When I got back to the hotel, highly indignant, I met a German Princess, a Serene Highness, one of the greatest ladies in Germany, a cousin of his Imperial Majesty.
I told her what had happened, and waited for an echo of my indignation.
But none came. "Yes—I nearly always have an attack of neuralgia when I go to the Opera," she said resignedly.
"But do they make you take your cloak off?"
"Of course. It's the Emperor's order."
"Well—I kept mine on," I said.
Her Serene Highness looked at me incredulously. Then she thought it over and said: "Ah, well—you're an American, and American travellers bring us so much money that the Emperor's orders are never to bully them."
What had puzzled me, by the way, when I looked about the crowded Opera House, was that the Emperor should ever order the ladies of Berlin to take their cloaks off at the Opera; but that is an affair between them and their dressmaker. The interesting thing was that the German Princess did not in the least resent being bullied herself, or having neuralgia in consequence—but quite recognised that it was good business for her country not to bully Americans.
That little incident gave me a glimpse of what life in Germany must be like if you are a German; and also of the essential difference between the Germans and ourselves.