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

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There was dancing, and everything was very unceremonious and easy. I think
(I will just say it to you, dear mama) that I had a success. Their
Majesties were very kind, and thanked me many times, and the Duke de Morny
said that he was very proud of his protégée, for it was he who had
suggested to the Empress that I should sing for them. It was a delightful
evening, and I enjoyed myself and my little triumph immensely. I made the
acquaintance of the Austrian ambassador and the Princess Metternich. She
seemed very pleasant, and put me directly at my ease. She is far from
being handsome, but dresses better than any woman in Paris, and has more
_chic_. In fact, she sets the fashion as much as the Empress does.

The Emperor, at the instigation of the Duke de Morny, has given orders for
the construction of a bridge over the Marne near Petit Val, a thing we
needed greatly. When you were here, if you remember, one had to walk from
the station to the river, about a little quarter of a mile. Once there you
had to wave and shout for the ferryman, who, before allowing you to get on
the boat, would attend to what cattle or merchandise were waiting there
for transport. I do not think the bridge would have been built had not the
Duke de Morny come out by train to Petit Val to avoid the long drive of
twelve miles from Paris, and had been bored by this primitive means of
transporting his august person. He said he was astonished and mortified
that such a state of things should exist so near Paris. So was every one
else. Otherwise the "bac" would have gone on forever.

The Carnival has never been so whirlwindy as it has been this year; and I
don't know how the purses of our lords and masters are going to hold out;
and while the poor, "whom we have always with us," are getting rich, the
rich, whom we don't always have, alas! are getting poor. For the private
fancy-dress ball at the Tuileries last Monday, to which the guests were
invited by the Empress, Worth alone made costumes to the tune of two
hundred thousand dollars, and yet there were not four hundred ladies
invited.

To begin at the top, the Empress was dressed as the wife of a doge of
Venice of the sixteenth century. She wore all the crown jewels and many
others. She was literally _cuirassée_ in diamonds, and glittered like
a sun-goddess. Her skirt of black velvet over a robe of scarlet satin was
caught up by clusters of diamond brooches. The Prince Imperial was allowed
to be present; he was dressed in a black-velvet costume and knee breeches;
his little, thin legs black-stockinged, and a _manteau Vénitien_ over
his shoulders. He danced twice, once with Mademoiselle de Châteaubourg,
and then with his cousin, Princess Anna Murat, who, being made on
Junoesque lines, and dressed as a Dutch peasant with enormous gold
ornaments over her ears, and a flowing white lace cap, towered above her
youthful partner. He is only seven years old, and rather small for his
age, which made the contrast between him and his colossal partner very
striking. Princess Mathilde looked superb as Holbein's Anne of Clèves. She
wore her famous collection of emeralds, which are world-known.

Princess Clothilde had also copied a picture from the Louvre; but her robe
of silver brocade, standing out in great folds about her waist, was
anything but becoming to her style of figure. Princess Augustine Bonaparte
(Gabrielli) was in a gorgeous costume of something or other; one had not
time to find out exactly what she was intended to represent; she was
covered with jewelry (some people pretended it was false, but it did not
look less brilliant, for that). A fancy ball is an occasion which allows
and excuses any extravagance in jewelry; whereas, at an ordinary ball it
is considered not in good taste to wear too much. I just mention this
casually, in case you should want to make a display when you lunch at Miss
Bryant's some Sunday.

Countess Walewski had powdered her hair and wore a Louis XV. amazon
costume, a most unbecoming yellow satin gown with masses of gold buttons
sewed on in every direction. This was not very successful.

Marquise de Gallifet, as the Angel Gabriel, with enormous real swan's
wings suspended from her shoulders, looked the part to perfection, and
most angelic with her lovely smile, blond hair, and graceful figure.

Princess Metternich was dressed as Night, in dark-blue tulle covered with
diamond stars. Her husband said to me, "Don't you think that Pauline looks
well in her nightgown?"

Countess Castiglione, the famous beauty, was dressed as Salammbô in a
costume remarkable for its lack of stuff, the idea taken from the new
Carthaginian novel of Gustave Flaubert. The whole dress was of black
satin, the waist without any sleeves, showing more than an usual amount of
bare arms and shoulders; the train was open to the waist, disclosing the
countess's noble leg as far up as it went incased in black-silk tights.

