We have had real pleasure in hearing a young _pianiste_ from Venezuela
called Teresa Careño. She is a _wunderkind_. Her mother says she is nine
years old; she looks twelve, but may be sixteen. No one can ever tell how
old a _wunderkind_ really is. Her playing is marvelous, her technic
perfect. She knows about two hundred pieces by heart, is extremely pretty
and attractive, and performs whenever she is asked. I think she has a
great career before her, and she has already got the toss-back of her
black hair in the most approved pianist manner. "Elle ne manque rien," the
great Saint-Saëns said. One can't imagine that she could play better than
she does; but she thinks that she is by no means perfect.
Though I said that I had led a _dolce-far-niente_ existence, and had been
lazy, I have been dreadfully busy and have been on the go from morning
till night: I might call it a _dolce-far-molto_ existence. I spend hours,
which ought to be better spent, in shops. I simply revel in them.
You have heard of the famous actress Sarah Bernhardt. Well, she is not
only an actress, but she is a sculptress, and is a very good one. She is
now playing at the Vaudeville. But I must begin at the beginning, the
whole thing was so amusing,
You remember Mrs. Bradley? You used to scold me for calling her "the
Omelette." They are living now in Paris; her hair and complexion are just
as yellow as they used to be; but her dresses are yellower. Beaumont said
that she was "Une étude en jaune."
The other evening she had a box at the theater, and asked me to go to hear
Sarah Bernhardt in "Le fils Giboyer." Her son, the immaculate Bostonian,
went with us. He is a duplicate of his mother's yellowness. I took Nina,
who looked extremely pretty: she was beaming with excitement; her cheeks
were flushed, and her curly, golden hair made a halo about her delicate
features. Every one stared at her when we entered the box. During the
second act I let her take my place in front, and, observe how virtue is
rewarded! In the following _entr'acte_ the _ouvreuse_ came in suddenly
without knocking (_ouvreuses_ never knock! that is one of their many
privileges) and begged to _parler à_ Monsieur. Imagine the chaste George's
feelings when he was told that the famous Sarah wished to speak with him,
and, moreover, desired him to come behind the scenes to her dressing-room.
What a situation! His red hair blushed to the very roots, and his yellow
face became n sunset. However, one is or one is not a man. He proved
himself to be one who could face danger when the time came.
Trembling at the thought of Boston, the virtuous, hearing of it, he saw in
his mind's eye the height the Puritan brows of his most distinguished
family would reach when the news would be spread over the town, and a
certain biblical scene passed before his mental vision.
He gave his lemon-colored mustache a final fascinating twist, and, humming
to himself "Hail, the conquering hero comes!" he buckled on his sword and
went--all his colors flying.
We waited breathlessly for his return, which was much sooner than we
expected, and the smile he wore was not that of a conquering hero; it was
another kind of a smile. Well, what do you think Madame Sarah wanted?
Merely to know if the child in the box was his! His! His unmarried hair
stood on end; he was so taken aback that he only had breath to mutter, "I
am not married, Madame."