Chapter 6

These two gentlemen (Adam and Dönhoff) went to the place where the women and children were concealed, and remained there a week, trying to induce the Indians to give them up. They were finally successful, but it was known afterward that the Indians during the time they were there were holding council every night to decide whether or not they would hang the two "pale-faces" to the first tree in the morning.

Both Schurz and Schlözer were relieved to see Count Dönhoff when he returned safe and sound. They reproached themselves for allowing him to start on such an expedition, as it was a very reckless adventure, and a great risk for him.

WASHINGTON, _March, 1879_.

My dear Mother,--We have taken the Fant House for this winter. People say it is haunted. As yet we have not seen any ghosts nor found any skeletons in the closets. The possible ghosts have no terrors for me. On the contrary, I should love to meet one face to face! But the rats are plentiful and have probably played ghosts' parts and given the house its reputation. Those we have here are so bold and assertive that I have become quite accustomed to them. I meet them on the staircase, and they politely wait for me to pass. One old fellow--I call him Alcibiades, because he is so audacious--actually gnaws at our door, as if begging to be allowed to come in and join us. We put poison in every attractive way we can think of all about, but they seem to like it and thrive upon it. Johan, having had a Danish sailor recommended to him, allows him to live in a room up-stairs and to help a little in the house while waiting for a boat. He is very masterful in his movements, and handles the crockery as if it were buckets of water, and draws back the portieres as if he were hauling at the main-sheet.

Mr. Robeson (Secretary of the Navy), who ought to know _le dernier cri_ on the subject of the habits of rats, told us that the only way to get rid of them was to catch one and dress him up in a jacket and trousers--red preferable--tie a bell round his neck, and let him loose. "Then," he said, "the rat would run about among his companions and indicate the pressure brought upon rats, and soon there would not be one left in the house."

This was an idyl for our sailor. He spent most of his days making a jacket with which to clothe the rat, and actually did catch one (I hoped he was not my friend of the staircase) and proceeded to put him into this sailor-made costume, which was not an easy thing to do, and had he not been accustomed to bracing up stays and other nautical work he never could have accomplished the thing. However, he _did_ accomplish it; he tied the bell on the rat's neck and let him loose.

The remedy (though uttered from an official mouth for which we have great respect) was worse than the evil. The rat refused to run about to warn his friends. On the contrary, he would not move, but looked imploringly into the eyes of his tormentor, as if begging to be allowed to die in his normal skin. Then, I believe, he went and sulked in a corner and committed suicide--he was so mortified. We said one rat in a corner was worse than twelve on the staircase.

The Outreys (the French Minister) had their diplomatic reception, and sent cards to every one they knew and many they did not know. The ladies who went expected Madame Outrey to be dressed in the latest fashion; being the wife of the French Minister, it was her duty to let society into the secrets of Parisian "modes," but she was dressed in a simple, might-have-been-made-at-home black gown. This exasperated the ladies (who had gone with an eye to copying) to such a degree that many went home with pent-up and wounded feelings, as if they had been defrauded of their rights and without supper--which, had they stayed, they would have found to be the latest thing in suppers.

WASHINGTON.

The grass on our small plot has reached the last limit of endurance and greenness, and is sprouting weeds at a great rate; also our one bush, though still full of chirpiness, is beginning to show signs of depression.

We were invited to a spiritualistic _séance_ at the L----'s _salon_. The Empress Josephine has consented to materialize in America after having visited the Continent. We saw her, and a more unempress-looking empress I cannot imagine. To convince a skeptic she displayed her leg to show how well it had succeeded in taking on flesh. I have no patience with people who believe such nonsense. The famous spiritualist Poster is also here in Washington. He is clever in a way, and has made many converts simply by putting two and two together. We went, of course, to see him, and came away astounded, but not convinced. He produced a slate on which were written some wonderful things about a ring which had a history in J.'s family. J. could not imagine how any one could have known it. Foster said to me: "I had a premonition that you were coming to-day. See!" and he pulled up his sleeve and there stood "Lillie," written in what appeared to be my handwriting in gore, I suppose--it was red. I urged Baron Bildt to go and see him, knowing that he liked that sort of thing. The moment he appeared, Foster, smelling a diplo-rat, said, "Madame Hegermann sent you to me," upon which Baron Bildt succumbed instantly.