The young Count de Choiseul, who had blackened his face to represent an
Egyptian page, not only carried her train, but held over the head of the
daughter of Hamilcar an umbrella of Robinson Crusoe dimensions. Her gold
crown fell off once while walking about, and Choiseul made every one laugh
when he picked it up and put it on his own black locks. She walked on all
unconscious, and wondered why people laughed.

My costume was that of a Spanish dancer. Worth told me that he had put his
whole mind upon it; it did not feel much heavier for that: a banal yellow
satin skirt, with black lace over it, the traditional red rose in my hair,
red boots and a bolero embroidered in steel beads, and small steel balls
dangling all over me. Some com-pliments were paid to me, but unfortunately
not enough to pay the bill; if compliments would only do that sometimes,
how gladly we would receive them! But they are, as it is, a drug in the
market.

The Emperor was in domino--his favorite disguise--which is no disguise at
all, for every one recognizes him.

[Illustration: DANIEL FRANÇOIS ESPRIT AUBER]

I met the famous Auber at the Tuileries ball. The Duke de Persigny brought
him and introduced him to me, not because Auber asked to be presented, but
because I was most anxious to make his acquaintance, and begged the duke
to bring him. He is a short, dapper little man, with such a refined and
clever face.

Wit and repartee sparkle in his keen eyes. His music is being very much
played now--"Fra Diavolo" and "Dieu et la Bayadère," and others of his
operas. His music is like himself--fine and dainty, and full of
_esprit_; his name is Daniel François Esprit. M. de Persigny said, "Madame
Moulton desires to know you, Monsieur Auber." I said, "I hope you will not
think me indiscreet, but I did want to see you and know the most-talked-
about person in Paris." In reply he said: "You have the advantage over me,
Madame. I have never heard myself talked about." Then the Duke de Persigny
said something about my voice. Auber turned to me, and said, "May I not
also have the privilege of hearing you?" Of course I was tremendously
pleased, and we fixed a day and hour then and there for his visit.

Prince Jérome, who is a cousin of the Emperor (people call him Plon-Plon),
is not popular; in fact, he is just the contrary. But his wife, the
Princess Clothilde, would be exceedingly popular if she gave the Parisians
a chance to see her oftener. She is so shy, so young, and the least
pretentious of princesses, hates society, and never goes out if she can
avoid it. Prince Jérome is, of all the Napoleonic family, the one who most
resembles Napoleon I. in appearance, but not in character. There is
nothing of the hero about him. Since he had the misfortune to be suddenly
indisposed the night before the battle of Solferino, and did not appear,
they call him "craint-plomb." _Sé non è vero è ben trovato._

The stories people tell of the Prince are awful; but one is not obliged to
believe them if one does not want to.

There was such an amusing _soirée_ at the Duke de Morny's in honor of
the Duchess's birthday. They gave a play called "Monsieur Choufleuri
restera chez lui le.......," which the Duke wrote himself, and for which
Offenbach composed the music inspired by the Duke, who vowed that he
"really did make the most of it." But, his conscience pricking him, he
added, "At least some!" which I think was nearer the truth.

It was a great success, whether by the Duke de Morny or by Offenbach, and
was the funniest thing I ever saw. Every one was roaring with laughter,
and when the delighted audience called for "l'auteur," the Duke came out
leading Offenbach, each waving his hand toward the other, as if success
belonged to him alone, and went off bowing their thanks together. Apropos
of the Duke de Morny, he said of himself: "I am a very complicated person.
_Je suis le fils d'une reine, frère d'un Empereur et gendre d'un Empereur,
et tous sont illégitimes_." It does sound queer! But he really is the son
of Queen Hortense (his father being Count Flahaut); he is in this way an
illegitimate brother of Napoleon III., and his wife is the daughter of the
Emperor Nicholas of Russia. There you have a complicated case. My young
sister-in-law has just married Count Hatzfeldt, of the German Embassy
(second secretary). He is very good-looking without being handsome, and
belongs to one of the most distinguished families in Germany. Countess
Mercy-Argenteau appeared, comet-like, in Paris, and although she is a very
beautiful woman, full of musical talent, and calls herself _une femme
politique_, she is not a success. The gentlemen say she lacks charm. At
any rate, none of the _élégantes_ are jealous of her, which speaks for
itself. She is not as beautiful as Madame de Gallifet, nor as _élégante_
as Countess Pourtales, nor as clever as Princess Metternich.

Madame Musard, a beautiful American, has a friendship (_en tout
déshonneur_) with a foreign royalty who made her a present of some--
what he thought valueless--shares of a petroleum company in America. These
shares turned into gold in her hands.

