In the Courts of Memory 1858 1875. by L. de Hegermann Lindencrone

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[Illustration: MADAME CHARLES MOULTON]

IN THE COURTS OF MEMORY
1858-1875
FROM CONTEMPORARY LETTERS

BY
L. DE HEGERMANN-LINDENCRONE

ILLUSTRATIONS
MADAME CHARLES MOULTON
THE FAY HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS
EMPEROR NAPOLEON III
EMPRESS EUGÉNIE
DANIEL FRANÇOIS ESPRIT AUBER
FACSIMILE OF LETTER FROM THE DUKE DE MORNY
JENNY LIND
THE MAIN FAÇADE--CHÂTEAU DE COMPIÈGNE
SALLE DES FÊTES--CHÂTEAU DE COMPIÈGNE
CHÂTEAU DE PIERREFONDS
THE MUSIC HALL--CHÂTEAU DE COMPIÈGNE
FACSIMILE OF LETTER FROM JENNY LIND
FACSIMILE OF LISZT LETTER
MÉRIMÉE'S SIGNATURE AND ANSWERS TO MADAME MOULTON'S QUESTIONS
LA SALLE DES PREUX--CHÂTEAU DE PIERREFONDS....
PRINCE METTERNICH'S SIGNATURE AND ANSWERS TO MADAME MOULTON'S QUESTIONS
NAPOLEON'S SIGNATURE AND ANSWERS TO MADAME MOULTON'S QUESTIONS
EMPRESS EUGÉNIE'S SIGNATURE AND ANSWERS TO MADAME MOULTON'S QUESTIONS
ELIHU WASHBURN
RUE DE RIVOLI, WHERE THE HÔTEL CONTINENTAL NOW STANDS
RAOUL RIGAULT
FACSIMILE OF PASSPORT ISSUED TO MADAME MOULTON DURING THE COMMUNE
FACSIMILE OF THE GOVERNMENT PERMIT TO KEEP COWS
PLACE VENDÔME AFTER THE FALL OF THE COLUMN
FACSIMILE OF TICKET TO PLACE VENDÔME
FACSIMILE OF ENVELOPE ADDRESSED BY THE EMPRESS EUGÉNIE TO PRINCE
METTERNICH
GIUSEPPE GARIBALDI

PREFACE

These letters, written by me in my younger days to a dear and indulgent
mother and aunt, were returned to me after their death. In writing them I
allowed myself to go into the smallest details, even the most
insignificant ones, as I was sure that they would be welcome and
appreciated by those to whom they were addressed. They were certainly not
intended to be made public.

If I have decided, after much hesitation, to publish these letters, it is
because many of my friends, having read them, have urged me to do so,
thinking that they might be of interest, inasmuch as they refer to some
important events of the past, and especially to people of the musical
world whose names and renown are not yet forgotten.

LILLIE DE HEGERMANN-LINDENCRONE. BERLIN, _July, 1912._

NOTE

Madame de Hegermann-Lindencrone, the writer of these letters, which give
so vivid a picture of the brilliant court of the last Napoleon, is the
wife of the present Danish Minister to Germany. She was formerly Miss
Lillie Greenough, of Cambridge, Massachusetts, where she lived with her
grandfather, Judge Fay, in the fine old Fay mansion, now the property of
Radcliffe College.

As a child Miss Greenough developed the remarkable voice which later was
to make her well known, and when only fifteen years of age her mother took
her to London to study under Garcia. Two years later Miss Greenough became
the wife of Charles Moulton, the son of a well-known American banker, who
had been a resident in Paris since the days of Louis Philippe. As Madame
Charles Moulton, the charming American became an appreciated guest at the
court of Napoleon III. The Paris papers of the days of the Second Empire
are filled with the praises of her personal attractions and exquisite
singing.

