[Illustration: THE FAMOUS RELIEF OF CLEOPATRA AT TEMPLE OF DENDERAH]

As Seen By Me

Lilian Bell

1900

 * * * * *

By LILIAN BELL. 

THE INSTINCT OF STEP-FATHERHOOD. A Novel. 16mo, Cloth, $1. 25. 

A LITTLE SISTER TO THE WILDERNESS. A Novel. 16mo, Cloth, $1. 25. 

THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF AN OLD MAID. 16mo, Cloth, $1. 25. 

THE UNDER SIDE OF THINGS. 16mo, Cloth, $1. 25. 

FROM A GIRL'S POINT OF VIEW. 16mo, Cloth, $1. 25. 

 * * * * *

TO

THAT MOST INTERESTING SPECK OF HUMANITY, ALL PERPETUAL MOTION ANDKINDLING INTELLIGENCE AND SWEETNESS UNSPEAKABLE, MY LITTLE NEPHEW

BILLY

ABSENCE FROM WHOM RACKED MY SPIRIT WITH ITS MOST UNAPPEASABLE PANGS OFHOMESICKNESS, AND WHOSE CONSTANT PRESENCE IN MY STUDY SINCE MY RETURNHAS SPARED THE PUBLIC NO SMALL AMOUNT OF PAIN

AUTHOR'S APOLOGY

The frank conceit of the title to this book will, I hope, notprejudice my friends against it, and will serve not only to excuse mybeing my own Boswell, but will fasten the blame of all inaccuracies, if such there be, upon the offender--myself. This is not a continuousnarrative of a continuous journey, but covers two years of travel oversome thirty thousand miles, and presents peoples and things, not asyou saw them, perhaps, or as they really are, but only As Seen By Me. 

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

 I. FIRST LETTER--ON THE WAY

 II. LONDON

 III. PARIS

 IV. ON BOARD THE YACHT "HELA"

 V. VILNA, RUSSIA

 VI. ST. PETERSBURG

 VII. RUSSIA

VIII. MOSCOW

 IX. CONSTANTINOPLE

 X. CAIRO

 XI. THE NILE

 XII. GREECE

XIII. NAPLES

 XIV. ROME

I

FIRST LETTER--ON THE WAY

In this day and generation, when everybody goes to Europe, it isdifficult to discover the only person who never has been there. But Iam that one, and therefore the stir it occasioned in the bosom of myamiable family when I announced that I, too, was about to join thevast majority, is not easy to imagine. But if you think that I at oncebecame a person of importance it only goes to show that you do notknow the family. My mother, to be sure, hovered around me the way shedoes when she thinks I am going into typhoid fever. I never have hadtyphoid fever, but she is always on the watch for it, and if it evercomes it will not catch her napping. She will meet it half-way. Andlest it elude her watchfulness, she minutely questions every painwhich assails any one of us, for fear, it may be her dreaded foe. Yetwhen my sister's blessed lamb baby had it before he was a year old, and after he had got well and I was not afraid he would be struck deadfor my wickedness, I said to her, "Well, mamma, you must have takensolid comfort out of the first real chance you ever had at your petfever, " she said I ought to be ashamed of myself. 

My father began to explain international banking to me as his share inmy preparations, but I utterly discouraged him by asking thedifference between a check and a note. He said I reminded him of thejuryman who asked the difference between plaintiff and defendant. Isoothed him by assuring him that I knew I would always find somebodyto go to the bank with me. 

"Most likely 'twill be Providence, then, as He watches over childrenand fools, " said my cousin, with what George Eliot calls "the brutalcandor of a near relation. "

My brother-in-law lent me ten Baedekers, and offered his hampers andFrench trunks to me with such reckless generosity that I had to get mysister to stop him so that I wouldn't hurt his feelings by refusing. 

My sister said, "I am perfectly sure, mamma, that if I don't go withher, she will go about with an ecstatic smile on her face, and letherself get cheated and lost, and she would just as soon as not telleverybody that she had never been abroad before. She has no pride. "

"Then you had better come along and take care of me and see that Idon't disgrace you, " I urged. 

"Really, mamma, I do think I had better go, " said my sister. So sheactually consented to leave husband and baby in order to go and takecare of me. I do assure you, however, that I have bought all thetickets, and carried the common purse, and got her through thecustom-houses, and arranged prices thus far. But she does pack mytrunks and make out the laundry lists--I will say that for her. 

My brother's contribution to my comfort was in this wise: He said, "You must have a few more lessons on your wheel before you go, andI'll take you out for a lesson to-morrow if you'll get up and go atsix o'clock in the morning--that is, if you'll wear gloves. But youmortify me half to death riding without gloves. "

"Nobody sees me but milkmen, " I said, humbly. 

"Well, what will the milkmen think?" said my brother. 

"Mercy on us, I never thought of that, " I said. "My gloves are allpretty tight when one has to grip one's handle-bars as fiercely as Ido. But I'll get large ones. What tint do you think milkmen care themost for?"

He sniffed. 

"Well, I'll go and I'll wear gloves, " I said, "but if I fall off, remember it will be on account of the gloves. "

"You always do fall off, " he said, with patient resignation. "I'veseen you fall off that wheel in more different directions than it hasspokes. "

"I don't exactly fall, " I explained, carefully. "I feel myself goingand then I get off. "

I was ready at six the next morning, and I wore gloves. 

"Now, don't ride into the holes in the street"--one is obliged to givesuch instructions in Chicago--"and don't look at anything you see. Don't be afraid. You're all right. Now, then! You're off!"

"Oh, Teddy, don't ride so close to me, " I quavered. 

"I'm forty feet away from you, " he said. 

"Then double it, " I said. "You're choking me by your proximity. "

"Let's cross the railroad tracks just for practice, " he said, when itwas too late for me to expostulate. "Stand up on your pedals and ridefast, and--"

"Hold on, please do, " I shrieked. "I'm falling off. Get out of my way. I seem to be turning--"

He scorched ahead, and I headed straight for the switchman's hut, rounded it neatly, and leaned myself and my wheel against the side ofit, helpless with laughter. 

A red Irish face, with a short black pipe in its mouth, thrust itselfout of the tiny window just in front of me, and a voice with a richbrogue exclaimed:

"As purty a bit of riding as iver Oi see!"

"Wasn't it?" I cried. "You couldn't do it. "

"Oi wouldn't thry! Oi'd rather tackle a railroad train going at fullspheed thin wan av thim runaway critturs. "

"Get down from there, " hissed my brother so close to my ear that itmade me bite my tongue. 

I obediently scrambled down. Ted's face was very red. 

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself to enter into immediateconversation with a man like that. What do you suppose that manthought of you?"

"Oh, perhaps he saw my gloves and took me for a lady, " I pleaded. 

Ted grinned and assisted me to mount. 

When I successfully turned the corner by making Ted fall back out ofsight, we rode away along the boulevard in silence for a while, for myconversation when I am on a wheel is generally limited to shrieks, ejaculations, and snatches of prayer. I never talk to be amusing. 

"I say, " said my brother, hesitatingly, "I wear a No. 8 glove and aNo. 10 stocking. "

"I've always thought you had large hands and feet, " I said, ignoringthe hint. 

He giggled. 

"No, now, really. I wish you'd write that down somewhere. You can getthose things so cheap in Paris. "

"You are supposing the case of my return, or of Christmas intervening, or--a present of some kind, I suppose. "

"Well, no; not exactly. Although you know I am always broke--"

"Don't I, though?"

"And that I am still in debt--"

"Because papa insists upon your putting some money in the bank everymonth--"

"Yes, and the result is that I never get my head above water. I oweyou twenty now. "

"Which I never expect to recover, because you know I always get sillyabout Christmas and 'forgive thee thy debts. '"

"You're awful good--" he began. 

"But I'll be better if I bring you gloves and silk stockings. "

"I'll give you the money!" he said, heroically. "Will you borrow it ofme or of mamma?" I asked, with a chuckle at the family financieringwhich always goes on in this manner. 

"Now don't make fun of me! _You_ don't know what it is to be hard up. "

"Don't I, though?" I said, indignantly. "Oh--oh! Catch me!"

He seized my handle-bar and righted me before I fell off. 

"See what you did by saying I never was hard up, " I said. "I'll tellyou what, Teddy. You needn't give me the money. I'll bring you somegloves and stockings!"

"Oh, I say, honest? Oh, but you're the right kind of a sister! I'llnever forget that as long as I live. You do look so nice on yourwheel. You sit so straight and--"

I saw a milkman coming. We three were the only objects in sight, yet Iheaded for him. 

"Get out of my way, " I shrieked at him. "I'm a beginner. Turn off!"

He lashed his horse and cut down a side street. 

"What a narrow escape, " I sighed. "How glad I am I happened to thinkof that. "

I looked up pleasantly at Ted. He was biting his lips and he lookedraging. 

"You are the most hopeless girl I ever saw!" he burst out. "I wish youdidn't own a wheel. "

"I don't, " I said. "The wheel owns me. "

"You haven't the manners of--"

"Stockings, " I said, looking straight ahead. "Silk stockings withpolka dots embroidered on them, No. 10. "

Ted looked sheepish. 

"I ride so well, " I proceeded. "I sit up so straight and look sonice. "

No answer. 

"Gloves, " I went on, still without looking at him. "White and pearlones for evening, and russet gloves for the street, No. 8. "

"Oh, quit, won't you? I'm sorry I said that. But if you only knew howyou mortify me. "

"Cheer up, Tedcastle. I am going away, you know. And when I come backyou will either have got over caring so much or I will be more of alady. "

"I'm sorry you are going, " said my brother. "But as you are going, perhaps you will let me use your rooms while you are gone. Your bed isthe best one I ever slept in, and your study would be bully for theboys when they come to see me. "

I was too stunned to reply. He went on, utterly oblivious of myconsternation:

"And I am going to use your wheel while you are gone, if you don'tmind, to take the girls out on. I know some awfully nice girls who canride, but their wheels are last year's make, and they won't ride them. I'd rather like to be able to offer them a new wheel. "

"I am not going to take all my party dresses. Have you any use forthem?" I said. 

"Why, what's the matter? Won't you let me have your rooms?"

"Merciful heavens, child! I should say not!"

"Why, I haven't asked you for much, " said my small, modest brother. "You offered. "

"Well, just wait till I offer the rest. But I'll tell you what I willdo, Ted. If you will promise not to go into my rooms and rummage oncewhile I am gone, and not to touch my wheel, I'll buy you a tandem, andthen you can take the girls on that. "

"I'd rather have you bring me some things from Europe, " said myshrinking brother. 

"All right. I'll do that, but let me off this thing. I am so tired Ican't move. You'll have to walk it back and give me five cents to ridehome on the car. "

I crawled in to breakfast more dead than alive. 

"What's the matter, dearie? Did you ride too far?" asked mamma. 

"I don't know whether I rode too far or whether it was Ted's asking ifhe couldn't use my rooms while I was gone, but something has made metired. What's that? Whom is papa talking to over the telephone?"

Papa came in fuming and fretting. 

"Who was it this time?" I questioned, with anticipation. Inquiriesover the telephone were sure to be interesting to me just now. 

"Somebody who wanted to know what train you were going on, but wouldnot give his name. He was inquiring for a friend, he said, andwouldn't give his friend's name either. "

"Didn't you tell him?" I cried, in distress. 

"Certainly not. I told him nobody but an idiot would withhold hisname. "

Papa calls such a variety of men idiots. 

"Oh, but it was probably only flowers or candy. Why didn't you tellhim? Have you no sentiment?"

"I won't have you receiving anonymous communications, " he retorted, with the liberty fathers have a little way of taking with theirdaughters. 

"But flowers, " I pleaded. "It is no harm to send flowers without acard. Don't you see?" Oh, how hard it is to explain a delicate pointlike that to one's father--in broad daylight! "I am supposed to knowwho sent them!"

"But would you know?" asked my practical ancestor. 

"Not--not exactly. But it would be almost sure to be one of them. "

Ted shouted. But there was nothing funny in what I said. Boys are sosilly. 

"Anyway, I am sorry you didn't tell him, " I said. 

"Well, I'm not, " declared papa. 

The rest of the day fairly flew. The last night came, and the baby wasput to bed. I undressed him, which he regarded as such a joke that heworked himself into a fever of excitement. He loves to scrub likeJosie, the cook. I had bought him a little red pail, and I gave it tohim that night when he was partly undressed, and he was so enchantedwith it that he scampered around hugging it, and saying, "Pile!pile!" like a little Cockney. He gave such squeals of ecstasy thateverybody came into the nursery to find him scrubbing his crib with anail-brush and little red pail. 

"Who gave you the pretty pail, Billy?" asked Aunt Lida, who wassitting by the crib. 

"Tattah, " said Billy, in a whisper. He always whispers my name. 

"Then go and kiss dear auntie. She is going away on the big boat tostay such a long time. "

Billy's face sobered. Then he dropped his precious pail, and came andlicked my face like a little dog, which is his way of kissing. 

I squeezed him until he yelled. 

"Don't let him forget me, " I wailed. "Talk to him about me every day. And buy him a toy out of my money often, and tell him Tattah sent itto him. Oh, oh, he'll be grown up when I come home!"

"Don't cry, dearie, " said Aunt Lida, handing me her handkerchief. "I'll see that your grave is kept green. "

My sister appeared at the door. She was all ready to start. She evenhad her veil on. 

"What do you mean by exciting Billy so at this time of night?" shesaid. "Go out, all of you. We'll lose the train. Hush, somebody's atthe telephone. Papa's talking to that same man again. " I jumped up andran out. 

"Let me answer it, papa dear! Yes, yes, yes, certainly. To-night onthe Pennsylvania. You're quite welcome. Not at all. " I hung up thetelephone. 

I could hear papa in the nursery:

"She actually told him--after all I said this morning! I never heardof anything like it. "

Two or three voices were raised in my defence. Ted slipped out intothe hall. 

"Bully for you, " he whispered. "You'll get the flowers all right atthe train. Who do you s'pose they're from? Another box just came foryou. Say, couldn't you leave that smallest box of violets in thesilver box? I want to give them to a girl, and you've got such loadsof others. "

"Don't ask her for those, " answered my dear sister, "they are the mostprecious of all!"

"I can't give you any of mine, " I said, "but I'll buy you a box forher--a small box, " I added hastily. 

"The carriages have come, dears, " quavered grandmamma, coming out ofthe nursery, followed by the family, one after the other. 

"Get her satchels, Teddy. Her hat is upstairs. Her flowers are in thehall. She left her ulster on my bed, and her books are on thewindow-sill, " said mamma. She wouldn't look at me. "Remember, dearie, your medicines are all labelled, and I put needles in your work-boxall threaded. Don't sit in draughts and don't read in a dim light. Have a good time and study hard and come back soon. Good--bye, mygirlie. God bless you!"

By this time no handkerchief would have sufficed for my tears. Ireached out blindly, and Ted handed me a towel. 

"I've got a sheet when you've sopped that, " he said. Boys are suchbrutes. 

Aunt Lida said, "Good-bye, my dearest. You are my favorite niece. Youknow I love you the best. "

I giggled, for she tells my sister the same thing always. 

"Nobody seems to care much that I am going, " said Bee, mournfully. 

"But you are coming back so soon, and she is going to stay so long, "exclaimed grandmamma, patting Bee. 

"I'll bet she doesn't stay a year, " cried Ted. 

"I'll expect her home by Christmas, " said papa. 

"I'll bet she is here to eat Thanksgiving dinner, " cried mybrother-in-law. 

"No, she is sure to stay as long as she has said she would, " saidmamma. 

Mothers are the brace of the universe. The family trailed down to thefront door. Everybody was carrying something. There were twocarriages, for they were all going to the station with us. 

"For all the world like a funeral, with loads of flowers and everybodycrying, " said my brother, cheerfully. 

I never shall forget that drive to the station; nor the last fewmoments, when Bee and I stood on the car-steps and talked to those whowere on the platform of the station. Can anybody else remember how shefelt at going to Europe for the first time and leaving everybody sheloved at home? Bee grieved because there were no flowers at the trainafter all. But the next morning they appeared, a tremendous box, arranged as a surprise. 

Telegrams came popping in at all the big stations along the way, enlivening our gloom, and at the steamer there were such loads ofthings that we might almost have set up as a florist, or fruiterer, orbookseller. Such a lapful of steamer letters and telegrams! I read afew each morning, and some of them I read every morning!

I don't like ocean travel. They sent grapefruit and confections to mystate-room, which I tossed out of the port-hole. You know there aresome people who think you don't know what you want. I travelledhorizontally most of the way, and now people roar when I say I wasn'till. Well, I wasn't, you know. We--well, Teddy would not like me to bemore explicit. I own to a horrible headache which never left me. Ideny everything else. Let them laugh. I was there, and I know. 

The steamer I went on allows men to smoke on all the decks, and theyall smoked in my face. It did not help me. I must say that I wasunspeakably thankful to get my foot on dry ground once more. When wegot to the dock a special train of toy cars took us through thegreenest of green landscapes, and suddenly, almost before we knew it, we were at Waterloo Station, and knew that London was at our door. 

II

LONDON

People said to me, "What are you going to London for?" I said, "Toget an English point of view. " "Very well, " said one of the knowingones, who has lived abroad the larger part of his life, "then you mustgo to 'The Insular, ' in Piccadilly. That is not only the smartesthotel in London, but it is the most typically British. The rooms arelet from season to season to the best country families. There you willfind yourself plunged headlong into English life with not an Americanenvironment to bless yourself with, and you will soon get your Englishpoint of view. "

"Ah-h, " responded the simpleton who goes by my name, "that is what wewant. We will go to 'The Insular. '"

We wrote at once for rooms, and then telegraphed for them fromSouthampton. 

The steamer did not land her passengers until the morning of the ninthday, which shows the vast superiority of going on a fast boat, whichgets you in fully as much as fifteen or twenty minutes ahead of theslow ones. 

Our luggage would not go on even a four-wheeler, so we took a dearlittle private bus and proceeded to put our mountainous Americantrunks on it. We filled the top of this bus as full as it would hold, and put everything else inside. After stowing ourselves in there wouldnot have been room even for another umbrella. 

In this fashion we reached "The Insular, " where we were received byfour or five gorgeous creatures in livery, the head one of whom said, "Miss Columbia?" I admitted it, and we were ushered in, where we weremet by more belonging to this tribe of gorgeousness, another of whomsaid, "Miss Columbia?"

"Yes, " I said, firmly, privately wondering if they were trying to tripme into admitting that I was somebody else. 

"The housekeeper will be here presently, " said this person. "She isexpecting you. "

Forth came the housekeeper. 

"Miss Columbia?" she said. 

Once again I said "Yes, " patiently, standing on my other foot. 

"If you will be good enough to come with me I will show you yourrooms. "

A door opened outward, disclosing a little square place with twocane-bottomed chairs. A man bounced out so suddenly that I nearlyannihilated my sister, who was back of me. I could not imagine whatthis little cubbyhole was, but as there seemed to be nowhere else togo, I went in. The others followed, then the man who had bounced out. He closed the door and shut us in, where we stood in solemn silence. About a quarter of an hour afterwards I thought I saw somethingthrough the glass moving slowly downward, and then an infinitesimalthrill in the soles of my feet led me to suspect the truth. 

"Is this thing an elevator?" I whispered to my sister. 

"No, they call it a lift over here, " she whispered back. 

"I know that, " I murmured, impatiently. "But is this thing it? Are wemoving? Are we going anywhere?"

"Why, of course, my dear. They are slower than ours, that's all. "

I listened to her with some misgivings, for her information is notalways to be wholly trusted, but this time it happened that she wasright, for after a while we came to the fourth floor, where our roomswere. 

I wish you could have seen the size of them. I shall not attempt todescribe them, for you would not believe me. I had engaged "two roomsand a bath. " The two rooms were there. "Where is the bath?" I said. The housekeeper lovingly, removed a gigantic crash towel from ahideous tin object, and proudly exposed to my vision that object whichis next dearest to his silk hat to an Englishman's heart--a hip-bathtub. Her manner said, "Beat that if you can. "

My sister prodded me in the back with her umbrella, which in our signlanguage means, "Don't make a scene. "

"Very well, " I said, rather meekly. "Have our trunks sent up. "

"Very good, madam. "

She went away, and then we rang the bell and began to order what wereto us the barest necessities of life. We were tired and lame andsleepy from a night spent at the pier landing the luggage, and wewanted things with which to make ourselves comfortable. 

There was a pocket edition of a fireplace, and they brought us ahatful of the vilest soft coal, which peppered everything in the roomswith soot. 

We climbed over our trunks to sit by this imitation of a fire, only tofind that there was nothing to sit on but the most uncompromising ofstraight-backed chairs. 

We groaned as we took in the situation. To our poor, racked frames acoal-hod would not have suggested more discomfort. We dragged up ourhampers, packed with steamer-rugs and pillows, and my sister sat onhers while I took another turn at the bell. While the maid isanswering this bell I shall have plenty of time to tell you what weafterwards discovered the process of bell-ringing in an English hotelto be. 

We rang our bell. Presently we heard the most horrible gong, such aswe use on our patrol wagons and fire-engines at home. This clangedfour times. Then a second bell down the hall answered it. Then feetflew by our door. At this juncture my sister and I prepared to letourselves down the fire-escape. But we soon discovered that thoseflying feet belonged to the poor maid, whom that gong had signalledthat she was wanted on the fourth floor. She flew to a speaking-tubeand asked who on the fourth floor wanted her. She was then given thenumber of our room, when she rang a bell to signify that our call wasanswered, by which time she was at liberty, and knocked at our door, saying, in her soft English voice, "Did you ring, miss?"

We told her we wanted rocking-chairs. She said there was not one inthe house. Then easy-chairs, we said, or anything cushioned or low orcomfortable. She said the housekeeper had no easier chairs. 

We sat down on our hampers, and my sister leaned against the corner ofthe wardrobe with a pillow at her back to keep from being cut in two. I propped my back against the wash-stand, which did very well, exceptthat the wash-stand occasionally slid away from me. 

"This, " said my sister, impressively, "is England. "

We had been here only half an hour, but I had already got my point ofview. 

"Let's go out and look up a hotel where they take Americans, " I said. "I feel the need of ice-water. "

Our drinking-water at "The Insular" was on the end of the wash-standnearest the fire. 

So, feeling a little timid and nervous, but not in the least homesick, we went downstairs. One of our gorgeous retinue called a cab and weentered it. 

"Where shall we go?" asked my sister. 

"I feel like saying to the first hotel we see, " I said. 

Just then we raised our eyes and they rested simultaneously upon asign, "The Empire Hotel for Cats and Dogs. " This simple solution ofour difficulty put us in such high good humor that we said we wouldn'tlook up a hotel just yet--we would take a drive. 

Under these circumstances we took our first drive down Piccadilly, andEurope to me dates from that moment. The ship, the landing, thecustom-house, the train, the hotel--all these were mere preliminariesto the Europe, which began then. People told me in America how myheart would swell at this, and how I would thrill at that, but it wasnot so. My first real thrill came to me in Piccadilly. It went allover me in little shivers and came out at the ends of my fingers, andthen began once more at the base of my brain and did it all overagain. 

But what is the use of describing one's first view of London streetsand traffic to the initiated? Can they, who became used to it aschildren, appreciate it? Can they look back and recall how it struckthem? No. When I try to tell Americans over here they look at mecuriously and say, "Dear me, how odd!" The way they say it leaves meto draw any one of three conclusions: either they are notimpressionable, and are therefore honest in denying the feeling; orthey think it vulgar to admit it; or I am the only grown person inAmerica who never has been to Europe before. 

But I am indifferent to their opinion. People are right in saying thisgreat tremendous rush of feeling can come but once. It is like beingin love for the first time. You like it and yet you don't like it. Youwish it would go away, yet you fear that it will go all too soon. Itgets into your head and makes you dizzy, and you want to shut youreyes, but you are afraid if you do that you will miss something. Youcannot eat and you cannot sleep, and you feel that you have twoconsciousnesses: one which belongs to the life you have livedhitherto, and which still is going on, somewhere in the world, unmindful of you, and you unmindful of it; and the other is this newbliss which is beating in your veins and sounding in your ears andshining before your eyes, which no one knows and no one dreams of, butwhich keeps a smile on your lips--a smile which has in it nothing ofhumor, nothing from the great without, but which-comes from the secretrecesses of your own inner consciousness, where the heart of thematter lies. 

I remember nothing definite about that first drive. I, for my part, saw with unseeing eyes. My sister had seen it all before, so she hadthe power of speech. Occasionally she prodded me and cried, "Look, oh!look quickly. " But I never swerved. "I can't look. If I do I shallmiss something. You attend to your own window and I'll attend to mine. Coming back I will see your side. "

When we got beyond the shops I said to the cabman:

"Do you know exactly the way you have come?"

"Yes, miss, " he said. 

"Then go back precisely the same way. "

"Have you lost something, miss?" he inquired. 

"Yes, " I said, "I have lost an impression, and I must look till I findit. "

"Very good, miss, " he said. 

If I had said, "I have carelessly let fall my cathedral, " or, "I havelost my orang-outang. Look for him!" an imperturbable British cabbywould only touch his cap and say, "Very good, miss!"

So we followed our own trail back to "The Insular. " "In this way, " Isaid to my sister, "we both get a complete view. To-morrow we will doit all over again. "

But we found that we could not wait for the morrow. We did it all overagain that afternoon, and that second time I was able in a measure todetach myself from the hum and buzz and the dizzying effect of foreignfaces, and I began to locate impressions. My first distinctrecollections are of the great numbers of high hats on the men, theill-hanging skirts and big feet of the women, the unsteadying effectof all those thousands of cabs, carriages, and carts all going to theleft, which kept me constantly wishing to shriek out, "Go to the rightor we'll all be killed, " the absolutely perfect manner in whichtraffic was managed, and the majestic authority of the London police. 

I have seen the Houses of Parliament and the Tower and WestminsterAbbey, and the World's Fair, but the most impressive sight I everbeheld is the upraised hand of a London policeman. I never heard oneof them speak except when spoken to. But let one little blue-coatedman raise his forefinger and every vehicle on wheels stops, and stopsinstantly; stops in obedience to law and order; stops without swearingor gesticulating or abuse; stops with no underhanded trying to driveout of line and get by on the other side; just stops, that is the endof it. And why? Because the Queen of England is behind that raisedfinger. A London policeman has more power than our President. 

Even the Queen's coachmen obey that forefinger. Not long ago shedismissed one who dared to drive even the royal carriage on indefiance of it. Understanding how to obey, that is what makes liberty. 

I am the most flamboyant of Americans, the most hopelessly addicted tomy own country, but I must admit that I had my first real taste ofliberty in England. 

I will tell you why. In America nobody obeys anybody. We make ourlaws, and then most industriously set about studying out a plan bywhich we may evade them. America is suffering, as all republics mustof necessity suffer, from liberty in the hands of the multitude. Themultitude are ignorant, and liberty in the hands of the ignorant isalways license. 

In America, the land of the free, whom do we fear? The President? No, God bless him. There is not a true American in the world who would notstand up as a man or a woman and go into his presence without fear. Are we afraid of our Senators, our chief rulers? No. But we are afraidof our servants, of our street-car conductors. We are afraid ofsleeping-car porters, and the drivers of huge trucks. We are afraidthey will drive over us in the streets, and if we dare to assert ourrights and hold them in check we are afraid of what they will say tous, in the name of liberty, and of the way they will look at us, inthe name of liberty. 

English servants, I have discovered, have no more respect forAmericans than the old-time negro of the Southern aristocracy has forNortherners. I once asked an old black mammy in Georgia why thenegroes had so little respect for the white ladies of the North. "Casedey don' know how to treat black folks, honey. " "Why don't they?" Ipersisted. "Are they not kind to you?" "Umph, " she responded (and noone who has never heard a fat old negress say "Umph" knows theeloquence of it). "Umph. Dat's it. Dey's too kin'. Dey don' know howto mek us min'. " And that is just the trouble with Americans here. AnEnglish servant takes orders, not requests. 

I had such a time to learn that. We could not understand why we wereobeyed so well at first, and presently, without any outwarddisrespect, our wants were simply ignored until all the English peoplehad been attended to. 

My sister had told me I was too polite, but one never believes one'ssister, so I questioned our sweet English friends, and they, with muchdelicacy and many apologies, and the prettiest hesitation in theworld--considering the situation--told us the reason. 

"But, " I gasped, "if I should speak to our servants in that mannerthey would leave. They would not stay over night. " Our English friendstried not to smile in a superior way, and they succeeded, only I knewthe smile was there, and said, "Oh, no, our servants never leave us. They apologize for having done it wrong. "

On the way home I plucked up courage. "I am going to try it, " I said, firmly. My sister laughed in derision. 

"Now I could do it, " she said, complaisantly. And so she could. Mysister never plumes herself on a quality she does not possess. 

"Are you going to use the tone and everything?" I said, somewhattimidly. 

"You wait and see. "

She hesitated some time, I noticed, before she rang the bell, and shelooked at herself in the glass and cleared her throat. I knew she wasbracing herself. 

"I'll ring the bell if you like, " I said, politely. 

She gave one look at me and then rang the bell herself with a firmhand. 

"And I'll get behind you with a poker in One hand and a pitcher of hotwater in the other. Speak when you need either. "

"You feel very funny when you don't have to do it yourself, " she said, witheringly. 

"You'll never put it through. You'll back down and say 'please' beforeyou have finished, " I said, and just then the maid knocked at thedoor. 

I never heard anything like it. My sister was superb. I doubt ifBernhardt at her best ever inspired me with more awe. How that maidflew around. How humble she was. How she apologized. And how, everytime my sister said, "Look sharp, now, " the maid said, "Thank you. " Ithought I should die. I was so much interested in the dramaticpossibilities of my cherished sister that when the door closed behindthe maid we simply looked at each other a moment, then simultaneouslymade a bound for the bed, where we choked with laughter among thepillows. Presently we sat up with flushed faces and rumpled hair. Ireached over and shook hands with her. 

"How was that?" she asked. 

"'Twas grand, " I said. "The Queen couldn't have done it more to themanner born. "

My sister accepted my compliments complaisantly, as one who shouldsay, "'Tis no more than my deserts. "

"How firm you were, " I said, admiringly. 

"Wasn't I, though?"

"How humble she was. "

"Wasn't she?"

"You were quite as disagreeable and determined as a real Englishwomanwould have been. "

"So I was. "

A pause full of intense admiration on my part. Then she said, "Youcouldn't have done it. "

"I know that. "

"You are so deadly civil. "

"Not to everybody, only to servants. " I said this apologetically. 

"You never keep a steady hand. You either grovel at their feet or snaptheir heads off. "

"Quite true, " I admitted, humbly. 

"But it was grand, wasn't it?" she said. 

"Unspeakably grand. "

And for Americans it was. 

We were still at "The Insular, " when one day I took up a handful ofwhat had once been a tight bodice, and said to my sister:

"See how thin I've grown! I believe I am starving to death. "

"No wonder, " she answered, gloomily, "with this awful English cooking!I'm nearly dead from your experiment of getting an English point ofview. I want something to eat--something that I _like_. I want abeefsteak, with mushrooms, and some potatoes _au gratin_, like thosewe have in America. I hate the stuff we get here. I wish I could neversee another chop as long as I live. "

"'The Insular' is considered very good, " I remarked, pensively. 

"Considered!" cried she. "Whose consideration counts, I should like toknow, when you are always hungry for something you can't get?"

"I know it; and we are paying such prices, too. Who, except ostriches, could eat their nasty preserves for breakfast when they are havinggrape-fruit at home? And then their vile aspic jellies and pottedmeats for luncheon, which look like sausage congealed in cold gravy, and which taste like gum arabic. "

"Let's move, " said my sister. "Not into another hotel--that wouldn'tbe much better. But lot's take lodgings. I've heard that they werelovely. Then we can order what we like. Besides, it will be very muchcheaper. "

"I didn't come over here to economize, " I said. 

"Well, I wouldn't say a word if we were getting anything for ourmoney, but we are not. Besides, when you get to Paris you will wishyou hadn't been so extravagant here. "

"Are the Paris shops more fascinating than those in Regent Street?" Iasked. 

"Much more. "

"More alluring, than Bond Street?"

"More so than any in the world, " she affirmed, with the religiousfervor which always characterizes her tone when she speaks of Paris. The very leather of her purse fairly squeaks with ecstasy when shethinks of Paris. 

"Heavens!" I murmured, with awe, for whenever she won't go to DuMaurier's grave with me, and when I won't do the crown jewels in theTower with her, we always compromise amiably on Bond Street, and comehome beaming with joy. 

"We might go now just to look, " I said. "I have the addresses of somevery good lodgings. "

"We'll take a cab by the hour, " said she, putting her hat on beforethe mirror, and turning her head on one side to view her completedhandiwork. 

"Now take off that watch and that belt and that chatelaine if youdon't want these harpies to think we are 'rich Americans' (how I havecome to hate that phrase over here!), because they will chargeaccordingly. "

She looked at me with genuine admiration. 

"Do you know, dear, you are really clever at times?"

I colored with pleasure. It is so seldom that she finds anythingpractical in me to praise. 

"Now mind, we are just going to look, " she cautioned, as we rang abell. "We must not do anything in a hurry. "

We came out half an hour afterwards and got into the cab withoutlooking at each other. 

"It was very unbusinesslike, " said she, severely. "You never doanything right. "

"But it was so gloriously impudent of us, " I urged. "First, we wantedlodgings. This was a boarding-house. Second, we wanted two bed-roomsand a drawing-room. They had only one drawing-room in the house; couldwe have that? Yes, we could. So we took their whole first floor, andmade them promise to serve our breakfasts in bed, and our other mealsin their best drawing-room, and turned a boarding-house into alodging-house, all inside of half an hour. It was lovely!"

"It was bad business, " said she. "We could have got it for less, butyou are always in such a hurry. If you like a thing, and anybody saysyou may have it for fifty, you always say, 'I'll give youseventy-five, ' You're so afraid to think a thing over. "

"Second thoughts are never as much fun as first thoughts, " I urged. "Second thoughts are always so sensible and reasonable and approvedof. "

"How do you know?" asked my sister, witheringly. "You never waited forany. "

The next day we moved. Everybody said our rooms were charming, andthat they were cheap, for I told how much we paid, much to my sister'sdisgust. She is _such_ a lady. 

"We have cut down our expenses so much, " I said, looking around on thedrab walls and the dun-colored carpets, "don't you think we might havea few flowers?"

"I believe you took this place for the balcony, so that you could putdaisies around the edge and in the window-boxes!" she cried. 

"No, I didn't. But the houses in London are so pretty with theirflowers. Don't you think we might have a few?"

"Well, go and get them. I've got to write the home letter to-day if itis to catch the Southampton boat. "

I came home with six huge palms, two June roses, some pink heather, ajar of marguerites, and I had ordered the balcony and window-boxesfilled. My sister helped me to place them, but when her back wasturned I arranged them over again. I can't tie a veil on the way shecan, but I can arrange flowers to look--well, I won't boast. 

Our landladies were two middle-aged, comfortable sisters. We calledthem "The Tabbies, " meaning no disrespect to cats, either. I thoughtthey took rather too violent an interest in our affairs, but I saidnothing until one day after we had been settled nearly a week. I wasseated in my own private room trying to write. My sister came in, evidently disturbed by something. 

"Do you know, " she said, "that our landlady just asked me how much youpaid for those strawberries? And when I told her she said that thatmade them come to fourpence apiece, and that they were very dear. Now, how did she know that they were strawberries, or how many were in eachbox, I'd like to know?"

"Probably she opened the package, " I said. 

"Exactly what I think. Now I won't stand that. And then she asked menot to set things on the mahogany tables. It's just because we areAmericans! She never would dare treat English people that way. She hasnot sufficient respect for us. "

"Then tell her to be more respectful; tell her we are very highlythought of at home. "

"She wouldn't care for that. "

"Then tell her we have a few rich relations and quite a number ofinfluential friends. "

"Pooh!"

"And if that does not fetch her, there is nothing left to do but to bequite rude to her, and then she will know that we belong to the veryhighest society. But what do you care what a middle-class landladythinks, just so she lets you alone?"

My sister meditated, and I added:

"If you would just snub her once, in your most ladylike way, it wouldsettle her. As for me, I am satisfied to think we are paying muchless, and we are twice as comfortable as we were at the hotel; and weget such good things to eat that our skeletons are filling out, andonce more our clothes fit. "

"That is so, " said she, letting her thoughts wander to the number ofhooks in her closet. "We do have more room, and I think ourdrawing-room with its palms and flowers will look lovely to-morrow. "

"Do you think it was wise, " she added, "to ask all those men to comeat once?"

"Oh yes; let them all come together, then we can weed them outafterwards. You never can have too many men. "

"I am glad you have asked in a few women. "

"Why?" I demanded. "Are you insinuating that we are not equal to ahandful of Englishmen? Recall the Boston tea-party. We will give themthe first strawberries of the season, and plenty of tea. Feed them;that's the main thing, " I said, firmly, taking up my pen and lookingsteadily at her. 

"I'll go, " she said, hastily. "Do you have to go to the bank to-day?You know to-morrow we must pay our weekly bill. "

"It won't be much, " I said, cheerfully; "I am sure I have enough. "

The next day the bill came. Our landlady sent it up on thebreakfast-tray. I opened it, then shrieked for my sister. It coveredfour pages of note-paper. 

"For heaven's sake! what is the matter?" she cried. "Has anythinghappened to Billy?"

"Billy! This thing is not an American letter. It is the bill for ourcheap lodgings. Look at it! Look at the extras--gas, coals, washingbed--linen, washing table--linen, washing towels, kitchen fires, service, oil for three lamps, afternoon tea, and three shillings forsundries on the fourth page! What can sundries include? She hasn'tskipped anything but pew-rent. "

My sister looked at the total, and buried her face in the pillows tosmother a groan. 

"Ring the bell, " I said; "I want the maid. "

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to find out what 'sundries' are. "

She gave the bell-cord such a pull that she broke the wire, and itfell down on her head. 

