In 1910 Anne Morgan and I motored to Oberammergau to witness the Passion Play.
It had not been overwritten. Not even the tourist bureaus could rob it of its dignity.
The crowds were disturbing, yet the magnet which produced them was so impressive as even to dignify their presence.
The only jarring note was a booth which had been erected directly facing the main entrance from which chewing gum was being dispensed for the first time to the German people. It seemed alien to the "hausfrau" for she never in the world could become used to a patch of half chewed gum splashed upon a door, or plastered on the seat of a chair.
The Lang family was conspicuous in the cast, and we were so impressed by the activity of one of its younger members, then thirteen years of age, that when later he wrote asking us to help him emigrate to a broader field of accomplishment we responded to his appeal, brought him to this country, placed him with the New York Edison Company until at twenty-three years of age be became an American citizen at the head of a business of his own.
In Oberammergau during the performance he was a bearer of palms and during the intervals a light porter around our lodgings. He had studied the labels on the hand bags while he carried them, in order to learn English. An enterprising youth, more inspired I fear by a business sense than by the inspiration of his pious calling. Nevertheless young Otto Lang has never been a case of misplaced confidence. Our faith in him was amply justified.
Wanderings often take us far-afield and probably one of our greatest joys in traveling is suddenly to stumble upon some hidden corner of the earth, greeting us with an enchantment for which we are unprepared.
Certain names of certain places fall trippingly from the tongue.
There are corners of over-trodden routes which even the thousands of visitors cannot spoil.
One of these is Isola Bella, that Italian island of mystical and compelling beauty which seems to float upon the Lago Maggiore.
The soft and quivering green of the aspen, the languorous odor of the gardens, the alluring vision of the white peacock strutting up and down the marble steps with his graceful outspread tail all make one relax with the joy of sensuous being.
Life in retrospective at such moments seems a protest against sordidness and the discord of ugliness.
Main Street is happily miles away and its very creation is resisted as an expression of an unlovely influence.
France, too, is full of such surprises, and as there is hardly a locality with which I am unfamiliar, I can promise any motorist this pleasure, provided he will not be a victim of his chauffeur, who, if left to himself, will invariably select the straight stretches of hot, white roads in preference to the shady side lanes. No men are more devoid of all imagination than are chauffeurs. I have often thought that a little of this quality might even be applied to the care of the engines they control. How often have I sat in the broiling sun knowing full well that before we could start once more that I should have to listen to a whole rigmarole of technicalities, thrown off in explanation of what was probably the matter, only to discover at the end that the cause of the difficulty was due to some trivial obstruction which even a child might have detected. Of all pretentious idiots, give me the average chauffeur-machinist, How often does he ever know even the points of the compass? How often has he any sense of direction? How often does he evince the slightest intelligence in selecting routes?
In face of an emergency is he able as a rule to extricate himself if left to his own devices? I doubt it.
Yet how they swagger and swank and terrorize by talking glibly about the parts of a very simple machine which it is their every day business to understand.
I remember once hearing a father of three daughters, all of whom married very worthless men, state that the entire virtues of his sons-in-law combined would scarcely produce one decent citizen. I feel very much the same way when I recall the long list of "experts" who have condescended to drive my cars.
Of all systems which should be abolished is the one which relieves the employee who is the cause of accident from any financial responsibility. It is the employer who pays every time, whether it be for speeding, injury or death. It is the employer who takes out the insurance and who settles the amount of damages. Were it not for this fact there would be fewer accidents, believe me. Let some system be devised by which the chauffeur, when he is to blame, be forced to pay and the list of casualties would perceptibly decrease.
Nothing will ever protect the public from the stupidity, blindness and carelessness of these fellows except through forcing a few throbs out of their pocket nerve.
However, I have served my apprenticeship with the material I had at hand so that I in turn can do a bit of bossing. I have learned a sufficient amount of cheap swagger to terrorize when necessary the gentleman who consents to drive me and I can make as good a guess as he can as to what is the matter when my machine refuses to budge.
Therefore I travel with a fair amount of satisfaction, managing always to select the best roads for my purpose, roads which while having a good surface, nevertheless lead sufficiently off the beaten track to protect one from dust and inspire one with interest.
I advise every owner to drive his car mentally even though he may be too indolent to drive it actually.
It is only in this way that he can be certain of enjoyment and be sure that amongst other things he is heading north instead of south or vice versa. An honest, sober and intelligent chauffeur machinist is indeed a rarity. His value is priceless.
I believe that at last I have found this exception to my general ruling.
MISS DE WOLFE and I were among the first Americans to visit the Hostellerie of William the Conqueror at Dives, which was hidden in a corner of Normandy, although not very far from the haunts of fashionable Trouville, and Cabourg.
We had read a delightful book by Anna Bowman Dodd called "Three Normandy Inns," which had just been published. There was a freshness and sincerity about this little guide which made us determine to hunt up one of the inns at least. We were fortunate in our choice and I recall with pleasant memory our first impressions as we turned into the quaint courtyard which has since become so familiar to the tourist. The Hostellerie in those days was much less pretentious than at present. It has since been extended both in size and in importance. Then there were only a few "high lights" of attraction. There were not so many exotic animals, not so many private dining-rooms; not so many pieces of old furniture nor bits of old porcelain, not so many kitchens, nor chefs nor serving men and maids.
The present patron Le Remois was still the obedient son of his masterful mother. I can see the old woman in my crystal ball, sitting in her doorway with picturesque white bonnet on her head, every inch a peasant and she was proud of the fact. A devout Catholic and a practical citizen. Rugged and righteous, able and dominant, such was Madame Le Remois when. I knew her at over eighty years of age. Unable any longer to go about on account of her rheumatism, she nevertheless sat supreme in her little office, the head and the director of her domain. The cash box was always at her side, and the day. book and ink well in front of her. Not a cent of expense was incurred without her permission. It was she who dictated the items on each bill. Not a cup was broken without her knowledge, not an ounce of food was prepared without her authority. Her son, then going on towards sixty, breathed, lived and had his being through "Ma Mère." it was she who doled out to him every day the pennies which he was privileged to spend, and when he returned from one of his outings, driving a small sturdy white stallion, called Henri II, his first duty was to enter the office and there report in detail to his mother every incident and every expenditure. Each centime had to be explained as no general accounting was acceptable to the old lady. Her one really trusted employee was "Mees," the secretary whom she had trained into her ways. It was this middle-aged woman who got about in all the rooms, who counted the linen, who saw that the servants did not idle and incidentally kept tab on Mr. Le Remois, the son. Any side tracking on his part was quickly detected and reported to Madame.
After the latter's death, "Mees" married Le Remois which was an economical arrangement as the heir to the inn was thus provided with a working and efficient housekeeper, to whom no wages had to be paid.
Together they still direct the destinies of the Hostellerie of William the Conqueror , and under their mutual direction have doubtless amassed a snug fortune. On one occasion during our residence at the inn, there was a family wedding, the bride being a favorite niece of Madame's. Laid carefully away in a cedar chest was the peasant costume which had been hers since youth. It was only taken out on a gala occasion, such as the wedding in question. But the relations who had long since spurned this style of dress were always begging Madame Le Remois to cast it aside as obsolete, and to follow their example by wearing modern apparel. Yet the old lady remained loyal and obdurate. She refused absolutely ever to appear in public except in her picturesque costume and when one of the young people begged her to at least don a straw hat, with a courtly gesture she exclaimed:
"Straw hats may be worn by my domestics but not by me."