After nine years of gaiety in the gayest city in the world came the war of
1870 and the Commune. Upon the fall of the Empire, Mrs. Moulton returned
to America, where Mr. Moulton died, and a few years afterward she married
M. de Hegermann-Lindencrone, at that time Danish Minister to the United
States, and later successively his country's representative at Stockholm,
Rome, and Paris.

Few persons of her day have known so many of those whom the world has
counted great. Among her friends have been not only the ruling monarchs of
several countries, and the most distinguished men and women of their
courts, but almost all the really important figures in the world of music
of the past half-century, among them Wagner, Liszt, Auber, Gounod, and
Rossini. And of many of these great men the letters give us glimpses of
the most fascinatingly intimate sort.

IN THE COURTS OF MEMORY

CAMBRIDGE, _1856._

DEAR M.,--You say in your last letter, "Do tell me something about your
school." If I only had the time, I could write volumes about my school,
and especially about my teachers.

To begin with, Professor Agassiz gives us lectures on zoölogy, geology,
and all other ologies, and draws pictures on the blackboard of trilobites
and different fossils, which is very amusing. We call him "Father Nature,"
and we all adore him and try to imitate his funny Swiss accent.

Professor Pierce, who is, you know, the greatest mathematician in the
world, teaches us mathematics and has an awful time of it; we must be very
stupid, for the more he explains, the less we seem to understand, and when
he gets on the rule of three we almost faint from dizziness. If he would
only explain the rule of one! The Harvard students say that his book on
mathematics is so intricate that not one of them can solve the problems.

We learn history and mythology from Professor Felton, who is very near-
sighted, wears broad-brimmed spectacles, and shakes his curly locks at us
when he thinks we are frivolous. He was rather nonplussed the other day,
when Louise Child read out loud in the mythology lesson something about
"Jupiter and ten." "What," cried Mr. Felton, "what are you reading? You
mean 'Jupiter and Io,' don't you?" "It says ten here," she answered.

Young Mr. Agassiz teaches us German and French; we read Balzac's _Les
Chouans_ and Schiller's _Wallenstein_.

Our Italian teacher, Luigi Monti, is a refugee from Italy, and has a sad
and mysterious look in his black eyes; he can hardly speak English, so we
have things pretty much our own way during the lessons, for he cannot
correct us. One of the girls, translating _capelli neri_, said "black
hats," and he never saw the mistake, though we were all dying of laughter.

No one takes lessons in Greek from long-bearded, fierce-eyed Professor
Evangelinus Apostolides Sophocles, so he is left in peace. He does not
come more than once a week anyway, and then only to say it is no use his
coming at all.

Cousin James Lowell replaces Mr. Longfellow the days he can't come. He
reads selections of "literary treasures," as he calls them, and on which
he discourses at length. He seems very dull and solemn when he is in
school; not at all as he is at home. When he comes in of an afternoon and
reads his poems to aunty and to an admiring circle of cousins and sisters-
in-law, they all roar with laughter, particularly when he reads them with
a Yankee accent. He has such a rippling little giggle while reading, that
it is impossible not to laugh.

The other day he said to me, "Cousin Lillie, I will take you out for a
walk in recess." I said, "Nothing I should like better, but I can't go."
"Why not?" said he. "Because I must go and be a beggar." "What do you
mean?" he asked. "I mean that there is a duet that Mrs. Agassiz favors
just now, from Meyerbeer's 'Le Prophète,' where she is beggar number one
and I am beggar number two." He laughed. "You are a lucky little beggar,
anyway. I envy you." "Envy me? I thought you would pity me," I said. "No,
I do not pity you, I envy you being a beggar with a voice!"

I consider myself a victim. In recess, when the other girls walk in Quincy
Street and eat their apples, Mrs. Agassiz lures me into the parlor and
makes me sing duets with her and her sister, Miss Carey. I hear the girls
filing out of the door, while I am caged behind the piano, singing, "Hear
Me, Norma," wishing Norma and her twins in Jericho.

There are about fourteen pupils now; we go every morning at nine o'clock
and stay till two o'clock. We climb up the three stories in the Agassiz
house and wait for our teachers, who never are on time. Sometimes school
does not begin for half an hour.

