The tableaux were the important social event of that season, and I was pleased enough when asked to take part. A prize was offered by the German Ambassador for the best tableau, and the competition among the artists was intense. Each painter made a sketch of his subject and then proceeded to find the victims to illustrate it. I have forgotten the name of my artist, an energetic fellow who gave me my first ideas of German efficiency. His picture represented a scene in the studio of Phidias, when the sculptor shows his statue of Minerva to Pericles and Aspasia; from the hour the part of Aspasia was assigned to me, I was pursued by that artist, who insisted upon examining every minutest detail of my costume. A sketch of the dress was given me, and having followed it, as I thought, closely enough, I presented myself at the first rehearsal. My artist was far from satisfied: “It is not enough to indicate the Greek border on the underdress,” he declared; “it must be carefully embroidered in gold. The hair has not been properly studied; the ornaments are three centuries late in style. The mantle is not the right color; it must be blue to harmonize with the slave’s drapery.” The slave, Maud Broadwood, later Mrs. Waldo Story, a handsome dark girl, who was to sit at my feet, seemed discontented with her part. Used to the rough-and-ready American manner of getting up tableaux, I innocently exclaimed: “Let me be the slave and you be Aspasia!” The artist bristled with anger. “The young lady has been chosen because Professor Helbig, the first archeologist in Rome, holds that Aspasia should be represented by one of her type.” I was out of my depth and offered no more suggestions. The artist went on with his lecture: “Signor Tale, the hairdresser of her Majesty the Queen, will make some studies from statues at the Vatican for the coiffure. He will first call upon the young lady, to become familiar with her type.” Signor Tale, looking more like a prince than a hairdresser, called to observe my type; called again with half a dozen careful pencil drawings and measured my head for the golden net he would construct to bind over the blue fillet which must match the mantle. Rehearsals in hairdressing followed until both artists were satisfied. My aunt took me to her friend, Mme. Ristori, to consult about the mantle. “It is important it should be correct!” the great actress agreed. She called her daughter, the lovely Bianca Capranica. “Ask my woman to bring the blue and gold mantle I wear as Phedra. That will satisfy even a German archeologue.”