Dives was then a very small place consisting of a few houses, two or three shops, a school and the old church, around the inside portals of which, cut in stone, are the names of the brave knights who embarked from this little seaport to cross the Channel and to conquer England, taking with them incidentally the fashion of road hedges and of fenceless fields.
However, the limited size of Dives did not do away with the office of Mayor, to which honor Mr. Le Remois had been duly elected. One afternoon at the height of the tourist season two one-horse cabs collided before the door of the inn. The respective coachmen, one a Parisian and the other a Norman, entered the courtyard, each vociferously claiming damages and each casting epithets one upon the other which were more vigorous than considerate. The case was serious. The Mayor must sit in judgment, but not until his official scarf was fetched from the Mairie, not until a provisional table had been set up, not until pen, ink and paper had been provided, and not until the scullion in white cap was summoned to act as clerk of the court.
The testimony was finally taken. It was evident that the liability would fall upon the driver from Paris, when suddenly, the man from Le Remois' own district feeling confident of his victory, pulled out a package of cigarettes, struck a match and began to smoke. At sight of this indignity the Mayor bounded screaming from his seat. "You scoundrel, you good-for-nothing, you impudent rascal, how dare you, you scum of the earth, smoke in the nose of the Mayor of Dives!"
The scene ended, and a fine, wholly out of proportion to the offense, was speedily imposed upon the miscreant who had thus insulted a high calling.
Many celebrities used to frequent this interesting inn. It was the last note of luxury, framed in a medieval setting. One's imagination was always stimulated. Le Remois had the natural enthusiasm of all collectors for even with his small personal allowance, he succeeded in picking up quaint furniture, china and artistic nothings which gave the atmosphere to the place and which attracted visitors from far and wide. His venerable mother, like many of her generation, only regarded his purchases as pure folly. She never realized that when she ordered the appetizing lobster or chicken prepared after her rich receipts, that the prices put on the bills would never have been obtainable from any but wealthy patrons who were attracted by the good taste of her son. When we first lodged there we occupied rooms which were called respectively "the room of Mme. de Sevigné" and "the room of the Curate." That the famous lady of literature once lodged there was a tradition, but it evidently seemed more discreet never to divulge the identity of the curate. On the weekly market day the peasants used to pour into the courtyard and eat their noonday meal without interference. As there were many calls for wine, beer and "pick-ups," the inn made rather a good thing out of these simple customers.
The first time that I met Mlle. Cecile Sorel was at Dives. She had just created a furore in Paris in the rôle of Napoleon's sister Eliza in Madame Sans Gêne. Her beauty was at that time extraordinary and her great vitality the keynote of her splendid physique. She was young, she was lovely, she was talented. The world would soon be at her feet. I can see her now in my crystal ball standing beside her pony cart, redolent of health and full of energy, the essence of frank good humor, gay and adventurous, the real Parisienne who played at country enjoyments while looking forward to her return to the Boulevards.
At the same time a number of friendly Americans were housed at the Inn, also Monsieur Guillaume, who was a professor at the Beaux Arts; King Milan of Servia; not to mention a constant string of people who were coming and going and who lent interest to this passing show. The toilet accommodations were limited and the water supply scarce, but what did it matter? We were a jolly crowd, riding on our bicycles some fifteen miles to Caen, or perhaps taking a dash as far as gay Trouville where we saw "high life" as it was then understood.
How often have Mlle. Sorel and ourselves referred to this spot of our first meeting! In after years when she had become an admired actress in the House of Molière, with her card laconically engraved "Cecile Sorel de la Comédie Française," one had to travel back in memory to recall that early snapshot taken in the sixteenth century courtyard of a Normandy inn.
DURING the winter for many years Elsie de Wolfe and I were both working so hard that nearly all of out social pleasures had to be confined to the summer months. It was then that we were in the midst of a whirl of gayety, keeping up our old friendships and cementing new ones.
One principle in life to which I have been fairly faithful is to always cultivate people who are better and finer and cleverer than myself. It is more morally wholesome to bend one's knees back and look up, than to drop one's head forward and look down.
Nothing is so demoralizing as to spend precious hours in the society of mental inferiors whose admiration is valueless and whose adulation is dangerous. To be satisfied with such companionship is either the indication of an inferior mentality or of an egregious vanity. On the other hand to be able to submerge one's own accomplishments in the greater performances of others is of inestimable benefit to the growth of character and to the development of mind.
There is a strange twist in people, however, which I have often remarked. Some of those who are most fastidious in taste in material things will fill their rooms with a collection of human inadequates who beggar description. I sometimes think that the prevalent use of external cosmetics eats out the internal brain if persisted in long enough.
Max Beerbohm wrote an essay on "The Defence of Cosmetics," which was never intended to convince; its purpose being merely one of gracious encouragement.
Were my crystal ball smeared with rouge and smirched with lip stick it would be of little value to me. Happily it is clear and clean so that its reflections are reliable.
The sale of rejuvenating creams or of restorative powders is always profitable. There is no town so small but that it can boast of its beauty parlor. There is no woman so poor who will not become its patron. The search of the Holy Grail or the voyage towards a new continent never enlisted so much energy and so much faith as does this pursuit of youth by old age. It is a race not of the fleet but of the most credulous.
There are no longer any grandmothers to be found and even mothers are becoming rare. The struggle is unequal because Father Time has the contestants beaten at the start.
If only women would learn that the real elixir of life can be found within, that if peace and content and kindness dwell in their souls that then there is no surer protection against the ravages of time. If only they will study the art of growing old gracefully, accumulating such intrinsic resources of happiness that when the years are checked off they will only mean greater and deeper interests and a more intense rejoicing in God's gift of life. Thus they can look towards the sinking sun, not as an ending, but as a beginning of something more beautiful than anything they have yet known.
The silver sheen of peaceful old age will illuminate their faces and death when it comes will be robbed of all sting.
I HAVE frequently visited the French city of Le Mans, but always under widely different circumstances.
With the exception of a tourist's impression of a dull place and of a very inferior hotel, it had assumed no interest in my eyes until 1907 when Anne Morgan and I journeyed there in order to witness the initial flight of Wilbur Wright, the bird-man from Dayton, Ohio.
We were fortunate in making the acquaintance of Hart O. Berg, a successful promoter, and of his charming wife who was an Englishwoman. It was through the former's enterprising spirit that the arrangements were made which resulted in this important test of Wright's invention. Santos Dumont, Maxim and Blériot were already experimenting in the science of modern aviation. The world was awake to the importance of this new force, and while the science was still in its infancy, the moment had come to show the practical side of it.
To the honor and glory of America, it was Wilbur Wright who demonstrated the feasibility of flying. It was he who proved to a doubting public that the chief obstacle had been overcome, and that the perfecting of details was then merely a matter of time.
