Chapter 6

Everything looked so tawdry and claptrap: the dirty boards, the grossly painted scenery, the dingy workmen shuffling about grumbling and gruff, ordered and scolded by a vulgar superior. Of course the stars do not see all these things, because they only appear when the heavens are ready for them to shine in.

The overture, so it sounded to us, was a clash of drums, trumpets, and trombones all jumbled together. After the three knocks of the director, which started up the dust of ages into our faces until we were almost suffocated, the curtain rose slowly with great noise and rumbling.

The audience looked formidable as we saw it through the mist of cloudy gas-light, a sea of faces, of color and vagueness. The incongruity of costumes was a thing to weep over. If they had tried they could not have made it worse. The lady guests, walking and chatting, in a _soi-disant_ elegant salon, were dressed, some in Louis XV. splendor, some in dogesses' brocades, some in modern finery, with bows and ribbons and things looped up any way. Nilsson was dressed in quite modern style--flounces, laces, and fringes, and so forth, while Alfredo had donned a black velvet coat _à la_ something, with a huge jabot which fell over a frilled shirt-front. He wore short velvet trousers, and black-silk stockings covered his thin legs without the least attempt at padding.

The "padre" was in a shooting-jacket, evidently just in from a riding- tour. He held a riding-stick, and wore riding-gantlets which he flourished about with such wide gesticulations that I thought he was going to hit Nilsson in the face.

We could not hear the singing so well from where we sat; but the orchestra was overpowering, and the applause deafening, like peals of thunder.

I laughed when the gang of workmen rushed on to the stage as soon as the curtain came down, and began sweeping and taking down one set of furniture and putting on another; especially in the last act, when Violetta's bed came on and the men threw the pillows from one to the other, as if they were playing ball. They hung up a crucifix, which I thought was unnecessary, and brought in a candlestick. I wondered if they were going to put a warming-pan in the bed. A mat was laid down with great precision. Then Nilsson came in, dressed in a flounced petticoat trimmed with lace, a "matinée," and black slippers, and got into the bed.

After the performance was over the curtain was raised and the artists came forward to bow; the stage was covered with flowers and wreaths. And Nilsson, in picking up her floral tributes, was wreathed in smiles; but they faded like mist before the sun the minute the curtain was lowered, and she looked tired and worn out. Her maid was there, waiting with a shawl to wrap around the shoulders of the hot prima-donna, and the prim Miss Richardson ready to escort her to her room, while the army of shirt- sleeved men invaded the stage like bees, with brooms which, though anything but new, I hope swept clean. Then everything was dark and dismal, lit only by one or two candles and a solitary lantern. All that was so brilliant a moment before was now only a confused mass of disillusions.

Nilsson and her duenna drove to Mrs. H----'s and had supper with us. One would never have dreamt that she had been dying of consumption an hour before, to see her stow away ham, salad, and pudding in great quantities. Then she embraced us all and drove off in her coupé. The star was going to set. I went home, glad that my life lay in other paths.

PARIS, _March, 1865._

DEAR M.,--Do not be anxious about me. When Mrs. M---- wrote, I was really in danger of a _fluxion de poitrine_. I am sorry she worried you unnecessarily. I am much better; in fact, I am far on the road to recovery. If every one had such a nice time when they are ill as I had they would not be in a hurry to get well. When I was convalescent enough to come down-stairs, and the doctor had said his last word (the traditional "you must be careful"), I had my _chaise-longue_ moved down into Henry's studio, and Monsieur Gudin, who is the kindest man in the world, offered to come there and paint a picture in order to amuse and divert me.

Bierstadt, the American painter, who is in Paris, also proposed to come. Then those two artists ordered canvases of the same size, and Beaumont, not to be outdone, ordered a larger canvas, and Henry announced his intention of finishing an already commenced landscape.

