Too shrewd a phrase, by which the start is checked!
It shuns bold acts and dallies to reflect,
And, coldly calculating, thrusts away
For some To-morrow’s sake the sure To-day;
It brings the chance of happiness to naught
For many, who too much upon the end have thought.
Daring, beginning, lies in each man’s hand;
The end no sage’s eye has ever scanned.
It does not come by such a course at last
As by the purblind reasoner was forecast.
Therefore he sadly errs who on the end has thought,
If to light up the Future’s darksome night he sought.
To grow, to hold our ground, is life’s supreme affair.
No anxious thought of perishing should enter there.
The flower on fading does not think,
The light does not in fear of quenching sink.
God, when he planned the world, upon the end ne’er thought,
For endless did he make the universe he wrought!
He often sent me books from his library, and I wrote down for him my
impressions regarding them; and so back and forth went messages,
flowers, bonbons, and manuscripts,—a real flirtation! But it was wholly
without erotic background; for the gallant diplomat might have been my
grandfather.
X
RESIDENCE IN PARIS
Singing lessons resumed · Maître Duprez · The school in the Rue Laval ·
In the house of the Princess Mingrelia · In the imperial box at the
opera · Summer at Duprez’s place in the country · Return to Paris ·
Princess Salomé’s engagement · Prince Achille Murat · The wedding · With
the young couple · Off to Baden-Baden
At the beginning of the year 1867 we traveled to Paris.
But, I remember, of the powerful impression which it must produce on
every one to come for the first time to the mighty metropolis about
which one has heard and read so much,—of this impression I felt very
little, my mind was so full of the “one important thing.” Even the
prospect of the pleasure of meeting the Dadiani family of Mingrelia
again here did not come so close to me; the only thing that I could
think about, that made me tremble with terror and excitement, was the
question, How will Maître Duprez judge of my voice, what progress shall
I make, and what shape will my artistic career take?
The maestro owned a mansion on the Rue Laval, in which was a hall with a
stage. Adjacent were small study-rooms in which the maestro and his son,
Léon Duprez, gave private instruction. Every Friday the more advanced
students gave arias and scenes from operas on the stage, and the little
theater was filled with an audience of their friends and of strangers
from outside. On the other side of the court was a small _hôtel_ used as
a residence by the Duprez family, which consisted of the father and
mother, the son and daughter-in-law.
At our first visit in the Rue Laval we were conducted into the theater
building. First we went into a small waiting-room, around the walls of
which ran bookcases full of opera scores. Students of both sexes were
sitting and standing about, chatting. In the theater too a few scattered
individuals were sitting and listening to the performance of a quite
young girl who, with the accompanist of the establishment, Monsieur
Maton, was practicing the Rosina aria, _Una voce poco fa_. Monsieur
Maton had written out most artistic colorature for her; it purled and
warbled like anything.
So then this school enables one to reach such a bravura! It inspired me
with courage and the resolution to be very industrious.
Still, what verdict would the maestro pass on me after the test?—surely
not like the severe Viardot. With quaking heart I mounted the steps to
the stage, behind which was the room where M. Duprez was waiting for me.
A benevolent old gentleman, well along toward eighty, but lively and
vigorous, came to meet me. He had white curly hair, ruddy cheeks, and
smiling eyes.
“Well, mademoiselle, so it was you who wrote me that enthusiastic
letter, was it? You want to be something great or else nothing at all,
do you? Well, then, let me hear how your voice sounds, and see if you
can read notes.”
He handed me a book of original solfeggios and sat down at the upright
piano. This time the test resulted favorably.
“Beautiful voice; I shall be able to make something of you—in two years
you shall be _la première force_.”
I was happy, simply happy! Now the hours of instruction were settled; I
was to have lessons twice a week. That was not enough for me.
“I should like to come every day, maestro.”
“You may do that; on the other days my son or M. Maton will practice
with you. But I have only two hours a week, that is to say, half hours,
to spare; that is quite enough.”
We rented and furnished a small flat in the Rue Laval, and forthwith
began for me an active epoch of study, bright with hope. I spent all my
forenoons in the theater building of the Hôtel Duprez, always
accompanied by my mother, a thing which seemed rather tiresome and
superfluous to the others who frequented the school. I put myself wholly
into the _do_, _re_, _mi_, and into a little aria which the maestro had
composed and which he gave me to study for my first piece. But I felt
especial interest in my fellow-pupils, who were on the most various
levels of ability; and the Friday performances, as I did not yet
participate in them, were to me a great enjoyment. When later I myself
had to sing up there it was an agony to me, to be sure; for the old
nervousness came over me again, and I won no applause. But this did not
take place till after the lapse of some time; for the present I was
busied only with learning, and I went at it in joyous mood.
