The East Room is used for all public receptions. It is of noble proportions, eighty feet in length by forty in width, and twenty-two in height. It was originally intended as a banqueting hall, but the first authentic account of its use was that Dolly Madison found it an excellent place for drying clothes. Under its present aspect it would scarcely appear to be well adapted to that purpose. A rich carpet of those soft tints that seem to melt into each other covers the floor. The walls and ceiling are all white and gold; glancing into the immense mirror you find it reproduces an endless vista of panels and columns lost in space. The windows are draped with lace curtains, and in warm weather the breeze comes up fresh and sweet direct from the river, blowing them about at will—just as it does the curtains of other people! But something else happens to these curtains, too, that is not so pleasant, and from which other people’s, as a rule, are exempt. But a short time since an employe of the White House called my attention to the fact that here and there a figure had been entirely cut out by a souvenir-thief. This apartment, as well as several others in the mansion, has been recently done over by Tiffany, and greatly improved; it has now very much the appearance in general effect of the “Gold Salon” of the Grand Opera House in Paris. It contains only two pictures; one of Washington, purchased as the original, by Gilbert Stuart, but of doubtful authenticity, and the Martha Washington painted in 1878 by Andrews, an Ohio artist. This latter shows the same refined, high-bred features that even the crudest representation of her portrays, and the flowing train and satin petticoat are quite regal. The dress was copied from a Parisian costume made for a New York lady to wear at the Centennial tea party in Philadelphia in 1876, and purports to be an exact reproduction, but with a not unusual nineteenth century skepticism, I confess that I boldly decline the sleeve as an anachronism, and leaving the queenly robe out of the question, do not hesitate to say that in my opinion the hand was borrowed—perhaps from a Greek statue. Certainly it is not the strong right hand which accomplished the prodigious amounts of spinning, weaving, and the like, usually ascribed to this wonderful matron; but it is a tiny, symmetrical, extremely pretty hand, in the delineation of which the artist was probably true to his instincts rather than history, and in consideration of the happy result, the departure from fact to fancy deserves to be condoned.
The Green Room, which derives its name from the prevailing color of its decoration, is next in order to the East Room. It contains a portrait of Mrs. Hayes, by Hunt, in an elaborate wooden frame, carved and presented by young ladies from the Cincinnati School of Design; it represents luscious bunches of grapes and graceful foliage, a design which, it has been sarcastically observed, in this connection is singularly inappropriate—since it wreathes the very high priestess of temperance like the fabled bacchanalian god. There are also crystal vase of exquisite workmanship, selected by Mrs. Lincoln, a grand piano, costly cabinets and candelabra, and a bronze clock which is said to be a little childish about keeping time. That is to say, it will do well enough for presidential and diplomatic time, but not for running trains on single track. It was presented by Napoleon to Lafayette, and by him to Washington. Another much-prized antique is a claw-footed round table of mahogany, inlaid with brass, and known to be at least one hundred and seventy years old. A cover almost envelops it, quite hiding its rich color and fine polish; the reason for this being that once upon a time a vandal borrowed some of the brass ornamentation and forgot to return it.
The Blue Room is very much prettier than its title is suggestive. It is here that foreign ministers present their credentials. The furniture, with its gilded framework, and upholstered in a silk damask of blue and gold, is in harmony with the curtains, the carpets, and the decorated ceiling. It is oval in form and the general effect is very beautiful, especially by gas-light.
The Red Parlor is used for general receptions, both by the President and the ladies of the household. This was the last room occupied by Lincoln in the White House. He left it on that fateful 14th of April, accompanied by Mrs. Lincoln and Speaker Colfax. The tiled mantel represents the style of 1200; this also is some of the high art—Tiffany decoration. And in truth the entire furnishing shows a singular, but not inharmonious, conglomeration. The candlesticks, dating back to Monroe’s time, the gold pitcher and bowl presented by Elkington & Co., of London, after the Centennial, a wonderful screen embroidered in silk and beads, from the Austrian Government during Grant’s administration, vases from France, upon whose delicate surface are portrayed the conviction and sentence of Charlotte Corday, a curious cabinet, of which the entire front is formed of brass tacks and pin heads, and many other things, but the most interesting and probably the most highly prized is the clock used by Lincoln in his private office during the war. A portfolio of engravings, a pot of flowers, and a single book occupy a small table. It is a refreshing oasis, a glimpse of something real and altogether home-like, that rests one after so much overpowering richness and antiquity combined.
The State Dining Room is furnished in green. The heavy curtains with bright borders and lambrequins are themselves pretty enough to excuse their shutting off the river view. The table will seat forty persons as it is, but when arranged in the form of a cross, fifty-four. Only three state dinners are ordinarily given during a season, but nine were interspersed through the last. A sideboard contains wine glasses of every shape, size and description. Some one laughingly explained his by saying: “You know when the little friends of the President’s daughter come to see her, he likes for them to have a real good time, and these are for their dolls’ tables.”
Apropos of the wine question, a colored employe, seeing a visitor taking a copious draught of ice-water just within the vestibule, and return from his explorations through the East Room soon after, complaining of being sick, exclaimed in a triumphant voice: “Boss, I tole you dat stuff wuz only fit to wash clothes in.” Turning to me he added, “Dat’s so, missus, ’cept to cool your head when you got a ra’al bad headache, and can’t git no cabbage leaves to wrap ’round it.”
It is said to be quite a general impression that the expense of state dinners is borne by the government. This is not true, and President Arthur keeps his own horses, coachman, and cook.
The table is ornamented by a center-piece for flowers, the bottom of which represents a miniature lake, and mirrors the floral beauties above and around it. The President’s chair is on one side, at the middle. In speaking of this I am reminded of a young American girl, who, like myself, was upon a certain occasion being shown through one of the numerous abodes of a crowned head. Entering the salon in which foreign ambassadors were received, we perceived that the throne chair stood upon a sort of dais which was entirely covered with superb crimson velvet. This adventurous little spirit inadvertently let fall a profane footstep upon the sacred fabric, when she was immediately reprimanded in an awful voice and solemnly admonished to keep a respectful distance. Proceeding further in this princely residence, we reached the dining room. The king’s chair, like our President’s, stood in the middle, and unlike it was of entirely different and of more elaborate workmanship than the others. Whilst the extremely loyal and obsequious attendant was looking in another direction, young America silently and swiftly drew out the chair from its place and seated herself with a comical assumption of dignity that was very amusing, a perilous position, which even she was not audacious enough to maintain more than a few seconds.
A door from the dining room leads directly to the conservatory, a perfect wonderland of perfume and color. It seems as if all the wealth of Flora had been gathered here; forests of ferns, banks of azaleas, roses in endless profusion and variety, and priceless exotic children of the tropics without number. One stands almost breathless with admiration before the exquisite orchids; and here is a plant with thick, polished leaves, heavy clusters of scentless blossoms, from the southern coast of Africa, named for its discoverer, Prof. Rudgea, while not far off the medinella waves slowly and sadly its long red clusters, as if sighing for its native Japan. Ensconced here and there are receptacles for goldfish, and even a coral bank is to be discovered among the drooping ferns and falling water. It is difficult to come away from these fairy regions to prosaic places, but there is another nook near by into which prying eyes must peep, and after all the transition is not so very trying, since it is into the family dining room, which is a charming picture in itself.