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

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After this Jenny Lind and I performed the duo from "Le Premier Jour de
Bonheur" we had practised at my house. She put her arm around my waist
while we were singing, as if we were two school-girls.

Prince Metternich played one of his brilliant Austrian waltzes, which was
so bewildering that if any man had dared to put his arm round Jenny Lind's
matronly waist I am sure she would have skipped off in the dance.

For _la bonne bouche_ she gave us a Swedish peasant song, which was simply
bewitching. Her high notes were exquisitely pure, the lower ones I thought
weak; but that might have been owing to the good dinner she had eaten--at
least she said so.

There is a musical phenomenon here just now in the shape of an American
negro; he is blind and idiotic, but has a most extraordinary intelligence
for music. All his senses seem to have been concentrated in this one
sense. Prince and Princess Metternich, Auber, and ourselves went to his
concert. Auber said, "Cet idiot, noir et aveugle, est vraiment
merveilleux." Blind Tom had learned his _répertoire_ entirely by ear;
therefore it was very limited, as he could only remember what he had heard
played a few days before. His memory did not last long. He was wonderful.
Not only could he execute well, but he could imitate any one's mannerisms
and their way of playing. The impresario came forward, saying, "I am told
that Monsieur Auber is in the audience. May I dare to ask him to come up
and play something?" Auber said he thought he should die of fright. We all
urged him, for the curiosity of the thing, to play something of his new
opera, which no one as yet had heard, therefore no one could have known
it.

Auber mounted the platform, amid the enthusiastic applause of the
audience, and performed his solo. Then Blind Tom sat down and played it
after him so accurately, with the same staccato, old-fashioned touch of
Auber, that no one could have told whether Auber was still at the piano.
Auber returned and bowed to the wildly excited public and to us. He said,
"This is my first appearance as a pianist, and my last."

Prince Metternich, inspired by Auber's pluck, followed his example, and
mounting the stage rattled off one of his _own fiery_, dashing waltzes,
which Blind Tom repeated in the Prince's particular manner. After the
concert we went into the artist's room to speak with the impresario, and
found poor Tom banging his head against the wall like the idiot he was.
Auber remarked, "C'est humiliant pour nous autres."

PARIS, _June, 1867._

DEAR M.,--The famous pianist Liszt, the new Abbé, is pervading Paris just
now, and is, I think, very pleased to be a priestly lion, taking his
success as a matter of course. There are a succession of dinners in his
honor, where he does ample honor to the food, and is in no way bashful
about his appetite.

He does a great deal of beaming, he has (as some one said) "so much
countenance."

He dined with us the other night, the Metternichs, and twenty-five other
people, among whom were Auber and Massenet.

In the boudoir, before dinner, he spied a manuscript which Auber had
brought that afternoon. He took it up, looked at it, and said, "C'est très
joli!" and laid it down again. When we went in to dinner, and after his
cigar in the conservatory (he is a great smoker), he went to the piano and
played the "_joli_" little thing of Auber's. Was that not wonderful,
that he could remember it all the time during the dinner? He seemed only
to have glanced at it, and yet he could play it like that off from memory.
He is so kind and good, especially to struggling artists, trying to help
them in every way. He seemed extraordinarily amiable that evening, for he
sat down at the piano without being asked and played a great many of his
compositions--quite an unusual thing for him to do! One has generally to
tease and beg him, and then he refuses. But I think, when he heard
Massenet improvising at one of the pianos he was inspired, and he put
himself at the other (we have two grand pianos), and they played divinely,
both of them improvising. He is by far the finest pianist I have ever
heard, and has a very seductive way of looking at you while playing, as if
he was only playing for you, and when he smiles you simply go to pieces. I
don't wonder he is such a lady-killer, and that no woman can resist him;
even my father-in-law stayed in the salon, being completely hypnotized by
Liszt, who ought to consider this as one of his greatest triumphs, if he
only knew.

I sang some of Massenet's songs, accompanied, of course, by Massenet.
Liszt was most attentive and most enthusiastic. He said Massenet had a
great future, and he complimented me on my singing, especially my phrasing
and expression.

I wonder if the story be true that he was engaged to be married to
Princess Wittgenstein, and on the day of the wedding, when the bridal-
dress was ready to be put on, she got a letter from her fiancé (can any
one imagine Liszt as a fiancé) saying that he had taken holy orders that
very morning.

