Franz Grillparzer - "Der arme Spielmann"

Translated from the German by Sophie A. Miller and Agnes M. Dunne - "After Long Years and Other Stories"

Ferdinand Raimund - "Das Maedchen aus der Feenwelt"

Roy Rockwood - "Lost on the Moon"

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

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




I was very glad to have the answers. I copy them for you.

A quelle qualité donnez-vous la préférence? À la gratitude.

Quels sont vos auteurs favoris? Tacite.

Quelles sont vos occupations favorites? Chercher la solution de
problèmes insolubles.

Qui voudriez-vous être? Mon petit fils.

Quelles personnes de l'histoire détestez-vous le plus? Le Connétable
de Bourbon.

Pour quelles fautes avez-vous le plus d'indulgence? Pour celles dont
je profite.

NAPOLÉON LOUIS.


A quelle qualité donnez-vous la préférence? Au dévouement.

Quels sont vos auteurs favoris? Calderon, Byron, Shakespeare.

Quelles sont vos occupations favorites? Faire le bien.

Qui voudriez-vous être? Ce que je suis.

Quelles personnes de l'histoire détestez-vous le plus? Lopez.

Pour quelles fautes avez-vous le plus d'indulgence? Pour celles que la
passion excuse.

EUGÉNIE.

I add the answers of Prosper Mérimée:

À quelle qualité donnez-vous la préférence? La persévérance.

Quels sont vos auteurs favoris? Pr. Mérimée.

Quelles sont vos occupations favorites? Faire des châteaux en Espagne.

Qui voudriez-vous être? Napoléon III.

Quelles personnes de l'histoire détestez-vous le plus? Mazarin.

Pour quelles fautes avez-vous le plus d'indulgence? La gourmandise.

PROSPER MÉRIMÉE.

I think the Emperor's are very clever.

"And the operetta?" inquired the Empress.

"I hope your Majesties will be indulgent," I replied.

Monsieur de Laferrière was next to me at dinner. He was as much interested
in the operetta as other people seemed to be. I took advantage of his
being my neighbor to ask him to manage it so that we could leave the salon
before the _cercle_ commenced, as we had to dress, and if any of us were
late I dared not think what the effect would be on the nervous Marquis.

The Emperor raised his glass during dinner, though I sat very far down the
table. I suppose he wanted to inspire me with hope and courage.

Monsieur de Laferrière arranged everything for us most amiably. We rushed
off to our rooms to dress. I, for one, was not long over my toilette, and,
followed by my maid, hurried through the long corridors to the theater.

We were all there except Monsieur de V----, who was no doubt still
pottering over his raiment. The artist he had ordered from Paris was
already there, brush in hand, ready to paint us. The result was very
satisfactory. When we looked at ourselves in the glass we wondered why one
should not be beautiful every day with so simple an art.

We were rather taken back when Monsieur d'Espeuilles appeared in a wig and
a false mustache; but he hastened to say there was nothing like being
disguised to put one at one's ease. The gentlemen of the chorus, not
willing to go to any extra expense, had _culottes courtes_ and white
stockings; the ladies had tried to be more in harmony, but they thought
that with rakes, spades, and basket they had quite enough _couleur
locale_.

The chamberlain came to ask whether their Majesties should come now.
Prince Metternich answered that we were waiting for them, A tedious delay
occurred before the audience had settled into their places in accordance
with their rank, to the great annoyance of Prince Metternich, shut up in
the small prompter's box, and the Marquis d'Aoust, fidgeting at the piano,
and driving us almost to distraction by his repeated questions and
exhortations: "Do you think you know your part? Don't forget to"--etc.

At last! at last! No retreating now, _Coûte que coûte!_ we must take in
the plank and embark on our shaky craft.

The Marquis attacked the overture by playing some vigorous arpeggios and
pompous chords. The curtains were drawn aside and the lord of the manor
entered. After his monologue, which he did very well, he hesitated a
moment. This agitated the Marquis to such a degree that he stood up and
waved his hand as a signal to him to commence his song, and gave him the
note on the piano. Monsieur de V---- started in all right and sang his
song with due sentiment, and very well. I even think as far back as the
sixth row of seats they were conscious that he was singing. His acting and
gestures were faultless. All Frenchmen can act.

