Twenty Years in Europe

GENERAL GRANT AND THE SWISS PRESIDENT-BANQUET TO GRANT AT BERN-GOOD ROADS-CHARGE D’AFFAIRES FOR SWITZERLAND-WRITING FOR THE MAGAZINES.

July 27, 1877.-General Grant arranged to visit the Swiss capital on the 24th. Our minister being absent, I, as senior consul, went up to Bern to offer him the courtesies of the legation. Quite a crowd of people surrounded him as he came in at the station, and we drove to the Bernerhof hotel. General Adam Badeau was with him, as was also his son Jesse.

At 10 o’clock of the morning of the 25th, I had the pleasure of presenting General Grant to the Swiss President, at the palace. President Heer spoke but little English, and General Grant no German at all, so it devolved on me to act as interpreter during the half hour’s conversation. The Swiss Parliament house, called the palace, is a very noble structure, standing on a commanding height, with the Bernese snow mountains spread out in perfect view from windows and terrace.

The reception of General Grant was simple in the extreme. A common business interview between two or three private gentlemen could hardly be more devoid of official airs.

President Heer himself is a simple, kindly man, a statesman loved by his people, and very well acquainted with the affairs of other countries. He had evidently “read up” on General Grant, for he had kept track of his travels, and referred to some incidents of his life in the war. As ex-President of the United States, General Grant was just as simple and kindly as was his Swiss entertainer. Each expressed gratitude at meeting here on Republican soil. “We are not so great as you Americans,” said the President, “but we are a much older Republic.” They referred to the fact that the system of a second house in Parliament was adopted from the American plan. They talked about the advantages of two houses a little, and then the General was asked to go and look at the view from the window. There is not another view like that from any other executive mansion on earth.

The Swiss President does not live here. It is the official business building of the government. An American would be surprised to see President Heer’s own little private home in the suburbs of the city.

“I will return this call, General Grant, in just an hour,” said the President. So we went back to the Bernerhof and waited.

The return call was as simple as the first. It lasted but a few minutes, and ended in General Grant’s accepting an invitation to a banquet that the President would give in his honor that evening. I had the honor to be included in the invitation. General Badeau and Mr. Jesse Grant were also to take part.

The afternoon of that day was dark and rainy; still I went walking far outside the suburbs of the town.

Near to an old bridge, I came across a man standing absolutely alone, in the rain, carefully examining the queer structure. It was General Grant.

He did not observe me, and I, believing that he wished to be alone, went my way down a different path.

It was fully an hour before he returned to the hotel, wet and muddy. That evening at the dinner, I heard him telling a cabinet officer of a delightful walk he had in the outskirts of the city.

There was no little surprise to know that the world’s guest, instead of being escorted around by committees and brass bands, had spent half the afternoon out on a country road alone in the rain.

General Grant had no reputation as an after-dinner speaker, but he made two little speeches on this occasion, one in reply to the toast of the President to the distinguished visitor, and a longer one, when he himself proposed “Switzerland.”

The dinner was in a private room of the Bernerhof hotel. Besides those already mentioned, the Vice President and the Cabinet were at the table, and all made short speeches. Short speeches were also made by General Badeau, by Jesse Grant and by myself. Nearly all spoke, or at least understood, English, so the toasts were in our own tongue. Only the President spoke in German, thanking General Grant for the honor he had done the sister republic, by leaving his resting place in the mountains and coming to the capital. There was general good feeling and plenty of hilarity about the board. The Swiss understand the art of having a good time at the table. Save a few words concerning the Darien Canal and the Pennsylvania strike, no politics and no high affairs were touched on that night.

When some specially fine cigars were passed along the table, General Grant helped himself, and smiled in a way that said, “Now I am indeed happy.”

At midnight, the guest rose and made a move as if about to speak again. The President rapped on his wine glass for attention. “Hear, hear,” said one or two guests, and every eye turned to where General Grant was standing. To our surprise, he simply bowed to the President, said goodnight, and quietly walked out of the room.

August, 1877.-Bankruptcy seems to be threatening everywhere in Switzerland this summer; not here only, but everywhere else. The worst times, the people say, in a hundred years. To make it ten times worse, the horrible war between Russia and Turkey is developing into Turkish massacres of innocent people. There is nothing in Swiss newspapers now save war news, and on the streets men talk of little else, fearing all Europe may yet explode. It is the sentiment here that this war, with all its atrocities, can be laid at England’s door, that it is from her that Turkish assassins get their encouragement and help.

