Part 13

In London it is the pleasant custom for the actor-manager to send up refreshments, ices, etc., between the acts, and invite his guests down into his dressing-room. Eccentric Mrs. Stevens hesitated when asked to join us all in going down-stairs to visit Mr. Barrett between the acts. It may have been that she did not wish to incur a social obligation, but whatever the reason, Mrs. Potter, with infinite tact, assumed the rôle of charmed and charming guest, allowing Mrs. Stevens to remain quietly unobserved and free from any future embarrassment.

Mme. Nordica displayed her charming tactfulness one Sunday at a musicale given by Mrs. Ronalds in London. It was when peace was declared between England and the Boers. The news arrived about 4 P. M. Instantly Mme. Nordica sprang to her feet, and sang “God Save the King.” It was most inspiring, coming just as it did, and those who were present will never forget how the people stood about clapping their hands and rejoicing over this great event, which was announced by an American.

XX

ADELINA PATTI

Her home in Wales.—Some of Her Pets.—An Ocean Voyage With Her.—The Local Reception at Her Home-Coming.—Mistress of an Enormous Castle and a Great Retinue of Servants.—Her Winter Garden and Private Theatre.—A Most Hospitable and Charming Hostess.—Her Local Charities Are Continuous and Many.

Craig-y-Nos (Craig-of-the-Night) in the Swansea Valley, Ystradgnlais, South Wales, by river and meadow and mountain, is the home of Madame Patti.

Among madame’s pets at her castle is one Jumbo, an American parrot, who carried with him to Wales his country’s admiration for his mistress. For when she goes forth into the great world, he puts on a dejected bearing, and in a voice touched with tears keeps calling, “Where is Patti? Where is Patti?” But the parrot only gives word to what is felt by all the good folks of Swansea Valley; for the pets and the people, of high and low degree, miss this wonderful little woman when she is away, and she in turn longs for her pets and her peasants, her country roads and princely retreat, with that whole-hearted longing which doubtless gives much to the depth of feeling the world knows in her rendition of “Home, Sweet Home.” This little song, that makes the whole world kin, bears to the difficult song work of Patti some such relation as does her life of artlessness to her life of art. Her nature undisguised is childlike and spontaneous.

When I took ship on the _City of New York_ in May, 1892, in the same party with Madame Patti, and her husband, Signor Nicolini, she was full of greetings, and words of parting to those coming and going just before we sailed.

Nicolini’s devotion to his wife was the remark of the ship. He was ever thoughtful of her, and his services were continual, from his first one in the morning, that of delivering her mail to her.

Previous to sailing, a Boston lady friend had sent aboard seven or eight letters, with the direction that one should each morning be delivered to Madame Patti. What a merrymaking there was when the usual, or rather, unusual letter bobbed up every morning! A fresh-cheeked young country girl could not have been more demonstrative. But such is her single-mindedness: her heart is young, and that is no doubt one of the great causes of the depth of her beauty. An ocean voyage generally washes out the skin-deep variety, but when I saw Patti every day, rich Spanish beauty turned up with her every time. She was the pet of the people without seeming to be conscious of it, and went along through the days like other folks, speaking to friend after friend in the language of their preference, for it makes no difference to her—German, French, Spanish, Italian or English; and with all her naïvete, she is an adroit and charming diplomat.

“You must visit me,” she said one day on the steamer to me. “I will not take no for an answer. I will follow you all over England with telegrams, if you do not.”

I went.

At Paddington station I found that my hostess was truly a royal one, for there was the private car of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, awaiting her. The interior was banked with flowers, from end to end, and snatching up bunches here and there, Patti would be all in a glee over them. As the train moved, three beautiful young girls ran down the length of the station to get a last glimpse of Patti. Two of them threw up their hands, their faces flushed with the race; but the third sped to the end of the platform. It was a pretty picture.

In our party were Madame and Monsieur Nicolini, madame’s companion and two maids, Nicolini’s attendant and valet. I completed the group, and with reason was congratulating myself, knowing the scarcity and luxury of the private car in England. As we swept by Neath, the former home of my hostess, then the seat of Henry M. Stanley, her eyes sparkled, for home meant so much to her, and she was almost there. What a lark there was too on our short run, with Patti singing “On the Bowery,” and snatches from other “fad” airs, Nicolini joining in, and now breaking away on his own account into “Annie Rooney” with the refrain, “Adelina Patti is my sweetheart.”

We were met at the station by a corps of servants, a big drag, and equipages for guests, and were driven in handsome style around the frowning brow of the great craig, into full view of the castle, spreading out its arms as if in gladness at the happy home-coming of its queen.

As we neared the great gate all the household gathered to meet us, from the head man Heck, to the stable boys. It seemed to me that I had been assigned to the choice of the eighty rooms of the castle, so luxurious were all the appointments about me.