"That, too, will go in the bill. Wrap your handkerchief around yourhand and give the wire a jerk. Give it a good one. I don't care if itbrings the police. "

The maid came. 

"Martha, present my compliments to Mrs. Black, and ask her what'sundries' include. "

Martha came back smiling. 

"Please, miss, Mrs. Black's compliments, and 'sundries' means that youcomplained that the coffee was muddy, and after that she cleared itwith an egg. 'Sundries' means the eggs. "

"Martha, " I said, weakly, "give me those Crown salts. No, no, Iforgot; those are Mrs. Black's salts. Take them out and tell her Ionly smelled them once. "

"Martha, " said my sister, dragging my purse out from under my pillow, "here is sixpence not to tell Mrs. Black anything. " Then when Marthadisappeared she said, "How often have I told you not to jest withservants?"

"I forgot, " I said, humbly. "But Martha has a sense of humor, don'tyou think?"

"I never thought anything about it. But what are you going to do aboutthat bill?"

"I'm going to argue about it, and declare I won't pay it, and then payit like a true American. Would you have me upset the traditions? ButI've got to go to the bank first. "

I did just as I said. I argued to no avail. Mrs. Black was quitehaughty, and made me feel like a chimney-sweep. I paid her in full, and when I came up I said:

"You are quite right. She has a poor opinion of us. When I asked herhow long it would take to drive to a house in West End, she said, 'Whydo you want to know?' I said I 'wanted to see the house. '"

"Didn't you tell her we were _invited_ there?" asked my sister, scandalized. 

"No; I said I had heard a good deal about the house, and she said itwas open to the public on Fridays. So I said we'd go then. "

"I think you are horrid!" cried Bee. "The insolence of that woman! Andyou actually think it is funny! You think _everything_ is funny. "

I soothed her by pointing out some of the things which I consideredsad, notably English people trying to enjoy themselves. Then the menbegan to drop in for tea, and that succeeded in making her forget hertroubles. 

Reggie and the Duke arrived together. My sister at once took charge ofthe Duke, while Reggie said to me, "I say, what sort of creature isthe old girl below?"

"Not a very good sort, I am afraid. Why? What has she done now?"

"Why, she stopped Abingdon and me and asked us to wipe our shoes. "

"She asked the Duke of Abingdon to wipe his shoes?" I gasped, in awhisper. 

"Yes; and Freddie, who was just ahead of us, turned back and said, 'Mygood woman, was the cab very dirty, do you think?'"

"Oh, don't tell my sister! She has almost died of Mrs. Black alreadyto-day; this would finish her completely. "

"Well, you must give your woman a talking to--a regular going over, d'ye know? Tell her you'll be the mistress of the whole blooming houseor you'll tear it to pieces. That's the way to talk to 'em. I told mylandlady in Edinburgh once that I'd chuck her out of the window if shespoke to me until she was spoken to. She came up and rapped on thedoor one Saturday night at ten o'clock, when I had some fellows there, and told me to send those men home and go to bed. "

"Then she isn't taking advantage of us because we are Americans, theway the cabmen do?"

"Oh yes, I dare say she is; but you must stand up to her. They're aset of thieves, the whole of 'em. I say, that's a pretty pictureyou've got pinned up there. "

"That's to hide a hole in the lace curtain, " I explained, gratuitously. Then I remembered, and glanced apprehensively at mysister, but fortunately she had not heard me. "That is one of thepictures from _Truth_, an American magazine. I always save the middlepicture when it is pretty, and pin it up on the wall. "

"That is one thing where the States are away ahead of us--in theirillustrated magazines. "

"Don't say 'the States!' I've told you before. I didn't know you everadmitted that anything was better in America. "

Reggie only smiled affably. He ignored my offer of battle, and said:

"Abingdon is asking your sister to dine. I'm asked, and Freddie andhis wife, and I think you will enjoy it. "

When they were all gone I marched downstairs to Mrs. Black withoutsaying a word to any one. When I came up I found my sister hangingover the banisters. 

"What is the matter? What have you done? I knew you were angry by theway you looked. "

"It was lovely!" I said. "I sent for Mrs. Black, and said, 'Mrs. Black, do you know the name of the gentleman whom you asked to wipehis shoes to-day?' 'No, ' said she. 'It was the Duke of Abingdon, ' Isaid, sternly, well knowing the unspeakable reverence which themiddle-class English have for a title. She turned purple. She fellback against the wall, muttering, 'The Duke of Abingdon! The Duke ofAbingdon!' I believe she is still leaning up against the wallmuttering that holy name. A title to Mrs. Black!"

The next day both the Tabbies were curtsying in the hall when westarted out. We were going on a coach to Richmond with Julia and herhusband, and another American girl, and then Julia's husband was goingto row us up the Thames to Hampton Court for tea, and they were allgoing to dine with us at Scott's when we got home. 

It was a lovely day. The trees were a mass of bloom, and everybodyought to have enjoyed himself. We were having a very good time of itamong ourselves reading the absurd signs, until we noticed the threegirls who sat opposite to us. They had serious faces, and long, consumptive teeth, which they never succeeded in completely hiding. Iknew just how they would look when they were dead; I knew that thosetwo long front teeth would still-- They listened to all we saidwithout a flicker of the eyelashes. Occasionally they looked down atthe size of the American girl's little feet and then involuntarilydrew their own back out of sight. 

Presently I espied a sign, "Funerals, for this week only, at halfprice. " I seized Julia's hand. "Stop, oh, stop the coach and let's geta funeral! We may never have an opportunity to get a bargain infunerals again. And the sale lasts only one week. Everybody told mebefore I came away to get what I wanted at the moment I saw it; not towait, thinking I would come back. So unless we order one now we mayhave to pay the full price. And a funeral would be such a goodinvestment; it would keep forever. You'd never feel like using itbefore you actually needed it. Do let me get one now!"

Of course, Julia, my sister, and Julia's husband were in gales oflaughter; but what finished me off was to see three serious creaturesopposite rise as if pulled by one string, look in an anxious way at meand then at the sign, while the teeth began to say to each other:"What did she say? What does she mean? What does she want a funeralfor?"

We had a lovely day, but everybody we met on the river looked veryunhappy, and nobody seemed to be at all glad that we were there orthat we were rising to the occasion. When we got home I was too tiredto notice things, but my sister, who sees everything, whispered:

"I verily believe they've put down a new stair-carpet to-day. "

The next morning such a sight met our astonished eyes. There was a newcarpet on the hall. There were new curtains in our drawing-room. Allthe covers had been removed from their sacred furniture. Brassandirons replaced the old ones. The piano had a new cover. There was arocking-chair for each (we had only one before), and while we werestill speechless with amazement Mrs. Black came in with our bill. 

"I have been thinking this over since yesterday, and I have decidedthat as long as you did not understand about the extras, it would beno more than right that I should take them off. So I owe you this. "

I took the money, and it dropped from my nerveless fingers. Mrs. Blackpicked it up and put it on the table--the mahogany table. 

"You see I propped your palms for you in your absence, and I repottedfour of them. I thought they would grow better. Here are someperiodicals I sent to the library for, thinking you might like to lookat them, and I put my new calendar over your writing-desk. Now, isthere any little delicacy you would like for your luncheon?"

While Bee was getting rid of her I made a few rapid mentalcalculations. 

"Bee, " I said, "we are going to stay over here two years. Let's buythe Duke and take him with us. "

 * * * * *

The reaction has come. I knew it would. It always does. It is amortification to be obliged to admit it in the face of London, and all that we have had done for us, but the fact is we arehomesick--wretchedly, bitterly homesick. I remember how, when otherpeople have been here and written that they were homesick, I havesniffed with contempt and have said to myself, "What poor taste! Justwait until _my_ turn comes to go to Europe! I'll show them what it isto enjoy every moment of my stay!"

But now--dear me, I can remember that I have made invidious remarksabout New York, and have objected to the odors in Chicago, and havehated the Illinois Central turnstiles. But if I could be back inAmerica I would not mind being caught in a turnstile all day. DearAmerica! Dear Lake Michigan! Dear Chicago!

I have talked the matter over with my sister, and we have decided thatit must be the people, for certainly the novelty is not yet worn offof this marvellous London. We like individually nearly every one whomwe have met, but as a nation the English are to me an acquiredtaste--just like olives and German opera. 

To explain. My friendly, volatile American feelings are constantlybeing shocked at the massed and consolidated indifference of Englishmen and women to each other. They care for nobody but themselves. In acertain sense this indifference to other people's opinions is verysatisfactory. It makes you feel that no matter how outrageous youwanted to be you could not cause a ripple of excitement orinterest--unless Royalty noticed your action. Then London would treaditself to death in its efforts to see and hear you. But if anEnglishman entered a packed theatre on his hands with his feet in theair, and thus proceeded to make the rounds of the house, the audiencewould only give one glance, just to make sure that it was nothing moreabnormal than a man in evening dress, carrying his crush-hat betweenhis feet and walking on his hands, and then they would return to theirexciting conversation of where they were "going to show after theplay. " Even the maids who usher would not smile, but would stoop andput his programme between his teeth for him, and turn to the nextcomer. 

The English mind their own business, and we Americans are so used tointerfering with each other, and minding everybody's business as wellas our own, it makes us very homesick indeed, to find that we can doprecisely as we please and be let entirely alone. 

The English who have been in America, or those who have a singleblessed drop of Irish or Scotch blood in their veins, will quiteunderstand what I mean. Fortunately for us we have found a few ofthese different sorts, and they have kept us from suicide. They warnedus of the differences we would find. One man said to me: "We Englishdo not understand the meaning of the word hospitality compared to youAmericans. Now in the States--"

"Stop right there, if you please, " I begged, "and say 'America. ' Itoffends me to be called 'the States' quite as much as if you called me'the Colonies' or 'the Provinces!'"

"You speak as if you were America, " he said. 

"I am, " I replied. 

"Now that is just it. You Americans come over here nationally. WeEnglish travel individually. "

I was so startled at this acute analysis from a man whom I had alwaysregarded as an Englishman that I forgot my manners and I said, "Goodheavens, you are not all English, are you?"

"My father was Irish, " he said. 

"I knew it!" I cried with joy. "Please shake hands with me again. Iknew you weren't entirely English after that speech!"

He laughed. 

"I will shake hands with you, of course. But I am a typical Britisher. Please believe that. "

"I shall not. You are not typical. That was really a cleverdistinction and quite true. "

He looked as if he were going to argue the point with me, so I hurriedon. I always get the worst of an argument, so I tried to take his mindoff his injury. "Now please go on, " I urged. "It sounded sointeresting. "

"Well, I was only going to say that in America you are, as hosts, quite sincere in wishing us to enjoy ourselves and to like America. Here we will only do our duty by you if you bring letters to us, andwe don't care a hang whether you like England or not. We like it, andthat's enough. "

"I see, " I said, with cold chills of aversion for England as a nationcreeping over my enthusiasm. 

"Now in America, " he proceeded, "your host sends his carriage for you, or calls for you, takes you with him, stays by you, introduces you tothe people he thinks you would most care to meet, and tells them whoand what you are; sees that you have everything that's going, and thatyou see everything that's going, and then takes you back to yourclub. "

"Then he asks you if you have had a good time, and if you likeAmerica!" I supplemented. 

"Oh, Lord, yes! He asks you that all the time, and so does everybodyelse, " he said, with a groan. 

"Now, you were unkind if you didn't tell him all he wanted you to, forI do assure you it was pure American kindness of heart which made himtake all that trouble for you. I know, too, without your telling me, that he introduced you to all the prettiest girls, and gave you achance to talk to each of them, and only hovered around waiting totake you on to the next one, as soon as he could catch you with ease. "

"He did just that. How did you know?"

"Because he was a typical American host, God bless him, and that isthe way we do things over there. "

"Now here, " he went on, "we consider our duty done if we take a man todine, and then to some reception, where we turn him loose after one ortwo introductions. "

"What a hateful way of doing!" I said, politely. 

"It is. It must seem barbarous to you. "

"It does. "

"Or if you are a woman we send our carriages to let you drive whereyou like. Or we send you invitations to go to needlework exhibitionswhere you have to pay five shillings admission. "

I said nothing, and he laughed. 

"I know they have done that to you, " he exclaimed. "Haven't they?"

"I have been delightfully entertained at luncheons and dinners andteas, and I have been introduced to as charming people in London as Iever hope to meet anywhere, " I said, stolidly. 

"But you won't tell about the needlework. Oh, I say, but that's jolly!Fancy what you said when you began to get those beastly things!" Andhe laughed again. 

"I didn't say anything, " I said. Then he roared. Yet he claimed to bea "typical Britisher. "

"We mean kindly, " he went on. "You mustn't lay it up against us. "

"Oh, we don't. We are having a lovely time. "

There are times when the truth would be brutal. 

Then this oasis of a man, this "typical Britisher, " went away, and mysister and I dressed for the theatre. A friend had sent us her box, and assured us that it was perfectly proper for us to go alone. So wewent. Up to this time we had not hinted to each other that we werehomesick. The play was most amusing, yet we couldn't help watching theaudience. Such a bored-looking set, the women with frizzled hair helddown by invisible nets, mingling with their eyebrows, and donehideously in the back. Low-necked gowns, exhibiting the most beautifulshoulders in the world. Gorgeous jewels in their hair and gleaming allover their bodices, but among half a dozen emerald, turquoise, anddiamond bracelets there would appear a silver-watch bracelet whichcost not over ten dollars, and spoiled the effect of all the others. 

English women as a race are the worst-dressed women in the world. Isaw thousands of them in Piccadilly and Regent Street, and at ChurchParade in the Park, with high, French-heeled slippers over coloredstockings. And as to sizes, I should say nines were the average. Thereare some smaller, but the most are larger. 

The Prince of Wales was in the box opposite to ours, and when we werenot looking at him we gazed at the impassive faces of the audience. They never smiled. They never laughed. The subtlest points in the playwent unnoticed, yet it is one which has had a record run and bids fairto keep the boards for the rest of the season. 

Suddenly my sister, although we had not spoken of the homesicknessthat was weighing us down, touched my arm and said, "Look quick!There's one!"

"Where? Where?"

"Down there just in front of the pit, talking to that bald-headedidiot with the monocle. "

"Do you think she is American?" I said, dubiously. I couldn't see herfeet. "She might be French. She talks all over. "

"No. She is an American girl. See how thin she is. The French areshort and fat. "

"Look at her face, " I said, enviously. "How animated it is. See how itseems to stand out among all the other faces. "

"Yet she is only amusing herself. See how stolid that creature looksthat she is wasting all her vitality on. "

"She has told him some joke and she is laughing at it. He has put hismonocle in his other eye in his effort to see the point. He will getit by the next boat. Wish she'd come and tell that joke to me. I'dlaugh at it. "

My sister eyed me critically. 

"You don't look as if you could laugh, " she said. 

"I wonder what would happen if I should fall dead and drop over intothe lap of that fat elephant in pink silk with the red neck, " I said, musingly. 

"She wouldn't even wink, " said my sister, laughingly. "But if youstruck her just right you would bounce clear up here again and I couldcatch you. "

"It is just four o'clock in Chicago, " I said. 

My sister promptly turned her back on me. 

"And Billy has just wakened from his nap, and Katy is giving him hisfood, " I went on. (Billy is my sister's baby. ) "And then mamma willcome into the nursery presently and take him while Katy gets hiscarriage out, and she will show him my picture and ask him who it is(because she wrote me she always did it at this time), and then hewill say, 'Tattah, ' which is the sweetest baby word for 'Auntie' Iever heard from mortal lips, and then he will kiss it of his ownaccord. Mamma wrote that he had blistered it with his kisses, and it'sone of the big ones, but I don't care; I'll order a dozen more if hewill blister them all. And then she will say, 'Where did mamma andTattah go?' and he will wave his precious little square hand and say, 'Big boat, ' and she says he tries to say, 'Way off'--and, oh, dear, we are 'way off'--"

"Stop talking, you fiend, " said my sister, from the depths of herhandkerchief. "You know I look like a fright when I cry. "

"Boo-hoo, " was my only reply. And once started, I couldn't stop. Thatdeadly English atmosphere of indifference--and, oh--and everything!

Have you ever been homesick when you couldn't get home? Have you everwanted to see your mother so that every bone in your body ached? Haveyou ever been in the state where to see the baby for five minutes youwould give everything on earth you had? That was the way I felt aboutBilly that grewsome night at this amusing play in an English theatre. I had on my best clothes, but after my handkerchief ceased to availthe tears slopped down on my satin gown, and the blisters will remainas a lasting tribute to the contagion of a company of English peopleout enjoying themselves. 

My sister's stern sense of decorum caused her to contain herself untilshe got home, but I am free to confess that after I once loosed myhold over myself and found what a relief it was, I realized the truthof what our old negro cook used to say when I was a child in theSouth, and asked her why she howled and cried in such an alarmingmanner when she "got religion. " She used to say, "Lawd, chile, youdon't know how soovin' it is to jest bust out awn 'casions lake dese!"

Happy negroes! Happy children, who can "bust out" when their feelingsget the better of them! Civilization robs us of many of our acutestpleasures. 

That night on the way home from the theatre I learned something. Nobody had ever told me that it is the custom to give the cabby anextra sixpence when one takes a cab late at night, so, on alighting infront of our flower-trimmed lodgings, I reached up, deposited myshilling in his hand, and was turning away, when my footsteps werearrested by my cabby's voice. 

Turning, I saw him tossing the despised shilling in his curved palmand saying:

"A shillin'! Twelve o'clock at night! Two ladies in evenin' dress!_You_ ought to 'a' gone in a 'bus! A cab's too expensive for _you_!_I_ wish you'd 'a' _walked_ and I wish it had _rained_!"

With that parting shot he gathered up the lines and drove off, while Ileaned up against the door shaking with a laughter which my sister inno wise shared with me. Poor Bee! Things like that jar her so that shecan't get any amusement out of them. To her it was terrifyingimpudence. To me it was a heart-to-heart talk with a London cabby!

Oh, the sweet viciousness of that "_I_ wish it had _rained_!" I wonderif that man beats his wife, or if he just converses with her as hedoes with a recreant fare! Anyway, I loved him. 

But if I have discovered nothing else in the brief time since I leftmy native land, it is worth while to realize the truth of all thepoetry and song written on foreign shores about home. 

To one accustomed to travel only in America, and to feel at home withall the different varieties of one's countrymen, such sentiments areno more than _vers de société_. _But_ now I know what _Heimweh_is--the home-pain. I can understand that the Swiss really die of itsometimes. The home-pain! Neuralgia, you know, and most other acutepains, attack only one set of nerves. But _Heimweh_ hurts all over. There is not a muscle of the body, nor the most remote fibre of thebrain, nor a tissue of the heart that does not ache with it. You can'teat. You can't sleep. You can't read or write or talk. It begins withthe protoplasm of your soul--and reaches forward to the end of time, and aches every step of the way along. You want to hide your face in apillow away from everybody and do nothing but weep, but even that doesnot cure. It seems to be too private to help materially. The onlything I can recommend is to "bust out. "

Homesickness is an inexplicable thing. I have heard brides relate howit attacked them unmercifully and without cause in the midst of theirhoneymoon. Girl students, whose sole aim in life has been to comeabroad to study, and who, in finally coming, have fondly dreamed thatthe gates of Paradise had swung open before their delighted eyes, havebeen among its earliest and most acutely afflicted victims. Nosuccess, no realized ambitions ward it off. Like death, it comes tohigh and low alike. One woman, whose name became famous with her firstconcert, told me that she spent the first year over here in tears. Nothing that friends can do, no amount of kindness or hospitalityavails as a preventive. You can take bromides and cure insomnia. Youcan take chloroform, and enough of it will prevent seasickness, butnothing avails for _Heimweh_. And like pride, "let him that thinkethhe standeth take heed lest he fall. " I have been in the midst of ananimated, recital of how homesick I had been the day before, ridiculing myself and my malady with unctuous freedom, when suddenlyBilly's little face would seem to rise out of the flowers on thedinner-table, or the patter of his little flying feet as they used tosound in my ear as he fluttered down the long hall to my study, or thedarling way he used to ran towards me when I held out my arms andsaid, "Come, Billy, let Tattah show you the doves, " with such anexpectant face, and that little scarlet mouth opened to kiss me--oh, it is nothing to anybody else, but it is home to me, and I was onlyrecalled to London and my dinner party when a fresh attack was made onAmerica, and I was called once more to battle for my country. 

I have "fought, bled, and died" for home and country more times than Ican count since I have been here. I ought to come home with honorablescars and the rank of field-marshal, at least. I never knew how manyobjectionable features America presented to Englishmen until I becametheir guest and broke bread at their tables. I cannot eat very much attheir dinner parties--I am too busy thinking how to parry theirattacks on my America, and especially my Chicago, and my Westgenerally. The English adore Americans, but they loathe America, andI, for one, will not accept a divided allegiance. "Love me, love mydog, " is my motto. I go home from their dinners as hungry as a wolf, but covered with Victoria crosses. I am puzzled to know if they reallyhate Chicago more than any other spot on earth, or if they simply loveto hear me fight for it, or if their manners need improving. 

I myself may complain of the horrors of our filthy streets, or of theway we tear up whole blocks at once (here in London they only mend ateaspoonful of pavement at a time), or of our beastly winds which tearyour soul from your body, but I hope never to sink so low as to permita lot of foreigners to do it. For even as a Parisian loves his Paris, and as a New Yorker loves his London, so do I love my Chicago. 

III

PARIS

It was a fortunate thing, after all, that I went to London first, andhad my first great astonishment there. It broke Paris to me gently. 

For a month I have been in this city of limited republicanism; thisextraordinary example of outward beauty and inward uncleanness; thisbewildering cosmopolis of cheap luxuries and expensive necessities;this curious city of contradictions, where you might eat yourbreakfast from the streets--they are so clean--but where you mustclose your eyes to the spectacles of the curbstones; this beautiful, whited sepulchre, where exists the unwritten law, "Commit any offenceyou will, provided you submerge it in poetry and flowers"; thisexponent of outward observances, where a gentleman will deliberatelypush you into the street if he wishes to pass you in a crowd, butwhere his action is condoned by his inexpressible manner of raisinghis hat to you, and the heartfelt sincerity of his apology; where oneman will run a mile to restore a lost franc, but if you ask him tochange a gold piece he will steal five; where your eyes are ravishedwith the beauty, and the greenness, and the smoothness and apparentease of living of all its inhabitants; where your mind is filled withthe pictures, the music, the art, the general atmosphere of cultureand wit; where the cooking is so good but so elusive, and where theshops are so bewitching that you have spent your last dollar withoutthinking, and you are obliged to cable for a new letter of credit fromhome before you know it--this is Paris. 

Paris is very educational. I can imagine its influence broadening somepeople so much that their own country could never be ample enough tocover them again. I can imagine it narrowing others so that they wouldreturn to America more of Puritans than ever. It is amusing, it isfascinating, it is exciting, it is corrupting. The French must be themost curious people on earth. How could even heavenly ingenuity createa more uncommon or bewildering contradiction and combination? Make upyour mind that they are as simple as children when you see theirinnocent picnicking along the boulevards and in the parks with theirwhole families, yet you dare not trust yourself to hear what they aresaying. Believe that they are cynical, and _fin de siècle_, andskeptical of all women when you hear two men talk, and the next dayyou hear that one of them has shot himself on the grave of hissweetheart. Believe that politeness is the ruling characteristic ofthe country because a man kisses your hand when he takes leave of you. But marry him, and no insult as regards other women is too low for himto heap upon you. Believe that the French men are sympathetic becausethey laugh and cry openly at the theatre. But appeal to theirchivalry, and they will rescue you from one discomfort only to offeryou a worse. The French have sentimentality, but not sentiment. Theyhave gallantry, but not chivalry. They have vanity, but not pride. They have religion, but not morality. They are a combination of thewildest extravagance and the strictest parsimony. They cultivate theground so close to the railroad tracks that the trains almost run overtheir roses, and yet they leave a Place de la Concorde in the heart ofthe city. 

You can buy the wing of a chicken at a butcher's and take it home tocook it. But your bill at a restaurant will appall you. Water is themost precious and exclusive drink you can order in Paris. Imaginethat--you who let the water run to cool it! In Paris they actually payfor water in their houses by the quart. 

Artichokes, and truffles, and mushrooms, and silk stockings, and kidgloves are so cheap here that it makes you blink your eyes. But eggs, and cream, and milk are luxuries. Silks and velvets are bewilderinglyinexpensive. But cotton stuffs are from America, and areextravagances. They make them up into "costumes, " and trim them withvelvet ribbon. Never by any chance could you be supposed to sendcotton frocks to be washed every week. The luxury of fresh, starchedmuslin dresses and plenty of shirt-waists is unknown. 

I never shall overcome the ecstasies of laughter which assail me whenI see varieties of coal exhibited in tiny shop windows, set forth inhigh glass dishes, as we exploit chocolates at home. But well they mayrespect it, for it is really very much cheaper to freeze to death thanto buy coal in Paris. 

The reason of all this is the city tax on every chicken, every carrot, every egg brought into Paris. Every mouthful of food is taxed. Thisproduces an enormous revenue, and this is why the streets are soclean; it is why the asphalt is as smooth as a ballroom floor; it iswhy the whole of Paris is as beautiful as a dream. 

In fact, the city has ideas of cleanliness which its middle-classinhabitants do not share. On a rainy day in Paris the absurdly hoisteddresses will expose to your view all varieties of trimmed, ruffled, and lace petticoats, which would undeniably be benefited by a bath. All the _lingerie_ has ribbons in it, and sometimes I think they arenever intended to be taken out. 

When I was at the château of a friend not long ago she overheard hermaid apologizing to two sisters of charity, for the presence of abath-tub in her mistress's dressing-room: "You must not blame madamela marquise for bathing every day. She is not more untidy than I, andI, God knows, wash myself but twice a year. It is just a habit of herswhich she caught from the English. "

My friend called to her sharply, and told her she need not apologizefor her bathing, to which the maid replied, in a tone of meekjustification, "But if madame la marquise only knew how she wasregarded by the people for this habit of hers!"

I like the way the French take their amusements. At the theatre theylaugh and applaud the wit of the hero and hiss the villain. They shouttheir approval of a duel and weep aloud over the death of the agedmother. When they drive in the Bois they smile and have an air ofenjoyment quite at variance with the bored expression of English andAmericans who have enough money to own carriages. We drove in HydePark in London the day before we came to Paris, and nearly wept withsympathy for the unspoken grief in the faces of the unfortunate richwho were at such pains to enjoy themselves. 

The second day from that we had a delightful drive in the Bois inParis. 

"How glad everybody seems to be we have come!" I said to my sister. "See how pleased they all look. "

I was enchanted at their gay faces. I felt like bowing right and leftto them, the way queens and circus girls do. 

I never saw such handsome men as I saw in London. I never saw suchbeautiful women as I see in Paris. 

The Bois has never been so smart as it was the past season, for thehorrible fire of the Bazar de la Charité put an end to the Parisseason, and left those who were not personally bereaved no solace butthe Bois. Consequently, the costumes one saw between five and seven onthat one beautiful boulevard were enough to set one wild. I alwayswished that my neck turned on a pivot and that I had eyes set like acoronet all around my head. My sister and I were in a constant stateof ecstasy and of clutching each other's gowns, trying to see everyone who passed. But it was of no use. Although they drove slowly onpurpose to be seen, if you tried to focus your glance on each one itseemed as if they drove like lightning, and you got only astigmatismfor your pains. I always came home from the Bois with a headache and astiff neck. 

I never dreamed of such clothes even in my dreams of heaven. But theFrench are an extravagant race. There was hardly a gown worn lastseason which was not of the most delicate texture, garnished withchiffon and illusion and tulle--the most crushable, airy, inflammable, unserviceable material one can think of. Now, I am a utilitarian. WhenI see a white gown I always wonder if it will wash. If I see lace onthe foot ruffle of a dress I think how it will sound when the wearersteps on it going up-stairs. But anything would be serviceable to weardriving in a victoria in the Bois between five and seven, and as thatis where I have seen the most beautiful costumes I have no right tocomplain, or to thrust at them my American ideas of usefulness. Thisrage of theirs for beauty is what makes a perpetual honeymoon for theeyes of every inch of France. The way they study color and put greenstogether in their landscape gardening makes one think with horror ofour prairies and sagebrush. 

The eye is ravished with beauty all over Paris. The clean streets, thewalks between rows of trees for pedestrians, the lanes for bicyclists, the paths through tiny forests, right in Paris, for equestrians, andon each side the loveliest trees--trees everywhere except where thereare fountains--but what is the use of trying to describe a beautywhich has staggered braver pens than mine, and which, after all, youmust see to appreciate?

The Catholic observances one sees everywhere in Paris are mostinteresting. When a funeral procession passes, every man takes off hishat and stands watching it with the greatest respect. 

In May the streets are full of sweet-faced little girls on their wayto their first communion. They were all in white, bareheaded, exceptfor their white veils, white shoes, white gloves, and the dearest lookof importance on their earnest little faces. It was most touching. 

In all months, however, one sees the comical sight of a French brideand bridegroom, in all the glory of their bridal array--white satin, veil, and orange blossoms--driving through the streets in open cabs, and hugging and kissing each other with an unctuous freedom which isapt to throw a conservative American into a spasm of laughter. Indeed, the frank and candid way that love-making goes on in public among thelower classes is so amazing that at first you think you never in thisworld will become accustomed to it, but you get accustomed to a greatmany strange sights in Paris. If a kiss explodes with unusual violencein a cab near mine it sometimes scares the horse, but it no longerdisturbs me in the least. My nervousness over that sort of thing hasentirely worn off. 

I have had but one adventure, and that was of a simple and primitivecharacter, which seemed to excite no one but myself. They say thatthere is no drunkenness in France. If that is so then this cabman ofmine had a fit of some kind. Perhaps, though, he was only a beast. Most of the cabmen here are beasts. They beat their poor horses sounmercifully that I spend quite a good portion of my time standing upin the cab and arguing with them. But the only efficacious argument Ihave discovered is to tell them that they will get no _pourboire_ ifthey beat the horse. That seems to infuse more humanity into them thanany number of Scripture texts. 

On this occasion my cabman, for no reason whatever, suddenly began tobeat his horse in the hatefulest way, leaning down with his whip andstriking the horse underneath, as we were going downhill on the Rue deFreycinet. I screamed at him, but he pretended not to hear. The cabrocked from side to side, the horse was galloping, and this brutebeating him like a madman. It made me wild. I was being bounced aroundlike corn in a popper and in imminent danger of being thrown to thepavement. 

People saw my danger, but nobody did anything--just looked, that wasall. I saw that I must save myself if there was any saving going to bedone. So with one last trial of my lungs I shrieked at the cabman, butthe cobblestones were his excuse, and he kept on. So I just stood upand knocked his hat off with my parasol!--his big, white, glazed hat. It was glorious! He turned around in a fury and pulled up his horse, with a torrent of French abuse and impudence which scared me nearly todeath. I thought he might strike me. 

So I pulled my twitching lips into a distortion which passed musterwith a Paris cabman for a smile, and begged his pardon so profuselythat he relented and didn't kill me. 

I often blush for the cheap Americans with loud voices and provincialspeech, and general commonness, whom one meets over here; but with alltheir faults they cannot approach the vulgarities at table which Ihave seen in Paris. In all America we have no such vulgar institutionas their _rince-bouche_--an affair resembling a two-part finger-bowl, with the water in a cup in the middle. At fashionable tables, men andwomen in gorgeous clothes, who speak four or five languages, actuallyrinse their mouths and gargle at the table, and then slop the waterthus used back into these bowls. The first time I saw this I do assureyou I would not have been more astonished if the next course had beenstomach pumps. 

And as for the toothpick habit! Let no one ever tell me that thatatrocity is American! Here it goes with every course, and without thepretended decency of holding one's _serviette_ before one's mouth, which, in my opinion, is a mere affectation, and aggravates theoffence. 

But the most shameless thing in all Europe is the marriage question. To talk with intelligent, clever, thinking men and women, who know thesecret history of all the famous international marriages, as well asthe high contracting parties, who will relate the price paid for thehusband, and who the intermediary was, and how much commission he orshe received, is to make you turn faint and sick at the mere thought, especially if you happen to come from a country where they once foughtto abolish the buying and selling of human beings. But our blackslaves were above buying and selling themselves or their children. Itremains for civilized Europe of our time to do this, and the highestand proudest of her people at that. 

It is not so shocking to read about it in glittering generalities. Iknew of it in a vague way, just as I knew the history of the massacreof Saint Bartholomew. I thought it was too bad that so many peoplewere killed, and I also thought it a pity that Frenchmen never marriedwithout a _dot_. But when it comes to meeting the people who had thusbargained, and the moment their gorgeous lace and satin backs wereturned to hear some one say, "You are always so interested in thatsort of thing, have you heard what a scandal was caused by themarriage of those two?"--then it ceases to be history; then it becomesalmost a family affair. 

"How could a marriage between two unattached young people cause ascandal?" I asked, with my stupid, primitive American ideas. 

"Oh, the bride's mother refused to pay the commission to theintermediary, " was the airy reply. "It came near getting into thepapers. "

At the Jubilee garden party at Lady Monson's I saw the most beautifulFrench girl I have seen in Paris. She was superb. In America she wouldhave been a radiant, a triumphant beauty, and probably would haveacquired the insolent manners of some of our spoiled beauties. Insteadof that, however, she was modest, even timid-looking, except for herqueenly carriage. Her gown was a dream, and a dream of a dress at aParis garden party means something. 

"What a tearing beauty!" I said to my companion. "Who is she?"

"Yes, poor girl!" he said. "She is the daughter of the Comtesse N----. One of the prettiest girls in Paris. Not a sou, however; consequentlyshe will never marry. She will probably go into a convent. "

"But why? Why won't she marry? Why aren't all the men crazy about her?Why don't you marry her?"

"Marry a girl without a _dot_? Thank you, mademoiselle. I am anexpense to myself. My wife must not be an additional encumbrance. "

"But surely, " I said, "somebody will want to marry her, if no noblemanwill. "

"Ah, yes, but she is of noble blood, and she must not marry beneathher. No one in her own class will marry her, so"--a shrug--"theconvent! See, her chances are quite gone. She has been out five yearsnow. "

I could have cried. Every word of it was quite true. I thought of thedozens of susceptible and rich American men I knew who would have gonethrough fire and water for her, and who, although they have no titleto give her, would have made her adoring and adorable husbands, and Iseriously thought of offering a few of them to her for consideration!But alas, there are so many ifs and ands, and--well, I didn't. 

I only sighed and said, "Well, I suppose such things are common inFrance, but I do assure you such things are impossible in America. "

"Such things as what, mademoiselle?"

"This cold-blooded bartering, " I said. "American men are above it. "

"Are American girls above selling themselves, mademoiselle? Do you seethat poor, pitifully plain little creature there, in that dress whichcost a fortune? Do you see how ill she carries it? Do you see herunformed, uncertain manner? Her husband is the one I just had thehonor of presenting to you, who is now talking to the beauty you somuch admire. "

"He shows good taste in spite of his marriage, " I said. 

"Certainly. But his wife is your countrywoman. That is the last famousinternational marriage, and the most vulgar of the whole lot. Listen, mademoiselle, and I will tell you the exact truth of the whole affair. 

"She came over here with letters to Paris friends, and when it becameknown that one of the richest heiresses in America was here, naturallyall the mammas with marriageable sons were anxious to see her. She wasinvited everywhere, but as she could not speak French, and as she wasas you see her, her success could not be said to be great. No, butthat made no difference. The Duchesse de Z---- was determined that herson should marry the rich heiress. As she expected to remain here ayear or more, and the young Duc de Z---- made a wry face, she did notpress the matter. Then the heiress went into a convent to learnFrench, and the Duchesse went to see her very often and took her todrive, and did her son's part as well as she could. 

"Suddenly, to the amazement of everybody, the heiress sailed forAmerica without a word of warning. The Duchesse was furious. 'You mustfollow her, ' she said to her son. 'We cannot let so much moneyescape. ' The son said he would be hanged if he went to America, or ifhe would marry such a monkey, and as for her money, she could goanywhere she pleased with it, or words to that effect. So that endedthe affair of the Duc de Z----. When the other impecunious youngnobles heard that the Duchesse no longer had any claims upon theAmerican's money they got together and said, 'Somebody must marry herand divide with the rest. We can't all marry her, but we can all havea share from whoever does. Now we will draw lots to see who must go toAmerica and marry her. ' The lot fell to the Baron de X----, but he hadno money for the journey. So all the others raised what money theycould and loaned it to him, and took his notes for it, with enormousinterest, payable after his marriage. He sailed away, and within eightmonths he had married her, but he has not paid those notes because hiswife won't give him the money! And these gentlemen are furious! Goodjoke, I call it. "

"What a shameful thing!" I said. "I wonder if that girl knew how shewas being married!"

"Of course she knew! At least, she might have known. She was rich andshe was plain. How could she hope to gain one of the proudest titlesin France without buying it?"

"I wonder if she could have known!" I said, again. 

"It would not have prevented the marriage, would it, mademoiselle, ifshe had?"

"Indeed it would!" I said (but I don't know whether it would or not). He shrugged his shoulders. 

"America is very different from Europe, then, mademoiselle. Here itwould have made no difference. When a great amount of money is to beplaced, one must not have too many scruples. "

"If she did know, " I said, with a fervor which was lost upon him, "believe this, whether you can understand it or not: she was not atypical American girl. "

I had, as usual, many more words which he deserved to have had said tohim, but education along this line takes too much time. I ought tohave begun this great work with his great-grandparents. 

