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

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Auber has given me all his operas, and I have gone through them all with
him for his music. I sing the laughing song in "Manon Lescaut" and the
bolero in "Diamants de la Couronne." These two are my favorite songs and
are very difficult. In the laughing song I either laugh too much or too
little. To start laughing in cold blood is as difficult as to stop
laughing when once started. The bolero is only a continuous display of
musical fireworks.

NEW YORK, _May, 1864._

When we arrived in New York (we went to visit my sister and my mother) we
were overwhelmed with invitations of all kinds.

I made a most (to me) interesting acquaintance at this _soirée_, a Mrs.
Henry Fields, who I found out was the famous and much-talked-about
"Lucie," the governess in the trial of the Duc de Praslin. Every one was
convinced of her innocence (she pleaded her own case, refusing the aid of
a lawyer). Nevertheless, she was the cause of the death of the Duchess, as
the Duke killed his wife because she refused to give "Lucie" a letter of
recommendation, and he became so enraged at her refusal that he first
tried to strangle her, and then shot her. I had heard so much about this
murder (it was along ago), and knew all the details, and, what was more, I
knew all the children of the unhappy woman whose only crime was to love
her husband too much, and to resent "Lucie's" taking away the love of her
children from her! Warning to young women: Don't love your husbands too
much, or don't engage a too attractive governess.

PHILADELPHIA, _July, 1864._

DEAR AUNTY,--We came from New York a few days ago, and are staying with
mama's friend, Mrs. M----, who is a very (what shall I say?) fascinating
but a very peculiar person. She is a curious mixture of a poetess and a
society woman, very susceptible, and of such a sensitive nature that she
seems always to be in the hottest of hot water, and at war with all her
neighbors; but she routs all her enemies and manages everything with a
high hand.

Her daughter is just engaged to a Swedish naval officer. To celebrate the
engagement they gave a big dinner, and, as the Sanitary Fair is going on
just now, President Lincoln is here, and Mrs. M---- had the courage to
invite him, and he had the courage to accept. It is the first time that I
have ever seen an American President, and I was most anxious to see him,
particularly as he has, for the last years, been such a hero in my eyes.
He might take the prize for ugliness anywhere; his face looked as if it
was cut out of wood, and roughly cut at that, with deep furrows in his
cheeks and a huge mouth; but he seemed so good and kind, and his eyes
sparkled with so much humor and fun, that he became quite fascinating,
especially when he smiled. I confess I lost my heart to him.... The
dinner, I mean the food part of it, was a failure. It came from Baltimore,
and everything was cold; the _pâté de foie gras_ never appeared at all!
When Mrs. M---- mentioned the fact to Mr. Lincoln, pointing to the menu,
he said "the _pâté_" (he pronounced it _patty_) has probably walked off by
itself. Every one laughed, because he said it in such a comical, slow way.

After the gentlemen had smoked (I thought they were a long time at it) we
were requested to go into the gallery, where all the gas-lights were
turned up to the fullest and chairs placed in rows, and Professor Winter
began to read a lecture on the brain--of all subjects! Who but Mrs. M----
would ever have arranged such an entertainment?

Professor Winter told us where our 50,000 ideas were laid up in our brains
(I am sure that I have not 50,000 in mine). One might have deducted
49,999, and still, with that little one left, I was not able to understand
the half of what he said.

Another wonderful thing he told us was, that there are five thousand
million cells in our brain, and that it takes about ten thousand cells to
furnish a well-lodged perception. How in the world can he know that? I
think he must have examined his own ten thousand cells to have discovered
all this exuberance of material. The President looked bored, and I am sure
everybody else wished Professor Winter and his theories (because they
can't be facts) in the Red Sea.... After this _séance manquée_ I was
asked to sing. Poor Mr. Lincoln! who I understood could not endure music.
I pitied him.

"None of your foreign fireworks," said Mr. Trott, in his graceful manner,
as I passed him on my way to the piano. I answered, "Shall I sing 'Three
Little Kittens'? I think that is the least fireworky of my _répertoire_."
But I concluded that a simple little rocket like "Robin Adair" would kill
nobody; therefor I sang that, and it had a success.

When the gaunt President shook my hand to thank me, he held it in a grip
of iron, and when, to accentuate the compliment, meaning to give a little
extra pressure, he put his left hand over his right, I felt as if my hand
was shut in a waffle-iron and I should never straighten it out again.