Mrs. Agassiz comes in, and we all get up to say good morning to her. As
there is nothing else left for her to teach, she teaches us manners. She
looks us over, and holds up a warning finger smilingly. She is so sweet
and gentle.

I don't wonder that you think it extraordinary that all these fine
teachers, who are the best in Harvard College, should teach us; but the
reason is, that the Agassiz's have built a new house and find it difficult
to pay for it, so their friends have promised to help them to start this
school, and by lending their names they have put it on its legs, so to
speak.

The other day I was awfully mortified. Mr. Longfellow, who teaches us
literature, explained all about rhythm, measures, and the feet used in
poetry. The idea of poetry having feet seemed so ridiculous that I thought
out a beautiful joke, which I expected would amuse the school immensely;
so when he said to me in the lesson, "Miss Greenough, can you tell me what
blank verse is?" I answered promptly and boldly, "Blank verse is like a
blank-book; there is nothing in it, not even feet," and looked around for
admiration, but only saw disapproval written everywhere, and Mr.
Longfellow, looking very grave, passed on to the next girl. I never felt
so ashamed in my life.

Mr. Longfellow, on passing our house, told aunty that he was coming in the
afternoon, to speak to me; aunty was worried and so was I, but when he
came I happened to be singing Schubert's "Dein ist mein Herz," one of
aunty's songs, and he said, "Go on. Please don't stop." When I had
finished he said:

"I came to scold you for your flippancy this morning, but you have only to
sing to take the words out of my mouth, and to be forgiven."

"And I hope you will forget," I said, penitently.

"I have already forgotten," he answered, affectionately. "How can one be
angry with a dear little bird? But don't try again to be so witty."

"Never again, I promise you."

"That's the dear girl you are, and 'Dein ist mein Herz'!" He stooped down
and kissed me.

I burst into tears, and kissed his hand. This is to show you what a dear,
kind man Mr. Longfellow is.

[Illustration: THE FAY HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS]

CAMBRIDGE, _June, 1857._

If you were here, dear mama, I would sing, "Oh, Wake and Call Me Early,
Call Me Early, Mother Dear," for I am to dance the quadrille on the
"Green" on Class Day. To be asked by a Harvard graduate to be one of the
four girls to dance is a great compliment. All the college windows are
full of people gazing at you, and just think of the other girls, who are
filled with envy fuller than the windows!

Aunty is "pestered" (as she calls it) to death by people wanting me to
sing for their charities. Every one has a pet charity, which it seems must
be attended to just at this time, and they clamor for help from me, and
aunty has not the courage to say "no." Therefore, about once a week I am
dressed in the white muslin and the black shoes, which is my gala get-up,
and a carriage is sent for me. Then aunty and I are driven to the Concert
Hall, where, when my turn comes, I go on the platform and sing, "Casta
Diva," "Ah, non Credea," etc., and if I am encored then I sing, "Coming
Thro' the Rye."

I am sure every one says that it is a shame to make me sing, but they make
me sing, all the same. I enjoy the applause and the excitement--who would
not? What I do _not_ enjoy is being obliged to sing in church every
Sunday. Dr. Hoppin has persuaded aunty to let me help in the choir; that
is, to sing the Anthem and the "Te Deum," but it amounts to my doing about
all the singing. Don't you think this is cruel? However, there is one hymn
I love to sing, and that is, "Shout the Glad Tidings, Exultingly Sing." I
put my whole heart and soul in this, and soon find myself shouting the
"glad tidings" all alone, my companions having left me in the lurch.