Teresa Carreno, the _Wunderkind_, now a _Wunder-mädchen_, having arrived at the age when she wisely puts up her hair and lets down her dresses, is on a concert tour with Wilhelmj (the famous violinist). He is not as good as Wieniawski, and can't be named in the same breath with Ole Bull. They came here to lunch, together with Schlözer, who brought the violin. I invited a good many people to come in the afternoon--among others, Aristarchi, who looks very absorbed when music is going on, but with him it means absolutely nothing, because he is a little deaf, but looks eager in order to seize other people's impressions.

Wilhelmj played, and Teresa Carreno played, and I sang a song of Wilhelmj's from the manuscript. He said, "You sing it as if you had dreamed it." I thought if I had dreamed it I should have dreamed of a patchwork quilt, there were so many flats and sharps. My eyes and brain ached.

After a good deal of music Wilhelmj sank in a chair and said, "I can no more!" and fell to talking about his wines. He is not only a violinist, but is a wine merchant. Schlözer and J. naturally gave him some large orders.

Washington is very gay, humming like a top. Everything is going on at once.

The daily receptions I find the most tiresome things, they are so monotonous. Women crowd in the _salons_, shake hands, leave a pile of cards on the tray in the hall, and flit to other spheres.

At a dinner at Senator Chandler's Mr. Blaine took me in, and Eugene Hale, a Congressman, sat on the other side. They call him "Blaine's little boy." He was very amusing on the subject of Alexander Agassiz (the pioneer of my youthful studies, under whose ironical eye I used to read Schiller), who is just now being lionized, and is lecturing on the National History of the Peruvians. Agassiz has become a millionaire, not from the proceeds of his brain, but from copper-mines (Calumet and Hecla). How his dear old father would have liked to possess some of his millions.

Sam Ward is the diner-out _par excellence_ here, and is the king of the lobby _par préférence_. When you want anything pushed through Congress you have only to apply to Sam Ward, and it is done. I don't know whether he accomplishes what he undertakes by money or persuasion; it must be the latter, for I think he is far from being a rich man. His lobbying is mostly done at the dinner-table. He is a most delightful talker and full of anecdotes.

Mrs. Robeson's "Sunday evenings" are very popular. She has given up singing and does not--thank Heaven!--have any music. She thinks it prevents people from talking (sometimes it does, and sometimes it has the contrary effect). She prefers the talking, in which she takes the most active part. Mr. Robeson is the most amiable of hosts, beams and laughs a great deal.

The _enfant terrible_ is quoted incessantly. She must be overwhelmingly amusing. She said to her mother when she saw her in evening dress; "Mama, pull up your collar. You must not show your stomach-ache!" Everything in anatomy lower than the throat she calls "stomach-ache"--the fountain of all her woes, I suppose.

Mr. Blaine and Mr. Robeson, supplemented by General Schenck, are great poker-players. They are continually talking about the game, when they ought to be talking politics for the benefit of foreigners. You hear this sort of thing, "Well, you couldn't beat my full house," at which the diplomats prick up their ears, thinking that there will be something wonderful in Congress the next day, and decide to go there.

Mr. Brooks, of Cambridge, made his Fourth-of-July oration at our _soirèe_ on Thursday. This is the funniest thing I have ever heard. Mr. Evarts almost rolled off his seat. It is supposed to be a speech made at a Paris _fêtë_ on the Fourth of July, where every speaker got more patriotic as the evening went on. The last speech was the climax:

"I propose the toast, '_The United States!_'--bordered on the north by the aurora borealis; on the east by the rising sun; on the west by the procession of equinoxes; and on the south by eternal chaos!"

WASHINGTON, _April, 1879_.

