The thought of the poor young fellow who was to be shot kept me awake,
and I thought at five o'clock that I heard the report of guns, but I
was not sure. My imagination was so keen that I could have pictured
anything to myself.
The first thing the King said to me at luncheon was, "Did you hear this
morning?"
I told him I heard something, but I dreaded to think what it might have
meant.
"Alas!" he said, as his eyes filled with tears, "it is too true, I hate
to think of it."
We left Monza at three o'clock this afternoon, I cannot tell you how
kind their Majesties were to me! The Queen kissed me good-by and said,
"_Au revoir à Rome_."
The King gave me his arm and went down the steps of the grand staircase
of the principal entrance with me and put me himself in the landau.
"You do not know what an honor this is," said Signor Peruzzi--as if I
did not appreciate it!
We drove to the station in state and traveled in the royal compartment
to Milan.... We intended to leave for Rome and home this evening, but
I feel too tired to do anything but send to you these few lines and go
to bed.
To-morrow night will find us in the Palazzo Tittoni, where the children
already have arrived.
ROME, _January, 1885_.
Dear Aunt Maria,--Just now we are reveling in Liszt. Rome is wild over
him, and one leaves no stone unturned in order to meet him. Fortunate
are those who have even a glimpse of him, and thrice blessed are those
who _know_ and hear him. He is the prince of musicians--in fact, he is
treated like a prince. He always has the precedence over every one;
even Ambassadors--so tenacious of their rights--give them up without
hesitation. Every one is happy to pay this homage to genius.
We met him the first time at M. de Schlözer's dinner. Schlözer, with
his usual tact, plied him well with good food, gave him the best of
wines and a superlative cigar. (Liszt is a great epicure and an
inveterate smoker.) M. de Schlözer never mentioned the word "music,"
but made Liszt talk, and that was just the thing Liszt wanted to do,
until, seeing that he was not expected to play, he was crazy to get to
the piano. Finally he could not resist, and said to Schlözer, "Do play
something for me!"
"Never!" said Schlözer. "I would not dare."
Then Liszt turned to me and asked me to sing. I also said, "I would not
dare." Whereupon he said, "Well, since no one will do anything, I will
play myself."
(The Minghettis, von Keudell, and Count Arco, Schlözer's secretary,
were the guests.)
How divinely he played! He seemed to be inspired. Certainly the
enthusiastic and sympathetic listeners were worthy to be his audience.
"Do you still sing Massenet?" he said to me. "Do you recollect my
dining with you in Paris, and your singing those exquisite songs?"
"Recollect it!" I cried. "How do you think I could ever forget?"
"Will you not sing? I will accompany you," he said. "Have you any of
Massenet's songs?"
"I have nothing with me to-night. I never dreamt of singing," I
answered.
Schlözer said: "That is no obstacle. I will send a servant to your
house directly to fetch the music." And in a very short time the music
was in my hands.
Then Liszt sat down and, turning over the pages, found what he wanted,
and I sang. Schlözer was radiantly happy. There was not one disturbing
element. Every one was as appreciative as he was himself--those who
listened as well as those who performed.
[Illustration:
NOTE FROM F. LISZT]
Liszt was at his best; I mean that he could not have been better.
Knowing that Count Arco sang, he insisted on hearing him. Arco at first
declined, but finally yielded--there was no resisting the arch-charmer.
Liszt played the "_Suoni la tromba_" (Arco's _cheval de bataille_), by
heart, of course, singing himself, to help the timid singer, and adding
variations on the piano.
Liszt was in such high spirits that we would not have been surprised if
he had danced a jig. He threw his long hair back from his forehead, as
if to throw care to the winds. Later he spread his large hands over the
keyboard in protest and said, "_No more from me_, but we must hear
Schlözer before we go." Therefore Schlözer was obliged to play. He can
only improvise, as you know. Liszt sat by his side and played a helpful
bass.
Schlözer ordered some champagne, and we all drank one another's
healths. It was after one o'clock when we bade our host adieu. Johan
and I took Liszt in our carriage and left him at his apartment in the
Via Margutta on our way home.
