“I remember,” he said.  “It was a dreadful glare.”

“It was the first time they ever put electricity in the Capitol.”

“They put too much in,” he said, “and such a lot of people!  Dear me!  I shall never forget it.  Didn’t I look bored?”

“No, your Majesty looked very serious and as handsome as a Lohengrin” I answered.

“Lohengrin, really!  I did not see any Elsa I wanted to save.”

“Oh, I meant only a Lohengrin de passage,” I replied.

The Emperor laughed.  “That is good.”

“I recollect what your Majesty wrote on the photograph you gave Monsieur Crispi.”

“Really?  What was it?  I don’t remember.”

“You wrote:  ’Gentilhomme, gentilhomme; corsaire, corsaire et demi’.”

“What a good memory you have!” he said, and added, very kindly, “I am very glad to have you and your husband here, and I hope you will like Berlin.  But”—­holding a finger warningly—­“don’t look for many Lohengrins.”

In case, my dear, you don’t understand this, I will tell you what it means:  If you are nice to me I will be equally nice to you, but if you are horrid I will (pokerly speaking) see you and go you one better.

BERLIN, January, 1903.

Dear ——­,—­Every diplomatic lady has a reception-day.  Mine is
Thursday.  Last Thursday there were one hundred and sixty people.

My first receptions in January were very perplexing, because so many people came whom I did not know and who did not know me.  Our two secretaries, Frederikke and I have a code of signals which help me over many a rough place.  Visitors leave their cards in the antechamber.  The secretary stands in the first salon and waves them into the large salon where I am.  If I raise my eyebrows the secretary knows that I depend upon him to find out who the person is, and the name, if possible.  He, therefore, gets the card and shows it to me by some magical twist.  Sometimes he manages to whisper the name.  Often I fail to grasp either the whisper or the card; then I am lost, and flounder hopelessly about without bearings of any kind, asking leading-questions, cautiously feeling my way, not knowing whether I am talking to a person of great importance or the contrary.  When at last my extreme wariness and diplomacy get hold of a clue, then I swim along beautifully on the top of the wave.

Frederikke helps me by taking odds and ends off my hands and sorting them out behind her teacups.  All the young people flock about her, and with their laughter and flutterings add a gay note to the official element around me.

The Emperor desires that all his officers should be accustomed to society, and they receive orders to make afternoon visits, which they do—­poor things—­I suppose, much to their distaste.  As no one knows them and they do not know any one, it must be very awkward for them.  They come six at a time, leave a package of cards in the antechamber, present themselves, and each other.  They click their heels, kiss the hand of the hostess, give a hopeless glance about them, move in a body toward the tea-table, return, and go through the same ceremony, and leave together, making a great clinking of swords and leaving an odor of perfumed pomade.