The celebrated Ibsen honored this feast with his presence, and especially honored the Chianti and Genzano wines, which were served copiously, in fiascos.  When you see Ibsen, with his lion face and tangle of hair, for the first time, you are fascinated by him, knowing what a genius he is, but when you talk with him, and feel his piercing, critical eyes looking at you from under his bushy brows, and see his cruel, satirical smile, you are a little prejudiced against him.  We meet him often at our friend Ross’s studio at afternoon teas, where there is always a little music.  Ibsen sits sullen, silent, and indifferent.  He does not like music, and does not disguise his dislike.  This is not, as you may imagine, inspiring to the performers.  In fact, just to look at him takes all the life out of you.  He is a veritable wet blanket.  I have read all his works in the original.  I think they lose a great deal in being translated.  The Norwegian language is very curt and concise, each word conveying almost the meaning of two in English, which enables the author to paint a whole situation in a few words.  I can see the difference, in reading the English translations, and where they fail to convey his real meaning.  Strangers who wish to see Ibsen must go to the cheap Italian restaurant, “Falcone,” where he sits before a small iron table, eating deviled devil-fish.  No wonder that he is morbid and his plays weird!

February, 1881.

Dear Mother,—­I know you would like to hear about the first ball at the Quirinal.  It was very splendid.  Since the last and famous ball at the Tuileries I had seen nothing like it.  When we had mounted the guard-lined staircase and passed through innumerable salons we were received by the Grande Maitresse, surrounded by numerous dames de palais, all so beautiful that I wondered if they had been chosen for their beauty alone.  I never saw so many handsome women grouped together.  Numerous chamberlains preceded us into the ballroom and showed us the benches where the Corps Diplomatique have their places.  The benches looked inviting enough, with their red-velvet coverings and their gilded legs, but I did not feel as if I should care to sit on them for hours.

Madame Minghetti sat on one of the taborets on one side of the throne, and Madame Cairoli (wife of the Minister of Foreign Affairs) occupied the taboret on the other side.  These two ladies are the only ones who have the right to sit on the little square stools that are called taborets.

We waited in our places until we heard the orchestra start the national hymn, then every one stood up as the King and the Queen entered arm in arm, followed by splendidly dressed and bejeweled dames d’honneur and the numerous suite.  Their Majesties went to the throne, stood there a moment, then stepped down and spoke to the two ladies on the taborets.  The quadrille d’honneur commenced almost immediately.  Count Wimphen approached the Queen, making the deepest of bows, offered her his hand, and led her to her place on the floor.  M. de Keudell and the Countess Wimphen took their places opposite the Queen.  There were only two other couples.  Every one stood while this quadrille was being danced.