I thought, when I came in, the public was chilly, and I felt cold shivers
running down my back. My courage was oozing out of me, and when the lord
of the manor said to me, "Rosette, que fais-tu ici?" and I had to answer,
"Ce que je fais, Monsieur; mais vous voyez bien, je ne fais rien," I
thought I should die of fright and collapse on the spot. However, I pulled
myself together and began my silly little song.

The moment I began to sing I felt at ease, and I flatter myself I gave a
certain glaze to the emptiness of the music. Madame Conneau sang her
dramatic aria beautifully, and created quite a _furore_. I only wish the
music had been more worthy of her. The love duet between the friend and
myself was, much to my surprise, a great success. It was encored, and we
sang it again.

When we came to the minor passage (the stumbling-block) the Marquis, who
was perspiring at every pore in his dread that I should not hit the right
note, pounded it on the piano loud enough to be heard all over the
theater. I gave him a withering look, which he pretended not to see.
Perhaps he did not, for his attention, like mine, was startled by seeing
the false mustache of Monsieur d'Espeuilles ungluing and threatening to
drop into his mouth. The Marquis began wagging his head and making frantic
signs. Monsieur d'Espeuilles was horribly confused, and I feared for the
success of our _da capo;_ but he patted the now limp offender back on
his lip, and we continued the duet. During the applause the Marquis took
the occasion to wipe the perspiration from his bald head.

In spite of our qualms the final quartette was not so bad after all. When
it was time for me to come down from my upward flight in order to help the
tenor, the Marquis again waved his right hand in the air to attract my
attention, while he thundered a tremolo with his left, to keep the
accompaniment going until he was sure that everything was right. The
chorus came on in due order, and flourished their rakes and spades as
though they were waving flags, in participation of the joy and gladness of
the reconciliation. There was one moment of genuine hilarity, when the
little fox-terrier belonging to the Empress's niece rushed on to the stage
to join his mistress, who, with great _sang-froid,_ picked him up and
went on singing, to the immense amusement of the audience.

It was suffocatingly hot in the little theater, and we were glad to think
that we had arrived at the end of our perilous journey. The red on our
cheeks was getting paler; the powder was becoming paste; the black on the
eyebrowless actors began to run down their cheeks; Monsieur d'Espeuilles's
wig and mustache were all on one side.

All these details mattered little, now that the end had come, and the
performance had concluded with great _éclat_.

The happy Marquis (though I think he aged ten years that hour at the
piano) was radiant with his success. Every emotion had swept over him:
ambition, vanity, hope, pride, forbearance, patience, long-suffering.

The curtain fell amid great applause, as spontaneous as it was persistent
and, I hope, genuine.

We stayed in our costumes for the tea in the Emperor's salon.

Both their Majesties complimented the Marquis, and thanked us all
separately for the pleasure they had had and the trouble we had given
ourselves. The Emperor said to me, "Vous vous êtes surpassée ce soir." I
courtesied and asked him what he thought of the music.

He hesitated before answering. "I don't know much about music; but it
seems to me, as Rossini said of the music of Wagner: 'Il y a de jolis
moments, mais de mauvais quarts d'heures!' All the same, it was very
pretty."

Every one praised the Marquis to the skies, and he was really in the
seventh heaven of delight.

I am only afraid his head will be turned, and that he will write another
_chef-d'oeuvre_.

I was glad when their Majesties bade us good night, for I was completely
exhausted.


PARIS, _December 5th_.

It seems nice, all the same, to be at home again. We arrived in Paris at
six o'clock, and at half-past seven I was in my bed, completely worn out.
However, I must tell you how our visit ended the day before yesterday. Was
it only the day before yesterday? It seems months ago. At _déjeuner_ the
Princess Metternich sat on the right of the Emperor, and the Empress's
brother-in-law, Duke d'Albe, gave me his _avant-le-déluge_ arm, and put me
on the left of his Majesty.

I thought the Emperor looked tired and ill, and I noticed he frequently
put his hand on his back, as if he was in pain. The Princess Metternich
engrossed the Emperor's attention. She is so witty and lively that every
one must listen when she talks. All the same, the Emperor talked with me a
good deal, and thanked me for having done so much to amuse them. Never
would they forget the pleasure they had had.