I spoke of the pets. There were twenty-five or thirty varieties of birds, besides donkeys, ponies and rare dogs, of which Patti is very fond, always having numbers of them accompany her in her walks. Ten of these birds were parrots. Each one of these birds had acquired that peculiar style of eloquence best suited to his disposition and temperament. For example, one day when Patti got a trifling hurt, the clever bird surprised me by ejaculating, “Pity Patti!” This gushing bird has ever since maintained a steady sympathy, spending most of his verbally unhappy life saying “Pity Patti! Pity Patti!” As you go up to each parrot, he thus, with some different speech unburdens his mind to you. They are sociable birds, spending most of their time together, and when, new and then, a sewing-society notion strikes them all at once, it might be called a unanimous change of subject.

From the moment of arrival, a valet is put at the service of the guest, and orders are taken by him at night, for the following morning’s breakfast. There is no rising time. While Patti is an early riser, she makes no such demands upon her guests. The valet appears at the hour ordered, prepares the bath, and serves breakfast at any time desired. Patti after her regular morning bath, takes her breakfast, and reads her daily mail before going out for the day. The guest is absolutely free to do as he wishes until half-past twelve. During my morning strolls I often met Patti sauntering through the grounds with her well-beloved dogs.

At half-past twelve all meet at luncheon, and all must be prompt. At this little _déjeuner_, which is by no means a light meal, Patti is a gale of joyous chat and greeting. The trivial incident is touched into color by her vitality.

Then comes the famous afternoon drive. As a rule the homes of the neighborhood are connected by telephone with the castle, and invitations come and go. One afternoon we drove to a farmhouse of a neighbor, where we saw a contest between three sheep dogs. There were three sheep to each dog, and that one was proclaimed winner who most quickly drove his three sheep through one opening into a corral. It was an intensely interesting illustration of the instinctive sheep-driving skill of the dogs. Then again we would go for a long spin over the hills through the keen mountain air.

A light English tea at five, after which we had until half-past seven to rest and dress before appearing at dinner, the great event of the day. All, of course, wear full dress, gathering in the boudoir where one sees pictures and autographs of famous people the world over. Among the photographs I noticed those of Mrs. Cleveland, Christine Nilsson, Nieman, Albani, Scalchi, Hans Richter, Verdi, and the King and Queen of Italy. A full length portrait of Mrs. Cleveland appears beside that of the Princess of Wales. The coloring, hangings, and wall coverings are all suggestive of restfulness in their richness.

The first announcement one has of dinner is a melody of silver bells. The notes seem to cling to the bells until they are fairly shaken off like bubbles into the air; then there seem to be two melodies, one the tender musical shadow of the other.

Nicolini would go in front of madame, who quickly took his arm and they would lead the way into the great conservatory or winter garden, where flowers are rushing into bloom the year round. The fragrant air is musical with singing birds, and the effect is magical under the effulgence of the electroliers. The windows command a magnificent view of the country around, mountain and valley and winding river, spread just at the feet of the castle; salmon brooks, stretches of thousands of acres, and hunting grounds covering nearly ten miles of fine shooting. With her own fingers Patti puts a boutonnière on guests here and there, and then we intrust ourselves to the mercy of one of Britain’s greatest chefs.

Just here I am reminded of Norris, the Irish butler, whose sense of humor almost broke up his self-possession. At the table while I was telling stories he would hold down his upper lip with his teeth, like the side of a tent, afraid to let it go, lest it might be blown away by a breeze of laughter. As it was, the lip kept wrinkling. Both Madame Patti and I saw it, but concealed our knowledge from Norris, for the poor conventional soul’s heart would have been broken, had he suspected that we knew of his having lost the icy calm of a properly conducted butler. He would “list” his head over to one side, cough, fly around in unnecessary ways, and altogether expend a great deal of energy in keeping down the humorous side of his nature.

The attachment of Patti’s servants to her is as constant as that of her friends and her pets. Norris had been with her thirteen years; one servant had been with her five years; another, her Swedish valet, for nine years; then there were the driver, Joe; George, her courier; and the general manager, a man of varied accomplishments and great executive ability, Guillaume Heck.

Among all those about her, none is so close as is Caroline Baumeister, an Austrian woman, her companion, who has been with her nearly forty years. Constantly at her side with her council and care, Caroline is Patti’s friend in every sense of the word. Of excellent family, robust in mind and body, of that well-balanced, soothing and serene temperament which has finally made Patti a child in her dependence upon it. Caroline has a Mexican girl, Padro, as her assistant.

