Chapter 16

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."

CHRISTIANA, _Nov. 30, 1891_.

My wife's and my own heartiest thanks for your kind telegram. I received it eight days too late by a perfectly incomprehensible and unfortunate mistake, but the joy over your greeting was none the less therefor. We remember so often and so willingly the beautiful time in Rome where you showed us so much kindness. We hope and wish to have a glimpse of you at not a too distant day, perhaps in Stockholm. With best greetings to your husband from us both.

Your devoted

EDWARD GRIEG.]

Grieg played some of his latest compositions, which were perfectly exquisite, and played them as only he can. He was full of fun, and told us of an American songstress who had been one of those who had "got in." She insisted on singing for him "_Jeg elsker dig_" and made a cadenza of her own at the end. He said Mrs. Grieg almost fainted, and that his own hair had not finished standing on end ever since. He played this awful cadenza for us, and I must say it was ridiculous. Mrs. Grieg sings delightfully--_nothing but Grieg, of course_. She has not a strong voice, but sings with exquisite pathos and charm.

Grieg loves to talk of his rude behavior and dwell with pleasure on his brusque speeches. He said a young American lady asked him to teach her one of his songs, and after she had sung it he turned round on the piano-stool and said:

"Are you singing for your living?"

"No," she answered, "I sing for my pleasure."

"Don't you think that dancing would be pleasanter?" he asked.

It was evident that they saw us go with regret; we certainly left them with regret. They looked, as they stood there together waving farewell, like two little gray elves; she with her short gray dress and short gray hair; and he with his long gray coat and long gray hair--a Grieg study in gray.

STOCKHOLM, _September, 1894_.

Dear L.,--Just as I was going to get a little rest, who should come to Stockholm but the Prince of Naples? I begged him to give us one evening before he left, which he promised to do. He seemed as glad to see us as we were to see him.

"What would your Highness like best," I asked him, "an official dinner followed by a reception, or a little dinner with a dance?"

"Oh, madame, the little dinner and a little dance, by all means."

So a little dinner it was. He does not care for dancing, but he knew the lancers and quadrilles, and we danced those. We played "Fox and geese"; I fancy, from seeing his amusement, that he had never had a real romp in all his life. To finish, we danced a Virginia reel. This was new to him and pleased him immensely. He insisted upon going through the entire dance until every couple had done its part.

A few days later King Oscar sent me the decoration of _Litteris at Artibus_, which I shall wear on great occasions. This decoration is a gold medal, and the ribbon that goes with it is blue. Queen Christina of Sweden instituted the order. The medal is only given to women of merit, artistic or literary. Jenny Lind, Frederika Bremer, and Christina Nillson, and others have it.

I have become the _doyenne_ of the Diplomatic Corps. I intend to make my colleagues walk very straight. So far my duties consist of dancing in _quadrilles d'honneur_ and always being taken into supper before every one else, and having the first place everywhere; I take precedence of all guests. These honors do not turn my head.

STOCKHOLM, _April, 1897_.

Dear L.,--We have been named to Paris.

Never did people have such a time getting away from a place.

All our furniture except a sofa and two chairs had been packed, and was already on the way to Paris.

The entire morning I was busy receiving notes and bouquets of all dimensions, tied with every imaginable national color.

We breakfasted with our colleagues from Germany, who had the apartment above us. While still at table a royal chamberlain announced that King Oscar was coming in half an hour to bid us good-by. Heavens! How could we receive his Majesty without carpets or curtains, only the sofa and two chairs! What a predicament! But our good and kind friends came bravely to the rescue. They offered to send down rugs, palms, and flowers, so that we could receive our royal guest in the curtainless room. Well, the palms and plants did certainly make the room look more inviting. J. camped on the one chair, and the King and I sat on the sofa. The King stayed half an hour. We were as sorry to leave him as he was to have us go. He kissed me on my forehead, and kissed J. on both cheeks, and said, "I shall come to Paris to see you."

J. escorted the King down-stairs and put him in his carriage, while I wiped away a tear.

The royal visit over, our borrowed plumes were returned. Hardly was the apartment bare again when there came a court lackey telling our bewildered valet that the "Crown Prince would be at the house in a short moment." Our colleagues most amiably sent the rugs, etc., down again, and we sat in state and waited.

The Prince came, bringing a large photograph of himself, and said many nice things, expressing his sorrow that we were going to leave Stockholm, and bade us good-by.

The time was gradually approaching when I should put on my hat to depart.

There were still a lot of things to be attended to at the last moment. Our people had to be bid good-by and paid, and thousands of trifles, as you may imagine, to be thought of, and I began to despair of getting away. I seriously proposed to J. to pretend to leave, bidding people good-by at the station, and stop at the first place, to return the next morning and finish quietly what seemed so impossible to do then.