Behold, then, your invalid, surrounded by these celebrated artists, reclining on a _chaise-longue_, a table with _tisanes_ and remedies near by, and the four painters painting. Gudin is painting a seascape; Bierstadt, a picture of California; Beaumont, of course, his graceful ladies and cherubs. It amused me to see how differently they painted. Gudin spread his paints on a very large table covered with glass, and used a great many brushes; Bierstadt used a huge palette, and painted rather finically, whereas Beaumont had quite a small palette and used few brushes. I was very sorry when my convalescence came to an end and the pictures were finished; but I had the delight of receiving the four pictures, which the four artists begged me to accept as a souvenir of the "pleasant days in the studio."

Another pleasant thing happened during "the pleasant days in the studio," which was the gift of a beautiful gold medal which the Emperor sent me as a souvenir of the day I sang the _Benedictus_ in the chapel of the Tuileries. It is a little larger than a five-franc piece, and has on one side the head of the Emperor encircled by "Chapelle des Tuileries," and on the other side "Madame Moulton" and the date.

We are all dreadfully sad about the Duke de Morny's death. He was very much appreciated, and a favorite with every one. They say that the Duchess cut off all her hair and put it into his coffin. I never heard before that she was such a loving wife. I only hope that she will not need her braids to keep on her next wedding-wreath.

We have just heard of the assassination of that good, kind President Lincoln. How dreadful!

I have a new teacher called Delsarte, the most unique specimen I have ever met. My first impression was that I was in the presence of a _concierge_ in a second-class establishment; but I soon saw that he was the great master I had heard described so often. He is not a real singing teacher, for he does not think the voice worth speaking of; he has a theory that one can express more by the features and all the tricks he teaches, and especially by the manner of enunciation, than by the voice. We were (Aunty and I) first led into the salon, and then into the music- room, so called because the piano is there and the stand for music, but no other incumbrances as furniture.

On the walls were hung some awful diagrams to illustrate the master's method of teaching. These diagrams are crayon-drawings of life-sized faces depicting every emotion that the human face is capable of expressing, such as love, sorrow, murder, terror, joy, surprise, etc.

It is Delsarte's way, when he wants you to express one of these emotions in your voice, to point with a soiled forefinger to the picture in question which he expects you to imitate. The result lends expression to your voice.

The piano is of a pre-Raphaelite construction, and stands in the middle of the room like an island in a lake, with a footstool placed over the pedals (he considers the pedal as useless). The lid of the piano was absent, and, to judge from the inside, I should say that the piano was the receptacle for everything that belonged to the Delsarte homestead. There were inkstands, pens, pencils, knives, wire, matches, toothpicks, half-smoked cigars, even remnants of his luncheon, which seemed to have been black bread and cheese, and dust galore. Delsarte had on a pair of much-worn embroidered slippers, a velvet _calotte_, the tassels of which swayed with each of his emotions, and a dilapidated _robe de chambre_ which opened at every movement, disclosing his soiled plaid foulard doing duty for a collar.

On my telling him that I desired to take some lessons of him, he asked me to sing something for him. Seeing the music of Duprato's "Il était nuit déjà," I proposed singing that, and he sat down at the pedal-less piano to accompany me. When I arrived at the phrase, "Un souffle d'air léger apportait jusqu'à nous l'odeur d'un oranger," he interrupted me. "Repeat that!" he cried. "Il faut qu'on sente le souffle d'air et l'odeur de l'oranger." I said to myself, "... no one could 'sentir un oranger' in this room; one could only smell Delsarte's bad tobacco."

He begged me to sing something else.

"Will you accompany Gounod's 'Medje' for me?" I asked him.