When we went up to our rooms to put on our cloaks there was no pretentious
majordomo demanding his fee, and our particular valet looked sad, and did
not meet my eye when I tried to catch his to give a smile of adieu, and
persistently fixed his gaze on something at the other end of the corridor.
I rather liked the old way better, as one felt that in a measure one had
made some little compensation for all the delightful days spent there.

I asked my maid how the servants felt about this change. She said that in
their _salle à manger_ almost all the maids and valets belonging to the
guests gave _pourboires_.

After we had made our adieux, and taken our seats in the different
carriages, their Majesties came out on the balcony to see us depart. They
waved their hands in farewell as we drove off.

The journey back to Paris was a silent one. Every one was occupied with
his own thoughts. Prince Metternich sat in a corner talking with the
impervious diplomat; I wondered if he were relating the salad's
complicated relationships. We all bade one another good-by, adding, with
assumed enthusiasm, that we hoped to meet soon again, when perhaps we were
rejoicing in the thought that we would not do so for a long time to come.

What insincere creatures we are!


_May, 1870._

We were invited to a picnic at Grand Trianon, given by the Emperor and
Empress for the Archduke of Austria.

The rendezvous was to be at St. Cloud, and we were asked to be there at
four o'clock. On arriving we found the Metternichs, Édouard Delesert,
Duperré, and Count Dehm, the Austrian Secretary. Their Majesties and the
Prince Imperial joined us when we were all assembled. We then mounted the
two _char-à-bancs_ which were waiting for us in front of the chateau,
with their postilions and four horses; the _piqueurs,_ in their saddles,
were all ready to precede us. The Emperor, Empress, the Prince Imperial,
Princess Metternich, and the Archduke were in the first carriage; the rest
of us were in the second--about fourteen people in all. We drove through
the lovely forest of Marly, the long, tiresome avenues of Versailles, and
through many roads known probably only to the postilions, and perhaps used
only on rare occasions such as this royal excursion, for they were in such
a bad condition, ruts and stones everywhere, that our heads and shoulders
were bumping continually against our neighbors'. Finally we reached Petit
Trianon, where we left the carriages and servants, who were ordered to
meet us at Grand Trianon later, bringing our extra wraps with them. The
air was deliciously balmy and warm, and was filled with the perfume of
lilacs and acacias.

We wandered through the park, admiring the skill of the artist who had
laid it out so cleverly, just like Petit Val. This is not surprising, as
it was the same person who planned them both. All the surroundings recall
the charming life which Marie Antoinette must have lived in the midst of
this pastoral simplicity.

I wondered if the same thought passed through the Empress's mind which
passed through mine. Could history ever repeat this unfortunate queen's
horrible fate? We continued our walk to Grand Trianon, and found the table
spread for our dinner under the wide _charmille,_ near the lake. The
Princess Metternich sat on the right of the Emperor, and I on his left.

The Emperor was in excellent spirits, and bandied repartees with Monsieur
Delesert, who surpassed himself in wit, and told many and sometimes rather
risky stories, which made every one laugh. The Prince Imperial could
hardly wait till the end of the dinner, he was so impatient to get to the
rowboat which was ready waiting for him on the lake. The Empress was quite
nervous, and stood on the edge of the lake all the time he was on the
water, calling to him, "Prends garde, Louis!" "Ne te penches pas, Louis!"
and many other such counsels like any other anxious mother, and she never
took her eyes from the little boat which was zigzagging about under the
hands of the youthful prince.

It was after nine o'clock when we started to return to St. Cloud by
another route. The _piqueur_, finding the gate locked through which we had
to pass, knocked on the door of the lodge-keeper, who, awakened from his
slumbers, appeared in a _déshabillé_ more than hasty, intending to
administer a _savon_ (scolding) to such tardy comers. But on hearing from
the _piqueur_ that the monarch of all he surveyed was waiting in the
carriage, he flew to open the gate, disclosing his scanty night-attire.
The funniest part of it was that, as soon as he realized the situation, he
thought it his duty to show his patriotism, so he stood on the steps of
his lodge and, as we passed through the gate, he chanted a hoarse and
sleepy! "Vive l'Empereur!" and waved his smoking candle.

