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

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I asked what the name of it was. He answered: "'Le Rêve d'Amour.' The
title is too youthful and the composer is too old. I am making a mistake,
but what of that? It is my last!"

I said I hoped he would live many more years and write many more operas.

He shook his head, saying, "Non, non, c'est vraiment mon dernier!"

Monsieur de Lareinty said to the Empress at tea that there was an unusual
amount of musical talent among her guests--a real galaxy of stars seldom
to be found in amateurs.

The galaxy may have existed--but the stars! The Milky Way seen through the
wrong end of an opera glass was nothing to the smallness of their
magnitude.

The Empress caught at the idea directly, and the decree went out that
there should be a concert tomorrow evening; not mere desultory singing,
but singers and songs in regular order.

Auber said he was sorry he could not be there to applaud us. He
accompanied us when we went to our rooms, and then he had no idea how to
find his own. After having seen him handed over successively to three
different valets, we left him to his fate, hoping he would arrive at his
destination eventually. When we entered the salon for dinner Auber was
already there. If he had not brought his own servant with him, he never
would have been in time.

The troop of the Comédie Française played "La Joie fait Peur," by Musset.
The theater was brilliantly lighted; the guests, from the environs and the
_fine fleur_ of Compiègne, filled all the boxes. The gentlemen and the
officers were in the parquet. The Court and Imperial guests sat with their
Majesties in the Imperial box. It was a magnificent sight!

Madame Favart was most touching in her part, and everybody, I think, wept.
Coquelin was excellent; but I do not like him so much in his pathetic
rôles; his squeaky voice and nasal tones do not belong to the sentimental
style. After the play he gave a monologue, which was the funniest thing I
ever heard, "Les Obsèques de Madame X----." The whole house was laughing,
and most of all the Emperor. I could see his back shaking, and the
diplomatic and apoplectic Baron condescended to explode twice.

The representation lasted till half-past ten. The artists did not change
their toilettes, but came into the salon as they were dressed for the
play. They were received with great cordiality by their Majesties. The
Chamberlain gave them each a little package containing, I suppose, a
valuable souvenir from the sovereigns. A special train took them back to
Paris.

Auber bid me good-by, saying, "Au revoir until Paris, if you are not too
absorbed in these grandeurs to receive a poor, insignificant bourgeois
like me."

"You can always try," I answered with a laugh. "Bon soir et bon voyage!"

_December 2d._

What a day this has been! A storm of rain and hail raged all night, and
when I looked out of the window this morning I saw everything deluged in
water. The park looked dismal; all the paths were full of puddles; the
trees were dripping with rain, and, to judge from the dark skies and
threatening clouds, it seemed as if worse was to follow and there might be
thunder and lightning. On the programme for to-day there stood _chasse à
courre_; but of course _cela tombait dans l'eau_, as would have been its
natural end anyway in this weather. None of the ladies donned their green
costumes, as even one was so sure that the day would be passed indoors.

At _déjeuner_ I was fortunate enough to sit between Prince Metternich
and the Marquis de Gallifet. Certainly I could not have two more
delightful companions, each so different and yet so entertaining. The
Marquis was very aggressive and grumpy; but very amusing.

In French one says, "On a le vin triste," or "On a le vin gai." The
Marquis has "le déjeuner grincheux (grumpy)," I think.

He began by attacking me on the English language. He said it was utterly
absurd and illogical, and though he ought to know it, as he had an English
wife, he felt he never could learn it.

"Apropos of to-day's weather, you say, 'It never rains but it pours'--au
fond qu'est-ce que cela veut dire? 'Il ne pleut jamais, mais il pleut à
verse'; cela n'a pas le sens commun--you might as well say, 'It never
pours but it rains.'"

I had to confess that it did sound senseless, and tried to explain the
meaning; but he grumbled, "Why don't they say what they mean?" He told me
he was once traveling in England and put his head out of the carriage
window to see something, and some one inside cried, "Look out!" He put his
head still farther out, when the person continued to scream, "Look out!"
He answered, "I am looking out," at which a rude hand seized him by the
coat-collar and jerked him inside, saying, "Damn it, look in then!"

"How can any one conquer a language as stupid as that?"

I told him I felt humiliated to own such a language, and I ought to
apologize for it, though I had not invented it and did not feel
responsible for it; but he would not listen to me.