"No," he replied. "I will listen; you must accompany yourself. There are certain songs that cannot be accompanied by any one but the singer. This is one of them! You feel yourself, don't you, that it is absolutely necessary for you to clutch something when singing this? A weak chord or a too powerful one struck in a wrong place would spoil entirely the effect, and even the best accompanist cannot foresee when that effect is going to be produced." I think this is so clever! "'Voi che sapete' can be accompanied by any school girl," he continued. "It is plain sailing; but in 'Medje' the piano must be part of the singer and breathe with him." I sat down at the piano and sang. When I came to "Prends cette lame et plonges la dans mon coeur," he stopped me short, and pointing to a horrible picture on the wall indicating bloody murder and terror (No. 6), he cried, "Voilà l'expression qu'il faut avoir." I sang the phrase over again, trying to imagine what Medje's lover must have felt; but I could not satisfy Delsarte. He said my voice ought to tremble; and, in fact, I ought to sing false when I say, "Ton image encore vivante dans mon coeur qui ne bat plus." "No one," he said, "in such a moment of emotion could keep on the right note." I tried again, in vain! If I had had a dagger in my hand and a brigand before me, I might perhaps have been more successful. However, he let it pass; but to show that it could be done he sang it for me, and actually did sing it false. Curiously enough, it sounded quite right, tremolo and all. There is no doubt that he is a _great artist_. One can see that Faure and Coquelin (the actor) have both profited by his unique teaching. He assured me that there is no art like that of making people believe what you want them to. For instance, he pretends that he can sing "Il pleut, il pleut, bergère," and make you hear the patter of the _bergère's_ heels on the wet sod, or wherever she was trying to _rentrer ses blancs moutons_. He sang it with the fullest conviction, and asked me what I thought of it. I shut my eyes and tried to conjure up the _bergère_ and her heels. My head began to whirl with all this talk, and, on taking leave of my new master, I promised him that I would try to sing false until the next lesson. Another thing he said was: "Never try to accompany yourself when the accompaniment is difficult. There is nothing so painful as to see a singer struggling with tremolos and arpeggios." How right he is!

He has one theory about the trembling of the chin. It certainly is very effective. When in "Medje" I say, "Tu n'as pas vu mes larmes, tout la nuit j'ai pleuré," Delsarte says, "Make your chin tremble; just try it once," pointing to a diagram, "and every one will be overcome." I have tried it and have seen the effect. But I am letting you into all Delsarte's most innermost secrets.

PARIS, _July, 1865._

DEAR M.,--You must forgive me if I have not written lately; but we have been on a visit to the Duke and Duchess de Persigny for the past week. I did not have time to do more than dress for driving and drive, dress for afternoon tea, dress for dinner, and dine.

The estates of Chamarande are beautiful, the château itself is very magnificent and arranged with the Duchess's taste, which is perfect though ultra-English.

The château has a moat around it, over which is a stone bridge which leads to the entrance on the side opposite the broad terraces bordered by cut trees, as in Versailles. The park is very large, filled with beautiful old trees, and most artistically laid out.

The Duke de Persigny is perfectly delightful, genial, kind, and certainly the cleverest man of the day, with a temper which is temper-proof. I never saw him out of it, and, well as I know him, I have never seen him ruffled in any way, and sometimes there were occasions, goodness knows!

The Duchess is still handsome and attractive; her pronounced originality lends her a peculiar charm. She has many admiring friends who are true to her, and I must say that when she is a friend she is a true one, and never fails you. Her originality frequently leads her beyond conventionality; for instance, the other day she took it into her head to dine out of doors. If she wanted to picnic _al fresco_, why did she not choose some pretty place in the park or in the woods? But no, she had the usual elaborate dinner served directly outside the château, and on the gravel walk. The servants, powdered and in short breeches as usual, served us in their customary solemnity; but they must have wondered why we preferred to sit on the gravel, with a draught of cold air on our backs, when we might have been comfortably seated in a big and airy room with a carpet under our feet. However, such was the wish of the châtelaine, and no one dared say a word, not even the Duke, though he protested meekly.

Later on the Duke had his revenge, for in the midst of our breezy repast there came a downpour of rain, accompanied by lightning and peals of thunder, which necessitated a hasty retreat.

The Duchess, who is very timid in thunder-storms, was the first to rush into the house, the guests following pell-mell, and our dinner was finished indoors.

After our return to Petit Val we had the visit of Auber's protégé, a young man called Massenet. One day, in Paris, two months ago, Auber said to me:

"I am very much interested in a former pupil of the Conservatoire who took the Grand-Prix de Rome, and has just come back from his four years' musical studies in Rome. As he is more or less a stranger in Paris, I should be very thankful if you would interest yourself for him. He really is a genius; but, as so often happens, geniuses don't have pocket-money."