In the public recitals there participated also some of the maestro’s
finished pupils who were already filling engagements at the theaters and
had attained celebrity: the tenor Engel (known as Angèl); Mademoiselle
Marimon, the _chanteuse légère_ of the Opéra Comique in Paris; and
Jeanne Devriès of Brussels,—all three artists of the first rank. A young
sister of the last-named, Fidès Devriès, had begun taking lessons only a
short time before, and was the favorite of the maestro, the admiration
of the whole class. She filled me with green-eyed envy. She was pretty
as a picture—I could have forgiven her that, but she was sixteen years
old, which put my twenty-three to shame, and she was making such rapid
strides that although she had been in the school only a short time she
already sang like a virtuoso and without the slightest nervousness.
Ultimately she was engaged at the Paris Grand Opera, where she made her
début as Ophelia with huge success. When I witnessed with what facility
young Fidès learned the most difficult coloratures, with what
correctness she read at sight, what peculiar magic dwelt in the timbre
of her voice, and with what freedom and assurance of victory she moved
on the little stage, always greeted and rewarded with the applause of
the listeners and teachers, I was compelled to say to myself: “_That_ is
talent, that is the special gift, that is the something that lies beyond
ambition and industry, which one cannot attain but must _have_, and
which I have not....”
I was in and out of the house of the Princess of Mingrelia a great deal.
I did not divulge to her anything of my artistic plans. She supposed the
“Contessina” had come to Paris merely for the sake of being with her and
her daughter, and she invited me to all her dinners and receptions.
Together with her family and a numerous body of servants she occupied a
suite in the Hôtel du Louvre, with private entrance and private
stairway. In the long array of reception rooms, and especially in the
salon filled with flowers and bric-a-brac where she usually kept
herself, there was once more the odor of Russian cigarettes and orange
flowers. I felt myself transported back to the Weckerlin villa at
Homburg, and could not help thinking of my infatuation for the Georgian
prince, the Bagratide Heraclius. I inquired about him.
“What! Is his picture still alive in your heart, little Contessina?
Well, he is soon coming to Paris ... and if you can’t have him, we will
find another husband here for you, for it is high time you were
married—twenty-three already, that is almost being an old maid! I shall
marry off my Salomé before she gets to be twenty; only it is a pity,
dearest, that you have not a good big dot. That is the main question
here in Paris. Grace and beauty do not suffice. Salomé is to get an
income of fifty thousand francs, a present that her brother Niko gives
her; with that it will be an easier matter to find a good _parti_. And I
already have my eye on some one, a member of the imperial family.”
“Of Russia?”
“No, of France.”
The princess and her daughter never missed any of the Empress Eugénie’s
_petits lundis_, and the Empress herself had proposed the marriage plan
to which the Dedopali referred. She would not say anything more definite
about it just then, and even Salomé, whom I questioned, professed to
know nothing at all of the matter.
The imperial box at the opera was frequently put at the disposal of the
two ladies, and they often invited me to accompany them. One morning,
when I came to my lesson at the music school, young Madame Duprez called
to me:
“Were you at the opera yesterday evening?”
“Yes; Madame Sass was a splendid Valentine.”
“So that was you, was it? In the Emperor’s box?”
“Yes,” I replied, inwardly amused, in a tone as if it were my usual
habit to occupy such places and no others at the theater. I felt that
the incident made an impression on the whole school; evidently they were
not in the habit of seeing the pupils in the monarch’s box. In the
Mingrelian salon, on the other hand, my musical performances made a
great impression again; there they were evidently not in the habit of
seeing dilettantes sit down to the piano and treat the company to
concert waltzes and colorature arias. Little—say, petty—gratifications
of vanity.
The expected Prince Heraclius of Georgia did not come to Paris. Probably
if he had come the flame in my heart would have flared up again, and the
ambitious dream of becoming a great lady might have displaced that of
the “great artist”; all the more because doubts about my talent kept
growing upon me, the wretched nervousness refused to be overcome, and
when I performed on the experimental stage I was unable to make a real
success. Only my mother kept stimulating my courage and ambition; the
maestro, too, promised that in a year or two of study he should form me
into a superior artist, and I persevered.