Prince Metternich asked, "What shall we do indoors this awful day?"

I proposed tableaux; but he objected to tableaux.

Then I suggested that one might have a fancy-dress tea-party. At last,
after many wild propositions, he said, "Why not charades?"

Of course he had intended charades all the time. He asked the Marquis de
Gallifet if he would help us.

"No, I won't," answered the Marquis, "but you are welcome to my wife; she
loves dressing-up and all that nonsense;" adding, "It is the only thing
she can do with success."

"But we want her to act. Can she?"

"Act!" said the amiable husband. "She can act like the devil!"

By the time we had returned to the salon the Prince had not only found a
good word for a charade, but had decided in his resourceful mind all minor
details. He thought it would amuse the Prince Imperial to join us, and he
asked permission of the Prince's _gouverneur_ to allow him to do so. The
permission was readily given.

Prince Metternich begged Vicomte Walsh to obtain the Empress's gracious
consent to honor the performance with her presence. She was very pleased
at the idea of seeing her son's _début_ as an actor, and promised to come,
and even said she would have the tea, usually served in her salon, brought
to the little theater.

Prince Metternich gave us a sketch of what he wanted us to do, and gave us
general instructions as to our costumes, and bade us meet again in an
hour. He would see to everything else: light, heat, scenery, powder,
paint, etc., all the accessories, would be ready for us. We ladies were to
be _pierrettes_ and dancers of Louis-Quinze period; the gentlemen were to
represent the _talons rouges_, and to have red cloth pasted on the heels
of their low shoes. We could paint our faces and powder our hair after our
own ideas. "But, ladies, above all, do not be late," were the parting
words of the Prince.

We followed his instructions as well as we could, and reappeared in the
theater to hear the now fully matured plans of our impresario.

The Empress was seated before we were ready, Prince Metternich was so long
painting the Prince Imperial. We could hear her saying, "Allons! Allons!"
clapping her hands in her eagerness for us to commence.

The word was PANTALON.

The first syllable, PAN, was represented by the Prince Imperial as a
statue of Pan.

His body was visible to the waist above a pedestal. Over his flesh-colored
undershirt he wore a wreath of green leaves across his shoulders, and his
head was also covered with a wreath. He held the traditional flute before
his mouth. No one could have recognized the delicate features of the
Prince Imperial, as Prince Metternich had painted his lips very large and
very red, and had added a fantastic mustache. His eyebrows (black as ink)
had an upward tilt, in true Mephistophelian style.

It was a sylvan scene. Prince Metternich had ordered from the greenhouse
some orange and other trees to be moved on to the stage, which made a very
pretty effect.

The Princess Metternich, in a quaint costume, was the Harlequine to her
husband's Harlequin. They made a very funny love scene, because, being man
and wife, they could make all their kissing real, and so ridiculously
loud, that one could hear it all over the theater. Every one laughed till
they cried, and particularly as Pan was rolling his eyes about in a very
comical manner.

Her other lover (Pierrot) came in unawares; but she had time to throw a
shawl over Harlequin, who put himself on all fours, thus making a bench,
on which she demurely sat down. In order to throw dust in Pierrot's eyes,
she took from her basket a hammer and some nuts and began cracking them
(to the audience's and Pan's horror) on poor Harlequin's head, eating them
with great _sang-froid_.

Prince Metternich had prudently provided a wooden bowl, with which he
covered his head so that his ambassadorial skull should be spared. Pan
smiled a diabolical smile, and had, of course, a great success.

TALON was the next syllable. This was a sort of pantomime. The actors were
grouped like a picture of Watteau. Count Pourtales was a dancing-master
and was really so witty, graceful, and took such artistic attitudes that
he was a revelation to every one. Prince Metternich (his bosom friend)
exclaimed:

"Who would ever have thought it? How talent conceals itself!"

The whole word PANTALON was a combination of Columbines, Harlequins, and
Louis-Quinze cavaliers dancing in a circle, and all talking nonsense at
once.

The statue of Pan in knickerbockers, his wreaths still on his head and
shoulders, joined in the dance.

The Empress led the vociferous applause, and Prince Metternich came
forward on the stage and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, we are deeply
flattered at your approval. There will be a second performance before his
Majesty, the Emperor of the French, and I hope you will accord us your
patronage."

There was great laughter at this.