Mr. Schurz, as Secretary of the Interior, was to receive a conclave of Indians, and could not refuse Mrs. Lawrence, Miss Chapman, and myself when we begged to be present at the interview. They came to make some contracts. The interpreter, or agent, or whatever he was, who had them in charge proposed to dress them suitably for the occasion, but when he heard there were to be ladies present he added colored and striped shirts, which, the Indians insisted upon wearing over their embroidered buckskin trousers. They caused a sensation as they came out of the clothes-shop. They had feather head-dresses and braids of hair hanging down by the sides of their brown cheeks. They wore bracelets on their bare arms and blankets over their shoulders. They sat in a semicircle around Mr. Schurz. After Mr. Schurz had heard what the interpreter had to say he and the other members of the committee (they call them "undershirts") talked together for a while, and Mr. Schurz said, "I cannot accept," which was translated to the chief, who looked more sullen and treacherous than before. Then there was a burst of wild Indian, and the chief held forth in a deep bass voice, I fancy giving pieces of his mind to Mr. Schurz, which were translated in a milder form. Mrs. Lawrence, who looks at everything in a rosy, sentimental light, thought they looked high-spirited and noble. I, who am prosaic to my finger-tips, thought they looked conceited, brutal, and obstinate. They all sat with their tomahawks laid by the side of their chairs. The chief was not insensible to the beauty of Miss Chapman, and sat behind his outspread fingers, gazing at her and her jewelry. We were glad to get away from the barbarous-looking people. All the same, the interview was very interesting.

* * * * *

General and Mrs. Albert Meyer gave a dinner in honor of the President and Mrs. Hayes, to which some diplomats were invited. You know Mr. Meyer is the man called "Old Prob," because he tells one beforehand what weather one can expect for the next picnic.

This was the first dinner that the Presidential couple had gone to, and we were a little curious to see how it would be managed. As neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hayes drinks wine, they were served all the different known brands of mineral waters, milk, and tea. But the others got wine. Mr. Meyer was very funny when he took up his glass, looked at it critically, and said, "I recommend this vintage." The President did not seem to mind these _plaisanteries_. We were curious to see what they would do when _punch à la Romaine_, which stood on the menu in a little paragraph by itself, would be served. It was a rather strong punch (too strong for any of the diplomats) and the glasses were deep, but they seemed to enjoy this glimpse into the depths of perdition and did not leave a mouthful. Taking it, you see, with a spoon made a difference.

The Lesseps were among the guests. There are thirteen little Lesseps somewhere; only one daughter is with them. Monsieur Lesseps is twenty-five years older than Madame, if not more. When the three came in the _salon_, young Miss Bayard said, "The girl is taking her mother and grandfather into society."

A weird menu was at the side of each plate; it was in French--on account, I suppose, of the Lesseps. One of the items was _L'estomac de dinde à l'ambassadrice, pommes sautees_. Mr. John Hay, who sat next to me, remarked, ironically, "Why do they not write their menu in plain English?"

"I think," I answered, "that it is better in French. How would 'turkey to an ambassadress's stomach' or 'jumped potatoes' sound?"

He could find no answer to this.

Madame Lesseps confided to me in our coffee-cups that she and her husband were in "Vasheengton _en touristes, mais aussi, ils avaient des affaires_." The _affaires_ are no less than the Panama Canal.

CAMBRIDGE, _Summer, 1879_.

Ole Bull (the great violinist) has taken James Russell Lowell's house in Cambridge. He is remarried, and lives here with his wife and daughter. He has a magnificent head, and that broad, expansive smile which seems to belong to geniuses. Liszt had one like it.

He and Mrs. Bull come here often on Sunday evenings, and sometimes he brings his violin. Mrs. B. accompanies him, and he plays divinely. There is no violinist on earth that can compare with him. There may be many who have as brilliant a technique, but none who has his _feu sacrè_ and the tremendous magnetism which creates such enthusiasm that you are carried away. The sterner sex pretend that they can resist him, but certainly no woman can.

He is very proud of showing the diamond in his bow which was given to him by the King of Sweden.

He loves to tell the story of King Frederick VII. of Denmark, who said to him: "Where did you learn to play the violin? Who was your teacher?"

