Chapter 5

"I will, with pleasure," I said. "I only wish that I knew what to sing, I know that you do not like people to sing your music when they come to your house."

"Not every one," he said, beaming with a broad smile; "but I have heard that you have an unusually beautiful voice, and I am curious to hear you."

"But," I mischievously answered, "I do not know 'Au clair de la lune,' even with variations."

"Oh! the naughty Prince," said he, shaking his finger across to where Prince Metternich was standing. "He told you that. But tell me, what do you sing of mine?"

Auber had told me to take "Sombre Forêt," of "William Tell," in case I should be asked. Therefore I said that I had brought "Sombre Forêt," and if he liked I would sing that.

"Bene! bene!" he replied. "I will accompany you."

I was dreadfully nervous to sing before him, but when I had finished he stretched out both hands to me and said:

"Merci! C'est comme cela que ça doit être chanté. Votre voix est délicieuse, le timbre que j'aime--mezzo-soprano, avec ces notes hautes et claires."

Auber came up flushed with delight at my success, and said to Rossini, "Did I say too much about Madame Moulton's voice?"

"Not enough," replied Rossini. "She has more than voice; she has intelligence and _le feu sacré--un rossignol doublé de velours_; and more than all, she sings my music as I have written it. Every one likes to add a little of their own. I said to Patti the other day: 'a chère_ Adelina, when you sing the "Barbiere" do not make it too '_strakoschonée_' [Strakosch is Patti's brother-in-law, and makes all her cadenzas for her]. If I had wanted to make all those little things, don't you think that I could have made them myself?'"

Auber asked me, "Do you know what Rossini said about me?"

"No," I answered, "I know what he ought to have said. What did he say?"

"He said," Auber replied, with a merry twinkle in his eye, 'Auber est un grand musicien qui fait de la petite musique.'"

"That was pure envy," I said. "I should like to know what you said about Rossini."

"Well, I said," and he hesitated before continuing, "I said that Rossini _est un très grand musicien et fait de la belle musique, mais une exécrable cuisine_."

Rossini adores Alboni, but deplores her want of confidence in herself. She has such stage frights that she swears that she will have to leave the stage. He has written "La Messe solennelle" for her voice. The "Agnus Dei" is perfectly wonderful. She sang it after I had sung. If she had been first, I never should have had the courage to open my mouth.

Auber asked him how he had liked the representation of "Tannhäuser"? Rossini answered, with a satirical smile, "It is a music one must hear several times. I am not going again."

Rossini said that neither Weber nor Wagner understood the voice. Wagner's interminable dissonances were insupportable. That these two composers imagine that to sing is simply to _dégoiser_ the note; but the art of singing, or technic was considered by them to be secondary and insignificant Phrasing or any sort of _finesse_ was superfluous. The orchestra must be all powerful. "If Wagner gets the upper hand," Rossini continued, "as he is sure to do, for people will run after the New, then what will become of the art of singing? No more _bel canto_, no more phrasing, no more enunciation! What is the use, when all that is required of you is to _beugler_ (bellow)? Any _cornet à piston_ is just as good as the best tenor, and better, for it can be heard over the orchestra. But the instrumentation is magnificent. There Wagner excels. The overture of Tannhäuser is a _chef-d'oeuvre;_ there is a swing, a sway, and a shush that carries you off your feet.... I wish I had composed it myself."

Auber is a true Parisian, adores his Paris, and never leaves it even during the summer, when Paris is insufferable. He comes very often to see me, and we play duets. He loves Bach, and we play Mendelssohn overtures and Haydn symphonies when we are through with Bach. Auber always takes the second piano, or, if a four-handed piece, he takes the base. Sometimes he says, "Je vous donne rendez-vous en bas de la page. Si vous y arrivez la première, attendez-moi, et je ferai de même." He is so clever and full of repartees.

I do not think I ever talked with a wittier person than he is. I always wish I could remember what he says; but, alas! when he goes my memory goes with him.