We saw a great deal of him afterward, and he dined with us twice. The
first time we asked Grieg, the Norwegian genius, thinking it would
please Liszt to meet him. Perhaps this was a mistake. However, it was a
most interesting evening. Mrs. Grieg sang charmingly (Grieg's songs, of
course); and Liszt, with his hands folded in front of him, was lost in
thought--or was he asleep? Let us say he _dozed_--only waking up to
clap his hands and cry "Brava!" But it was perfectly wonderful when he
read at sight a concerto of Grieg's, in manuscript, which Grieg had
brought with him. Liszt played it off as if he had known it all his
life, reading all the orchestra parts. Both these great artists were
enchanted with each other, but after a while Liszt became tired of
music and asked if we could not have a game of whist. To play a banal
game of whist with Liszt seemed a sacrilege, but we played, all the
same. I was very _distraite_, seeing Grieg and his wife (who do not
play cards) wandering restlessly around the room, and sometimes I put
on an ace when a two would have done the deed.
Liszt plays the piano better than he plays whist. I don't know how many
times he revoked. Every one pretended not to notice, and we paid up at
the finish without a murmur. He was delighted to win four lire and
something, and counted out the small change quite conscientiously.
Johan drove him home--a very tired and sleepy Liszt--and only left him
at the sill of his door.
I received a very queer letter the day Liszt dined here. I copy it for
you. It was from the Princess W----, a lady whose friendship he
renounced when he took holy orders.
I hear that you are going to have the Master (_le Maître_) to dine
at your house. I beg of you to see that he does not sit in a
draught of air, or that the cigar he will smoke will not be too
strong, and the coffee he drinks will be weak, for he cannot sleep
after, and please see that he is brought safely to his apartment.
Yours, etc., etc.
* * * * *
All these instructions were carried out to the letter. On another
occasion Liszt wrote to me that he would bring some of his songs to try
over at five o'clock. I inclose his letter. What a chance, thought I,
for me to give pleasure to some of my friends who I knew were longing
to see him. Although he had said _entre nous_ in his letter, and I knew
that he really wanted to look through the songs alone with me, I could
not resist the temptation--though it was such rank disobedience--and
said to them: "Liszt is coming to me at five o'clock. If you would like
to hear him, and consent to be hidden behind a door, I will invite
you." They all accepted with rapture, and were assembled in the little
_salon_ before the time appointed. The door was left open and a large
screen placed before it.
Johan fetched Liszt in our carriage, as he always does. I received him
and the book of _Lieder_, which he brought with him. (Only Johan and
Nina were present.) He opened the book at "_Comment disaient
ils?_"--one of his most beautiful songs, which has an exquisite but
very difficult accompaniment. He played with fairy fingers, and we went
over it several times. I could see the screen swerving and waving
about; but Liszt's back was turned, so he could not see it.
After we had finished tea was served, and then he said, "Have you heard
my 'Rigoletto'?"
"Yes," I said, "but not by you."
"Well," he said, "I will play it for you. Your piano is better than the
one I have. It is a pleasure to play on it."
The screen, now alive with emotion, almost tipped over. After
"Rigoletto" he played "_Les soirées de Vienne_," and this time the
screen actually did topple over and exposed to view the group of ladies
huddled behind it. I shuddered to think how the Master would take this
horrible treachery.
He took it better than I expected--in fact, he laughed outright. The
ladies came forward and were presented to him, and were delighted. I am
sure that Liszt was, too; at any rate, he laughed so much at my ruse
and contrition that the tears rolled down his cheeks. He wiped them
away with his pocket-handkerchief, which had an embroidered "F.L." in
the corner. This he left behind, and I kept it as a souvenir.
Some days after this there was a large dinner given by the German
Ambassador (Herr von Keudell) for the Princess Frederick Carl. Liszt
and many others, including ourselves, were present. The Ambassador
allowed the gentlemen only a short time to smoke; he gave them good but
small cigars. I do not know how the great Master liked this, for he is
a fervent smoker. However, as _le charbonnier est maître chez lui_, our
host had his way and the music commenced, as he wished, very soon after
dinner. Both the Ambassador and his wife are perfect pianists.