The royal gentleman gnashes his false teeth in vain, and has scene after
scene with the royal son, who, green with rage, reproaches him for having
parted with these treasures. But the shares are safely in the clutches of
papa in New York, far away, and furnishing the wherewithal to provide his
daughter with the most wonderful horses and equipages in Paris. She pays
as much for one horse as her husband gains by his music in a year, and as
for the poor prodigal prince, who is overrun with debts, he would be
thankful to have even a widowed papa's mite of her vast wealth. Another
lady, whose virtue is some one else's reward, has a magnificent and much-
talked-of hotel in the Champs Élysées, where there is a staircase worth a
million francs, made of real alabaster. Prosper Mérimée said: "C'est par
là qu'on monte à la vertu."

Her salons are filled every evening with cultured men of the world, and
they say that the most refined tone reigns supreme--that is more than one
can say of every salon in Paris.

I am taking lessons of Delle Sedie. He is a delightful teacher; he is so
intelligent and has such beautiful theories, and so many of them, that he
takes up about half the time of my lesson talking them over.

This is one of the things he says: "Take your breath from your boots." It
sounds better said in French: _Prenez votre respiration dans vos
bottines._ I don't think he realizes what he says or what he wants me
to do. When I told him that I had sung somewhere unwillingly, having been
much teased, he said: "You must not be too amiable. You must not sing when
and what one asks. There is nothing like being begged. You are not a hand-
organ, _pardieu_, that any one can play when they like." And this sort of
talk alternates with my songs until time is up, when off I run or go,
feeling that I have learned little but talked much. However, sometimes
I do feel compensated; for when, to demonstrate a point, he will sing a
whole song, I console myself by thinking that I have been to one of his
concerts and paid for my ticket.

Yesterday I received the inclosed letter from the Duke de Morny, inviting
us to go with him in his loge to see a new play called "Le déluge." It was
not much of a play; but it was awfully amusing to see. Noah and his three
sons and his three daughters-in-law marched into the ark dragging after
them some wiry, emaciated débris of the Jardin des Plantes, which looked
as if they had not eaten for a week. The amount of whipping and poking
with sticks which was necessary to get them up the plank was amazing; I
think they had had either too few or too many rehearsals. But they were
all finally pushed in. Then commenced the rain--a real pouring cats-and-
dogs kind of rain, with thunder and lightning and the stage pitch-dark.
The whole populace climbed up on the rocks and crawled about, drenched to
the skin, and little by little disappeared. Then, when one saw nothing but
"water, water everywhere," the ark suddenly loomed out on top of the rocks
(how could they get it up there?), and the whole Noah family stepped out
in a pink-and-yellow sunset, and a dear little dove flew up to Noah's hand
and delivered the olive branch to him. The dove was better trained than
the animals, and had learned his rôle very well.

On coming out of the theater, we found, instead of the fine weather we had
left outside, a pouring rain which was a very good imitation of the deluge
inside. And none of us had an umbrella!

You see what the Duke de Morny writes: "I am making a collection of
photographs of the young and elegant ladies of Paris. I think that you
ought to figure among them, and though it is not an equal exchange, I am
going to ask you to accept mine and give me yours." And he brought it to
me last night.

An invitation for the ball at St. Cloud for the King of Spain, who is now
in Paris to inaugurate the new rail road to Madrid, and another ball at
the Tuileries will keep us busy this week.

PETIT VAL, _June 17th._ We have been here a week, rejoicing in the
lilacs and roses and all the spring delights. The nightingales are more
delightful than ever. There is one charmer in particular, who warbles most
enchantingly in the cedar-tree in front of my window. He has a lady-love
somewhere, and he must be desperately in love, for he sings his little
heart out on his skylarking tours to attract her attention. I try hard
(naïve that I am) to imitate his song, especially the trill and the long,
sad note. I wonder if either of them is deceived: whether she thinks that
she has two lovers (one worse than the other), or, if _he_ thinks he has a
poor rival who can't hold a candle to him.

Auber wrote a cadenza for the "Rossignol" of Alabieff, which he thought
might be in nightingale style. But how can any one imitate a nightingale?
Auber, in one of his letters, asked me: "Chantez-vous toujours des duos
avec votre maître de... champs?"