Though so old (he must be over eighty) he is always beautifully dressed in the latest fashion, trim and neat. He says that he has never heard his operas seated in the audience; it makes him too nervous. He has his seat every night in the parquet of all the theaters in Paris. He only has to choose where to go. He once said: "Je suis trop vieux; on ne devrait pas vieillir, mais que faire? c'est le seul moyen de devenir vieux. Un vieillard m'a toujours paru un personnage terrible et inutile, mais me voici un vieillard sans le savoir et je n'en suis pas triste." He is not deaf, nor does he wear glasses except to "déchiffrer ma propre musique"-- as he says. Another time he said: "I am glad that I never was married. My wife would now have been an old, wrinkled woman. I never would have had the courage to come home of an evening. Aussi j'aurais voulu avoir une fille (une fille comme vous), et elle m'aurait certainement donné un garçon."

I quote the following from a Paris newspaper:

_Parmi les dames qu'on admire le plus, il convient de citer Mme Moulton.-- C'est la première fois que nous revoyons Mme Moulton au théâtre depuis son retour d'Amérique.--Serait-elle revenue exprès pour la pièce d'Auber.--On dit, en effet, que dans tous ses opéras, Auber offre le principal rôle à Mme Moulton, qui possède une voix ravissante._

The Emperor once said to Auber: "Dites-moi, quel âge avez-vous? On dit que vous avez quatre-vingt ans." "Sire," answered Auber, "je n'ai pas quatre- vingt ans, mais quatre fois vingt ans." Is he not clever? Some one was talking about the Marquise B---- and her friendship (_sic_) for Monsieur de M----, and said, "On dit que ce n'est que l'amitié." "Oh," said Auber, "je connais ces amitiés-là; on dit que l'amour et l'amitié sont frère et soeur. Cela se peut, mais ils ne sont pas du même lit."

And another time (I am remembering all his witty sayings while I can), Prince Metternich, who smokes one cigarette after the other, said to Auber, "Vous me permettez?" wanting to put his ashes in Auber's tea- saucer. Auber said, "Certainement, mais j'aime mieux monter que descendre." In other words, _J'aime mieux mon thé que des cendres_. How can people be so quick-witted?

Auber has given me all his operas, and I have gone through them all with him for his music. I sing the laughing song in "Manon Lescaut" and the bolero in "Diamants de la Couronne." These two are my favorite songs and are very difficult. In the laughing song I either laugh too much or too little. To start laughing in cold blood is as difficult as to stop laughing when once started. The bolero is only a continuous display of musical fireworks.

NEW YORK, _May, 1864._

When we arrived in New York (we went to visit my sister and my mother) we were overwhelmed with invitations of all kinds.

I made a most (to me) interesting acquaintance at this _soirée_, a Mrs. Henry Fields, who I found out was the famous and much-talked-about "Lucie," the governess in the trial of the Duc de Praslin. Every one was convinced of her innocence (she pleaded her own case, refusing the aid of a lawyer). Nevertheless, she was the cause of the death of the Duchess, as the Duke killed his wife because she refused to give "Lucie" a letter of recommendation, and he became so enraged at her refusal that he first tried to strangle her, and then shot her. I had heard so much about this murder (it was along ago), and knew all the details, and, what was more, I knew all the children of the unhappy woman whose only crime was to love her husband too much, and to resent "Lucie's" taking away the love of her children from her! Warning to young women: Don't love your husbands too much, or don't engage a too attractive governess.

PHILADELPHIA, _July, 1864._

DEAR AUNTY,--We came from New York a few days ago, and are staying with mama's friend, Mrs. M----, who is a very (what shall I say?) fascinating but a very peculiar person. She is a curious mixture of a poetess and a society woman, very susceptible, and of such a sensitive nature that she seems always to be in the hottest of hot water, and at war with all her neighbors; but she routs all her enemies and manages everything with a high hand.