The Emperor was convulsed with laughter. I, who sat behind him, could see
his shoulders shaking.

The ball of the _plébiscite_ was the most splendid thing I ever saw.
The architects and decorators had outdone themselves. The gardens of the
Tuileries beyond the fountain had been hedged in by orange-trees, and
other large trees moved there in their tubs. The whole _parterre_ of
flowers was festooned with lanterns and little colored lamps, making this
fairy scene as bright as day. The ballroom and adjoining salons, of which
the windows had been removed as well as the iron railing outside of them,
led on to a large platform which occupied the space of six such windows or
doors; these gave out into two colossal staircases which descended into
the garden. It was such a beautiful night, so warm that we ladies could
walk about in our ball-dresses without any extra wraps; there were about
six thousand people invited, they said. It seemed as if all Paris was
there.

After the _quadrille d'honneur_ their Majesties circulated freely about.
Every one was eager to offer congratulations to the Emperor. Was it not
the greatest triumph of his reign to have the unanimous vote of all
France--this overwhelming proof of his popularity? As he stood there
smiling, with a gracious acknowledgment of the many compliments, he looked
radiantly happy to thus receive the homage of his country. As the Emperor
passed near me I added my congratulations, to which he replied, "Merci, je
suis bien heureux."

Their Majesties stood on the dais with the members of the Imperial family,
and after watching the dance they all went in to the _Pavillon de Flore_,
where supper was served for the notabilities.

For the others there was arranged a supper in the theater; an orchestra on
the stage played all the time; the balconies were festooned with flowers
and filled with guests; there were supper-tables in the parquet and in the
largest _loges_, and plants and shrubs placed in every available spot.


LONDON, _June, 1870._

DEAR M.,--What will you think of your dissipated daughter? Do you not
think that she is insatiable? I am sure that you will say that I ought to
be contented after the long season of gaiety and excitement in Paris, and
settle down in lovely Petit Val, where the lilacs and the violets call one
with scented voices.

However, we decided to go to London.

Did I write to you of our breakfast at Armenonville? After Lord Lyons's
ball, which lasted until six o'clock in the morning, Prince Metternich and
several others thought that it would be a good idea to go home, change our
ball-dresses for morning-dress, and go out to the Bois for our morning
coffee. We did it.

I confess that it was a crazy thing to do after dancing all night; but the
beautiful May morning, the glorious sunshine, and our spirits inspired us
to carry out this wild whim, much to the disgust of our sleepy coachmen.
This excursion was not a success; we were all tired and longed for bed.
One cannot be amusing or _en train_ at seven o'clock in the morning.
And as for the family, when we returned home all the comment they made
was, "What fools!" They did not see any fun in it; neither did we, to tell
the truth.

The Rothschilds, Lord Lyons, and Prince and Princess Metternich gave us
what must have been very powerful letters, for we had hardly been in
London more than a few days before we knew every one worth knowing, and
all doors worth opening were opened to us, and I found myself what one
calls _lancée_.

We took rooms in Park Street; that is, we had the two stories of the
house. The landlady lived downstairs, and gave us our meals when we were
at home. As soon as we got settled we left our cards and letters of
introduction.

Invitation followed invitation in the most bewildering manner, sometimes
several for the same day.

I could not begin to tell you all that we have already done. Writing
letters seems to be the one thing which I have no time for. It is a
perpetual push and rush from morning till night.

Our first dinner was at Baron and Baroness Rothschilds', where the Prince
and Princess of Wales and a great many distinguished people were invited.
I sat next to a Mr. Osbourne--everybody called him Dick. He told me that
he was the most dined-out and tired-out man in London, and that he had not
eaten at home for six months.

I had not seen their Royal Highnesses since their visit to Paris during
the Exposition. They said that they remembered me; but I cannot think it
possible that they can have such wonderful memories.

I never saw such a splendid collection of orchids as there was on the
table, and each lady had a bouquet of orchids and roses by her plate.

I was asked to sing, and was delighted to do it. The Rothschilds' ballroom
was a glorious place in which to make a debut.