 * * * * *

What any one can see about Dinard to like is a mystery to me! Is itpossible that one who has spent a month there could ever be lured backagain? There is a beautiful journey from Paris across Francesouthwesterly to the coast, through odd little French villages, vineyards, poppy-fields, and rose-gardens, across shining rivulets andthrough an undulating landscape, all so lovely that it is no wonderthat one expects all this beauty to lead up to a climax. But what adisappointment Dinard is to one's enthusiastic anticipations! Thisfamous watering-place has to my mind not one solitary redeemingfeature. It has no excuse for being famous. It has not even one happyaccident about it as a peg to hang its fame upon, like some writers'first novels. Dinard simply goes on being famous, nobody knows why. And to go there, after reading pages about it in the papers andhearing people speak of Dinard as Mohammedans whisper sacredly ofMecca, is like meeting celebrities. You wonder what under thesun--what in the world--how in the name of Heaven such ugly, stupid, uninteresting, heavy, dull, and insufferably ordinary persons areallowed to become famous by an overruling and beneficent Providence! Ihave met many celebrities, and I have been to Dinard. I have had myshare of disappointments. 

To begin with, Dinard is not sufficiently picturesque. There are butone or two pretty vistas and three or four points of view. Then it isnot typically French. It is inhabited partly by English families whocross the Channel yearly from Southampton and Portsmouth, and who takewith them their nine uninteresting daughters, with long front teethand ill-hanging duck skirts, and partly by Americans who go to Dinardas they go to the Eiffel Tower; not that either is particularlyinteresting, but they had heard of these places before they came over. The only really interesting thing within five miles of Dinard is that, off St. Malo, on the island of Grand Bé, Châteaubriand is buried. Butas this really belongs more to the attractions of St. Malo than toDinard, and nobody who spends summers at Dinard ever mentionedChâteaubriand in my presence, or honored his tomb by a visit, it ispure charity on my part to ascribe this solitary point of realinterest to Dinard. For, after all, Châteaubriand does not belong toit. Which logic reminds me forcibly of the plea entered by the defencein a suit for borrowing a kettle: "In the first place, I neverborrowed his kettle; in the second place, it was whole when I returnedit; and, in the third place, it was cracked when I got it. "

So with Châteaubriand and Dinard. Then Dinard has none of the dash andgo of other watering-places. There is nothing to do except to bathemornings and watch the people win or lose two francs at _petitschevaux_ in the evenings. Not wildly exciting, that. Consequently, yousoon begin to stagnate with the rest. 

You grow more and more stupid as the weeks pass, and at the end of amonth you cease to think. From that time on you do not have such a badtime--that is to say, you do not suffer so acutely, because you havenow got down to the level of the people who go back to Dinard the nextyear. 

We came away. The hotels are among the worst on earth--musty, old-fashioned, and villainously expensive--and one of the happiestmoments in my life was the day when I left Dinard for Mont St. Michel. Mont St. Michel is one of the most out-of-the-way, un-get-at-ableplaces I found in all Europe; but, oh, how it rewards one who arrives!

Mont St. Michel is too well known to need a description. But to gofrom Dinard requires, first of all, that one must go by boat over toSt. Malo, thence by train; change cars, and alight finally at a lonelylittle station, behind which stands a sort of vehicle--a cross betweena London omnibus and a hay-wagon. You scramble to the top of this asbest you may. Nobody helps you. The Frenchman behind you crowdsforward and climbs up ahead of you and holds you back with hisumbrella while he hauls his fat wife up beside him. Then you clamberup by the hub of the wheel and by sundry awkward means which remindyou of climbing a stone wall when you were a child. You take any seatleft, which the Frenchmen do not want, the horses are put to, and awayyou go over a smooth sandy road for eleven miles, with the seacrawling up on each side of you over the dunes. 

Suddenly, without warning, you come squarely upon Mont St. Michel, rising solidly five hundred feet from nowhere. There is a whole townin this fortress, built upon this rock, street above street, like aflight of stairs, and house piled up behind house, until on the verytop there is one of the most famous cathedrals in the world; and asyou thread its maze of vaulted chambers and dungeons and come to itsgigantic tower you are lost in absolute wonder at the building of it. 

Where did they get the material? And when got, what human ingenuitycould raise those enormous blocks of stone to that vast height? Howthose cannon swept all approach by land or sea as far as the eye couldreach! It would require superb courage in an enemy to come withinreach of that grim sentinel of France, manned by her warrior monks. What secrets those awful dungeons might relate! Here political crimeswere avenged with all the cruelty of Siberian exile. Here prisonerswore their lives away in black solitude, no ray of light penetratingtheir darkness. 

The story is told that one poor wretch was eaten alive by giganticrats, and they have a ghastly reproduction of it in wax, which makesyou creepy for a week after you have seen it. Nowhere in all Europedid I see a place which impressed its wonder and its history of horrorupon me as did the cathedral dungeon of Mont St. Michel. Its situationwas so impregnable, its capacity so vast, its silence and isolationfrom the outer world so absolute. 

All Russia does not boast a situation so replete with possible andprobable misery and anguish such as were suggested to my mind here. 

But the wonder and charm of the compact little town which clings likea limpet to its base are more than can be expressed on the writtenpage. It is like climbing the uneven stairs of some vast and rooflessancient palace, upon each floor of which dwell families who have comein and roofed over the suites of rooms and made houses out of them. The stairs lead you, not from floor to floor, but from bakery tocarpenter-shop, from the blacksmith's to the telegraph-office. 

The streets are paved with large cobblestones, to prevent cart-wheelsfrom slipping, and are so narrow that I often had to stand up atafternoon tea with my cup in one hand and my chair in the other, tolet a straining, toiling little donkey pass me, gallantly hauling hisload of fagots up an incline of forty-five degrees. 

The famous inn here is kept by Madame Poularde, who can cook somarvellously that she is one of the wonders of Normandy. Her kitchenfaces the main street; you simply step over the threshold as you hearthe beating of eggs, and there, over an immense open fire, which roarsgloriously up the chimney, are the fowls twirling on their strings anddripping deliciously into the pans which sizzle complainingly on thecoals beneath. 

Presently the roaring ceases, the fresh coals are flattened down, andinto a skillet, with a handle five feet long, is dropped the butter, which melts almost instantly. A fat little red-faced boy pushes theskillet back and forth to keep the butter from burning. The franticbeating of eggs comes nearer and nearer. The shrill voice of MadamePoularde screams voluble French at her assistants. She boxessomebody's ears, snatches the eggs, gives them one final puffybeating, which causes them to foam up and overflow, and at thatexciting moment out they bubble into the smoking skillet, the handleof which she seizes at the identical moment that she lets go of theempty bowl with one hand and pushes the red-faced boy over backwardwith the other. It is legerdemain! But then, _how_ she manages thatskillet! How her red cheeks flush, her black eyes sparkle, and herplump hands guide that ship of state!

We are all so excited that we get horribly in her way and almost fallinto the fire in our anxiety. She stirs and coaxes and coquettes withthe lovely foamy mass until it becomes as light as the yellow down ona fledgling's wings. She calls it an omelette, but she is scramblingthose eggs! Then when it is almost done she screams at us to take ourplaces. The red-faced boy rings a huge bell, and we all tumble madlyup the narrow stairs to the dining-room, where a score of assortedtourists are seated. _They_ get that first omelette because theybehaved better than we did, and were more orderly. There are half adozen little maids who attend us. They give us bread and bring ourwine and get our plates all ready, for, behold, we can hear below thebeating of the eggs and the sizzling of the butter, and presentlyMadame Poularde's scream and slap, and we know that our omelette is onthe way!

There were scores of bridal parties there when we were, for Mont St. Michel seems to be the Niagara of France, and really one could hardlyimagine a more charming place for a honeymoon. Indeed, for a newlymarried couple, for boy and girl, for spinsters and bachelors, ay, even for Darby and Joan, Mont St. Michel has attractions. All sortsand conditions of men here find the most romantic and interesting spotto be found in the whole of France. 

While here we got telegrams telling us of the assembling of ourfriends at a house-party at a château in the south of France whichonce had belonged to Charles VII. So without waiting for anything morewe wired a joyful acceptance and set out. We did, however, stop over afew hours at Blois, in order to see the château there. We really didBlois in a spirit of Baedeker, for we were crazy to see Velor, inorder not to miss an inch of the good times which we knew would riotthere. But virtue was its own reward, for as we were looking into thedepths of the first real oubliette which I ever had seen, and I wasjust shivering with the vision of that fiendish Catharine de' Mediciwho used to drop people into these holes every morning beforebreakfast, just as an appetizer, we heard a most blood-curdlingshriek, and there stood that wretched Jimmie watching us from an opendoor, waving his Baedeker at us, with Mrs. Jimmie's lovely Madonnasmile seen over his shoulder. 

No one who has not felt the awful pangs of homesickness abroad has anyidea of the joy with which one greets intimate friends in Europe. Ibelieve that travel in Europe has done more toward the riveting oflukewarm American friendships than any other thing in the world. 

The Jimmies have often appeared upon my pathway like angels of light, and at Blois we simply loved them, for Blois is not only gloomy, butit has a most ghastly history. The murder of the Duc de Guise and hisbrother, by order of King Henry III. , took place here. They show onethe rooms where the murder was committed, the door through which themurderer entered, and the private _cabinet de travail_ where the kingwaited for the news. 

Here, also, Margaret of Valois married Henry of Navarre, and Charles, Duc d'Alençon, married Margaret of Anjou. But one hardly ever thinksof the weddings which occurred here for the horrors which overshadowthem. How fitting that Marie de' Medici should have been imprisonedhere, and my ancient enemy, Catharine, that queen-mother who perchedher children on thrones as carelessly and as easily as did Napoleonand Queen Louise of Denmark--that Catharine should have died here, "unregretted and unlamented, " was too lovely!

Then we left the magnificent old castle and took the train forPort-Boulet, where the Marquise met us with her little privateomnibus, holding eight, drawn by handsome American horses. They werenew horses and young, and the Marquise said that Charles found themquite unmanageable. Jimmie watched him drive them around a moment ortwo before they could be made to stand, then he broke out laughing. The Marquise was so disgusted at the way they see-sawed that she saidshe was going to sell them. 

"Sell them!" cried Jimmie. "Why, all in the world that's the matterwith those poor brutes is that they don't speak French! Let _me_ drivethem!"

So the Marquise saved Charles's vanity by saying that monsieur wishedto try the new horses. Jimmie climbed upon the box, and gathered upthe reins, saying, "So, old boy, you don't like the dratted languageany better than I do. Steady now, boy! _Giddap_!" Whereat the prettycreatures pricked up their ears, pranced a little, then sprang intotheir collars, and we were off along the lovely river road at aspanking pace and with as smooth and even a gait as the mostexperienced roadsters. 

We could hear Charles's polite compliments to Jimmie on his driving, and Jimmie's awful French, as he assured Charles that the horses wereall right, "_très gentils_" and "_très jolis_. " "_Ne dites jamais'doucement' aux chevaux américains. Dites 'whoa, ' et ils arrêteront, et quand vous dites 'Giddap, ' ils marcheront bien. Savez?_" At whichCharles obediently practised "Whoa!" and "Giddap!" while we feltourselves pulled up and started off, as the object-lesson demanded, but amid shrieks of laughter which quite upset Charles's dignity. 

Finally, we whirled in across the moat and under the great gate to thechâteau, and found ourselves in the billiard-room of Velor, with a bigopen fire, in front of which lay a pile of dogs and around which weall gathered shiveringly, for the day was chilly. 

That charming billiard-room at Velor! It is not so grand as the restof the château, but everybody loves it best of all. It is on theground floor, and it has a writing-desk and two or three littlework-tables and several sofas and heaps of easy-chairs, and hereeverybody came to read or write or sew or play billiards. And as toafternoon tea! Not one of us could have been hired to drink it in thesalons up-stairs. In fact, so many of us insisted upon being in thebilliard-room that there never was room for a free play of one's cue, for somebody was always in the way, and it was rather discouraging tohear a woman doing embroidery say, "Don't hit this ball. Take someother stroke, can't you? Your cue will strike me in the eye. "

Dunham, the eighteen-year-old son of the Marquise, was teaching mebilliards, but his manners were so beautiful that he always pretendedthat to stick to one's own ball was a mere arbitrary rule of the game, so he permitted me to play with either ball, which made it easiest forme, or which caused least discomfort to those sitting uncomfortablynear the table. A dear boy, that Dunham! He had but one fault, andthat was that he _would_ wear cerise and scarlet cravats, and his hairwas red--so uncompromisingly red, of such an obstinate and determinedred, that his mother often said, "Come here, Dunham, dear, and lightup this corner of the room with your sunny locks. It is too dark tosee how to thread my needle!" Such was his amiability that I am surehe enjoyed it, for he always went promptly, and called her "_Monamour_, " and slyly kissed her when he thought we were not looking. 

All our remarks upon his red ties fell upon unheeding ears, until oneday I bribed his man to bring me every one of them. These Idistributed among the women guests, and when, the next morning, Dunhamcame in complaining that he couldn't find any of his red ties, lo!every woman in the room was wearing one; and to our credit be itspoken that he failed to get any of them back, and never, to myknowledge at least, wore a scarlet tie again. 

Velor is historic. After it passed out of the hands of Charles VII. --Ihave slept in his room, but I must say that he was unpleasantly shortif that bed fitted him!--it was bought by the old miser Nivelau, whosedaughter, Eugénie Belmaison, was the girl Balzac wished to marry. In arage at being rejected by her father he wrote _Eugénie Grandet_, andseveral of the articles, such as her work-box, of which Balzac makesmention, are in the possession of the Marquise. 

Every available room in the Velor was filled with our party. Each daywe drove in the brake to visit some ancient château, such asAzay-le-Rideau, Islette, Chinon, or the Abbey of Fontevreault, findingthe roads and scenery in Touraine the most delightful one can imagine. 

Fontevreault was originally an abbey, and a most powerful one, beingpresided over by daughters of kings or women of none but the highestrank, and these noble women held the power of life and death over allthe country which was fief to Fontevreault. 

Velor was once fief to Fontevreault, but the abbey is now turned intoa prison. 

They took away our cameras before they allowed us to enter, but we sawsome of the prisoners, of whom there were one thousand. The realobject of our visit, however, was to see the tombs of Henry II. And ofmy beloved Richard the Lion-hearted, who are both buried atFontevreault. To go to Fontevreault, we were obliged to cross theriver Vienne on the most curious little old ferry, which was only araft with the edges turned up. Charles drove the brake on to thisraft, but we preferred, after one look into the eyes of the Americanhorses, to climb down and trust to our own two feet. 

We gave and attended breakfasts with the owners of neighboringchâteaux, drove into Saumur to the theatre or to dine with theofficers of the regiment stationed there, and had altogether a perfectvisit. I have made many visits and have been the guest of manyhostesses, most of them charming ones, hence it is no discourtesy tothem and but a higher compliment to the Marquise when I assert thatshe is one of the most perfect hostesses I ever met. 

A thorough woman of the world, having been presented at three courtsand speaking five languages, yet her heart is as untouched by thetaint of worldliness, her nature as unembittered by her sorrows, as ifshe were a child just opening her eyes to society. One of thecleverest of women, she is both humorous and witty, with a gift ofmimicry which would have made her a fortune on the stage. 

Her servants idolize her, manage the château to suit themselves, whichfortunately means to perfection, and look upon her as a beloved childwho must be protected from all the minor trials of life. She hasrescued the most of them from some sort of discomfort, and theirgratitude is boundless. Like the majority of the nobility, thepeasants of France are royalists. The middle class, the _bourgeoisie_, are the backbone of the republic. 

The servants are stanch Catholics and long for a monarchy again. TheMarquise apologized to them for our being heretics, and told them thatwhile we were not Christians (Catholics), yet we tried to be good, andin the main turned out a fair article, but she entreated theirclemency and their prayers for her guests. So we had the satisfactionof being ardently prayed for all the time we were there, and of beingcomplimented occasionally by her maid, Marie, an old Normandie peasantseventy years old, for an act on our part now and then which savoredof real Christianity. And once when we had private theatricals, and Idressed as a nun, Marie never found out for half the evening that Iwas not one of the Sisters who frequently came to the château, butkept crossing herself whenever she saw me; and when she discovered meshe told me, with tears in her eyes, it really was a thousand pitiesthat I would not renounce the world and become a Christian, because Ilooked so much like a "religieuse. "

We went in oftenest to Chinon--always on market day; some of us onhorseback, some on wheels, while the rest drove. Chinon is thefortress château where Jeanne d'Arc came to see Charles VII. To try tointerest him in her plans. Its ruins stand high up on a bluffoverlooking the town, and beneath it in an open square is the veryfinest and most spirited equestrian statue I ever saw. It is of Jeanned'Arc, and I only regret that the photograph I took of it is too smallto show its fire and spirit and the mad rush of the horse, and theglorious, generous pose of the noble martyr's outstretched arms, asshe seems to be in the act of sacrificing her life to her country. There is the divinest patriotism in every line of it. 

We saw it on a beautiful crisp day in November. It was ourThanksgiving day at home. We drove along the lovely river-road fromChinon to Velor, and upon our arrival we discovered that the Marquisehad arranged an American Thanksgiving dinner for us, sending even toAmerica for certain delicacies appropriate to the season. It was amost gorgeous Thanksgiving dinner, for, aside from the turkey, lo!there appeared a peacock in all its magnificent plumage, sitting therelooking so dressy with all his feathers on that we quite blushed forthe state of the turkey. 

A month of Paris, and then I long for fresh fields and pastures new. Of course there is nowhere like Paris for clothes or to eat. But whenone has got all the clothes one can afford and is no longer hungry, having acquired a chronic indigestion from too intimate a knowledge ofMarguery's and Ledoyen's, what is there to do but to leave?

Paris is essentially a holiday town, but I get horribly tired of toolong a holiday, and after the newness is worn off one discovers thatit is the superficiality of it all that palls. The people aresuperficial; their amusements are feathery--even the beauty of it allis "only skin deep. "

Therefore, after one glimpse of Poland, the pagan in my nature calledme to the East, and six months of Paris have only intensified mylonging to get away--to get to something solid; to find myself oncemore with the serious thinkers of the world. 

In the mean time Bee has deserted me for the more interesting societyof Billy, and now she writes me long letters so filled with hissayings and doings that I must move on or I shall die of homesickness. I have decided on Russia and the Nile, taking intermediate countriesby the way. This is entirely Billy's fault. 

When I first decided to go to Russia, I supposed, of course, that Icould induce the Jimmies to go with me, but, to my consternation, theyrevolted, and gently but firmly expressed their determination to go toEgypt by way of Italy. So I have taken a companion, and if all goeswell we shall meet the Jimmies on the terrace of Shepheard's inFebruary. 

I packed three trunks in my very best style, only to have Mrs. Jimmieregard my work with a face so full of disapproval that it reminded meof Bee's. She then proceeded to put "everything any mortal couldpossibly want" into one trunk, with what seemed to me supernaturalskill and common-sense, calmly sending the other two to be stored atMunroe's. I don't like to disparage Mrs. Jimmie's idea of what I need, but it does seem to me that nearly everything I have wanted here inBerlin is "stored at Munroe's. "

My companion and I, with faultless arithmetic, calculated our expensesand drew out what we considered "plenty of French money to get us tothe German frontier. " Then Jimmie took my companion and Mrs. Jimmietook me to the train. 

Their cab got to the station first, and when we came up Jimmie wasgrinning, and my companion looked rather sheepish. 

"I didn't have enough money to pay the extra luggage, " she whispered. "I had to borrow of Mr. Jimmie. "

"That's just like you, " I said, severely. "Now _I_ drew more than youdid. "

Just then Jimmie came up with _my_ little account. 

"Forty-nine francs extra luggage, " he announced. 

"What?" I gasped, "on that _one_ trunk?" How grateful I was at thatmoment for the two stored at Munroe's!

"Oh, Jimmie, " I cried, "I haven't got _near_ enough! You'll _have_ tolend me twenty francs!"

My companion smiled in sweet revenge, and has been almost impossibleto travel with since then, but we are one in our rage against payingextra luggage. Just think of buying your clothes once and then payingfor them over and over again in every foreign country you travelthrough! Our clothes will be priceless heirlooms by the time we gethome. We can never throw them away. They will be too valuable. 

The Jimmies have been so kind to us that we nearly choked over leavingthem, but we consoled ourselves after the train left, and proceeded todraw the most invidious comparisons between French sleeping-cars andthe rolling palaces we are accustomed to at home. I am ashamed tothink that I have made unpleasant remarks upon the discomforts oftravel in America. Oh, how ungrateful I have been for past mercies!

My companion is very patient, as a rule, but I heard her restlesslytossing around in her berth, and I said, "What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing much. But don't you think they have arranged the knobs inthese mattresses in very curious places?"'

Well, it _was_ a little like sleeping on a wood-pile during acontinuous earthquake. But that was nothing compared to the newsbroken to us about eleven o'clock that our luggage would be examinedat the German frontier at five o'clock in the morning. That meantbeing wakened at half past four. But it was quite unnecessary, for wewere not asleep. 

It was cold and raining. I got up and dressed for the day. But mycompanion put her seal-skin on over her dressing-gown, and perched herhat on top of that hair of hers, and looked ready to cope with Dianaherself. 

"They'll ruin my things if they unpack them, " I said. 

"You just keep still and let me manage things, " she answered. So Idid. I made myself as small as possible and watched her. She selectedher victim and smiled on him most charmingly. He was tearing open thetrunk of a fat American got up in gray flannel and curl-papers. Hedropped her tray and hurried up to my companion. 

"Have you anything to declare, madam?" he asked. 

"Tell him absolutely nothing, " she whispered to me. I obeyed, but henever took his eyes from her. She was tugging at the strap of hertrunk in apparently wild eagerness to get it open. She frowned andpanted a little to show how hard it was, and he bounded forward tohelp her. Then she smiled at him, and he blinked his eyes and tuckedthe strap in and chalked her trunk, with a shrug. He hadn't opened it. She kept her eye on him and pointed to my trunk, and he chalked that. Then seven pieces of hand luggage, and he chalked them all. Then shesmiled on him again, and I thanked him, but he didn't seem to hear me, and she nodded her thanks and pulled me down a long stone corridor tothe dining-room where we could get some coffee. 

At the door I looked back. The customs officer was still looking aftermy companion, but she never even saw it. 

The dining-room was full of smoke, but the coffee and my first tasteof zwieback were delicious. Then we went out through a narrow doorwayto the train, where we were jostled by Frenchmen with their habitual"_Pardon!_" (which partially reconciles you to being walked on), andknocked into by monstrous Germans, who sent us spinning without somuch as a look of apology, and both of whom puffed their tobacco smokedirectly in our faces. It was still dark and the rain was whimperingdown on the car-roof, and, take it all in all, the situation was farfrom pleasant, but we are hard to depress, and our spirits remainundaunted. 

It was so stuffy in our compartment that I stood in the doorway for afew moments near an open window. My companion was lying down in myberth. We still had nineteen hours of travel before us with noprospect of sleep, for sleep in those berths and over such a roughroad was absolutely out of the question. 

Near me (and spitting in the saddest manner out of the open window)stood the meek little American husband of the gray flannel andcurl-papers, whose fury at my companion for her quick work with thecustoms officer knew no bounds. 

The gray flannel had gone to bed again in the compartment next toours. 

The precision of this gentleman's aim as he expectorated through theopen window, and the marvellous rapidity with which he managed hisdiversion, led me to watch him. He looked tired and cold and ill. Itwas still dark outside, and the jolting of the train was almostunbearable. He had not once looked at me, but with his gaze still onthe darkness he said, slowly, "They can have the whole blamed country for all of me! _I_ don't wantit. "

It was so exactly the way I felt that even though he said somethingworse than "blamed, " I gave a shriek of delight, and my companionpounded the pillow in her cooperation of the sentiment. 

"You are an American and you are Southern, " I said. 

"Yes'm. How did you know?"

"By your accent. "

"Yes'm, I was born in Virginia. I was in the Southern army four years, and I love my country. I hate these blamed foreigners and theirblamed churches and their infernal foreign languages. I am overhere for my health, my wife says. But I have walked more miles inpicture-galleries than I ever marched in the army. I've seen morepictures by Raphael than he could have painted if he'd 'a' had tenarms and painted a thousand years without stopping to eat or sleep. I've seen more 'old masters, ' as they call 'em, but _I_ call 'em_daubs_, all varnished till they are so slick that a fly would slip on'em and break his neck. And the stone floors are so cold that I getcold clean up to my knees, and I don't get warm for a week. Yet I amover here for my health! Then the way they rob you--these blamedFrench! Lord, if I ever get back to America, where one price includeseverything and your hotel bill isn't sent in on a ladder, and where Ican keep warm, won't I just be _too_ thankful. "

Just then the gray-flannel door banged open and a hand reached out andjerked the poor little old man inside, and we heard him say, "But Iwas only blaming the French. I ain't happy over here. " And a sharpvoice said, "Well, you've said enough. Don't talk any more at all. "Then she let him out again, but he did not find me in the corridor. Hefound his open window, and he leaned against our closed door and againaimed at the flying landscape, as he pondered over the disadvantagesof Europe. 

The sun was just rising over the cathedral as we reached Cologne. 

"Let's get out here and have our breakfast comfortably, see thecathedral, and take the next train to Berlin, " I said to my companion. 

She is the courier and I am the banker. She hastily consulted her_indicateur_ and assented. We only had about two seconds in which todecide. 

"Let's throw these bags out of the window, " she said. "I've seen otherpeople do it, and the porters catch them. "

"Don't _throw_ them, " I urged. "You will break my toilet bottles. Pokethem out gently. "

She did so, and we hopped off the train just at daybreak, perfectlydelighted at doing something we had not planned. 

A more lovely sight than the Cologne cathedral, with the rising sungilding its numerous pinnacles and spires, would be difficult toimagine. The narrow streets were still comparatively dark, and when wearrived we heard the majestic notes of the organ in a Bach fugue, andfound ourselves at early mass, with rows of humble worshipperskneeling before the high altar, and the twinkle of many candles in thesoft gloom. As we stood and watched and listened, the smell of incensefloated down to us, and gradually the first rays of the sun creptdownward through the superb colored-glass windows and stained themarble statues in their niches into gorgeous hues of purple andscarlet and amber. 

And as the priests intoned and the fresh young voices of an invisiblechoir floated out and the magnificent rumble of the organ shook thevery foundation of the cathedral, we forgot that we were there tovisit a sight of Cologne, we forgot our night of discomfort, we forgoteverything but the spirit of worship, and we came away withoutspeaking. 

 * * * * *

From Cologne to Dresden is stupid. We went through a countrypunctuated with myriads of tall chimneys of factories, which remindedus why so many things in England and America are stamped "Made inGermany. "

We arrived at Dresden at five o'clock, and decided to stop there andgo to the opera that night. The opera begins in Dresden at seveno'clock and closes at ten. The best seats are absurdly cheap, andwhole families, whole schools, whole communities, I should say, werethere together. I never saw so many children at an opera in my life. Coming straight from Paris, from the theatrical, vivacious, enthusiastic French audiences, with their abominable _claqueurs_, thisfirst German audience seemed serious, thoughtful, appreciative, butunenthusiastic. They use more judgment about applause than the French. They never interrupt a scene or even a musical phrase with misplacedapplause because the soprano has executed a flamboyant cadenza or thetenor has reached a higher note than usual. Their appreciation is slowbut hearty and always worthily disposed. The French are given toexaggerating an emotion and to applauding an eccentricity. Even theirsubtlety is overdone. 

The German drama is much cleaner than the French, the family tie ismade more of, sentiment is encouraged instead of being ridiculed, asit too often is in America; but the German point of view of Americansis quite as much distorted as the French. That statement is severe, but true. For instance, it would be utterly impossible for theAmerican girl to be more exquisitely misunderstood than by French andGerman men. 

Berlin is so full of electric cars that it seemed much more familiarat first sight than Paris. It is a lovely city, although we ought tohave seen it before Paris in order fully to appreciate it. ItsBrandenburg Gate is most impressive, and I wanted to make somedemonstration every time we drove under it and realized that thestatue above it has been returned. Their statue of Victory in theThiergarten is so hideous, however, that I was reminded of GeneralSherman's remark when he saw the Pension Office in Washington, "Andthey tell me the ---- thing is fireproof!"

The streets are filled with beautiful things, mostly German officers. The only trouble is that they themselves seem to know it only toowell, and as they will not give us any of the sidewalk, we are obligedto admire them from the gutters. The only way you can keep Germansfrom knocking you into the middle of the street is to walk sidewaysand pretend you are examining the shop windows. 

In the eyes of men, women are of little account in England compared tothe way we are treated in America; of less in France; and of stillless in Germany. We have not got to Russia yet. 

Paris seems a city of leisure, Berlin a city of war. The streets ofParis are quite as full of soldiers as Berlin, but French soldierslook to me like mechanical toys. I have sent Billy a box of them forChristmas--of mechanical soldiers, I mean. The chief difference Inoticed was that Billy's were smaller than the live ones, althoughFrench soldiers are small enough. That portion of the French armywhich I have seen--at Longchamps, Châlons-sur-Marne, Saumur, and atvarious other places--are, as a rule, undersized, badly dressed, andbadly groomed. They do not look neat, nor even clean, if you want thetruth. The uniform is very ugly, and was evidently designed for menthirteen feet high; so that on those comical little toy Frenchmen itis grotesque in the extreme. 

Their trousers are always much too long, and so ample in width thatthey seem to need only a belt at the ankle to turn them into perfectRussian blouses. But English and German soldiers not only appear, but_are_, in perfect condition, as though they could go to war at amoment's notice, and would be glad of the chance. 

I am keeping my eyes open to see how America bears comparison withother nations in all particulars. In point of appearance the Englisharmy stands first, the German second, the American third, and theFrench fourth. I put the American third only because our uniforms areless impressive. In everything else, except in numbers, they mighteasily stand first. But uniforms and gold lace, and bright scarlet andwaving plumes, make a vast difference in appearance, and every countryin the world recognizes this, except America. I wish that everybody inthe United States who boasts of democracy and Jeffersonian simplicitycould share my dissatisfaction in seeing our ambassadors at Courtballs and diplomatic receptions in deacons' suits of modest black, without even a medal or decoration of any kind, except perhaps thatgorgeous and overpowering insignia known as the Loyal Legion button, while every little twopenny kingdom of a mile square sends arepresentative in a uniform as brilliant as a peony and stiff withgold embroidery. 

No matter how magnificent a man, personally, our ambassador may be, nomatter how valuable his public services, no matter how unimpeachablehis private character, I wish you could see how small and miserableand mean is the appearance he presents at Court functions, where everyman there, except the representative of seventy millions of people, isin some sort of uniform. If it really were Thomas Jefferson whoseadministration inaugurated the disgusting simplicity which goes by hisname, I wish the words had stuck in his throat and strangled him. "Jeffersonian simplicity!" How I despise it! Thomas Jefferson, Ibelieve, was the first Populist. We had had gentlemen for Presidentsbefore him, but he was the first one who rooted for votes with thecommon herd by catering to the gutter instead of to the skyline, andthe tail end of his policy is to be seen in the mortifying appearanceof our highest officials and representatives. _Hinc illae lachrymae_!

I looked at the servant who announced our names in Paris at GeneralPorter's first official reception, and even he was much more gorgeousin dress than the master of the house, the Ambassador Extraordinaryand Minister Plenipotentiary representing seventy millions of people!Not even in his uniform of a general! The only man in the room inplain black. The United States ought to treat her representativesbetter. When Mr. White at Berlin was received by the Emperor, he, too, was the only man in plain black. 

No wonder we are taken no account of socially when we don't even giveour ambassador a house, as all the other countries do, and when hissalary is so inadequate. Every other ambassador except the Americanhas a furnished house given him, and a salary sufficient to entertainas becomes the representative of a great country. All except _ours_!Yet none of them is obliged to entertain as continuously as ourambassador, because _only_ Americans travel unremittingly, and _only_Americans expect their ambassador to be their host. 

 "O wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us!"

Of course I notice such things immensely more in Berlin than in Paris, because the glory of a Court is much more than the twinkle of arepublic. 

I have worked myself into such a towering rage over this subject thatthere is no getting down to earth gracefully or gradually. I have notpolished off the matter by any manner of means. I have only juststarted in, but a row of stars will cool me off. 

 * * * * *

Before I came to Berlin I heard so much about Unter den Linden, thatmagnificent street of the city, that I could scarcely wait to get toit. I pictured it lined on both sides with magnificent linden-trees, gigantic, imposing, impressive. I had had no intimate acquaintancewith linden-trees--and I wouldn't know one now if I should see it--butI had an idea from the name--linden, linden--that it was grand andwaving; not so grand as an oak nor so waving as a willow, but a crossbetween the two. I knew that I should see these great monarchs makinga giant arch over this broad avenue and mingling their tossingbranches overhead. 

What I found when I arrived was a broad, handsome street. But thoselindens! They are consumptive, stunted little saplings withoutsufficient energy to grow into real trees. They are set so far apartthat you have time to forget one before you come to another, and as totheir appearance--we have some just like them in Chicago where thereis a leak in the gas-pipes near their roots. 

On the day before Christmas we felt very low in our minds. We had thedoleful prospect ahead of us of eating Christmas dinner alone in astrange country, and in a hotel at that, so we started out shopping. Not that we needed a thing, but it is our rule, "When you have theblues, go shopping. " It always cures you to spend money. 

Berlin shop-windows are much more fascinating even than those ofParis, because in Berlin there are so many more things that you canafford to buy that Paris seems expensive in comparison. We became somuch interested in the Christmas display that we did not notice theflight of time. When we had bought several heavy things to weigh ourtrunks down a little more and to pay extra luggage on, I happened toglance at the sun, and it was just above the horizon. It looked to beabout four o'clock in the afternoon, and we had had nothing to eatsince nine o'clock, and even then only a cup of coffee. I felt myselfsuddenly grow faint and weak. "Heavens!" I said, "see what time it is!We have shopped all day and we have forgotten to get our luncheon. "

My companion glanced at her watch. 

"It's only half past eleven o'clock by my watch. I couldn't have woundit last night. No, it is going. "

"Perhaps the hands stick. They do on mine. Whenever I wind it, I haveto hit it with the hair-brush to start it; and even then it loses timeevery day. "

"Let's take them both to a jeweller, " she said. "We can't travel withwatches which act this way. "

So we left them to be repaired, and as we came out, I said, "It willtake us half an hour to get back to the hotel. Don't you think weought to go in somewhere and get just a little something to sustainus?"

"Of course we ought, " she said, in a weak voice. So we went in and gota light luncheon. Then we went back to the hotel, intending to liedown and rest after such an arduous day. 

"We must not do this again, " I said, firmly. "Mamma told meparticularly not to overdo. "

My companion did not answer. She was looking at the clock. It was justnoon. 

"Why, _that_ clock has stopped too, " she said. 

But as we looked into the reading-room _that_ clock struck twelve. Then it dawned on me, and I dropped into a chair and nearly hadhysterics. 

"It's because we are so far _north_!" I cried. "Our watches were allright and the sun's all right. That is as high as it can get!"

She was too much astonished to laugh. 

"And you had to go in and get luncheon because you felt so faint, " shesaid, in a tone of gentle sarcasm. 

"Well, you confessed to a fearful sense of goneness yourself. "

"Don't tell anybody, " she said. 

"I should think not!" I retorted, with dignity. "I hope I have _some_pride. "

"Have you presented your letter to the ambassador?" she asked. 

"Yes, but it's so near Christmas that I suppose he won't bother abouttwo waifs like us until after it's over. "

"My! but you _are_ blue, " she said. "I never heard you refer toyourself as a waif before. "

"I am a worm of the dust. I wish there wasn't such a thing asChristmas! I wonder what Billy will say when he sees his tree. "

"You might cable and find out, " she said. "It only costs about threemarks a word. 'What did Billy say when he saw his tree?'--ninewords--it would cost you about eight dollars, without counting theaddress. "

Dead silence. I didn't think she was at all funny. 

"Don't you think we ought to have champagne to-morrow?" she asked. 

"What for? I hate the stuff. It makes me ill. Do _you_ want it?"

"No, only I thought that, being Christmas, and very expensive, perhapsit would do you good to spend--"

A knock on the door made us both jump. 

"His Excellency the Ambassador of the United States to see theAmerican ladies!"

It was, indeed, Mr. White and Mrs. White, and Lieutenant Allen, theMilitary Attaché!

"Oh, those blessed angels!" I cried, buckling my belt and dashing forthe wash-stand, thereby knocking the comb and hand-glass from thegrasp of my companion. 

They had come within an hour of the presentation of my letter, andthey brought with them an invitation from Mrs. Allen for us to jointhem at Christmas dinner the next day, as Mrs. White said they couldnot bear to think of our dining alone. 

I had many beautiful things done for me during my thirty thousandmiles travel in Europe, but nothing stands out in my mind with moredistinctness than the affectionate welcome I received into the homesof our representatives in Berlin. And, in passing, let me say this, Iam distinctly proud of them, one and all. I say this because one hearsmany humiliating anecdotes of the mistakes made by the men and womensent to foreign Courts, appointed because they had earned somerecognition for political services. Those of us who have strongnational pride and a sense of the eternal fitness of things, areobliged to hear such things in shamed silence, and offer no retort, for there can be no possible excuse for mortifying lapses ofetiquette. And these things will continue until our governmentestablishes a school of diplomacy and makes a diplomatic careerpossible to a man. 

As long as it is possible for an ex-coroner or sheriff to be appointedto a secretaryship of a foreign legation--a man who does not speak thelanguage and whose wife understands better how to cope with croup andmeasles than with wives of foreign diplomats who have been properlytrained for this vocation, just so long shall we be obliged to bearthe ridicule heaped upon us over here, which our government neverhears, and wouldn't care if it did!

Imagine the relief with which I met our Berlin representatives! At theend of four years there will be no sly anecdotes whispered behind fansat _their_ expense, for they have all held the same office before andare well equipped by training, education, and native tact to bearthemselves with a proud front at one of the most difficult Courts ofEurope. I look back upon that little group of Americans with feelingsof unmixed pride. 

Mr. White invited us to go with him that afternoon to see the tombs ofthe kings at Charlottenburg; and when his gorgeous-liveried footmancame to announce his presence, the hotel proprietor and about forty ofhis menials nearly crawled on their hands and knees before us, sogreat is their deference to pomp and power. 

