_December 3d._
The _chasse à courre_ is generally fixed for the last day of the _série_;
but their Majesties, at the suggestion of the thoughtful Vicomte Walsh,
ordered it to be changed to this afternoon, in order that the operetta
should arrive at a riper stage of perfection. Would it ever be near
enough? We had never had a moment yet when we could rehearse all together.
Vicomte de V----'s costume had not come from Paris, and he was bordering
on brain-fever, in a state of expectancy and impatience. Neither he nor
d'Espeuilles knew their songs, and the chorus needed much drilling. The
Princess Metternich put her salon at the Marquis's disposal, and he spent
half his time teaching some of his pupils.
The days of the _chasse à courre_ the gentlemen appear in red coats and
the ladies in green-cloth dresses. Those that had _le bouton_ put it in
their buttonhole. You may be sure I wore mine!
All the carriages, the horses, and grooms were before the terrace at two
o'clock, and after the usual delay we drove off to the forest. Their
Majesties and the Prince Imperial were on horseback. The Duchess de Sesto
invited me to drive with her, and in the same _char-à-banc_ with us were
Baronne de la Poeze, Comtesse Pourtales, and four or five others. The
Duchess looked very dainty, wrapped in her chinchilla furs. I had had so
little time to learn the talking part of my rôle that I took it with me in
the carriage, hoping to be able to study it. They all sympathized with me,
as they knew the operetta was to be given to-morrow evening.
The roads were full of mud; but we splashed through them regardless of
such minor details as dirt Fortunately it did not rain, and the sun made a
few spasmodic efforts to come out, but it was far from being the ideal day
of last year.
This _chasse_ varies but little, and I described my first acquaintance
with it in a letter last year, so I will spare you the repetition of
details. I fancy the route we took was the same; but I am not quite sure,
for all the roads and avenues resemble one another.
Once, as we halted at an _étoile_, we saw a beautiful stag bound past
us, full of life and strength, with enormous horns (they said it was a
_dix cors_). Every one in the carriage stood up in their excitement to
look after it. How I wished he would escape and live his free and happy
life in the forest. I hate this _chasse_; I hate to write about it; I
hate to be present at it. It is all so pitiful and painful to me! How can
any one find pleasure in such cruel sport?
To kill a living creature, to take the life of an animal that has done you
no harm, seems horrible to me. But I will say no more on this subject. It
always puts me in a bad temper, and makes me disgusted with my fellow-
creatures.
We followed the other part of the cavalcade and arrived at the _carrefour_
in time to see the death of one stag. The others saw it, but I was
occupied with my manuscript.
There were two stags taken, two beautiful creatures that ought to have
lived.
It was so cold and bleak I longed to get back to warm rooms, cheerful
fire, and a hot cup of tea, which I was sure to find awaiting me, and I
was heartily glad when we turned homeward.
Six o'clock had just struck when we drove up to the front of the Grand
Escalier, and I was able to get a little rest before dressing for dinner.
All the ladies who owned diamond crescents, or any crescent suggestive of
Diana and her pastimes, put them on. The Empress had a gorgeous crescent
on her lovely hair.
The worn-out Marquis took me in to dinner. It was fortunate, for there
were some vital points which we had to discuss. On my other side was the
Count de Grammont, a sportsman, who wanted to talk only of the hunt; but I
was able to turn a deaf ear to his marvelous exploits, thanks to the
Marquis's incessant explanations.
There was a little dancing, to fill up the time before the _curée_. It is
a pity that this is our last dance. The chamberlains are beginning to show
a good deal of talent in their playing _le piano méchanique_, and they can
play almost in time.
The _curée_ was at ten o'clock. The long gallery was soon alive with an
eager public. All the windows were occupied by the ladies. The courtyard
was filled, in spite of the cold weather, with the populace of Compiègne;
the _piqueurs_ waved their torches; the dogs howled and yelped; the
_gardes_ blew their long _cors de chasse_, and it was just like last year,
except that on this occasion there were two stags--therefore, two sets of
entrails to be devoured.
Tea and cakes were passed about. Those who had come from the neighboring
châteaux took their leave, those who were to return to Paris drove off to
the station, and the privileged guests retired to their apartments.
_December 4th._
At ten o'clock this morning I was surprised at hearing a timid knock at my
salon door. Who should it be but the Marquis d'Aoust. He begged my pardon
for disturbing me; but he wished to consult me about something he
considered of great importance.
He looked disheveled and careworn, even at this early hour, as if he had
not slept all night. Would I be willing to help Count d'E---- in our duet,
and sing a part of his music? Otherwise, he was sure it would never go.
I told him it would not be easy to sing tenor; but I would see at the
rehearsal what I could do. He was in despair. I tried to tranquilize him,
my compassion triumphing over my forebodings, and assured him that all
would go well. I did not tell him that I had had a succession of
nightmares last night, where I saw myself stranded on the stage, having
forgotten both words and music.