Ole Bull answered, "Your Majesty, the pine forests of Norway and the beautiful _fjords_ taught me!"

The King, who had no feeling for such high-flown sentiments, turned to one of his _aides-de-camp_ and said, "_Sikken vrövl_"--the Danish for "What rubbish!"

Mr. John Owen (Mr. Longfellow's shadow) swoops down on us occasionally on the wings of poesy. I don't always comprehend the poesy, and sometimes would like to cut the wings, but Owen can't be stopped. Every event is translated into verse; even my going to Newport by the ten-o'clock train, which sounds prosy enough, inspires him, and the next morning he comes in with a poem. Then we see it in the _Boston Advertiser_, evening edition.

CAMBRIDGE.

A Dane, a friend of Johan's, who had come to America to write a book on American institutions, asked the consul to find him a quiet boarding-house in a quiet street. The consul knew of exactly such a retreat, and directed the Professor to the place. It was not far from the Revere House. He arrived there in the evening, unpacked his treasures, congratulating himself on his cozy quarters and his nice landlady, who asked such a modest price that he jumped at it.

The next morning, at four o'clock, he was awakened by a strange noise, the like of which he had never heard outside a zoological garden. At first he thought he was still dreaming, and turned over to sleep again, but the noise repeated itself. This time it seemed to come from under his bed, and sounded like a lion's roar. Probably a circus had passed and a lion had got loose and was prowling about, seeking what he could devour! He thought of ringing up the house, but demurred, reflecting that whoever answered the bell would probably be the first victim. Again the roar! Fear overcame his humane impulses; he rang, hoping that if the lion's appetite was appeased by the first victim, he might be spared.

The landlady appeared in the flesh, calmly and quietly. "Did you ring, sir?" she asked, placidly.

"I did indeed," he answered. "Will you kindly tell me whether I am awake or asleep? It seems to me that I heard the roar of a lion. Did no one else hear it?"

The landlady hesitated, embarrassed, and answered, "I did, sir--you and I are the only persons in the house."

"Then the lion is waiting for us?" he said, quaking in his slippers.

"I beg your pardon, sir," the woman answered. "I had hoped that you had not noticed anything--"

"Good gracious!" he said, "do you think I can be in the house with a roaring lion and not notice anything?"

"He happens to be hungry this morning, and nothing will keep him quiet," said the kind lady, as if she were talking of her kitten.

"Madam," screamed the infuriated Dane, "one of us is certainly going mad! When I tell you that there is a lion roaming over your house you stand there quietly and tell me that he is hungry?"

"If you will wait a moment, sir, I will explain."

"No explanation is needed, madam. If I can get out of this house alive I will meet you in some other un-lion-visited part of Boston and pay you." And he added, with great sarcasm, "He is probably a pet of yours, and your ex-boarders have furnished his meals."

Instead of being shocked at this, the gentle landlady's eyes beamed with content. "That's just it--he is a pet of mine, and he lives in the back parlor."

"The lion is here in your back parlor, and you have the face to keep boarders?" shrieked the Dane.

"My other boarders have left me."

"I should think so, and this one is going to do like-wise, and without delay"--beginning to put his things in his bag.

She said she was sorry he thought of going, but she could understand he was nervous.

Nervous! If he could have given his feelings words he would have said that never in all his life had he been so scared.

The meek lady before him watched him while he was making up his packages and his mind. What he made up was his reluctance to flee from danger and leave the lion-hearted little woman alone.

"I will not go," he said, in the voice of an early Christian martyr.

"You see, sir, this is how it happened," began the woman. "A very nice sailor came to board here, but could not pay his bill, so to settle with me he offered me his pet dog. I thought it a puppy, and as I had taken a fancy to the little thing--he used to drink milk with the cat out of the same saucer--I consented to keep it."

"And he turned out to be a lion? How did you first notice it?"