We laughed very much at aunty's efforts in the Anti-slavery movement (just
now at its height), when all Massachusetts has risen up with a bound in
order to prove that the blacks are as good as the whites (if not better),
and should have all their privileges. She, wishing to demonstrate this
point, introduced Joshua Green, a little colored boy (the washerwoman's
son), into the Sunday-school class. The general indignation among the
white boys did not dismay her, as she hoped that Joshua would come up to
the mark. The answer to the first question in the catechism (what is your
name?), he knew, and answered boldly, "Joshua Green." But the second
question, "Who made you?" was the stumbling-block. He sometimes answered,
"Father," and sometimes, "Mother." Aunty, being afraid that he would
answer, "Miss Fay," had him come to the house during the week, where she
could din into him that it was God who made him and all creation. "Now,
Joshua, when Dr. Hoppin says to you, 'Who made you?' you must answer,
'God, who made everything on earth and in heaven'--you understand?" "Yes,
ma'am," and repeated the phrase until aunty thought him ripe to appear at
Sunday-school, which he did on the following Sunday. You may imagine
aunty's consternation when Dr. Hoppin asked Joshua, "Who made you?" and
Joshua looked at aunty with a broad grin, showing all his teeth, and said,
"Lor', Miss Fay, I forget who you said it was." This was aunty's last
effort to teach the blacks. She repeated this episode to Mr. Phillips
Brooks, who, in return, told her an amusing story of a colored man who had
been converted to the Catholic religion, and went one day to confession
(he seems not to have been very sure about this function). The priest said
to him, "Israel, what have you to confess? Have you been perfectly honest
since the last time? No thefts?"

"No, sir."

"None at all? Stolen no chickens?"

"No, sir."

"No watermelons?"

"No, sir."

"No eggs?"

"No, sir."

"No turkeys?"

"No, sir; not one."

Then the priest gave absolution. Outside the church Israel found the
companions whom he had left waiting for him.

"Well, how did you get on?" they asked.

"Bully!" answered Israel. "But if he'd said ducks he'd have got me."

Cousin James Lowell said: "See how a negro appreciates the advantages of
the confession."

DEAR L.,--A family council was held yesterday, and it is now quite decided
that mama is to take me to Europe, and that I shall study singing with the
best masters. We will first go to New York for a visit of ten days with
Mr. and Mrs. Cooley. I shall see New York and hear a little music; and
then we start for Europe on the 17th in the _Commodore Vanderbilt_.

NEW YORK.

DEAR AUNT,--We have now been here a week, and I feel ashamed that I have
not written to you before, but I have been doing a great deal. The Cooleys
have a gorgeous house in Fifth Avenue, furnished with every luxury one can
imagine. The sitting-room, dining-room, library, and a conservatory next
to the billiard-room, are down-stairs; up-stairs are the drawing-rooms
(first, second, and third), which open into a marble-floored Pompeian
room, with a fountain. Then comes mama's and my bed-room, with bath-room
attached. On the third floor the family have their apartment. We have been
many times to the opera, and heard an Italian tenor, called Brignoli, whom
people are crazy over. He has a lovely voice and sings in "Trovatore."
Last night, when he sang "Di quella pira," people's enthusiasm knew no
bounds. They stood up and shouted, and ladies waved their handkerchiefs;
he had to repeat it three times, and each time people got wilder. Nina and
I clapped till our gloves were in pieces and our arms actually ached.

A Frenchman by the name of Musard has brought over a French orchestra, and
is playing French music at the opera-house. People are wild over him also.
Madame La Grange, who they say is a fine lady in her own country, is
singing in "The Huguenots." She has rather a thin voice, but vocalizes
beautifully. Nina and I weep over the hard fate of Valentine, who has to
be present when her husband is conspiring against the Huguenots, knowing
that her lover is listening behind the curtain and can't get away. The
priests come in and bless the conspiracy, all the conspirators holding
their swords forward to be blessed. This music is really too splendid for
words, and we enjoy it intensely.

Mr. Bancroft, the celebrated historian, invited us to dinner, and after
dinner they asked me to sing. I had to accompany myself. Every one
pretended that they were enchanted. Just for fun, at the end I sang,
"Three Little Kittens Took Off Their Mittens, to Eat a Christmas Pie," and
one lady (would you believe it?) said she wept tears of joy, and had cold
shivers down her back. When I sang, "For We Have Found Our Mittens," there
was, she said, such a jubilant ring in my voice that her heart leaped for
joy.