They play four-hand pieces on two pianos. On this occasion, to do honor
to the famous composer, they grappled with a formidable work by Liszt,
called "Mazeppa." (I fancy that Liszt is a little like Rossini, who
used to say, "_Jouez pour moi toute autre chose que ma musique_.")
Mazeppa's wild scampering over the two keyboards made our hair stand on
end, but the Master dozed off in peaceful slumber and only waked up and
cried "Bravo!" when Mazeppa had finished careering and the two pianists
were wiping their perspiring brows. Liszt begged the Princess to
whistle, and opened his book of _Lieder_ at "_Es muss ein wunderbares
sein_" (a lovely song) and said, "Can you whistle that?" Yes, she
could; and did it very carefully and in a _wunderbares_ manner. Liszt
was astonished and delighted.
Then Liszt played. Each time I hear him I say, "Never has he played
like this." How can a person surpass himself? Liszt does. He had the
music of "_Comment disaient ils?_" in the same book and begged me to
sing it. "Do you think," he said, "you could add this little cadenza at
the end?" And he played it for me.
"I think so," I said. "It does not seem very difficult," and hummed it.
"I had better write it for you," he said, "so that you will not forget
it." And he took out his visiting-card and wrote it on the back. (I
send it to you.)
[Illustration:
FROM F. LISZT
Handwritten music score.]
Liszt is not always as amiable as this. He resents people counting on
his playing. When Baroness K. inveigled him into promising to take tea
with her because he knew her father, she, on his accepting, invited a
lot of friends, holding out hopes that Liszt would play. She pushed the
piano into the middle of the room--no one could have possibly failed to
see it. Every one was on the _qui vive_ when Liszt arrived, and
breathless with anticipation. Liszt, who had had many surprises of this
sort, I imagine, saw the situation at a glance. After several people
had been presented to him, Liszt, with his most captivating smile, said
to the hostess:
"_Où est votre piano, chère madame?_" and looked all about for the
piano, though it was within an inch of his nose.
"Oh, Monseigneur! Would you, really...?" advancing toward the piano
triumphantly. "You are too kind. I never should have dared to ask you."
And, waving her hand toward it, "_Here_ is the piano!"
"Ah," said Liszt, who loves a joke, "_c'est vrai. Je voulais y poser
mon chapeau_."
Very crestfallen, but undaunted, the Baroness cried, "But, Monseigneur,
you will not refuse, if only to play a scale--merely to _touch_ the
piano!"
But Liszt, as unkind as she was tactless, answered, coldly, "Madame, I
never play my scales in the afternoon," and turned his back on her and
talked with Madame Helbig.
As they stood there together, he and Madame Helbig, one could not see
very much difference between them. She is as tall as Liszt, wears her
hair short, and is attired in a long water-proof which looks like a
soutane; and he wears his hair long, and is attired in a long soutane
which looks like a water-proof. As regards their clothes, the only
noticeable difference was that her gown was buttoned down the front and
his was not. Both have the same broad and urbane smile.
One of the last dinners with Liszt before he left Rome was at the Duke
and Duchess Sermonetas'--the Minghettis, the Keudells, Schlözer, and
ourselves. Lenbach, the celebrated painter, was invited, but forgot all
about the invitation until long after the dinner. Then he hurriedly
donned a _redingote_ and appeared, flurried and distressed. Liszt was
in one of his most delightful moods, and began improvising a
tarantella, and Madame Minghetti jumped up suddenly and started to
dance. Schlözer, catching the spirit of it, joined her. Who ever would
have thought that the sedate German Minister to the Pope could have
been so giddy! He knelt down, clapping his hands and snapping his
fingers to imitate castanets. Madame Minghetti, though a grandmother,
danced like a girl of sixteen, and Liszt at the piano played with
Neapolitan gaiety! It was a moment never to be forgotten. Keudell's
kind eyes beamed with joy. Lenbach looked over his spectacles and
forgot his usual sarcastic smile. We all stood in an enchanted circle,
clapping our hands in rhythmical measure.
