' wish.

To this she replied, "I think you will regret it if you offend the whole _Corps Diplomatique_."

On this I took my leave and drove straight to the _grande maîtresse_. My back was up, and even if the _Corps Diplomatique's_ back was up, too, I was determined to do nothing to displease the Court of Sweden. I explained the situation to the Baroness Axerhjelm, who already knew it, of course, better than I did. I could see it was a sore point.

When I asked her to explain to me about the sleeves she offered to send for them that I might see them, and to lend me her sleeves that I might copy them.

When I looked at the offending sleeves I did not think they were so appalling--only two white satin puffs held in with straps of narrow black velvet ribbon. On a black corsage they could not be so dreadful, especially as the fashion now is sleeves puffed to exaggeration. How silly!

We received visit after visit and many letters from the now irate Corps--so many that we were quite bewildered. J. looked through the archives of the Legation to see if he could find anything bearing on this subject, but in vain. The mighty question does not seem to have troubled my predecessors. They seem to have worn the sleeves and gone on living.

J. remembered that the wife of his former Minister, on the occasion of the marriage of the Crown Prince, wore them. I decided to write to the Queen of Denmark to ask her advice, telling her of the threatened antagonism against me.

This is her letter in reply:

I advise you, dear Lillie, to do as their Majesties desire. The Crown Princess always wears the sleeves when in Stockholm, and I think it would be more polite and less awkward if you wore them also.

Therefore I had them made. Thursday came: my dress was ready and the obnoxious sleeves in their places, I quite admired them, and would not have minded wearing them every day. Still, I could not but think how a whole ballroom of ladies with them on must have appeared in Queen Christina's time.

Although it was the duty of the Baroness to accompany me, I was not surprised when I received a long letter explaining how a severe headache had suddenly swooped down on her and would deprive her of that pleasure.

That was her way of getting over this _impasse_.

The situation was awkward. This refusal at the eleventh hour was very annoying. I was not expected alone, but alone I should have to go. There was no alternative, and the absence of the _doyenne_ must explain itself as best it could.

I arrived in solitary grandeur, and was conducted in state to the _salon_, where the _grande maîtresse_--with the sleeves, of course!--was ready to receive me. She did not seem in the least surprised at seeing me alone; possibly the _doyenne_ had written her own account of the headache. I could see that she applauded the stand I had taken, so I felt that if I had lost favor with my colleagues I had gained it at court.

We went together to the _salon_, where we found the Queen. She rose and gave me her hand, and I bowed low over it. She was dressed all in black, with the white satin sleeves conspicuous under a long lace veil which hung from her head. She is very fine-looking, tall, and imposing, with a quiet and serious manner. She looks the personification of goodness.

I gave her the letter the Queen of Denmark had sent her. Then she talked of her brother (Duke of Nassau), and said he had written about me and my singing, when we were both guests at _Château Furstenberg_. The Queen added, "My brother is not musical" (indeed he was not), "but he said no singing had ever pleased him like yours." I bowed and tried not to look incredulous. "The King," she said, "is looking forward with great pleasure to seeing you again. He remembers a certain song you sang. Was it not 'Beware,' or something like that?"

I did not think it unlikely. I had sung it often enough, goodness knows.

I replied I did sing a song called that.

The dire step had been taken, and as far as sleeves were concerned the incident was closed.

When I reached home I changed my dress and drove to the house of the "suffering" _doyenne_. She had not expected such quick inquiries, for she looked the picture of health; and I met on the staircase a court lackey evidently bent on the same errand. She stammered a great many things about her headache, and how, when she had that particular _kind_ of headache, she was incapacitated from any effort. I sympathized deeply with her.

Her first question was, "Did the Queen have on the sleeves?"

"Certainly," I answered, curtly.

_January, 1891._

Dear L.,--King Oscar is a king after one's ideas of what a king ought to be. He looks the king every inch of him, and that is saying a good deal, because he is over six feet. He has a splendid physique, is handsome and of much talent. He is a writer and a poet, and speaks all languages. You must be told that some kings are kings; but King Oscar, there is no doubt about what he is!

At a concert the other evening he came and sat by me, and began talking of music, of _his_ singing, and _my_ singing, and so forth, and finished by saying, "Would you like to have me come to you some day and sing?"

"Of course, your Majesty," I said. "I should be delighted. When may we have the honor of expecting you?"

"How would next Thursday be?" he asked. "And would half past two be agreeable to you?"

I replied, "Any day or any hour will suit me," although it was in fact the only day which did _not_ suit me, as it was my reception-day.

"I hope that we may be quite by ourselves," said the King. "Only you and the members of your Legation."

This I could easily promise, as I should have, in any case, closed my doors.

"Your Majesty will stay and have a cup of tea. I hope."

"With pleasure," he answered, "if that will not make my visit too long."

"Too long, your Majesty! How could it be too long?"

"Well, then, you may expect me."

How prepare for _les détails_? Madame de Sevigny writes somewhere, "_que les détails sont aussi chers à ceux que nous aimons, qu'ils sont ennuyeux aux autres_."

The servants laid the traditional red carpet on the staircase. Palms and plants were put in every possible place.

At two o'clock the servants were already on the watch. The _porte-cochère_ was wide open and the _concierge_ all in a flutter. The piano-tuner, who had just spent an hour tuning my Bechstein, had departed when a cart drew up in front of the door. What do you think it was? Nothing less than the King's own piano, an _upright_ one, though it did connive at _deception_, as you will see. It was one of those pianos with which one could, by turning a key, lower the whole keyboard by half-tones, so that a barytone could masquerade as a tenor and spare the pianist the trouble of transposing the music, and no one would be the wiser.

This was emotion No. 1.

Emotion No. 2: a carriage which stood before the door brought Mr. Halstrum, the pianist.

Emotion No. 3 was another carriage full of things--a music-stand, a quantity of music-books, his Majesty's spectacles, and a mysterious basket.

Emotion No. 4: the servants, with all their heads out of the window, spied a carriage coming full tilt up the street. In it was M. Odman, the best tenor from the Opera.

Finally the royal equipage, of which there could be no doubt this time, was seen from way down the street. J. descended the stairs to receive his Majesty as his carriage entered the _porte-cochère_. I stood at the door of the apartment, and the King in his usual friendly manner said a hearty, "_God dag, god dag, Fru Hegermann_!"

He was attended by only one chamberlain. We went into the _salon_. After a little while the King said, "What shall I sing for you?" and handed me a list of songs.

"Anything your Majesty sings will be delightful," I answered, eagerly.

"Yes, but you must choose," the King said.