DEAR M.,--What will you think of your dissipated daughter? Do you not
think that she is insatiable? I am sure that you will say that I ought to
be contented after the long season of gaiety and excitement in Paris, and
settle down in lovely Petit Val, where the lilacs and the violets call one
with scented voices.
However, we decided to go to London.
Did I write to you of our breakfast at Armenonville? After Lord Lyons's
ball, which lasted until six o'clock in the morning, Prince Metternich and
several others thought that it would be a good idea to go home, change our
ball-dresses for morning-dress, and go out to the Bois for our morning
coffee. We did it.
I confess that it was a crazy thing to do after dancing all night; but the
beautiful May morning, the glorious sunshine, and our spirits inspired us
to carry out this wild whim, much to the disgust of our sleepy coachmen.
This excursion was not a success; we were all tired and longed for bed.
One cannot be amusing or _en train_ at seven o'clock in the morning.
And as for the family, when we returned home all the comment they made
was, "What fools!" They did not see any fun in it; neither did we, to tell
the truth.
The Rothschilds, Lord Lyons, and Prince and Princess Metternich gave us
what must have been very powerful letters, for we had hardly been in
London more than a few days before we knew every one worth knowing, and
all doors worth opening were opened to us, and I found myself what one
calls _lancée_.
We took rooms in Park Street; that is, we had the two stories of the
house. The landlady lived downstairs, and gave us our meals when we were
at home. As soon as we got settled we left our cards and letters of
introduction.
Invitation followed invitation in the most bewildering manner, sometimes
several for the same day.
I could not begin to tell you all that we have already done. Writing
letters seems to be the one thing which I have no time for. It is a
perpetual push and rush from morning till night.
Our first dinner was at Baron and Baroness Rothschilds', where the Prince
and Princess of Wales and a great many distinguished people were invited.
I sat next to a Mr. Osbourne--everybody called him Dick. He told me that
he was the most dined-out and tired-out man in London, and that he had not
eaten at home for six months.
I had not seen their Royal Highnesses since their visit to Paris during
the Exposition. They said that they remembered me; but I cannot think it
possible that they can have such wonderful memories.
I never saw such a splendid collection of orchids as there was on the
table, and each lady had a bouquet of orchids and roses by her plate.
I was asked to sing, and was delighted to do it. The Rothschilds' ballroom
was a glorious place in which to make a debut.
Michael Costa, the well-known musician, came after dinner and accompanied
me in the "Cavatina" from "Rigoletto," and the waltz from the "Pardon de
Ploërmel."
Lady Sherbourne, a charming lady whom I fell in love with at first sight,
sang also. She has a beautiful, rich contralto voice, and sang with a
great deal of expression an English song called, "Out on the rocks when
the tide is low."
In your last letter you wrote, "I am afraid that you are on the way to
become conceited." I am afraid myself I am, still I cannot resist telling
you, this once, that my audience was very enthusiastic and Mr. Costa said
--well, I won't tell you what he said; it might sound conceited. The last
thing I sang was "Beware!" which was immensely appreciated.
The Prince of Wales said: "That is a bewitching song. I never heard it
before. Who composed it?"
I told him that it was written for me by my husband, and Longfellow had
written the words.
The Princess, before leaving, said, "I cannot tell you how much pleasure
you have given us this evening; we hope to see you often while you are in
London." She is very beautiful, even handsomer than when I saw her last.
Baroness Rothschild kissed me, and thanked me for having sung for her.
Call me vain and conceited if you will, my head is turned, and there is
nothing more to be said about it!
A luncheon at "Caroline, Duchess of Montrose's," at two o'clock upset me
for the whole day. I am not accustomed to those big _déjeuners-
dinatoires_. I was sleepy and felt good for nothing the rest of the day;
and when we dined at Lady Molesworth's that evening, "to meet their
Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales," and wanted to be extra
up-to-the-mark, I felt just the contrary. However, after dinner the Prince
of Wales asked me to sing, and I did not refuse, and even sang most of the
evening. There was a charming Baron Hochschild, the Swedish Minister, who
sang delightfully. He is a thorough musician, and accompanied himself
perfectly with all the aplomb of an artist. He has a deep, rich barytone,
and his _répertoire_ consisted of all the well-known old Italian songs.
Lady Molesworth is a beautiful old lady, who must have been a great beauty
in her youth. She wears curls just like yours, dear mama, which made me
love her. I met here Arthur Sullivan; he was full of compliments.
The next day we were invited to a _matinée musicale_ at Lady Dudley's,
preceded by a luncheon, which Mr. Osbourne called "a snare," because, he
said, I could not refuse to sing. I did not want to refuse, either. The
piano was in the beautiful picture-gallery, all full of Greuze's pictures
bought from the Vatican; it has the most wonderful acoustics, and the
voice sounded splendidly in it. Lady Dudley is a celebrated beauty. Lord
Dudley--before he succeeded to the title--was Lord Ward. The Duke and
Duchess of Sutherland asked us to dine. This was a very imposing affair;
the Duke of Cambridge was at the dinner as the _grosse pièce_, and there
were many diplomats. After dinner several artists came from Covent Garden,
and among them Madame Patti, who sang the "Cavatina" of "Lucia," with
flute accompaniment, and how beautifully!
When I was introduced to her I said, "The first time I heard you sing was
years ago when I was a little girl and you were in short dresses."
"In Rochester," I replied. "I shall never forget how exquisitely you sang
'Ah! non giunge' and 'Ernani.'"
"Yes, I remember quite well. I was singing in concerts with Ole Bull; but
that was a long time ago."
"It was indeed," I said; "but I have never forgotten your voice, nor a
lovely song you sang which I have never heard since, called 'Happy
Birdling of the Forest.' And your trill! Just like the bird itself!"
We became quite good friends, and she made me promise to come to see her.
She is charming. Every one was most enthusiastic. Some one said she gets a
thousand pounds for an evening. The Marquis de Caux (her husband) looked
rather out of place. It seemed queer to see him again, not as the
brilliant Marquis of the Tuileries (the "beau" _par excellence_), but
simply as the husband of Patti. He did not find a chance to speak to me.
Some days later Lady Anglesey gave a luncheon for me. On the invitations
were, "To meet Mrs. Moulton." I read between the lines: to hear Mrs.
Moulton sing. They always put on their invitations, "To meet" so and so.
Mr. Quimby said to me, "I liked you from the first moment I saw you, but I
had no idea you were going to be such a beast." "Beast!" I echoed. "That
is not very complimentary." "A lion is a beast, isn't it?" he jokingly
replied.
"Am I going to be a lion? I did not know it."
"Well, you are a lioness, which is better."
He is considered the wit of London, and this is a specimen of his wit.
What do you think?
At the luncheon there were Jacques Blumenthal, the famous pianist and
composer, and Arthur Sullivan, who asked me to sing in his little
operetta, which some amateurs are rehearsing for a _soirée_ at Lady
Harrington's; and on my acceptance he brought the music for me to try over
with him the next morning. The _soirée_ was to be three days later. The
music is nothing remarkable; in fact, the whole thing (it is called "The
Prodigal Son") is not worthy of him. I have not met any of my fellow-
performers yet. Forgive this jerky letter; I have been interrupted a
thousand times. Charles thinks it is time to go back to Paris; but we have
just received an invitation from Baron Alfred Rothschild to spend Ascot
week--a _séjour de sept jours_--with a party at a house he has hired
for the race-week there, and I could not resist.