I wish to associate Berlin with this beautiful mausoleum. It iscircular in shape, and the light falls from above through lovelycolored-glass windows upon those recumbent marble statues. Thedignity, the still, solemn beauty of those pale figures lying there intheir eternal repose, fill the soul with a sense of the great majestyof death. 

When we got back to the hotel we found that the same good fortunewhich had attended us so far had ordained that the American mailshould arrive that day, and behold! there were all our Christmasletters timed as accurately as if they had only gone from Chicago toNew York. 

Christmas letters! How they go to the heart when one is five thousandmiles away! How we tore up to our rooms, and oh! how long it seemed toget the doors unlocked and the electric light turned up, and to plantourselves in the middle of the bed to read and laugh and cry andinterrupt each other, and to read out paragraphs of Billy's funnybaby-talk!

While we were still discussing them, the proprietor came up toannounce to us that there was to be a Christmas Eve entertainment inthe main dining-room that evening, and would the American ladies dohim the honor to come down? The American ladies would. 

When we went down we found that the enormous dining-room was packedwith people, all standing around a table which ran around two sides ofthe room. A row of Christmas trees, covered with cotton to representsnow, occupied the middle of the room, and at one end was a spacereserved for the lady guests, and in each chair was a handsome bouquetof violets and lilies-of-the-valley. 

This entertainment was for the servants of the hotel, of whom therewere three hundred and fifty. 

First they sang a Lutheran hymn, very slowly, as if it were a dirge. Then there was a short sermon. Then another hymn. Then the managermade a little speech and called, for three cheers for the proprietor, and they gave them with a fervor that nearly split the ears of thegroundlings. 

Then a signal was given, and in less than one minute three hundred andfifty paper bags were produced, and three hundred and fifty platesfull of oranges, apples, buns, and sweetened breads were emptied intothem. The table looked as if a plague of grasshoppers had swept overit. 

Then each servant presented a number and received a present from thetree, and that ended the festivity. But so typical of the fatherland, so paternal, so like one great family!

Participating in this simple festival brought a little of theChristmas feeling home to us and made us almost happy. We knew thatour American parcels would not be delivered until the next day, so wehad but just time to reread our precious letters when the clock strucktwelve, and with much solemnity my companion and I presented eachother with our modest Christmas present--which each had announced thatshe wanted and had helped to select! But, then, who would not ratherselect one's own Christmas presents, and so be sure of getting thingsthat one wants?

On Christmas morning registered packages began to arrive for both ofus. The first ten presents to arrive for my companion werepocket-handkerchiefs. My first ten were all books. Evidently the dearfamily had thought that American books would be most acceptable overhere, and I could see, with a feeling that warmed my heart, howcarefully they had consulted my taste, and had tried to remember tosend those I wanted. But I am of a frugal mind, and thoughts of theextra luggage to be paid on bound books would intrude themselves. However, I made no remark over the first ten, but before the day wasover I had received twenty-two books and one pen-wiper, and myvocabulary was exhausted. My companion continued to receivehandkerchiefs until the room was full of them. Take it all together, there was a good deal of sameness about our presents, but they havebeen useful as dinner anecdotes ever since. Now that I have sent allmine to be stored at Munroe's, together with all my other necessities, I feel lighter and more buoyant both in mind and trunk. 

A Christmas dinner in a foreign land, in the midst of the diplomaticcorps, is the most undiplomatic thing in the world, for that is theone time when you can cease to be diplomatic and dare to criticise thegovernment and make personal remarks to your heart's content. 

It was a beautiful dinner, and after it was over we were all invitedto the children's entertainment at Mrs. Squiers's. She had gatheredabout fifty of the American colony for Christmas carols and a tree. Immediately after the ambassador arrived the children marched in andrecited in chorus the verses about the birth of Christ, beginning, "Now in the days of Herod the King. " Then they sang their carols, andthen "Stille Nacht, " and they sang them beautifully, in their sweet, childish voices. 

After these exercises the doors were thrown open, and the mostbeautiful Christmas-tree I ever beheld burst upon the view of thosechildren, who nearly went wild with delight. 

After everybody had gone home except "the diplomatic family, " whichfor the time being included us, we picnicked on the remains of theChristmas turkey for supper, and there was as little ceremony about itas if it had been at an army post on the frontier. We had a beautifultime, and everybody seemed to like everybody very much and to beexcellent friends. 

Then Mr. And Mrs. White escorted us back to our hotel, which wasn't atall necessary, but which illustrates the way in which they treated usall the time we were there. 

This ended a truly beautiful Christmas, for, aside from beingunexpected and in striking contrast to the forlornness we hadanticipated, we had been taken into the families of beautiful people, whose home life was an honor and an inspiration to share. 

On New Year's day we started early and went to Potsdam to visit thepalace of Sans Souci. 

A most curious and interesting little old man who had been a guidethere for thirty years showed us through the grounds, where the King'sgreyhounds are buried, and where he pleaded to be buried with them. The guide had no idea that he possessed a certain dramatic genius forpathos, for, parrot-like, he was repeating the story he had toldperhaps a thousand times before. But when he showed us the graves ofthe greyhounds which ate the poisoned food which had been prepared forthe King, he said:

"And they lie here. Not there with the other dogs, the favorites ofthe King, but here, alone, disgraced, without even a headstone. Without even their names, although they saved the great King fromdeath and gave their lives for his. Yet they lie here, and the otherslie there. It is the way of the world, ladies. "

Then he took us to the top of the terrace facing the palace, and, pointing to the entrance, he said:

"In the left wing were the chambers of the King's guests. In the rightwing were his own. Therefore, he placed a comma between those twowords 'Sans' and 'Souci, ' to indicate that those at the left were'without, ' while with himself was--'Care. '"

While we were there the Emperor drove by and spoke to our cabman, saying, "How is business?" Seeing how much pleasure it gave the poorfellow to repeat it, we kept asking him to tell vis what the Kaisersaid to him. 

First my companion would say:

"When was it and what happened?"

And when he had quite finished, I would say:

"It wasn't the Emperor himself, was it? It must have been the coachmanwho spoke to you. "

"No, not so, ladies. It was the great Kaiser himself. He said to me--"And then we would get the whole thing over again. It was charming tosee his pleasure. 

When we returned home we entered the hotel between rows of palms, andwe dropped money into each of them. It seemed to me that fiftyservants were between me and the elevators. However, it was NewYear's, and we tried not to be bored by it. 

People talk so much of the expense of foreign travel, but to my mindthe greatest expenditures are in paying for extra luggage and in fees. Otherwise, I fancy that travel is much the same if one travelsluxuriously, and that in the long run things would be about equal. Thegreat difference is that in America all travel luxuries are given toyou for the price of your ticket, and here you pay for each separatenecessity, to say nothing of luxury, and your ticket only permits youto breathe. But the annoyance of this continuous habit of feeing makeslife a burden. One pays for everything. It is the custom of thecountry, and no matter if you arrange to have "service included, " itis in the air, in the eyes of the servants, in the whole mentalatmosphere, and you fee, you fee, you fee until you are nearly deadfrom the bother of it. In Germany they raise their hats and rise totheir feet every time you pass, even if you pass every seven minutes, and when the time comes for you to go, you have to pay for the wearand tear of these hats. 

In Paris, at the theatre, you fee the woman who shows you to yourseat, you fee the woman who opens the door and the woman who takesyour wraps. One night in midsummer we stepped across from the GrandHôtel to the opera without even a scarf for a wrap, and the woman wasso disappointed that we were handed from one attendant to another somehalf dozen times as "three ladies without wraps. " And the next onewould look us over from head to foot and repeat the words, "Threeladies without wraps, " until we laughed in their faces. 

French servants are the cleverest in the world if you wantversatility, but they are absolutely shameless in their greed, andlook at the size of your coin before they thank you. In fact, thewords in which they thank you indicate whether your fee was notenough, only modest, or handsome. 

"It is not too much, madam, " or "thanks, madam, " or "I thank you athousand times" show your status in their estimation. 

If you are an American they reserve the right to rob you by theimpudence of their demands, until rather than have a scene, you givethem all they ask. I have followed in the footsteps of a French womanand given exactly what she did, and had my money flung in derisionupon the pavement. 

German servants seem to have more self-respect, for while they expectit quite as much, they smile and thank you and never look at the coinbefore your eyes. Perhaps they know from the feeling of it, but evenif you place it upon the table behind them they thank you and neverlook at it or take it until you turn away. 

However, you fee unmercifully here too. You fee the man at the bankwho cashes your checks, you fee the street-car conductor who takesyour fare, you fee every uniformed hireling of the government, whetherhe has done anything for you or not. 

The only persons whom I have neglected to fee so far are theambassadors. 

But then, they do not wear uniforms!

IV

ON BOARD THE YACHT "HELA"

I am just able to sit up, and I couldn't think of a thing I wanted toeat if I thought a week. I came on this yachting trip because myfriends begged me to. They said it would be an experience for me. Ithas been. 

The _Hela_ started out with a party of ten on board, who were onpleasure bent. We have come up the English Channel from Dinard toOstend, but before we had been out an hour we struck a gale, to whichveterans on seasickness will refer for many a long day as "thatfearful time on the Channel. "

On the whole, I don't know but that I myself might be considered aveteran on seasickness. I have averaged crossing the Channel once amonth ever since I've been over here. I have got into the habit ofcrossing the Channel, and I can't seem to stop. It always appears thatI am in the wrong place for whatever is going on, for just as sure asI go to London somebody sends for me to come to Paris, and I rush forthe Channel, and I have no sooner unpacked my trunks in Paris, andbargained that service and electric lights shall be included, thansomebody discovers that I am imperatively needed in England, and Imake for the Channel again. The Channel is like Jordan. It alwaysrolls between. 

But even in crossing the Channel there is everything in knowing how. Ihave discarded the private state-room. It is too expensive, and I amnot a bit less uncomfortable than when occupying six feet of thesettee in the ladies' cabin, with my feet in the flowers of anotherwoman's hat. In fact, I prefer the latter. The other woman is alwaystoo ill to protest or to move. I have now, by long and patientpractice, proved to my own satisfaction what serves me best in case ofseasickness. I will not stay on deck. I will not eat or drink anythingto cure it. I will not take anything to prevent it. I will not sit up, and I will not keep my hat on. When I go on board of a Channel steamermy first act is to shake hands with my friends and to go below. ThereI present the stewardess with a modest testimonial of my regard. Ialso give her my ticket. Then I select the most desirable portion ofthe settee, near a port-hole, from which I can get fresh air. I takeoff my hat and lie down. The steamer may not start for an hour. Nomatter. There I am, and there I stay. The Channel may be as smooth asglass, but I travel better flat. Like manuscript, I am not to berolled. Sometimes I am not ill at all, but I freely confess that thosetimes are infrequent and disappointing. 

Now, of course, this is always to be expected in crossing the Channel, but my friends said in going up the Channel we would not get thosechoppy waves, and that I would find that the _Hela_ swam like a duck. 

In analyzing that statement since, with a view to classifying it astruth or otherwise, I have studied my recollections of ducks, and Ihave come to the conclusion that in a rough sea a duck has every rightto be seasick, for she wobbles like everything else that floats. Forreal comfort, give me something that's anchored. Nevertheless, I waspersuaded to join the party. 

Everybody came down at Dinard to see us off, and quite a number evenwent over to St. Malo with us in the electric launch, for the _Hela_drew too much water to enter the harbor at Dinard at low tide. 

We were a merry party for the first hour on board the _Hela_--until westruck the gale. It has seemed to me since that our evil genius washovering over us from the first, and simply waited until it would beout of the question to turn back before emptying the vials of herwrath on our devoted heads. It did not rain. The sun kept a malevolenteye upon us all the time. It simply blew just one straight, unrelenting, unswerving gale. And it came so suddenly. We were allsitting on deck as happy as angels, when, without a word of warning, the _Hela_ simply turned over on her side and threw us all out of ourchairs. I caught at a mast as I went by and clung like a limpet. Therewas tar on the mast. It isn't there any more. It is on the front of mynew white serge yachting dress. Jimmie coasted across the deck, andlanded on his hands and knees against the gunwale. If he had persistedin standing up he would have gone overboard. The women all shriekedand remained in a tangled heap of chairs, and rugs, and petticoats, waiting for the yacht to right herself, and for the men to come andpick them up. But the yacht showed no intention of righting herself. She continued to careen in the position of a cab going roundPiccadilly Circus on one wheel. The sailors were all running aroundlike ants on an ant-hill, and the captain was shouting orders, andeven lending a hand with the ropes himself. I don't know the nauticalterms, but they were taking down the middle sail--the mainsail, that'sit. It did not look dangerous, because the sun kept shining, and Inever thought of being frightened. I just clung to the mast, watchingthe other people right themselves, and laughing, when suddenlyeverything ceased to be funny. The decks of the _Hela_ took on a wavymotion, and I blinked my eyes in order to see better, for everythingwas getting very indistinct, and there were green spots on the sun. Suddenly I realized that I was a long way from home, and that I waseven a long way from my state-room. I only had just about sense enoughleft to remember that the mast was my very best friend and that I mustcling there. 

After that, I remember that somebody came up behind me and pried myhands loose from the mast. 

The doctor's voice said, "Can you walk?"

I smiled feebly and said, "I used to know how. " But evidently myefforts were not highly successful, for he picked me up, white serge, tar, green spots on the sun, and all, and carried me below, a limp andhumiliated bit of humanity. 

Mrs. Jimmie and Commodore Strossi followed with more anxiety than theoccasion warranted. 

Then Mrs. Jimmie sent the men away, and I felt pillows under my head, and camphor under my nose, and hot-water bags about me; and I musthave gone to sleep or died, or something, for I don't rememberanything more until the next day. 

They were very nice to me, for I was such a cheerful invalid. Itseemed to surprise them that I could even pretend to be happy. I knewthat it must be an uncommon gale from the way Commodore Strossistudied the charts, and because even his wife, for whom the yacht wasnamed, was ill, and she had spent half her life on the sea. The poorlittle French cabin-boy was ill, too, and went around, with aNile-green countenance, waiting on people, before he was obliged toretire from active service. 

The pitching of the yacht was something so terrible that it got to behysterically funny. It couldn't seem dangerous with the sun streamingdown the companion-way and past my state-room windows. About fiveo'clock on the second day they began to tack, and then I heard shrieksof laughter and the crash of china, and groans from the saloon settee, where young Bashforth was lying ghastly ill. 

At the first lurch my trunk tipped over, and all the bottles on thewash-stand bounded across to the bed, and most of them struck me onthe head. It frightened me so that I shrieked, and Jimmie came runningdown to see if I was killed. 

As I raised my head I saw his horrified gaze fairly riveted to myface, and I felt something softly trickling down. I touched it, andthen looked at my hand and discovered that it was wet and red. 

"Good heavens, your face is all cut open, " gasped Jimmie, in a voicethat revealed his terror. 

Mrs. Jimmie was just behind him, and I saw her turn pale. In a flash Isaw myself disfigured for life, and probably having to be sewed up. The pain in my face became excruciating, and I began to think yachtingrather serious business. 

"Run for the doctor, Jimmie, " said his wife. Jimmie obediently ran. 

"Does it hurt very much, dear?" she said, sitting on the edge of thebed. 

"Awfully, " I murmured. 

The doctor came, followed by François, with a basin of hot water andsponges, and a nasty-looking little case of instruments. Mrs. Jimmieheld my hand. They turned on the electric lights and opened thewindows. Jimmie had my salts. The doctor carefully wet a sponge andtenderly bathed my cheek, and I held my breath ready to shriek if hehurt me. Commodore Strossi stood at the door with an anxious face. Suddenly the doctor reached for a broken bottle half hidden under mypillow. 

"Oh, what is it, doctor?" asked Mrs. Jimmie. "What makes you look soqueer?"

"This is iodine on her face. Her bottle has emptied itself. That isall. "

We gazed at each other for a moment or two, then I nearly went intohysterics. Jimmie's face was a study. 

"You said it was blood, Jimmie, " I said. 

"Well, you said it hurt, " he retorted. 

"Well, it did. When you said I was covered with blood it hurtawfully. "

The doctor went out much chagrined that he had not been called upon tosew up a wound. I had a relapse, brought on by young Bashforth'sjeering remarks as he frantically clung to the handles of the lockerwhich formed the back of the settee where he lay prostrate. 

I was too utterly done up to reply, for two days' violent seasicknessrather takes the mental ginger out of one's make-up. But Fate avengedme in this wise. The door of my state-room opened into thedining-room, and my bed faced the door. Opposite to me was the setteeon which Bashforth was coiled, and back of him was the locker for thetinned mushrooms, sardines, lobster, shrimp, caviar, deviled ham, andall the things which well people can eat. This locker had brasshandles let into the mahogany, and to these handles the poor fellowclung when the yacht lurched. 

His cruel words of derision had hardly left his pale lips before theytacked again. He was not holding on, but he hastily snatched at thehandles. He was too late, however, for he was tossed from the setteeto the legs of the dining-room table (which, fortunately, wereanchored) without touching the floor at all. He described a perfectparabola. It was just the way I should have tossed him had I beenDestiny. He gripped the table-legs like a vise, coiling himself aroundthem like a poor navy-blue python with a green face. He thought theworst was over, but in his last clutch at the locker he hadaccidentally opened it, and at the next lurch of the yacht all thecans bounded out and battered his unprotected back like a shower ofgrape-shot. The yacht lurched again and the cans rolled back. Shepitched forward, and again the mushrooms and deviled ham aimed forhim. The noise brought everybody, and at first nobody tried to helphim. They just couldn't see because of the tears in their eyes fromlaughing. As for me, I managed to crawl to the foot of the bed andcling to a post, so weak I couldn't wipe the tears away, but laying upan amount of enjoyment which will enrich my old age. 

Finally, Jimmie got sorry for him, and went and tried to pick him up. But he was laughing so, he dropped him. 

"Oh, Jimmie, " I pleaded. "Don't drop anybody who is seasick. Drop wellpeople if you must. But put him on the settee carefully. "

"I'll put him there, " said Jimmie, wiping his eyes on his coat-sleeve. "But I don't say I'll do it the first time I try. I'll get him thereby dinner-time--I hope. "

It was dangerous to ridicule anybody in that gale, for the doctor inthe companion-way was leaning in at my window and laughing in his bigEnglish voice, when the _Hela_ lurched and pitched him half-way intomy state-room. There he balanced with his hands on my trunk. 

He was rather a tight fit, which interested Jimmie more than youngBashforth, so he left the boy and came around and pried the doctorback into the companion-way. 

The _Hela_ was a fickle jade, for no sooner would she shake us up insuch an alarming manner than she would seem to regret her violence, and would skim like a bird for an hour or so, with no perceptiblemotion. She would not even flap her big white wings, but she cutthrough the water with a whir and a rush which exhilarated me asflying must stir the heart of a sea-gull. 

She behaved so well after five o'clock that they decided to try to eatdinner from the dinner-table--a thing they had not done since westarted. There were only four of them able to appear--Mr. And Mrs. Jimmie, the doctor, and the Commodore. 

They put the racks up and took every precaution. The only mistake theymade was in using the yacht's lovely china, which bore the Strossicrest under the _Hela's_ private flag. 

Jimmie and his wife sat opposite each other. I put three pillows undermy head, the better to watch them, when suddenly the yacht tilted Mrs. Jimmie and her chair over backward. Jimmie saw her going and reachedto save her. But he forgot to set down his soup-plate. The result wasthat she got Jimmie's soup in her face, and that he slid clear acrossthe table on his hands and knees, taking china and table-cloth withhim, and they all landed on top of poor Mrs. Jimmie (who, even as Iwrite, is in her stateroom having her hair washed). 

Her chief wail, when she could speak, was not that her head ached fromthe blow, or that she was half strangled with tepid soup, but thatJimmie had broken all the china. She could not be comforted until theCommodore proved that some of the china had been broken previously, byshowing her the fragments wrecked on the first day out. 

That last catastrophe has apparently settled things. Everybody hasturned in to repair damages, and, perhaps, afterwards to sleep. 

The Commodore is studying the charts on the dining-room table, and thecaptain, an American, has just put his head in at the door and said:

"She's sailing twelve knots an hour under just the fores'l, sir, andshe's running like a scairt dog. "

 * * * * *

Americans are so accustomed to outrageous distances that a journey offifty hours is mere play. But I sincerely believe that no other traitof ours causes the European to regard our nation with such suspicionas our utter unconcern of long journeys. Nothing short of accession toa title or to escape being caught by the police would induce theContinental to travel over a few hours. So when I decided to go toPoland in order to be a member of a gorgeous house-party, I might aswell have robbed a bank and given my friends something to besuspicious of. They never believed that I would do such a fatiguingand unheard-of thing until I really left. 

But Poland has always beckoned me like a friend--a friend whichcombined all the poetry, romance, fascination, nobility, and honor ofa first love. If the Pole is proud, he has something to be proud of. His honor has dignity. His country's sorrows touch the heart. Polishliterature has sentiment, her music has fire, her men of genius standout like heroes, her women are adorable. Balzac describes not only onebut a not infrequent type when he dedicates _Modeste Mignon_ "To aPolish Lady" in the most exquisite apostrophe which ever graced theentrance-hall to one of the noblest novels of this inimitable master. 

"Daughter of an enslaved land, angel through love, witch throughfancy, child by faith, aged by experience, man in brain, woman inheart, giant by hope, mother through sorrow, poet in thy dreams, toThee belongs this book, in which thy love, thy fancy, thy experience, thy sorrow, thy hope, thy dreams, are the warp through which is shot awoof less brilliant than the poesy of thy soul, whose expression whenit shines upon thy countenance is, to those who love thee, what thecharacters of a lost language are to scholars. "

Such a tribute as this would of itself be sufficient to turn the heartexpectantly towards Poland, to say nothing of the interest her historyhas for the brain. The history of Poland is one long struggle for homeand country. The Pole is a patriot by inheritance. His patriotism, goes deeper than his love. 

His country comes first in his soul, and for that reason the Poleshave in me an enthusiastic ally, an ardent admirer, and a sympatheticfriend. 

In speaking of the story of Poland with a cold-blooded reader ofhistory I expressed my appreciation of the noble proportions of theirstruggles and my sympathy for their present unfortunate plight, towhich she replied: "Yes, but it is so entirely their own fault. Theyare so fiery, so precipitate, so romantic. They got _themselves_ intoit! Their poesy and romance and folly make them charming asindividuals, but ridiculous as a nation. I like the Poles, but I haveno patience with Poland. " How exactly the world's verdict on theartistic temperament! There is a round hole, and, lo and behold! allsquares must be forced into it!

Suppose that everything resolved itself into the commonplace; wherewould be your imagination, your fancy, your rich experience of theheart and soul? Poland furnishes just this element in history. Herstruggles are so romantic, her follies so charmingly natural to ahigh-strung nation, her despair so profound, her frequent revolutionsso buoyant in hope, that she reminds me of a brilliant woman strivingto make dull women understand her, and failing as persistently andcompletely as the artistic temperament always fails. 

A frog spat at a glowworm. "Why do you spit at me?" said the glowworm. "Why do you shine so?" said the frog. 

Poland's singers have voices so piercingly sweet; her novelists havepens touched with such divine fire; her actors portray so much of thesoul; her patriots have always shown such reckless and inspiringbravery; and now, in her desolation and subjection, there is still somuch pride, such noble dignity under her losses, that of all thecountries in the world Poland holds both the heart and mind by afascination of which she herself is unconscious, marking a noblesimplicity of soul which is in itself an added indication of herqueenly inheritance. 

Julia Marlowe in her _Countess Valeska_ is a Pole to her finger-tips. Her acting is superb. Cleopatra herself never felt nor inspired adiviner passion than Valeska; but when it came to a question of herlove or her country she rose above self with an almost superhumaneffort and saved her country at the expense of her love. 

No American who has not the same awful passion of patriotism; no onewho is not a lover of his country above home or friends or wife orchildren; who does not love his America second only to his God; whoseblood does not prickle in his veins at the sound of "The Star-SpangledBanner, " and whose eyes do not fill with tears at the sight of "OldGlory" floating anywhere, can understand of what patriotism the Poleis capable. 

Nor can one who has not the foolish, romantic, nervous, high-strung, artistic temperament understand from within Poland's national history. For that reason one is apt to find famous places in Europe which haveonly an historical significance somewhat disappointing. One fails tofind in a battle fought for the sake of conquest by an overweeningambition such soul-stirring pathos as in the leading of a forlorn hopefrom the spirit of patriotism, or of a woman's pleadings where a man'sarguments have failed. For that reason Austerlitz touches one not sonearly as the struggle around Memel. As we drew near Memel thingsbegan to look lonely and foreign and queer, and its picturesquefeatures were enhanced by recollection of Napoleon and Queen Louise. 

Memel is near Tilsit, and the river Niemen, or Memel, empties into theBaltic just below here. The conference on the raft appeals to me asone of the most thrilling and yet pitiably human events in allhistory. 

Its sickening anticlimax to poor Queen Louise was so exactly inkeeping with the smaller disappointments which assail her more humblesister women in every walk of life that it takes on the air of a hearttragedy. I tried to imagine the feelings of the Queen when _she_journeyed to Memel to hold her famous interview with Napoleon. How herpride must have suffered at the thought of lowering herself to pleadfor her husband and her country at Napoleon's hands! How she hated himbefore she saw him! How she more than hated him after she left him!How she must have scorned the beauty upon which Napoleon commented soidly when a nation's honor was at stake! A typical act of the emperorof the French nation! Napoleon proved by that one episode that he wasmore French than Corsican. 

In the Queen's illness at Memel she was so poorly housed that longlines of snow sifted in through the roof and fell across her bed. Butthat was as nothing to her mental disquiet while the fate of herbeloved Prussia hung in the balance. 

There is a bridge across the Memel at the exact spot where the famousraft conference is said to have taken place. As we crossed this bridgeit seemed so far removed from those stormy days of strife that it wasdifficult to imagine the magnificent spectacle of the immense armiesof Napoleon and Alexander drawn up on either bank, while these twopowerful monarchs were rowed out to the raft to decide the fate ofFrederick William and his lovely queen. 

And although to them Prussia was the issue of the hour, how like thehistory of individual lives was this conference! For Prussia's fatewas almost ignored, while the conversation originally intended toconsume but a few moments lengthened into hours, and Napoleon andAlexander, having sworn eternal friendship, proceeded to divide upEurope between them, and parted with mutual expressions of esteem andadmiration, having quite forgotten a trifle like the King and Queen ofPrussia and their rage of anxiety. 

But all these memories of Napoleon and Prussia gave way before thevital fact that we were to visit a lovely Polish princess and see someof her charming home life. I had been duly informed by my friends ofthe various ceremonies which I would encounter, and which, I mustconfess, rendered me rather timid. I only hoped my wits would notdesert me at the crucial moment. 

For instance, if the archbishop were there I must give him my hand andthen lean forward and kiss his sleeve just below the shoulder. I onlyhoped my chattering teeth would not meet in his robe. So when I sawthe state carriage of the princess at the station of Memel, drawn byfour horses, and with numbers of servants in such queer liveries toattend to my luggage, I simply breathed a prayer that I would getthrough it all successfully; and if not, that they would lay anylapses at the door of my own eccentricities, and not to the ignoranceof Americans in general, for I never wish to disgrace my native land. 

The servants wore an odd flat cap, like a tam-o'-shanter with a visor. Their coats were of bright blue, with the coat-of-arms of the princesson the brass buttons. This coat reached nearly to their feet, and inthe back it was gathered full and stiffened with canvas, for all theworld like a woman's pannier. I thought I should die the first time Igot a side view of those men. 

It was late Friday afternoon when we left the train, and we drove at atremendous pace through lonely forests which we were only too happy toleave behind us. Suddenly we came upon the little village of Kretynga, whose streets were paved with cobblestones the size of a man's twofists. 

To drive slowly over cobblestones is not a joy, but to drive fourRussian horses at a gallop over such cobblestones as those wassomething to make you bite your tongue and to break your teeth and toshake your very soul from its socket. 

The town is inhabited by Polish Jews, and a filthy, greasy, nauseatingset they are, both men and women. The men wear two or three long, oily, tight curls in front of their ears. Their noses are hooked likea parrot's. Their countenances are sinister, and I believe they havenot washed since the Flood. The women, when they marry, shave theirheads. Then they either wear huge wigs, which they use to wipe theirhands on without the ceremony of washing them first, or else they weara black or white or gray satin hood-piece with a line to imitate theparting of the hair embroidered on it. 

Nothing is clean about them. I no longer wonder that Jews are expelledfrom Russia. It makes one rather respect Russia as a clean country. Asit was Friday night, one window-sill in each house was filled with arow of lighted candles representing each member of the family who waseither absent or dead. 

Being so far away from home myself, this appealed to me as such atouching custom that it made my eyes smart. 

Presently a clearing in the forest revealed the famous monastery ofKretynga--a monastery famous for being peopled with priests and monkswhom the Tzar has exiled because they took too much interest inpolitics for his nerves. Then soon after passing this monastery weentered the grounds of the castle. Still the longest part of the drivelay before us, for this one of the many estates of the Princess liesbetween the Memel and the Baltic Sea, and covers a large territory. 

But finally, after driving through an avenue of trees which are wortha dictionary of words all to themselves, we came to the castle, a hugestructure, which seemed to spread out before us interminably, for itwas too dark to see anything but its majestic outlines. 

The Princess in her own home was even lovelier than she had been inParis, and charitably allowed us to have one night's rest beforemeeting the family. 

About three o'clock in the morning I was awakened by a mournful chant, all in minor, which began beneath my windows and receded, growingfainter and fainter, until at last it died away. It was the hymn whichthe peasants always sing as they go forth to their work in the fields;but its mournful cadence haunted me. The next morning the largeness ofthe situation dawned upon me. The size of the rooms and their majesticfurnishings were almost barbaric in their splendor. The tray uponwhich my breakfast was served was of massive silver. The coffee-pot, sugar-bowl, and plates were of repoussé silver, exquisitely wrought, but so large that one could hardly lift them. 

In a great openwork basket of silver were any number of sweetenedbreads and small cakes and buns, all made by the baker in the castle, who all day long does nothing but bake bread and pastry. They do notserve hot milk with coffee, for which I blessed them from the bottomof my soul, but they have little brown porcelain jugs which they fillwith cream so thick that you have to take it out with a spoon--itwon't pour, --and these they heat in ovens, and so serve you hot creamfor your coffee. 

I call the gods from Olympus to testify to the quality of the nectarthis combination produces. Some of those little porcelain jugs aregoing on their travels soon. 

Meeting the various members of the Princess's charming family andremembering their titles was not an ordeal at all--at least it was notafter it was over. They were quite like other people, except thattheir manners were unusually good. There was to be a hunt thatmorning--an amusing, luxurious sort of hunt quite in my line; onewhere I could go in a carriage and see the animals caught, but where Ineed not see them killed. 

They were to hunt a mischievous little burrowing animal something likeour badger, which is as great a pest to Poland as the rabbits are toAustralia. They destroy the crops by eating their roots, so everylittle while a hunt is organized to destroy them in large numbers. Theforesters had been sent out the night before to discover a favoritehaunt of theirs, and to fill up all the entrances to their burrows; soall that we had to do was to drive to the scene of action. 

It sounds simple enough, but I most solemnly assure you that it wasanything but a simple drive to one fresh from the asphalt of Paris, for, like Jehu, they drove furiously. 

Their horses are all wild, runaway beasts, and they drive them at anuneven gallop resembling the gait of our fire-engine horses at home, except that ours go more slowly. Sometimes the horses fall down whenthey drive across country, as they stop only for stone walls or moats. The carriages must be built of iron, for the front wheels drop a fewfeet into a burrow every now and then, and at such times an unwaryAmerican is liable to be pitched over the coachman's head. "Hold onwith both hands, shut your eyes, and keep your tongue from betweenyour teeth, " would be my instructions to one about to "take a drive"in Poland. 

When we came to the place we found the foresters watching the_dachshunde_. These I discovered to be long, flat, shallow dogs withstumpy legs--a dog which an American has described as "looking as ifhe was always coming out from under a bureau. " Very cautiously hereand there the foresters uncovered a burrow, and a _dachshund_disappeared. Then from below ground came the sounds of fighting. The_dachshunde_ had found their prey. The foresters ran about, stoopingto locate the sound. When they discovered the spot a dozen of them atonce began to dig as fast as they could. 

Presently a writhing, rolling, barking bunch of fur and flying sandcame into view, when a forester with a long forked stick caught theanimal just back of its head and flung it into a coarse sack, whichwas then tied up and thrown aside, and the hunt went on. After we allwent home the foresters gathered up these bags and killed the poorlittle animals somehow--mercifully, I hope. 

The dinner, which came at two o'clock, was so much of a function, onaccount of the number of guests in the house, that it impressed itselfupon my memory. 

First in the salon there were small tables set, containing _horsd'oeuvres_. There were large decanters containing _vodke_, a liquorsomething like Chinese rice-brandy. There were smoked goose, smokedbear, and salmon, white and black bread, all sorts of sausages, anchovies and caviar, of course. After these had been tasted largelyby the guests who were not Americans, and who knew that a formidabledinner yet had to be discussed, we were all seated at a table in thegrand dining-room. 

There were a hundred of us, and the table held enough for twice thatmany. We began with a hot soup made of fermented beet-juice. This wefound to be delicious, but I seemed to be eating transparent red inkwith parsley in it. This was followed by a cold soup made of sourcream and cucumbers, with _écrevisse_, a small and delicious lobster. There was ice in this. 

Cucumbers and sour cream! Let me see, wasn't it President Taylor whodied of eating cherries and milk?

Then came a salad of chicken and lettuce, and then huge roastsgarnished with exquisite French skill. 

After the sweets came the fruit, such fruits as even our ownCalifornia cannot produce, with white raspberries of a size and tastequite indescribable. When dinner is over comes a very pretty custom. The hostess, whose seat is nearest the door, rises, and each guestkisses her hand or her arm as he passes out, and thanks her in aphrase for her hospitality. Sometimes it is only "Thank you, princess"; sometimes "Many thanks for your beautiful dinner, " oranything you like. They speak Polish to each other and to theirservants, but they are such wonderful linguists that they alwaysaddress a guest in his own language. To their peasants, however, whospeak an unlearnable dialect, they are obliged always to have aninterpreter. 

At six o'clock came tea from samovars four feet high and of the mostgorgeous repoussé silver. Melons, fruit, and all sorts of bread areserved with this. Then at eight a supper, very heavy, very sumptuous, very luxurious. 

The whole day had been charming, exhilarating, different from anythingwe had ever seen before; but there was to follow something whichimpressed itself upon my excitable nerves with a fascination sobewildering that I can think of but one thing which would give me thesame amount of heavenly satisfaction. This would be to have TheodoreThomas conduct the Chicago orchestra in the "Tannhäuser" overture inthe Court of Honor at the World's Fair some night with a full moon. 

But to return. The Princess excused herself to her Protestant guestsafter supper, and then her family, with the servants and all theguests who wished, assembled in the winter garden to sing hymns to theVirgin. The winter garden is like a gigantic conservatory four storieshigh. It connects the two wings of the castle on the ground floor, andall the windows and galleries of the floors above overlook it. 

It is the most beautiful spot even in the daytime that I ever sawconnected with any house built for man. But at night to look down uponits beauty, with its palms, its tall ferns, its growing, climbing, waving vines and flowering shrubs, with its divine odors andfragrances and sweet dampnesses from mosses and lovely, moist, green, growing things, is to have one's soul filled with a poetry undreamedof on the written page. 

The candles dotting the soft gloom, the spray from the fountainsblowing in the air and tinkling into their marble basins, the tones ofthe grand organ rumbling and soaring up to us, the moonlight pouringthrough the great glass dome and filtering through the waving greenleaves, dimpling on the marble statues and making trembling shades andshadows upon the earnest faces of the worshippers, the penetratingsadness of their minor hymns--all the sights and sounds and fragrancesof this winter garden made of that hour "one to be forever marked witha white stone. "

V

VILNA, RUSSIA

We met our first real discourtesy in Berlin at the hands of a German, and although he was only the manager of an hotel, we lay it up againsthim and cannot forgive him for it. It happened in this wise:

My companion, being the courier, bought our tickets straight throughto St. Petersburg, with the privilege of stopping a week in Vilna, where we were to be the guests of a Polish nobleman. When she sent theporter to check our trunks she told him in faultless German to checkthem only to Vilna on those tickets. But as her faultless Germangenerally brings us soap when she orders coffee, and hot water whenshe calls for ice, I am not so severe upon the stupidity of the porteras she is. However, when he came back and asked for fifty-five marksextra luggage to St. Petersburg we gave a wail, and explained to themanager, who spoke English, that we were not going to St. Petersburg, and that we were not particularly eager to pay out fifty-five marksfor the mere fun of spending money. If the choice were left to us wefelt that we could invest it more to our satisfaction in belts andcard-cases. 

He was very big and handsome, this German, and doubtless some meek_fräulein_ loves him, but we do not, and, moreover, we pity her, whoever and wherever she may be, for we know by experience that ifthey two are ever to be made one he will be that one. He said he wassorry, but that, doubtless, when we got to the Russian frontier wecould explain matters and get our trunks. But we could not speakRussian, we told him, and we wanted things properly arranged then andthere. He clicked his heels together and bowed in a superb manner, andwe were sure our eloquence and our distress had fetched him, so tospeak, when to our amazement he simply reiterated his statements. 

"But surely you are not going to let two American women leave yourhotel all alone at eleven o'clock at night with their luggage checkedto the wrong town?" I said, in wide-eyed astonishment. 

Again he clicked those heels of his. Again that silk hat came off. Again that superb bow. He was very sorry, but he could do nothing. Doubtless we could arrange things at the frontier. It was within tenminutes of train time, and we were surrounded by no fewer than thirtyGerman men--guests, porters, hall-boys--who listened curiously, andoffered no assistance. 

I looked at my companion, and she looked at me, and ground her teeth. 

"Then you absolutely refuse us the courtesy of walking across thestreet with us and mending matters, do you?" I said. 

Again those heels, that hat, that bow. I could have killed him. I amsorry now that I didn't. I missed a glorious opportunity. 

So off we started alone at eleven o'clock at night for Poland, withour trunks safely checked through to St. Petersburg, and fifty-fivemarks lighter in pocket. 

My companion kept saying, "Well, I never!" A pause. And again, "Well, I never!" And again, "Did you ever in all your life!" Yet there was nosameness in my ears to her remarks, for it was all that I, too, wantedto say. It covered the ground completely. 

I was speechless with surprise. It kept recurring to my mind that myfriends in America who had lived in Germany had told me that I needexpect nothing at the hands of German men on account of being a woman. I couldn't seem to get it through my head. But now that it hadhappened to me--now that a man had deliberately refused to cross thestreet--no farther, mind you!--to get us out of such a mess! Why, inAmerica, there isn't a man from the President to a chimney-sweep, froma major-general to the blackest nigger in the cotton fields, whowouldn't do ten times that much for _any_ woman!

I shall never get over it. 

With the courage of despair I accosted every man and woman on theplatform with the words, "Do you speak English?" But not one of themdid. Nor French either. So with heavy hearts we got on the train, feedthe porter four marks for getting us into this dilemma (andincidentally carrying our hand-luggage), and when he had theimpertinence to demand more I turned on him and assured him that if hedared to speak another word to us we would report him to HisExcellency the American Ambassador, who was on intimate terms with theKaiser; and that I would use my influence to have him put in prisonfor life. He fled in dismay, although I know he did not understand oneword. My manner, however, was not affable. Then I cast myself into myberth in a despairing heap, and broke two of the wings in my hat. 

My companion was almost in tears. "Never mind, " she said. "It was allmy fault. But we may get our trunks, anyway. And if not, perhaps wecan get along without them. "

"Impossible!" I said. "How can we spend a week as guests in a housewithout a change of clothes?"

In order not to let her know how worried I was, I told her that if wecouldn't get our trunks off the train at Vilna we would give up ourvisit and telegraph our excuses and regrets to our expectant hostess, or else come back from St. Petersburg after we had got our precioustrunks once more within our clutches. 

All the next day we tried to find some one who spoke English orFrench, but to no avail. We spent, therefore, a dreary day. By lettingmy companion manage the customs officers in patomime we got throughthe frontier without having to unlock anything, although it isconsidered the most difficult one in Europe. 

The trains in Russia fairly crawl. Instead of coal they use wood intheir engines, which sends back thousands of sparks like the tail of acomet. It grew dark about two o'clock in the afternoon, and we foundourselves promenading through the bleakest of winter landscapes. Tinycottages, emitting a bright red glow from infinitesimal windows, crouched in the snow, and silent fir-trees silhouetted themselvesagainst the moonlit sky. It only needed the howl of wolves to make itthe loneliest picture the mind could conceive. 

When we were within an hour of Vilna I heard in the distance mycompanion's familiar words, "Pardon me, sir, but do you speakEnglish?" And a deep voice, which I knew without seeing him came froma big man, replied in French, "For the first time in my life I regretthat I do not. "

At the sound of French I hurried to the door of our compartment, andthere stood a tall Russian officer in his gray uniform and a hugefur-lined pelisse which came to his feet. 

When my companion wishes to be amusing she says that as soon as Ifound that the man spoke French I whirled her around by the arm andsent her spinning into the corner among the valises. But I don'tremember even touching her. I only remembered that here was some oneto whom I could talk, and in two minutes this handsome Russian haduntangled my incoherent explanations, had taken our luggage receipt, and had assured us that he himself would not pause until he had seenour trunks taken from the train at Vilna. If I should live a thousandyears I never shall forget nor cease to be grateful to that superbRussian. He was so very much like an American gentleman. 

We were met at the station by our Polish friends, our precious trunkswere put into sledges, we were stowed into the most comfortable ofequipages, and in an hour we were installed in one of the mostdelightful homes it was ever my good fortune to enter. 

I never realized before what people can suffer at the hands of aconquering government, and were it not that the young Tzar of Russiahas done away, either by public ukase or private advice, with theworst of the wrongs his father permitted to be put upon the Poles, Icould not bear to listen to their recitals. 

Politics, as a rule, make little impression upon me. Guide-books are abore, and histories are unattractive, they are so dry and accurate. Myfather's grief at my lack of essential knowledge is perennial anddeep-seated. But, somehow, facts are the most elusive things I have tocontend with. I can only seem to get a firm grasp on the imaginary. Ofcourse, I know the historical facts in this case, but it does notsound personally pathetic to read that Russia, Prussia, and Austriadivided Poland between them. 

But to be here in Russia, in what was once Poland, visiting thefamilies of the Polish nobility; to see their beautiful home-life, their marvellous family affection, the respect they pay to theirwomen; to feel all the charm of their broad culture and noblesympathy for all that makes for the general good, and then to hear thestory of their oppression, is to feel a personal ache in the heart fortheir national burdens. 

It does not sound as if a grievous hardship were being put upon aconquered people to read in histories or guide-books that Prussia iscolonizing her part of Poland with Germans--selling them land foralmost nothing in order to infuse German blood, German language, German customs into a conquered land. It does not touch one'ssympathies very much to know that Austria is the only one of the threeto give Poland the most of her rights, and in a measure to restore herself-respect by allowing her representation in the Reichstag and bypermitting Poles to hold office. 

But when you come to Russian Poland and know that in the province ofLithuania--which was a separate and distinct province until a princeof Lithuania fell in love with and married a queen of Poland, and thetwo countries were joined--Poles are not allowed to buy one foot ofland in the country where they were born and bred, are not permittedto hold office even when elected, are prohibited from speaking theirown language in public, are forbidden to sing their Polish hymns, orto take children in from the streets and teach them in anything butRussian, and that every one is taught the Greek religion, then thiscolonization becomes a burning question. Then you know how toappreciate America, where we have full, free, and unqualified liberty. 

The young Tzar has greatly endeared himself to his Polish subjects byseveral humane and generous acts. One was to remove the tax on allestates (over and above the ordinary taxes), which Poles were obligedto pay annually to the Russian government. Another was to releaseschool-children from the necessity of attending the Greek church onall Russian feast-days. These two were by public ukase, and as thePoles are passionately grateful for any act of kindness, one hearsnothing but good words for the Tzar, and there is the utmost feelingof loyalty to him among them. I hear it constantly said that if hecontinue in this generous policy Russia need never apprehend anotherPolish revolution. And while by a revolution they could never hope toaccomplish anything, there being now but fourteen million Poles tocontend against these three powerful nations, still, as long as theyhave one about every thirty-five years, perhaps it is a wiseprecaution on the part of the young Tzar to begin with his kindnesspromptly, as it is about time for another one!

Another recent thing which the Poles attribute to the Tzar was theremoval from the street corners, the shops, the railroad stations, andthe clubs, of the placards forbidding the Polish language to be spokenin public. 

Thus the Poles hope much from the young Tzar in the future, andbelieve that he would do more were he not held back by Russian publicopinion. For example, the other day two Russians were overheard in thetrain to say: "For thirty years we have tried to force our religion onthe Poles, our language on the Poles, and our customs on the Poles, but now here comes 'The Little Colonel' (the young Tzar), and in amoment he sweeps away all the progress we had made. "

To call him "The Little Colonel" is a term of great endearment, andthe name arose from the fact that by some strange oversight he wasnever made a General by his father, but remained at the death of thelate Tzar only a Colonel. When urged by his councillors to makehimself General, as became a Tzar of all the Russias, he said: "No. The power which should have made me a General is no more. Now that Iam at the head of the government I surely could not be so conceited asto promote myself. "

The misery among the poor in Poland is almost beyond belief, yet allcharities for them must be conducted secretly, for the governmentstills forbids the establishment of kindergartens or free schoolswhere Polish children would be taught in the Polish language. I havebeen questioned very closely about our charities in America, especially in Chicago, and I have given them all the working plans ofthe college settlements, the kindergartens, and the sewing-schools. The Poles are a wonderfully sympathetic and warm-hearted people, andare anxious to ameliorate the bitter poverty which exists here to anenormous extent. They sigh in vain for the freedom with which we mayproceed, and regard Americans as seated in the very lap of a luxuriousgovernment because we are at liberty to give our money to any causewithout being interfered with. 

One of the noblest young women I have ever met is a Polish countess, wealthy, beautiful, and fascinating, who has turned her back uponsociety and upon the brilliant marriage her family had hoped for her, and has taken a friend who was at the head of a London training-schoolfor nurses to live with her upon her estates, and these two haveconsecrated their lives to the service of the poor. They will educatePolish nurses to use in private charity. With no garb, no creed, noblare of trumpet, they have made themselves into "Little Sisters ofthe Poor. "

I could not fail to notice the difference in the young girls as soonas I crossed the Russian frontier and came into the land of the Slav. Here at once I found individuality. Polish girls are more likeAmerican girls. If you ask a young English girl what she thinks ofVictor Hugo she tells you that her mamma does not allow her to readFrench novels. If you ask a French girl how she likes to live in Parisshe tells you that she never went down town alone in her life. 

But the Polish girls are different. They are individual. They all havea personality. When you have met one you never feel as if you had metall. In this respect they resemble American girls, but only in thisrespect, for whereas there is a type of Polish young girl--and acharming type she is--I never in my life saw what I considered areally typical American girl. You cannot typify the psychic charm ofthe young American girl. It is altogether beyond you. 

These Polish girls who have titles are as simple and unaffected aspossible. I had no difficulty in calling their mothers Countess andPrincess, etc. , but I tripped once or twice with the young girls, whereat they begged me in the sweetest way to call them by their firstnames without any prefix. They were charming. They taught us thePolish mazurka--a dance which has more go to it than any dance I eversaw. It requires the Auditorium ball-room to dance it in, and enoughbreath to play the trombone in an orchestra. The officers dance withtheir spurs on, which jingle and click in an exciting manner, and tomy surprise never seem to catch in the women's gowns. 

The home life of the Poles is very beautiful; and, in particular, thedeference paid to the father and mother strikes my Americansensibilities forcibly. I never tire of watching the entrance into thesalon of the married sons of the Countess when each comes to pay hisdaily visit to his mother. They are all four tall, impressive, andalmost majestic, with a curious hawk-like quality in their glance, which may be an inheritance from their warrior forefathers. CountAntoine comes in just before going home to dine, while we are allassembled and dressed for dinner. He flings the door open, and makeshis military bow to the room, then making straight for his mother'schair, he kneels at her feet, kisses her hand and then her brow, andsometimes again her hand. Then he passes the others, and kisses hissister on the cheek, and after thus saluting all the members of hisfamily, he turns to us, the guests, and speaks to us. 

The Poles are the most individual and interesting people I have yetencountered. The men in particular are fascinating, and a man who istruly fascinating in the highest sense of the word; one whosecharacter is worth study, and whose friendship would repay cultivatingas sincerely as many of the Poles I know, is a boon to thank God for. 

Before I came to Poland it always surprised me to realize that so manymen and women of world-wide genius came from so small a nation. Butnow that I have had the opportunity of knowing them intimately and ofstudying their characteristics, both nationally and individually, Isee why. 

Poland is the home of genius by right. Her people, even if they neverwrite or sing or act or play, have all the elements in their characterwhich go to make up that complex commodity known as genius, whether itever becomes articulate or not. You feel that they could all do thingsif they tried. They are a sympathetic, interesting, interested, and, above all, a magnetic people. This forms the top soil for a nationwhich has put forth so much of wonder and sweetness to enrich theworld, but the reason which lies deep down at the root of the matterfor the _soul_ which thrills through all this melody of song and storyis in the sorrowful and tragic history of this nation. 

The Poles are a race of burning patriots. To-day they are as keen overnational sufferings and national wrongs as on that unfortunate claywhen they went into a fiercely unwilling and resentful captivity. Their pride, their courage, their bitterness of spirit, their longingfor revenge now no longer find an outlet on the battlefield. Yet itsmoulders continually in their innermost being. You must crush theheart, you must subdue a people, you must be no stranger to anguishand loss if you would discover the singer and the song. And soPoland's fierce and unrelenting patriotism has placed the divine sparkof a genius which thrills a world in souls whose sweetest song is acry wrung from a patriot's heart. 

VI

ST. PETERSBURG

It behooves one to be good in Russia, for no matter how excellent yourreputation at home, no matter how long you have been a member in goodand regular standing of the most orthodox church, no matter howinnocent your heart may be of anarchy, nihilism, or murder, youtravel, you rest, you eat, sleep, wake, or dream, tracked by theRussian police. 

They snatch your passport the moment you arrive at a hotel, andregister you, and if you change your hotel every day, every day yourpassport is taken, and you are requested to fill out a blank with yourname, age, religion, nationality, and the name and hotel of the townwhere you were last. 

When we entered our Russian hotel--when we had entirely entered, Imean, for we passed through six or eight swinging doors with moujiksto open and shut each one, and bow and scrape at our feet--we foundourselves in a stiflingly hot corridor, where the odor was acombination of smoke and people whose furs needed airing. 

It would be an excellent idea if Americans who live in cold climatesdressed as sensibly as Russians do. They keep their houses about aswarm as we keep ours, but they wear thin clothing indoors and put ontheir enormous furs for the street. On entering any house, church, shop, or theatre, the chuba and overshoes are removed, and althoughthey spend half their lives putting them on and taking them off, yetthe other half is comfortable. 

The women seem to have no pride about the appearance of their feet, for now the doctors are ordering them to wear the common gray feltboot of the peasants, with the top of it reaching to the knee. It iswithout doubt the most hideous and unshapely object the mind canconceive, being all made of one piece and without any regard to theshape of the foot. 

St. Petersburg can hardly be called a typical Russian city. It is toonear other countries, but to us, before we had seen Moscow and Kiev, it was Russia itself. We arrived one bitterly cold day, and went firstto the hotel to which we had been recommended by our friends. 

I shall never forget the wave of longing for home and country whichsettled down upon me as we saw our rooms in this hotel. It must havebeen built in Peter the Great's time. No electric lights; not evenlamps. Candles! Now, if there is one thing more than another whichmakes me frantic with homesickness, it is the use of candles. I wouldrather be in London on Sunday than to dress by the light of candles. 

Even an excellent luncheon did not raise my spirits. Our rooms were asdark and gloomy and silent as a mausoleum. Indeed, many a mausoleum Ihave seen has been much more cheerful. It was at the time of year alsowhen we had but three hours of daylight--from eleven until two. Oursalon was furnished in a dreary drab, with a gigantic green stove inthe corner which reached to the ceiling. Then we entered what lookedlike a long, narrow corridor, down which we blindly felt our way, andat the extreme end of which were hung dark red plush curtains, as ifbefore a shrine. We pulled aside these trappings of gloom, and therewere two iron cots, not over a foot and a half wide, about the shapeand feeling of an ironing-board, covered with what appeared to be grayarmy blankets, I looked to see "U. S. " stamped on them. I have seenthem in museums at home. 

I gazed at my companion in perfect dismay. "I shall not present asingle letter of introduction, " I wailed. "I'm going to Moscowto-morrow. "

Instead of going to Moscow in the morning, we went out and decided topresent just the one letter to our ambassador. He was at the Hôteld'Europe, and we went there. Behold! electric lights everywhere. Heapsof Americans. And the entire Legation there. My companion and I simplylooked at each other, and our whole future grew brighter. We would notgo to Moscow, but we would move at once. We would introduceelectricity into our sombre lives, and look forward with hope into thegreat unknown. We rushed around and presented all the rest of ourletters, and went back to spend a wretched evening with eight candlesand a smoky lamp. 

The next day we called for our bill and prepared to move. To mydisgust, I found an item of two rubles for the use of that lamp. I hadserious thoughts of opening up communication with the Standard OilCompany by cable. But we were so delighted with our new accommodationsin prospect that we left the hotel in a state of exhilaration thatnothing could dampen. 

To our great disappointment we found a number of Americans leaving St. Petersburg for Moscow because the Hermitage was closed. Now, theHermitage and the ceremony of the Blessing of the Waters of the Nevawere what I most wished to see, but we were informed at the Legationthat we could have neither wish gratified. However, my spirit wasundaunted. It was only the American officials who had pronounced itimpossible. My lucky star had gone with me so far, and had opened somany unaccustomed doors, that I did not despair. I said I would seewhat our letters of introduction brought forth. 

We did not have to wait long. No sooner had we presented our lettersthan people came to see us, and placed themselves at our disposal fordays and even weeks at a time. Their kindness and hospitality were toocharming for mere words to express. 

Although the Winter Palace was closed to visitors, preparatory to thearrival on the next day of the Tzar and Tzarina, it was opened for usthrough the influence of the daughter of the Commodore of the lateTzar's private yacht, Mademoiselle de Falk, who took us through it. Itwas simply superb, and was, of course, in perfect readiness for thearrival of the imperial family, with all the gorgeous crimson velvetcarpets spread, and the plants and flowers arranged in the WinterGarden. 

Then, through this same influential friend, the Hermitage--the secondfinest and the very richest museum in all Europe--was opened for us, and--well, I kept my head going through the show palaces in London, and Paris, and Berlin, and Dresden, and Potsdam, but I lost itcompletely in the Hermitage. Then and there I absolutely went crazy. Awhole guide-book devoted simply to the Hermitage could give no sort ofidea of the barbaric splendor of its belongings. Its riches are beyondbelief. Even the presents given by the Emir of Bokhara to the Tzar aresplendid enough to dazzle one like a realization of the ArabianNights. But to see the most valuable of all, which are kept in theEmperor's private vaults, is to be reduced to a state of bewildermentbordering on idiocy. 

It is astonishing enough, to one who has bought even one Russian beltset with turquoise enamel, to think of all the trappings of ahorse--bit, bridle, saddle-girth, saddlecloth, and all, made of clothof gold and set in solid turquoise enamel; with the sword hilt, scabbard, belts, pistol handle and holster made of the same. Well, these are there by the dozen. Then you come to the private jewels, andyou see all these same accoutrements made of precious stones--one ofsolid diamonds; another of diamonds, emeralds, topazes, and rubies. And the size of these stones! Why, you never would believe me if Ishould tell you how large they are. Many of them are uncut and badlyset, from an English stand-point. But in quantity and size--well, Iwas glad to get back to my three-ruble-a-day room and to look at myone trunk, and to realize that my own humble life would go on just thesame, and my letter of credit would not last any longer for all thesplendors which exist for the Tzar of all the Russias. 

The churches in St. Petersburg are so magnificent that they, too, goto your head. We did nothing but go to mass on Christmas Eve andChristmas Day, for although we spent our Christmas in Berlin, wearrived in St. Petersburg in time for the Russian Christmas, whichcomes twelve days later than ours. St. Isaac's, the Kazan, and Sts. Peter and Paul dazed me. The icons or images of the Virgin are setwith diamonds and emeralds worth a king's ransom. They are only underglass, which is kept murky from the kisses which the people press uponthe hands and feet. 

The interiors of the cathedrals, with their hundreds of silver_couronnes_, and battle-flags, and trophies of conquests, look likegreat bazaars. Every column is covered clear to the dome. The tombs ofthe Tzars are always surrounded by people, and candles burn the yearround. Upon the tomb of Alexander II. , under glass, is the exquisitelaurel wreath placed there by President Faure. It is of gold, and wasmade by Falize, one of the most famous carvers of gold in Europe. 

The famous mass held on Christmas Eve in the cathedral of St. Isaacwas one of the most beautiful services I ever attended. In the firstplace, St. Isaac's is the richest church in all Russia. It has, too, the most wonderful choir, for the Tzar loves music, and wherever inall his Empire a beautiful voice is found, the boy is brought to St. Petersburg and educated by the State to enter the Emperor's choir. When we entered the church the service had been in progress for fivehours. That immense church was packed to suffocation. In the Greekchurch every one stands, no matter how long the service. In fact, youcannot sit down unless you sit on the floor, for there are no seats. 

By degrees we worked our way towards the space reserved for theDiplomatic Corps, where we were invited to enter. Our wraps were takenand chairs were given to us. We found ourselves on the platform withthe priest, just back of the choir. What heavenly voices! Whatwonderful voices! The bass holds on to the last note, and the rumbleand echo of it rolls through those vaulted domes like the tones of anorgan. The long-haired priest, too, had a wonderful resonant voice forintoning. He passed directly by us in his gorgeous cloth of goldvestments, as he went out. 

The instant he had finished, the little choir boys began to pinch eachother and thrust their tapers in each other's faces, and behaved quitelike ordinary boys. The great crowd scattered and huge ladders werebrought in to put out the hundreds of candles in the enormouschandeliers. Religion was over, and the world began again. 

The other art which is maintained at the government expense is theballet. We went several times, and it was very gorgeous. It is allpantomime--not a word is spoken--but so well done that one does nottire of it. 

Every one sympathized so with us because we could not see the ceremonyof the Blessing of the Waters of the Neva, and our ambassadorapologized for not being able to arrange it, and we said, "Not atall, " and "Pray, do not mention it, " at the same time secretly hopingthat our Russian friends, who were putting forth strenuous efforts onour behalf, would be able to manage it. 

On the morning of the 18th of January a note came from a Russianofficer who was on duty at the Winter Palace, saying that BaronElsner, the Secretary of the Prefect of Police, would call for us withhis carriage at ten o'clock, and we would be conducted to the privatespace reserved just in front of the Winter Palace, where the best viewof everything could be obtained. My companion and I fell into eachother's arms in wild delight, for it had been most difficult tomanage, and we had not been sure until that very moment. 

Now, the person of the Tzar is so sacred that it is forbidden by laweven to represent him on the stage, and as to photographing him--aRussian faints at the mere thought. Nevertheless, we wished very muchto photograph this pageant, so we determined, if possible, to take ourcamera. Everything else that we wanted had been done for us ever sincewe started, and our faith was strong that we would get this. At firstthe stout heart of Baron Elsner quailed at our suggestion. Then hesaid to take the camera with us, which we did with joy. His cardparted the crowd right and left, and our carriage drove through longlines of soldiers, and between throngs of people held in check bymounted police, and by rows of infantry, who locked arms and made ofthemselves a living wall, against which the crowd surged. 

To our delight we found our places were not twenty feet from theentrance to the Winter Palace. We noticed Baron Elsner speaking toseveral officials, and we heard the word "Americanski, " which had sooften opened hearts and doors to us, for Russia honestly likesAmerica, and presently the Baron said, in a low tone, "When theEmperor passes out you may step down here; these soldiers willsurround you, and you may photograph him. "

I could scarcely believe my ears. I was so excited that I nearlydropped the camera. 

The procession moves only about one hundred feet--a crimson carpetbeing laid from the entrance of the Winter Palace, across the street, and up into a pavilion which is built out over the Neva. 

First came the metropolitans and the priests; then the Emperor'scelebrated choir of about fifty voices; then a detachment of pickedofficers bearing the most important battle-flags from the time ofPeter the Great, which showed the marks of sharp conflict; then theEmperor's suite, and then--the Emperor himself. They all marched withbared heads, even the soldiers. 

My companion had the opera-glasses, I had the camera. "Tell me when, "I gasped. They passed before me in a sort of haze. I heard the band inthe Winter Palace and the singing of the choir. I heard the splash ofthe cross which the Archbishop plunged into the opening that had beencut in the ice. I heard the priests intone, and the booming of theguns firing the imperial salute. I saw that the wind was blowing thecandles out. Then came a breathless pause, and then she said, "Now!" Alittle click. It was done; I had photographed Nicholas II. , the Tzarof all the Russias!

VII

RUSSIA

Yesterday we had our first Russian experience in the shape of a troikaride. Russians, as a rule, do not troika except at night. In fact, from my experience, they reverse the established order of things andturn night into day. 

A troika is a superb affair. It makes the tiny sledges which take theplace of cabs, and are used for all ordinary purposes, look even morelike toys than usual. But the sledges are great fun, and so cheap thatit is an extravagance to walk. A course costs only twenty kopecks--tencents. The sledges are set so low that you can reach out and touch thesnow with your hand, and they are so small that the horse is in yourlap and the coachman in your pocket. He simply turns in his seat tohook the fur robe to the back of your seat--only it has no back. Ifyou fall, you fall clear to the ground. 

The horse is far, far above you in your humble position, and there isso little room that two people can with difficulty stow themselves inthe narrow seat. If a brother and sister or a husband and wife drivetogether, the man, in sheer self-defence, is obliged to put his armaround the woman, no matter how distasteful it may be. Not that shewould ever be conscious of whether he did it or not, for the amount ofclothes one is obliged to wear in Russia destroys any sense of touch. 

The idvosjik, or coachman, is so bulky from this same reason that youcannot see over him. You are obliged to crane your neck to one side. His head is covered with a Tartar cap. He wears his hair down to hiscollar, and then chopped off in a straight line. His pelisse is of abluish gray, fits tightly to the waist, and comes to the feet. But theskirt of it is gathered on back and front, giving him an irresistiblycomical pannier effect, like a Dolly Varden polonaise. The Russianidvosjik guides his horse curiously. He coaxes it forward by callingit all sorts of pet names--"doushka, " darling, etc. Then he beats itwith a toy whip, which must feel like a fly on its woolly coat, forall the little fat pony does is to kick up its heels and fly alonglike the wind, missing the other sledges by a hair's-breadth. It isghostly to see the way they glide along without a sound, for thesledges wear no bells. 

One may drive with perfect safety at a breakneck pace, for they alldrive down on one side of the street and up on the other. Nor will anidvosjik hesitate to use his whip about the head and face of anotheridvosjik who dares to turn without crossing the street. 

He stops his horse with a guttural trill, as if one should say"Tr-r-r-r-r" in the back of the throat. It sounds like a gargle. 

The horses are sharp-shod, but in a way quite different from ours. Thespikes on their shoes are an inch long, and dig into the ice withperfect security, but it makes the horses look as if they wore Frenchheels. Even over ice like sheer glass they go at a gallop and neverslip. It is wonderful, and the exhilaration of it is like drivingthrough an air charged with champagne, like the wine-caves of Rintz. 

Our troika was like a chariot in comparison with these sledges. It wasgorgeously upholstered in red velvet, and held six--three on eachseat. The robes also were red velvet, bordered and lined with blackbear fur. There were three horses driven abreast. The middle horse wasmuch larger than the other two, and wore a high white wooden collar, which stood up from the rest of the harness, and was hung with bellsand painted with red flowers and birds. 

To my delight the horses were wild, and stood on their hind legs andbit each other, and backed us off the road, and otherwise acted likeTartar horses in books. It seemed almost too good to be true. It waslike driving through the Black Forest and seeing the gnomes and thefairies one has read about. I told my friends very humbly that I hadnever done anything in my life to deserve the good fortune of havingthose beautiful horses act in such a satisfactory and historicalmanner. We had to get out twice and let the idvosjik calm them down. But even when ploughing my way out of snow up to my knees I breathedan ecstatic sigh of gratitude and joy. I could not understand themen's annoyance. It was too ideal to complain about. 

We drove out to the Island for luncheon, and on the way we stopped andcoasted in a curious Russian sledge from the top of a high place, something like our toboggan-slides, only this sledge was guided frombehind by a peasant on skates. 

A Russian meal always begins with a side-table of _hors d'oeuvres_, called "zakouska. " That may not be spelled right, but no Russian wouldcorrect me, because the language is phonetic, and they spell the sameword in many different ways. Their alphabet has thirty-eight lettersin it, besides the little marks to tell you whether to make a letterhard or soft. 

Even proper names take on curious oddities of spelling, and a husbandand wife or two brothers will spell their name differently when usingthe Latin letters. If you complain about it, and ask which is correct, they make that famous Russian reply which Bismarck once had engravedin his ring, and which he believed brought him such good luck, "Neechyvoe, " "It is nothing, " or "Never mind. " You can spell with your eyesshut in Russian, and you simply cannot make a mistake, for theRussians spell with all the abandonment of French dancing. 

This zakouska is so delicious and so varied and so tempting that onenot accustomed to it eats too much without realizing. At a dinner anAmerican looked at my loaded plate and said, with deliciousimpertinence, "Confidentially, I don't mind telling you that dinner is_coming_. "

As we came back, the full delight of troika-riding came over us, fordriving in the country we could not tell how fast we were going. Butin town, whizzing past other carriages, hearing the shouts of theidvosjik, "Troika!" and seeing the people scatter and the sledges turnout (for a troika has the right of way), we realized at what a pace wewere going. We dashed across the frozen Neva, with its tramway builtright on the ice; past the Winter Palace, along the quai, where allthe embassies are, into the Grand Morskaia, and from there into theNevski, with the snow flying and our bells ringing, and the middlehorse trotting and the outer horses galloping, sending clouds of steamfrom their heaving flanks and palpitating nostrils, and the biting airmaking our blood tingle, and the reiterated shout of the idvosjik, "Troika! troika!" taking our breath away. 

We had one more excitement before we reached home, which was seeing aRussian fire-engine. We passed it in a run. The engine was on onesledge, and following it were five other sledges carrying hogsheads ofwater. 

I am glad we came to Russia in winter, for by so doing we have met theRussian people, the most fascinating that any country can boast, withthe charm of the French, the courage of the English, the sentiment ofthe Germans, the sincerity and hospitality of the Americans. Theircourtesy to each other is a never-ending pleasure to me. Poles andRussians treat their women more nearly the way our American men treatus than any nation we have encountered so far. They are the mostmarvellous linguists in the world. We have met no one in Russia whospeaks fewer than three languages, and we have met several who speaktwelve. They are not arrogant even concerning their military strength. They are quite modest about their learning and their notinconsiderable literary and artistic achievements, and they holdthemselves, both nationally and individually, in the plastic statewhere they are willing to learn from any nation or any master who canteach what they wish to know. There is a marvellous future for Russia, for their riches and resources are as vast and inestimable as theirpossessions. They themselves do not realize how mighty they are. 

Here is France grovelling at their feet, spending millions of francsto entertain the Tzar--France, a nation which must see a prospect ofdouble her money returned before she parts with a sou; with thecathedrals filled with _couronnes_ sent by the French press; with nocompliment to Russia too fulsome for French gallantry to inventfinding space in the foremost French newspapers; hoping, praying, beseeching the help of Russia, when Germany makes up her mind togobble France, yet dealing Russian achievement a backhanded slap byhinting what a compliment it is for a cultivated, accomplished, over-cultured race like the French to beg the assistance of abarbarous country like Russia. 

I believe that Russia is the only country in the world which feelsnationally friendly and individually interested in America. I used tothink France was, and I held Lafayette firmly and proudly in my memoryto prove it. But I was promptly undeceived as to their individualinterest, and when I still clung to Lafayette as a proof of the formerI was laughed to scorn and told that France as a nation had nothing todo with that; that Lafayette went to America as a soldier of fortune. He would just as soon have gone to Madagascar or Timbuctoo, butAmerica was accommodating enough to have a war on just in time toserve his ambition. If that is true, I wish they had not told me. Iwould like to come home with a few ideals left--if they will permitme. 

When I was in Berlin I asked our ambassador, Mr. White, what Germanythought of America. He replied, "Just what Thackeray thought ofTupper. When some one asked Thackeray what he thought of Tupper, hereplied, 'I don't think of him at all. '"

But in Russia I have a sore throat all the time from answeringquestions about America. I think I am not exaggerating when I say Ihave answered a million in a single evening. My companion at first wasdisgusted with my wearing myself out in such a manner, but I said, "Iam so grateful to them for _caring_, after the indifference of allthese other self-sufficient countries, that I am willing to sacrificemyself at it if necessary. "

We never realized how little we knew about America until we discoveredthe Russian capacity for asking unexpected questions. I bought anAmerican history in Russia, and sat up nights trying to remember whatmy father had tried to instil into my sieve-like brain. After a weekof witnessing my feverish enthusiasm, even my companion's dormantnational pride was roused. She, too, was ashamed to say, "I don'tknow, " when they asked us these terrible questions. When we get intothe clutches of a party of women we trust to luck that they cannotremember our statistics long enough to tell their husbands andbrothers (I have a horror of men's accuracy in figures), and we calmlyguess at the answers when our exact knowledge gives out. 

One night they attacked my companion on the school question. Now, shedoes not know one solitary thing about the public-school system, but, to my utter amazement, I heard her giving the number of childrenbetween the ages of eight and ten who were in the public schools inthe State of Illinois, and then running them off by counties. I wasafraid she would soon begin to call the roll of their names frommemory, so I rescued her and took her home. I suppose we must have anair of intelligence which successfully masks our colossal ignorance ofoccult facts and defunct dates, because they rely on us to inform themoff-hand concerning everything social, political, historical, sacredand profane, spirituous and spiritual, from the protoplasm of thecliff-dwellers to the details of the Dingley bill, not skippingaccurate information on the process of whiskey-making in Kentucky, acrocodile-hunt in Florida, suffrage in Wyoming, a lynching-bee inTexas, polygamy in Utah, prune-drying in California, divorces inDakota, gold-mining in Colorado, cotton-spinning in Georgia, tobacco-raising in Alabama, marble-quarrying in Tennessee, the numberof Quakers in Philadelphia, one's sensations while being scalped bySioux, how marriages are arranged, what a man says when he proposes, the details of a camp-meeting, a description of a negro baptism, andthe main arguments on the silver question. 

They get some curious ideas in their heads concerning us, but they areso amazingly well informed about America that their specificmisinformation never irritated me. The small use they have for theirEnglish sometimes accounts for the queer things they say. 

The official costume for men who have no particular uniform isregulation evening dress, which they are obliged to wear all day. Theybecome so tired of it that this is the reason, they tell me, why somany men, even in smart society, go to the opera or even dinners infrock-coats. One one occasion a most intelligent man said to me, "I amtold that in America the ladies always wear décolleté costumes atdinners, and the men are always in night-dress. "

For one hysterical moment my mind's eye pictured a dinner-table onPrairie Avenue with alternately a low-necked gown and a pair ofpajamas, and I choked. Then I happened to think that he meant "eveningdress, " and I recovered sufficiently to explain. 

The Tzarina has made English the Court language, and since hercoronation no state balls take place on Sunday. 

Russian hospitality is delightful. We could remain a year in Russiaand not exhaust our invitations to visit at their country-houses. Russia must be beautiful in summer, but if you wish to go intosociety, to know the best of the people, to see their sweet home life, and to understand how they live and enjoy themselves, you must go inthe winter. I cannot think what any one would find of national life insummer in Russia, for everybody has a country-house and everybody goesto it and leaves the city to tourists. 

Russia, in spite of her vast riches, has not arrived atsupercivilization, where there is corruption in the very atmosphere. She is an undeveloped and a young country, and while the Tzar is wiseand kind and beneficent, and an excellent Tzar as Tzars go, stillRussians, even the best and most enlightened of them, are slaves. Ihave met a number of the gentlest and cleverest men who had beenexiled to Siberia, and pardoned. Their picture-galleries bear witnessto this underlying sadness of knowing that in spite of everything theyare not _free_. All their actions are watched, their every wordlistened to, spies are everywhere, the police are omnipresent, andover all their gayety and vivacity and mirth and spontaneity there isthe constant fear of the awful hand in whose complete power they are. His clemency, his fatherhood to his people, his tremendousresponsibility for their welfare are all appreciated, but the thoughtis in every mind, "When will this kindness fail? Upon whose head willthe lightning descend next?"

Title and gentle birth and the long and faithful service of one'sancestors to the Tzars are of small avail if the evidence should goagainst one in Russia. I have heard princes say less than I have saidhere, but say it in whispers and with furtive looks at the nearest manor woman. I have seen their starts of surprise at the frank impudenceof our daring to criticise our administration in their midst, and Ifelt as if I were in danger of being bombarded from the back. 

In Russia you may spell as you please, but you must have a care howyou criticise the government. In America you may criticise thegovernment as you will, but you must have a care how you spell. 

VIII

MOSCOW

I thought St. Petersburg interesting, but it is modern compared toMoscow. Everything is so strange and curious here. The churches, thechimes, the palace, the coronation chapel, and the street scenes areenough to drive one mad with interest. 

Moscow is said to have sixteen hundred churches, and I really think wedid not skip one. They are almost as magnificent as those in St. Petersburg, and they impressed--overpowered us, in fact, with the sameunspeakable riches of the Greek Church. 

The name of our hotel was so curious that I cannot forbear repeatingit, "The Slavansky Bazaar, " and they call their smartest restaurant"The Hermitage. " I felt as if I could be sold at auction in "TheBazaar, " and as if I ought to fast and pray in "The Hermitage. "

"The Slavansky Bazaar" was one of the dirtiest hotels it ever was mylot to see. The Russians of the middle class--to say nothing of thepeasants, who are simply unspeakable--are not a clean set, so onecannot blame a hotel for not living above the demands of its_clientèle_. There were some antique specimens of cobwebs in ourrooms, which made restful corner ornaments with dignified festoons, which swung slowly to and fro with such fascinating solemnity that Icould not leave off looking at them. The hotel is built up hill anddown dale, and each corridor smells more musty than the other. It hasa curious arrangement for supplying water in the rooms which I nevercan recall with any degree of pleasure. One evening after I haddressed I went to the wash-stand and discovered that there was nowater. I was madly ringing for the chambermaid when my companioncalled from her room, and said, "Put your foot on that brass thing. There is plenty of water. "

I looked down, and near the floor was a brass pedal, like that of apiano. Sure enough, there was a reservoir above and a faucet with thehead of a dragon on it peering up into my face, which I never hadnoticed before. Now, the pedal of my piano works hard, so I bent allmy strength to this one, and lo! from that impudent dragon's mouth Igot a mighty stream of water straight in my unconscious face, andenough to put out a fire. I fell back with a shriek of astonishmentand indignation, and my companion laughed--nay, she roared. She laughsuntil she cries even now every time she thinks of it, although I hadto change my gown. How was _I_ going to know that I was leaning over awaterspout, I should like to know!

