The Princess Beauvau is a born actress, and nothing she loves better than
arranging theatricals and acting herself. She rooted up some charity as an
excuse for giving a theatrical performance, and obtained the theater of
the Conservatoire and the promise of the Empress's presence. She chose two
plays, one of Musset and the other, "l'Esclave," of Molière--and asked me
to take part in this last one.
"Oh," I said, "I cannot appear in a French play; I would not dare to." But
the Princess argued that, as there were only four words to say, she
thought I could do it, and in order to entice me to accept, she proposed
introducing a song; and, moreover, said that she would beg Auber to
furnish a few members of the Conservatoire orchestra to accompany me. This
was very tempting, and I fell readily into the trap she laid for me.
I consulted Auber about my song, and we decided on Alabieff's "Rossignol,"
for which he had written the cadenza. He composed a chorus for a few
amateurs and all the orchestral parts.
I was to be a Greek slave; my dress was of white, flimsy, spangled gauze,
with a white-satin embroidered bolero, a turban of tulle, with all sorts
of dangly things hanging over my ears. I wore baggy trousers and
_babouches_. You may notice that I did not copy Power's Greek slave in the
way of dress.
I was completely covered with a white tulle veil, and led in by my fellow-
slaves, who were also in baggy trousers and _babouches_. There could be no
doubt that we were slaves, for we were overloaded with chains on arms,
ankles, and waist. I found circulation a very difficult matter shuffling
about in _babouches_, which are the most awkward things to walk in. One
risks falling forward at every step.
When they got me in front of the orchestra the slaves drew off my veil and
there I stood. The chorus retired, and I began my song. I had had only one
rehearsal with the orchestra, the day before; but the humming
accompaniment to my solo, that the unmusical slaves had to learn, had
taken a week to teach.
Every one said the scene was very pretty. My song was quite a success; I
had to sing it over again. Then I sang the waltz of Chopin, to which I had
put words and transposed two tones lower. I saw Delle Sedie in the
audience, with his mouth wide open, trying to breathe for me. It has
sixteen bars which must be sung in one breath, and has a compass from D on
the upper line to A on the lower line. Applause and flowers were showered
on me, and I was rather proud of myself. I felt like Patti when I picked
up my bouquets!
Later on in the play I had to say my "four words," which turned out to be
six words: _On ne peut être plus joli_. Though I was frightened out of my
wits, I managed not to disgrace myself; but I doubt if any one heard one
of the six words I said. The Empress sent me a little bunch of violets,
which I thought was very gracious of her, and I was immensely flattered,
for I think she took it from her corsage. I had noticed it there at the
beginning of the evening.
One of the bouquets bore the card of Dr. Evans, the American dentist. It
was very nice of him to remember me and send me such beautiful flowers.
Dr. Evans is so clever and entertaining. Every one likes him, and every
door as well as every jaw is open to him. At the Tuileries they look on
him not only as a good dentist, but as a good friend; and, as some clever
person said, "Though reticent to others, their Majesties had to open their
mouths to him."
The other day we had a children's party. Auber came, pretending that he
had been invited as one of the children. When he heard them all chattering
in French, English, and German, he said, "Cela me fait honte, moi qui ne
parle que le français." He was most delighted to see the children, and
seated himself at the piano and played some sweet little old-fashioned
polkas and waltzes, to which the children danced.
I said to them: "Children, remember that to-day you have danced to the
playing of Monsieur Auber, the most celebrated composer in France. Such a
thing is an event, and you must remember it and tell it to your children."
Miss Adelaide Philips is here singing, but, alas! without the success she
deserves. She appeared at Les Italiens twice; once as Azucena in
"Trovatore," and then as the page in "Lucrezia Borgia." If it had not been
for her clothes, I think that her efforts would have been more
appreciated. The moment she appeared as the page in "Lucrezia" there was a
general titter in the audience. Her make-up was so extraordinary, Parisian
taste rose up in arms. And as for the Borgias, they would have poisoned
her on the spot had they seen her! Her extraordinarily fat legs (whether
padded or not, I don't know) were covered with black-velvet trousers,
ending at the knee and trimmed with lace.
She wore a short-waisted jacket with a short skirt attached and a
voluminous lace ruffle, a curly wig too long for a man and too short for a
woman, upon which sat jauntily a Faust-like hat with a long, sweeping
plume. This was her idea of a medieval Maffeo Orsini. As Azucena, the
mother of a forty-year-old troubadour, she got herself up as a damsel of
sixteen, with a much too short dress and a red bandana around her head,
from which dangled a mass of sequins which she shook coquettishly at the
prompter. The audience did not make any demonstration; they remained
indifferent and tolerant, and there was not a breath of applause. The only
criticism that appeared in the papers was: "Madame Philips, une
Américaine, a fait son apparence dans 'Trovatore.' Elle joue assez bien,
et si sa voix avait l'importance de ses jambes elle aurait eu sans doute
du succès, car elle peut presque chanter." Poor Miss Philips! I felt so
sorry for her. I thought of when I had seen her in America, where she had
such success in the same rôles. But why did she get herself up so? There
is nothing like ridicule for killing an artist in France, and any one who
knew the French could have foreseen what her success would be the moment
she came on the stage. She became ill after these two performances and
left Paris.