They say that she bore it very well and wrote a sweet letter to him. It
sounds rather unnatural; but one can believe anything from a person who
was under Liszt's influence. He has the most wonderful magnetism. His
appearance is certainly original as you see him in his _soutane_, his
long hair, and his numerous moles, that stand out in profile, whichever
way he turns his broad face.

But one forgets everything when one hears him play. He is now fifty-five
years old. I invited him to go to the Conservatoire with me in the box
which Auber had given me for last Sunday's concert. I inclose his letter
of acceptance. (See page 164.)

Auber often gives me his box, which holds six people, and I have the
pleasure of making four people happy. Auber sits in the back and generally
dozes. We are all crowded together like sardines. Auber, being the
director of the Conservatoire, has, of course, the best box, except the
Imperial one, which is always empty.

The orchestra played Wagner's overture to "Tannhäuser." The applause was
not as enthusiastic as Liszt thought it ought to be, so he stood up in the
box, and with his great hands clapped so violently that the whole audience
turned toward him, and, recognizing him (indeed, it would have been
difficult not to recognize him, such a striking figure as he is), began
clapping their hands for him. He cried, "Bis!" And the audience in chorus
shouted, "Bis!" And the orchestra repeated the whole overture. Then the
audience turned again to Liszt and screamed, "Vive Liszt!"

[Illustration: FAC-SIMILE OF LISZT LETTER

Madame,

Permettez-moi de venir vous remercier demain au Conservatoire de votre
gracieuse invitation dont je serai charmé de profiter.

Mille respectueux hommages,

F. Listz

Dimanche matin.]

Auber said such a thing had never been seen or heard before in the annals
of these severe and classical concerts. People quite lost their heads, and
Auber, being afraid that there would be a demonstration at the _sortie_,
advised us to leave before the end.

I think Liszt was very pleased with his afternoon.

The sovereigns are working themselves to death, and almost killing their
attendants. Prince Radzivill said, speaking of the King of Prussia: "I
would have liked him better if he had stayed at home. He has to be ready
every morning at half-past eight, and is often up till three in the
morning." Radzivill and the others not only have to go to all the balls,
but they must attend all the various civil, military, and charitable
functions, and then the Exposition takes a lot of time and energy.

Prince Umberto is here from Italy. When Princess Metternich asked him how
long he was going to stay he answered, with a toss of his head toward
Italy, "Cela dépend des circonstances. Les affaires vont très mal là-bas."

Aunt M---- says she wishes you had been at a matinée which Baroness
Nathaniel Rothschild gave this afternoon at her beautiful new palace in
the Faubourg St.-Honoré. At the entrance there were ten servants in
gorgeous livery, and a _huissier_ who rattled his mace down on the
pavement as each guest passed. There was, besides all the élite of Paris,
an Archduke of Austria. I sang the "Ave Maria" of Gounod, accompanied by
Madame Norman Neruda, an Austrian violiniste, the best woman violinist in
the world. Baroness Rothschild played the piano part.

PARIS, _May 29, 1867._

DEAR M.,--The Metternichs' big ball last night was a splendid affair, the
finest of the many fine balls. We were invited for ten o'clock, and about
half-past ten every one was there.

The Emperor and Empress came at eleven o'clock. Waldteufel, with full
orchestra, was already playing in the ballroom of the embassy, which was
beautifully decorated. At twelve o'clock the doors, or rather all the
windows that had been made into doors, were opened into the new ballroom,
which the Princess Metternich, with her wonderful taste and the help of
Monsieur Alphand, had constructed in the garden, and which had transformed
the embassy into a thousand-and-one-nights' palace.

The ballroom was a marvel; the walls were hung with lilac and pink satin,
and the immense chandelier was one mass of candles and flowers; from each
panel in the room there were suspended baskets of flowers and plants, and
between the panels were mirrors which reflected the thousands of candles.

One would never have recognized the garden; it was transformed into a
green glade; all the paths were covered with fresh grass sod, making it
look like a vast lawn; clusters of plants and palms seemed to be growing
everywhere, as if native to the soil; flower-beds by the hundreds;
mysterious grottos loomed out of the background, and wonderful vistas with
a cleverly painted perspective. At the same moment that their Majesties
entered this wonderful ballroom, which no one had dreamed of, the famous
Johann Strauss, brought from Vienna especially for this occasion, stood
waiting with uplifted baton and struck up the "Blue Danube," heard for the
first time in Paris.