Our good friend Ludolf, as Liszt's ambassador, asked the abbé--who has
a great respect for "the powers that be"--to a beautiful dinner, to
which we were invited, the Minghettis, the Keudells, and four
others--making twelve in all. Madame Minghetti accepted for herself,
but excused her husband, who she said was not to be in Rome that
evening. Count Ludolf asked M. de Pitteurs (the Belgian Minister) to
fill Minghetti's place.
Five minutes before dinner was announced, in came Madame Minghetti with
Monsieur Minghetti.
"What!" cried the Count. "I did not expect _you_! Why did you not send
me word that you were coming? We shall be thirteen at table, and that
will never do."
Both M. and Mme. Minghetti were very much embarrassed.
"There is nothing easier," answered Signor Minghetti. "I can go home."
You may imagine that this was not very pleasant for the great
Minghetti, who had probably never had such an experience in all his
life.
Count Arco, seeing the situation, and as a solution to the difficulty,
went across the street to the club, thinking that some one could be
found. Fortunately, he succeeded, and you may be sure the emergency
guest was only too delighted to make the fourteenth at _that_ table.
The Minghettis kindly and magnanimously overlooked the Count's want of
tact.
Liszt, as if he wished to make us forget this untimely incident, played
after dinner as he had never played before. But nothing could suppress
Count Ludolf--never mind where the _plats_ were, his feet continued to
get into them. Right in the middle of Liszt's most exquisite playing
our irrepressible host said, in a loud voice:
"If any one wishes to have a game of whist, there are tables in the
other room."
Liszt stopped short, but, seeing all our hands raised in holy horror at
the thought of exchanging him for a game of whist, consented amiably to
remain at the piano.
Liszt honored me by coming to my reception, brought by M. de
Keudell--Liszt is always brought. Imagine the delight of my friends who
came thus unexpectedly on the great Master. They made a circle around
him, trying to edge near enough to get a word with him. He was
extremely amiable and seemed pleased to create this manifestation of
admiration. (Can one ever have enough?) There are two young musical
geniuses here at the Villa Medici, both _premier prix de Rome_. One is
Gabriel Pierné, surnamed "_Le Bébé_" because he is so small and looks
so boyish--he really does not seem over fourteen years of age--and
another, Paul Vidal, who is as good a pianist as Pierné, but not such a
promising composer.
I asked Liszt if he would allow these two young artists to play some of
their compositions for him. Liszt kindly consented, and the appointed
day found them all in the _salon_. Liszt was enchanted (so he said);
but how many times has he said, clapping the delighted artist on the
shoulder, "_Mon cher, vous avez un très grand talent.... Vous irez
loin; vous arriverez_," a great phrase! And then he would sit down at
the piano, saying with a smile, "Do you play this?" and play it and
crush him to atoms, and they would depart, having _la mort dans l'âme_,
and overwhelmed with their imperfections. Instead of encouraging them,
he discouraged them, poor fellows! Speaking of young artists in
general, he said once, "_Il n'y a personne qui apprécie comme moi les
bonnes intentions, mais je n'en aime pas toujours les resultats_."
You may believe that my artistic soul is full of joy when I can collect
about me such artists as Liszt, Grieg, Sgambati, Pierné, Vidal, Mme.
Helbig, and Countess Gigliucci, not to mention the Queen's _Gentilhomme
de la reine_ (Marquis Villamarina), who has the most delicious barytone
voice I have ever heard--but he seems to think as little of this divine
gift as if it were his umbrella. Vera (the singing-master) was
prevented from coming to-day to the Queen's lesson, and Signor
Marchetti replaced him. He is a very well-known composer, and has
written an opera called "Ruy Blas," which has had quite a success here
in Italy. The Queen and I sing a duet from it which is really charming.
Baron Renzis had some theatricals at his pretty villa in Piazza
Indipendenza, in which Nina acted the principal _rôle_, in "L'été de
St.-Martin." Senateur Alfieri (son of the celebrated Alfieri) took the
part of the uncle. One of the thirteen pictures Lenbach painted of Nina
was put on the stage and afterward brought before the curtain, but it
created no enthusiasm--people did not think it did her justice.