Count Pourtales took me in to dinner. We were very glad to be neighbors.
He was resting on his laurels, and I wanted to rest before getting mine
(if I got any) this evening. We exchanged views on nervousness. He said he
had been dreadfully nervous in the afternoon. I told him I was always
nervous when I had to sing, and when I sang the first song I was hot and
cold all over.

"Like Alboni," he said; "she has had to give up singing in opera, she had
such stage-frights."

We thanked each other after finishing dinner for having been kind enough
to have let the other alone.

The rain was still pouring in torrents when we returned to the salon. In
spite of the many voices, we could still hear it pattering against the
windows of the terrace. It was lucky there were some stars among us, as
Monsieur de Lareinty had said, otherwise we would have seen none to-night.

At ten o'clock the "galaxy" went into the _salle de musique_, and the
planets began to shine. First came Baroness Gourgaud, who attacked the
"Mi-bémol Polonaise," of Chopin. Their Majesties settled themselves in
their chairs with a look of heavenly resignation on their faces, which was
reflected on those of most of the guests.

However, she played beautifully, more like an artiste than an amateur. The
Empress went forward to her, holding out her hand, which the Baroness,
bowing to the ground, kissed gratefully, feeling that she had covered
herself with glory, as she really had.

Then Monsieur de V---- (our basso) sang "O Marguerite," from Faust,
without the slightest voice, but with excellent intentions. Next, having
the music under his hand, he continued and sang "Braga's Serenade," which
he thought was more suited to his voice, though it is written, as you
know, for a soprano. He sang the girl's part in a mysterious, husky, and
sepulchral voice, and the angel's part weaker and feebler than any angel
ever dreamed of.

I looked at the beautiful ceiling painted by Girodet, and to keep myself
from going to sleep counted the legs of the angels, and tried to calculate
how many legs belonged to each. Monsieur de V---- said his idea was to
make the contrast very strong between the girl and the angel; he certainly
succeeded!

Monsieur Dué played some of what he calls his "Sketches." "Il est si doué
(gifted)," exclaimed Princess Metternich.

Every one was pleased; so was he.

I sang "Le Rossignol," of Alabieff, in which is the cadenza Auber wrote
for me. Princess Metternich played the accompaniment.

Madame C---- (our contralto) sang "Lascia che pianga," which suited her
beautiful voice better than it did the audience's taste. Then she sang
"Ah! Mon Fils," of "Le Prophète," with great effect, accompanying herself.

But this was not the kind of music to please our audience.

Count E---- (our tenor) was asked to add his Milky Way tenor to the rest
of the planets, but begged to be excused on the plea of a sore throat. No
one questioned this, and he was allowed to remain unheard.

Later I sang "Oh! that We Two were Maying," by Gounod, a much too serious
song; but the Empress said she thought it was the most beautiful one she
had ever heard. I think so, too. I also sang one of Massenet's, "Poème
d'Avril." They asked for "Beware!" which I sang. The Emperor came up to me
(each time he gets up from his chair every one gets up and stands until he
sits down again), and said, "Won't you sing the song about the shoe?"

What did he mean? I had no idea.

"The one you sang the other night," said the Emperor.

What do you think he meant?

Well, he meant "Shoo-fly!" I sang it, as he desired. I don't believe he
knows yet what its true meaning is. There is an end to all things, and our
concert came to an end at last. Their Majesties, with gracious smiles and
repeated thanks, retired, the Milky Way faded from view, and the planets
went to bed.

I know I deserved mine, and I appreciated it when I got it.

_December 3d._

The _chasse à courre_ is generally fixed for the last day of the _série_;
but their Majesties, at the suggestion of the thoughtful Vicomte Walsh,
ordered it to be changed to this afternoon, in order that the operetta
should arrive at a riper stage of perfection. Would it ever be near
enough? We had never had a moment yet when we could rehearse all together.
Vicomte de V----'s costume had not come from Paris, and he was bordering
on brain-fever, in a state of expectancy and impatience. Neither he nor
d'Espeuilles knew their songs, and the chorus needed much drilling. The
Princess Metternich put her salon at the Marquis's disposal, and he spent
half his time teaching some of his pupils.

The days of the _chasse à courre_ the gentlemen appear in red coats and
the ladies in green-cloth dresses. Those that had _le bouton_ put it in
their buttonhole. You may be sure I wore mine!