December, 1877.-The reports of losses in the war continue fearful. Seven thousand men were destroyed at Plevna, in thirty-five minutes. Our American armies knew little of such sudden destruction. Fifty thousand and more on both sides were shot at Gettysburg, but the fight lasted two or three days. At Iuka, my own regiment (the Fifth Iowa) lost 217 out of only 482 engaged, pretty nearly every other man killed or wounded, in an hour. Plevna was not much worse than that. One cannot help, too, thinking of the English at Jellabad, where only one man out of sixteen thousand got away alive. No wonder the better sense of a people opposes war.

Christmas, 1877.-Like everybody else in Switzerland, we had a “tree” last night. Twenty children besides our own little ones, and some Swiss friends, were present. Naturally all was done in the Swiss way. The tree, immense in size, had its one hundred and one candles, its drooping chains of silver and gold tinsel, its little gorgeous colored ornaments of metal and glass, and its white cotton snowflakes. The tree stood in the consulate. The folding doors to our apartment opened up for the purpose. Nothing is on the tree but ornaments and lights. The gifts are on a side table. The bell rings; Kris Kringle, robed, and jingling with bells, bounds in. The children are absolutely in a paradise of joy, and the joy of the grown folks, on hearing the exclamations of delight, is scarcely less. The servants get a great proportion of the presents, for these gifts are a part of the wages. Pretty soon all join hands, grown folks and children and servants, and circle about the tree singing

“Christ is born,
Christ is born.”

What a happy time it is! It is Christmas night all the time for a week, in Switzerland. There is nothing but good times and joy. Families come together, and far-wandering sons come home for the glad reunion. I have known young men to cross the Atlantic from New York, just to be in the dear, old home for a week in the Christmas time.

The Christmas lights shine in every house, the villa of the rich, the cottage of the poor. A Christmas tree is in every home. No rich man would go to bed and sleep, knowing some poor child had no Christmas tree. The public squares and side streets are filled with green trees for sale. A happy smile is on every face, and a “Gott grüss euch,” on every lip.

That one week of comradeship and kindly feeling does as much to bring peace on earth and goodwill to men, in Switzerland, as does the church itself. It is religion mixed with joy.

*****

We are back on the lake again at Küssnacht, and such moonlight nights! Occasionally American friends come out by boat, to see us at Wangensbach, and walk home, the six miles, in the moonlight. The little, white, clean roads along the lake shore are perfect, and a delight to walk on. Will America ever know what a road is? We excel in almost everything else, why cannot we do this one thing? Nothing to-day would make the American people so happy, so prosperous, as good roads. People of Switzerland save millions and millions yearly by their fine turnpikes.

The other day I got orders from Washington to go to Bern and take charge of the legation as acting Chargé d’Affaires, during the absence of Mr. Nicholas Fish, going home on a furlough. Mr. Fish is a son of Grant’s Secretary of State, Hamilton Fish, and is as accomplished and zealous in affairs of diplomacy as his father is in statesmanship.

I have an American friend who calls at the office at 2 P.M. every day now, to tell me in detail all the war news that I have just finished reading in the papers. It requires an hour, but he does it up thoroughly, and this, of all things, has made me wish the war would hurry to a close. But are not Consuls paid to listen to their countrymen sometimes?

While at home last winter, I arranged to continue writing articles for some of the magazines, and the labor makes pleasant employment for leisure hours. Many reports for the Government, too, on all conceivable subjects, continue to be asked for and are printed as fast as sent in. They are the result of a good deal of careful looking about.

CHAPTER XVI

1877

FRANZ LISZT AT ZURICH-SWISS, GREAT LOVERS OF MUSIC-WAGNER ONCE LIVED HERE-HIS SINGULAR WAYS-DR. WILLI-MADAME LUCCA’S VILLA-LISZT’S KISSING BEES-JEFFERSON DAVIS’ DAUGHTER-A LAUGHABLE MISTAKE.

September, 1877.-The Swiss have almost as much love for music as the Italians, though they have no composers of great reputation. Every city, town, and hamlet has its Music Guilds and clubs. The whole male population seems to sing. There are many fine instrumental performers among the women, but few good singers. The male bird is the vocalist here. Zurich is a center for great concerts, oratorios, etc., where Europe’s greatest artists appear. The “Tonhalle” orchestra is one of the best in Europe. These are the men who first rehearsed and played Wagner’s earlier operas. Seven years of Wagner’s life were spent in Zurich, in exile. The people here still talk of his singular ways as a citizen. Zurich was then, as now, a Wagner-music loving place, even at a time when London and Paris would not listen to a Wagner opera.

My friend here, Schulz-Beuthen, himself a composer, is the happy possessor of Wagner’s old piano, at which he composed some of his immortal works.

