He was reminded of his visit to the Berlin court and was asked what he thought of the ladies he met there.
“They were so loaded down with tiaras, necklaces, and sets of jewelry, my eyes were too dazzled to get a good view of their faces. I am sure, though, that most of the old ones had enormous backs. And that recalls a story that I heard at an embassy here, which I must not name. The ambassadors were talking of the beauty of the women of their own country, and they all looked with pity on the Korean consular representative, wondering what he would say, but he was a spunky chap, and when his turn came, blurted out: ‘Well, gentlemen, as to the fair sex, there isn’t much to boast of in my country, but I will admit that the ladies of our court at home are no less ill-favored than the women of the Berlin Schloss, and they are dirtier, too.’ That postscript,” said Mark, “was the funniest thing I heard in a long time. He said it in a right hearty and well-meaning way, too. He evidently meant it and was proud of it.”
MARK’S CHILDREN KNEW HIM
I congratulated Mark Twain on the fact that he had been mistaken for the great Mommsen, and, throwing out his chest, he said:
“I feel indeed flattered because somebody thought that I have the whole Roman world, with Poppæa and Nero and Augustus and all the rest, under my hat, yet, when I come to think of it, there is some difference between us two. My children know their papa, and I know Susan, Clara, and Jean. But think what happened to Mommsen the other day. He was proceeding to a bus from his residence, when an unmannerly wind carried off his hat. A boy, playing in the street, picked it up and brought it to the great man. (By the way, never run after your own hat—others will be delighted to do it. Why spoil their fun?)
“‘Thank you,’ said Mommsen. ‘I never could have recovered the hat myself.’ He looked the boy over carefully, and added:
“‘And a nice little boy. Do you live in the neighborhood? Whose little boy are you?’
“‘Why,’ said the kid, ‘mamma says I am Professor Mommsen’s little boy, but I never see him. He is always among the Romans, writing in a book.’
“‘Bless your heart, little man,’ said Mommsen. ‘To-night I will surely be home early; tell your mamma, and ask her to introduce you and the other children properly.’”