Among our other letters this morning was a package from London containing the dainty wedding-cards of a beautiful young American pianist (Teresa Carreño) and her handsome violinist husband, accompanied by a long letter from the bride. The letter was overflowing with happiness, and the naïveté with which she described all the little annoyances of her new married life, and especially the trials of a young housekeeper, was quite delicious. Her furniture had not yet come from Paris, and there were but two chairs in the parlor; consequently, when a visitor came, her husband was obliged to stand, she said, with the greatest ceremony. She sat by the kitchen table to write to me, and the cook overturned her ink, making a blot upon the page: all of these little details made up a perfect picture of her life. Of course the letter was full of "my husband," and the signature was no longer the impulsive, girlish—"With a thousand kisses, my darling, ever your own Teresita," but a decorous and matronly ending: "Yours affectionately, Teresa Carreño Sauret."
Two more letters by the evening mail; one having the features of the "Re Galantuomo" upon the postage stamps, is from a young American music student in Florence, a pupil of Hans Von Bülow, who will, upon her return to her own country, be known as one of our finest amateur pianists.
There is also a letter from our estimable friend, Miss Booth, the accomplished Editress of Harper's Bazar. She will spend next Saturday with us, accompanied by her friend, Mrs. Wright.
September 20.
Ida went down to the city yesterday, to see both her lawyer and dress-maker, saying that she would return by the half past six o'clock train. We went down accordingly to meet the cars, but she did not arrive upon them; a telegram, however, was shortly sent up to the house, announcing that she would come on the eight o'clock train, accompanied by Mrs. and Miss Wiss.
"Mrs. Wiss!" exclaimed mamma, upon reading the telegram, "who can she be? I do not know any such person."
Gabrielle could not remember any one by the name of Wiss among Ida's friends, and suggested that the ladies might be old friends of her father's, whom Ida had never before seen; so remarking that the eight o'clock train was a late one for ladies to travel upon alone, mamma rang for Minna, and told her to delay our tea an hour and a half longer.
When we heard the footsteps of the travellers upon the piazza, we all went out with some curiosity to meet our unknown visitors. For a moment we were speechless, as we recognized in the matron of the party, Ida's charming Southern friend, Mrs. Ives, and in the tall young man (her son) who accompanied her, the supposed Miss Wiss. How the telegraph operator could have so confused the names, no one could imagine.
Mrs. Ives is a brilliant talker, and a woman of great polish and high family connections. She has lived North for several years, but will return to Baltimore this winter to our great regret, for her picturesque home near the Manhattanville Convent was a most delightful place to spend an hour, while listening to the entertaining conversation of the hostess, and the exquisite harp-playing of her sister.
September 25.