The aerodrome was several kilometers out of Le Mans, and only French officials, capitalists and a few personal intruders like ourselves were invited to witness these preliminary trials.
Mr. Wright's confidence was convincing to those of us who met him. He was not in France as an experimentalist. He had solved his problems in Dayton. Reason and not chance was his guide. But at this time wind and weather played no small part in aviation. Both had to be reckoned with. Therefore we had to wait patiently several days before he decided to fly. These delays aroused skepticism of course. The atmosphere of doubt was everywhere, whispering groups gathered in the lobby of the hotel. Bits of unfavorable criticism were gleaned upon the street corner.
However, nothing had any effect upon the inventor. He went ahead stolidly about his business until the auspicious moment arrived. There was a light wind blowing on the afternoon of this historical day. It was slowly dying down towards six o'clock. We who sat on the grandstand were quivering with excitement, still uncertain as to Wright's action. Suddenly we saw his tall gaunt figure saunter across the field where the machine had been hauled. In those days aeroplanes upon a given signal were shot from a form of catapult.
Wright climbed into his seat. The assistants started the propellers. The machine was set in motion. Never have I experienced a greater thrill than when I saw those broad white wings spread in their upward flight. They mounted steadily and with a surprising speed, while the height obtained was low, only a few hundred feet, yet this fact made no difference. The air had been conquered.
The supreme invention had passed beyond the realm of experiment, and it was the genius of the Wright brothers from Dayton, Ohio, which was stamped upon the fare of Europe.
How often in after years when during the war perhaps as many as thirty planes Would fly of an afternoon over our lawn at Versailles, rushing from Buc and Villecoublay to reach the fighting front, I would recall those summer days in Le Mans, when we sat contemplating Wilbur Wright's initial efforts with pleasure and pride, but without the slightest realization that this small and imperfect aeroplane was but the forerunner of the army force to become such a vital factor in a war, which, at that time had not even cast its shadow over the world.
One of Wilbur Wright's peculiarities, if so it can be called, was that he refused absolutely to use foreign material in the making or repairing of his machines. He had taken over with him American machinists and American supplies. He depended literally upon his home market, The reason of this was simple. He had tested out American merchandise. He knew he could rely upon it, whereas whatever was bought of foreign manufacture must perforce be an unknown equation. His was the life at stake and he did not mean to take any unnecessary chances. I remember how completely his morale broke down when the news of Orville Wright's accident, in Washington, was flashed across the ocean. While his brother escaped, his fellow passenger had paid the price of this adventure, through no fault of the careful pilot, but through circumstances which could not have been avoided.
The development of the new industry was rapid. Factory after factory was established. Invention after invention was tried out. Only a little while, and we were at the aerodrome in Reims watching Latham, one of the most brilliant of all the aviators, circle over the grandstand and literally over the head of the President of the French Republic. Then Pegoud, the trick flyer, who first looped the loop. It was all very exhilarating to note as an exciting incident that which later was taken as a matter of course.
The only astronomer I ever met is Camille Flammarion and I shall always remember the day Miss de Wolfe and I spent with him in his home at Juvisy. Miss Lois Fuller was also one of his guests on that occasion,---and as she floated around and across his lawn after luncheon in more or less gossamer garments, introducing her willowy, billowy movements, the searcher of stars seemed to relax with every evidence of keen enjoyment. Possibly this sprang from his predilection for stellar discoveries.
When we were personally conducted to view the wonders of the firmament through his mammoth telescope I politely waxed eloquent from wonder---but after all these years frankly confess that not only could I see nothing at that moment, but that at no moment in my life have I ever been able to see anything through a telescope.
This fact reminds me, however, of an incident which is worth the telling. I wanted to experiment privately with this telescope proposition to learn what was wrong with my eyes, so having seen a perfect instrument advertised at the cost of one dollar, I with a sublime credulity enclosed the amount. In due time the package arrived. I opened it eagerly and found therein the coveted telescope. I adjusted it to the best of my ability, but saw nothing. I then casually suggested to my secretary that she should profit by my purchase. She raised it to the light, but confessed that she was afraid she didn't understand it. Then determined to prove the value of my acquisition, I called in the office boy, a very bright-eyed, and much alive proposition. I explained that I had purchased my telescope at a bargain and felt confident that once he had become familiar with its working that much educational enjoyment would result. He took it from my desk, with a certain air of skepticism and retired to the outer office. Soon he returned, walked up to me with a manner which left no room for doubt as to his opinion of my intelligence and said:
"Say, how much did you pay for this?" Striving to maintain my dignity, I replied, "One dollar."
"Stung all right," said my young friend as he made his exit.
A MOST vivid personality is now reflected in my crystal ball; none other than Henry Adams, that brilliant and recognized influence for so many years in Washington society.
Descended from an historical family which boasted of two presidents of the United States and of men of even greater value than those who had held office, Henry Adams was an international figure in literature, politics and society. His acquaintance was large. He knew intimately the majority of those who were eminent in the world. His opinions were respected, his advice sought. His contributions to history were widely read. He was as familiar a figure in Boston, in London and in Paris as he was in Washington. He received the friendship of the élite and he gave his friendship to the lowly.
It was fitting that he should write his own autobiography and that he should finally release that admirable book, which was first circulated privately, dealing with Chartres and St. Michel.
I owe much to my association with him, which was recurrent for more than a decade. It was he who first revealed to me the beauty and the meaning of stained glass. Hundreds of times I had stood before windows of such intrinsic loveliness as those in the Sainte Chapelle, Paris, in Beauvais, in Chartres and elsewhere, without either understanding or appreciating them, and it was not until Mr. Adams became my guide and teacher that I was able to realize the marvels of this expression in art or to differentiate between the creations of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries and the modern imitations from Munich or the modern substitutes from Nancy.
No man was a more delightful companion. His library was his kingdom and while he exhibited a rare tolerance when confronted with such ignorance as mine, one felt that it was he who was the master of his books. They had become a part of him. It was his rich intellect which supplemented their usefulness and which suggested what to take from them of value and what to leave as of slight importance.
He had many "nieces" either through relation or from adoption but while I was years his junior he always insisted that I was his only "aunt."
I doubt whether any visitor or student in the Cathedral of Chartres ever gleaned as much of its spirit as did Henry Adams. Its very soul seemed to have penetrated his being. He loved it as a lover. He wrote of it as a historian, and I shall never stand beneath its lancet windows which he described as "jewelled," without feeling the presence of this courtly and lovable old friend who had been to me the interpreter of their beauty.
In the Rack Creek Cemetery near Washington, hidden in the massive foliage, is a monument by Augustus St. Gaudens, erected by Henry Adams in memory of his wife.
It stands without either tablet or description, As an expression of silent grief it is so intensive in its art and in its appeal that as one gazes at its compelling majesty, the man who in the sublimity of his vision was inspired to command it, shares now in everlasting honor with the genius who created it.
Though in my early days politicians interested me, but little, yet to listen to their addresses was often a pleasure, not because of the sentiments they voiced but because the fall of phrases has always proved a singular attraction to me.
