My dear Sister,--You may think what a joy it is to me to have my
dear friend Mrs. Bigelow Lawrence staying with me here. Every day
we go to some museums and do a little sight-seeing. She is
interested in everything.
The new President (Loubet) gave us for one night the Presidential
_loge_ at the Grand Opéra, and I cannot tell you how delighted we
were to hear Wagner's "Meistersinger" given in French, and
marvelously executed. All the best singers took part. The
orchestra was magnificent beyond words. The artists played with a
delicacy and a _culte_ not even surpassed at Bayreuth. In the
_entr'actes_ we reviewed--seated in the luxurious, spacious _loge_
where the huge sofas and the _fauteuils_ offered their hospitable
arms--our impressions, which were ultra-enthusiastic. Near us was
Madame Cosima Wagner, whom one of our party went to see. She
expressed the greatest pleasure at the performance, not concealing
her surprise that a representation in French and in France could
be so perfect. If that most difficult of ladies was satisfied,
imagine how satisfied _we_ must have been!
[Illustration:
FÉLIX FAURE WHEN PRESIDENT OF FRANCE
From a photograph taken shortly before his sudden death and sent
by his widow to Madame de Hegermann-Lindencrone.]
As a _bonne bouche_ we took Mrs. Lawrence to Madame Carnot's evening
reception. These receptions are not gay. They might be called
standing-_soirées_, as no one ever sits down. The guests move in a
procession through the _salons_, the last one of which is rather a
melancholy one. In the middle of it is a square piece of marble lying
flat on the floor, and a quantity of withered wreaths and faded
ribbons piled up on it. They are the souvenirs of the late President's
funeral. Madame Carnot, a most charming lady, wears a long black veil
as in the first days of her widowhood, and receives in a
widowed-Empress manner.
Mrs. Lawrence's visit is the incentive for active service in the army
of musicians. The President often sends me the _ci-devant_ Imperial
_loge_ at the Conservatoire. In old times I used to think how splendid
it would be to sit here! Now I have the twelve seats to dispose
of--six large gilded Empire _fauteuils_ in front, and six small ones
behind. There is always a bright coal-fire in the _salon_ adjoining,
but it does not take away the damp coldness from a room where a ray of
light or a breath of fresh air never can penetrate. The concerts seem
exactly the same as they used to be; they do not appear to have
changed either in their _repertoires_ or in their audiences. Beethoven,
Haydn, and Bach are still the fashion, and the old _habitués_ still
bob their heads in rhythmical measure.
The chorus of men and women look precisely as they did when dear old
Auber was _directeur_ (twenty-five years ago). I think that they must
be the same. The sopranos are still dressed in white, and the
contraltos in black, indicative of their voices' color.
Pugno with his pudgy hands played the Concerto of Mozart in his
masterful manner. One wonders how he can have any command over the
keyboard, he has such short arms and such a protruding stomach.
As a modern innovation Pierno's "_Création_" was given, beautifully
executed, but received only with toleration.
Just to go up the familiar worn staircase brought the old scenes
vividly before me. Then it was a great piece of luck to obtain a seat
within its sacred walls, and such an event to go to a concert that I
can still remember my sensations.