He said that he had been on the stage at work with the carpenters since I
don't know when this morning. They had first put up the scenery as he had
ordered; but he saw that there would not be space for the eight performers
(there are two scenes where we are all on the stage at once). Accordingly,
he had ordered the carpenters to change it.
I ate my _déjeuner_ sandwiched between the tenor and the basso. We
rehearsed our dialogues, although we pretended to discuss other matters.
The Empress went directly to the Marquis after _déjeuner_ and said, "We
are looking forward to your operetta to-night with real pleasure, and
we are sure that it will be a great success." The Marquis was radiant.
When we met later in the theater for our first and only rehearsal we were
delighted to find there the grand piano from the _salle de musique_. The
curtain rose on a very pretty garden scene, with trees on either side,
green linen on the floor representing grass, a village with a church-
steeple in the background, and for stage properties a garden bench and a
vase placed just before the footlights, so that it would not interfere
with our movements, but would show us where _not_ to fall off.
The Marquis was, of course, at the piano, and Prince Metternich, as
prompter, squeezed into a prompter's box, looking wretchedly
uncomfortable. We commenced the rehearsal, which, on the whole, went off
better than we expected.
The basso is the first to appear. He sings a melancholy song, in which he
makes known his love for the humble village maiden. His voice gets more
dismal and lower as he becomes despondent, and higher and more buoyant as
his hopes rise. At the end, when he sings "Elle sera à moi," his voice,
though very husky, was almost musical. Then I, as the village maiden,
enter with a basket, suggestive of butter and eggs, and sing a sentimental
ditty telling of my love for the friend of the lord. The music of this is
mediocre beyond words. The Marquis tries to show, by a few high soprano
notes, how high my wildest flights of aspirations fly before I could ever
reach the subject of my love. "Mes tourments" and "le doux plaisir
d'aimer" get so mixed that I don't know myself what I am singing about.
The lady of the manor hears my lament, and, believing me to be in love
with her husband, berates me in a dramatic duet. The friend and adviser
now appears, and we get through an incomprehensible trio. He cannot
convince her (the lady) of the innocence of her husband. She insists upon
thinking him a traitor, leaves us in a fury, and we have the floor to
ourselves when we sing the famous duet on account of which the Marquis had
qualms this morning. In it there is a minor phrase which is quite
intricate, and I saw that unless I came to d'E----'s rescue he could never
manage it.
The lord and the lady reappear, while the friend and I retire in the
background and lean up against the village steeple and whisper. The lady
is violent and the lord is indifferent. The music sounds like an
everlasting grumble, because her voice is contralto and his is bass. The
village maiden is called to the front, and denies everything she has been
accused of. The husband makes amends in a phrase miles too high for his
voice. The friend takes all the blame on his black-velvet shoulders, and
says he has loved the maiden all along. The maiden is overcome with
emotion and faints for joy.
The final quartette is a sad affair, musically speaking, constructed on
the Marquis's own ideas of thoroughbass. All the singers start on the same
plane, the soprano soars heavenward, the contralto and the bass grovel in
their deepest notes, while the tenor, who ought to fill up the gap, stands
counting the measures on his fingers, his eyes glued to the prompter,
until he joins me and we soar together.
To use a metaphor, one might say that the contralto and bass were in the
lower regions, the soprano floating in heaven, the tenor groping about on
earth for his note; then we all meet on the same place we started from,
which is the signal for the chorus to unite their forces with ours.
The Marquis was dreadfully put out with me because I refused to faint on
the stage (in the text it says _Rosette tombe évanouie_). He said nothing
was easier. I had only to put my arms out to break the fall and--fall. He
thought that with a little practice between the afternoon and the evening
I should be able to do it.
I could see myself covered with bruises tumbling about over sofas and
chairs, and I could see the bewilderment of any one coming into my room
while I was practising this part of my rôle.
I said, "I absolutely refuse to risk my neck." He thought it was very
selfish of me. One would have thought that the whole success of the
operetta depended on my fainting. He said he could show me how to fall
without hurting myself, and in trying to do so he tripped over the vase
and bumped his head against the garden bench. Fortunately he did not
damage himself, but the argument ended then and there.
At half-past four my maid came to the theater to tell me that the Empress
expected me to tea. I had thought she would, as she had promised the
answers to those questions; and so it was. As soon as I appeared (I had
had time to change my dress) the Empress called me to her and said:
"Here are the answers to your American soul-probing questions! These are
mine (giving me hers) and here are the Emperor's. He was very pleased to
write them, as it was you who asked him; besides, I think they amused him.
He spent a long time pondering over each answer. You see," she added, with
her lovely smile, "nous vous aimons bien."