I used to sit in the galleries to hear the noted speakers wherever I happened to be, but nowhere in the world did I find anyone possessing a greater gift of oratory than the late W. Bourke Cockran. He was my friend for thirty years and I can recall many different occasions when I had the privilege of listening to him. He was the last of the old school and a fitting successor to Daniel Webster whose speeches are still studied as forensic models.
Bourke Cockran could talk eloquently upon any subject with which he was in sympathy, after merely a cursory study of its facts. He could carry a message to the multitude so that they were moved and convinced. He could sway a crowd and impress an audience. His vitality was only second to his enthusiasm.
As a man he was richly endowed with personal. gifts and acquirements. In friendship he was proverbially generous and faithful. It was impossible for him to be anything but loyal in his affections. Despite his social popularity, he remained simple and apparently unaffected by the praise and flattery with which he was surrounded. His hospitality was endless, his helpfulness universal. Notwithstanding that he came to our country from Sligo when only a lad of seventeen, during the fifty-two years of his residence in America he never lost his hibernian accent which was as percolating and mellow as ripe fruit. His wit was inexhaustible and on the public platform he could answer any heckler and reply to any opponent.
I remember once when he was speaking before a motley audience of two thousand in Tammany Hall that a semitic agitator, aware of his sympathy with the Sinn Feins in Ireland, thought to embarrass him by shouting:
"Vat about de Irish question? Vat haf you to say about dat, Mister Cockran?"
Whereupon with the greatest good humor Cockran turned in the direction of the disturber and said:
"After the meeting I shall be very glad to discuss this with the gentleman having the Connemara accent," which of course brought down the house.
His anecdotes of his boyhood in the old country were many, but especially do I remember his description of the farmhouse over which his wonderful mother presided. There was a large family of children of which Bourke was the eldest. Devout and pious Catholics, it was the custom of bringing each day to a close by reading aloud from the Lives of the Saints.
The mother would gather the little brood about her, the peat fire would be slowly burning out, on the table a tallow dip would be sputtering and in a crooning monotonous voice she would reveal the legend of St. Lawrence on the gridiron; of St. Simon on the pillar; or of the Nun who for some unconfessed sin was forced to stand while the red and yellow flames of hell illuminated her pallid face.
The little children listened, deeply moved by these horrors, their knees knocking with fright and their dread of what was before them increasing second by second, for they were all awaiting the moment, when, once the reading was ended and the candle extinguished, they were to mount the steps which led from the living room to the upper story where the thin straw mattresses lay all in a row. Bourke as the eldest headed this procession. No one's imagination had been more kindled by these legends than his own. He was in terror of what personal tragedy might fall upon him on account of the evil deeds of which he knew in his soul he had been guilty. When would the wrath of God strike him? When could he be sure of escape from penalties such as even the Saints could not avoid? Nevertheless, clammy with perspiration engendered by fear, his tiny heart beating so that he could hear its thumps, he would firmly grasp the child next him by the hand, and as they rolled into their beds would not only urge them to fortitude but would lead them in their prayer of "Hail Mary" and would make the final appeal to God to preserve them that night from all danger.
From no one else in the world did I ever receive such illuminating pictures of this early farm life in Ireland. They were Bourke's own vivid memories up to the hour of his death.
No man I have ever known lived his faith as did Cockran. It was neither an attitude of mind nor a habit assumed on Sunday. The principles of the Catholic Church in which he believed were such a part and parcel of his composition that his religion was with him always, the moral propeller of his entire existence. To have known Bourke Cockran and to think of him as other than a Catholic would be an impossibility. His belief was the mainspring of his life. Unconsciously every action, every thought sprang from it. There was never an hour of the day when his soul was empty of worship.
On the night of his death in Washington, a friend who had been with him after dinner celebrating his sixty-ninth birthday related that when she was leaving at midnight, he insisted upon escorting her to her automobile. The stars were shining brightly. Moonlight was over all. After saying good-night, he paused for a moment on the steps of his house and the last glimpse my friend had of him, was standing silently, his hands clasped and his face upturned. Doubtless he was uttering a silent prayer, the substance of all he hoped for, the confirmation of all he believed.
Jaurès who was shot in 1914 was as great an orator in the French Chamber as is Viviani, who has frequently been heard in our country.
My first recollection of the latter was in the early nineties when he was brought to us at Versailles by that classical soubrette of the Théâtre Français, Mlle. Rachel Boyer. We were sitting on the terrace after luncheon when Mr. Viviani drew from his pocket a cigar which he asked our permission to smoke.
At this time he was a violent radical, upholding every socialistic doctrine, bitterly antagonistic to the clerical and military parties, advocating the rights of labor and even going so far as to approve of the Deputies in the Chamber appearing there in overalls and blue jeans. He posed as the man of the masses. I asked him with apparent innocence what brand of cigar he preferred. He showed me the paper band and said that this was the only kind he ever smoked.
I happened to know that they cost five francs each. I begged to take a snapshot of him. He said, "With pleasure, but allow me to put down my cigar."
"No, kindly bold it. It will make the picture more natural."
After I had clicked the bulb and closed up my camera I said, "Now, Mr. Viviani, I have something which will vastly interest your constituents; a portrait showing you in the act of smoking a five-franc cigar." He tried to smile, but it was a very perfunctory response to my joke. He-was never at ease with me after that, in fact in very recent years. he referred to the incident, evidently afraid of polite blackmailing. The difference between an American and a French Politician under similar circumstances is that the former would distribute the high priced tobacco he smoked among his supporters regardless of the cost, thus proving himself to be a good mixer and entitled to their votes, but the deviousness of the latin mind and the parsimony of the latin character could never handle such a situation in this liberal fashion.
Possibly we are all more or less savage by nature for unless we are as phlegmatic as bivalves, we thrill at the mere thought of adventure and tremble at the sheer expectancy of risk, thus the feverish excitement of watching trainers enter a lion's cage may be attributed to this undercurrent of masked emotion and account for the hope which is always dormant, that if any catastrophe is really going to happen we would like to be on hand at the happening.
The Place d'Armes at Versailles was an admirable locality for the itinerant circus. Each year the great Hagenbeck with his magnificent menagerie of wild beasts made it his headquarters for a fortnight.
We, together with some American neighbors, had reserved for the opening three centre boxes which commanded not only the ring but the runway.
The place was crowded. One act after another was performed to the delight of this suburban audience. The salient feature of seeing the world-renowned trainer actually enter with his lions, tigers and leopards was to be the climax of the evening's enjoyment. Suddenly a blast of trumpets and there they came, slinking, crawling, recalcitrant and snarling with Hagenbeck himself, long and lithe of limb, agile as a deer and dominant as a ruler.
There had been a severe thunder storm earlier in the evening which accounted, as was explained, for the unusual restlessness of the animals. They were refractory and rebellious, although we assumed that the constant cracking of the whip and the recurrent explosion of the pistol was only part of the exhibition, intended to emphasize the danger in the elementary mind of the public.
Two leopards were unduly ugly, however. Their disobedience to the drastic authority of their trainer was evident. They simply refused to obey. Thus there was a sense of relief when the act was brought to a close and when the animals slunk off one by one. The last to leave the ring were the two leopards in question. Not for a second had their master, with his lynx-like eyes, relaxed his attention. He had never ceased to concentrate his will power upon them until they had actually crossed the sill of the cage and had started down the runway. The tension had been extreme. The man relaxed, but it was the infinitesimal part of a second too soon. The leopards turned. They fell upon him. They dragged him to the ground while uttering guttural sounds of savage triumph.