Her daughter is just engaged to a Swedish naval officer. To celebrate the engagement they gave a big dinner, and, as the Sanitary Fair is going on just now, President Lincoln is here, and Mrs. M---- had the courage to invite him, and he had the courage to accept. It is the first time that I have ever seen an American President, and I was most anxious to see him, particularly as he has, for the last years, been such a hero in my eyes. He might take the prize for ugliness anywhere; his face looked as if it was cut out of wood, and roughly cut at that, with deep furrows in his cheeks and a huge mouth; but he seemed so good and kind, and his eyes sparkled with so much humor and fun, that he became quite fascinating, especially when he smiled. I confess I lost my heart to him.... The dinner, I mean the food part of it, was a failure. It came from Baltimore, and everything was cold; the _pâté de foie gras_ never appeared at all! When Mrs. M---- mentioned the fact to Mr. Lincoln, pointing to the menu, he said "the _pâté_" (he pronounced it _patty_) has probably walked off by itself. Every one laughed, because he said it in such a comical, slow way.

After the gentlemen had smoked (I thought they were a long time at it) we were requested to go into the gallery, where all the gas-lights were turned up to the fullest and chairs placed in rows, and Professor Winter began to read a lecture on the brain--of all subjects! Who but Mrs. M---- would ever have arranged such an entertainment?

Professor Winter told us where our 50,000 ideas were laid up in our brains (I am sure that I have not 50,000 in mine). One might have deducted 49,999, and still, with that little one left, I was not able to understand the half of what he said.

Another wonderful thing he told us was, that there are five thousand million cells in our brain, and that it takes about ten thousand cells to furnish a well-lodged perception. How in the world can he know that? I think he must have examined his own ten thousand cells to have discovered all this exuberance of material. The President looked bored, and I am sure everybody else wished Professor Winter and his theories (because they can't be facts) in the Red Sea.... After this _séance manquée_ I was asked to sing. Poor Mr. Lincoln! who I understood could not endure music. I pitied him.

"None of your foreign fireworks," said Mr. Trott, in his graceful manner, as I passed him on my way to the piano. I answered, "Shall I sing 'Three Little Kittens'? I think that is the least fireworky of my _répertoire_." But I concluded that a simple little rocket like "Robin Adair" would kill nobody; therefor I sang that, and it had a success.

When the gaunt President shook my hand to thank me, he held it in a grip of iron, and when, to accentuate the compliment, meaning to give a little extra pressure, he put his left hand over his right, I felt as if my hand was shut in a waffle-iron and I should never straighten it out again.

"Music is not much in my line," said the President; "but when you sing you warble yourself into a man's heart. I'd like to hear you sing some more."

What other mild cracker could I fire off? Then I thought of that lovely song, "Mary Was a Lassie," which you like so much, so I sang that.

Mr. Lincoln said, "I think I might become a musician if I heard you often; but so far I only know two tunes."

"'Hail, Columbia'?" I asked. "You know that, I am sure!"

"Oh yes, I know that, for I have to stand up and take off my hat."

"And the other one?"

"The other one! Oh, the other one is the other when I don't stand up!" I am sorry not to have seen Mr. Lincoln again. There was something about him that was perfectly fascinating, but I think I have said this before.

NIAGARA, _August, 1864._

DEAR AUNTY,--My last letter, written from Philadelphia, told you of my having made Mr. Lincoln's acquaintance. A few days after we left for Niagara, taking Rochester on our way. I had not seen Rochester since I was eleven years old, and mama and I both wanted to go there again.

We slept in Rochester that night. The next morning a deputation headed by the director of the penitentiary, flanked by a committee of benevolent ladies, called upon us to beg me to sing for the penitents at the penitentiary the next day, it being Sunday. They all said, in chorus, that it would be a great and noble act.

I did not (and I do not now) see why pickpockets and burglars should be entertained, and I could not grasp the greatness of the act, unless it was in the asking. However, mama urged me (she can never bear me to say no), and I accepted.

At the appointed time the director called for us in a landau, and we drove out to the penitentiary. As we entered the double courtyard, and drove through the much belocked gates, I felt very depressed, and not at all like bursting forth in song. Mama and I were led up, like lambs to the slaughter, on to a platform, passing the guilty ones seated in the pews, the men on one side, the women on the other, of the aisles, all dressed in stripes of some sort; they looked sleepy and stupid. They had just sat through the usual Sunday exhortation.

The ladies of the committee ranged themselves so as to make a background of solemn benevolence on the platform, in the middle of which stood a primeval melodion with two octaves and four stops. One stop would have been enough for me, and I needed it later, as you will see.

