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.