Such funny combinations are here sometimes:  one duke, several counts, several writers, several barons, two princes, newspaper women, etc.  I find so far, without exception, that the high-up aristocracy are simple and cordial and agreeable.

When Clemens appeared as a public entertainer all society turned out to hear him and introductions were sought by persons of the most exclusive rank.  Once a royal introduction led to an adventure.  He had been giving a charity reading in Vienna, and at the end of it was introduced, with Mrs. Clemens, to her Highness, Countess Bardi, a princess of the Portuguese royal house by marriage and sister to the Austrian Archduchess Maria Theresa.  They realized that something was required after such an introduction; that, in fact, they must go within a day or two and pay their respects by writing their names in the visitors’ book, kept in a sort of anteroom of the royal establishment.  A few days later, about noon, they drove to the archducal palace, inquired their way to the royal anteroom, and informed the grandly uniformed portier that they wished to write their names in the visitors’ book.  The portier did not produce the book, but summoned a man in livery and gold lace and directed him to take them up-stairs, remarking that her Royal Highness was out, but would be in presently.  They protested that her Royal Highness was not looking for them, that they were not calling, but had merely come to sign the visitors’ book, but he said: 

“You are Americans, are you not?”

“Yes, we are Americans.”

“Then you are expected.  Please go up-stairs.”

Mrs. Clemens said: 

“Oh no, we are not expected; there is some mistake.  Please let us sign the book and we will go away.”

But it was no use.  He insisted that her Royal Highness would be back in a very little while; that she had commanded him to say so and that they must wait.  They were shown up-stairs, Clemens going willingly enough, for he scented an adventure; but Mrs. Clemens was far from happy.  They were taken to a splendid drawing-room, and at the doorway she made her last stand, refusing to enter.  She declared that there was certainly some mistake, and begged them to let her sign her name in the book and go, without parleying.  It was no use.  Their conductor insisted that they remove their wraps and sit down, which they finally did—­Mrs. Clemens miserable, her husband in a delightful state of anticipation.  Writing of it to Twichell that night he said: 

I was hoping and praying that the Princess would come and catch us up there, & that those other Americans who were expected would arrive and be taken as impostors by the portier & be shot by the sentinels & then it would all go into the papers & be cabled all over the world & make an immense stir and be perfectly lovely.

Livy was in a state of mind; she said it was too theatrically ridiculous & that I would never be able to keep my mouth shut; that I would be sure to let it out & it would get into the papers, & she tried to make me promise.

    “Promise what?” I said.