All the carriages, the horses, and grooms were before the terrace at two
o'clock, and after the usual delay we drove off to the forest. Their
Majesties and the Prince Imperial were on horseback. The Duchess de Sesto
invited me to drive with her, and in the same _char-à-banc_ with us were
Baronne de la Poeze, Comtesse Pourtales, and four or five others. The
Duchess looked very dainty, wrapped in her chinchilla furs. I had had so
little time to learn the talking part of my rôle that I took it with me in
the carriage, hoping to be able to study it. They all sympathized with me,
as they knew the operetta was to be given to-morrow evening.

The roads were full of mud; but we splashed through them regardless of
such minor details as dirt Fortunately it did not rain, and the sun made a
few spasmodic efforts to come out, but it was far from being the ideal day
of last year.

This _chasse_ varies but little, and I described my first acquaintance
with it in a letter last year, so I will spare you the repetition of
details. I fancy the route we took was the same; but I am not quite sure,
for all the roads and avenues resemble one another.

Once, as we halted at an _étoile_, we saw a beautiful stag bound past
us, full of life and strength, with enormous horns (they said it was a
_dix cors_). Every one in the carriage stood up in their excitement to
look after it. How I wished he would escape and live his free and happy
life in the forest. I hate this _chasse_; I hate to write about it; I
hate to be present at it. It is all so pitiful and painful to me! How can
any one find pleasure in such cruel sport?

To kill a living creature, to take the life of an animal that has done you
no harm, seems horrible to me. But I will say no more on this subject. It
always puts me in a bad temper, and makes me disgusted with my fellow-
creatures.

We followed the other part of the cavalcade and arrived at the _carrefour_
in time to see the death of one stag. The others saw it, but I was
occupied with my manuscript.

There were two stags taken, two beautiful creatures that ought to have
lived.

It was so cold and bleak I longed to get back to warm rooms, cheerful
fire, and a hot cup of tea, which I was sure to find awaiting me, and I
was heartily glad when we turned homeward.

Six o'clock had just struck when we drove up to the front of the Grand
Escalier, and I was able to get a little rest before dressing for dinner.

All the ladies who owned diamond crescents, or any crescent suggestive of
Diana and her pastimes, put them on. The Empress had a gorgeous crescent
on her lovely hair.

The worn-out Marquis took me in to dinner. It was fortunate, for there
were some vital points which we had to discuss. On my other side was the
Count de Grammont, a sportsman, who wanted to talk only of the hunt; but I
was able to turn a deaf ear to his marvelous exploits, thanks to the
Marquis's incessant explanations.

There was a little dancing, to fill up the time before the _curée_. It is
a pity that this is our last dance. The chamberlains are beginning to show
a good deal of talent in their playing _le piano méchanique_, and they can
play almost in time.

The _curée_ was at ten o'clock. The long gallery was soon alive with an
eager public. All the windows were occupied by the ladies. The courtyard
was filled, in spite of the cold weather, with the populace of Compiègne;
the _piqueurs_ waved their torches; the dogs howled and yelped; the
_gardes_ blew their long _cors de chasse_, and it was just like last year,
except that on this occasion there were two stags--therefore, two sets of
entrails to be devoured.

Tea and cakes were passed about. Those who had come from the neighboring
châteaux took their leave, those who were to return to Paris drove off to
the station, and the privileged guests retired to their apartments.

_December 4th._

At ten o'clock this morning I was surprised at hearing a timid knock at my
salon door. Who should it be but the Marquis d'Aoust. He begged my pardon
for disturbing me; but he wished to consult me about something he
considered of great importance.

He looked disheveled and careworn, even at this early hour, as if he had
not slept all night. Would I be willing to help Count d'E---- in our duet,
and sing a part of his music? Otherwise, he was sure it would never go.

I told him it would not be easy to sing tenor; but I would see at the
rehearsal what I could do. He was in despair. I tried to tranquilize him,
my compassion triumphing over my forebodings, and assured him that all
would go well. I did not tell him that I had had a succession of
nightmares last night, where I saw myself stranded on the stage, having
forgotten both words and music.

He said that he had been on the stage at work with the carpenters since I
don't know when this morning. They had first put up the scenery as he had
ordered; but he saw that there would not be space for the eight performers
(there are two scenes where we are all on the stage at once). Accordingly,
he had ordered the carpenters to change it.

