No matter how they may differ in years, beauty, tastes, nationality,
attainments and means, they are classed together by their tact, in the
minds of men who know them and know also how arduous are the duties of a
successful hostess. I know many such women,—Madame Patti, Mrs. Ronalds,
who is one of the most distinguished Americans in London, Mrs. John
A. Mackey, the Baroness de Bazus (Mrs. Frank Leslie), Mrs. Kendal—but
I could fill a chapter with names. The power of these women in the
drawing-room is simply marvelous. Their consummate tact is something for
civilization in general to be proud of. It matters not if they are not
in their best health and spirits and mood; everything uncongenial in
themselves is hidden by their gracious welcome, like Hamlet’s father’s
ghost by the rising sun. In a large company there is likely to be a
social knot or tangle that would appal a well meaning novice in the rôle
of hostess, but the woman who is fit for the position knows what to
ignore and what to illumine.
[Illustration: “There is Apt to Be a Social Tangle.”]
And cleverness at introductions in a large company—what a world of tact
it requires! Small wonder that introductions are few at most fashionable
affairs. But the tactful hostess keeps untoward spirits apart and welds
congenial souls together; some of the world’s closest friendships have
come of able hostesses’ introductions of people who otherwise would never
have met.
But what keen watchfulness and knowledge this presupposes, of the
jealousies, petty or large, whether in politics, literature, art, the
drama, of a large assemblage of representative people! It requires
nothing less than genius to peep into the nooks and crannies of the
hearts about them, throbbing with varied purposes and passions, but these
women possess it. Hence they are centres in themselves, about which
antipathetic souls may gather with a common good-will and cordial good
word. It takes all these qualities to be a leader in society: many women
possess them, but compared with all who should, how few they are!
I know one woman who possesses them all supremely. She is a wonder,
even among Americans. Her name is Mrs. Grover Cleveland. Think of that
schoolgirl passing from books to White House receptions and diplomatic
balls, from the quick but embarrassed flush of eighteen years, to the
sustained, well-poised position of first lady of the land “all in a
twinkling” and, more’s the wonder, all in a triumph! She went through
her ordeal at Washington, for it was an ordeal, without having an enemy
in that Babel of bickerings, cunning social plots and desperate plunges
after prestige. The platform of the politicians was tariff reform,
the people’s was Mr. Cleveland, little Ruth, furnishing the “Bye Baby
Bunting” plank.
The way this remarkable woman earned love and respect, was illustrated
by a little scene, that came under my eye at Lakewood. The parlor of the
hotel is so large that men can stand at one end of it with their hats
on and escape criticism. But one day, when Mrs. Cleveland, unattended,
entered at the other end, with girlish haste and captivating naturalness,
all heads were uncovered in an instant. She merely wished to find a
friend who was dining at the time, so she walked to the table of her
friend. All eyes were upon her, but she manifested no consciousness.
She with her friend slipped out of the room and into the elevator, and
probably up-stairs for a cozy chat. She was not thinking of the admiring
glances of hundreds, but only in a great-hearted, every-day way of her
friend. Such is the woman. She has won her crown, woven from the blossoms
of the people’s love, and she wears it gracefully.
No woman of my acquaintance has more tact than Mrs. Langtry. I will
guarantee, that her use of it will win any man who may meet her. When
she was last in New York a certain newspaper man was “cutting” her
savagely. Did she horsewhip him after the manner of some indignant
actress? Nay, nay! First she learned who he was, then she determined
to meet him. Her manager invited the young man to dine with him at
Delmonico’s, and the invitation was accepted. While at dinner the manager
accidentally (?) saw Mrs. Langtry, at another table, in the same great
dining-room and exclaimed,
“By Jove! There’s Mrs. Langtry! Would you like to meet her?” The scribe
hesitated; then consented. “First, let me ask her permission,” adroitly
continued the manager.
“I shall be delighted to meet him,” was the lady’s reply. Two moments
later the scribe and the actress were in close conversation; the young
man was invited to Langtry’s hotel; he walked down Broadway with her to
the Hoffman House, and he knew a thousand men saw him and envied him. In
the following week, his paper contained a beautiful article on Langtry.
The question may be asked, “Was this tact or diplomacy?” But every one
ought to know that mere diplomacy could never make a dramatic critic
change his tone so startlingly.
But tact is not confined to incidents in the world’s eye. Several years
ago, when that clever and beautiful young woman Mrs. James G. Blaine,
Jr. (now Mrs. Dr. Bull), was greatly afflicted with rheumatism, her
friend, Mrs. Kendal, the well known English actress, advised massage.
