DEAR MOTHER,--Our peaceful life here is a great contrast to the bombs of
poor dilapidated Paris. I have still the screams and bursting shells of
the Faubourg St. Honoré in my ears.
When I wrote of Strakosch's persisting in his idea of my singing in
concerts, I did not dream that I should be telling you that I have
succumbed to his tempting and stupendous proposition. It is true that I
have said _yes_, and _vogue la galère!_
And the most curious thing is that the whole family sitting in council
have urged me to do it.
"Why not?" said Mr. Moulton, making mental calculations. "I would, if I
were you," said Mrs. Moulton, overflowing with enthusiasm.
"I agree," said Charles, only seeing the fun of a new experience.
"But," I urged, "I doubt if I can stand on my own merits. Singing in
public as an amateur is one thing, and singing as an artist is another."
This wise saying was scorned by the council.
I have ordered some fine dresses from Worth, and if my public don't like
me they can console themselves with the thought that a look at my clothes
is worth a ticket.
Well, the fatal word has gone forth; I shall probably regret it, but it is
too late now.
Therefore, dear mother, please break the news gently to the family and the
genealogical tree, whose bark, I hope, is worse than its bite.
We leave for America in September. Strakosch goes before, "to work it up,"
he says.