The next summer (the Mingrelian family had gone off to the German
watering-places again) we betook ourselves to the Duprez country estate,
to continue the instruction there, it being interrupted in the school at
Paris. In October we went back to the city, and the Mingrelian family
too moved into the Hôtel du Louvre again. The old life of the preceding
year was repeated: artistic interests and enjoyments in the Rue Laval,
social interests and enjoyments with my Asiatic friends.
One day toward the end of the winter I received from Princess Salomé a
dispatch: “Enjoy my good fortune with me; I have just become engaged to
Prince Achille Murat.” On the same day she had sent me a card by mail,
which I received a few hours later than the telegram. The little
yellowed forty-year-old card is still among my old papers. I reproduce
it in full:
Princesse Salomé Dadiani
de Mingrélie
Ma bien bonne Contesco, venez demain
à deux heures précises—vous passerez
la journée avec nous. J’ai une foule de choses
très pressées à faire et je m’adresse à
vous comme à _mon amie_ dévouée, pour vous demander
votre aide. Ne m’oubliez pas auprès de Mme.
votre mère. Soyez bien exacte.
I joyously obeyed the summons—there is nothing in the world more
interesting to young girls than an engagement—and found the whole house
in happy excitement.
I was told how it all came about. The affair, contemplated during the
preceding winter by the Empress Eugénie and the Princess Ekaterina, had
been brought to a satisfactory conclusion the week before. The Emperor
undertook to provide his nephew with an allowance of fifty thousand
francs a year, which excellently comported with the bride’s similar
income; he also agreed to pay the young man’s debts.—Well, yes, debts—it
was known to the whole town that he was one of the most extravagant
high-livers in Paris. Among the diamonds of the then so celebrated
“belle Hélène,” Hortense Schneider, were many jewels which Prince
Achille Murat had laid at her feet. The prince was regarded as one of
the handsomest of the young people in high society. The son of Prince
Lucien and an American woman, he very much reminded one of an Englishman
in his manner, in his accent, and in the blond type of his face. All
this I knew from hearsay before the news of the betrothal came to me.
I found the fiancée busily engaged in sending announcements of her good
fortune to all her St. Petersburg and Parisian acquaintances, and I must
needs help her address the envelopes. She was really happy. To be sure
the whole affair was arranged by the relatives on both sides, and she
had seen her fiancé only three or four times; but in those circles,
especially in France, they are used to having marriages contracted in
this way. And the dazzling appearance of her suitor when introduced to
her had thrown a spell over her: she was genuinely in love with the
young man, and heartily enjoyed the thought of becoming “Princesse
Achille Murat.”
Now she had before her also the interesting task of making up the
trousseau, of superintending the appointments of a little _palais_ in
the Elysée quarter, and of receiving the wedding gifts, the first
installment of which had appeared that very day in a “river of diamonds”
that her own mother had given her, and a pearl necklace which her fiancé
had laid at her feet. So she had, as the old song[17] puts it, “diamonds
and pearls”; she had beautiful eyes as well, a twofold princely crown, a
hundred thousand francs of income, her nineteen years, and a handsome
husband: “Darling, what more would you have?” To me also all this seemed
at that time like the pinnacle of human happiness, and I honestly
rejoiced with my friend. Later, much later, I learned that there is
something “more” than all that, that there is a happiness which in its
inward depth, even in very limited circumstances, is more radiant than
any external glory, any affluence. Oh, my unspeakable married bliss ...
but I will not anticipate.
On that same day I became acquainted with Salomé’s fiancé; before that
time he had been no frequent visitor at the house. The first call which
he had made, a few days previously, had been connected with the
ceremonious proposal for the hand of his chosen. “Chosen” is the wrong
expression; I should have said “the lady intended for him.” He pleased
me very well—twenty-one years of age, exceedingly tall and slender in
figure, a thin blond imperial, dazzling teeth, faultlessly elegant and
assured behavior. It must be confessed, not a trace of tenderness: as he
preserved a severely correct, not to say chillingly ceremonious,
behavior toward every one, so he did even toward his betrothed.
Every morning, from that time forth, came the traditional great bouquet
of flowers, sent to the house by a messenger, and in the afternoon
appeared the suitor himself to _faire son cour_ for a brief hour.