Mr. Bancroft sent me the next day a volume of Bryant's poems, with the
dedication, "To Miss Lillie Greenough, in souvenir of a never-forgetable
evening." I made so many acquaintances, and received so many invitations,
that if we should stay much longer here there would be nothing left of me
to take to Europe.

I will write as soon as we arrive on the other side. On whatever side I
am, I am always your loving niece, who thinks that there is no one in the
wide world to compare to you, that no one is as clever as you, that no one
can sing like you, and that there never was any one who can hold a candle
to you. There!

BREMEN, _August, 1859._

DEAR AUNT,--At last we have arrived at our journey's end, and we are happy
to have got out of and away from the steamer, where we have been cooped up
for the last weeks. However, we had a very gay time during those weeks,
and some very sprightly companions. Among them a runaway couple; he was a
Mr. Aulick Palmer, but I don't know who she was. One could have learned it
easily enough for the asking, as they were delighted to talk about
themselves and their elopement, and how they did it. It was their favorite
topic of conversation. I was intensely interested in them; I had never
been so near a romance in my life. They had been married one hour when
they came on board; she told her parents that she was going out shopping,
and then, after the marriage, wrote a note to them to say that she was
married and off to Europe, adding that she was not sorry for what she had
done. He is a handsome man, tall and dark; she is a jolly, buxom blonde,
with a charming smile which shows all her thirty and something teeth, and
makes her red, thick lips uncurl. I thought, for such a newly married
couple, they were not at all sentimental, which I should have supposed
natural. She became sea-sick directly, and he called attention to her as
she lay stretched out on a bench looking dreadfully green in the face: "We
are a sick couple--home-sick, love-sick, and sea-sick."

The captain, who thought himself a wag but who forgot every morning what
he had wagged about the day before, would say for his daily greeting, "Wie
[as the Germans say] befinden sie sich?" He thought the pun on sea-sick
was awfully funny, and would laugh uproariously. He said to Mr. Palmer,
"Why are you not like a melon?" We all guessed. One person said, "Because
he was not meloncholic [Aulick]." But all the guesses were wrong. "No,"
said the captain, "it is because the melon can't elope, and you can." He
thought himself very funny, and was rather put out that we did not think
him so, and went on repeating the joke to every one on the boat _ad
nauseam_.

LONDON, _1859._

DEAREST A.,--We arrived here, as we intended, on the 27th.... We easily
found Garcia's address, and drove there without delay. I was very anxious
to see the "greatest singing master in the world," and there he was
standing before me, looking very much as I had imagined him; but not like
any one I had ever seen before. He has grayish hair and a black mustache,
expressive big eyes, and such a fascinating smile! Mama said, having heard
of his great reputation, she wished that he would consent to give me a
_few_ lessons. He smiled, and answered that, if I would kindly sing
something for him, he could better judge how much teaching I required. I
replied--I was so sure of myself--that, if he would accompany "Qui la
voce," I would sing that. "Ha, ha!" he cried, with a certain sarcasm. "By
all means let us have that," and sat down before the piano while I spread
out the music before him. I sang, and thought I sang very well; but he
just looked up into my face with a very quizzical expression, and said,
"How long have you been singing, Mademoiselle?" Mama answered for me
before I could speak. "She has sung, Monsieur, since she was a very small
child."

He was not at all impressed by this, but said, "I thought so." Then he
continued. "You say you would like to take some lessons of me?" I was
becoming very humble, and said, meekly, that I hoped he would give me
some. "Well, Mademoiselle, you have a very wonderful voice, but you have
not the remotest idea how to sing." What a come-down! I, who thought I had
only to open my mouth to be admired, and only needed a _few_ finishing
touches to make me perfect, to be told that I had "not the remotest idea
how to sing"!

