and, though they cost a fabulous price, the theater was
crammed to suffocation.

Madame Ristori's acting was, of course, perfect, her voice musical, her
Italian delicious, and her gestures were faultless. If one might dare
criticize such an artist, one could say that her movements might have
been a little more queenly, but a queen's grace and dignity must be
very difficult to acquire from sheer imagination. Also her dress was
far from what it ought to have been. I am sure no French dressmaker had
the making of _that_ gown. In the first act Marie Antoinette, in the
_apotheose_ of her glory, wore voluminous skirts and crinoline,
according to the famous picture. Madame Ristori wore a crinoline, to be
sure; but her dress was too short in front and showed her low-heeled
shoes of white satin, and when she moved about her gown of heavy
brocade swayed from side to side like a pendulum.

One recognized the great artist in the scene in the prison, where she
bade the king and her children adieu. This was very touching, and there
was not a dry eye in the audience. I know that _I_ sniffed and wept and
blew my nose, and was quite ashamed of showing my feelings so
explosively.

I went to see her on her reception-day (the next Friday) and found her
in her every-day surroundings, her pretty daughter hovering about with
teacups and cakes, everything looking very home-like and prosaic, and
Marie Antoinette eating sandwiches with a healthy appetite and talking
of the latest gossip. I could hardly believe that I had shed so many
tears over her sad fate a few nights ago.

* * * * *

The sad news of the death of Emperor Frederick came day before
yesterday from San Remo. Every one had been expecting his death for
months. The Italians loved him, and mourn him as if he had been their
own. There is court mourning for three weeks.

MONZA, _October 1, 1888_.

My dear Aunt,--You ought to have a map of Europe continually under your
eyes, and little pins to stick in the places where we last were. Space
and distance are nothing to your "wandering jew(el)s." Going from Italy
to Denmark and back again twice a year, we are obliged to traverse the
whole of Europe, and, as "all roads lead to Rome," we can choose the
one we like best.

Wherever we go we are enigmas to our fellow-travelers, who can never
decide what nation we belong to. Johan talks Danish to me; we talk
French to the governess, German to the valet, I