Here I was! What should I sing? I was utterly at a loss. Why had I not thought this out before coming?

French love-songs; out of the question.

Italian prayers and German lullabies were plentiful in the _répertoire_, but seemed sadly out of place for this occasion.

I thought of Lucrezia Borgia's "Brindisi"; but that instantly went out of my mind. A drinking song urging people to drink seemed absurdly inappropriate, as probably most of my audience had done their misdeeds under the influence of drink.

I knew the words of "Home, Sweet Home," and decided on that. Nothing could have been worse. I attacked the squeaky melodion, pushed down a pedal, pulled out the "vox humana" stop--the most harmless one of the melodion, but which gave out a supernaturally hoarse sound--I struck the chord, and standing up I began. These poor, homeless creatures must have thought my one purpose was to harass them to the last limit, and I only realized what I was singing about when I saw them with bowed heads and faces hidden in their hands; some even sobbing.

The director, perceiving the doleful effect I had produced, suggested, "Perhaps something in a lighter vein." I tried to think of "something in a lighter vein," and inquired, "How would 'Swanee River' be?"

"First-rate," said the kind director; "just the thing--_good_" emphasizing the word _good_ by slapping his hands together. Thus encouraged, I started off again in the melancholy wake of the melodion. Alas! this fared no better than "Home, Sweet Home." When I sang "Oh; darkies! how my heart grows weary!" the word _weary_ had a disastrous effect, and there was a regular breakdown (I don't mean in the darky sense of the word, the penitents did _not_ get up and perform a breakdown--I wish they had!); but there was a regular collapse of penitents. I thought that they would have to be carried out on stretchers.

The poor warden, now at his wits' end, but wishing to finish this lugubrious performance with a flourish, proposed (unhappy thought) that I should address a few words to the now miserable, broken-hearted crowd. I will give you a thousand guesses, dear aunty, and still you will never guess the idiotic words that issued from your niece's lips. I said, looking at them with a triumphant smile (I have no doubt that, at that moment, I thought I was in my own drawing-room, bidding guests good night)--I said (I really hate to write it): "I hope the next time I come to Rochester I shall meet you all here again."

This was the first speech I ever made in public--I confess that it was not a success.

PARIS, _1865._

The Princess Mathilde receives every Sunday evening. Her salons are always crowded, and are what one might call cosmopolitan. In fact, it is the only salon in Paris where one can meet all nationalities. There are diplomats, royalists, imperialists, strangers of importance passing through Paris, and especially all the celebrated artists.

She has great taste, and has arranged her palace most charmingly. She has converted a small portion of the park behind it into a winter garden, which is filled with beautiful palms and flowering plants. In this attractive place she holds her receptions, and I sang there the other evening.

Rossini was, as a great exception, present. I fancy that he and his wife had dined with the Princess; therefore, when the Princess asked him to accompany me, saying that she desired so much to hear me sing, he could not well refuse to be amiable, and sat down to the piano with a good enough grace. I sang "Bel Raggio," from "Semiramide," as I knew it by heart (I had sung it often enough with Garcia). Rossini was kind enough not to condemn the cadenzas with which Garcia had interlarded it. I was afraid he would not like them, remembering what he had said to Patti about hers.

I was amused at his gala dress for royalty: a much-too-big redingote, a white tie tied a good deal to one side, and only one wig.

He says that he is seventy-three years old. I must say that this is difficult to believe, for he does not look it by ten years. He never accepts any invitations. I know I have never seen him anywhere outside his own house, and it was a great surprise to see him now. We once ventured to invite him and his wife to dinner one evening, when the Prince and Princess Metternich were dining with us; and we got this answer: "Merci, de votre invitation pour ma femme et moi. Nous regrettons de ne pouvoir l'accepter. Ma femme ne sort que pour aller à la messe, et moi je ne sors jamais de mes habitudes." We felt snubbed, as no doubt we deserved to be.

Gounod played most enchantingly some selections from "Roméo et Juliette," the opera he has just composed. I hear that he wants Christine Nilsson to sing it. The music seems to me even more beautiful than "Faust." Rossini talked a long time with Gounod, and Auber told me that Rossini said, patting Gounod on the back, "Vous êtes le chevalier Bayard de la musique."