"Music is not much in my line," said the President; "but when you sing you
warble yourself into a man's heart. I'd like to hear you sing some more."

What other mild cracker could I fire off? Then I thought of that lovely
song, "Mary Was a Lassie," which you like so much, so I sang that.

Mr. Lincoln said, "I think I might become a musician if I heard you often;
but so far I only know two tunes."

"'Hail, Columbia'?" I asked. "You know that, I am sure!"

"Oh yes, I know that, for I have to stand up and take off my hat."

"And the other one?"

"The other one! Oh, the other one is the other when I don't stand up!" I
am sorry not to have seen Mr. Lincoln again. There was something about him
that was perfectly fascinating, but I think I have said this before.

NIAGARA, _August, 1864._

DEAR AUNTY,--My last letter, written from Philadelphia, told you of my
having made Mr. Lincoln's acquaintance. A few days after we left for
Niagara, taking Rochester on our way. I had not seen Rochester since I was
eleven years old, and mama and I both wanted to go there again.

We slept in Rochester that night. The next morning a deputation headed by
the director of the penitentiary, flanked by a committee of benevolent
ladies, called upon us to beg me to sing for the penitents at the
penitentiary the next day, it being Sunday. They all said, in chorus, that
it would be a great and noble act.

I did not (and I do not now) see why pickpockets and burglars should be
entertained, and I could not grasp the greatness of the act, unless it was
in the asking. However, mama urged me (she can never bear me to say no),
and I accepted.

At the appointed time the director called for us in a landau, and we drove
out to the penitentiary. As we entered the double courtyard, and drove
through the much belocked gates, I felt very depressed, and not at all
like bursting forth in song. Mama and I were led up, like lambs to the
slaughter, on to a platform, passing the guilty ones seated in the pews,
the men on one side, the women on the other, of the aisles, all dressed in
stripes of some sort; they looked sleepy and stupid. They had just sat
through the usual Sunday exhortation.

The ladies of the committee ranged themselves so as to make a background
of solemn benevolence on the platform, in the middle of which stood a
primeval melodion with two octaves and four stops. One stop would have
been enough for me, and I needed it later, as you will see.

Here I was! What should I sing? I was utterly at a loss. Why had I not
thought this out before coming?

French love-songs; out of the question.

Italian prayers and German lullabies were plentiful in the _répertoire_,
but seemed sadly out of place for this occasion.

I thought of Lucrezia Borgia's "Brindisi"; but that instantly went out of
my mind. A drinking song urging people to drink seemed absurdly
inappropriate, as probably most of my audience had done their misdeeds
under the influence of drink.

I knew the words of "Home, Sweet Home," and decided on that. Nothing could
have been worse. I attacked the squeaky melodion, pushed down a pedal,
pulled out the "vox humana" stop--the most harmless one of the melodion,
but which gave out a supernaturally hoarse sound--I struck the chord, and
standing up I began. These poor, homeless creatures must have thought my
one purpose was to harass them to the last limit, and I only realized what
I was singing about when I saw them with bowed heads and faces hidden in
their hands; some even sobbing.

The director, perceiving the doleful effect I had produced, suggested,
"Perhaps something in a lighter vein." I tried to think of "something in a
lighter vein," and inquired, "How would 'Swanee River' be?"

"First-rate," said the kind director; "just the thing--_good_" emphasizing
the word _good_ by slapping his hands together. Thus encouraged, I started
off again in the melancholy wake of the melodion. Alas! this fared no
better than "Home, Sweet Home." When I sang "Oh; darkies! how my heart
grows weary!" the word _weary_ had a disastrous effect, and there was a
regular breakdown (I don't mean in the darky sense of the word, the
penitents did _not_ get up and perform a breakdown--I wish they had!); but
there was a regular collapse of penitents. I thought that they would have
to be carried out on stretchers.

The poor warden, now at his wits' end, but wishing to finish this
lugubrious performance with a flourish, proposed (unhappy thought) that I
should address a few words to the now miserable, broken-hearted crowd. I
will give you a thousand guesses, dear aunty, and still you will never
guess the idiotic words that issued from your niece's lips. I said,
looking at them with a triumphant smile (I have no doubt that, at that
moment, I thought I was in my own drawing-room, bidding guests good
night)--I said (I really hate to write it): "I hope the next time I come
to Rochester I shall meet you all here again."

This was the first speech I ever made in public--I confess that it was not
a success.