Michael Costa, the well-known musician, came after dinner and accompanied
me in the "Cavatina" from "Rigoletto," and the waltz from the "Pardon de
Ploërmel."

Lady Sherbourne, a charming lady whom I fell in love with at first sight,
sang also. She has a beautiful, rich contralto voice, and sang with a
great deal of expression an English song called, "Out on the rocks when
the tide is low."

In your last letter you wrote, "I am afraid that you are on the way to
become conceited." I am afraid myself I am, still I cannot resist telling
you, this once, that my audience was very enthusiastic and Mr. Costa said
--well, I won't tell you what he said; it might sound conceited. The last
thing I sang was "Beware!" which was immensely appreciated.

The Prince of Wales said: "That is a bewitching song. I never heard it
before. Who composed it?"

I told him that it was written for me by my husband, and Longfellow had
written the words.

The Princess, before leaving, said, "I cannot tell you how much pleasure
you have given us this evening; we hope to see you often while you are in
London." She is very beautiful, even handsomer than when I saw her last.
Baroness Rothschild kissed me, and thanked me for having sung for her.

Call me vain and conceited if you will, my head is turned, and there is
nothing more to be said about it!

A luncheon at "Caroline, Duchess of Montrose's," at two o'clock upset me
for the whole day. I am not accustomed to those big _déjeuners-
dinatoires_. I was sleepy and felt good for nothing the rest of the day;
and when we dined at Lady Molesworth's that evening, "to meet their
Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales," and wanted to be extra
up-to-the-mark, I felt just the contrary. However, after dinner the Prince
of Wales asked me to sing, and I did not refuse, and even sang most of the
evening. There was a charming Baron Hochschild, the Swedish Minister, who
sang delightfully. He is a thorough musician, and accompanied himself
perfectly with all the aplomb of an artist. He has a deep, rich barytone,
and his _répertoire_ consisted of all the well-known old Italian songs.
Lady Molesworth is a beautiful old lady, who must have been a great beauty
in her youth. She wears curls just like yours, dear mama, which made me
love her. I met here Arthur Sullivan; he was full of compliments.

The next day we were invited to a _matinée musicale_ at Lady Dudley's,
preceded by a luncheon, which Mr. Osbourne called "a snare," because, he
said, I could not refuse to sing. I did not want to refuse, either. The
piano was in the beautiful picture-gallery, all full of Greuze's pictures
bought from the Vatican; it has the most wonderful acoustics, and the
voice sounded splendidly in it. Lady Dudley is a celebrated beauty. Lord
Dudley--before he succeeded to the title--was Lord Ward. The Duke and
Duchess of Sutherland asked us to dine. This was a very imposing affair;
the Duke of Cambridge was at the dinner as the _grosse pièce_, and there
were many diplomats. After dinner several artists came from Covent Garden,
and among them Madame Patti, who sang the "Cavatina" of "Lucia," with
flute accompaniment, and how beautifully!

When I was introduced to her I said, "The first time I heard you sing was
years ago when I was a little girl and you were in short dresses."

"In Rochester," I replied. "I shall never forget how exquisitely you sang
'Ah! non giunge' and 'Ernani.'"

"Yes, I remember quite well. I was singing in concerts with Ole Bull; but
that was a long time ago."

"It was indeed," I said; "but I have never forgotten your voice, nor a
lovely song you sang which I have never heard since, called 'Happy
Birdling of the Forest.' And your trill! Just like the bird itself!"

We became quite good friends, and she made me promise to come to see her.
She is charming. Every one was most enthusiastic. Some one said she gets a
thousand pounds for an evening. The Marquis de Caux (her husband) looked
rather out of place. It seemed queer to see him again, not as the
brilliant Marquis of the Tuileries (the "beau" _par excellence_), but
simply as the husband of Patti. He did not find a chance to speak to me.

Some days later Lady Anglesey gave a luncheon for me. On the invitations
were, "To meet Mrs. Moulton." I read between the lines: to hear Mrs.
Moulton sing. They always put on their invitations, "To meet" so and so.

