She was so clever that, incredible as it sounds, she made herself a wig and some false teeth, and yet she came of a race whose women were not accustomed to serve themselves with their own hands; for the blood of the venerable and aristocratic Altoviti family of Florence flowed in her veins.  Her father came into the world as a marquis of that name, but was disinherited when, against the will of his family, he married the dancer Lamperi.  With her he went first to Warsaw, and then to Berlin, where he supported himself and his children by giving lessons in the languages.  One daughter was a prominent member of the Berlin ballet, the other was prepared by a most careful education to be a governess.  She gave various lessons to my sisters, and criticised our proceedings sharply, as she did those of her fellow-creatures in general.  “I can’t help it—­I Must say what I think,” was the palliating remark which followed every severe censure; and I owe to her the conviction that it is much easier to express disapproval, when it can be done with impunity, than to keep it to one’s self, as I am also indebted to her for the subject of my fairy tale, The Elixir.

I shall return to Fraulein Lamperi, for her connection with our family did not cease until her death, and she lived to be ninety.  Her aristocratic connections in Florence—­be it said to their honour—­never repudiated her, but visited her when they came to Berlin, and the equipage of the Italian ambassador followed at her funeral, for he, too, belonged to her father’s kindred.  The extreme kindness extended to her by Emperor William I and his sovereign spouse solaced her old age in various ways.

One of the dearest friends of my sister Paula and of our family knew more of me, unfortunately, at this time than I of her.  Her name was Babette Meyer, now Countess Palckreuth.  She lived in our neighbourhood, and was a charming, graceful child, but not one of our acquaintances.

When she was grown up—­we were good friends then—­she told me she was coming from school one winter day, and some boys threw snowballs at her.  Then Ludo and I appeared—­“the Ebers boys” and she thought that would be the end of her; but instead of attacking her we fell upon the boys, who turned upon us, and drove them away, she escaping betwixt Scylla and Charybdis.

Before this praiseworthy deed we had, however, thrown snow at a young lady in wanton mischief.  I forgive our heedlessness as we were forgiven, but it is really a painful thought to me that we should have snowballed a poor insane man, well known in the Thiergarten and Lennestrasse, and who seriously imagined that he was made of glass.