The wedding was celebrated in the early days of May, 1868. A wedding
which embraced three separate ceremonies,—first the civil service in the
_mairie_, then a forenoon wedding according to the Catholic rite in the
Tuileries, in the presence of the Emperor and Empress, and at nine
o’clock that same evening in the Greek church according to the Orthodox
rite. I participated in this last ceremony as first bridesmaid. My
function consisted in holding a crown over the bride’s head during the
whole marriage service. An illustrious company filled the brightly
lighted, flower-decorated chapel. The ladies’ toilets were of great
magnificence. The bride wore a veil which had been made for her at
Brussels, with her family arms, the Golden Fleece, woven into its
fabric. It flowed down from a diadem of diamonds, the Empress Eugénie’s
wedding gift. The bride’s mother was adorned with the stars and ribbons
of various orders. Among the jewels that were here displayed, I was
especially struck by the historic set of emeralds which the bridegroom’s
sister, the celebrated beauty Anne Murat, the wife of the Duc de
Mouchy-Noailles, had put on in honor of this solemn occasion.
And is it not to a certain extent humiliating that I myself on this
occasion allowed the parade of toilets and jewelry to sink so deep into
my mind that at this day I can still see it all? I will even confess
that I remember what I myself wore,—a gown made by Worth, of white gauze
over rose-colored silk lining, garnished with innumerable little
_volants_ from the waist to the train—it is to be hoped that at that
important and solemn hour when my friend stood before the altar to be
dedicated to an unknown destiny, I thought of something besides those
many little spangles; but it is a fact that I still see the rose-pink
shimmer rippling through the white threads of the gauze.
After the wedding there was a small ball at the princess’s. The
innumerable _volants_ had an opportunity to whirl around in the dance,
and I remember that my partner in the first quadrille was a Prince
Bourbon. The newly wedded pair had disappeared from the festivity early
and unobserved. They had decided not to take a wedding journey; they
took up their residence at once in their newly furnished _petit hôtel_
in the Rue de Pressbourg.
There I spent many hours. Salomé usually invited me to dinner, and I was
expected to come an hour earlier so that we might have time to chat
before the husband and the guests should appear. After dinner,
especially when we three were alone, we usually went to some one of the
so-called _petits théâtres_, which Salomé was not allowed to attend
before she was married, and which it now gave her much amusement to
become acquainted with. I ought not by rights to have been taken along
either, being still unmarried; but, in the first place, now that I was
twenty-four years old I was no longer included in the category of young
girls, and in the next place, in the _baignoire_ we were invisible to
the general public.
My friend seemed to feel very happy; at least she was always cheerful
and in good humor, and took delight in all the festivities and
receptions that were held in her honor in the circle of her new family,
at court, at her husband’s parents’, at the Mouchys’. She took me with
her to her relatives, and so I shared in many of these entertainments.
But the season soon drew to an end, summer was upon us, and society
scattered.
The young couple went first for a few weeks to the ducal château of
Mouchy, and planned to be at Baden-Baden for the rest of the season.
Hereupon I urged my mother that we too should go to Baden-Baden. During
the last part of the time I had greatly neglected my singing lessons in
the Duprez school; it was becoming clearer and clearer to me that I had
not such great talent as I had imagined, and I hoped in my secret heart
that a sojourn in the great world’s splendid watering-place, where I
should be included in my friend’s circle, might perhaps turn my fate in
a different and happier direction. My mother may have cherished the same
hope, or else she felt a drawing to the trente-et-quarante bank in order
once more to test whether the old gift of divination might not make its
appearance even now; in brief, we started off for Baden-Baden.
XI
SEASON IN BADEN-BADEN
Resumption of trente-et-quarante · Baroness Seutter · Acquaintance with
King William I of Prussia · A letter from the king
We took up our quarters in the large Villa Mesmer, situated opposite the
Kursaal, where Queen Augusta of Prussia was accustomed to lodge during
her yearly visits to this watering-place. She was not to arrive till a
few weeks later, and in the meantime we were assigned to a part of her
suite, including the large drawing-room, the windows of which gave upon
the park. Impatiently I awaited the arrival of the Murats, who had
already engaged rooms at the Villa Stéphanie. The interesting life would
begin only when my friends should make their appearance.
While waiting for them I made the acquaintance of a charming woman who
was domiciled in Baden-Baden—the Baroness Seutter. She conceived a great
predilection for me and frequently invited me to her house, where the
local society of the city were accustomed to gather.