To those of us who were present the scene was one never to be forgotten. Dozens of assistants rushed in with hot irons, clubs and revolvers. The animals were finally pulled off from the bleeding body of their victim. They were hurled into confinement behind the iron bars.
Hagenbeck, himself, with a pallor that was deadly, stumbled to the exit, striving to raise his arm with a gesture of reassurance.
But the poor fellow was not superhuman despite his splendid courage. We saw him totter, then fall.
He was lifted out by the attendants while his manager insisted that he had not been seriously injured.
The following day we went to the local hospital where we found that he had his arm and thigh terribly torn and mangled.
It was six weeks before he was discharged, yet in talking to him it was evident that he was counting the days until he could return to his beloved beasts and resume his life's work among them.
As already stated I was born a Protestant, my father being a trustee in the Presbyterian Church which stood on the southeast corner of Twenty-fourth Street and Madison Avenue. Our pastors under whose teachings I had sat were the Rev. William Adams, Dr. Tucker and Dr. Charles Parkhurst. After the death of my parents I gave up all church affiliations as I discovered that my attendance had been a matter of habit rather than of belief and an excellent habit it was. In looking back I always insist that I owe much of any stability of character which I may possess and of any self-restraint which I may exercise to this early training in the Presbyterian Church.
Let me describe the normal Sabbath which even in the exuberance of childhood was never questioned. Instead of sleeping later on the seventh day of the week we were up betimes, were literally scrubbed and scoured and sent off to attend a nine o'clock Sunday School. At ten-fifteen we adjourned to the church where we remained until twelve-thirty. The sermon was as a rule an hour long. We then walked home sedately to partake of a noon day meal, which in our household represented advanced thought, for it was hot, consisting of a rib roast, several vegetables and a rice pudding, whereas in those days in the model Christian family the food was prepared the day before and served cold.
Our bill of fare never varied. After dinner we were allowed to read such innocuous books as we had brought from the Sunday School library. No games of any kind were ever permitted. To sew, knit or crochet was tabooed.
At three-thirty we returned to the afternoon service which lasted until nearly five. We had what we pleased to call "high tea" at six-thirty. My chief recollection of supper revolves around soda biscuits, slices of cold meats, cakes and preserves. Old friends frequently were invited to drop in to this evening meal. After it was over the gathering was broken into groups. Usually my mother sat at the piano playing familiar hymns, surrounded by the children who knew them all by heart and who sang them lustily. At least we were thus given the opportunity of making a noise and ridding ourselves of some pent up energy. Occasionally instead of singing, those of us who were younger sat at the large dining-room table which had in the meanwhile been cleared while my father showed us illustrations in a pictorial bible, expounding to us the scripture in his own graphic and inimitable way.
At nine we had evening prayers which by the way were an incident of Sunday, for on week days we only had morning prayers, the uncertainty of the comings and goings of the family after business hours necessitating the omission. We were thoroughly drilled in the Bible, committing to memory chapter after chapter and learning by heart all of the popular psalms.
If any doubts or queries entered our juvenile minds they were never very intrusive.
After the first sixteen years I automatically became a teacher in Sunday School myself, and it was then my turn to do the expounding. About this time I first met E. H. Harriman, then a young man at the beginning of his financial career. He was very slight and never good looking, but extremely decorous in his conduct. He was deeply interested in the Wilson Mission which stood on the corner of Avenue A, and Eighth Street. There we were coworkers. Afterwards he married Miss Mary Averill of Ogdensburg, who had a very sweet and womanly personality. He met her when on a visit to her cousin Hattie Averill who subsequently married George Clark of the old firm of Clark, Dodge and Company. Julia Clark, his sister, and I had been brought up together from our baby days until we left school.
E. H. Harriman's engagement came as somewhat of a surprise to us all as he gave no outward evidence of his wooing, nor I might add did he ever suggest at that period the quality of leadership which became so emphasized in his later years.
As a pioneer in behalf of newsboys, as a benefactor to home missions, we had no inkling of the future of the man who later performed such a priceless service to his generation by bridging the distance between the Pacific and the Atlantic and by replacing for all time the covered wagon with the monster machine. In my maturity I have never crossed the continent in a comfortable Pullman without recalling those days of my early acquaintance with E. H. Harriman who was destined to become one of our great masters of industry.
I have always strenuously objected to personal stories of conversions. They savor too much of the camp meeting and of the revival stock taking. Suffice it therefore to say that when I eventually determined to become a Catholic that it was the result of adult conviction uninfluenced and spontaneous. An earnest desire to honestly understand what those of an opposing creed really do believe often leads to a change of faith, and to find in a world reeking with stultifying selfishness the actual practice of sacrifice is as salutary as it is inspiring. Penance is the soul's best lubricant. I was received into the Church by a simple priest whose parish was in the East Nineties. The little wooden structure which served as the place of worship counted as its members only very poor and humble folk. The pastor and his assistants were the volunteer chaplains at North Brother Island on which were the contagious hospitals belonging to the City. These men knew no fear of disease for they regarded their attendance in this plague centre as merely part of their day's work.
I have persistently maintained, however, that nothing in the world demands more universal respect and tolerance than those questions affecting racial and religious differences. Woe to those so-called Christians who fail to grasp the very essence of the faith they profess, namely love and charity for their fellow men.
Prejudice born of intolerance will go far towards destroying a people and wrecking a nation.
It was in 1905 that the separation between Church and State occurred in France. It was Waldeck Rousseau who first started the conflagration. After analysis proved that he never intended that the political flames should spread with the intensity which subsequently developed. The upheaval was far more drastic than anything he would have sponsored had he been able to forecast its operation.
When convents were emptied at a few hours' notice, when little helpless orphans with the good Sisters who had lived their lives within the four walls were ejected ruthlessly into the streets, when nothing was sacred, when none were protected, when honest and God-fearing men and women of simple faith, whose lives had been spent in serving humanity, were suddenly bereft of shelter, then the people of France began to realize that they might have prevented these extreme measures.
That religion he kept wholly apart from politics, should be the fervent desire of all right-minded people, that everyone should be allowed to worship freely according to his or her faith is the basis of liberty, that no man and no group of men who govern be allowed to differentiate in favor of one form of creed as against another should be a fundamental principle of any democracy, and it is when this spirit of intolerance and bigotry creeps into a nation that the solidarity of that nation becomes imperilled. No wars are more bitter than those undertaken in the name of religion. No revenge is more acute than that inspired through the exaltation of fanaticism.
It is little wonder that the youth of France, suddenly deprived of religious instruction, should have drifted into an attitude of disrespect and of irreverence. Nothing was any longer sacred. They were taught to despise every symbol of their traditional faith while nothing constructive was offered them in its stead. They had ceased to care for God and they were not taught to care for their fellow men. The numbers of young criminals increased in every class. The word "apache" was coined, and the extravagance of debauchery became common. The prisons were inadequate to house the prisoners. The tribunals were unable to cope with the ever increasing number of trials.
In 1914, nine years after this debacle, the War broke out, and many of the nursing Sisters and the faithful priests were needed in the service of their country from which they had been expelled. They were consequently sneaked back into France chiefly because they could be made useful.
The splendid and inspiring work which they did in the hospitals and on the battlefields can never be over estimated. They were illuminated in their efforts by a spirit which even persecution had not quenched, and many a soldier who had jeered at and derided every manifestation of a religion upon which he had been taught to trample, turned in his suffering to some kind Sister or to some good gentle Priest who restored to him the faith of his childhood, and who ministered to him in the hour of his agony.
The reconstruction of towns and villages, the replanting of fields, the rebuilding of cities, the generous contributions to restore the waste caused by German guns will amount to less than nothing if it means that more materialism will be engendered while spiritual ideals are being submerged. It is the soul of Europe which is in danger, not her body, and those of us who had hoped that this soul would have risen once again from the ashes of her suffering are, in the face of actualities, trembling as to what will be her ultimate fate. Read contemporaneous literature, study modern art, review present day drama, watch society; go into the provinces abroad and there contrast the habits of the bourgeoisie and of the peasants of to-day, with the conditions which obtained before the war, and you will find little to inspire you with confidence.
What effect has the great catastrophe had? What country has been morally benefited by it? That is the question which is being flashed eternally and which no one dares to answer, for the whole world seems drifting upon a sea of forgetfulness. Neither individuals nor rulers remember what has been. A great asbestos curtain has fallen upon promises and pledges, upon hopes and ideals which have become merely properties of history, stored and neglected until such time when a new emergency may discover in them some current value.
My journeyings were not confined to France and England. Each Summer an extended motor trip was in order.
Notwithstanding that the roads were less good in both Italy and Spain, we found so much compensation in the beauty and art of these countries that we accepted the less comfortable conditions without a murmur. So far as filth and fleas are concerned tours through the South of France provide an excellent preliminary education. One can learn there how to overcome the first and how to kill the second. It is merely a question of habit after all. Taking tubs, by the way, does not necessarily insure cleanliness. I remember that one of my early suitors was an Englishman who had a lovely tenor voice. He was eternally talking about his "barth." Yet I discovered that in Summer he wore his woolen coat and trousers next to his skin on account of the heat. His habit of never wearing underclothing during the hot months I later ascertained was very common in England. Therefore it is difficult for me to become impressed by the frequent ablutions of our English cousins.
F. Marion Crawford was one of my friends and clients. His home at Sorrento, Italy was very lovely. His visits to America, however, became more and more frequent as the years went on owing to the financial exigencies caused by an ever growing family. Crawford could never indulge in rest. He was a prolific writer. Hardly had one novel left the press than another was under way. He wrote with a persistent regularity I have rarely seen equalled. He lived always very simply. He especially disliked show and splurge of any kind. He avoided crowds and absolutely refused to be lionized. His friends were few but these he saw frequently and trusted absolutely. In our business relations, which extended unbroken to the day of his death, he was invariably reasonable and considerate, always courteous and appreciative.
His early novel "To Leeward" was called very daring at the time it was written by the then young author. Contrast it now with the literature which floods the country. It could almost he admitted into a Sunday School library.
Mrs. Cadwalader Jones, sister-in-law of Edith Wharton, lived in a charming old house in West Eleventh Street. She was in the habit of giving Sunday luncheons which are among my most cherished reminiscences. There one was assured of meeting really good society. Men like Marion Crawford, John La Farge, John Sargent, Augustus St. Gaudens, John Cadwalader and others of equal distinction were her constant guests. Her food was delicious and I can recall her lobster mayonnaise and her rice pudding as symphonic poems. Mrs. Jones herself was a charming hostess, a centre in New York. In recent years she has spent much of her time abroad, although her home here has never been disturbed.
Marion Crawford's love of Italy inspired many of his novels. They reflected the surroundings in this country of his adoption. He knew the children of the soil and even here felt more at home while wandering through our Italian quarters than when he strolled up Fifth Avenue. He was very tall and handsome. When he smiled his face became illuminated with gentleness.
Another friend of ours in Italy was Bernard Berenson, the authority on Fifteenth Century art. He and his capable English wife, Mary Berenson, also an excellent writer, live just outside of Florence. He is one of the few men I have ever known whose intellectual acumen is supplemented by a keen commercial sense. He not only knows how to purchase advantageously, but how to sell as well. His word is law with dealers and collectors. How often he has shrivelled the value of an acquisition by dubbing it a fake. I have never heard of him dodging the truth and many a collector, who has sent for him to be flattered by the approval of his taste, has been mortified to discover from Berenson that he had been the victim of a fraud. Some of the best private collections in our country are due to Bernard Berenson's knowledge and advice. He is very modest, however, in claiming any credit for his part in them, preferring with infinite generosity that the owner of the treasures for which he is responsible should have all the glory of their selection.
In the case of Mrs. Jack Gardiner of Boston, her friendship with Berenson dated over many years. Her early purchases were frequently made in his company. However, her own taste was so great and her power of assimilating knowledge was so extraordinary that those with whom she enjoyed any intimacy became unconsciously endowed by the wealth of her imaginings and it is no exaggeration to state that in the minds of the art connoisseurs of Europe Boston is on the map merely because it is there where Mrs. Gardiner lives and it is in the Fenways where she has created an Italian Palace full of the wonders of centuries. It is a monument built by herself which will stand as an everlasting tribute to her memory, and to her vision. Like the Duc d'Aumale who bequeathed Chantilly to his nation, so will this Museum of Art pass some day to the City of Boston to become its glory and its pride. No woman in the world was ever possessed of such human radio as Isabella Gardiner. In recent years she has led a very secluded life, only admitting her old friends at intervals. Her mind is as brilliant as ever and her interests as keen. Doubtless she feels that she must husband her precious hours as the glass of life is turned. She. knows the value of every minute of every day and refuses to have her last years devastated by the curious or vandalized by the indolent. She will die as she has lived, a very great lady.
I remember a typical incident connected with Perugia. After a long day spent in and about Assissi where we revelled in the memories of blessed Saint Francis whose spirit still walks upon the earth, we retired to rest, our rooms in the hotel facing a terrace which was evidently the popular resort of the town.
While realizing when our lights were extinguished that many of the inhabitants were still upon the stone benches we were totally unprepared for the noises which grew and grew as the night went on. Each time that we looked out of our windows we saw that the crowd was denser. Babies in arms, children who were toddling, youth and old age, all had poured into the Square. It was unbearable. Did these people of Perugia never sleep? Or did they play all night and rest all day? One thing was certain we would move away as soon as possible for evidently any peace, in this Italian town was out of the question. At seven o'clock in the morning we summoned the proprietor upbraiding him for having given us such impossible accommodations. Wringing his hands in apology the good man assured us that the incidents of the night were unusual. He explained everything by telling us that it had been prophesied in the local paper that this was the date set for the end of the world, that the citizens of Perugia firmly believing this had decided that it would be pleasanter to assemble in the public square and there to die together. Besides once in the open they might have a chance to persuade the Almighty to deal gently with them whereas to remain in their houses would make them victims of falling brick and crashing timber and preclude any direct intercourse with God who ruled from behind the stars.