Mrs. Blaine objected, she disliked the idea, but Mrs. Kendal won her over
by calling every day and massaging the sufferer with her own hands.
Men can do the tactful thing as well as women, and it is to their credit
that they often do it when they can’t imagine that any one will ever know
of it but the beneficiary. One rainy day at Broadway and Twenty-third
Street, an ill-clad, shivering fellow stood, probably he had nowhere
in particular to go, and would rather look at people than think of
himself and his condition. I saw a tall, stout man with an intellectual,
kind face stop, hold his umbrella over the tramp, and engage him in
conversation; it was a mean place to stand, too, for crowds were hurrying
past the big policeman standing at the crossing. I dashed in front of the
chap the instant the tall man left him.
“See what that man gave me!” he said, showing me a two dollar bill.
“It’s no wonder,” I replied; “that was Colonel Bob Ingersoll!”
“Hully gee!” the man exclaimed. “I’ve heard o’ him. And here’s what else
he gave me—listen.” The Colonel had told him the story of “Nobody’s
Dog,” as follows:—
“A poor brute of a dog entered a hotel with three travelers. ‘Walk in,
gents,’ said the host heartily. ‘Fine dog, that; is he yours, sir?’
“‘No,’ said one of the men, and ‘No,’ ‘No,’ repeated the others.
[Illustration: “I Saw Him Hold His Umbrella Over a Tramp.”]
“‘Then he’s nobody’s dog,’ said the host, as he kicked the cur into the
street.
“You’re nobody’s dog, but here you are,” said the Colonel in conclusion,
pressing the money into his hand and hurrying away.
I have myself been the gainer by the tact of some men, who would
have been excusable for having their minds full of some one of more
importance, so I am correspondingly grateful. Dear General Sherman was
one of these; his tact was as effective in civil life as his armies had
been on the battle-field. In the fall of 1899, just after I had published
my book—“The People I Have Smiled With,” I received the following written
by the General’s private secretary.
“MY DEAR SIR:
“I beg you to accept my hearty thanks for a copy of your book,
the same which, I assure you, will give me much pleasure in
perusing.
“With best wishes, as always, I am,
“Your friend,
(Signed) “W. T. SHERMAN, General.”
Evidently the General thought a moment after signing the above, for
he wrote at the bottom of the sheet “Over,” where he added in his own
handwriting:
“Pardon me for this seemingly formal answer to your bright
and cheery volume, which, as yet, I have merely glanced at,
but contemplate much pleasure and profit in reading. The
‘Introduction,’ by our mutual friend ‘Cockerill,’ is so
touching that it calls for the sympathetic tear, rather than
a smile; so are your opening words in the first chapter about
your acquaintance with Beecher, etc., etc. But more in the
hereafter.
“I am glad you enroll me in your list of friends, and will be
only too happy to smile with you in person over your types, as
occasion may require.
“Your sincere friend,
“W. T. SHERMAN.”
I might also call attention to the above as an illustration of the
occasional opaqueness of the private secretary as a medium between great
men and their personal friends, however humble.
I was at Chicago’s famous hotel, “The Auditorium” during the dedicatory
exercises of the Columbian Exposition, more popularly known as “Chicago’s
World’s Fair.” A great dinner had been given the evening before to men
distinguished throughout the world. The affair was under the direction of
the Fellowship Club, prominent in which was Editor Scott of the Chicago
_Herald_, and such a gathering of famous men I had never seen before.
Richard Harding Davis described it graphically in _Harper’s Weekly_.
Next morning quite naturally, the atmosphere of the hotel was hazy
and dazy. Such of us as dropped into the café for breakfast were not
especially “noticing.”
I sat alone at the end of the room. In came Chauncey M. Depew with
a handsome young lady. Before long his quick eye discerned me in my
isolation. He arose, walked the entire length of that great room, leaned
over me and said,
“Marsh, most through your breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“Then come over and be introduced to my niece. She wants to meet the
celebrities of the day.” Continuing he was kind enough to say that some
of my recently delivered jokes were new, and he must have been right,
for I heard afterward that he used them himself. But many men of less
importance would have sent a waiter for me instead of coming in person;
many more would have succeeded in not seeing me at all.
When Mrs. James Brown Potter first visited London, she was chaperoned
by Mrs. Paran Stevens, whose daughter, Lady Paget, was a member of the
Prince’s set, and had full entrée to all social circles. On one occasion
Mr. Wilson Barrett set aside a box for Mrs. Stevens, Mrs. Potter, and
their friends, I being among the number invited to see “Clito” performed.
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.”
[Illustration: “I will follow you all over England with telegrams.”]
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.
[Illustration: “The clever bird surprised me by ejaculating Pity Patti.”]
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.