After dinner we pass into the billiard rooms, of which there are two, with French and English and American tables. At the end of one of these rooms is a monster orchestrion, which cost thirty thousand dollars, and which furnishes music during the games. Anything may be played on it, from Wagner to the latest popular air, by simply inserting a roll. These rolls, by the way, cost one hundred dollars each; in truth golden music.

During these little after-dinner billiard games the sincerity and simplicity of Patti is seen to great advantage. For instance, imagine the picture of the great diva catching up a billiard cue, and marching around the room, followed by all the guests, to the tune of the Turkish March played on the orchestrion. Often during the course of the evening, when she could stand the buoyant effect of the music no longer, she would break into song, trilling as naturally as a bird, and as spontaneously.

After a certain time spent in the billiard rooms, we would wander through a continuation of the winter garden, into one of the most cherished possessions of Patti, her private theatre. This theatre was erected at a great cost, and with a care for detail which may be imagined, when it is known that Mr. Irving sent down his head carpenter from London, to see that perfection was reached at every point. Mr. Irving has said several times that it was the most perfect thing of its kind he had ever seen. Every property is complete; there are the traps, the thunder and lightning, everything metropolitan, even the floor, which is adjustable either for inclined auditorium purposes or for the level of a ball-room floor. There are six dressing-rooms, and the stage, built for sixty people, has a “run” of eighty feet, while the auditorium will accommodate three hundred and fifty and the gallery eighty people. During the little evenings, the gallery is generally filled by domestics and peasants. Programmes are prepared with elegance for each entertainment. I have one now—the operatic matinée in honor of His Royal Highness, Prince Henry of Battenberg, and party:

Overture “Martha,” orchestra. Vocal concert (artists, Madame Adelina Patti-Nicolini, Madame Giulia Valda, Signor Vovara), “Faust” Act III, Garden Scene, in which Signor Nicolini, as Faust, took part. The conductor was Signor Arditi. The programme is richly embellished in purple and scarlet and gold.

One of the ornaments on the walls of this beautiful little theatre is the armor worn by Patti in her creation, at the age of nineteen, of the character of Joan of Arc. She also appears in a splendid painting on the curtain, as “Semiramis” in her triumphal car.

During my stay the idea struck Patti of having a little entertainment in my honor. So George, the courier, was posted off to Swansea to get an orchestra, and other parts of the equipment needed for this hasty-pudding matinée, for there was only one day in which to get ready.

It took place June 15th, 1892. The programme was filled by Patti and four or five friends, including myself in the humorous number. Patti’s voice can never be heard to such advantage as under the shadow of her mountains in this peaceful valley; here she sings from very gladness because she is free. She is out of the cage (for Patti is never so caged as when before the public) in her own home where song is not an article of merchandise, but the gratuitous offering of nature. So it is that her trills are more brilliant and spontaneous than the same flights for which she receives five thousand dollars a night.

Every Christmas a thousand children are entertained, and a charity concert is given, when presents are distributed by her to the poor of Swansea and Neath districts, being handed out by her personally.

Her good offices to the poor are done in numberless ways, the greater part unknown. I heard during my visit this story: there was a poor child born just inside the big gate one evening. The quivering peasant mother, homeless and alone, turned instinctively in her agony to the good mistress of the valley, and had crawled within the friendly shelter of the lady’s wall. Patti, returning from a drive found them and took them to her home and had them cared for. She named the little tot Craig-y-Nos. When all was well, the woman offered to work out the debt, but “No,” said her hostess, “you are my guests.”

There is a standing rule that no poor shall be turned away from the castle. Each one, no matter how deserving, is given bread and beer, and they come in continually from miles around.

“Lady of the Castle,” she is affectionately called by the plain folk of that country. Can one wonder then that when she drives out all greet her with grateful deference, and the little children curtsey as if to a queen. Whenever I drove out with her I saw the same demonstration.

Patti has a retinue of sixty domestics while she is at home, and leaves twenty-five to look after things when she is away. There is a complete electric plant with a power-house so far away as to avoid the noise of the machinery; also a gas plant, if this light is preferred; a telephone and telegraph service connect the castle with the outside world. Let me not forget the dairy, the steam laundry, and the refrigerating facilities for the meats. The stables are elegantly constructed and equipped, there being seven pairs of carriage horses beside the riding horses, ponies and donkeys.

One of the ponies had been pensioned after long and faithful service, and spent most of his time browsing in the paddock with Jenny, the little pet donkey of the place. The two were uncommonly knowing and the fastest of friends, one running in front of a person trying to catch the other. This manœuvre they could successfully carry out, until the one trying to catch either of them would retire in disgust, to the great satisfaction of Tom and Jenny, who would peacefully resume their tête-à-tête meal.