In this same hotel when I asked for a blotter they brought me a box ofsand. I tried to use it, but my hand was not very steady, and none ofit went on the letter. Some got in my shoe, however. 

But our environments were more than compensated for by the exceedingkindness that we received from the most delightful people that it everwas my good fortune to meet, and their attentions to us were socharming that we shall remember them as long as we live. 

Americans, even though we are as hospitable as any nation on earth, might well take a lesson from the Russians in regard to the respectthey pay to a letter of introduction. The English send word when youcan be received, and you pay each other frosty formal calls, and thenare asked to five-o'clock tea or some other wildly exciting functionof similar importance. The French are great sticklers for etiquette, but they are more spontaneous, and you are asked to dine at once. After that it is your own fault if you are not asked again. But inRussia it is different. I think that the men must have accompanied mymessenger home, and the women to whom I presented letters early in theafternoon were actually waiting for me when I returned from presentingthe last ones. In Moscow they came and waited hours for my return. Iwas mortified that there were not four of me to respond to all thebeauties of their friendship, for hospitality in Russia includes eventhat. 

They placed themselves, their carriages, their servants, at ourdisposal for whatever we had to do--sight-seeing, shopping, or idling. Mademoiselle Yermoloff, lady-in-waiting to the two empresses, simplytook us upon her hands to show us Russian society life. She came withher sledge in the morning, and kept us with her all day long, takingus to see the most interesting people and places in Moscow. She showedus the coronation-robes, the embroideries upon which were from her ownbeautiful designs. The Empress presented her with an emerald anddiamond brooch in recognition of this important service, forundoubtedly the coronation-robe of the present Tzarina is muchhandsomer and in better taste than any of the others. The designs areso artistically sketched that they all have a special significance. 

Here we visited the charming Princess Golitzine, a most beautiful andaccomplished woman. Her house, we were told, De Lesseps, the father ofthe Suez De Lesseps, used as his headquarters during the Frenchoccupation of Moscow. 

Mademoiselle Yermoloff's sledge was a very beautiful one, but it wasquite as low-set as all the others, and her footman stood behind. Asthere was no back to the seat of her sledge, and her horses wererather fiery and unmanageable, every time they halted without warningthis solemn flunky pitched forward into our backs, a performance whichwould have upset the dignity of an English footman, but which did notseem to disturb him in the least. 

Mademoiselle Yermoloff took us to see Madame Chabelskoi, whosecontributions to the World's Fair were of so much value. I never saw aprivate collection of anything so rich, so varied, and of suchhistorical value as her collection of all the provincial costumes ofthe peasants of Finland and Big and Little Russia. In addition tothese she has the fête-day toilets as well. The Kokoshniks are allembroidered in seed-pearls and gold ornaments, and if she were not afabulously rich woman she could never have got all these, for each oneis authentic and has actually been worn. They are not copies. 

But Moscow seems to take a peculiar national pride in preserving thehistorical monuments of her country. There is a museum there, with acomplete set of all these costumes on wax figures, and they range allthe way from the grotesque to the lovely. 

Madame Chabelskoi is now doing a very pretty as well as a valuable andhistorical work. She has two accomplished daughters, and these younggirls spend all their time in selecting peasant women with typicalfeatures, dressing them in these costumes, photographing them, andthen coloring these photographs in water-colors. They are making tencopies of each, to make ten magnificent albums, which are to bepresented to the ten greatest museums in the world. The Hermitage inSt. Petersburg is to have one, the British Museum another, and so on. Only one was to go to America, and to my metropolitan dismay I foundthat it was _not_ to go to Chicago. I shall not say where it wasintended to go; I shall only say that with characteristic modesty Iasked, in my most timid voice, why she did not present it to a museumin the city which she had already benefited so royally with hergenerosity, and which already held her name in affectionateveneration. It seemed to strike her for the first time that Chicago_was_ the proper city in which to place that album, so she promised itto us! I thanked her with sincere gratitude, and retired from thefield with a modest flush of victory on my brow. I cannot forbear awicked chuckle, however, when I think of that other museum!

We dined many times at "The Hermitage, " which is one of the smartestrestaurants in Europe. The costumes of the waiters were tooextraordinary not to deserve a passing mention. They consisted of awhite cotton garment belted at the waist, with no collar, and a pairof flapping white trousers. They are always scrupulously clean--whichis a wonder for Russian peasants--for they are made to change theirclothes twice a day. They have a magnificent orchestrion instead of anorchestra here, and I could scarcely eat those beautiful dinners forlistening to the music. We became so well acquainted with therépertoire that our friends, knowing our taste, ordered the music tomatch the courses. So instead of sherry with the soup, they orderedthe intermezzo from "Cavalleria Rusticana. " With the fish we had theoverture to "William Tell. " With the _entrecôte_ we had a pot-pourrifrom "Faust. " With the fowl we had "Demon and Tamar, " the Russianopera. With the rest we began on Wagner and worked up to thatthrilling "Tannhäuser" overture, until I was ready to go home anervous wreck from German music, as I always am. 

A very interesting incident occurred while we were in Moscow. The Tzardecorated a non-commissioned officer for an act of bravery which welldeserved it. He was in charge of the powder-magazines just outside ofMoscow, and from the view I had of them I should say that thegunpowder is stored in pits in the ground. 

Something caught fire right on top of one of these pits, and thisyoung officer saw it. He had no time to send for water, and if hedelayed, at any moment the whole magazine might explode; one pit wouldcommunicate with another, and perhaps the whole city would beendangered; so without a second's hesitation he and his men spranginto the fire and literally trod it out with their feet, running therisk of an explosion by concussion, as well as by a spark of fire. Itwas a superb act of courage, and the Tzar decorated this youngsergeant with the order of Vladimir--one of the rarest decorations inall Russia. I am told that not over six living men possess it to-day. It was a beautiful thing for the Tzar thus to recognize this heroicdeed. 

When we left Moscow we were having our first real taste of Russianwinter, for, strange to say, although so much farther south, theclimate is much more severe than that of St. Petersburg. 

My companion complained bitterly that we were not seeing anything ofRussia because we came down from St. Petersburg at night, so weabandoned the courier train, and took the slow day-train for Kiev, theold capital of Russia, that she might see more of the country. 

But now I come to my reward and her chagrin. Between Moscow and Kievwe were snowed in for sixteen hours. It was between stations, the foodgave out--I mean it gave out because we did not have any to startwith--the train became bitterly cold, and we came near freezing andstarving to death. That made our Russian experiences quite complete. We had foolishly started without even fruit, and there was nothing tobe had on board the train except the tea which the conductors make ina samovar and serve to you at the slightest provocation. But even thetea was exhausted at last, and then the fire gave out, because all thewood had been used up. 

There we were, penned up, wrapped in our seal-skins and steamer-rugsand with nubias over our heads, so cold that our teeth chattered, andso hungry we could have eaten anything. The conductor came and spoketo us several times, but whether he was inviting us to lunch orquoting Scripture we could never tell. There was no one on the trainwho spoke English or French, and nobody else in our car to speakanything at all--owing to our having come on this particular train, inorder for my companion to "see Russia. " I am delighted to record thefact that not only the outside but the inside windows were frosted sothickly that they had to light the sickly tallow candle in a tin boxover the door of the compartment, so she never got a peep at Russia oranything else the whole way. 

We consoled each other and kept up our spirits as best we could allday, but we arrived at Kiev so exhausted with cold and hunger thatalthough we were received at the train by one of the most charming menI ever met, we both cried with relief at the sight of a friendly faceand some one to whom we could speak and tell our woes. I have sincewondered what he thought to be met by two forlorn women in tears!Whatever he thought, like all the Russians, he was courtesy itself, and we were soon whisked away to the inexpressible comfort of beingthawed and fed. 

Such a beautiful city as this is! Whitelaw Reid has declared Kiev tobe one of the four picturesque cities in Europe; certainly it lies ina heavenly place, all up and down hills, with such vistas down thestreets to where a mosque raises its gilded dome, or where an historicbronze statue stands out against the horizon. If Kiev had been plannedby the French, it could not be more utterly beautiful. The domes ofthe cathedrals are blue, studded with gold stars; or else pale greenor all gold, and the most exquisite churches in all Russia are inKiev. A terrible monastery, where you take candles and go down intothe bowels of the earth to see where monks martyred themselves, ishere; and poor simple-minded pilgrims walk many hundred miles to kissthese tombs. Their devotion is pathetic. We had to walk in aprocession of them, and I know that each of them had his ownparticular disease and his own special brand of dirt. The beggarssurrounding the gate of this monastery are too awful to mention, yetit is reputed to be the richest monastery in all Russia. 

In Kiev we heard "Hamlet" in Russian, and the man who played Hamletwas wonderfully good, surprisingly good. You don't know how strange itsounded to hear "To be or not to be" in Russian! The acting was sofamiliar, the words so strange. The audience went crazy over him, asRussian audiences always do. We watched him come out and bowthirty-nine times, and when we came away the noise was stilldeafening. 

They make a sort of candy in Kiev which goes far and away above anysweets I ever have seen. It is a sort of candied rose. The whole roseis there. It is a solid soft pink mass, and it tastes just as atea-rose smells. It is simply celestial. 

We dearly love Kiev, it is so hauntingly beautiful. You can't forgetit. Your mind keeps returning to it, but it is the sort of beauty thatyou can't describe satisfactorily. It is like your mother's face. Youcan see the beauty for yourself, but no one else can see it as you do, for the love which is behind it. 

In Odessa we began to leave Russia behind us. Odessa is all sorts of aplace. It is commercial, and not beautiful, but, as usual, our Russianfriends made us forget the town and its sights, and remember onlytheir sweet hospitality and friendliness. 

We wished to catch the Russian steamer for Constantinople, but we weretold that the police would not permit us to leave on such shortnotice. We felt that this was hard, for we had tried so consistentlyto be good in Russia that I was determined to go if possible. So Itook an interpreter and drove to the police headquarters myself. To myamazement and delight my man told me that it could all be arranged bythe payment of a few rubles. But that "few rubles" mounted up intomany before I got my passports duly viséd. I discovered that ourAmerican police are not so _very_ different from Russian police afterall, even if they _are_ Irish!

We caught the steamer--the dear, clean, lovely _Nickolai II. _, withthe stewardess a Greek named Aspasia, and I persisted in calling thesteward Pericles, just to have things match. 

Then we crunched our way out of the harbor through the ice into theBlack Sea, and sailed away for Constantinople. 

IX

CONSTANTINOPLE

Constantinople had three different effects upon me. The first was tomake me utterly despise it for its sickening dirt; the second was whenI forgot all about the mud and garbage, and went crazy over itspicturesque streets with their steep slopes, odd turns, and bewitchingvistas, and the last was to make me dread Cairo for fear it would seemtame in comparison, for Constantinople is enchanting. If I were apainter I would never leave off painting its delights and spreadingits fascinations broadcast; and then I would take all the money I gotfor my pictures and spend it in the bazaars, and if I regretted mypurchases I would barter them for others, because Constantinople isthe beginning of the Orient, and if you remain long you becomethoroughly metamorphosed, and you bargain, trade, exchange, and haggleuntil you forget that you ever were a Christian. The hour of ourarrival in Constantinople was an accident. The steamer _Nickolai II. _was late, and as no one may land there after sunset, we were forced tolie in the Bosphorus all night. 

It was dark when we sighted the city, but it was one of those cleardarks where without any apparent light you can see everything. _Surely_ no other city in the world has so beautiful an approach! Ourgreat black steamer threaded her way between men-of-war, sail-boats, and all sorts of shipping, and if there were a thousand lightstwinkling in the water there were a million from the city. It lies ona series of hills curved out like a monster amphitheatre, and itstretches all the way around. I looked up into the heavens, and itseemed to me that I never had seen so many stars in my life. Our skyat home has not so many. Yet there were no more than the yellow pointsof flame which flickered in every part of that sleeping city. Threetall minarets pierced above the horizon, and each of these worecircles of light which looked like necklaces and girdles of fire. Patches of black now and then showed where there were trees or markeda graveyard. Occasionally we heard a shrill cry or the barking ofdogs, but these sounds came faintly, and seemed a part of thefairy-picture. It looked so much like a scene from an opera that Ihalf expected to see the curtain go down and the lights flare up, andI feared the applause which always spoils the dream. 

But nothing spoiled this dream. All night we lay in the beautifulBosphorus, and all night at intervals I looked out of my porthole atthat lovely sleeping princess. It never grew any less lovely. Itsbeauty and charm increased. 

But in the morning everything was changed. A band of howling, screaming, roaring, fighting pirates came alongside in dirtyrow-boats, and to our utter consternation we found these bloodthirstybrigands were to row us to land. Not one word could we understand inall that fearful uproar. We were watching them in a terror too abjectto describe, when, to our joy, an English voice said, "I am the guidefor the two American ladies, and here is the kavass which the Americanminister sent down to meet you. The consul at Odessa cabled yourarrival. "

Oh, how glad we were! We loaded them with thanks and hand-luggage, andscrambled down the stairway at the side of the steamer. A dozen dirtyhands were stretched out to receive us. We clutched at their sleevesinstead, and pitched into the boat, and our trunks came tumbling afterus, and away we went over the roughest of seas, which splashed us andmade us feel a little queer; and then we landed at the dirtiest, smelliest quay, and picked our way through a filthy custom-house, where, in spite of bribery and corruption, they opened my trunk andexamined all the photographs of the family, which happened to be ontop, and made remarks about them in Turkish which made the other menlaugh. The mud came up over our overshoes as we stood there, so thataltogether we were quite heated in temper when we found ourselves inan alley outside, filled with garbage which had been there forever, and learned that this alley was a street, and a very good one forConstantinople, too. 

The porters in Turkey are marvels of strength. They wear a sort ofcushioned saddle on their backs, and to my amazement two men tossed myenormous trunk on this saddle. I saw it leave their hands before itreached his poor bent back; he staggered a little, gave it a hitch tomake it more secure, then started up the hill on a trot. 

I never saw so much mud, such unspeakably filthy streets, and so manydogs as Constantinople can boast. You drive at a gallop up streetsslanting at an angle of forty-five degrees, and you nearly fall out ofthe back of the carriage. Then presently you come to the top of thathill and start down the other side, still at a gallop, and you braceyour feet to keep from pitching over the driver's head. You wouldnotice the dogs first were it not for the smells. But as it is, youcannot even see until you get your salts to your nose. The odors areso thick that they darken the air. You are disappointed in the dogs, however. There are quite as many of them as you expected. You have notbeen misled as to the number of them, but nowhere have I seen themdescribed in a satisfactory way--so that you knew what to expect, Imean. In the first place, they hardly look like dogs. They have woollytails like sheep. Their eyes are dull, sleepy, and utterly devoid ofexpression. Constantinople dogs have neither masters nor brains. Nobrains because no masters. Perhaps no masters because no brains. Nobody wants to adopt an idiot. They are, of course, mongrels of themost hopeless type. They are yellowish, with thick, short, woollycoats, and much fatter than you expect to find them. They walk like afuneral procession. Never have I seen one frisk or even wag his tail. Everybody turns out for them. They sleep--from twelve to twenty ofthem--on a single pile of garbage, and never notice either men or eachother unless a dog which lives in the next street trespasses. Thenthey eat him up, for they are jackals as well as dogs, and they are nomore epicures than ostriches. They never show interest in anything. They are _blasé_. I saw some mother dogs asleep, with tiny puppiesswarming over them like little fat rats, but the mothers paid noattention to them. Children seem to bore them quite as successfully asif they were women of fashion. 

We went sailing up the Golden Horn to the Skutari cemetery, one of theloveliest spots of this thrice-fascinating Constantinople. As we weredescending that steep hill upon which it is situated we met a darlinglittle baby Turk in a fez riding on a pony which his father wasleading. This child of a different race, and six thousand miles away, looked so much like our Billy that I wanted to eat him up--dirt andall. I contented myself with giving him backsheesh, while my companionphotographed him. Such an afternoon as that was on that lovely goldenriver, with the sun just setting, and our picturesque boatmen sendingthe boat through thousands upon thousands of sea-gulls just to makethem fly, until the air grew dark with their wings, and the sunlighton their white breasts looked like a great glistening snow-storm!

One night we went to a masked ball given for the benefit of a newhospital which is situated upon the Golden Horn. It was given by Mr. Levy, one of the Turkish Commissioners at the World's Fair, and thedecorations were something marvellous. The walls were hung withembroideries which drove us the next day to the bazaars and nearlybankrupted us. Every street of Constantinople looks like a maskedball, so this one merely continued the illusion. We could distinguishthe Mohammedan women from the others because they all went home beforemidnight without unmasking. 

This ball is interesting because it is called "The Engagement Ball. "We were told that only at a subscription ball given for a charity inwhich their parents are interested and feel under moral obligation tosupport by their presence are the young people of Constantinopleallowed to meet each other. The fathers and mothers occupy the boxes, and thus, under their very eyes, and masked, can love affairs bebrought to a conclusion. During the week which followed no fewer thanten important engagements were duly heralded in the columns of thenewspapers. 

The most exciting things in Constantinople are the earthquakes. Wewere afraid they would not have any while we were there, but theyaccommodated us with a very satisfactory one! It upset my ink-bottleand broke the lamp and rattled everything in the room until I wasdelighted. When my companion came in she was indignant to think that Ihad enjoyed the earthquake all to myself, for she was in the rooms ofthe American Bible Society, and being thus protected, did not feel it. But I told her that that was her punishment for trying to prove that amissionary had cheated her, for she was not in that place for a godlypurpose. 

At another time, however, we met with better success in obtaining asensation of a different sort. We visited, in company with our Turkishfriend, a small but wonderfully beautiful mosque not often seen byordinary tourists, and afterwards went up on Galata tower to get thefine view of Constantinople which may be had there. It was just beforesunset again, and I am quite unable to make you see the utterloveliness of it. We crawled out on the narrow ledge which surroundsthe top, and I had just got a capital picture of my companion as sheclutched the Turk to prevent being blown off, for the wind wassomething terrible, when suddenly the keepers rushed to the windowsand jabbered excitedly in Turkish and ran up a flag, and behold, therewas a fire! Galata tower is the fire observatory. By the flags theyhoist you can tell where the fire is. I never was at a fire in mylife. Even when our stables burned down I was away from home. So herewas my opportunity. The way we drove down those narrow streets wasenough to make one think that we were the fire department itself. Butwhen we arrived we found to our grief that it was our dear littlemosque which was burning. Undoubtedly we were the last visitors toenter it. 

We went back to the hotel for dinner, and about nine o'clock, hearingthat the fire was spreading, we drove down again with our Turk, whoregarded it as no unusual thing to take American women to two fires inthe same day. We found the tenement-houses burning. Our carriage gaveus no vantage-ground, so our friend, who speaks twelve languages, obtained permission to enter a house and go up on the roof. We neverstopped to think that we might catch all sorts of diseases; we were sopleased at the courtesy of the poor souls. They had all their poorbelongings packed ready to remove if the fire crept any nearer, butthey ran ahead and lighted us up the dark stairway with candles, andtold us in Turkish what an honor we were doing their house, all ofwhich touched me deeply. I wondered how many people I would haveassisted up to _our_ roof if _my_ clothes were tied up in sheets inthe hall, with the fire not a square away!

Fortunately, it came no nearer, and from that high, flat roof wewatched the seething mass of yellow flames grow less and less and thengo completely under control. It was Providence which did it, however, and not the Constantinople fire department, with its little streams ofwater the size of slate-pencils!

The dogs were one of the sights we were anxious to see; the Sultan wasthe other. We found the bazaars more fascinating than either. But wewanted to photograph the Sultan--chiefly, I think, because it wasforbidden. I have an ever-present unruly desire to do everything whichthese foreign countries absolutely forbid. But everybody said we couldnot. So we very meekly went to see him go to prayers, and left ourcameras with the kavass. We had, with our customary good fortune, awindow directly in front of the Sultan's gate, not twenty feet fromthe door of the mosque. 

"If I had that camera here I could get him, and _nobody_ would know!"I declared. 

"But there are so many spies, " our Turkish friend said. "It would betoo dangerous. "

We waited, and waited, and waited. Never have the hours seemed somortally long as they seemed to us as we watched the hands of theclock crawl past luncheon-time, hours and hours later than the Sultanwas announced to pray, and still no Sultan. His little six-andseven-year old sons, in the uniform of colonels, were mounted onsuperb Arabian horses. These horses had tails so long that servantsheld them up going through the mud, as if they were ladies' trains. The children were dear things, with clear olive complexions and soft, dark eyes--Italian eyes. Then they grew tired of waiting, anddismounted, and came up to where we were, and shook hands in thesweetest manner. My companion was for coaxing the little one into herlap, but she looked somewhat staggered when I reminded her that shewould be trotting the colonel of the regiment on her knee. 

Then more cavalry came, and more bands, playing a little the worst ofany that I ever heard, and we impatiently thrust our heads out of thewindow, thinking, of course, the Sultan was coining, but he was not. Then some infantry with white leggings and stiff knee-joints, withcoils of green gas-pipe on their heads, like our student-lamps, marched by with a gait like a battalion of horses with thestring-halt, and we shrieked with laughter. Our friend said theycalled that the German step. Germany would declare war with Turkey ifshe ever heard that. 

By this time we were so tired and hungry and disgusted that we wereabout to go home and give up the Sultan when we saw no fewer thanfifty men come toiling up the hill with carpet-bags, as if they hadbrought their clothes, and intended to see the Sultan if it took aweek. I do not know who or what they were, and I do not want to know. They served their purpose with us in that they put us intoinstantaneous good humor, and just then there was a commotion, andeverybody straightened up and craned their necks; and then, precededby his body-guard, the Sultan drove slowly down, looked directly up atour window (and we groaned), and then turned in at the gate. Oppositeto him sat Osman Pasha, the hero of Plevna. The ladies of the haremwere driven into the court-yard surrounded by eunuchs, the horses weretaken from their carriages, and there the ladies sat, guarded likeprisoners, until the Sultan came out again. He then mounted into asuperb gold chariot drawn by two beautiful white horses, and hehimself drove out. Everybody salaamed, and he raised his hand inreturn as if it was all the greatest possible bore. 

While he was driving into the court-yard the priest came out on theminaret and called men to prayer, and an English girl who sat at thenext window informed her mother that he was announcing the names ofthe important persons in the procession! Her mother trained herglasses on him--a mere speck against the sky--and said, "Fancy!"

The Sultan is not a beauty. If he were in America his sign would bethat of the three golden balls. 

We went to see the mosques, and the officials and priests and boatmenwere so cross and surly on account of the fast of Ramazan that theywould not let us take photographs without a fight. During Ramazan theyneither eat nor drink between sunrise and sunset. 

On the fifteenth day of Ramazan the Sultan goes to the mosque of Eyoobto buckle on the sword of Mohammed in order to remind himself that thepower of that sword has descended to himself. He does not announce hisroute, therefore the whole city is in a commotion, and they spreadmiles of streets with sand for fear he might take it into his head togo by some unusual way. It passes my comprehension why they shouldever put any more dirt in the streets even for a Sultan. But sand is amark of respect in Russia and Turkey, and it really cleans the streetsa little. At least it absorbs the mud. Just as we were about to startfor a balcony beneath which he was almost sure to pass, our Turkishfriend whispered to us that if we wore capes we might take ourcameras. Imagine our delight, for it was so dangerous. But the capes!Ours were not half long enough to conceal the camera properly. It wasgrowing late. So in a perfect frenzy I dragged out my long pale blue_sortie du bal_, ripped the white velvet capes from it, pinned a shortsable cape to the top of it with safety-pins, and enveloped myself inthis gorgeousness at eleven o'clock in the morning. We made a curioustrio. Our Turk was in English tweeds with a fez. My companion wore asmart tailor gown, and I was got up as if for a fancy-dress ball, butin the streets of Constantinople no one gave me a second glance. I wasin mourning compared to some of the others. 

On the balcony with us were two small boys with projecting ears, ofwhom I stood in deadly terror, for if their boyish interest centred inthat camera of mine I was lost. Presently, however, with a tremendousclatter, the Sultan's advance-guard came galloping down the street. Igot them, turned the film, and was ready for the next--the carriagesof the state officials. I aimed well, and got them, but I was growingnervous. The boys writhed closer. I shoved them a little when theirmother was not looking. 

"Don't try to take so many, " said our Turk. "Here comes the Sultan. Aim low, and don't fire until you see the whites of his eyes. "

Again he looked up directly at us, and I snapped the shutter promptly. It was done. I had succeeded in photographing the Sultan! To be sure, it was an offense against the state, punishable by fine andimprisonment, but nobody had caught me. The little boy next to me, whohad walked on my dress and ground his elbows into me, craned his neckand stared at the Sultan with round eyes. He had been in my way eversince we arrived, but in an exuberance of tenderness I patted hishead. 

But when we had those negatives developed I discovered to my disgustthat instead of the Sultan I had taken an excellent photograph of thatwretched little boy's ear. 

X

CAIRO

I need not have been afraid that the charms of Constantinople wouldspoil Cairo for me, although at first I was disappointed. Most placeshave to be lived up to, especially one like Cairo, whose attractionsare vaunted by every tourist, every woman of fashion, every scholar, every idle club-man, everybody, either with brains or without. Iwondered how it _could_ be all things to all men. I simply thought itwas the fashion to rave about it, and I was sick of the very sound ofits name before I came. It was too perfect. It aroused the spirit ofantagonism in me. 

First of all, when you arrive in Cairo you find that it is very, veryfashionable. You can get everything here, and yet it is practicallythe end of the world. Nearly everybody who comes here turns around andgoes back. Few go on. Even when you go up the Nile you must come backto Cairo. There is really nowhere else to go. 

You drive through smart English streets, and when you find yourself atShepheard's you are at the most famous hotel in the world; yet, strange to say, in spite of its size, in spite of the thousands oflearned, famous, titled, and distinguished people who have been here, in spite of its smartness and fashion, it is the most homelike hotel Iever was in. Everybody seems to know about you and to take an interestin what you are doing, and all the servants know your name and thenumber of your room, and when you go out into the great corridor, orwhen you sit on the terrace, there is not a trace of the superciliousscrutiny which takes a mental inventory of your clothes and your looksand your letter of credit, which so often spoils the sunset for you atsimilar hotels. 

Ghezireh Palace is even more fashionable than Shepheard's. Here wehave baronets and counts and a few earls. But there they have dukesand kings and emperors, yet there is a gold-and-alabaster mantelpiecewhich takes your mind even from royalty, it is so beautiful. Ghezirehis situated on the Nile, half an hour's drive away, so that in spiteof its royal atmosphere it never will take the place of Shepheard's. Here you see all the interesting people you have heard of in yourlife. You trip over the easels of famous artists in an angle of thenarrow street, and many famous authors, scientists, archaeologists, and scholars are here working or resting. 

Yesterday I was told that four Americans who stood talking together onthe terrace represented two hundred millions of dollars. At dinner thered coats of the officers make brilliant spots of color among all theblack of the other men, and at first sight it does seem too odd to seeevening dress consist of black trousers and a bright-red coat whichstops off short at the waist. But if you think that looks odd, whatwill you say to the officers of the Highland regiments? _Their_ fulldress is almost as immodest in a different way as that of somewomen, and one of the most exquisite paradoxes of British customis that a Highland undress uniform consists of the addition oflong-trousers--more clothes than they wear in dress uniform. 

Cairo is cosmopolitan. You may ride a smart cob, a camel, or a donkey, and nobody will even look twice at you. You will see harem carriageswith closed blinds; coupés with the syces running before them (andthere is nothing in Cairo more beautiful than some of these men andthe way they run); you will see the Khedive driving with hisbody-guard of cavalry; you will see fat Egyptian nurses out in basketphaëton with little English children; you will see tiny boys, nobigger than our Billy, in a fever of delight over riding on a livedonkey, and attended by a syce; you will see emancipated Egyptianwomen trying to imitate European dress and manners, and making a messof it; you will see gamblers, adventurers, and savants all mixedtogether, with all the hues of the rainbow in their costumes; you willsee water-carriers carrying drinking-water in nasty-looking driedskins, which still retain the outlines of the animals, only swollenout of shape, and unspeakably revolting; you will see native womencarrying their babies astride their shoulders, with the little thingsresting their tiny brown hands on their mothers' heads, and oftenlaying their little black heads down, too, and going fast to sleep, while these women walk majestically through the streets with onlytheir eyes showing; you will see all sorts of hideous cripples, andmore blind and cross-eyed people than you ever saw in all your lifebefore; you will see venders of fly-brushes, turquoises, amber, ostrich-feathers, bead necklaces from Nubia, scarabaei and antiquitieswhich bear the hall-marks of the manufacturers as clearly as ifstamped "Made in Germany"; you will see sore-eyed children sitting ingroups in doorways, with numberless flies on each eye, making noeffort to dislodge them; and you will visit mosques and bazaars whichyou feel sure call for insect-powder; you will see Arabian menknitting stockings in the street, and thinking it no shame; you willsee countless eunuchs with their coal-black, beardless faces, theirlong, soft, nerveless hands, long legs, and the general make-up of amushroom-boy who has outgrown his strength; you will hear the cawingof countless rooks and crows, and if you leave your window open theserascals will fly in and eat your fruit and sweets; you will see andhear the picturesque lemonade-vendor selling his vile-tasting acidfrom a long, beautiful brass vessel of irregular shape, and you nevercan get away from the horrible jangling noise he makes from two brassbowls to call attention to his wares; you will see tiny boys in tightsdoing acrobatic feats on the sidewalk, walking on their hands in frontof you for a whole square as you take your afternoon stroll, and thenpleading with you for backsheesh; you will see hideous monkeys of asort you never saw before, trained to do the same thing, so that youcannot walk out in Cairo without being attended with some sort of abodyguard, either monkey, acrobat, cripple, or the beggar-girls withtheir sweet, plaintive voices, their pretty smiles, and their eternalhunger, to coax the piasters from your open purse. But you acceptthese sights and sounds as a part of this wonderful old city, and eachday the fascination will grow on you until you will be obliged to goto a series of afternoon teas in order to cool your enthusiasm. 

In passing, the flies of Egypt deserve a tribute to their peculiarqualities. A plague of American flies would be a luxury compared tothe visit of one fly from Egypt. For untold centuries they have beenin the habit of crawling over thick-skinned faces and bodies, and notbeing dislodged. They can stay all day if they like. Consequently, ifthey see an American eye, and they light on it, not content with that, they try to crawl in. You attempt to brush them off, but they onlymove around to the other side, until you nearly go mad withnervousness from their sticky feet. If they find out your ear theycrawl in and walk around. You cannot discourage them. They craze youwith their infuriating persistence. If _I_ had been the Egyptians, theIsraelites would have been escorted out of the country in state at thearrival of the first fly. 

England has done a marvellous good to Egypt by her training. She hastaken a lot of worthless rascals and educated them to work atsomething, no matter if it does take five of them to call a cab. Shehas trained them to make good soldiers, well drilled because drilledby English officers, and making a creditable showing. She has madefairly dependable policemen of them, but their legs are the mostwabbly and crooked of any that ever were seen. These policemen arearmed. One carries a pistol and the other the cartridges. If theyhappened to be together they could be very dangerous to criminals. Shehas developed all the resources of the country, and made it fat andproductive, but she never can give the common people brains. 

It poured rain this morning, and there is no drainage; consequently, rivers of water were rushing down the gutters, making crossingsimpassable and traffic impossible. They called out the fire-engines topump the water up in the main thoroughfare, but on a side street Istopped the carriage for half an hour and watched four Arabs workingat the problem. One walked in with a broom and swept the water downthe gutter to another man who had a dust-pan. With this dustpan hescooped up as much as a pint of water at a time, and poured it into atin pail, which gave occupation to the third Arab, who stood in a bentposition and urged him on. The fourth Arab then took this pail ofwater, ran out, and emptied it into the middle of the street, and thewater beat him running back to the gutter. I said to them, "Why don'tyou use a sieve? It would take longer. " And they said, "No speakEnglish. "

I watched them until I grew tired, and then I went to the ostrich-farmas a sort of distraction, and I really think that an ostrich has morebrains than an Arab. 

This farm is very large, and the ostrich-pens are built of mud. Inever had seen ostriches before, and I had no idea how hideous, howbig, and how enchanting they are. They have the most curiousagate-colored eyes--colorless, cold, yet intelligent eyes. But theyare the eyes of a bird without a conscience. They have no soul, ascamels have. An ostrich looks as if he would really enjoy villainy, asif he could commit crime after crime from pure love of it, and neverknow remorse; yet there is a fascination about the old birds, and theyhave their good points. The father is domestic in spite of looking asif he belonged to all the clubs, and, much to my delight, I saw onesitting on the eggs while the mother walked out and took the air. Ostriches and Arabs do women's work with an admirable disregard ofMrs. Grundy. Ostriches have an irresistible way of waving their lovelyplumy wings, and one old fellow twenty-five years old actuallyimitates the dervishes. The keeper says to him, "Dance, " and althoughhe is about ten feet tall, he sits down with his scaly legs spread outon each side of him, and, shutting his eyes, he throws his long, uglyred neck from side to side, making a curious grunting noise, andwaving his wings in billowy line like a skirt-dancer. It was toowonderful to see him, and it was almost as revolting as a realdervish. 

We saw these dervishes once; nothing could persuade us to gotwice--they were too nasty. The night the Khedive goes to the Citadel, to the mosque of Mohammed Ali, to pray for his heart's desire (for onthat night all prayers of the faithful are sure to be answered), thedervishes in great numbers are performing their rites. They are calledthe howling dervishes, but they do not howl; they only make a horriblegrunting noise. They have long, dirty, greasy hair, and as they throwtheir bodies backward and forward this hair flies, and sometimesstrikes the careless observer in the face. They work themselves up toa perfect passion of religious ecstasy to the monotonous sound of Arabmusic, and never have I heard or seen anything more revolting. Thenegroes in the South when they "get the power" are not nearly sorepulsive. 

It is England's wise policy in all her colonies to have her army takepart in the national religious ceremonies, so when the Sacred Carpetstarted from the Citadel on its journey to Mecca there was amagnificent military display. 

It is an odd thing to call it a carpet, for it not only is not acarpet in itself, but it is not the shape of a carpet, it is not usedfor a carpet, and does not look like a carpet. 

We were among the fortunate ones who were invited to the private viewof it the night before, when the faithful were dedicating it. They saton the floor, these Mohammedans, rocking themselves back and forth, and chanting the Koran. I believe the reason nearly all Arabs havecrooked legs is because they squat so much. One cannot have straightlegs when one uses one's legs to sit down on for hours at a time. Theyalways sit in the sun, too, and that must bake them into theircrookedness. 

The "carpet" is a black velvet embroidered solidly in silver and gold. It is shaped like an old-fashioned Methodist church, only there areminarets at the four corners. It looks like a pall. Every year theysend a new one to Mecca, and then the old one is cut into tiny bitsand distributed among the faithful, who wear it next their hearts. 

This carpet was about six feet long, and was railed in so that no onecould touch it. A man stood by and sprayed attar of roses on you asyou passed, but I do not know what he did it for, unless it was toturn sensitive women faint with the heaviness of the perfume. 

But the next morning the procession formed, and amid the wildestenthusiasm, the bowing and salaaming of the men, and the shouting andrunning of the children, and the singing of the Arabs who bore thecarpet, it was placed upon the most magnificent camel I ever saw, which was covered from head to foot with cloth of gold, and whose verygait seemed more majestic because of his sacred burden, and thus, ledby scores of enthusiastic Arabs, he moved slowly down the street, following the covering for the tomb, and in turn being followed by onescarcely less magnificent destined to cover the sacred carpet in itscamel journey to Mecca. That was absolutely all there was to it, yetthe Khedive was there with a fine military escort, and all Cairoturned out at the unearthly hour of eight o'clock in the morning tosee it. 

As we drove back we saw the streets for blocks around a certain househung with colored-glass lanterns, and thousands upon thousands ofsmall Turkey-red banners with white Arabic letters on them strung onwires on each side of the street. These we knew were the decorationsfor the famous wedding which was to occur that night, and to which wehad fortunately been bidden. It was in very smart society. The son ofa pasha was to marry the daughter of a pasha, and the presents weresaid to be superb. 

We wore our best clothes. We had ordered our bouquets beforehand, forone always presents the bride with a bouquet, and they were reallyvery beautiful. It was a warm night, with no wind, and the heavenswere twinkling with millions of stars. Such big stars as they have inEgypt!

When we arrived we were taken in charge by a eunuch so black that Ihad to feel my way up-stairs. There were, perhaps, fifty other eunuchsstanding guard in the ante-chamber, and our dragoman took the men whobrought us around to another door, where all the men had to wait whilewe women visited the bride. 

A motley throng of women were in the outer room--fat black women withwaists two yards around, canary-colored women laced into low-cutEuropean evening dresses, brown women in native dress; a babel ofvoices, chattering in curious French, Arabic, Turkish, and Greek. Allthe women were terribly out of shape from every point of view, and nota pretty one among them. One attendant snatched my bouquet withouteven a "Thank you" (I had been wondering to whom I should give it, butI need not have worried), and patted me on the back as she pushed meinto the room where the bride sat on a throne amid piles upon piles ofbouquets. She had a heavy, pale face covered with powder, eyes andeyebrows blackened, nails stained with henna, and a figure much toofat. She wore a garment made of something which looked likemosquito-netting heavily embroidered in gold, which hung like a rag. Her jewels were magnificent, but the effect of all this gorgeousnesswas rather spoiled to the artistic eye by her grotesque surroundings. 

After we had visited the bride we were approached by a little yellowwoman in blue satin, who asked me in French if I would not like to seethe _chambre à coucher_, and I said I would. We were then conducted toa room all hung in blue satin embroidered in red. Lambrequins, chair-covers, bed-covers, pillows, bed-hangings--all the careful workof the bride. Then we were invited to inspect the presents in anotherroom, which were all in glass cabinets. Dozens of amber and jewelledcigarette-holders and ornaments of every description, mostmagnificent, but of no earthly use--as wedding presents sometimes are. 

