The ministers of state and the diplomats had a loge reserved for them next to the orchestra, and, although there were carpets and rugs under our feet, the humidity and cold penetrated to the marrow of our stateful and diplomatic bones.

There were tiers of seats for people who were fortunate enough to procure tickets.

Gayarre, the wonderful Spanish tenor, sang several solos, each one more exquisite than the other.  I have never heard a more beautiful voice, and certainly have never heard a more perfect artist.  The way he phrases and manages his voice is a lesson in itself.

Tamagno, the famous Italian tenor, sings wonderfully also, but very differently.  He gives out all the voice he has, and you are overcome with the strength and power and the compass of his unique voice.  He is the tenor robusto par excellence of the world.

One cannot compare the two singers.  Gayarre has the real quality of a tenor, exquisitely tender, suave, and still powerful.  He has a way of keeping his voice bottled up until a grand climax; then he lets it swell out in a triumphal burst.

This funeral service is a very long and fatiguing affair.  I pity the carabinieri (the soldiers) who are on service that day.  Although they are men chosen for their powerful build, some of them cannot endure the fatigue of standing “at arms” the two hours that the service lasts.  I suppose the poor things are put there from early dawn, and there they must stand, stiff and straight, with uplifted sword, without moving a muscle.  We saw one (not this year, but last) faint dead away and drop in a heap on the marble steps of the altar.  His sword and casque made a great clatter when they fell and rattled over the pavement.  Four of his comrades rushed in, picked him up, and carried him out, staggering under his weight.  He was replaced by another carabinier noiselessly and so quickly that you hardly knew that anything had happened.

The Argentina Theater attempted to give Wagner’s Ring.  It was a dismal performance.  Wagner is not at his best in an Italian setting, with all the gas turned on and the scenery half tumbling down and the orchestra fiddling in full view.

In the first act of “Rheingold,” where the three maidens are swimming, the poor girls, with hair of unequal lengths, sprawled about, their arms clutching at air, and held up to the roof by visible and shaky ropes, half the time forgetting to sing in their wild efforts to keep themselves from falling, separated from the audience only by a gauze curtain which was transparency itself.

DENMARK, July, 1887.

My dear Aunt,—­Denmark in July is ideal.  It is never too warm in the day and always cool at night.

I have been spending a few days with Howard on his farm.

On the Fourth of July Howard wished to give the peasants in the neighborhood an entertainment to celebrate his country’s “glorious Fourth.”  He hoped to inspire them with due enthusiasm and give them a good day’s sport.