[Illustration: À MADAME LILLIE MOULTON]

PARIS, _January, 1864._

The Princess Beauvau is a born actress, and nothing she loves better than
arranging theatricals and acting herself. She rooted up some charity as an
excuse for giving a theatrical performance, and obtained the theater of
the Conservatoire and the promise of the Empress's presence. She chose two
plays, one of Musset and the other, "l'Esclave," of Molière--and asked me
to take part in this last one.

"Oh," I said, "I cannot appear in a French play; I would not dare to." But
the Princess argued that, as there were only four words to say, she
thought I could do it, and in order to entice me to accept, she proposed
introducing a song; and, moreover, said that she would beg Auber to
furnish a few members of the Conservatoire orchestra to accompany me. This
was very tempting, and I fell readily into the trap she laid for me.

I consulted Auber about my song, and we decided on Alabieff's "Rossignol,"
for which he had written the cadenza. He composed a chorus for a few
amateurs and all the orchestral parts.

I was to be a Greek slave; my dress was of white, flimsy, spangled gauze,
with a white-satin embroidered bolero, a turban of tulle, with all sorts
of dangly things hanging over my ears. I wore baggy trousers and
_babouches_. You may notice that I did not copy Power's Greek slave in the
way of dress.

I was completely covered with a white tulle veil, and led in by my fellow-
slaves, who were also in baggy trousers and _babouches_. There could be no
doubt that we were slaves, for we were overloaded with chains on arms,
ankles, and waist. I found circulation a very difficult matter shuffling
about in _babouches_, which are the most awkward things to walk in. One
risks falling forward at every step.

When they got me in front of the orchestra the slaves drew off my veil and
there I stood. The chorus retired, and I began my song. I had had only one
rehearsal with the orchestra, the day before; but the humming
accompaniment to my solo, that the unmusical slaves had to learn, had
taken a week to teach.

Every one said the scene was very pretty. My song was quite a success; I
had to sing it over again. Then I sang the waltz of Chopin, to which I had
put words and transposed two tones lower. I saw Delle Sedie in the
audience, with his mouth wide open, trying to breathe for me. It has
sixteen bars which must be sung in one breath, and has a compass from D on
the upper line to A on the lower line. Applause and flowers were showered
on me, and I was rather proud of myself. I felt like Patti when I picked
up my bouquets!

Later on in the play I had to say my "four words," which turned out to be
six words: _On ne peut être plus joli_. Though I was frightened out of my
wits, I managed not to disgrace myself; but I doubt if any one heard one
of the six words I said. The Empress sent me a little bunch of violets,
which I thought was very gracious of her, and I was immensely flattered,
for I think she took it from her corsage. I had noticed it there at the
beginning of the evening.

One of the bouquets bore the card of Dr. Evans, the American dentist. It
was very nice of him to remember me and send me such beautiful flowers.
Dr. Evans is so clever and entertaining. Every one likes him, and every
door as well as every jaw is open to him. At the Tuileries they look on
him not only as a good dentist, but as a good friend; and, as some clever
person said, "Though reticent to others, their Majesties had to open their
mouths to him."

The other day we had a children's party. Auber came, pretending that he
had been invited as one of the children. When he heard them all chattering
in French, English, and German, he said, "Cela me fait honte, moi qui ne
parle que le français." He was most delighted to see the children, and
seated himself at the piano and played some sweet little old-fashioned
polkas and waltzes, to which the children danced.

I said to them: "Children, remember that to-day you have danced to the
playing of Monsieur Auber, the most celebrated composer in France. Such a
thing is an event, and you must remember it and tell it to your children."

Miss Adelaide Philips is here singing, but, alas! without the success she
deserves. She appeared at Les Italiens twice; once as Azucena in
"Trovatore," and then as the page in "Lucrezia Borgia." If it had not been
for her clothes, I think that her efforts would have been more
appreciated. The moment she appeared as the page in "Lucrezia" there was a
general titter in the audience. Her make-up was so extraordinary, Parisian
taste rose up in arms. And as for the Borgias, they would have poisoned
her on the spot had they seen her! Her extraordinarily fat legs (whether
padded or not, I don't know) were covered with black-velvet trousers,
ending at the knee and trimmed with lace.