Mr. Quimby said to me, "I liked you from the first moment I saw you, but I
had no idea you were going to be such a beast." "Beast!" I echoed. "That
is not very complimentary." "A lion is a beast, isn't it?" he jokingly
replied.

"Am I going to be a lion? I did not know it."

"Well, you are a lioness, which is better."

He is considered the wit of London, and this is a specimen of his wit.
What do you think?

At the luncheon there were Jacques Blumenthal, the famous pianist and
composer, and Arthur Sullivan, who asked me to sing in his little
operetta, which some amateurs are rehearsing for a _soirée_ at Lady
Harrington's; and on my acceptance he brought the music for me to try over
with him the next morning. The _soirée_ was to be three days later. The
music is nothing remarkable; in fact, the whole thing (it is called "The
Prodigal Son") is not worthy of him. I have not met any of my fellow-
performers yet. Forgive this jerky letter; I have been interrupted a
thousand times. Charles thinks it is time to go back to Paris; but we have
just received an invitation from Baron Alfred Rothschild to spend Ascot
week--a _séjour de sept jours_--with a party at a house he has hired
for the race-week there, and I could not resist.


ASCOT, LONDON, _June, 1870._

DEAR M.,--Viscount Sydney thought that we ought to ask for an audience of
the Princess of Wales, and we did it. The audience was accorded, and we
presented ourselves at the appointed hour and were received by the lady of
honor and shown into the beautifully arranged drawing-room. The Princess
was most gracious; she certainly is the loveliest lady I have ever seen. I
told her we were going to Ascot for the week, and she said that they were
also going there and hoped they would see us. Our interview came to an
end, as such interviews do, without anything very interesting happening,
and, finally, we backed ourselves out of the royal presence.

That evening there was a ball at Lady Waldegrave's, who lives at
Strawberry Hill, a mile or so out of London. Baron Alfred Rothschild
offered to take us out there in his coach and-four. We dined first with
the Baron Meyer Rothschild, and afterward drove out to Strawberry Hill. It
is the most beautiful place you can imagine. I never saw anything so grand
as the cedar-trees.

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Turkey is restoring the citizenship of its most famous 20th century poet Nazim Hikmet over 50 years after it branded him a traitor.

Hikmet, a communist who died in exile in Moscow in 1963, was imprisoned in Turkey for more than a decade. He was stripped of his Turkish nationality in 1951 because of his communist views, but despite a ban on his poetry which remained in place until 1965, has remained one of Turkey's best-loved poets. His work, much of which was written in prison, including his masterpiece Human Landscapes, has been translated into more than 50 languages.

"This is very good news," said Richard McKane, Hikmet's English translator. "The restoration of his Turkish citizenship is long overdue: the people of Turkey and his readers are owed that."

Immortalised by Pablo Neruda, with whom he shared the Soviet Union's International Peace Prize in 1950, with the lines "Thanks for what you were and for the fire / which your song left forever burning", Hikmet was also supported by Jean-Paul Sartre and Pablo Picasso. Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk, when given the editorship for a day of Turkish newspaper Radikal two years ago, used the example of Hikmet in his cover story to criticise the lack of freedom of expression in Turkey. In 2000, 500,000 Turks petitioned the government to restore Hikmet's citizenship rights and repatriate his remains.

Deputy prime minister Cemil Cicek told the Associated Press that it was time for the government to change its mind about Hikmet. "The crimes which forced the government to strip him of his citizenship at that time are no longer considered a crime," the BBC quoted him as saying.

Hikmet, whose remains are currently in Russia, had said that he wished to be buried in Turkey in his 1953 poem Testament, translated by Ruth Christie. "Friends if it's not my lot to see the day / of independence... / if I die before that day / - and it seems I will - / bury me in a village graveyard in Anatolia / and if it's fitting / and a plane tree grows at my head, / then there's no need for a gravestone or anything else."

Cicek said that Hikmet's family would now decide whether to ship his remains back to his homeland.

Hikmet introduced free verse to Turkey in the 1930s, with his themes ranging from war to love. Despite his imprisonment he retained a deep passion for Turkey. "I love my country", he wrote in one of his poems. "I swung in its lofty trees, I lay in its prisons. Nothing relieves my depression like the songs and tobacco of my country."

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