I answered: "Please tell him to come and see me. I have some music I wish to have transposed. Do you think that he would be willing to do it?"

"Certainly; he would be glad to do anything," was the answer.

The next day a pale young man presented himself. "You are Monsieur Massenet?" I inquired.

"Yes, Madame," came the gentle answer.

Thereupon I gave him the music, and I showed him to a quiet little room in the upper part of the house, which contained a piano, writing-table, pen and ink, etc., and left him to his fate. He came two or three times before I heard him play, and then it was only by chance that I passed through the corridor, and imagine my astonishment at hearing the most divine music issuing from the room where the young man was working. I rushed in, saying:

"What is that?"

"Nothing," he answered.

"Nothing!" I exclaimed. "I never heard anything so exquisite, Do play it again."

"It was simply something that passed through my head," he answered.

"Then let something else pass through your head. I must hear more." I said. Then he played, and I sat and listened to the most bewildering and beautiful music that I ever heard. From that moment there was no more copying. What a genius he is! I wish you could hear him improvise!

We have invited him frequently, and when we are at Petit Val he comes often out to see us, and luxuriates in the repose and comfort of our life here. He has already written some lovely songs under its influence. He composed one called "l'Esclave," and dedicated it to me for my birthday. He accompanies me as no one has ever done before.

Auber, who drives out occasionally, is delighted to see that "Our Massenet," as he generally calls him, is getting color in his pale cheeks and his bright and eager eyes are brighter than ever, and he is actually getting fat.

PARIS, _January, 1866._

We have just returned from Nice and Cannes, also from a very disappointing yachting cruise in the Mediterranean, which proved to be a complete fiasco. I must tell you about it. Lord Albert Gower had invited us to go to Spezia on his beautiful yacht. From there we were to go to Florence, and later make a little trip in Italy. We had all been asked to a dinner at the Duke de Vallombrosa's villa at Cannes, and some of us to spend the night there.

The evening before we started there was a large dinner at the prefect's given in honor of the Austrian Ambassador, Prince Metternich, who had come on an official visit concerning an archduke, at which Lord Albert proposed that we should take Cannes _en route_, spend the night there, and start the next day for Spezia.

I thought that I was going to have a beautiful time when we left Nice. The sun was shining brightly, and there was every prospect of a good breeze, and I settled down on deck with books and work, thinking how delightful it was all going to be, and how pleasant it was to get away from the fatiguing gaieties of Nice, where there had been a perfect avalanche of dinners, balls, and theater-parties which even surpassed Paris.

Well! A dead calm set in about an hour after we had started, and only a vestige of a breeze wafted us along on our way, and we never arrived at Cannes till seven o'clock, just in time to disembark, jump into a carriage, and reach the Duke de Vallombrosa's villa. I thought that I was very expeditious over my toilette, notwithstanding which I found myself half an hour late for dinner. Fortunately, however, our hosts were lenient and accepted my excuses.

Lord and Lady Brougham, Duke de Croy, and many others were there. And who else do you think? No less a personage than Jenny Lind! You may imagine my delight at seeing her--"the Goddess of Song," the idol of my youth--about whom still hung a halo.

She is neither handsome nor distinguished-looking; in fact, quite the contrary: plain features, a pert nose, sallow skin, and very yellow hair. However, when she smiled, which was not often, her face became almost handsome.

After dinner the Duchess de Vallombrosa begged her to sing; but she flatly refused, and there was no other music, thank heaven! I was presented to her, in spite of her too evident dislike for new acquaintances; but when she heard that I sang she seemed more amiable and interested. She even asked me to come to see her the next day. "That is," she said, "if you can climb my hill." I told her that I was sure I could climb her hill, and would, even if I had to climb on all fours.

After having been on the glaring Mediterranean all day I could hardly keep my eyes open, and retired before the last carriage had driven away. The next morning I looked out of my window and saw our yacht dancing on the sparkling waves. We expected to leave for Spezia that afternoon.