One actor (a young Frenchman) had such a stage-fright that when he had
to say this phrase (it was all he had to say), "_Le peintre vous a
diablement flattée_," he said, "_Le diable vous a peintrement
flattée_," which caused a roar of laughter and hurt Lenbach's
feelings....
Massenet has just sent a complete collection of his songs--all six. I
like the first two best--"_Poëme d'Avril_" and "_Poëme de Souvenir_."
This last he dedicated to me. There stands on the title-page, "_Madame,
Vous avez si gracieusement protege le Poëme d'Avril_...", etc. The
"_Poëme d'Hiver_," "_Poëme d'Octobre_," and "_Poëme d'Amour_" have
pretty things in them, but they are far from being so complete as the
first ones. Massenet wrote the date of its composition on each
title-page, and a few bars of music.
I took them to the Queen, and we looked them over together. She was
enchanted, and thought them the most graceful and refined things she
had ever heard. She said, "I envy you having them."
"Would your Majesty like to have some?" I asked.
"Yes, indeed; very much," she replied. "But I could never sing them.
You would have to teach me how. They suit your voice, but would they
mine? No one can sing them as you do."
"I learnt them with Massenet; that is why," I replied.
I wrote to Massenet and begged him to send the same collection to the
Queen, as she had been so delighted with his songs, and added, "Don't
forget to put your name, the dates, and a bar or two of music just like
what you sent to me."
Most amiably he did what I asked for, and the Queen was more than
pleased, and immediately thanked him through the Marquise Villamarina.
Massenet has become a great celebrity now. Twenty years ago, when he
was struggling to get on in Paris, Auber and I helped him. I used to
pay him five francs an hour for copying manuscripts. Now one pays
twenty francs _just to look at him_!
Mr. Morgan, of London, has hired our good friend George Wurts's
magnificent apartment in the relic-covered Palazzo Antici-Mattei. Wurts
is secretary to the American Legation in Petersburg, but comes
occasionally to see his friends in Rome, who all welcome him with
delight. Mr. Morgan gives beautiful dinners, and, although he has as
many fires as he can possibly have, the huge rooms are freezingly cold,
and sometimes we sit wrapped in our mantles.
ROME, _1st of January, 1886_.
My dear Aunt,--All Johan's and my most affectionate greetings: "May the
year which commences to-day bring you every joy." I am selfish enough
to wish that it will bring _us_ the joy of seeing you. You promised to
make us a visit. Why not this spring?
It is six o'clock. I am sitting in my dressing-gown and feeling good
for nothing. The diplomatic reception this afternoon was as brilliant
as the others which I have described so often. The Queen was, _if
possible_, more beautiful and gracious than ever. (I think the same
each time I see her.) Every eye followed her. Does there exist in the
world a more complete and lovely woman? To-day the Queen's dress was
exquisite--a white satin covered with paillettes and beads, the court
train of blue velvet heavily embroidered in silver. The tiara of
diamonds, with great upward-pointed shaped pearls which her Majesty
wore, was the King's New-year gift. "My Christmas present," the Queen
told me.
The King seemed more talkative than usual; he spoke a long time with
each person and smiled and laughed continually. Politics must be
_easy_--like honors in whist. There is evidently no trouble in that
quarter.
_March._
Dear ----,--I have permission to tell the great secret. Nina is engaged
to the young Dane I wrote to you about--a Count Raben-Levetzau. He is
very charming and belongs to one of the best families in Denmark. We
went to the German Ambassador's (Herr von Keudell's) ball last evening
at the Palazzo Caffarelli, which the King and the Queen honored with
their presence. As soon as I could, I approached the Queen, who was
sitting in one of the gilded chairs on the _estrade_ which does duty
for a throne, and told her of Nina's engagement. She came forward to
the edge of the platform and, beckoning Nina to come to her, held out
her hand and kissed her on both cheeks before the whole assemblage. Of
course, the news circulated as quick as lightning. When the King heard
it he came straight up to us, and I presented Frederick to him. His
Majesty was most affable, and said, smilingly, to Nina:
"Are we really going to lose you? We shall miss our beautiful stella"
(star). And turning to Frederick, he said: "I do not give my consent
_at all_. I think that I will forbid the banns."