When their Majesties approached the huge plate-glass window opening into
the garden a full-fledged cascade fell over the stucco rocks, and powerful
Bengal lights, red and green, made a most magical effect: the water looked
like a torrent of fiery lava _en miniature_. It was thrilling.

No one thought of dancing; every one wanted to listen to the waltz. And
how Strauss played it!... With what fire and _entrain!_ We had thought
Waldteufel perfect; but when you heard Strauss you said to yourself you
had never heard a waltz before. The musicians were partly hidden by
gigantic palmettos, plants, and pots of flowers arranged in the most
attractive way. But he!--Johann Strauss!--stood well in front, looking
very handsome, very Austrian, and very pleased with himself.

Then came the _quadrille d'honneur_. The Emperor danced with the Queen of
Belgium, the Crown Prince of Prussia with the Empress, the King of Belgium
with the Princess Mathilde, the Prince Leuchtenberg with the Princess
Metternich.

The cotillon was led by Count Deym and Count Bergen, and they led it to
perfection; there was not a hitch anywhere. Every one was animated and
gay; certainly the music was inspiring enough to have made an Egyptian
mummy get out of his sarcophagus and caper about. I danced with a German
_Durchlaucht_, who, though far in the sear and yellow leaf, danced like a
school-boy, standing for hours with his arm around my waist before
venturing (he could only start when the tune commenced), counting one--
two--three under his breath, which made me, his partner, feel like a
perfect fool. When at last he made up his mind to start nothing short of
an earthquake could have stopped him. He hunched up his shoulders to his
ears, arched his leg like a prancing horse, and off we went on our wild
career, lurching into every couple on the floor, and bumping into all the
outsiders. When we were not careering together, he sat glued to his chair,
refusing to dance. If any lady came up with a favor he would say, "I am a
little out of breath; I will come and fetch you later." And then he would
put the favor in his pocket and never go near her. He seized everything in
the way of favors that came his way; some he gave to me, and the rest he
took home to his small children.

I was glad, all the same, to have him for a partner, as, being a
_Durchlaucht_, he was entitled to a seat in the front row, and I preferred
prancing about with my _hochgeboren_ high-stepper to having to take a back
seat in the third row with a minor _geboren_. After my partner and I had
bounded about and butted into every living thing on the floor I brought
him to anchor near his chair by clutching his Golden Fleece chain which
hung around his neck. I felt like singing Tennyson's "Home I brought my
warrior (half) dead." He was puffing and blowing, the perspiration glazing
his face, his yellow hair matted on his forehead, and his mustaches all
out of kilter.

I really felt sorry for him, and wondered why he exerted himself so much,
when he could have been quietly seated watching others, or, better still,
at home in bed.

The supper was served at one o'clock. Their Majesties the King and Queen
of Belgium, Prince Alfred, the Prince and Princess of Prussia, the Prince
of Saxe-Weimar, and all the other _gros bonnets_--too many to write about
--went up-stairs through an avenue of plants and palms to a salon arranged
especially for them where there were two large tables. The Emperor
presided at one and the Empress at the other. Besides the _salle à manger_
and some smaller salons, two enormous tents were put up in the garden,
which contained numerous tables, holding about ten people each, and
lighted by masses of candles and festooned with bright-colored Chinese
lanterns. Prince Metternich told me later that the candles were replaced
three times during the evening.

The favors for the cotillon were very pretty, most of them brought from
Vienna. One of the prettiest was fans of gray wood with "Ambassade
d'Autriche, 28th May, 1867," painted in blue forget-me-nots.

We danced "till morning did appear," and it appeared only too soon. The
cotillon finished at half-past five, and the daylight poured in, making us
all look ghastly, especially my sear and yellow leaf, whose children must
have wondered why papa _kam so spät nach hause_.

PARIS, _1867._

Last week, in the beautiful palace built by Egypt for the Exposition,
there was arranged a sort of entertainment for the Viceroy, to which we
were invited with the Prince and Princess Metternich. This palace is a
large, square, white building of oriental ornamentation and architecture,
with a courtyard in the center, where we were received by the Khedive and
his suite. A fountain was playing in the middle of the courtyard of
marble, surrounded by palmettos and plants of every description. A band of
Turkish musicians were seated cross-legged in one of the corners playing
on their weird instruments, and making what they seemed to think was
music. We sat in low basket-chairs, our feet resting on the richest of
oriental rugs, and admired the graceful movements of the dancing-girls,
who had not more space than an ordinary square rug to dance upon. There
were also some jugglers, who performed the most marvelous and
incomprehensible tricks with only an apparently transparent basket, from
which they produced every imaginable object.