With all the paraphernalia of comfort and convenience, it remains only for the personality of Patti to convert the castle into home. What a hostess! During my stay everything seemed to be done with special reference to me. Even the American flag was hoisted on the castle in honor of my nationality. Thus special guests are always flatteringly recognized by the sight of their own country’s flag. The individual tastes of the guests are studied to the minutest degree by all. For instance, I have always been very fond of ice. Imagine this trifling taste of mine being detected without my knowledge. I found out that it had been in this way. When I left I found my lunch providently and daintily put up, and among the delicacies I discovered a piece of ice! It had been frozen into a small block specially for me, and I enjoyed it very much, all the trip.

Then again, I had expressed an interest in her jewels, so during my stay she decked herself every night with different ones, all in my honor, as she assured me.

Do what she will, this woman, worshiped of all nations, is the willing slave of a loving heart. Her old parents, whom she loved and revered when they were living, she loves and honors now that they are dead, and not a day passes, without some fond reference to them.

A friend of Patti’s, a French lady, met with distressing financial losses. In her need Patti said to her, “Come and live with me!” and she did, for many happy years after that.

When Joe was driving me to Penwyllt I thought of it all as the road lengthened between me and my friends. I remembered that Patti had told me that of all American cities, Richmond and Syracuse were her favorites, but I feel sure she is the favorite of all our cities.

The world has been made glad by her song, but not more glad than the mountain district by her presence. There she lives a queen, crowned by the love of all about her.

XXI

SOME NOTABLE PEOPLE

Cornelius Vanderbilt.—Mrs. Mackey.—The Rockefellers.—Jay Gould.—George Gould and Mrs. Edith Kingdom Gould.—Mary Anderson.—Mrs. Minnie Maddern Fiske.—Augustin Daly.—Nicola Tesla.—Cheiro.

The mass of the people envy most the men and women who have most money; my own envy goes out hungrily to those who are happiest, though I have sometimes inclined strongly toward the majority. One day in London, while my mind was full of the good that a great lot of money would do me, I learned that Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt, who was still suffering from the effects of a paralytic stroke, was at a hotel in Piccadilly. Besides being one of the best men in the world, he had been one of my best friends, so I called on him, hoping I might cheer his heart in some way and make him forget his trouble. It was hard to get at him, for his secretary had been ordered by the physician to admit no one, but I got my card to him, and he was kind enough to express a wish to see me and a belief that my visit would do him good.

From Mr. Vanderbilt’s hotel I went to the home of Mrs. John A. Mackey, whose son Willie had recently lost his life by being thrown from his horse. I had no desire to intrude upon grief, but Willie and I had been merry friends together, and I believed remembrance of our acquaintance would make Mrs. Mackey willing to see me. Here again I had great difficulty; the butler had received positive order, and it took me twenty minutes to persuade him that Mrs. Mackey would not refuse to receive my card. I was right, for she was very glad to see me. Her house was a veritable palace, containing everything valuable and artistic that money would buy, yet amid all these evidences of wealth the bereaved mother sat in deep black, mourning the loss of her beloved son and, like Rachel, “would not be comforted.” So my visits to these two good friends convinced me that money could not do everything.

Probably the most envied man in America is John D. Rockefeller, for his income alone is believed to exceed half a million dollars a day. There are many men and women near Owego, N. Y., who attended school with John Rockefeller, in the little schoolhouse on the old river road. They did not regard him as a prospective millionaire: he was merely “one of the Rockefeller boys,” yet they knew him from the first as the leader of boys of his age. He was the first to suggest a game of sport, and those who remember him best assert that unless John had his own way he would not play. He did not fly into a rage when opposed and overruled, but he would watch the play without taking part in it. And such has been his business policy; it is a matter of record that he has embarked in no business ventures not of his own suggestion, nor in any of which he had not full control.

Like another great financier, Jay Gould, his personality dominated every undertaking in which he was interested; neither he nor Gould allowed any one to think for them. Both men were alike in another respect; they brought up their sons in the same self-reliant manner, instead of allowing them to drop into luxury and self-indulgence, after the manner of most millionaires’ sons.

Young Mr. Rockefeller is a man of simple and regular habits, but not at all afraid to enter the field of labor in competition with great brain-workers. He is a creditable exponent of his father’s business creed.

Jay Gould once wrote as follows, in a letter to a personal friend:

“Man seems to be so constituted that he cannot comprehend his own situation. To-day he lends his ear to the charming words of the deceiver and is led to believe himself a god; to-morrow he is hissed and laughed at for some fancied fault, and, rejected and broken-hearted, he retires to his chamber to spend a night in tears. These are certainly unwarranted positions: the first to ingratiate himself or obtain your notice, and therefore his delusion of greatness is unwarranted, while the latter is the voice of the envious—those who look with a war-like spirit upon the tide of your prosperity, since they deem themselves equally meritorious. And this last assumption, over which you have shed your tears, is the true voice of your praise!”