Every one crowded around Nina, eager to congratulate her. Frederick was
as radiant as a new-blossomed _fiancé_ could possibly be.
_March._
We are as busy as bees. The trousseau is being made by the nuns in the
Trinita de Monti convent. The Queen sent Nina a beautiful point-lace
fan with mother-of-pearl sticks. The Queen of Denmark sent her a
bracelet with diamonds and pearls. Count Raben's family and all the
colleagues have given her beautiful presents.
_April 10th._
It is all over--Nina is married and gone.
Day before yesterday was a day of emotions. In the morning we went at
ten o'clock to the Campidoglio, where the magistrate's offices are and
where the _sindaco_ (the Marquis Guiccioli, a great friend of Nina's)
performed the civil marriage. He particularly wished to do this _en
personne_ as a special favor. He made a charming and affectionate
speech and gave the pen we signed the contract with to Nina. Then we
drove home, changed our dresses, and were ready at two o'clock for the
real marriage at the church.
The church was filled to the last pew. When Nina came in on Johan's arm
there was a murmur of admiration. She looked exquisitely in her bridal
gown, and as she turned round before descending the altar steps and
threw back her veil she was a vision of beauty, and I am sure she will
be a "joy for ever." All Rome came to the reception at our house.
While at Sorrento we went one afternoon to take tea with the Marion
Crawfords. They have a charming villa on the rocks. They seemed very
glad to see us, and showed us all over the villa and their pretty
garden. "My den," as Mr. Crawford called his sunny and comfortable
library quite worthy of the lion he is. They are a very handsome
couple. She is as sympathetic as he is, and they both talk in the most
entertaining and lively manner. We had a delightful afternoon.
I was asked to sing at a charity concert to be given in the magnificent
_Salle de Gardes_ in the Barberini Palace. The concert was arranged by
all the most fashionable ladies in Rome, who with the ladies of the
court were _dames patronesses_.
I accepted, as the Queen expressed the wish that I should. She even
selected the songs she thought best for the occasion, and was present
with all the court, which, of course, gave great _éclat_ to the
concert.
Every place was taken, and, enormous as was the _salle_, it was crammed
to its limit, people standing up by hundreds. Sarah Bernhardt, being in
Rome, promised to lend her aid; she recited a monologue in her soft,
melodious voice, but so low that it could hardly have been heard
farther than the first few rows of seats.
I sang the "Rossignol" and Liszt's "_Que disaient ils?_" to Sgambati's
accompaniment. Madame Helbig played the accompaniment of the
"Capriciosa" of Blumenthal, the one that has all those wonderful
cadenzas which run rampant through the different keys. Madame Helbig is
a marvelous musician. I must tell you what she did. When I was soaring
all alone up in the clouds without any earthly help in that long
cadenza, she foresaw that I was not coming down on the right note and
changed the key from four sharps to four flats without any one noticing
it, thereby saving me from dire disaster.
Any musician can change from sharps to flats, but she was reading this
very difficult accompaniment almost at first sight and before a large
audience. I think that it was a tremendous _tour de force_.
AALHOLM, _August, 1886_.
My dear Aunt,--Did you receive the newspaper cuttings I sent you
describing the home-coming of Frederick and Nina? Did they not read
like fairy tales?
Aalholm Castle is situated on the sea. It is one of the most historic
places in the country, and seems to have been bandied back and forth to
pay the different kings' debts.
Christopher II. was imprisoned here (the prisons still exist), and two
more moldy and unpleasant places to be shut up in cannot well be
imagined. The guards used to walk up and down in front of the aperture
through which food was passed to the unfortunate and damp monarch.
Later Aalholm came into Count Raben's family (in the eighteenth
century). There are, of course, all sorts of legends and ghostly
stories which, as in all ancient castles, are, with the family specter,
absolutely necessary. Women in gauzy drapery have been seen roaming
about in dark corridors, horses have been heard rattling their chains
in the courtyard. Mirrors also do something, but I forget what.