I remember once remarking to Berenson that I was surprised at never finding any variety of cultivated small fruits in Italy. I missed the peaches and the pears and the pictorial apples trained upon the garden walls of France. "You need not be surprised," replied my friend, "the care of fruits requires infinite attention and persistent labor. The Italians are far too lazy to be bothered with the growth of anything which means work. It is true that they grow babies because they look to the future when these same babies will emigrate to the United States, become rich and support their parents and relations who remain in Italy."
Padua and Venice will always be associated in my mind with a friend who is as little of an Italian in her composition as is any woman I know. She is none other than Mrs. Frances Wolcott, widow of the late Senator Edward Wolcott, of Colorado. She insists that she saw the first white child born in Denver. Whether this is a flight of her athletic imagination or not is really of no consequence. The fact remains that she is the closest electrical connection I know between Pike's Peak and the Grand Canal for my most vivid impressions of Venice were gleaned during a visit I made her there many years ago. Frances Wolcott has without exception the most alive brain I have ever encountered. No matter on which side one strikes it, a spark will flash therefrom. She is an intellectual so tempered with the human that at times one is lulled into forgetfulness that she is intellectual. Her sympathies are ever flowing. She carries perpetual Spring in her soul. Her spirit never flags, her interest never drags. Her activity conquers age because her body is always forced to run after her mind. She is an inveterate traveler in her insatiate thirst for a knowledge which she promptly assimilates and which afterwards she will dispense with prodigality. We drifted along the canals, and we enjoyed those hours in Italy together. It is true that these same conversations as a rule might have taken place in the 20th Century Limited or before the Club fire in New York because we both had acquired the habit of taking our thoughts around with us. They did not depend upon any environment. Our comments at the Lido might have been inspired at Coney Island or at Revere Beach, the only difference being that at the Lido there was more surface to cover and a more marked indifference to the social amenities of life.
Mrs. Wolcott like many very dominant women of history never attracted admirers consistent with any historical chart, for she will probably go on attracting them so long as she lives. She has not had her face mutilated by surgeons claiming that youth can be perennial. Neither has she enriched the purveyors of creams and cosmetics. it has been told of her when one gentleman especially assiduous in his attentions, arrived to call, that she insisted upon dragging him out in the searching sunlight, exclaiming:
"Now look at me! Count every wrinkle you can find. Note every blemish that is revealed, then you will know the worst, and I need not fear the deception caused by a pink lamp shade or a twilight symphony."
The story is very characteristic of my friend. It may serve as an encouragement to women who are willing to grow old normally. Are there any of them left? I sometimes wonder.
Mrs. Wolcott's little journeys into the realm of faith were humorous. I had urged her going with me to Padua to visit the tomb of our blessed Saint Anthony. She had with an almost girlish sentiment been restlessly awaiting a letter. I insisted that if only she could muster enough confidence while touching the tomb at Padua to humbly ask the Saint's kindly intervention that possibly upon her return to Venice the long desired letter might have reached its destination. This sincere gesture succeeded beyond my fondest hope and great was the triumph of credulity over skepticism when upon alighting from our gondola the precious epistle was handed to her.
THE circumstances under which I made my first trip into Spain are worth relating.
Miss de Wolfe and Miss Morgan had arranged to go there by train, under the guidance of a friend who was thoroughly familiar with the country. They were further provided with letters of introduction which would open every door, and they could already boast of the acquaintance of several influential Spaniards who had visited the Villa Trianon at Versailles.
It was very warm weather and while they kindly urged me to accompany them, a long, hot railway journey did not appeal to me. The only traveling I could contemplate at that Season was by automobile.
I went to the station and saw them off. The evening was sultry so that as I turned away I congratulated myself upon my wisdom.
I returned to Versailles but the next day the Spanish microbe seemed to have entered my veins. Why shouldn't I follow my friends? We had a fine Panhard limousine and a reliable chauffeur. Why not utilize both?
I spoke of my project but was told by everyone that I was mad. How could I dare risk a journey of this kind alone and unprotected into a country of bandits and brigands? Besides I didn't speak the language and I didn't know the roads.
The more I thought of this excursion, the more I rejoiced in the idea.
I bought the maps, laid out my route and on a bright morning accompanied by my faithful maid, I turned my face toward Sunny Spain.
The trip was full of charm but devoid of incident, although it developed into a kind of pilgrimage, visiting as I did the little towns made famous by the venerable Curé d'Ars, St. Vincent de Paul, and others whose history savors of holy tradition.
I had never been at Lourdes so it seemed to me that this was my opportunity. We arrived at this noted shrine at twilight, so that my first tour of the place was made by moonlight under a canopy of stars.
I confess that I rather dreaded the impression I was to receive. I assumed that I would be surrounded by beggars and extortionists. I took it for granted that the sanctity of the spot would be dwarfed by its commercial aspect. I dreaded the crowds of tourists and the army of sightseers. I did not realize that all of these fears would fall like a pack of cards once I came to understand the spirit which pervades every corner of Lourdes. I was not drawn there through my emotions but through a desire to see this place for myself and to learn the truth at first hand.
I had so often discussed its cures with scientists as well as with pilgrims, nevertheless once upon the spot impressions forced themselves upon my mind with an intensity for which I was unprepared.
Much that had been told as of importance seemed to me trivial amid the surroundings which I found. The physical condition of those seeking relief did not strike me as abnormal. Whether their prayers were answered, whether their ills were assuaged did not seem of vital consequence, for underneath all that was external I recognized a power which was pervading and impelling, that something which was destined to draw all men under its influence.
Thus it is not strange that I left there after seeing three miraculous cures, not so profoundly interested in these isolated cases as in the underlying faith which prayed for them. When thousands of human voices are raised in a simultaneous appeal to Almighty God, attuned with a confidence which is superhuman, one is involuntarily lifted to a height hitherto unknown. And when one sees some dying creature raise his head at the approach of the Holy Eucharist, his countenance illuminated with the beauty of a spiritual vision such as you have never seen before, you realize that he is literally looking into the face of God, so that when his final moment of earthly disintegration comes you know that death for him is merely a passing, that here there is nothing, while beyond there is everything. I was at last able to understand what Monsignor Benson meant when he said that of all places in the world Lourdes was the place where he wished to die.
It seems the natural bridge between this life and the next. For many years the majority of the cures had taken place in the piscine adjoining the Sacred Grotto of Our Lady, but at the time of my visit the miracles occurred at the moment of Benediction in the late afternoon, when the solemn procession led by the clergy bearing aloft the jeweled monstrance containing the Host passed around the esplanade chanting the "Ave-Ave," the whole square blocked with the hand carriages and the stretchers which were bearing the sick and suffering to be present at this wonderful moment.
When I asked one of the nursing Nuns how she explained the fact that the cures no longer took place at the Grotto, she replied: "I think, dear Madame, that it is because our Blessed Lady has withdrawn behind her Beloved Son."
