Part 78

DEAR M.,--A dance was given at the Captain-General's, where all the officers of the German and Spanish men of war were present. It was a very brilliant sight, and we made many delightful acquaintances. Commodore Werner of the German Friedrich Wilhelm, Commodore Livonius of the Elizabeth, besides many other charming officers, as well as many Spanish officers from the Gerona. The Germans danced with more energy than the Cubans are accustomed to, and they stared at the unusual vigor displayed, and accounted for it, saying it was because they were new- comers. In fact, the officers, in their trim uniforms, looked very hot and wilted at the end of the evening. Commodore Werner was a most gallant gentleman, and as we did not dance, he had the leisure to tell me all about his family, his literary tastes, and his admiration for pretty ladies; and he finished by asking if we would do him the honor to lunch on his ship the next day. A handsome young lieutenant (Tirpitz) came to ask me to dance, but Commodore Werner gave him what in other less tropical countries might be called a freezing look, remarking that no one ought to dance in such heat as this. The young lieutenant left us quite subdued; but the heat did not prevent his dancing with many ladies, if not with me.

The next day we went to lunch on the Friedrich Wilhelm, and it was with delight that we sat on the awning-covered deck. The Commodore asked me to give him an idea for some occupation for the sailors, who had so much time on their hands, and, as I happened to know how to plait straw, I proposed showing them how to do it.

The Commodore sent a launch to Havana to get the straw, and we passed the afternoon dividing the time between listening to the music of the ship's band and tasting different beverages and eating German pretzels and teaching the sailors how to plait.

At five o'clock we were rowed ashore, and welcomed a little fresh breeze which had sprung up.

The following morning the inmates of the hotel were awakened at an early hour by the solemn hymn which belongs to a German serenade. The kind Commodore had sent his band to play for me, and it filled the whole hall.

The early breakfasters were dreadfully put out about it; the brass instruments sounded like a double orchestra, and resounded in these marble halls like volleys of musketry; and as for the hotel-keeper, he has not got over his surprise yet.

We had many pleasant days after this. Each one, we said, would be the last; still we stayed on. One of the German men-of-war gave a ball, the Spanish gave another; each vied with the other to give the finest entertainment. It was a pleasure to go on board the German boats, everything was so spick and span, the sailors so neat and trim, the deck so beautifully kept, and the brasses glistened red-hot in the sun.

I cannot tell you all we did these last days. I was glad to hear that the German sailors had profited by my lessons, and had in a short time plaited straw enough to make some hats for themselves. I shall always feel proud when I see a German sailor with a straw hat, for I shall feel that I laid the foundation of this industry.

One of the afternoons we spent on the Commodore's boat. I sang for the officers in the cabin, and then, when I was on deck, I sang some of the songs from "Pinafore" for the sailors, whom the Commodore called together to hear me. They grinned from ear to ear when I sang "What, never?" "Hardly ever," and "Never used a big, big D," in the captain's song in "Pinafore." This was the last time we visited our amiable German host.

I shall post this letter in New York. It will probably reach you before we do.

Our departure was a triumphal procession. The Captain of the Port, devoted to the last, took us in his official steam-launch to our steamer. Flowers, fruit, and souvenirs of all kinds filled our cabin to overflowing, and when we passed the German boats, hats and handkerchiefs were waved aloft, and the bands on the decks played with all their Teutonic might until we were out of hearing distance.

We noticed our tall, handsome lieutenant standing alone on the fore part of the deck. He made a fine naval salute, while the good Commodore waved his handkerchief frantically.

The Captain of the Port accompanied us down the harbor as far as Morro Castle in his steam-launch.

Adieu, dear Havana!

WASHINGTON, April, 1873.

DEAR LAURA,--The weather was atrociously bad when we returned to New York, and as for Boston--it was simply impossible. I began coughing and sneezing as soon as I reached home. So I decided to go to Washington on a visit to Mrs. Robeson, wife of the Secretary of the Navy. She had often asked me; this was an excellent opportunity to accept.

Mrs. Robeson is a fine woman, built on ministerial, lines, and looks like a war-ship in review rig. They have an amusing house. Their Sunday evenings are the rendezvous of clever people; the men are particularly entertaining--Mr. Blaine, Mr. Bayard, and other shining lights.

She is musical, and sings with pleasure. She has a luscious mezzo-soprano. She sang "Robin Adair" on one of these occasions with so much conviction that it seemed as though she was routing Robin from his first sleep. Then she sang a French song in a childish voice (she thought it was a backfisch song); but I think it was anything but that, for I noticed some Scandi-knavish glances between the Danish and Swedish Ministers, which made me suspicious.

There is a delightful German Minister (Mr. Schlözer) here, who is very musical; though he does not know a note of music, he can improvise for hours.

SOMMERBERG, July, 1874.

DEAR MAMA,--My last letter was from Dinard, where I was nestling in the bosom of my family and enjoying the repose and the rest that family bosoms alone can give. I told you of my intention to visit Helen at her place on the Rhine, and here I am enjoying another kind of rest: the rest of my income.

Paul is at present Minister in Madrid; Helen and I lead a very quiet life. Driving to Wiesbaden to see the Nassaus and other friends is our favorite occupation. We linger in the shady walks of the park, look in at the gambling-rooms, sometimes we go to the races, and always come home tired. And then, how we enjoy the garden and the beautiful view over the Rhine! Some days we go out riding in the lovely forest, which leads to the most prettily situated little "bad" place in the world--Schlangenbad.

Helen has in her stables three horses, two of which are the "fat ponies" and the third is the war-horse that Paul used in the French-German campaign. We take the war horse in turn, as he has to be exercised. When it is my day I shudder at the thought of it. Riding is not my strong point; in fact, it is my weakest point, and I feel that I am not at all in my element; and when I see the tall beast being led up to the door, and I know that at a given moment I am to be fired up on to his back, my heart sinks. He has a gentle way with him which makes the process of getting on him extremely difficult. Just as my foot is in the groom's hand, and I say one--two--three, and am in midair, the horse moves gently to one side, and I either land on the hard pommel or, more often, I fill an empty space between the horse and the groom, which is awkward. However, when, after repeated efforts, I do manage to hit the saddle on the right place I stick there.

He is full of fancies--this horse--and reminiscences, and sometimes gets the idea into his head that he hears the bugle-call to arms. Then off he goes to join his imaginary companions, and charges the trees or anything that occurs to him, and nothing on earth can stop him, certainly nothing on his back can. My hair comes down and my hat flies off, and I feel I am not doing the haute école in proper style. Fortunately Helen and I are alone, and as the war-horse is miles in front of the "fat pony," she does not see the école I am doing, and I rather enjoy the wild way we career over space. I do not attempt to guide his martial steps, but let him come into camp when he feels inclined.

The groom is never surprised if I come an hour too late. I fancy he knows what I have gone through: brambles, branches, and--agony.

SOMMERBERG, July, 1874.

I have just returned from a delightful visit to the Prince and Princess Metternich. It was very hot the day I left here, and the sun poured down on the broad, white roads which lead from Sommerberg to the station. On my arrival at Johannisberg Prince Metternich was waiting for me with a calèche à la Daumont.

Our jaunty postilion blew his little horn incessantly as we galloped through the village and up the long, steep hill which leads to the château. The walls on both sides of the badly paved, narrow road were high and unpicturesque--not a tree to be seen; vineyards, vineyards everywhere --nothing but vineyards.