PARIS, _1865._

The Princess Mathilde receives every Sunday evening. Her salons are always
crowded, and are what one might call cosmopolitan. In fact, it is the only
salon in Paris where one can meet all nationalities. There are diplomats,
royalists, imperialists, strangers of importance passing through Paris,
and especially all the celebrated artists.

She has great taste, and has arranged her palace most charmingly. She has
converted a small portion of the park behind it into a winter garden,
which is filled with beautiful palms and flowering plants. In this
attractive place she holds her receptions, and I sang there the other
evening.

Rossini was, as a great exception, present. I fancy that he and his wife
had dined with the Princess; therefore, when the Princess asked him to
accompany me, saying that she desired so much to hear me sing, he could
not well refuse to be amiable, and sat down to the piano with a good
enough grace. I sang "Bel Raggio," from "Semiramide," as I knew it by
heart (I had sung it often enough with Garcia). Rossini was kind enough
not to condemn the cadenzas with which Garcia had interlarded it. I was
afraid he would not like them, remembering what he had said to Patti about
hers.

I was amused at his gala dress for royalty: a much-too-big redingote, a
white tie tied a good deal to one side, and only one wig.

He says that he is seventy-three years old. I must say that this is
difficult to believe, for he does not look it by ten years. He never
accepts any invitations. I know I have never seen him anywhere outside his
own house, and it was a great surprise to see him now. We once ventured to
invite him and his wife to dinner one evening, when the Prince and
Princess Metternich were dining with us; and we got this answer: "Merci,
de votre invitation pour ma femme et moi. Nous regrettons de ne pouvoir
l'accepter. Ma femme ne sort que pour aller à la messe, et moi je ne sors
jamais de mes habitudes." We felt snubbed, as no doubt we deserved to be.

Gounod played most enchantingly some selections from "Roméo et Juliette,"
the opera he has just composed. I hear that he wants Christine Nilsson to
sing it. The music seems to me even more beautiful than "Faust." Rossini
talked a long time with Gounod, and Auber told me that Rossini said,
patting Gounod on the back, "Vous êtes le chevalier Bayard de la musique."

Gounod answered, "Sans peur, non!"

Rossini said, "Dans tous les cas, sans reproche et sans égal."

Gounod is, I think, the gentlest, the most modest, and the kindest-hearted
man in the world. His music is like him, gentle and graceful. Princess
Mathilde asked me to sing again; but, as I had not brought any music,
Auber offered to accompany me in the "Song of the Djins," from his new
opera, which I had so often sung with him. It was not the song I should
have selected; but, as Auber desired it, I was glad to gratify him, and
was delighted when I saw Rossini compliment Auber, who (like the tenor
before the drop-curtain, who waves his hand toward the soprano as if all
the merit of the performance was due to her) waved his hand toward me,
which suggested to Rossini to make me a reflected compliment.

This was a great occasion, seeing and hearing Rossini, Gounod, and Auber
at the same time. I shall never forget that evening. I wonder that I had
the courage to sing before them. Among the guests was an Indian Nabob
dressed in all his orientals, who in himself would have been sufficient
attraction for a whole evening, had he not been totally eclipsed by the
three great artists. The Nabob probably expected more homage than he
received; but people hardly looked at him.

I was presented to him, and he seemed glad to speak English, which was not
of the best, but far better than his French. He told me a great deal about
his journey, the attractions of Paris, and about his country and family.

I asked him, by way of saying something (I was not particularly interested
in him or his family), how many children he had. He answered, "Quite a
few, milady."

"What does your Highness call a few?" I asked.

"Well, I think about forty," he replied, nonchalantly.

"That would be considered quite a large family here," I said.

The Nabob, of course, did not appreciate the profundity of this remark.

A few days after, the Princess Mathilde sent me a lovely fan which she had
painted herself, and Mr. Moulton is going to have it mounted. I am very
happy to have it as a souvenir of a memorable evening, besides being an
exquisite specimen of the Princess's talent as an artist. The Princess is
what one might call miscellaneous. She has a Corsican father, a German
mother, and a Russian husband, and as "cavaliere servente" (as they say in
Italy), a Dutchman. She was born in Austria, brought up in Italy, and
lives in France. She said once to Baron Haussmann, "If you go on making
boulevards like that, you will shut me up like a vestal."

"I will never make another, your Highness," he answered.