She wore a short-waisted jacket with a short skirt attached and a
voluminous lace ruffle, a curly wig too long for a man and too short for a
woman, upon which sat jauntily a Faust-like hat with a long, sweeping
plume. This was her idea of a medieval Maffeo Orsini. As Azucena, the
mother of a forty-year-old troubadour, she got herself up as a damsel of
sixteen, with a much too short dress and a red bandana around her head,
from which dangled a mass of sequins which she shook coquettishly at the
prompter. The audience did not make any demonstration; they remained
indifferent and tolerant, and there was not a breath of applause. The only
criticism that appeared in the papers was: "Madame Philips, une
Américaine, a fait son apparence dans 'Trovatore.' Elle joue assez bien,
et si sa voix avait l'importance de ses jambes elle aurait eu sans doute
du succès, car elle peut presque chanter." Poor Miss Philips! I felt so
sorry for her. I thought of when I had seen her in America, where she had
such success in the same rôles. But why did she get herself up so? There
is nothing like ridicule for killing an artist in France, and any one who
knew the French could have foreseen what her success would be the moment
she came on the stage. She became ill after these two performances and
left Paris.

PARIS, _May 7, 1863._

DEAR M.,--Auber procured us tickets for Meyerbeer's funeral, which took
place to-day; it was a most splendid affair. Auber, who was one of the
pall-bearers, looked very small and much agitated. The music of the church
was magnificent. Auber himself had written an organ voluntary and Jules
Cohen played it. Auber said, on going to the cemetery: "La prochaine fois
sera pour mon propre compte."

We went to a dinner at Mr. William Gudin's (he is the celebrated painter)
last night. There were the Prince and Princess Metternich, old Monsieur
Dupin, Duke de Bassano, Monsieur Rouher, Baron Rothschild, and many other
people. The gallery was lit up after dinner, and they smoked there (as a
great exception). Smoking is against Madame Gudin's principles, but not
against his, as the huge table covered with every kind of cigars and
cigarettes could bear witness. Collecting cigarettes is a sort of hobby of
Gudin's; he gets them from every one. The Emperor of Russia, the Chinese,
the Turkish, and Japanese sovereigns, all send him cigarettes, even the
Emperor. These last are steeped in a sort of liquid which is good for
asthma. Every one who could boast of asthma got one to try. I must say
they smelled rather uninvitingly. The Emperor loves Gudin dearly, and
orders picture after picture from him, mostly commemorative of some fine
event of which the Emperor is, of course, the principal figure, and
destined for Versailles later. Gudin has a beautiful hotel and garden near
us in the Rue Beaujon. The garden used to be square; but now it is a
triangle, as a new boulevard has taken a part of it. Gudin talked much
about his debts, as if they were feathers in his cap, and as for his law-
suits, they are jewels in his crown!

His famous picture of the Emperor's visit to Venice, now in the
Luxembourg, is an enormous canvas, rather _à la Turner_, with intense
blue sky deepening into a green sunset, pink and purple waves lashing the
sides of the fantastic vessel in which the Emperor stands in an opalescent
coloring. Some black slaves are swimming about, their bodies half-way out
of the water, holding up their enormous black arms loaded with chains,
each link of which would sink an ordinary giant.

Baroness Alphonse Rothschild has one desire, which, in spite of a
fathomless purse, seemed difficult at first to fulfil. What she wants is
to play a sonata with the orchestra of the Conservatoire, _rien de moins_!
She begged me to ask Auber how much it would cost. After due reflection he
answered, twelve hundred francs. She was quite surprised at this modest
sum; she had thought it would be so many thousands. Therefore she decided
to convoke the orchestra, and has been studying her sonata with all zeal
and with a Danish coach. I don't mean a carriage, but a man who can coach,
after the English school system.

She asked me to keep her in countenance, and wished me to sing something
with the orchestra; but what should I sing? Auber could think of nothing
better than "Voi che sapete," as the orchestra would have the music for
it, and for frivolity he proposed "La Mandolinata," of Paladilhe. He said,
"Il faut avoir de tout dans sa poche;" and the dear old master transcribed
it all himself, writing it out for the different instruments. I shall
always keep these ten pages of his fine writing as one of my most precious
autographs.

On account of his _concours_ Auber was asked to be present, as well
as the Danish coach, whose occupation was to turn the leaves, and if
necessary to help in critical moments. No one else was to be in the
audience, not even our husbands. Well! the concert came off. We were four
hours about it! It was a funny experience, when one thinks of it, and only
Baroness Rothschild could have ever imagined such a thing or carried it
through. In her enormous ballroom we two amateurs were performing with the
most celebrated orchestra in the world--eighty picked musicians, all
perfect artists--with no one to hear us. Auber professed politely to be
delighted with all he heard, and clamored for more. The orchestra looked
resignedly bored.

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