After a few days at San Sebastian where I saw the King on his way to a bull fight, and a canary bird which was so tame that he flew at his pleasure in and out of the window of his owner, we pushed on towards Madrid amid scenery as rich in color as is our own Grand Canyon of Arizona. Nowhere can one see such red and purple, blue and yellow villages as are to be found in Northern Spain. They hang upon the hillside, they stud the plain, they seem uninhabited, unquestioned and satisfying, serving as decoration while filling their picturesque destiny.
I paused at Loyola, the rich community of the Jesuits, the birthplace of their founder and containing the archives of their order. It was medieval and interesting. I had an easy system of making myself understood and of getting what I wanted without knowing the language of the country. The method which I followed was simplicity itself.
I took the phrase book, found the words and the sentences which would serve my purpose and then underlined them, pointing them out to the persons I would address while asking them to reply in a like fashion. I avoided any attempt at pronunciation, for I believe this is the invariable pitfall. Nothing is more misleading to an unimaginative ear than words mispronounced. Inevitable shouting results, which merely emphasizes the incorrectness, whereas the printed words must be correct. Thus I was never embarrassed either in ordering my meals, buying my gasoline, asking the way or inviting assistance. It all went smoothly until I found myself five miles out of Madrid upon a road which beggared description.
Even the cows could have beaten down a smoother surface with their hoofs. To go beyond a snail's pace was impossible, yet despite our crawling one spring after another broke, until our car was ignominiously towed into the City of Madrid, the Capital of Spain.
WHEN the Scriptures state that "broad is the way that leadeth to destruction" the highways in Spain must have been in mind, for never have I encountered such unnecessary width combined with such necessary repair. I had several conversations with a member of the King's cabinet, the Marquis de Vegas Inclin, who was at the head of this particular public service. He recognized that no government could afford to keep such highways in order. On the other hand he affirmed that as broad roads had dated from time immemorial that it would be a long work of education before the people would accept any other kind. Reforms move slowly in Spain.
On reaching Madrid I went at once to the Ritz Hotel there to await the arrival of my two friends who having gone to Seville and Grenada were not expected for several days.
I did a lot of sightseeing in the interval and took a real delight as a proof of my enterprising spirit to send my card to their apartment, which was reserved directly after I ascertained that they were there.
Our meeting was one of merriment and for many a long day I boasted of my pleasant journey down. I need not add that I had plenty of company on my return trip.
We presented our letters of introduction and were showered with consequent hospitality. Private collections rarely shown were the excuse for many an afternoon tea to which we were invited by the stately owners.
We were delightfully entertained in Toledo which is a short though exceedingly bumpy drive from Madrid. The one thing which left an indelible impression upon us all was that we saw the beautiful tapestries, furniture and art objects in the places for which they had been originally destined, for the most priceless treasures of Spain are still in the land of their birth---a rare condition these days.
However, my crowning impression is of a private Mass in the Royal Chapel to which we were bidden on the Feast of Corpus Christi. The hour was ten o'clock, the invited guests were few. We were there in good time and found a special escort awaiting us at the private entrance. We went through a series of corridors until we reached the one which led directly, to the Chapel. There we were asked to stand. Promptness being a virtue of Kings, In a very few minutes we heard the announcement that His Majesty was approaching. The cortège was the most brilliant I have ever witnessed. The ladies of the Court were all in full evening dress and resplendent in jewels. Many of the men were in uniform, their breasts glittering with orders and their swords of the finest workmanship.
None wore hats save one group composed, as it was explained to us, of the grandees of Spain, men of noble ancestry who alone were permitted to remain covered. Never in my life have I seen such a gathering of courtly gentlemen. Distinction of bearing was conspicuous. They seemed a natural part of the historical surroundings. All that is best of inheritance in this world seemed in them to find its focus. The impression they made was profound.
The Queen was in white satin brocade covered with superb old lace. She carried a white missal in her hand.
The King wore a white uniform with elaborate gold braiding demanded by his high military rank.
His smile was cordial and as he passed, recognizing that we were the three American ladies for whom invitations had been solicited, he bowed to us in a very gracious fashion.
After the procession entered the Chapel we were taken to one of the few boxes from which our view of the ceremony was uninterrupted. Never shall I forget the brilliant aspect of the audience. The Royal couple were on the throne. The lords and ladies of the Court seemed a sea of color. Their jewels gave forth light, their uniforms and costumes made of marvelous tissues rippled in waves of various tints.
The Royal orchestra furnished the music while choristers, trained to perfection, alternately sung and chanted the cadences and chorals of the Mass.
Below and on the right of the High Altar which was ablaze with a myriad candles sat the Cardinal of Toledo, clad in his scarlet robes with cape of ermine across his shoulders. He was directly opposite the throne which was at the left of the Altar.
The most dramatic note, however, of the occasion was struck by one solitary figure in black who stood by the side of the Queen. He was tall and slight, of intellectual and impressive bearing.
This one dark element in the midst of light that was well nigh blinding was the Jesuit confessor of the Queen, a silent reminder that the vanities of this world would ultimately pass away.
A very pretty anecdote was told of King Alfonso while we were in Madrid which demonstrated his boyishness and his democracy.
A festa in his honor was taking place in Seville. A great banquet at which he was the Royal guest was in process in the suburbs. A general holiday had been declared. The whole city was in gala.
Suddenly the King, becoming weary of food and of speeches, jumped from his seat and turning to his pal the Duc d'Albe exclaimed: "Jimmy, I'll match you for a race as far as the water over yonder."
Off the two young men started, but "Jimmy" soon preferred a cigarette and sat by the wayside until his distinguished friend had run off his energy. The King, on the contrary, rushed into a field where an old peasant was ploughing with the aid of his faithful donkey.
"Ah! My good man," cried the King, "how is it that you are not making merry in the town? This is no day for work. "
"That may be," answered the peasant, "but this beast and I cannot spare time for foolishness. We must live."
"How much do you earn a day?" asked the King.
"Six pesetas."
"Don't you want to see the King?"
"Not enough to lose that much money."
By this time the King was thoroughly enjoying the situation. He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket, threw them into the man's hands and exclaimed, "This will pay you for your time. Besides you can see the King without its costing you a penny for here he is, standing before you."
The old peasant fell upon his knees, the donkey wagged his tail. King Alfonso ran up the hill having enjoyed the incident as the most entertaining moment of the day.
Probably no monarch in the world is more popular with his people than is Alfonso of Spain.
He is a good husband, a good father and a kind and intelligent ruler. He is an all around sport, is full of fun, has infinite tact and on more than one occasion has proved himself a man of unusual physical courage.
Spain remained a neutral country during the war. She, like Holland, Denmark and Sweden, kept out of it. At the time this neutrality was criticized and condemned, nevertheless recent events fail to demonstrate that these countries have lost any of their prestige through their detachment.
Economically Spain only needs more water in order to enormously increase her wealth. If all her and fields could once be irrigated there would be no limit to her potentialities.
Before many years this will no longer be a dream of the government but a fact. Just as we have the great Roosevelt Dam in our country there will be the Alfonso Dam in Spain. Once this feat of costly engineering is accomplished, the long stretches of useless soil will be converted into vast fields of waving grain and Spain will become one of the richest nations in the World.