Every one is very much excited about a young Swedish girl called Christine
Nilsson, who has walked right into the star-light, for she really is a
star of the first magnitude. She has studied with Wachtel only one year,
and behold her now singing at the Théâtre Lyrique to crowded audiences in
the "Flûte Enchantée." Her voice has a wonderful charm; she sings without
the slightest effort, and naturally as a bird. She has some phenomenal
high notes, which are clear as bells. She makes that usually tedious
_grand aria_, which every singer makes a mess of, quite lovely and
musical, hovering as she does in the regions above the upper line like a
butterfly and trilling like a canary-bird. A Chinese juggler does not play
with his glass balls more dexterously than she plays with all the effects
and tricks of the voice. What luck for her to have blossomed like that
into a full-fledged prima-donna with so little effort. I have got to know
her quite well, as Miss Haggerty, who was at some school with her in
Paris, invites her often to lunch and asks me to meet her.

Nilsson is tall, graceful, slight, and very attractive, without being
actually handsome. She acts well and naturally, and with intelligence,
without exerting herself; she has the happy faculty of understanding and
seizing things _au vol_, instead of studying them. She has a regal future
before her. A second Jenny Lind! Their careers are rather similar. Jenny
Lind was a singer in cafés, and Nilsson played the violin in cafés in
Stockholm. She is clever, too! She has surrounded herself by a wall of
propriety, in the shape of an English _dame de compagnie_, and never moves
unless followed by her. This lady (Miss Richardson) is correctness and
primness personified, and so _comme il faut_ that it is actually
oppressive to be in the same room with her. Nilsson herself is full of fun
and jokes, but at the same time dignified and serious.

Christine Nilsson gave Mrs. Haggerty a box at the Théâtre Lyrique, where
she is now playing "Traviata" (I think it was the director's box), and I
was invited to go with her and Clem. The box was behind the curtain and
very small and very dark. But it was intensely amusing to see how things
were done, and how prosaic and matter-of-fact everything was. If ever I
thanked my stars that I was not a star myself it was then.

Everything looked so tawdry and claptrap: the dirty boards, the grossly
painted scenery, the dingy workmen shuffling about grumbling and gruff,
ordered and scolded by a vulgar superior. Of course the stars do not see
all these things, because they only appear when the heavens are ready for
them to shine in.

The overture, so it sounded to us, was a clash of drums, trumpets, and
trombones all jumbled together. After the three knocks of the director,
which started up the dust of ages into our faces until we were almost
suffocated, the curtain rose slowly with great noise and rumbling.

The audience looked formidable as we saw it through the mist of cloudy
gas-light, a sea of faces, of color and vagueness. The incongruity of
costumes was a thing to weep over. If they had tried they could not have
made it worse. The lady guests, walking and chatting, in a _soi-disant_
elegant salon, were dressed, some in Louis XV. splendor, some in dogesses'
brocades, some in modern finery, with bows and ribbons and things looped
up any way. Nilsson was dressed in quite modern style--flounces, laces,
and fringes, and so forth, while Alfredo had donned a black velvet coat _à
la_ something, with a huge jabot which fell over a frilled shirt-front. He
wore short velvet trousers, and black-silk stockings covered his thin legs
without the least attempt at padding.

The "padre" was in a shooting-jacket, evidently just in from a riding-
tour. He held a riding-stick, and wore riding-gantlets which he flourished
about with such wide gesticulations that I thought he was going to hit
Nilsson in the face.

We could not hear the singing so well from where we sat; but the orchestra
was overpowering, and the applause deafening, like peals of thunder.

I laughed when the gang of workmen rushed on to the stage as soon as the
curtain came down, and began sweeping and taking down one set of furniture
and putting on another; especially in the last act, when Violetta's bed
came on and the men threw the pillows from one to the other, as if they
were playing ball. They hung up a crucifix, which I thought was
unnecessary, and brought in a candlestick. I wondered if they were going
to put a warming-pan in the bed. A mat was laid down with great precision.
Then Nilsson came in, dressed in a flounced petticoat trimmed with lace, a
"matinée," and black slippers, and got into the bed.

After the performance was over the curtain was raised and the artists came
forward to bow; the stage was covered with flowers and wreaths. And
Nilsson, in picking up her floral tributes, was wreathed in smiles; but
they faded like mist before the sun the minute the curtain was lowered,
and she looked tired and worn out. Her maid was there, waiting with a
shawl to wrap around the shoulders of the hot prima-donna, and the prim
Miss Richardson ready to escort her to her room, while the army of shirt-
sleeved men invaded the stage like bees, with brooms which, though
anything but new, I hope swept clean. Then everything was dark and dismal,
lit only by one or two candles and a solitary lantern. All that was so
brilliant a moment before was now only a confused mass of disillusions.

