DEAR M.,--You must forgive me if I have not written lately; but we have
been on a visit to the Duke and Duchess de Persigny for the past week. I
did not have time to do more than dress for driving and drive, dress for
afternoon tea, dress for dinner, and dine.
The estates of Chamarande are beautiful, the château itself is very
magnificent and arranged with the Duchess's taste, which is perfect though
ultra-English.
The château has a moat around it, over which is a stone bridge which leads
to the entrance on the side opposite the broad terraces bordered by cut
trees, as in Versailles. The park is very large, filled with beautiful old
trees, and most artistically laid out.
The Duke de Persigny is perfectly delightful, genial, kind, and certainly
the cleverest man of the day, with a temper which is temper-proof. I never
saw him out of it, and, well as I know him, I have never seen him ruffled
in any way, and sometimes there were occasions, goodness knows!
The Duchess is still handsome and attractive; her pronounced originality
lends her a peculiar charm. She has many admiring friends who are true to
her, and I must say that when she is a friend she is a true one, and never
fails you. Her originality frequently leads her beyond conventionality;
for instance, the other day she took it into her head to dine out of
doors. If she wanted to picnic _al fresco_, why did she not choose some
pretty place in the park or in the woods? But no, she had the usual
elaborate dinner served directly outside the château, and on the gravel
walk. The servants, powdered and in short breeches as usual, served us in
their customary solemnity; but they must have wondered why we preferred to
sit on the gravel, with a draught of cold air on our backs, when we might
have been comfortably seated in a big and airy room with a carpet under
our feet. However, such was the wish of the châtelaine, and no one dared
say a word, not even the Duke, though he protested meekly.
Later on the Duke had his revenge, for in the midst of our breezy repast
there came a downpour of rain, accompanied by lightning and peals of
thunder, which necessitated a hasty retreat.
The Duchess, who is very timid in thunder-storms, was the first to rush
into the house, the guests following pell-mell, and our dinner was
finished indoors.
After our return to Petit Val we had the visit of Auber's protégé, a young
man called Massenet. One day, in Paris, two months ago, Auber said to me:
"I am very much interested in a former pupil of the Conservatoire who took
the Grand-Prix de Rome, and has just come back from his four years'
musical studies in Rome. As he is more or less a stranger in Paris, I
should be very thankful if you would interest yourself for him. He really
is a genius; but, as so often happens, geniuses don't have pocket-money."
I answered: "Please tell him to come and see me. I have some music I wish
to have transposed. Do you think that he would be willing to do it?"
"Certainly; he would be glad to do anything," was the answer.
The next day a pale young man presented himself. "You are Monsieur
Massenet?" I inquired.
"Yes, Madame," came the gentle answer.
Thereupon I gave him the music, and I showed him to a quiet little room in
the upper part of the house, which contained a piano, writing-table, pen
and ink, etc., and left him to his fate. He came two or three times before
I heard him play, and then it was only by chance that I passed through the
corridor, and imagine my astonishment at hearing the most divine music
issuing from the room where the young man was working. I rushed in,
saying:
"What is that?"
"Nothing," he answered.
"Nothing!" I exclaimed. "I never heard anything so exquisite, Do play it
again."
"It was simply something that passed through my head," he answered.
"Then let something else pass through your head. I must hear more." I
said. Then he played, and I sat and listened to the most bewildering and
beautiful music that I ever heard. From that moment there was no more
copying. What a genius he is! I wish you could hear him improvise!
We have invited him frequently, and when we are at Petit Val he comes
often out to see us, and luxuriates in the repose and comfort of our life
here. He has already written some lovely songs under its influence. He
composed one called "l'Esclave," and dedicated it to me for my birthday.
He accompanies me as no one has ever done before.
Auber, who drives out occasionally, is delighted to see that "Our
Massenet," as he generally calls him, is getting color in his pale cheeks
and his bright and eager eyes are brighter than ever, and he is actually
getting fat.