Then we came down-stairs, and had all sorts of things at a banquet, and heard Arab music, and sat around in the room, where our men metus, and feeling rather bored, we decided to go home. There we werewise, for we met quite by accident the procession of the bridegroom. He was escorted through the streets by a band, and two rows of youngmen carrying candelabra under glass shades. We turned and drove alongbeside him and watched him, but he was so nervous we felt that it wasrather a mean thing to do. He was a handsome fellow, but never have Iseen a man who looked so unhappy and ill at ease. When he entered thehouse he proceeded to the door of the bride's room, where he threwdown silver and gold as backsheesh until her women were satisfied;then he was permitted to enter. 

As we drove away for the second time I remembered that they werehaving "torchlight tattoo" at the barracks, and we decided to stop fora moment. 

"It won't seem bad to see some soldiers who can march, for the Englishsoldiers are magnificently trained, " I said, as we stopped to buy ourtickets. A young officer whom I had met heard my remark, and smiledand saluted. 

"The English soldiers _are_ the best in the world, _aren't_ they?" hesaid, teasingly. 

"Undoubtedly, " I replied, tranquilly. 

He looked a little staggered. He had encountered my belligerent spiritbefore, and he did not expect me to agree with him. 

"You--you, an American, admit _that_?" he said. 

"Surely, " I replied. "But why?" he persisted, most unwisely, for itgave me my chance. 

"Because the Americans are the only ones who ever whipped them!American soldiers can beat even the best!"

It is now six weeks since I said that, but as yet he has made noreply. 

XI

THE NILE

In travelling abroad there are some things which you wish to do morethan others. There are certain treasures you particularly desire tosee, certain scenes your mind has pictured, until the dream has almostbecome a reality. The ascent of the Nile was one of my Meccas, and nowthat it is over the reality has almost become a dream. 

In Egypt the weather is so nearly perfect during the season that itwas no surprise to find the day of our departure a cloudless one. Iseldom worry myself to arrange beforehand for the creature comforts ofa journey, trusting to the beneficent star which seems to hover overthe unworthy to shine upon my pathway. But this time I had so dreamedof and brooded over and longed for the Nile that I went so far as toinvestigate the different lines of boats, and we chose the moonlighttime of the month, and we hurried through Russia and Turkey and Greecewith but one aim in view, and that was to have our feet on the deck ofthe _Mayflower_ on the 19th of February. And we succeeded. 

Ah, it was a dream well worth realizing! Twenty-one days of rest. Three glorious weeks of smooth sailing over calm waters. Three weeksof warmth and sunshine by day, and of poetry and starlight by night. Three weeks of drifting in the romance which surrounds the name ofthat great sorceress, that wonderful siren, that consummate coquette, that most fascinating woman the world has ever known. Three weeks ofsteeping one's soul in the oldest, most complete and satisfactoryruins on the face of the earth. Here, in delving into the past, wewould have no use for the comparative word "hundreds. " We could boldlyuse the superlative word "thousands. " What memories! what dreams! whatfragments of half-forgotten history and romance came floating throughthe brain! I have, generally, little use for guide-books except, afterwards, to verify what I have seen. But I admit that I had anespecial longing to reach the temple of Denderah, which was said tocontain the most famous relief of Cleopatra extant. I was anxious tosee if her beauty or her charm or anything which accounted for hersorceries were reproduced. "If Cleopatra's nose had been shorter, thewhole history of the world would have been changed. " How far away sheseemed! How near she would become!

On the terrace at Shepheard's the morning of our departure you couldsee by people's faces how they were going to make this journey. Somehad Stanley helmets on, and were laden with cushions andsteamer-chairs and fruits as if for an ocean voyage. Others wereclutching their Baedeker, and their Amelia Edwards, and their"Kismet, " and their note-books, and wore a do-or-die expression ofcountenance. One or two others floated around aimlessly, with dreamyeyes, as if they were already lost in the past which now pressed soclosely at hand. Then the coach from the Gehzireh Palace rolled by ina cloud of dust, and people hurried down the steps of Shepheard's andtook their places in _our_ coach, and the dragomans in their gorgeouscostumes followed with wraps, and the porters bustled about stowingaway hand-luggage, and Arabs crowded near, thrusting their violets androses and amber necklaces and beaded fly-brushes into your very face, and the old man who sells turquoises made his last effort to sell youa set for shirt-studs, and the Egyptians and East-Indians from thebazaars opposite came to the door and looked on with the perennialinterest and friendliness of the Orient, and a swarm of beggarspleaded, with the excitement of a last chance, for backsheesh, andthere was a babel of tongues--French, English, Italian, German, andArabic, all hurtling about your ears like so many verbal bullets in abattle, when suddenly the door slammed, the driver cracked his whip, the coach lurched forward, the children scattered--and we were off. 

Everybody knows when a boat starts up the Nile, and everybody isinterested and nods and waves to everybody else. There was a shortdrive to the river amid polite calls of "good-bye" and "_bon voyage_, "and there lay the _Mayflower_, like a great white bird withcomfortably folded wings. Nobody seemed to hurry much, for a Nile boatdoes not start until her passengers are all on board. An hour or somakes no difference. 

You go down the bank of the Nile to go on board a boat upon steps cutin the earth, and if your hands are full and you cannot hold up yourdress, you sweep some three inches of fine yellow dust after you. Butyou don't care. The man ahead scuffed his dust in your face, and thewoman behind you is sneezing in yours, and everything and everybodyare a little yellowish from it, but nobody stops to brush it off. Itis too exciting to hurry up on deck and place your steamer-chair andfling your things into your stateroom and rush out again for fear thatyou will miss something. There were Italians, French, English, Poles, Swedes, and Americans on board. Some of them had titles. Some had onlybad manners, with nothing to excuse them. But, after all, everybodywas nice, I got through the whole three weeks without hating anybodyand with only wanting to drown one passenger. What better record ofamiability could you ask?

But one thing marred the start. This Anglo-American line of boats isthe only line in Egypt which flies the American flag. That was thefinal inducement they offered which decided my choice of the_Mayflower_. But while we knew that she was obliged to fly theBritish flag also, we were indignant beyond words to see a huge UnionJack floating at the top of the forward flagstaff and beneath it atoy American flag about the size of a cigar-box. _Beneath_ theEnglish flag! I nearly wept with rage. The owner of the line wasat hand, and I did not wait to draw up a petition or to consult myfellow-Americans. I just said: "Have the goodness to haul down thatinfant American flag, will you? I have no objection to sailing underboth, but I do object to such an insulting disparity in size. Besidesthat, you seem to have forgotten that the American flag never flies_below_ any other flag on God's green earth!"

He made some apologies, and gave the order at once. The baby washauled down amid the smiles of the English passengers. But at Assioutwe were avenged when an enormous American flag arrived by rail and washoisted to the main flagstaff, twenty feet higher than the British. When I came out on deck that Sunday morning, and saw that blessed flagwaving above me, everything blurred before my eyes, and I do assureyou that it was the most beautiful sight I saw in all of that Europeancontinent. You may talk about your temples and your ruins and your oldmasters! Have _you_ ever seen "Old Glory" flying straight out from aflagstaff in a foreign country seven thousand miles away from home?

The Nile is much broader than I expected to find it, and, like theMissouri and the Golden Horn, it is always muddy. The _Mayflower_carries only fifty passengers, which is of the greatest advantage fordonkey-rides and for seeing the ruins, a larger party being unwieldy. She draws but two feet of water, having been built expressly for Nileservice, so we had the proud satisfaction of seeing one of the bigRameses boats stuck on a sand-bank for eighteen hours, while we tootedpast her blowing whistles of defiance and derision. Whenever we feltourselves going aground on a sand-bank we just reversed the enginesand backed off again, or else put on extra steam and ground our waythrough it. In the whole three weeks we were not aground five minutes, although we passed one wreck settling in the water, with the beddingand stores piled up on the bank, and the passengers sailing away inthe swallow-winged feluccas, which had swooped down to their rescuelike so many compassionate birds. 

Afternoon tea on the Nile is an unforgetable function. Everybody comeson deck and sits under the awning and watches the sun go down. Eachday the sunsets grow more beautiful. Each day they differ from all therest. Such yellows and purples! Such violet shadows on the goldenwater! Such a marvellously sudden sinking of the sun in a crimsonflame behind the flat brown hills! And then the stillness of the Nilein the opal aftermath! Those sunsets are something to carry in thememory forever and a day. 

At night the sailors lower the side awnings, crawling along therailings with their naked prehensile feet. The captain, a Nubian, on asalary of eighty-five cents a day, selects a suitable spot on the bankwhere the boat may remain all night. Then the bow of the boat headsfor the shore and digs her nose in the soft mud. The sailors pitch thestakes and mallets out on to the bank and spring ashore. Then withArab songs which they always sing when rowing, hauling ropes, scrubbing the decks, or doing any sort of work, the stern is graduallyhauled alongside the bank, and there we stay until morning in astillness so absolute that even the cry of the jackals seems inharmony with the loneliness of it. 

I dreaded the first excursion. It was to Memphis and Sakhara, eighteenmiles in all, and I never had been on a donkey in my life. I am notafraid of horses, but donkeys are so much like mules. My friendsencouraged me all they could. They said that I would have a donkey-boyall to myself, that the donkey never went out of a walk, and wound upby the cheerful assurance that if he did pitch me over his head Iwould not have far to fall. 

The donkey-boys of the Nile deserve a book all to themselves. Suchcraft! Such flattery! Such knowledge of human nature! With unerringsagacity they discover your nationality and give your donkey namesfamous in your own country. Never will an Englishman find himselfastride "Yankee Doodle" or "Uncle Sam, " or an American upon "JohnBull. " They pick you up in their arms to put you on or take you fromyour donkey as if you were a baby. They run beside you holding yourumbrella with one hand, and with the other arm holding you on if youare timid. Staid, dignified women who teach Sunday-school classes athome, who would not permit a white manservant to touch them, lean ontheir donkey-boys as if they were human balustrades. 

My first donkey-boy was an enchanting rascal. He looked like ahandsome bronze statue. My donkey was a pale, drab little beast, woolly and dejected. He looked as though if you hurled contemptuousepithets at him for a week they would all fit his case. My companion'swas more jaunty. He had been clipped in patterns. His legs were alldone in hieroglyphics, and he held his ears up while mine trailed hisin the sand. 

Nevertheless, I was so deadly afraid of him that I saw my forty-ninefellow-passengers leave me, one after the other, while I stillhesitated and eyed him suspiciously. Perhaps I never would havemounted had not Imam, the dragoman, with the frank unceremoniousnessof the East, caught me up in his arms and landed me on my donkeybefore I could protest. And in the face of his childish smile ofconfidence I could only gasp. We moved off with the majesty of afuneral procession. 

"What's the name of my donkey?" asked my companion. 

"Cleveland, " came the answer like a flash. 

We were enchanted. 

"And what's the name of mine?" I asked. 

"McKinley!"

Then we shouted. You have no idea how funny it sounded to hear thosetwo familiar names in such strange surroundings. We nearly tumbled offin our delight, and so quick are those clever little donkey-boys towatch your face and divine your mood that in a second they gave thatWeird, long-drawn donkey call, "Oh-h-ah-h!" and my companion's donkeyswung into a gentle trot, with her donkey-boy running behind, beatinghim with a stick and pinching him in the legs. 

At that McKinley, not to be outdone by any Democratic donkey, prickedup his ears. I heard a terrific commotion behind me. The string ofbells around McKinley's neck deafened me, and I remember then andthere losing all confidence in the administration, for McKinley was aDerby winner. He was a circus donkey. He broke into a crazy gallop, then into a mad run. I shrieked but my donkey-boy thought it was asound of joy, and only prodded him the more. In less than two minutesI had shot past every one of the party; and for the whole day McKinleyand I headed the procession. I only saw my companion at a distancethrough a cloud of dust, and she does not trust me any more. Thus haveI to bear the sins of Mohammed Ali, my perfidious donkey-boy, whoforced me to lead the van on that dreadful first day at Sakhara. 

Everywhere you go you hear the insistent, importunate cry forbacksheesh. Old men, women, children, dragomans, guides, merchants, and street-venders--all sorts and conditions of men beg for it. Theyteach even babies to take hold of your dress and cry for it. And totoss backsheesh over to the crowd on the bank as the steamer movesaway is to see every one of them roll over in the dirt and fight andscratch like cats over half a piaster. There is no such thing asself-respect among the natives. They are governed by blows and curses, and even the eyes of sheiks and native police glisten at the word"backsheesh. "

At Assiout one night we heard some one calling from the bank inEnglish: "Lady, lady, give me some English books. I am a Christian. Ican read English. Give me a Bible. I go to the American college. Iwant to be a preacher. " I leaned over the railing and discerned a veryblack boy, whose name, he said, was Solomon. I was so surprised tohear "Bible" instead of "backsheesh" that I investigated. He said hismother and father were dead; that he had only been to college a year;that he wanted to be a preacher, and that he would pray God for me ifI would give him a Bible. I was touched. He spelled America, and Igave him backsheesh. He told me the population of the United States, and I gave him more backsheesh. He sang "Upidee" with an accent whichthrew me into such ecstasies that it brought the whole boat to hearhim, and we all gave him backsheesh. But his piety was what captivatedus. I heard afterwards that no fewer than ten of us privately resolvedto give him Bibles. He begged us to visit the college; so the next dayeight of us gave up the tombs and went to the American college, whichwas floating the Stars and Stripes because it was Washington'sbirthday. We spoke to Dr. Alexander, the president, of our friendSolomon. He told us that he was an absolute fraud, but one of thecleverest boys in the college. He was not an orphan. His father took anew wife every year, and his mother also had an assorted collection ofhusbands. He had been to school five years instead of one. He had noend of Bibles. People gave them to him and he sold them. He had beenin jail for stealing, and on the whole his showing was not such as toencourage us to help him to preach. Such was Solomon, a typicalEgyptian, an equally accurate type of the Arab. They are the cleverestand most consummate liars in the world. I wonder that the noble menand women who are giving their lives to teaching in that wonderfulmission college have the courage to go on with it, the material is sounpromising. Yet Arabic acuteness makes it interesting, after all. Apretty little water-carrier named Fatima, who wore a blue bead in thehole bored in her nose, and only one other garment besides, ran besideme at Denderah, calling me "beautiful princess, " and kissing my handuntil she made my glove sticky. None of us were too old or too hideousin our Nile costumes to be called beautiful and good. My donkey-boy atKarnak assured me that I was his father and his mother. He touched hisforehead to my hand, then showed me how his dress was "broken, " andbegged his new father-and-mother to give him a new one. 

They are creatures of a different race. You treat them as you wouldtreat affectionate dogs. You beat them if they pick your pockets, asthey do every chance they get, and then they offer to show you the boywho did it. I never got to the point of personally beating mine, butImam beat a few of them every day. On one occasion my donkey-boy, Hassan, was angry with me because I would not let him buy feed for thedonkey, Ammon Ra, and refused to bring him up when I wanted to mount. I called to the dragoman, and said:

"Imam, Hassan won't bring up my donkey. "

Imam looked at him a moment in silence, then with a lightning slap onthe cheek he laid him flat in the sand. I was horrified. But to myamazement Hassan hopped up and began to kiss my sleeve and toapologize, saying, "Very good lady. Bad donkey-boy. Hassan sorry. Verygood lady. "

We have had three Christmases this year. The first was in Berlin, thesecond in Russia, and the third on the Nile--the day after the fast ofRamazan is ended. Ramazan lasts only thirty days instead of forty, like our Lent. The thirty-first is a holiday. They present each otherwith gifts, do no work, and picnic in the graveyards. 

Between Esneh and Luxor we passed a steamer with some English officerson board, and their steamer was towing two flat-boats containing theirregiments, all going to Kitchener in the Soudan. I used thefield-glass on-them, while my companion photographed them. We waved tothem, and they waved to us and swung their hats and saluted. At Edfouthey caught up with us, and passed so close to our boat that thegentlemen talked to them and asked what their regiments were. Theysaid the Twenty-first Lancers and the Seaforth and CameronHighlanders. Then their boat was gone. How could we know that thosegallant officers of the Twenty-first Lancers would so soon lead thatdaring cavalry charge at Omdurman, and possibly one of those whosaluted so gayly was the one killed on the awful day? It touched usvery much, however, to think that they might be going to their death, and we were glad they did not belong to us, little dreaming that theblowing-up of the _Maine_, of which we had just heard, would so soonplunge our own dear country into war, and that our own fathers andbrothers and friends would be marching and sailing away to defend thatsame "Old Glory" whose stars and stripes were floating over our heads, and whose gallant colors would succor the oppressed and avenge insultwith equal promptness and equal dignity. 

The temple of Denderah is not, to my mind, more beautiful than thoseof Luxor and Karnak; in fact, both of those are more majestic, but themural decorations of Denderah are in a state of marvellouspreservation. I own, after seeing that in some places even theoriginal colors remained, that I quite held my breath as we approachedthe famous figure of Cleopatra. The sorceress of the Nile! Thefavorite of the goddess Hathor herself! The siren who could tempt anemperor to forsake his empire or a general to renounce fame and honormore easily than a modern woman could persuade a man to break anengagement to dine with her rival! Queen of the Lotus! Empress of thePyramids! What grace, what charm I anticipated! I wondered if shewould be portrayed floating down to meet Antony, with her purple andperfumed sails, her cloth of gold garments, her peacocks, her ibex, her lotus-blooms, and if all her mysterious fascinations would bespread before the delighted gaze of her humble worshipper. 

What I found is shown in the frontispiece to this volume. Beautyunadorned with a vengeance! From this time on I shall question thetaste of Antony. I only wish he could have lived to see some Americangirls I know. 

We saw Karnak and Philae by moonlight, and we lunched in the tombs ofthe kings, with hieroglyphics thousands of years old looking down uponour pickled onions and cold fowl, and we ploughed through the sands atAssouan and saw the naked Nubians, with a silver ear-ring in the topof their left ear, shoot the rapids of the first cataract. We stood, too, in the temple of Luxor, before the altar of Hathor, with thesunset on one side and the moonrise on the other, and heard what hervotaries say to the Goddess of Beauty. It was so mystical that wealmost joined in the worship of the Egyptian Venus Aphrodite. It wasso still, so majestic, so aloof from everything modern and new. 

The Nile is essentially a river of silence and mystery. The ibis isalways to be seen, standing alone, seemingly absorbed in meditation. The camels turn their beautiful soft eyes upon you as if you wereintruding upon their silence and reserve. Never were the eyes in ahuman head so beautiful as a camel's. There is a limpid softness, anappealing plaintiveness in their expression which drags at yoursympathies like the look in the eyes of a hunchback. It means that, with your opportunities, you might have done more with your life. Yourmother looks at you that way sometimes in church, when the sermontouches a particularly raw nerve in your spiritual make-up. I alwaysfeel like apologizing when a camel looks at me. 

One moonlight night was so bright that our boat started about threeo'clock instead of waiting for daylight, and the start swung mystate-room door open. It was so warm that I let it remain, and laythere hearing the gentle swish of the water curling against the sideof the steamer, and seeing the soft moonlight form a silver pathwayfrom the yellow bank across the river to my cabin door. The machinerymade no noise. There was no more vibration than on a sail-boat. Andthere was the whole panorama of the Nile spread before my eyes, withall its romance and all its mystery bathed in an enchanting radiance. Occasionally a raven croaked. Sometimes a jackal howled. An obeliskmade an exclamation-point against the sky, or the ruins of a templefretted the horizon. It was the land of Ptolemy, of Rameses, ofHathor, of Horus, of Isis and Osiris, of Herodotus and Cleopatra, ofPharaoh's daughter and Moses. It was the silence of the ages whichfell upon me, and then and there, in that hour of absolute stillnessand solitude and beauty unspeakable, all my dreams of the Nile cametrue. 

XII

GREECE

After our ship left Smyrna, where the camels are the finest in theworld, and where the rugs set you crazy, we came across to thePiraeus, and arrived so late that very few of the passengers dared toland for fear the ship would sail without them. It was blowing aperfect gale, the sea was rough, and the captain too cross to tell ushow long we would have on shore. I looked at my companion and shelooked at me. In that one glance we decided that we would see theAcropolis or die in the attempt. A Cook's guide was watching ourindecision with hungry eyes. We have since named him Barabbas, forreasons known to every unfortunate who ever fell into his hands. Buthe was clever. He said that we might cut his head off if he did notget us back to the boat in time. We assured him that we would gladlyavail ourselves of his permission if that ship sailed without us. Thenwe scuttled down the heaving stairway at the ship's side, and away wewent over (or mostly through) the waves to the Piraeus. There we tooka carriage, and at the maddest gallop it ever was my lot to travel weraced up that lovely smooth avenue, between rows of wild pepper-treeswhich met overhead, to Athens; through Athens at a run, and reachedthe Acropolis, blown almost to pieces ourselves, and with the horsesin a white foam. 

Up to that time the Acropolis had been but a name to me. I landedbecause it was a sight to see, and I thought an hour or so would bebetter than to miss it altogether. But when I climbed that hill andset my foot within that majestic ruin, something awful clutched at myheart. I could not get my breath. The tears came into my eyes, and allat once I was helpless in the grasp of the most powerful emotion whichever has come over me in all Europe. I could not understand it, for Icame in an idle mood, no more interested in it than in scores of otherwonders I was thirsting to see; Luxor, Karnak, Philae, Denderah--allof those invited me quite as much as the Acropolis, but here I wasspeechless with surprise at my own emotion, I can imagine that suchviolence of feeding might turn a child into a woman, a boy into a man. All at once I saw the whole of Greek art in its proper setting. TheVenus of Milo was no longer in the Louvre against its red background, where French taste has placed it, the better to set it off. Its cold, proud beauty was here again in Greece; the Hermes at Olympia; theWingless Victory from the temple of Niké Apteros, made wingless thatvictory might never depart from Athens; the lovelier Winged Victoryfrom the Louvre, with her electric poise, the most exhilarating, themost inspiring, the most intoxicating Victory the world has everknown, was loosed from her marble prison, and was again breathing thepure air of her native hills. Their white figures came crowding intomy mind. 

The learning of the philosophers of Greece; the "plain living and highthinking" they taught; the unspeakable purity of her art; theineffable manner in which her masters reproduced the idea of thestern, cold pride of aloofness in these sublime types of perfect men, wrung my heart with a sense of personal loss. I can imagine thatPygmalion felt about Galatea as I felt that first hour in theAcropolis. I can imagine that a woman who had loved with the passionof her life a man of matchless integrity, of superb pride, of loftyideals, and who had lost that love irretrievably through a fault ofher own, whose gravity she first saw through his eyes when it was toolate, might have felt as I felt in that hour. All the agony of ahopeless love for an art which never can return; all the sense ofpersonal loss for the purity which I was completely realizing for thefirst time when it was too late; all the intense longing to have thedead past live again, that I might prove myself more worthy of it, assailed me with as mighty a force as ever the human heart couldexperience and still continue to beat. The piteous fragments of thislost art which remained--a few columns, the remnants of an immortalfrieze, the long lines of drapery from which the head and figure weregone, the cold brow of the Hermes, the purity of his profile, theproud curve of his lips, the ineffable wanness of his smile--I couldhave cast myself at the foot of the Parthenon and wept over thepersonal disaster which befell me in that hour of realization. 

I never again wish to go through such an agony of emotion. TheAcropolis made the whole of Europe seem tawdry. I felt ashamed of thegorgeous sights I had seen, of the rich dinners I had eaten, of theluxuries I had enjoyed. I felt as if I would like to have the whole ofmy past life fall away from me as a cast-off garment, and that if Icould only begin over I could do so much better with my life. I couldhave knelt and beat my hands together in a wild, impotent prayer forthe past to be given into my keeping for just one more trial, one moreopportunity to live up to the beauty and holiness and purity I hadmissed. When I looked up and saw the naked columns of the Parthenonsilhouetted against the sky, bereft of their capitals, ragged, scarred, battered with the war of wind and weather and countless ages, all about me the ruins seemed to say, "Your appreciation is in vain;it is too late, too late!"

I have an indistinct recollection of stumbling into the carriage, ofdriving down a steep road, of having the Pentelikon pointed out to me, of knowing that near that mountain lay Marathon, of seeing the statueof "Greece crowning Byron, " but I heard with unhearing ears, I sawwith unseeing eyes. I had left my heart and all my senses in theAcropolis. I believe that one who had left her loved one in thechurchyard, on the way home for the first time to her empty house, hasfelt that dazed, unrealizing yet dumb heartache that I felt for daysafter leaving the Parthenon. 

It grew worse the farther I went away from it, and for two months Ihave longed for Athens, Marathon, Thermopylae, Salamis. I wanted tostand and feast my soul upon the glories which were such livingmemories, All through Egypt and up the Nile my one wish was to livelong enough and for the weeks to fly fast enough for me to get back toAthens. Now I am here for the second time, and for as long as I wishto remain. 

We came sailing into the harbor just at sunset. Such a sunset! Suchblue in the Mediterranean! Such a soft haze on the purple hills! Howthe gods must have loved Athens to place her in the garden spot of allthe earth; to pour into her lap such treasures of art, and to endowher masters with power to create such an art! The approach is sobeautiful. Our big black Russian ship cut her way in utter silencethrough the bluest of blue seas, with scarcely a ripple on the sunlitwaters, between amethyst islands studded with emerald fields, makingstraight for that which was at one time the bravest, noblest, mostcourageous, most beautiful country on earth. 

 "The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all except their sun is set. "

Byron's statue stands in the square, surrounded by evergreens; hispicture is in the École Polytechnique, and his memory and his songsare revered throughout all Greece. How her beauty tore at his soul!How her love for freedom met with an echo in his own heart! No wonderhe sang, with such a theme! It was enough to give a stone song and thevery rocks utterance. 

It was Sunday, and as we drove through the clean, white streets, feeling absolutely hushed with the beauty which assailed us on everyside, suddenly we heard the sound of music, mournful as a dirge--amartial dirge. And presently we saw approaching us the saddest, mosttouching yet awful procession I ever beheld. It was a militaryfuneral. First came the band; then came two men bearing aloft thecover to the casket, wreathed in flowers and streaming with crape. Then, borne in an open coffin by four young officers of his staff, with bands of crape on their arms and knots of crape on their swords, was the dead officer, an old, gray-haired general, dressed in the fulluniform of the Greek army, with his browned, wrinkled, deep-linedhands crossed over his sword. The casket was shallow, and thus he wasexposed to the view of the gaping multitude, without even a glass lidto cover his bronzed face, and with the glaring sun beating down uponhis closed eyes and noble gray head. Just behind him they led hisriderless black horse, with his master's boots reversed in thestirrups and the empty saddle knotted with crape. It was at oncemajestic, heartrending, and terrible. It unnerved me, and yet it wasnot surprising to have such a moving spectacle greet me on my returnto Greece. 

We drove over the same road from the Piraeus to Athens, but in the twomonths of our absence they had mended a worn place in this road andhad unearthed a most beautiful sarcophagus, which they placed in thenational museum. The cement which held it on its pedestal was not yetdry when we saw it. They do not know its date, nor the hand of thesculptor who carved it, yet it needs no name to proclaim its beauty. 

I have now seen Athens as I wanted to see it. I have seen itconsecutively. It was beautiful to begin with the Acropolis and totake all day to examine just the frieze of the Parthenon. We had tohave written permission, which we received through the Americanminister, to allow us to climb up on the scaffolding and get a nearview of it. But we did it, and we were close enough to touch it, tolay our hands on it, and we waited hours for the sun to sink lowenough to creep between the giant beams and touch the metopes so thatwe could photograph them. Of course, we could have bought photographsof them, but it seemed more like possessing them to take them with ourown little cameras. 

The central metope is the most beautiful and in the best state ofpreservation of all this marvel from the hand of Phidias; yet the workof destruction goes on, as only last year the head of the rider felland broke into a thousand pieces, so that only the horse, the figure, and the electric splendor of his wind-blown garments floating outbehind him remain. There is so little of this frieze left that itrequires the full scope of the imagination, as one stands and looks atit, to picture this triumphal procession of Pan-Athenians which everyfour years formed at the Acropolis and wound majestically down throughthe Sacred Way to the Temple of Mysteries to sacrifice to the goddessin honor of Marathon and Salamis. 

But we followed this road ourselves. We, too, took the Sacred Way. Onthe loveliest day imaginable we drove along this smooth white road; wesaw the Bay of Salamis; we wound around the sweetheart curve of hershore; the purple hills forming the cup which holds her translucentwaters are the background to this famous battle-ground; and beyond, set on the brow of one of these hills like a diadem, is all thatremains of the Temple of Mysteries. Broken columns are there, pedestals, fragments of proud arches, now shattered and trodden underfoot. Its majesty is that of a sleeping goddess, so still, sotranquil, proud even, in its ruins; yet in such utter silence it lies. In the cracks of the marble floors, in the crannies of the walls, springing from beneath the broken statue, voiceless yet persistent, grow scarlet poppies--the sleep flowers of the world, yielding to thisyellowing Temple of Mysteries the quieting influence of theirpresence. 

The next day, almost in the spirit of worship, we went to Marathon. IfSalamis was my Holy Grail, then Marathon was my Mecca. We started outquite early in the morning, with relays of horses to meet us on theway. It tried to rain once or twice, but it seemed not to have theheart to spoil my crusade, for presently the sun struggled through theragged clouds and shed a hazy half light through their edges, whichcompletely destroyed the terrible, blinding glare and made the daysimply perfect. 

The road to Marathon led through orchards of cherry-trees white withblossoms, through green vineyards, past groves of olive-trees whichlook old enough to have seen the Persian hosts, through groups ofcypress-trees, such noble sentinels of deathless evergreen; throughfields of wild-cabbage blooms, making the air as sweet as thealfalfa-fields of the West; across the Valanaris by a little bridge, and suddenly an isolated farmhouse with a wine-press, andthen--Marathon!

 "The mountains look on Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea, And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free; For standing by the Persian's grave, I could not deem myself a slave!"

Marathon is only a vast plain, but what a plain! It has only a smallmound in the centre to break its smoothness, but what courage, whatpatriotism, what nobility that mound covers! It was there, manyauthorities say, that all the Athenians were buried who fell atMarathon, although Byron claims that it covers the Persian dead. 

How Greece has always loved freedom! In the École Polytechnique arethree Turkish battle-flags and some shells and cannon-balls from a warso recent that the flags have scarcely had time to dry or the shellsto cool. What a pity, what an unspeakable pity, that all the glory ofGreece lies in the past, and that the time of her power has goneforever! Nothing but her brave, undaunted spirit remains, and nevercan she live again the glories of her Salamis, her Marathon, herThermopylae. 

We have seen Athens in all her guises, the Acropolis in all her moods, at sunrise, in a thunder-storm, in the glare of mid-day, at sunset, and yet we saved the best for the climax. On the last night we were inAthens we saw the Acropolis by moonlight. We nearly upset the wholeGreek government to accomplish this, for the King has issued an edictthat only one night in the month may visitors be admitted, and that isthe night of the full moon. But I had returned to Athens with this oneidea in my mind, and if I had been obliged to go to the King myself Iwould have done so, and I know that I would have come away victorious. He never could have had the heart to refuse me. 

It is impossible. I utterly abandon the idea of making even my nearestand dearest see what I saw and hear what I heard and think what Ithought on that matchless night. There was just a breath of wind. Themountains and hills rose all around us, Lykabettos, Kolonos--the homeof Sophocles--Hymettos, and Pentelikon with its marble quarries, madean undulating line of gray against the horizon, while away at the leftwas the Hill of Mars. How still it was! How wonderful! The rows oflights from the city converged towards the foot of the Acropolis likethe topaz rays in a queen's diadem. The blue waters of the harborglittered in the pale light. A chime of bells rang out the hour, coming faintly up to us like an echo. And above us, bathed, shrouded, swimming in silver light, was the Parthenon. The only flowers thatgrow at the foot of the Parthenon are the marguerites, thewhite-petaled, golden-hearted daisies, and even in the moonlight thesestarry flowers bend their tender gaze upon their god. 

I leaned against one of the caryatides of the Erechtheion and lookedbeyond the Parthenon to the Hill of Mars, where Paul preached to theAthenians, and I believe that he must have seen the Acropolis bymoonlight when he wrote, "Wherefore, when we could no longer forbear, we thought it good to be left in Athens _alone_!"

What a week we have had in Athens! If I were obliged to go hometo-morrow, if Greece ended Europe for me, I could go home satisfied, filled too full of bliss to complain or even to tell what I felt. Ihave lived out the fullest enjoyment of my soul; I have reached thelimit of my heart's desire. Athens is the goddess of my idolatry. Ihave turned pagan and worshipped. 

In all my travels I have divided individual trips into twoclasses--those which would make ideal wedding journeys and those whichwould not. But the greatest difficulty I have encountered is how toget my happy wedded pair over here in order to _begin_. I have not theheart to ask them to risk their happiness by crossing the ocean, forthe Atlantic, even by the best of ships, is ground for divorce (if yougo deep enough) in itself. I have not yet tried the Pacific, but I amtold that, like most people who are named Theodosia and Constance andWinifred, the Pacific does not live up to its name. However, if Icould transport my people, chloroformed and by rapid transit, toGreece, I would beg of them to journey from Athens to Patras by rail;and if that exquisite experience did not smooth away all triflingdifficulties and make each wish to be the one to apologize first, thenI would mark them as doomed from the beginning, by their own insensateand unappreciative natures, as destined to finish their honeymoon byseparate maintenance and alimony. 

How I hate descriptions of scenery! How murderous I feel when theconventional novelist interrupts the most impassioned love-scene totell how the moonlight filtered through the ragged clouds, or how thewind sighed through the naked branches of the trees, just as ifanybody cared what nature was doing when human nature held the stage!And yet so marvellous is the fascination of Greece, so captivating thescenes which meet the eye from the uninviting window of a plain littleforeign railroad train, that I cannot forbear to risk similarmaledictions by saying that it is too heavenly for common words toexpress. 

Now, I abominate railroads and I loathe ships. The only things Ireally enjoy are a rocking-chair and a book. But much as I detest thesmell of car-smoke, and to find my face spotted with soot, and ill asit makes me to ride backward, I would willingly travel every month ofthe year over the road from Athens to Patras. The mountains are not sohigh as to startle, the gulf not so vast as to shock. But withgentleness you are drawn more and more into the net of its fascinationuntil the tears well to your eyes and there is a positive physicalache in your heart. 

Greece is considerate. I have seen landscapes so continuously andoverpoweringly beautiful that they bored me. I know how to sympatizewith Alfred Vargrave when he says to the Duc de Luvois:

 "Nature is here too pretentious; her mien Is too haughty. One likes to be coaxed, not compelled, To the notice such beauty resents if withheld. She seems to be saying too plainly, 'Admire me;' And I answer, 'Yes, madam, I do; but you tire me. '"

Not so with Greece, for when you become almost intoxicated with herwonderful blues and greens and purples, and you move your headrestlessly and beg a breathing-space, she compassionately recognizesyour mood and lowers a silver veil over her brilliant beauty, so thatyou see her through a gauzy mist, which presently tantalizes you intoblinking your tired eyes and wondering what she is so deftlyconcealing. It is like the feeling which assails you when you see aveiled statue. You long for the sculptor to chisel away the marblegauze and reveal the features. And when the craving becomesintolerable, lo! Greece, the past mistress of the art of beauty, grants your desire, and with the regal gift of a goddess brings yoursoul into its fruition. Cleopatra would have tantalized and left yourheart to eat itself out in hopeless longing. But Cleopatra was only aqueen; Venus was a goddess. 

Names which were but names to you before become living realities now. We are crossing the Attic plain, and from that we find ourselves inthe Thracian plain. What girl has not heard her brother spoutconcerning these names, famous in Greek history? Then we are inMegara, on the lovely blue Bay of Salamis. From Megara the Bay ofSalamis becomes Saronic Gulf, and after an hour or two of itsunspeakable beauty we cross over to Corinth and find, if possible, that the blues of the Gulf of Corinth are even more sapphire, that itspurples are even more amethyst, that its greens are more emerald thanthe blues and purples and greens of Salamis. 

From Corinth the road skirts the sea, and all these white plains aredevoted to the drying of currants. At Sikyon, called "cucumber town, "but originally, with the mystic beauty of the ancient Greeks, called"poppy town, " the American school at Athens has made some wonderfulexcavations. It has discovered the supports of the stage of the famoustheatre there. Then, still with the sea before us, we are at Aegium, aname full of memories of ancient Greece. It has olive, currant, grape, and mulberry plantations, and lies shrouded and bedded in beauty andromance. There, over a high iron bridge, we cross a rushing mountaintorrent and are at Patras, in the moonlight, with our big ship waitingto take us across the Adriatic Sea to Brindisi. 

It was with real pain that we left Greece. I would like to go backto-morrow. But there were reasons for reaching Italy without furtherdelay, and we hurried through Corfu with only a day there to see itsloveliness, instead of a week, as we would have liked. The Empress ofAustria's villa lies tucked up on a hill-side, in a mass of orange, lemon, cypress, and magnolia trees. Such an enchanting picture as itpresents, and such wonderful beauty as it encloses. But all that ismodern. What fascinates me in Corfu is that opposite the entrance tothe old Hyllaean harbor lies the isle of Pontikonisi (Mouse Island), with a small chapel and clergy-house. Tradition says that it is thePhaeacian ship which brought Ulysses to Ithaka, and which wasafterwards turned into stone by the angry Poseidon (Neptune). Thebrook Kressida at the point where it enters the lake is also pointedout as the spot where Ulysses was cast ashore and met the PrincessNausicaa. A seasick sort of name, that!

I feel an inexplicable delight in letting my imagination run riot inthe Greek traditions of their gods and goddesses. Their heroes aremore real to me than Caesar and Xerxes and Alexander. And Hermes andVenus and the dwellers of Olympus have been such intimate friendssince my childhood that the scenes of their exploits are of much moremoment to me than Waterloo and Austerlitz. I cannot forbear laughingat myself, however, for my holy rage over Greek mythology, as foundedupon no better ground than that upon which Mark Twain apologized forhis admiration for Fenimore Cooper's Indians, for he admitted thatthey were a defunct race of beings which never had existed!