Coffee _à la Turque_ was served in small cups with their silver filigree
undercup, and Turkish paste flavored with attar of roses, and nauseatingly
sweet, was passed about, with a glass of water to wash it down. Also
cigarettes of every description were lavishly strewn on all the little
tables, and hovering about us all the time were the thin-legged, turbaned
black menials with baggy silk trousers and bright silk sashes.

Everything was so Oriental that, had I stayed there a little longer, I
should not have been surprised to see myself sitting cross-legged on a
divan smoking a _narghile_. I said as much as this to the Khedive, who
said, in his funny pigeon-French-English, "Alas! Were it so!"

I cast my eyes down and put on my _sainte-ni-touche_ air, which at times I
can assume, and as I looked at his Highness's dusky suite, who did not
look over and above immaculate, in spite of the Mussulman's Mussulmania
for washing, I thanked my stars that it "were not so."

The interpreter who was on duty said to Prince Metternich: "Mussulmans
drink no wine, nor does the Prophet allow them to eat off silver.
Therefore, to ease our consciences" (he said, _mettre nos consciences à
couvert_), "we tell them that the silver plates on which they eat are
_iron_ plated with silver. They think the forks are also iron, otherwise
they would eat with their fingers."

The interpreter added that Mussulmans did not think the Parisian
newspapers very interesting, because they contained so few crimes and no
murders worth mentioning. What an insight this gives of the condition of
their country and the tenor of their papers!

We took our leave of the amiable Khedive, who expressed the hope that we
would soon meet again.

Before his departure from Paris there came a package with the card of one
of his gentlemen, begging me, _de la part de Monseigneur_, to accept the
"accompanying souvenir." The package contained two enameled bracelets
of the finest oriental work in red-and-green, studded with emeralds. He
sent an equally gorgeous brooch to the Princess Metternich.

PARIS, _June, 1867._

DEAR M.,--I must write you about something amusing which happened to-day.
Prince Oscar was most desirous of seeing Delsarte, having heard him so
much spoken of. I promised to try to arrange an interview, and wrote to
Delsarte to ask him to come to meet the Prince at our house. I received
this characteristic answer, "I have no time to make visits. If his
Highness will come to see me I shall be pleased," and mentioned a day and
an hour. Prince Oscar, Monsieur Dué, the Swedish secretary, Mademoiselle
W----, and I went at the appointed time, mounted Delsarte's tiresome
stairs, and waited patiently in his salon while he finished a lesson.

Monsieur Dué was very indignant at this _sans-gêne_, and apologized for
Delsarte's want of courtesy; but the Prince did not mind, and occupied
himself with looking at Delsarte's old poetry-books and albums.

Finally Delsarte entered and graciously received his royal visitor. The
Prince was most affable and listened to Delsarte's fantastic theories,
pretending to be interested in the explanation of the cartoons, and began
to discuss the art of teaching, which exasperated Delsarte to the verge of
impoliteness.

Prince Oscar offered to sing a Swedish song, a very simple peasant song,
which he sang very well, I thought. The Swedish language is lovely for
singing, almost as good as Italian. We looked for some words of praise;
but Delsarte, adopting regency manners, which he can on occasions, said,
in a most insinuating voice: "Your Highness is destined to become a king,
one of these days. Is it not so?"

"Yes," answered the Prince, wondering what was coming next.

"You will have great responsibilities and a great deal to occupy your
mind?"

"Without doubt."

"You will not have time to devote yourself to art?"

"I fear not."

"_Eh bien!_" said Delsarte, and we expected pearls to drop from his mouth,
"_eh bien!_ If ever I am fortunate enough to visit your country, I hope
you will allow me to pay my most humble respects to you."

"How horribly impolite," said the indignant Monsieur Dué. "He ought to
have his ears boxed!"

Prince Oscar took it quite kindly, and, giving Delsarte a clap on his back
which I am sure made his shoulders twinge, said: "You are right; I shall
have other things to think of. There"--pointing to diagram six on the
wall, depicting horror, with open mouth and gaping eyes--"is the
expression I shall have when I think of music and music-teachers."

Delsarte, feeling that he had overstepped the mark, said, "Perhaps, _mon
Prince_, you will sing something in French for me."

Prince Oscar, drawing himself up his whole six feet and four, glanced down
at little Delsarte and said, "_Mon cher Monsieur_, have you ever read
the English poets?"