At eleven o'clock, the hour appointed, I commenced my pilgrimage to the hill of the "Swedish nightingale," with what emotion, I can hardly tell you! I left the carriage at the foot of the hill, and climbed and climbed, until I reached the heaven where the angel lived. It was the reverse of Jacob's dream. His angel climbed down to him, whereas I had to climb up to mine. She always used a donkey for her climbings.

She received me very cordially, saying, "I welcome you to my _bicoque_," and led me through a few badly furnished rooms with hay- stuffed sofas and hard, uncompromising chairs and queer-looking tables painted in red and green out on to the veranda, which commanded a magnificent view over the sea and the Esterel Mountains.

I wish you could have seen her! She was dressed in a white brocade trimmed with a piece of red silk around the bottom, a red, blousy waist covered with gold heads sewed fantastically over it, perhaps odds and ends of old finery, and gold shoes!

Just fancy, at eleven o'clock in the morning! We talked music. She hated Verdi and all he had made, she hated Rossini and all he had made; she hated the French; she hated the Americans; she abhorred the very name of Barnum, who, she said, "exhibited me just as he did the big giant or any other of his monstrosities."

"But," said I, "you must not forget how you were idolized and appreciated in America. Even as a child I can remember how they worshiped Jenny Lind."

"Worshiped or not," she answered, sharply, "I was nothing more than a show in a showman's hands; I can never forget that."

We sat on her veranda, and she told me all about her early life and her musical career. She said she was born in 1820, and when only ten years old she used to sing in cafes in Stockholm. At seventeen she sang "Alice" in "Robert-le-Diable"! Then we talked of our mutual teacher, dear Garcia, of whom she took lessons in 1841 and whom, for a wonder, she liked.

At the _Rhein-fest_ given for Queen Victoria in 1844 she said that she had had a great success, and that Queen Victoria had always been a friend to her since that time.

I asked her when she first sang in London.

"I think it was in 1847, or thereabouts," she replied. "Then I went to Paris; but I do not wish to speak of that horrid place."

"Is Paris such a horrid place?" I asked. "I wish you would come while I am there."

"Never, never!" she cried. "They treated me so abominably I vowed that I would never set foot in Paris again, and although they have offered me every possible inducement I have always refused."

"What a pity!" I exclaimed. "Would you not like to see the Exposition in Paris next year? I think it might interest you."

"Yes, that might interest me; but Paris! Paris!"

"Do you know Auber?" I asked.

"Auber. No, I have always wanted to know him, but have never had an opportunity."

"If you will come to Paris, I will arrange that you meet him."

"I will! I will! And then I will sing for him!" she said, with almost girlish glee.

How delighted I was to think that I might be the medium to bring them together.

She asked me a great many questions about my singing. Suddenly she said, "Make a trill for me."

I looked about for a piano to give me a note to start on. But a piano was evidently the thing where the Goldschmidts had drawn the line. I made as good a trill as I could without one.

"Very good!" said she, nodding her head approvingly. "I learned my trill this way." And she made a trill for me, accentuating the upper note.

Pointing her finger at me, she said, "You try it."

I tried it. Unless one has learned to trill so it is very difficult to do; but I managed it somehow.

Then she said, in her abrupt way, "What vocalizes do you sing?"

I replied that I had arranged Chopin's waltz in five flats as a vocalize.

"In the original key?" she asked. "I know it well. It is one of Goldschmidt's favorite concert pieces."

"Not in the original key. I have transposed it two notes lower, and put some sort of words to it. I also sing as a vocalize the first sixteen bars of the overture of Mendelssohn's 'Midsummer Night's Dream.'"

"I don't think that I could do that," she said.

"I am sure you could," I answered, upon which she tried it. She sang it slowly but perfectly, shutting her eyes as if feeling her way cautiously, for the intonations are very difficult.

Twelve o'clock sounded from a cuckoo-clock in the next room, and I felt that my visit, fascinating as my angel was, must come to an end. I left her still standing on the veranda in her white brocade, and as I walked off she made the trill as an adieu.

I reached the villa in time for breakfast, after which our hosts drove us down to the pier, where the little rowboat was waiting to take us out to the yacht.