Wagner was poor when in Zurich, and lived by writing musical criticisms. For his own music, there was no sale. He had one or two rich friends here, however, notably the Wiesendoncks and the Willis, who encouraged not only his music, but a most singular method he had of getting rid of debts. It was a pretty way he had of calling on these opulent friends and, by the merest accident, leaving his grocer’s, tailor’s or hostler’s bills lying on the drawing-room table. His kind friends naturally discovered the missives, and quietly paid them. It was a little joke whispered about that the number of Wagner’s calls at rich men’s houses was entirely numbered by the bills he was owing. All the same, he had rather good times by the beautiful lake.

Dr. Willi had Wagner one whole season at his lakeside home. Just across the lake was the villa of the Wiesendoncks, and Wagner kept a little boat very busy, carrying his operatic “Motives” back and forth between his kind musical patrons.

Every now and then the “Tonhalle” has a red letter day. It is when artists like Sarasate play the violin, or when Franz Liszt or Rubinstein is at the piano.

Last week Franz Liszt was here. It was a great occasion, though not his first visit. At the close of the afternoon concert, I noticed many of the ladies gathered about him to have him kiss them, as he stood down in an aisle among the seats, holding an impromptu reception. Pretty soon they had him seated. They could get at him better that way. The men had little chance that afternoon, though in the evening I was one of those who had the honor of being presented to him. He received me very kindly, and spoke of certain clever Americans who had been pupils of his.

I had had a glimpse of him the morning before. Being an early riser, I was, as usual, down walking by the lake, near to the celebrated Baur-au-lac hotel. I happened to glance toward a window of the hotel that I heard open. I saw an astounding looking figure in a white night dress, leaning far out of the window, looking at the mountains. It was a great, smooth, ash-colored face that might have represented Charity in marble, set in a frame of long, white, silken hair. I knew from pictures that it was Franz Liszt, and so stopped and gazed.

I never saw so striking a picture of a human being before. His figure in its loose gown nearly filled the window. His great eyes seemed to be shining a “good morning” to the lake and the mountains. It was the face of genius, illuminated and happy by the beauty of the morning and the glory of the scene.

I should like to have heard Franz Liszt sit down and improvise a fantasia at the piano, the moment he left that window. I am sure there would have been tones born of the morning, for his whole face reflected the powerful emotion within him. I wondered to myself that evening, when he was holding the vast audience in the charm of his music, if he were not thinking of that fair scene from his window in the morning.

When the concert was over the other night, a few friends gathered with Franz Liszt in a little back room of the “Tonhalle.” There was a little dinner and much champagne. And there was much bowing and kissing and getting down before this king of the piano. Men and women absolutely got down on their knees and kissed his hand, as if he were an object of adoration.

It was not exactly getting down before a “totem pole,” though almost as extravagant, for there were nobler ways of worshiping the genius of music than by being ridiculous. The great master, though, was used to that sort of thing-in fact, rather liked it-and so went on with his wine and his kisses till midnight, adding to the delight of his worshipers by at last seating himself at the piano and playing one of his own compositions.[5 - It was almost his last public performance.]

Another artist with world-wide reputation, who summers about Lake Zurich even now, is Madame Lucca, the prima donna. She owns beautiful Villa Goldenberg at the upper end of the lake. I often see her about town, on foot, shopping.

One day as I was passing “Goldenberg” on the steamer, I pointed to it, remarking to a fine-looking German with whom I was conversing, that it was “one of the prettiest spots of all.” “Yes,” he answered, “I have never regretted owning it.” “Owning it,” I exclaimed; “why Madame Lucca lives there, and I supposed she owned it.” “So she does,” he answered smilingly, as he gave me a little nudge; “so she does, but I own her. I am her husband.”

I meet many well-known characters in my frequent trips up and down the lake.

One evening lately, as I sat on the steamer deck, nearing my home at Küssnacht, a rather prepossessing young lady inquired of me in English if that were the home of William Tell. After a little conversation she walked to the bow of the boat, and the middle-aged lady who seemed to be her companion, said to me: “Do you know who that is you were talking with? That is the daughter of Jefferson Davis.”

Pretty soon the girl came back, and I had the pleasure of communicating a bit of news to her that must have been of interest. I had read in the telegrams, that very day, of some famous admirer in America presenting to her father the magnificent estate of Bellevoir, on the Mississippi.

Amusing incidents occur, too, almost daily, from American travelers, going up and down the lake, supposing me to be a native, not acquainted with the American tongue. They are sometimes very free in their remarks about people they see on the boat.