Gounod is, I think, the gentlest, the most modest, and the kindest-hearted
man in the world. His music is like him, gentle and graceful. Princess
Mathilde asked me to sing again; but, as I had not brought any music,
Auber offered to accompany me in the "Song of the Djins," from his new
opera, which I had so often sung with him. It was not the song I should
have selected; but, as Auber desired it, I was glad to gratify him, and
was delighted when I saw Rossini compliment Auber, who (like the tenor
before the drop-curtain, who waves his hand toward the soprano as if all
the merit of the performance was due to her) waved his hand toward me,
which suggested to Rossini to make me a reflected compliment.
This was a great occasion, seeing and hearing Rossini, Gounod, and Auber
at the same time. I shall never forget that evening. I wonder that I had
the courage to sing before them. Among the guests was an Indian Nabob
dressed in all his orientals, who in himself would have been sufficient
attraction for a whole evening, had he not been totally eclipsed by the
three great artists. The Nabob probably expected more homage than he
received; but people hardly looked at him.
I was presented to him, and he seemed glad to speak English, which was not
of the best, but far better than his French. He told me a great deal about
his journey, the attractions of Paris, and about his country and family.
I asked him, by way of saying something (I was not particularly interested
in him or his family), how many children he had. He answered, "Quite a
few, milady."
"What does your Highness call a few?" I asked.
"Well, I think about forty," he replied, nonchalantly.
"That would be considered quite a large family here," I said.
The Nabob, of course, did not appreciate the profundity of this remark.
A few days after, the Princess Mathilde sent me a lovely fan which she had
painted herself, and Mr. Moulton is going to have it mounted. I am very
happy to have it as a souvenir of a memorable evening, besides being an
exquisite specimen of the Princess's talent as an artist. The Princess is
what one might call miscellaneous. She has a Corsican father, a German
mother, and a Russian husband, and as "cavaliere servente" (as they say in
Italy), a Dutchman. She was born in Austria, brought up in Italy, and
lives in France. She said once to Baron Haussmann, "If you go on making
boulevards like that, you will shut me up like a vestal."
"I will never make another, your Highness," he answered.
Every one is very much excited about a young Swedish girl called Christine
Nilsson, who has walked right into the star-light, for she really is a
star of the first magnitude. She has studied with Wachtel only one year,
and behold her now singing at the Théâtre Lyrique to crowded audiences in
the "Flûte Enchantée." Her voice has a wonderful charm; she sings without
the slightest effort, and naturally as a bird. She has some phenomenal
high notes, which are clear as bells. She makes that usually tedious
_grand aria_, which every singer makes a mess of, quite lovely and
musical, hovering as she does in the regions above the upper line like a
butterfly and trilling like a canary-bird. A Chinese juggler does not play
with his glass balls more dexterously than she plays with all the effects
and tricks of the voice. What luck for her to have blossomed like that
into a full-fledged prima-donna with so little effort. I have got to know
her quite well, as Miss Haggerty, who was at some school with her in
Paris, invites her often to lunch and asks me to meet her.
Nilsson is tall, graceful, slight, and very attractive, without being
actually handsome. She acts well and naturally, and with intelligence,
without exerting herself; she has the happy faculty of understanding and
seizing things _au vol_, instead of studying them. She has a regal future
before her. A second Jenny Lind! Their careers are rather similar. Jenny
Lind was a singer in cafés, and Nilsson played the violin in cafés in
Stockholm. She is clever, too! She has surrounded herself by a wall of
propriety, in the shape of an English _dame de compagnie_, and never moves
unless followed by her. This lady (Miss Richardson) is correctness and
primness personified, and so _comme il faut_ that it is actually
oppressive to be in the same room with her. Nilsson herself is full of fun
and jokes, but at the same time dignified and serious.
Christine Nilsson gave Mrs. Haggerty a box at the Théâtre Lyrique, where
she is now playing "Traviata" (I think it was the director's box), and I
was invited to go with her and Clem. The box was behind the curtain and
very small and very dark. But it was intensely amusing to see how things
were done, and how prosaic and matter-of-fact everything was. If ever I
thanked my stars that I was not a star myself it was then.
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.