Mama and I both gasped for breath, and I could have cried for
disappointment as well as mortification. However, I felt he was right,
and, strange to say, mama felt so too. He said, "Take six months' rest and
don't sing a single note, then come back to me." When he saw the
crestfallen look on my face, he added, kindly, "Then we shall see
something wonderful."

We leave for Dresden this evening.... Love to all.

Your humble

LILLIE.

LONDON, _May, 1860._

DEAR A.,--I have not written since we left the kind V. Rensselaers in
Dresden. Mama must have given you all the details of our life there.... I
hope, now that I have studied French, German, and Italian like a good
little girl for six months and not "sung a single note," that I may
venture to present myself before the great Garcia again.

I can't imagine that I am the same person who has (it seems to me years
ago) sung before large, distinguished, and enthusiastic audiences, has
been a little belle, in a way, in Cambridge, has had serenades from the
Harvard Glee Club (poor aunty! routed out of your sleep in the middle of
the night to listen to them), inspired poetry, and danced on "the Green"
on Class Day. I felt as if I ought to put on pantalettes and wear my hair
down my back. I look now upon myself as a real _Backfisch_, as the Germans
call very young girls, and that is simply what I am; and I feel that I
ought never to have been allowed to sport about in those fascinating clear
waters which reflected no shadows, now that I must go back to the millpond
and learn to swim.

I have been already three weeks studying hard with Garcia, who is not only
a wonderful teacher, but is a wonderful personality. I simply worship him,
though he is very severe and pulls me up directly I "slipshod," as he
calls it; and so far I have literally sung nothing but scales. He says
that a scale must be like a beautiful row of pearls: each note like a
pearl, perfect in roundness and color.

This is so easy to say, but very difficult to accomplish. Stone-breaking
on the highroad is nothing to it. I come home tired out from my lessons,
only to begin singing scales again. I tell mama I feel like a fish with
the scales being taken off him.

Four hours by myself and two lessons a week will soon reduce your poor
niece to _a scaleton_. Ah! please forgive this....

No question of a song yet. "Qui la voce" seems way back in the Middle
Ages. Garcia says, "If, when your voice is well oiled [that is what he
calls the scaling process], you are not intelligent enough to sing a song
by yourself, then you had better knit stockings for the poor."

"Then," I answered, "I had better begin at once to learn to knit
stockings."

"Not quite yet!" he laughed. "Wait till I have finished with you." More
than once he has said, "Your voice reminds me of my sister Marie's
[meaning Malibran]; but she had no brains to speak of, whereas you have,
and you ought to be thankful for it."

I murmured that I was glad he thought so, and, if I really had some
brains, I should be thankful; but I was not quite sure that I had. "Trust
me to tell you if you have not," said he.

I trusted him, indeed, for I knew very well that he would not let the
occasion slip had he anything of that sort to say.

LONDON, _July, 1860._

DEAR A.,--Still hard at work. I wonder at mama's patience and endurance.
To hear scales, cadenzas, and trills from morning till night must be
terribly wearing on the nerves. I said as much to the master, and he
consented to give me "Bel raggio," of "Semiramide." It is as good as an
exercise, anyway, because it is nothing but cadenzas. Then he allowed me
to sing "Una voce poco fa." I told him that mama had put on a pound of
flesh since I was permitted to roam in these fresh pastures. This made him
laugh. After he had seen that I had "brains enough" to sing these songs
according to his august liking, he said, "Now we will try 'Voi che
sapete,' of Mozart."

Garcia has not the ghost of a voice; but he has the most enchanting way of
singing mezzo-voce, and occasionally says, "Sing this so," and sings the
phrase for me. It sounds delightfully when he does it; but I do not think
he would have liked me to "sing it so" and would probably swear a gentle
little Spanish swear under his garlicky breath, because (I say it, though
I hate to) the dear master eats garlic--pounds of it, I fear--and his
voice is highly scented when it cracks, which it often does.

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