We arrived at Brindisi at four o'clock in the morning. Brindisi atfour o'clock in the morning is not pleasant, nor would any other citybe on the face of this green footstool. We were in quarantine, and wehad to cope with a cross stewardess, who declared that we demanded toomuch service, and that she would _not_ bring us our coffee in bed, andwho then went and did it like an angel, so that we patted her on theback and told her in French that she was "well amiable, " although atthat hour in the morning we would have preferred to throttle her forher impertinence, and then to throw her in the Adriatic Sea as a neatlittle finish. Such, however, is our diplomatic course of travel. 

We walked in line under the doctor's eye, and he pronounced ussanitary and permitted us to land. We were four hours late, but wescalded ourselves with a second cup of coffee and tried for thesix-o'clock train for Naples, missed it, sent a telegram to Cook tosend our letters to the train to meet us, and then went back to theship to endure with patience and commendable fortitude the jeers ofour fellow-passengers. Virtue was its own reward, however, for soon, under the rays of the rising sun, which we did not get up to see, anddid not want to see, there steamed into the harbor alongside of us theP. & O. Ship _Sutly_, six hours ahead of time (did you ever hear ofsuch a thing?), bearing our belated friends, the Jimmies, fromAlexandria. They had been booked for the _China_, which was wrecked, so the _Sutly_ took her passengers. The Jimmies had bought theirpassage for Venice, but we teased them to throw it up and come withus, and such is our fascination that they yielded. The love whichreaches the purse is love indeed. So in a fever of joy we all caughtthe nine-o'clock train for Naples. 

They have a sweet little way on Italian railroads of making noprovision for you to eat. We did not know this, and our knowledge ofItalian was limited to _Quanto tempo?_ (How much time?) and _Quantocosta?_ (How much is it?) So we punctuated the lovely journey amongthe Italian hills, and between their admirable waterways, by hoppingoff the train for coffee every time they said "Cinque minuti. " It waslike a picnic train. Half the passengers were from the P. & O. , andknew the Jimmies, and the other half were from our Austrian Lloyd, andknew us, so it was perfectly delicious to see every compartment doorfly open and everybody's friend appear with tea-kettles for hot waterin one hand and tea-caddies in the other, and to see people who hatedboiled eggs buying them, because they were about all that lookedclean; and to see staid Englishmen in knickerbockers and monocles withloops of Italian bread over each tweed arm, and in both hands flasksof cheap red Italian wine--oh, so good! and only costing fiftycentimes, but put up in those lovely straw-woven decanters which costus a real pang to fling out of the window after they were emptied. Andit was anything but conventional to hear one friend shout to another, "Don't pay a lira for those mandarins; I got twice that many from thispirate!" And then the five minutes would be up, and the guard wouldcome along and call "Pronto, " which is much prettier than "Allaboard, " but which means about the same thing; and then twoear-splitting whistles and a jangling of bells, and the doors wouldslam, and we were off again. 

It was moonlight when we skirted the Bay of Naples--the same moonlightwhich lighted the Acropolis for us at Athens, which shed its silverloveliness upon the Adriatic Sea, where we had no one whose soulshared its beauty with us, and which we found again glittering uponthe Bay of Naples. We stood at the car-window and watched it for anhour, for all that time our train was winding its way around the shoreinto Naples. 

That curve of the shore, that sheet of rippling sapphire, the glint ofthe moon on the water, the train trailing its slow length around thebay, are associated in my mind with one of those emotional upheavalswhich travellers must often experience in passing from one phase ofcivilization to another. It marks one of the mile-stones in my innerlife. I was leaving the East, the pagan East, with its mysteriousinfluence, and I was getting back to Cooks' tourists and Italy. Mymind was in a whirl. Which was best? Why should I so love one, and whydid the other bore me? I was afraid to follow the yearnings of my ownsoul, and yet I knew that only there lay happiness. To make up one'smind to be true to one's love--even if it be only the love ofbeauty--requires courage. And the trial of my bravery came to me onthat curve of the Bay of Naples. I dared. I am daring now. I am stilltrue to the Orient. 

As I look back I remember that the phrase, "See Naples and die, " gaveme the hazy idea that it must be very beautiful, but just how I didnot know, and did not particularly care. I knew the bay would belovely; I only hoped it would be as lovely as I expected. Celebratedbeauties are so apt to be disappointing. I imagined that allNeapolitan boys wore their shirt-collars open and that a wavy lock ofcoal-black hair was continually blowing across their brown foreheads. That eternal porcelain miniature has maddened me with its omnipresenceever since I was a child. But aside from these half-thoughts and dimexpectations I had no hopes at all. I was prepared to be gently andtranquilly pleased; not wildly excited, but satisfied; not happy, butcontented with its beauty. But I have found more. The bay is morelovely than I anticipated, and I have discovered that Italian hair isnot coal-black; it begins to be black at the roots, and evidently hadevery intention of being black when it started out, but it grew wearyof so much energy, and ended in sundry shades of russet brown andsunburned tans. It generally has these two colors, black and tan, likethe silky coat of a fine terrier, and it waves in lovely littletendrils, and is much prettier than hair either all black or allbrown. 

But I am ahead of my narrative. I am trying to decide whether Naplesis more beautifully situated than Constantinople. Constantinople, being Oriental, fascinates me more. Western Europe begins to seem alittle tame and conventional to me, because the pagan in my nature isso highly developed. I detest civilization except for my own selfishbodily comfort. When I eat and sleep I want the creature comforts. Otherwise I love those thieving Arab servants in Cairo (who wouldsteal the very shoes off your feet if you dropped off for your fortywinks) because of their uncivilization and unconventionality. Civilization has not yet spoiled them. I bought rugs in Cairo, andoften when I went unexpectedly into my room I found my Arabman-servant on his knees studying their patterns and feeling theirsilkiness. I had everything locked up, or perhaps he would have madeworse use of his time; but somehow the childishness of the Eastappeals to me. 

Constantinople is so delightfully dirty and old. Mrs. Jimmie sniffs atme because I can stop the peasants who lead their cows through thestreets of Naples, and because I can drink a glass of warm milk; Mrs. Jimmie wants hers strained. But if I can eat "Turkish Delight" inConstantinople, buying it in the bazaars, seeing it cut off the hugesticky mass with rusty lamp-scissors, perhaps dropped on thedirt-floor, and in a moment of abstraction polished off on the Turk'strousers and rolled in soft sugar to wrap the real in the ideal--if Ican cope with _that_ problem, surely a trifle like drinking unstrainedmilk, with the consoling satisfaction of stopping the carriage in anadorable spot, with the blue waters of the bay curling up on its shoredown below on the right, and a sheer cliff covered with moss andclinging vines and surmounted by a superb villa on the left, isnothing. For to eat or to drink amid such romantic surroundings, evenif it were unstrained milk, was an experience not to be despised. 

Yet here are two cities situated like amphitheatres upon the convexcurve of two ideally beautiful harbors. How do you compare them? Eachaccording to your own temper and humor. You have seen hundreds ofcolored photographs both of Naples and Constantinople. But of the twoyou will find only Naples exactly like the pictures. Everybody agreesabout Naples. People disagree delightfully about Constantinople. Somecan never get beyond the dirt and smells and thievery. Some never getused to the delicious thrills of surprise which every turn and everycorner and every vista and every night and every morning hold for thebeauty-lover. Nothing could be more heterodox, more _bizarre_, moreunconventional than Constantinople scenes. Nothing could be moreorthodox than the views of Naples. To be sure, poets have writtenreams of poetry about it, travellers have sent home pages ofrhapsodies about it, tourists have conscientiously "done" the town, with their heads cocked on one side and their forefingers on aparagraph in Baedeker; but just _because_ of this, _because_ everybodyon earth who ever has been to Naples--man or woman, Jew or Gentile, black or white, bond or free--_has_ wept and gurgled and had hysteriaover its mild and placid beauty, is one reason why I find it somewhattame. Italian scenery seems to me laid out by a landscape-gardener. Its beauty is absolutely conventional. Nobody will blame you if youadmire it. To rave over it is like going to church--it is the properthing to do. People will raise their eyebrows if you don't, and watchwhat you eat, and speculate on your ancestry, and wonder about yourpolitics. 

The beauty of Italy is so proper and Church of England that you arelooked upon as a dissenter if you do not rhapsodize about it. But itdisappoints me to feel obliged to follow the multitude like a flock ofsheep and to take the dust of those feeble-minded tourists who havepreceded me and set the pace. There is nothing in the scenery of allItaly to shock your love of beauty from the staid to the original. There is nothing to give your sensitive soul little shivers ofsurprise. There is nothing to make you hesitate for fear you ought notto admire; you _know_ you ought. You feel obliged to do so becauseeverybody has done it before you, and you will be thought queer if youdon't. There is a gentle, pretty-pretty haze of romance over Italianscenery which is like reading fairy-tales after having devouredCarlyle. It is like hearing Verdi after Wagner. The East has my reallove. I find that I cannot rave over a pink and white chinashepherdess when I have worshipped the Venus of Milo. 

XIII

NAPLES

The point of view is always the pivot of recollection. How ought oneto remember a place? There are a dozen ways of enjoying Naples, andtwenty ways of being miserable in America. Or turn it the other way, it makes no difference. It depends upon one's self and the state ofthe spleen. Before I came to Europe I remember often to have beendisgusted with persons who recalled Germany by its beer and Spain byits fleas, or those who said: "Cologne! Oh yes; I remember we got sucha good breakfast there. "

Ah, ha! It is so easy to sniff when one is mooning in imagination overcathedrals, but I have since taken back all those sniffs. I did notrealize then the misery of standing on one foot all the morning intombs, and on the other all the afternoon in museums, and then ofgoing home to sleep on an ironing-board. Now I, too, think gratefullyof the Bay of Naples as being near that good bed, and of the Pyramidsas being near the excellent table of Shepheard's. Why not? Can onerave over Vesuvius on an empty stomach, or get all the beauty out ofSorrento with a backache? One must be well and have good spirits whenone travels. It is not so essential merely to be comfortable, althoughthat helps wonderfully. But even to get soaking wet could not utterlyspoil the road to Posilipo. What a heavenly drive! Although I thinkwith more fondness of scaling the heights of Capri in a tremblinglittle Italian cab, not because both views were not divinelybeautiful, but because when in Capri my clothes were not damplysticking to me, and I had no puddle of water in each shoe. As I lookback I believe I could write specific directions from personalexperience on "How to be Happy when Miserable. " Jimmie always bewailsthe fact that the American girl lives on her nerves. "Goes on heruppers" is his choice phrase. Nevertheless, it pulled us through manya mental bog while travelling so continuously. 

Therefore, from a dozen different recollections of Naples, eleven ofwhich you may read in your red-covered Baedeker, or _Recollections ofItaly_, or _Leaves from my Note-Book_, or _Memories of BlissfulHours_, and similar productions, I have most poignantly to rememberour shopping experiences in Naples. But before launching my battleshipI owe an apology to the worshippers of Italy. I can appreciate theirrapturous memories. I share in a measure their enthusiasm. To acertain temper Italy would be adorable for a honeymoon or to return toa second or a fifth time. But it is not in human nature, after havingcome from Russia, Egypt, and Greece, to have one's pristine enthusiasmto pour out in torrents over the ladylike beauty of Italy, becausethese other countries are so much more unfrequented, more pagan, andmore fascinating. But in daring to say that, I again pull my forelockto Italy's worshippers. 

To begin with, we were robbed all through Italy; not robbed in acommon way, but, to the honor of the Italians let me say, robbed in ahighly interesting and somewhat exciting manner. 

Somebody has said, "What a beautiful country Italy would be if it werenot for the Italians!" We are used to having our things stolen, and tobeing overcharged for everything just because we are Americans, but weare not used to the utter brigandage of Italy. On the Russian shipcoming from Odessa to Constantinople some of the second-cabinpassengers got into our state-rooms during dinner and went through ourhand-baggage, which we had left unlocked, and stole my ulster. And, ofcourse, in Constantinople they warned us not to trust the Greeks, forit is their form of comparison to say, "He lies like a Greek, " whilein Greece the worst thing they can say is that "He steals like aTurk. " In Cairo it was not necessary to warn us, for everybody knowswhat liars and thieves Arabs are. Not a day went by on those donkeyexcursions on the Nile that the men did not have their pockets picked. The passengers on the _Mayflower_ lost enough silk handkerchiefs tostart a haberdasher's shop, and every woman lost money. In Cairo, whether you go to the bazaars or to a mosque to see the faithful attheir prayers, your dragoman tells you not to have anything of valuein your pockets, and not to carry your purse in your hand. 

But we had not even got through the custom-house at Brindisi, whenGaze's man recommended us to have our trunks corded and sealed, forthey are sometimes broken open on the train. We thought this rather auseless precaution, but Jimmie has travelled so much that he made usdo it. It seems that the King has admitted that he is powerless tostop these outrages, and so he begs foreign travellers to protectthemselves, inasmuch as he is unable to protect them. 

We stayed at the smartest hotel in Naples, but we had not been theretwo days before Jimmie's valises were broken open, and all his studsand forty pounds in money were stolen. That frightened us almost todeath, but something worse happened. One day at three o'clock in theafternoon my companion was sitting in her room writing a letter, andshe happened to look up just in time to see the handle of the doorturn slowly and softly. 

Then the door opened a crack, still without a sound, and a man with ablack beard put in his head. As he met her eyes fixed squarely uponhim he closed the door as silently as a shadow. She hurried after himand looked out, and ran up the corridor peering into every possiblecorner, but no man could she see. He had disappeared as completely asif he had been a ghost. She reported it to the proprietor, but heshrugged his shoulders, and said, "Madam must have imagined it!"

By this time we were all feeling rather creepy. However, as Jimmiesays when we are all tired out and hungry and cross, "Cheer up. Theworst is yet to come. "

One day my companion and Mrs. Jimmie and I went to one of the bestshops in all Italy, to buy a ring. Mrs. Jimmie was getting it for herhusband's birthday. 

Now, Mrs. Jimmie's own rings are extremely beautiful, and her veryhandsomest consists of a band of blue-white matched diamonds whichexactly fills the space between her two fingers, and is so heavy andso fine that only Tiffany could duplicate it. The band of the ring ismerely a fine wire. To try on Jimmie's ring, Mrs. Jimmie took off allhers and laid them on the counter. Now, mind you, this was a famousjeweller's where this happened. But when she had decided to take thenew ring, and turned to put on her own again, lo! this especial ringwas gone. We searched everywhere. We told the clerk, but he said shehad not worn such a ring. This was the first thing which made ussuspect that something was wrong. We insisted, and he reiterated. Finally, I made up my mind. I said to my companion: "You stand at thefront door and have Mrs. Jimmie stand at the side door. Don't youpermit any one either to enter or leave, while I rush around to Cook'soffice and find out what can be done. " Both women turned pale, butobeyed me. One clerk started for the back door, but we called him andtold him that no one was to move until we could get the police there. Then such a scurrying and _such_ a begging as there was! Would madamwait just one moment? Would madam permit them to call the proprietor?(Anybody would have thought it was _my_ ring, for Mrs. Jimmie's calmwas not even ruffled, while _I_ was in a white heat, and all theirimpassioned appeals were addressed to me!) I said they could call theproprietor if they could call him without leaving the room. Theycalled him in Italian. He came, a little, smooth, brown man, withblack, shoe-button eyes. We explained to him just what had takenplace, Mrs. Jimmie with her back against one door, and my companionbraced against the side door, like Ajax defying the lightning. 

He rubbed his hands, and listened to a torrent of excited Italian fromno fewer than ten crazy clerks. Then I stated the case in English. Theproprietor turned to Mrs. Jimmie, and said if madam was so sure thatshe had worn a ring, which all his clerks assured him she had notworn, then, for the honor of his house, he must beg madam to chooseanother ring, of whatever value she liked, and it should be a presentfrom him!

Now, Mrs. Jimmie is a very Madonna of calmness, but at that sheignited. She told him that Tiffany had been six months matching thosestones, and that not in all his shop--not in the whole of Italy--couldhe find a duplicate. At that another search took place, and I, just tomake things pleasant, started for the American ambassador's. (I hadrisen a peg from Cook's!) Such pleading! Such begging! Two of theclerks actually wept--Italian tears. When lo! a shout of triumph, andfrom a remote corner of the shop, quite forty feet from us, in a placewhere we had not been, under a big vase, they found that ring! If ithad had the wings of a swallow it could not have flown there. If ithad had the legs of a centipede it could not have crawled there. Theproprietor was radiant in his unctuous satisfaction. "It had rolledthere!" Rolled! That ring! It had no more chance of rolling than aloaded die! We all sniffed, and sniffed publicly. Mrs. Jimmie, Iregret to say, was weak enough to buy the ring she had ordered forJimmie in spite of this occurrence. But I think I don't blame her. Iam weak myself about buying things. But _that_ is a sample of Italianhonesty, and in a shop which would rank with our very best in New Yorkor Chicago. Heaven help Italy!

Italian politeness is very cheap, very thin-skinned, and, like theFrench, only for the surface. They pretend to trust you with theirwhole shop; they shower you with polite attentions; you are the Greatand Only while you are buying. But I am of the opinion that you areshadowed by a whole army of spies if you owe a cent, and that for lackof plenty of suspicion and prompt action to recover I am sure thatneither the Italians nor the French ever lost a sou. 

We went into the best tortoise-shell shop in all Naples to buy onedozen shell hair-pins, but such was the misery we experienced atleaving any of the treasures we encountered that we bought threehundred dollars' worth before we left, and of course did not haveenough money to pay for them. So we said to lay the things aside forus, and we would draw some money at our banker's, and pay for themwhen we came to fetch them. 

Not for the world, declared this Judas Iscariot, this Benedict Arnoldof an Italian Jew! We must take the things with us. Were we notAmericans, and by Americans did he not live? Behold, he would take thearticles with his own hands to our carriage. And he did, despite ourprotests. But the villain drew on us through our banker before we wereout of bed the next morning! I felt like a horse-thief. 

However, I confess to a weakness for the overwhelmingly politeattentions one receives from Italian and French shopkeepers. One getsnone of it in Germany, and in America I am always under the deepestobligations if the haughty "sales-ladies" and "sales-gentlemen" willwait on the men and women who wish to buy. I am accustomed to theignominy of being ignored, and to the insult of impudence if Iprotest; but why, oh, why, do politeness and honesty so seldom gotogether?

There is a decency about Puritan America which appeals to me quite asmuch as the rugged honesty of American shopkeepers. The unspeakablestreet scenes of Europe would be impossible in America. In Naples allthe mysteries of the toilet are in certain quarters of the city publicproperty, and the dressing-room of children in particular is boundedby north, east, south, and west, and roofed by the sky. 

I have seen Italians comb their beards over their soup at dinner. Ihave seen every Frenchman his own manicure at the opera. I have seenGermans take out their false teeth at the _table d'hôte_ and rinsethem in a glass of water, but it remains for Naples to cap the climaxfor Sunday-afternoon diversions. 

A curious thing about European decency is that it seems to be forcedon people by law, and indulged in only for show. The Gallic nationsare only veneered with decency. They have, almost to a man, none of itnaturally, or for its own sake. Take, for example, the sidewalks ofParis after dark. The moment public surveillance wanes or the sun goesdown the Frenchman becomes his own natural self. 

The Neapolitan's acceptation of dirt as a portion of his inheritanceis irresistibly comic to a pagan outsider. To drive down the Via diPorto is to see a mimic world. All the shops empty themselves into thestreet. They leave only room for your cab to drive through the maze ofstalls, booths, chairs, beds, and benches. At nightfall they lightflaring torches, which, viewed from the top of the street, make thedescent look like a witch scene from an opera. 

It is the street of the very poor, but one is struck by the excellentdiet of these same very poor. They eat as a staple roastedartichokes--a great delicacy with us. They cook macaroni with tomatoesin huge iron kettles over charcoal fires, and sell it by the platefulto their customers, often hauling it out of the kettles with theirhands, like a sailor's hornpipe, pinching off the macaroni if itlengthens too much, and blowing on their fingers to cool them. Theyhave roasted chestnuts, fried fish, boiled eggs, and long loops ofcrisp Italian bread strung on a stake. There are scores of thesebooths in this street, the selling conducted generally by the fatherand grown sons, while the wife sits by knitting in the smoke and glareof the torches, screaming in peasant Italian to her neighbor acrossthe way, commenting quite openly upon the people in the cabs, andwondering how much their hats cost. The bambinos are often hung uponpegs in the front of the house, where they look out of their littleblack, beady eyes like pappooses. I unhooked one of these babies once, and held it awhile. Its back and little feet were held tightly againsta strip of board so that it was quite stiff from its feet to itsshoulders. It did not seem to object or to be at all uncomfortable, and as it only howled while I was holding it I have an idea that, except when invaded by foreigners, the bambino's existence is quitehappy. Babies seem to be no trouble in Italy, and one cannot but bestruck by the number of them. One can hardly remember seeing manyFrench babies, for the reason that there are so few to remember--sofew, indeed, that the French government has put a premium upon them;but in Naples the pretty mothers with their pretty babies, playing atbo-peep with each other like charming children, are some of the mostdelightful scenes in this fascinating Street of the Door. 

These bambinos hooked against the wall look down upon curious scenes. Their mothers bring their wash-tubs into the street, wash the clothesin plain view of everybody, hang them on clothes-lines strung betweentwo chairs, while a diminutive charcoal-stove, with half a dozen ironsleaning against its sides, stands in the doorway ready to perform itspart in the little scene. I saw a boy cooking two tiny smelts over atailor's goose. The handle was taken off, and the fish were frying somerrily over the glowing coals, and they looked so good, and the odorwhich steamed from them was so ravishing, that I wanted to ask him ifI might not join him and help him cook two more. 

In point of fact, Naples seems like a holiday town, with everybodymerely playing at work, or resting from even that pretence. TheNeapolitans are so essentially an out-of-door people and a leisurelypeople that it seems a crime to hurry. The very goats wanderingaimlessly through the streets, nibbling around open doorways, add anelement of imbecile helplessness to a childish people. 

Did you ever examine a goat's expression of face? For utter asininitya donkey cannot approach him. Nothing can, except, perhaps, an Irishfarce-comedian. 

Beautiful cows are driven through the streets, often attended by theowner's family. The mother milks for the passing customers, the fatherfetches it all lovely and foaming and warm to your cab, and thepretty, big-eyed children caper around you, begging for a "macaroni"instead of a "pourboire. "

Then, instead of dining at your smart hotel, it is so much moreadorable to drop in at some charming restaurant with tables set in theopen air, and to hear the band play, and to eat all sorts of deliciousunknowable dishes, and to drink a beautiful golden wine called"Lachrima Christi" (the tears of Christ), and to watch the people--thepeople--the people!

XIV

ROME

On Easter Sunday I had my first view of Rome, my first view of St. Peter's. The day was as soft and mild as one of our own spring days, and there was even that little sharp tang in the air which one feelsin the early spring in America. The wind was sweet and balmy, yet nowand then it had a sharp edge to it as it cut around a curve, as if toremind one that the frost was not yet all out of the ground, and thatthe sun was still only the heir-apparent to the throne and had not yetbeen crowned king. It was the sort of day that one has at home alittle later, when one still likes the feel of the fur around theneck, while the trees are still bare, when the eager spring windbrings a tingle to the blood and the smell of rich, black earth andearly green springing things to the nostrils; when the eye is ravishedwith the sight of purple hyacinths thrusting their royal chalices upthrough the reluctant soil; when the sun-colored jonquil and thestar-eyed narcissus lift their scented heads above the sombre ground, as if unconscious of the patches of snow here and there, forming oneof the contradictions of life, but a contradiction always welcome, because it is in itself a promise of better things to come. 

Not in the full fruition of a rose-laden June or in the golden daysof Indian summer or the ruddy autumn or the white holiness ofChristmas-tide--not in the beauties of the whole year is thereanything so exhilarating, so thrilling, so intoxicating as these firstdays of spring, which always come with a delicious shock of surprise, before one suspects their approach or has time to grow weary withwaiting. Nothing, nothing in the world smells like a spring wind! Itis full of youth and promise and inspiration. One forgets all thefalseness of its promises last year, all the disappointment of thepast summer, and, charged with its bewildering electricity, one buildsa thousand air-castles as to what _this_ year will bring forth, basedon no surer a foundation than the smell of melting snow and freshblack earth and yellow and purple spring flowers which are blownacross one's ever-hopeful soul by a breath of eager, tingling springwind. 

I shall never forget that first drive in Rome on such a day as this, which brought my own beloved country so forcibly to my mind. Therewere rumors of war in the air, and my heart was heavy for my country, but I forgot all my forebodings as we drew up before the majesticsteps of St. Peter's, for I felt that something would happen to avertdisaster from our shores and keep my country safe and victorious. 

St. Peter's had a curious effect upon me. It was too big and toosecular and too boastful for a church, too poor in art treasures for asuccessful museum, the music too inadequate to suit me with the echoesof the Tzar's choir still ringing in my ears, and the lack of pompcompared to the Greek churches left me with a longing to hunt up moregold lace and purple velvet. There was nothing like the devoutness ofthe Russians in the worshippers I saw in Rome. I stood a long time bythe statue of the Pope. His toe was nearly kissed off, but every onecarefully wiped off the last kiss before placing his or her own, thereby convincing me of the universal belief in the microbe theory. The whole attitude of the Roman mind is different. Here it is areligious duty. In Russia it is a sacrament. 

There were thousands of people in St. Peter's, many of whom--thebest-dressed and the worst-behaved--were Americans. It seemed veryhomelike and intimate to hear my own language spoken again, even if itwere sometimes sadly mutilated. But I remember St. Peter's that EasterSunday chiefly because I had with me a sympathetic companion; one whoknew that St. Peter's was not a place to talk; one who knew enough toabsorb in silence; one, in fact, who understood! Such comprehensivesilence was to my ragged spirit balm and healing. 

Beware, oh, beware with whom you travel! One uncongenial person in theparty--one man who sneers at sentiment, one woman whose point of viewis material--can ruin the loveliest journey and dampen one'sheavenliest enthusiasm. 

In order to travel properly, one ought to be in vein. It is as bad tobegin a journey with a companion who gets on one's nerves as it is tosit down to a banquet and quarrel through the courses. The effect isthe same. One can digest neither. People seem to select travellingcompanions as recklessly as they marry. They generally manage to startwith the wrong one. I often shudder to hear two women at a luncheonsay, "Why not arrange to go to Europe together next year?" And yet Isolace myself with the thought, "Why not? If you considered! your listof friends for a month, and selected the most desirable, you wouldprobably make even a worse mistake, for travelling develops hatredmore than any other one thing I know of; so, in addition to spoilingyour journey, you would also lose your friend--or wish you _could_lose her!"

George Eliot has said that there was no greater strain on friendshipthan a dissimilarity of taste in jests. But I am inclined to believeGeorge Eliot never travelled extensively, else, without disturbingthat statement, she would have added, "or a dissimilarity in point ofview with one's travelling companion. "

It makes no difference which one's view is the loftier. It is thedissimilarity which rasps and grates. Doubtless the material is asmuch irritated by the spiritual as the poetic is fretted by theprosaic. It is worse than to be at a Wagner matinee with a woman whocares only for Verdi. One wishes to nudge her arm and feel asympathetic pressure which means, "Yes, yes, so do I!" It is awful notto be able to nudge! Speech is seldom imperative, but understandingsignals is as necessary to one's soul-happiness as air to the lungs. So Greece with one who has but a Baedeker knowledge of art, or Rome toone who remembers her history vaguely as something that she "took" atschool, is simply maddening to one who forgets the technicalities ofdates and formulas, and rapturously breathes it in, scarcely knowingwhence came the love or knowledge of it, but realizing that one has atlast come into one's kingdom. 

I was singularly fortunate from time to time in discovering thesekindred, sympathetic spirits. I met one party of three in Egypt, andfound them again in Greece, and crossed to Italy with them. It was amother and son and a lovely girl. They will never know, unless theyhappen across this page, how much they were to me on the Adriatic, andwhat a void they filled in Athens. 

I found another such at Capri and Pompeii, and those beautiful daysstand out in my mind more for the company I was in than even thewonders we went to see. That statement is strong but true. Yet myvarious other fellow-travellers who were lacking in the one essentialof soul would never believe it, inasmuch as a person without a soulcannot miss what she never had, and will not believe what she cannotcomprehend. I met one ill-assorted couple of that kind once. They weretwo young women--sisters. One had imagination, soul, fire, poetry, andall that goes to make up genius; but lacking as she did executiveability and perseverance, her genius was inarticulate. The impersonalworld would never know her beauties, but her friends were rich in heracquaintance. Her sister was a walking Baedeker--red cover, goldletters, and all. She was "doing Europe. " She read her guide-book, shesaw nothing beyond, and the only time that she really blossomed waswhen dressing for _table d'hôte_ dinners. I found them at the GrandHôtel at Rome--one of the most beautiful and well-kept hotels, and oneadmirably adapted to display the tourist who tours on principle. 

This gorgeous hotel on Easter week is a sight for gods and men. Weengaged our rooms here while we were on the Nile, two months before, and reminded them once a week all during that time that we werecoming; otherwise, on account of its extreme popularity in thefashionable world, they might not have been able to hold them for us. We reached there late on the Saturday evening before Easter, and dinedin our own apartments. But the next day, and indeed until war brokeout and we fled from Rome, the Grand Hôtel was as delightful as it waspossible to make a gorgeous, luxurious, and fashionable hotel. Thepalm-room, where the band plays for afternoon tea, and where onealways comes for one's coffee, is between the entrance and the granddining-room, so that on entering the hotel one comes upon a mostbeautiful vista of a series of huge glass doors and lovely greenwaving palms, with nothing but a glass roof between one and the blueItalian sky. 

Most of the smart Americans go there, and a very beautiful front theypresented. I had not seen any American clothes for a year, but onEaster Sunday at luncheon I saw the most bewitching array of smartstreet-gowns worn by the inimitable American woman, who is as farbeyond the women of every other race on earth in her selection ofclothes and the way she holds up her head and her shoulders back andwalks off in them as grand opera is above a hand-organ. Even theFrench woman does not combine the good sense with good taste as theAmerican does. And there I found these sisters, each lovely in her ownway--the pretty one listening to the raptures of the poetic one with apalpable sneer which said plainly: "I not only have no part in thesevain imaginings, but I do not think that you yourself believe them. You are posing for the world, and I am the only one who knows it. HaveI not been with you everywhere, and have I, with my two eyes, whichcertainly are as good as yours--have I seen these things youdescribe?" It was pathetic, for the muse of the poet soon felt themire in which it daily trod. The fire faded from the girl's eye, herradiance disappeared, her noble enthusiasms paled, her fantastic andbrilliant imagination dulled, and soon she sat listlessly in ourmidst, a tired, patient smile upon her delicate face, while her sisterdiscoursed volubly upon clothes. Alas, the old fable of the iron potand the porcelain kettle drifting down the stream together! At the endof the journey the iron pot had not even a scratch upon its thicksides, but the porcelain was broken to pieces. How I longed to takethat wounded imagination, that whimsical wit, under my wing andexplore Rome with her! But circumstances held the two together, and Itook instead my guide, Seraphino Malespina. Seraphino deserves achapter by himself. His observations upon human nature were of muchmore value to me than his knowledge of Rome, accurate and worthy asthat was. He was the best guide I ever had. I had heard of him, sowhen we arrived I simply wrote to him and engaged him by the week. Hetook us everywhere, never wasted our money (which is a wonder in aguide), and, while I may forget some of his dates and statistics, Ishall never forget his shrewdness in understanding human nature. Hisdisquisitions on the ordinary tourist, and his acute analysis of thetwo sisters I have described, were so accurate that I determined thenand there that Seraphino was a philosopher. The interest I took in hisnarratives pleased him to such an extent that he was unwearied insearching out interesting material. I taught him to use the camera, and he photographed us in the Colosseum and in front of the Arch ofConstantine. 

He persuaded me to coax the poet away from her sister one day and totake her with me instead of my companion. I did so, and to this day Ithank my guide for his wisdom, for once out from under the sister'sdepressing influence, that whimsical genius, worthy of being classedwith the most famous of wits, blossomed under my appreciative laughterlike a rose in the sunlight. 

We saw, too, the magnificent statue of Garibaldi--a superb thing, which overlooks the whole city of Rome. We tossed pennies into thefountain of the Trevi, and drank some of the water, which is a suresign, if you wish it at the time you drink, that you will return toRome. 

It was on the day that we went to Tivoli that I heard the first warnews from America which I regarded final. We were on the Nile when the_Maine_ was blown up, and all through Egypt and Greece news was slowto travel. When we got to Italy we were dependent upon London fordespatches. I waited until I received my own papers before I knew thetruth. Finally, on our departure for Tivoli, my American mail washanded to me, and I found what preparations were being made--that mybrother was going! I remember Tivoli as in a haze of war-clouds. America arming herself for war once more! Some of my family--my veryown--preparing to go! How much do you think I cared for the EmperorHadrian and his villa, which was a whole town in itself, and hiswaterfalls and his wonderful objects of art?

At any other time how I would have revelled in the idea of his twotheatres, his schools, his libraries, his statues pillaged from mybeautiful Greece, his philosopher's wall--a huge wall built only forshade, so that his friends who came to discourse philosophy with himcould walk in its west shadow mornings, and in its east shadowafternoons; all these things would have driven me wild withenthusiasm. But on that day I saw instead the Flying Squadron inHampton Roads, painted black. I saw the President and his secretaries, with anxious faces, consulting with their generals; I saw how awfulmust be the sacrifice to the country in every way--money, commerce, health, the very lives of the dear soldiers of _our_ army, who fightfrom choice, and not because law compels their enlistment. Mycompanion ridiculed my anxiety and rallied me on my inattention toHadrian. Hadrian! What was Hadrian to me when I thought of thevolunteers in America?

Not two days later war was formally declared, and although Rome wasyet practically unexplored, although we had been there only threeweeks, we rushed post-haste to Paris, spent one day gathering up ourtrunks from Munroe's, and left that same night for London. 

Once in London, however, we found ourselves blocked. The American Linesteamships had been requisitioned by the government, and were nolonger at our disposal. With changed names they were turned into warvessels, and few, indeed, were the women who would go aboard them inthe near future. The North German Lloyd promised us the new _KaiserFriedrich_, and every place was taken. We went to the Cecil Hotel andwaited. Day after day passed, and the sailing-day was postponed once, then twice. I was frantic with impatience. The truth was the _KaiserFriedrich_ was not quite finished. Evidently it is the same with aship as with dress-makers. They promise to finish your gown and sendit home for Thanksgiving, whereas you are in luck if you get it byChristmas. 

The only thing that consoled me was being at the Cecil. To be sure, itwas filled with Americans, but I was not avoiding them then. I hadfinished my journeyings. I had got my point of view. I was going HOME!

How I wished for poor Bee! What an awful time she had with me at "TheInsular"! (which, of course, is not its real name; but I dare not tellit, because it is so smart, and I would shock its worshippers). Howshe hated our lodgings! Now she will not believe me when I tell herthat the Cecil is as good as an American hotel; that its elevators(lifts) really move; that its cuisine is as delicious as Paris; thatits service is excellent. Bee is polite but incredulous. To be sure, Itell her that the hotel is as ugly as _only_ an English architectcould make it; that the blue tiles in the dining-room would make of ita fine natatorium, if they would only shut the doors and turn in thewater--nothing convinces her that English hotels are not jelliednightmares. But as for me, I recall the Cecil with feelings of theliveliest appreciation. I was comfortable there, for the first time inEngland. If it had not been for the war I would have been happy. 

The hotels in London which the English consider the best I considerthe worst. If an American wishes to be comfortable let him eschew allother gods and cleave to the Cecil. The Cecil! I wish my cab wasturning in at the entrance this very minute!

Finally the _Kaiser Friedrich_ burst something important in herinterior, and they gave her up and put on the _Trave_. Instantly therewas a maddened rush for the Liverpool steamer. The Cunard office wasbesieged. Within two hours after the North German Lloyd bulletined the_Trave_ every berth was taken on the _Etruria_. I arrived too late, so, in company with the most of the _Kaiser Friedrich's_ passengers, Iresigned myself to the _Trave_. 

We were eight days at sea, and some of those I remained in my berth. Iwas happier there, and yet in spite of private woes I still think ofthat delightful captain and that darling stewardess with affection. The steamship company literally outdid themselves in their efforts toconsole their disappointed passengers. They put the town ofSouthampton at our disposal, and the _Trave's_ steady andspinster-like behavior did the rest. 

I held receptions in my state-room every day. The captain called everymorning, and so did the charming wife of the returning GermanAmbassador, Mr. Uhl. The girls came down and sat on my steamer-trunk, and told me of the flirtations going on on deck. And every night thatdear stewardess would come and tuck me in, and turn out the light, andsay, "Good-night, fräulein; I hope you feel to-morrow better. "

When the pilot reached us we were at luncheon, and every man in thedining-room bolted. American newspapers after eight days of suspense!One man stood up and read the news aloud. Dewey and the battle ofManila Bay! We did not applaud. It was too far off and too unreal. Butwe women wept. 

As we drove through the streets of New York I said to the people whocame to meet me, "For Heaven's sake, what are all these flags out for?Is it Washington's birthday? I have lost count of time!"

My cousin looked at me pityingly. 

"My poor child, " she said, "I am glad you have come back to God'scountry, where you can learn something. We have a war on!"

I gave a gasp. That shows how unreal the war seemed to me over there. I never saw so many flags as I saw in Jersey City and New York. I washorrified to find Chicago, nay, even my own house, lacking in thatrespect. 

But I am proud to relate that two hours after my return--directly Ihad done kissing Billy, in fact--the largest flag on the whole streetwas floating from my study window. 

THE END