Nilsson and her duenna drove to Mrs. H----'s and had supper with us. One
would never have dreamt that she had been dying of consumption an hour
before, to see her stow away ham, salad, and pudding in great quantities.
Then she embraced us all and drove off in her coupé. The star was going to
set. I went home, glad that my life lay in other paths.

PARIS, _March, 1865._

DEAR M.,--Do not be anxious about me. When Mrs. M---- wrote, I was really
in danger of a _fluxion de poitrine_. I am sorry she worried you
unnecessarily. I am much better; in fact, I am far on the road to
recovery. If every one had such a nice time when they are ill as I had
they would not be in a hurry to get well. When I was convalescent enough
to come down-stairs, and the doctor had said his last word (the
traditional "you must be careful"), I had my _chaise-longue_ moved down
into Henry's studio, and Monsieur Gudin, who is the kindest man in the
world, offered to come there and paint a picture in order to amuse and
divert me.

Bierstadt, the American painter, who is in Paris, also proposed to come.
Then those two artists ordered canvases of the same size, and Beaumont,
not to be outdone, ordered a larger canvas, and Henry announced his
intention of finishing an already commenced landscape.

Behold, then, your invalid, surrounded by these celebrated artists,
reclining on a _chaise-longue_, a table with _tisanes_ and remedies near
by, and the four painters painting. Gudin is painting a seascape;
Bierstadt, a picture of California; Beaumont, of course, his graceful
ladies and cherubs. It amused me to see how differently they painted.
Gudin spread his paints on a very large table covered with glass, and used
a great many brushes; Bierstadt used a huge palette, and painted rather
finically, whereas Beaumont had quite a small palette and used few
brushes. I was very sorry when my convalescence came to an end and the
pictures were finished; but I had the delight of receiving the four
pictures, which the four artists begged me to accept as a souvenir of the
"pleasant days in the studio."

Another pleasant thing happened during "the pleasant days in the studio,"
which was the gift of a beautiful gold medal which the Emperor sent me as
a souvenir of the day I sang the _Benedictus_ in the chapel of the
Tuileries. It is a little larger than a five-franc piece, and has on one
side the head of the Emperor encircled by "Chapelle des Tuileries," and on
the other side "Madame Moulton" and the date.

We are all dreadfully sad about the Duke de Morny's death. He was very
much appreciated, and a favorite with every one. They say that the Duchess
cut off all her hair and put it into his coffin. I never heard before that
she was such a loving wife. I only hope that she will not need her braids
to keep on her next wedding-wreath.

We have just heard of the assassination of that good, kind President
Lincoln. How dreadful!

I have a new teacher called Delsarte, the most unique specimen I have ever
met. My first impression was that I was in the presence of a
_concierge_ in a second-class establishment; but I soon saw that he
was the great master I had heard described so often. He is not a real
singing teacher, for he does not think the voice worth speaking of; he has
a theory that one can express more by the features and all the tricks he
teaches, and especially by the manner of enunciation, than by the voice.
We were (Aunty and I) first led into the salon, and then into the music-
room, so called because the piano is there and the stand for music, but no
other incumbrances as furniture.

On the walls were hung some awful diagrams to illustrate the master's
method of teaching. These diagrams are crayon-drawings of life-sized faces
depicting every emotion that the human face is capable of expressing, such
as love, sorrow, murder, terror, joy, surprise, etc.

It is Delsarte's way, when he wants you to express one of these emotions
in your voice, to point with a soiled forefinger to the picture in
question which he expects you to imitate. The result lends expression to
your voice.

The piano is of a pre-Raphaelite construction, and stands in the middle of
the room like an island in a lake, with a footstool placed over the pedals
(he considers the pedal as useless). The lid of the piano was absent, and,
to judge from the inside, I should say that the piano was the receptacle
for everything that belonged to the Delsarte homestead. There were
inkstands, pens, pencils, knives, wire, matches, toothpicks, half-smoked
cigars, even remnants of his luncheon, which seemed to have been black
bread and cheese, and dust galore. Delsarte had on a pair of much-worn
embroidered slippers, a velvet _calotte_, the tassels of which swayed
with each of his emotions, and a dilapidated _robe de chambre_ which
opened at every movement, disclosing his soiled plaid foulard doing duty
for a collar.

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