What was our dismay, then, at receiving a telephone message from Prince Carl, asking if I could receive him. Of course, I answered I would be proud, and our colleagues above, learning of this new complication, sent, without begging, the useful and ornamental things which had adorned our _salon_ before.

Prince Carl came. He brought me a little bunch of lilies-of-the-valley, intending a gentle allusion to my name. We were very sad at the idea that we were to part, but part we must, and pretty soon. The tired rugs were taken back once more.

Prince Eugen kindly telephoned that he wished to say good-by. It was already so late that there was no question of the rugs, for it was within an hour of our departure; therefore we were obliged to receive the Prince without any accessories. He came with a little offering of flowers. However, that did not make any difference, because we all stood up. It is the custom here in Stockholm that every one goes to the station to speed the parting guest. The station was overcrowded. We were showered with the good wishes of two hundred and fifty people, and flowers were in such quantities that we had to have an extra compartment for them.

PARIS, 1897-1902

PARIS, _May, 1897_.

Dear L.,--I can hardly believe that we have been here a month. The time has slipped by, as it has a way of doing when one is frightfully busy; in my case it was particularly exasperating.

Johan's secretary took rooms for us at the Hôtel Chatham, which was not a very good choice, as you will see.

The day for Johan to present his _lettres de créance_ was fixed for the 20th of April. M. Crozier, the gentleman who introduces Ambassadors and Ministers to the President, appeared with two landaus, escorted by a detachment of the _Garde Nationale_.

The little courtyard of the hotel could not contain more than the carriages; the horsemen were obliged to stay in the very narrow rue Daunou, which they filled from one end to the other.

While the two gentlemen were exchanging their greetings I slipped out and walked down the rue de la Paix, which I found barred from the rue Daunou as far as the rue de Rivoli.

I felt very proud when I thought from whom it was barred.

I went into a shop while the brilliant _cortège_ was passing and, feigning ignorance, asked the woman at the counter:

"What is this procession?"

"_Oh! C'est un de ces diplomates_" she said, shrugging her shoulders.

I left the shop without buying anything--a paltry revenge on my part; still it was a revenge.

We have found a suitable apartment in the rue Pierre Charron, and I have just now begun to look up some of my old friends. Alas! there are not many left, but those who are seem glad to see me. My first official visit was to Madame Faure. This was easily managed. I simply went on one of her reception-days. An Elysian master of ceremonies was waiting for me, and I followed him into the _salon_ where Madame Faure sat, surrounded by numerous ladies. A servant wrestled in vain with my name, "Crone" being the only thing he seized, but the master of ceremonies announced to the President that I was the Danish Minister's wife, after which things went smoothly. To leave no doubt in the other guests' minds that I was a person of distinction and the wife of a Minister Madame Faure asked me innumerable questions about _Monsieur le Ministre_.

We were scarcely settled when there came the awful catastrophe of the burning of the _Bazar de Charité_, about which you have probably read. I had promised to go to it, and I can say that my life literally hung on a thread, for if my _couturière_ had kept her word and sent my dress home at the time she promised I should certainly have gone and would probably have been burned up with the others. Marquise de Gallifet also owed her life to my not going. She came to make me a visit and lingered a little. This _little_ saved her life. She entered the fated bazar just a moment before the fire broke out, and therefore managed to escape.

Frederikke and I drove to the offending dressmaker. (How I blessed her afterward!) When we passed the Cours la Reine we were very much astonished to see a man without a hat, very red in the face, waving two blackened hands in the most excited manner. He jumped into a cab and drove away as fast as the horse could gallop. Then we saw a young lady, bareheaded, in a light dress, rushing through the street, and another lady leaning up against the wall as if fainting. The air was filled with the smell of burning tar and straw, and we noticed some black smoke behind the houses. I thought it must come from a stable burning in the neighborhood. We had been so short a time in Paris that I did not realize how near we were to the street where the bazar was held.

At half past five we drove through the rue François I'er on our way home and saw a few people collected on the Place, otherwise there seemed nothing unusual. When we passed through the avenue Montaigne we met Monsieur Hanotaux (Minister of Foreign Affairs) in a cab, looking wildly excited. He stood up and screamed to me, "_Vous étes sauvée_." What could he mean?

I thought that he was crazy. I screamed back, "_Que dites vous_?" but he was already out of hearing. It was only when we reached home that we learned what had happened and understood what he had meant.

How dreadful were the details!

The bazar was in a vacant lot inclosed by the walls of surrounding houses, from which the only exit was through the room where a cinematograph had been put up. This, being worked by a careless operator, took fire.