However, no phantoms, I believe, have been noticed during this
generation; probably the building which is going on now has discouraged
them on their prowling tours and routed them from their lairs. I have
watched with interest for the last three weeks the workmen who are
making a hole in the massive walls in a room next to mine. The walls
are about ten feet thick and are made of great boulders, the space
between being filled with mortar which time has made as hard as iron.
Every king or owner of Aalholm since the time it has stood on its legs
seems to have had different ideas about windows. One sees on its tired
old exterior traces of every kind and every period. Some round, some a
mere slit in the wall, some with arches all helter-skelter, without any
regard to symmetry or style.
Each owner made his window, and each successor bricked it up and put
his window in its place. The building is very long, with two towers. It
looks at a distance like a huge dachshund with head and tail sticking
up. There is a chapel in one wing, which no one ever enters, and there
is a theater in another wing, where in old times there were given
plays.
The park is beautiful beyond words. You come across some old graves of
vikings, of which nothing is left save the stones they used for the
making of them. The treasures that they contained have long since been
removed by a wise government in order to fill the national museums.
Many gold and silver coins have been picked up _in the grounds_, and
are turned to use by making tankards and bowls, and very pretty and
interesting they are. On the walls of the large hall there are
inscriptions which were made in the sixteenth century to commemorate
the visits of different monarchs. King Frederick II., 1585, must have
had many friends with him. Like our modern guest-book, each guest left
his name and motto, which was painted on the walls, with his motto and
his particular sign, such as a mug or a rake (I hope these did not
refer to his personal attributes). One that King Frederick wrote seems
to me to be very pathetic, and makes one think that his friends must
have been ultra-treacherous and false. It reads: "_Mein hilf in Gott.
Wildbracht allein ist treu_." ("God is my help. Wildbracht [the name of
his dog] alone is faithful.") Don't you think that has a sad note in
it?
[Illustration:
AALHOLM. BUILT IN 1100
In 1585 some changes were made and from time to time windows have been
cut through the walls.]
[Illustration:
INSCRIPTIONS IN ONE OF THE ROOMS AT AALHOLM, BEARING THE DATE 1585
Those at the top are: Left: "My hope is in God. Wildtbragt [his dog]
alone is faithful.--Frederick II., King of Denmark and Norway." Right:
"God forgets not His own.--Soffia, Queen of Denmark." Those below were
made by members of the court, who attached their individual marks
instead of signatures.]
MILAN, HOTEL MILAN, _October 17, 1886_.
Dear Aunt M----,--Just think what luck I have had. They say that
everything comes to those who wait, and what I have waited for has come
at last. I have seen and made the acquaintance of Verdi, the famous. He
always stops at this hotel, because he is a friend of the proprietor's,
Mr. Spatz, who, knowing my desire to meet Verdi, said that he would
arrange an interview. This he kindly did. Verdi received me in his
_salon_. He looks just like his photographs--very interesting face
with burning eyes. His welcome was just warm enough not to be cold. The
conversation opened, of course, on music. I said that I admired his
music more than that of any other composer in the world. This was
stretching a point, but it brought a pale smile to his verdigris
countenance (this is unworthy of the worst punster). I told him that I
often had the honor of singing with the Queen, and that we sang many
duets from his operas. He did not seem to be much impressed by this
miracle and received it with amiable indifference.
I longed to hear him talk, but with the exception of a few
"_veramentes_" and "_grazies_" he remained passive and silent. By way
of saying something he asked me if I had heard Tamagno in "Othello."
"Yes," I said. "I cannot think of anything more splendid. I never heard
anything to equal him, and Monsieur Maurel is equally fine, is he not?"
"His singing is well enough," answered Verdi, "but his accent is
deplorable."
After this the conversation languished, and I feared it would die for
want of fuel. I felt that I had been spinning my web in vain--that I
might catch some other fly, but not Verdi, when suddenly he said:
"You tell me that you sing often with the Queen. Which duets of mine do
you sing?" he asked with seeming interest.