I ate my _déjeuner_ sandwiched between the tenor and the basso. We
rehearsed our dialogues, although we pretended to discuss other matters.

The Empress went directly to the Marquis after _déjeuner_ and said, "We
are looking forward to your operetta to-night with real pleasure, and
we are sure that it will be a great success." The Marquis was radiant.

When we met later in the theater for our first and only rehearsal we were
delighted to find there the grand piano from the _salle de musique_. The
curtain rose on a very pretty garden scene, with trees on either side,
green linen on the floor representing grass, a village with a church-
steeple in the background, and for stage properties a garden bench and a
vase placed just before the footlights, so that it would not interfere
with our movements, but would show us where _not_ to fall off.

The Marquis was, of course, at the piano, and Prince Metternich, as
prompter, squeezed into a prompter's box, looking wretchedly
uncomfortable. We commenced the rehearsal, which, on the whole, went off
better than we expected.

The basso is the first to appear. He sings a melancholy song, in which he
makes known his love for the humble village maiden. His voice gets more
dismal and lower as he becomes despondent, and higher and more buoyant as
his hopes rise. At the end, when he sings "Elle sera à moi," his voice,
though very husky, was almost musical. Then I, as the village maiden,
enter with a basket, suggestive of butter and eggs, and sing a sentimental
ditty telling of my love for the friend of the lord. The music of this is
mediocre beyond words. The Marquis tries to show, by a few high soprano
notes, how high my wildest flights of aspirations fly before I could ever
reach the subject of my love. "Mes tourments" and "le doux plaisir
d'aimer" get so mixed that I don't know myself what I am singing about.

The lady of the manor hears my lament, and, believing me to be in love
with her husband, berates me in a dramatic duet. The friend and adviser
now appears, and we get through an incomprehensible trio. He cannot
convince her (the lady) of the innocence of her husband. She insists upon
thinking him a traitor, leaves us in a fury, and we have the floor to
ourselves when we sing the famous duet on account of which the Marquis had
qualms this morning. In it there is a minor phrase which is quite
intricate, and I saw that unless I came to d'E----'s rescue he could never
manage it.

The lord and the lady reappear, while the friend and I retire in the
background and lean up against the village steeple and whisper. The lady
is violent and the lord is indifferent. The music sounds like an
everlasting grumble, because her voice is contralto and his is bass. The
village maiden is called to the front, and denies everything she has been
accused of. The husband makes amends in a phrase miles too high for his
voice. The friend takes all the blame on his black-velvet shoulders, and
says he has loved the maiden all along. The maiden is overcome with
emotion and faints for joy.

The final quartette is a sad affair, musically speaking, constructed on
the Marquis's own ideas of thoroughbass. All the singers start on the same
plane, the soprano soars heavenward, the contralto and the bass grovel in
their deepest notes, while the tenor, who ought to fill up the gap, stands
counting the measures on his fingers, his eyes glued to the prompter,
until he joins me and we soar together.

To use a metaphor, one might say that the contralto and bass were in the
lower regions, the soprano floating in heaven, the tenor groping about on
earth for his note; then we all meet on the same place we started from,
which is the signal for the chorus to unite their forces with ours.

The Marquis was dreadfully put out with me because I refused to faint on
the stage (in the text it says _Rosette tombe évanouie_). He said nothing
was easier. I had only to put my arms out to break the fall and--fall. He
thought that with a little practice between the afternoon and the evening
I should be able to do it.

I could see myself covered with bruises tumbling about over sofas and
chairs, and I could see the bewilderment of any one coming into my room
while I was practising this part of my rôle.

I said, "I absolutely refuse to risk my neck." He thought it was very
selfish of me. One would have thought that the whole success of the
operetta depended on my fainting. He said he could show me how to fall
without hurting myself, and in trying to do so he tripped over the vase
and bumped his head against the garden bench. Fortunately he did not
damage himself, but the argument ended then and there.

At half-past four my maid came to the theater to tell me that the Empress
expected me to tea. I had thought she would, as she had promised the
answers to those questions; and so it was. As soon as I appeared (I had
had time to change my dress) the Empress called me to her and said:

"Here are the answers to your American soul-probing questions! These are
mine (giving me hers) and here are the Emperor's. He was very pleased to
write them, as it was you who asked him; besides, I think they amused him.
He spent a long time pondering over each answer. You see," she added, with
her lovely smile, "nous vous aimons bien."

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