Delsarte looked unutterable things; I blushed for my teacher.

"When I come again to Paris," the Prince continued, "I will come to see
you. Adieu!" and left without further ceremony.

We followed him down the slippery stairs in silence.

Prince Oscar thought this little episode a great joke, and repeated it to
many people.

That same evening there was a _soirée musicale_ given for him by the
Minister of Foreign Affairs (Marquis de Moustier) The Prince was begged to
sing, which he did three or four times. Every one was delighted to hear
the Swedish songs. Ambroise Thomas, who was there, said that he thought
they were exquisite, especially the peasant song, which he had introduced
into his new opera of "Hamlet." The Prince and I sang the duet, "I Rosens
duft." He was the lion of the evening, and I think that he was very
pleased. I hoped that he had forgotten the unpleasant incident of the
morning and Delsarte, of whom Monsieur Dué cleverly remarked, "Qui s'y
frotte s'y pique--."

PARIS, _July, 1867._

The distribution of prizes for the Exposition took place last Thursday at
the Palais de l'Industrie. It was a magnificent affair and a very hot one.
You may imagine what the heat and glare must have been at two o'clock in
the afternoon on a hot July day. I was glad that I was not old and
wrinkled, for every imperfection shone with magnified intensity.

There was a vast platform erected in the middle of the building, which was
covered with a red carpet, and over which hung an enormous canopy of red
velvet and curtains of velvet with the eagle of Napoleon. The Emperor and
Empress sat, of course, in the center, and on each side were the foreign
sovereigns; behind them were their suites and the Imperial family. The
diplomatic corps had their places on the right of the tribune.

The gentlemen, splendid in their gala uniforms, were covered with
decorations, and all the ladies present were _in grande toilette_ and
low-necked, and displayed every jewel they possessed.

The building, huge as it was, was packed full, every available seat
occupied.

The Prince Imperial distributed the prizes. He looked very dignified when
he handed the victors their different medals, accompanying each gift with
his sweet and winning smile.

When Count Zichy, of Hungary, mounted the steps of the throne to receive
his medal (he got a prize for his Hungarian wines) there was a general
murmur of admiration, and I must say that he did look gorgeous in his
national costume, which is a most striking one. He had on all his famous
turquoises. His mantle and coat underneath, and everything except his top-
boots, were encrusted with turquoises, some of them as big as hen's eggs.
They say, when he appears on a gala occasion in his country, his horse's
trappings and saddle are covered with turquoises.

The Sultan sat on the right of the Empress. You never saw anything half as
splendid! A shopful of jewelry could not compare to him. He had a
_collier_ of pearls which might have made a Cleopatra green with jealousy.
He had an enormous diamond which held the high aigrette in place on his
fez and the Great Mogul (I was so told) fastened on his breast. His
costume was magnificent, and his sabre--which I suppose has cut off a head
or so--was a blaze of jewels. He was the _point de mire_ of all eyes;
especially when the rays of the sun caught the rays of his diamonds he
blazed like the sun itself. The sun did all it could in the way of blazing
that day. I know that I never felt anything like the heat in that gigantic
hot-house, the sun pouring through each pane of glass and nothing to
protect one against it. I felt like an exotic flower unfolding its petals.

It was a very pretty little scene, and I think that every one was
impressed when the Prince Imperial went toward the King of Holland to hand
him a medal (probably for Dutch cheese). The tall, stately King rose from
his seat, and on receiving it bowed deeply with great ceremony. The Prince
made a respectful and graceful bow in response, then the King stooped down
and kissed his cheek.

I was tremendously interested when the American exhibitors came forward;
there were many of them, quite a procession. They looked very
distinguished in their simple dress-coats, without any decorations. I was
so glad.

When it was all over it was delightful to get out into the fresh air, even
if we had to stand and wait patiently about like Mary's little lamb until
the carriage did appear, for we had either to wait or to worm our way,
risking horses' tails and hoofs through the surging crowd of bedecked men
and women, who were all clamoring for their servants and carriages.

The coachmen were swearing and shouting as only French coachmen can do on
such occasions as this. The line of carriages reached almost the whole way
down the Champs Élysées. We finally did find ours, and I was glad to seat
myself in it. I had had the forethought to put my hat and mantle in, as we
intended to drive out to Petit Val for dinner. I put my hat over my tiara
and my mantle on my bare shoulders, and enjoyed driving through the shady
streets.

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