Gounod answered, "Sans peur, non!"

Rossini said, "Dans tous les cas, sans reproche et sans égal."

Gounod is, I think, the gentlest, the most modest, and the kindest-hearted man in the world. His music is like him, gentle and graceful. Princess Mathilde asked me to sing again; but, as I had not brought any music, Auber offered to accompany me in the "Song of the Djins," from his new opera, which I had so often sung with him. It was not the song I should have selected; but, as Auber desired it, I was glad to gratify him, and was delighted when I saw Rossini compliment Auber, who (like the tenor before the drop-curtain, who waves his hand toward the soprano as if all the merit of the performance was due to her) waved his hand toward me, which suggested to Rossini to make me a reflected compliment.

This was a great occasion, seeing and hearing Rossini, Gounod, and Auber at the same time. I shall never forget that evening. I wonder that I had the courage to sing before them. Among the guests was an Indian Nabob dressed in all his orientals, who in himself would have been sufficient attraction for a whole evening, had he not been totally eclipsed by the three great artists. The Nabob probably expected more homage than he received; but people hardly looked at him.

I was presented to him, and he seemed glad to speak English, which was not of the best, but far better than his French. He told me a great deal about his journey, the attractions of Paris, and about his country and family.

I asked him, by way of saying something (I was not particularly interested in him or his family), how many children he had. He answered, "Quite a few, milady."

"What does your Highness call a few?" I asked.

"Well, I think about forty," he replied, nonchalantly.

"That would be considered quite a large family here," I said.

The Nabob, of course, did not appreciate the profundity of this remark.

A few days after, the Princess Mathilde sent me a lovely fan which she had painted herself, and Mr. Moulton is going to have it mounted. I am very happy to have it as a souvenir of a memorable evening, besides being an exquisite specimen of the Princess's talent as an artist. The Princess is what one might call miscellaneous. She has a Corsican father, a German mother, and a Russian husband, and as "cavaliere servente" (as they say in Italy), a Dutchman. She was born in Austria, brought up in Italy, and lives in France. She said once to Baron Haussmann, "If you go on making boulevards like that, you will shut me up like a vestal."

"I will never make another, your Highness," he answered.

Every one is very much excited about a young Swedish girl called Christine Nilsson, who has walked right into the star-light, for she really is a star of the first magnitude. She has studied with Wachtel only one year, and behold her now singing at the Théâtre Lyrique to crowded audiences in the "Flûte Enchantée." Her voice has a wonderful charm; she sings without the slightest effort, and naturally as a bird. She has some phenomenal high notes, which are clear as bells. She makes that usually tedious _grand aria_, which every singer makes a mess of, quite lovely and musical, hovering as she does in the regions above the upper line like a butterfly and trilling like a canary-bird. A Chinese juggler does not play with his glass balls more dexterously than she plays with all the effects and tricks of the voice. What luck for her to have blossomed like that into a full-fledged prima-donna with so little effort. I have got to know her quite well, as Miss Haggerty, who was at some school with her in Paris, invites her often to lunch and asks me to meet her.

Nilsson is tall, graceful, slight, and very attractive, without being actually handsome. She acts well and naturally, and with intelligence, without exerting herself; she has the happy faculty of understanding and seizing things _au vol_, instead of studying them. She has a regal future before her. A second Jenny Lind! Their careers are rather similar. Jenny Lind was a singer in cafés, and Nilsson played the violin in cafés in Stockholm. She is clever, too! She has surrounded herself by a wall of propriety, in the shape of an English _dame de compagnie_, and never moves unless followed by her. This lady (Miss Richardson) is correctness and primness personified, and so _comme il faut_ that it is actually oppressive to be in the same room with her. Nilsson herself is full of fun and jokes, but at the same time dignified and serious.

Christine Nilsson gave Mrs. Haggerty a box at the Théâtre Lyrique, where she is now playing "Traviata" (I think it was the director's box), and I was invited to go with her and Clem. The box was behind the curtain and very small and very dark. But it was intensely amusing to see how things were done, and how prosaic and matter-of-fact everything was. If ever I thanked my stars that I was not a star myself it was then.