"I wonder if you have what people call a native tongue, or whether all of them came to you as a gift of the gods."
"Oh, I don't know so many languages," she replied, "only—let's see—English, German, Italian, Spanish, and Russian."
"And which do you speak best, or like best?"
"I really don't know. To me there is no difference, as far as readiness goes, and I suppose 'the readiness is all.'"
"Not quite all. But what is your favourite, if you have a favourite among them?"
"Oh, Italian! Listen!"
And then she recited an Italian poem. Next to hearing Patti sing, the sweetest sound was her Italian speech. Presently she said:
"Speaking of languages, Mr. Gladstone paid me a pretty compliment a little while ago—nearly three years ago. I will show you his letter to-morrow, if you care to see it."
Patti forgot nothing. The next day she brought me Mr. Gladstone's letter. The Grand Old Man had been among her auditors at Edinburgh, and after the performance he went on the stage to thank her for the pleasure she had given him. He complained a little of a cold which had been troubling him, and Patti begged him to try some lozenges which she found useful. That night she sent him a little box of them. The old statesman acknowledged the gift with this letter:
6, Rothesay Terrace,
Edinburgh.
October 22, 1890.