"Well, sir, I soon saw he attracted attention in the street. He wanted to fight all the other animals, and attacked everything from a horse to a milk-pan. It was when I was giving him a bath that I noticed that his tail was beginning to bunch out at the end and his under-jaw was growing pointed. Then the awful thought came to me--it was not a dog, but a lion! This was a dreadful moment, for I loved him, and he was fond of me, and I could not part with him. He grew and grew--his body lengthened out and his paws became enormous, and his shaggy hair covered his head. But it was when he tried to get up in my lap, and became angry because my lap was not big enough to hold him, that he growled so that I became afraid. Then I had bars put up before the door of my back parlor, which was my former dining-room, and I keep him there."

"Do you feed him yourself?"

"Yes, sir, but it takes a fortune to keep him in meat."

"How old do you think he is?" the Dane asked, beginning now to feel a respectful admiration for the lone woman who preferred to give up boarders rather than give up her companion.

"That I do not know," she replied, "but from his size and voice I should say he was full-grown."

"I can vouch for his voice. Will you show him to me?" He had never seen a lion boarding in a back parlor, and rather fancied the novelty. He told the consul afterward that he had never seen a finer specimen of the Bengal lion. To his mistress he was obedient and meek as a lamb. She could do anything she liked with him; she passed her hand lovingly over his great head, caressing his tawny locks, while the lion looked at her with soft and tender eyes, and stuck out his enormous tongue to lick her hand.

The Dane stayed on, like the good man he was. He had not the heart to deprive the little woman of the few dollars he paid for his room, which would go toward buying food for her pet. He himself became very fond of "Leo," and would surreptitiously spend all his spare money at the butcher's, who must have wondered, when he sent the quarters of beef, how such a small family could consume so much--and the Dane would pass hours feeding the lion with tidbits held on the end of his umbrella.

We were told afterward that the police discovered that the noises coming from the house were not the usual Boston east winds, and, having found out from what they proceeded, suggested that the Zoological Gardens should buy the animal, for which they paid an enormous price. So the sailor did pay his debt, after all!

CAMBRIDGE, _March, 1880_.

Dear L.,--I love to write to you; my thoughts run away with me, my pen flies like a bird over the paper. You need not remind me of the fact that my handwriting is execrable. I know it, therefore don't waft it across America. Spare me this mortification. Tear the letters up after reading them, or _before_, if you like. When I see the stacks of never-looked-through letters being dragged from one place to the other, tied up in their old faded ribbons, I feel that I do not wish mine to have the same fate.

I read the other day H.'s lively letters full of dash, written in her happy girlhood, and think of her as she is now, the tired mother of six children, without a sparkle of humor left in her, and nothing more spicy in her epistles than a lengthy account of the coal bill or the children's measles. All the life taken out of her for ever! Just deadly dull!

I feel in the above pathetic mood whenever I look out of my window and see the veteran Washington elm facing wind and weather, bravely waiting the end. With what care they bolster up its weary limbs, saw off its withered branches, and deluge its old roots! They spend days belting and tarring its waist, trying to destroy the perverse caterpillars; but with all this they can never give it back its fresh and green youth. It goes on patiently year after year putting forth its leaves in spring and coquetting in its summer garb with its younger rivals. In autumn the pretty colored leaves fly away, and it remains bare and grim under its coating of snow and ice. Some day it will blow down, and nothing but the monumental stone will be left on which future generations will read, "Under this tree George Washington first took command of the American Army, July 3, 1775."

If I stay in Cambridge long enough I shall become a beacon of wisdom. Every one is so learned. If I happen to meet a lady in the street she will begin to talk of the "old masters" as if it were as natural a subject of conversation as the weather.

Washington, _March 23, 1880_.

Johan has this moment received the news that he is transferred to Rome. We feel dreadfully sad to leave Washington and all our dear friends. Our good Schlözer would say "_Que faire? La diplomatie a des exigences qu'il ne faut pas négliger_."

The Queen of Denmark writes, "I hope that you are sure that I never omit to name your husband when a change is coming on in diplomacy, and I hope soon to see something advance to fulfil my wish. Alas, no great benefit to me personally, as you will not live in Copenhagen, but you would come here in an easier way, and you would be in Europe. Farewell, dear Lilly, farewell, and think of me as I of you. Yours.... Louise. The King's best compliments."