My mother, who long ago had passionately abjured all gambling, began
again—merely out of curiosity, just for once—to risk a gold piece or
two. And lo and behold, the results of the early tests followed! Could
it be that the marvelous gift had awakened again? We could at least try
it and see, as long as it would last. And in reality the luck held; the
originally wagered ten louis had grown into a little pile of
thousand-franc notes—if this would only hold out for a couple of months,
with gradually increasing stakes,—and why not?—then would _la réussite_
be made. All the extinguished hopes flamed up again.
One day I received the disquieting news that the young Murat couple had
changed their plans and would not come that summer to Baden-Baden; the
rooms in the Villa Stéphanie were given up. We also were now compelled
to leave our quarters, as Queen Augusta’s arrival was imminent. It would
have been reasonable of us to go home, since the object of our coming—to
be with the Murats—had failed; but we preferred to remain. The laborious
business of winning in the Kursaal had indeed for a time dropped off,
then started up again, and again dropped off—this last time, however,
only from blunders which might be avoided later, and so it seemed
necessary to make further tests. And I had many opportunities of
amusement in consequence of my acquaintance with the Baroness Seutter;
so I also would rather remain in brilliant, wonderfully beautiful
Baden-Baden than return to our own simple Baden. In place of the rooms
which we were compelled to vacate in the main villa our landlord gave us
pleasant quarters in a _dépendance_.
Shortly after Queen Augusta’s arrival the old king, William I, also came
to Baden-Baden with the intention of staying about a week. From our
windows we could see the main part of the villa and the king’s working
room. He sat there every morning at his writing-table, which was moved
up close to the open window, and he could be seen there as he worked.
Nay, it was my lot before very long to see the victor of 1866 close at
hand and to make his personal acquaintance. I ought properly, as an
Austrian, to have cherished patriotic resentment against our vanquisher;
but I confess that I felt nothing of the sort—only a huge respect for
these very victories. The idea of a winner of battles, a conqueror of
countries, was to me still, as my history lessons had made it, the sum
of all greatness, of all glory. Of course some one must suffer damage in
order that victories and conquests may be attained; that in this case it
happened to be my native country that was hurt, was a circumstance which
could not make the king less lovable—I certainly would not wish to be so
egotistically unfair. Moreover the old man was well known to be
fascinatingly affable and thoroughly kind-hearted; in short, I could not
cherish any patriotic rancor against him.
Frau von Seutter invited me one evening to accompany her to her box. It
was the performance of an Italian opera, but I cannot remember what work
was presented. I only know that we sat next to the grand-ducal box, and
that King William was one of the occupants of it. He nodded a greeting
to Frau von Seutter and kept looking across at us. On the following day
the baroness proposed that I should go with her to a musical matinée at
Madame Viardot’s—there the most fashionable public was sure to be found;
but I would not be persuaded. I never wanted to be seen by Madame
Viardot as long as I lived! In the afternoon Frau von Seutter told me
that the matinée had been most brilliant. Among those who were present
was the King of Prussia. He had asked her who that young lady was, at
the opera the evening before; he thought he had recognized his neighbor
whom he had often seen from his window.
A few days later I saw the king again at a soirée which a great society
lady—I cannot now recall her name—had given in his honor. Living
pictures were a part of the entertainment. In the course of the evening
Frau von Seutter presented me to the old monarch.
“Oh,” he cried smiling, as he extended his hand, “we have known each
other for a long time—from our windows!”
From that time forth it very frequently happened that the king addressed
me in the Kurpark, where, during the afternoon music, he used to walk up
and down before the Kursaal, in the midst of the guests, and that he
then continued his promenade for a while at my side, chatting with me. I
have no diary of that period, and therefore cannot reproduce the tenor
of these conversations. I remember only that I asked him for a
photograph, which was courteously furnished with his autograph on it. I
was required to give him mine in return, but the king found it a poor
likeness and asked for another. After a few days he departed from
Baden-Baden. On the morning of his departure I sent over to him the
desired photograph with an accompanying note. What its contents were I
do not now know, but I must have made some reference to
conquest—possibly with an allusion to 1866. The answer that he sent back
is in my possession. It was put into my hands by a special messenger
just as I was on the point of going with the Baroness Seutter and a few
other ladies to the railway station to present the departing king with
some flowers. Here is a copy of the letter: