I was at once ushered into the Queen’s salon by an old red-liveried majordomo who had many decorations on his breast.  The Queen was alone with the Grande Maitresse, and after having talked a little she said, “Now we’ll have some music,” and led the way into the ballroom, where there were two pianos.  The Queen sat on the sofa, wearing an expression that was half pre-indulgent and half expectant.  The Grande Maitresse, who was there, not in her official character, but as a musician, accompanied me when I sang “Voi che sapete.”  When I came to the phrase, “Non trovo pace notte ne di,” the Queen raised her hand to her eyes, which were filled with tears, and after I had finished, said, “Please sing another.”

I spread out the music of “Biondina” in front of the eye-glasses of the Grande Maitresse, but the first bars convinced me that if I were to sing that song, she was not to play it, and, against all etiquette, I placed my hands over hers and gently pushed her off the seat, saying, “May I?”

I confess I deserved the daggers she looked at me, but the Queen only laughed and said, “You are quite right; you must play that for yourself.”

The Queen seemed to be delighted, and after some more music I returned to the hotel in the same regal manner I had come.

COPENHAGEN, February, 1878.

Dear Mother,—­Some days have passed between this and my last letter, but I have been very busy.  I have tried to do some sight-seeing—­there are many interesting and enchanting things to see here.  Then I have had a great many visits to pay, and I go often to sing with the Queen.

Yesterday I lunched at the palace.  The Queen had said to me before:  “When you come to me, come straight to my room.  Don’t bother about going first to the dames d’honneur.  The servant has orders.”

So yesterday, when I arrived, the old decorated servant who sits in the antechamber simply opened the door of the Queen’s private apartments, where I found her and the Princess Thyra alone.

The Queen said, “You will stay to luncheon, will you not?” I hesitated, as we had invited some friends to lunch with us, but that was evidently no obstacle.  She said:  “Never mind that.  I will send word to your husband that I have kept you.”  Of course I stayed.  We had a great deal of music.  I sang “Beware” for the first time.  The Queen said, “Oh, the King must hear that,” and rang the bell, sending the servant to beg Prince Valdemar to come in.

On his appearing, the Queen said, “Valdemar, you must tell papa that he must come.”  Prince Valdemar soon returned, saying, “Papa has lumbago, and says he cannot come.”  The Queen shook her head, evidently not believing in the lumbago, and said, “Lumbago or not, papa must come, even if we have to bring him.”

The King came without being “brought,” and I sang “Beware” for him, and then “Ma mere etait bohemienne,” the Queen accompanying me in both.