It is like a great fairy drama; the romance of it all is beyond telling. You are carried out of the world of mere personal artistic accomplishment into a universe of mysterious, terrible, delightful, primitive experiences. Gods, dragons, and talking birds seem as natural in this fairy realm as electric cars in Boston. You lose the personality of the artists, the wonderful art of the scene painter, the grandeur of the orchestra, all in the sublimated whole. A case in point,—I never cared to ask the names of the artists, and am now writing for a programme. It merely never struck me that these creatures were anything beside what they stood for in the Wagnerian universe.
The Hague. August 16. We are pleasantly situated here in a comfortable, old-fashioned hotel. Holland is quite unchanged, the cities as quaint and clean as ever and the sense of familiarity, of being at home here, stronger than ever. We did not have a Dutch ancestor for nothing, did we? We have some pleasant acquaintances here, the family of our friend John Loudon, Secretary of the Netherlands Legation in Rome. We took tea with these kind people yesterday at their miraculously lovely house, a sort of miniature museum filled with superb Dutch art objects, among others the finest collection of old Delft I know, also rare silver, tapestries, wood-carving and other things all Hollandish. After the incongruous hodgepodge some collectors make of their houses, the perfect harmony of this interior was refreshing. M. Loudon, père, spoke of Germany with a sort of intense dread. I gathered that the Dutch live in terror of being swallowed alive by their increasingly powerful neighbor. Of all the countries I have seen on this rather extended tour, Germany is the most changed in the last eighteen years. Nassau, which we remember so picturesque and not too tidy, has taken on an impress of military spruceness and precision that makes one think of Berlin, which is the same unsympathetic place, only much larger and even uglier than before.
38 Clarges Street, London. August 23. We are delightfully established in London lodgings, very comforting after the long months in hotels. To-day we went to church at St. Giles, Cripplegate, where we heard a good sermon. Yesterday we drove to Windsor and back by coach, a sixty-mile jaunt. The horses were changed eight times.
Braemar, Scotland. September 8. We stopped at Leeds on our way to Scotland and spent two days with the Henry Appletons. He is the leading solicitor of Leeds, a man with a comfortable fortune made by hard work, a delightful home, and an interesting family. The young people were full of friendliness and sparkle. The whole family in type strongly resemble our Boston Appletons and the New York branch. There is nothing more fascinating than this study of types. When I saw the famous Gainsborough portrait of Lord Heathfield, the defender of Gibraltar, I realized how strong the Elliott type is. Mr. Elliott, at the Norman farm, might have sat for that portrait, and yet he has no tradition of his descent. How curiously indifferent our people are to these matters!
Our next visit was to Sir James and Lady Bell; he is Lord Provost of Glasgow and owner of the yacht Thistle, which he brought to America some years ago. These are brilliant people. The last official act of Lord Rosebery’s administration was to write the Queen, asking her to make Mr. James Bell a baronet. They are simply and frankly delighted with this well-deserved honor. They are both Scotch and have a superb shooting property where we stayed for two days. The house was full of gay young people. Our last visit was to the dear Fergusons. Mrs. F. is lady-in-waiting to the Queen, and daughter of the Earl of Bridport. Their gorgeous country house with its enormous preserves is let to rich Manchester Jews for the shooting season, and the Fergusons are living in a little cottage on the estate. They took us over the great house and showed us the treasures of generations of Fergusons of Pitfour. At luncheon a piper in full regalia wearing the Ferguson tartan marched thrice round the table, playing on the pipes.
We are now at Braemar, eight miles from Balmoral, where we have found “the finest air in the world”, much to our liking. Yesterday I saw Queen Victoria twice. I was sitting writing when I heard the clatter of hoofs, sprang to the window and cried out to the others, “The Queen, the Queen!” Two outriders in plain black liveries rode before on iron-gray horses, then came the black landau drawn by four fine dappled grays tearing along at a great pace. The Queen wore a black mushroom hat and a black woolen dress. There were two ladies-in-waiting with her. The resemblance to you is still strong. She is much better looking than her photographs.
Scotland was sublime, I can’t remember if you ever saw it. We had only a hurried glimpse, but that included the heather in its fullest purple glory, the admirable city of Edinburgh, the Castle of Balmoral, the Queen, and Ben Marone. I spent an afternoon alone on the mountainside and watched with David Balfour for the red coats creeping through the bracken, and communed with R. L. S. among the hills he loved.
Paris. September 17, 1896. Last night to see Jane Hading in “L’Aventurière”; she is fine, but oh! the formality of the French drama! The Italian school of acting is so much finer that I am rather spoilt for the French; it seems to me stilted and academic after the art of Salvini, Ristori, Novelli, the Duse, and scores of others whose names I do not even know. You can see better acting in the average Italian theater than anywhere else in the world. I have Zola’s “Rome” for you. I don’t find it very interesting, though you might. The method he followed in writing it is illuminating. His wife and secretary came to Rome in advance and put in three months in getting the material together for the book. They interviewed scores of people, accumulated folios of notes and newspaper clippings. When all was ready Zola swooped down upon Rome, interviewed the most important people and put through the whole novel in a few weeks. I know so much of the sources from which he drew his anecdotes and characters that the book leaves me cold.
This is positively my last appearance on paper for the season. We came to Paris two days ago and have been hard at work shopping. Of the fitting of dresses there is no end. This will be a hectic visit, the days filled with dresses, bonnets and slippers, and partings with various beaux. We see some friends old and new. People are tonics, narcotics and irritants, also food and drink. David Hall once said I was like bread; now I fear I am more like a very hot ham sandwich!
This is probably the last letter you will receive from me; we sail in less than a fortnight. This almost makes me feel the frozen peaches of your cheek against mine when you come in from your morning trot on a cold day.