The interior of the bazar consisted of canvas walls, of which one part represented a street called _Vieux Paris_.

The bazar was crowded; the stalls were presided over by the most fashionable ladies of Paris, and there were many gentlemen in the crowd of buyers.

When the fire broke out a gentleman whose wife was one of the stall-holders stood up near the door and cried out, "_Mesdames, n'ayez pas peur. Il n'y a pas de danger_," and quietly went out, leaving people to their fates.

Then came the panic.

Young ladies were trampled to death by their dancing-partners of the evening before. One of them was engaged to be married, and when her _fiancé_ walked over her body, in his frenzy to escape, she cried to him, "_Suivez moi, pour l'amour de Dieu!_" He screamed back, "_Tout le monde pour soi_," and disappeared.

She was saved by a groom from the stables opposite. She was horribly burned, but probably will live, though disfigured for life. Under the wooden floor were thrown all the _débris_--tar, shavings, paper, etc. This burned very quickly, and the floor fell in, engulfing those who could not escape; the tarred roof and the canvas walls fell on them. What an awful death!

The kitchen of a small hotel, which formed one side of the vacant lot, had one window about four feet from the ground. This was covered with stout iron bars. The cook, when he realized the disaster, managed to break the bars and, pushing out a chair, was able to drag a great many women through the window. He and the stable-boy were the only persons who seemed to have done anything toward helping.

Of course, around the uprooted and demolished turn-stile was the greatest number of victims, but masses were found heaped together before the canvas representing the street of _Vieux Paris_. The poor things in their agony imagined that it really was a street. It was all over in an hour. It seems almost incredible that such a tragedy could have taken place in so short a time. And to think that the whole catastrophe could have been averted by the expenditure of a few francs! When the architect heard that there was to be a cinematograph put up he pointed out the danger and begged that some firemen should be engaged. The president of the committee asked how much this would cost and, on being told twenty francs for each fireman, replied, "I think we will do without them."

The Duchesse d'Alençon and the wife and daughters of the Danish Consul-General were among the victims. The dead were all taken to the Palais de l'Industrie and laid out in rows. Through the whole night people searched with lanterns among the dead for their loved ones. It was remarked that, though there were many men's canes and hats, there was not one man found among the burned. Not one man in all Paris acknowledged that he had been to the Bazar.

Within an incredibly short time subscriptions amounting to over a million francs were collected. From America came many messages of sympathy and a great deal of money. But no one could be found except the cook and the stable-boy who had done anything to merit a reward. After giving them large sums the rest of the money went to form a fund for the building of a chapel in commemoration of the disaster.

PARIS, _1897_.

Dear L.,--Social life here is very confusing and fatiguing; physically, because distances are so immense. People live everywhere, from the Île St.-Louis to the gates of St.-Cloud. Hardly a part of Paris where some one you know does not live. The very act of leaving a few cards takes a whole afternoon.

In reality there are three societies which make life for a diplomat, whose duty it is to be well with every one, very complicated and unending. The official season for dinners, receptions, and _soirées_ is in the winter; French society, just returned from the Riviera and Italy, has its real season in spring, when Longchamps and Auteuil have races and Puteaux has its sports. The autumn is the time when strangers flock to Paris; then commence the restaurant and theater parties. How can any lady have a reception-day where people of all countries, all politics, and all societies meet? Impossible! I have tried it, and I am sorry to say that my receptions are dead failures. Still, I persevere, as I am told it is my duty to receive.

When our first invitation to the ball of the Élysées came I was most anxious to see what it would be like. Is it not strange that the cards of invitation are the same used in the Empire. "_La Présidence de la République Française_" stands instead of "_La Maison de l'Empereur_." I have the two before me, the old and the new, and they are exactly alike, color, paper, and engraving!

The Diplomatic Corps has a separate entrance at the Élysées. We were met and conducted by a master of ceremonies to the room where the President and Madame Faure were standing. M. Faure is called _un Président décoratif_. He is tall, handsome, and has what you might call princely manners. The privileged ones passed before them and shook hands, quite _à l'Américaine_. I was named by M, Crozier and got from M. Faure an extra squeeze by way of emphasizing that I was a new-comer.

We then passed into the _salon_ where our colleagues were assembled, and did not move from there until the presidential pair came in at eleven o'clock. At these balls there are a great many--too many--people invited. I have been told that there are six thousand invitations sent out. To one gentleman is assigned the duty to stay in the first _salon_ and pass in review the toilets of the promiscuous guests and judge if they are suitable. When he sees a lady (?) in a high woolen dress with thick and soiled boots in which she has probably walked to the ball, he politely tells her that there must be some mistake about her invitation, and she walks meekly back to her _comptoir_.