She was one of Worth’s principal clients, and not only superintended the making of her own robes at the great man’s atelier (it would be profane to call it a “shop”), but gave him hints and advice. The late M. Aurélien Scholl, in one of his most mordant articles, audaciously asserted that the celebrated couturier of the Rue de la Paix—whom Scholl described as a “faune de la toilette”—had dared, when “trying on” one of the Princess’s toilettes, to “lay his mercenary hands on the bust of this patrician.” The Princess resented the expression, and Scholl, to allay her anger, wrote, and sent her, a poem of thirty-six lines, beginning:
“Si je vous demandai, Madame la Princesse,
Un pardon que le ciel n’a jamais refusé,
Pourriez-vous me trouver seulement bien osé
Après l’aveu loyal de ma grande détresse?
Laissez plutôt tomber, ainsi qu’une déesse,
De vos yeux si hautains un regard apaisé!”
The Marquis de Massa thinks this poetical apology “le plus galant du monde, as they say at the Comédie Française.” The story goes—and it was repeated by the Marquis shortly before his death in October, 1910—that at the first performance of “Tannhäuser” at the Paris Opéra (March 14, 1861) the Princess was so exasperated at the derision with which the work was received that she broke her fan.[73] Let us hear Princesse de Metternich’s own version of how Wagner’s great work came to be represented in Paris in 1861:
As I had been told on all sides that no work by Wagner would ever be performed in France, and least of all in Paris, I hesitated before taking any steps to secure a representation of “Tannhäuser.” One day, however, an unexpected opportunity occurred of realizing my idea. At a ball at the Tuileries the Emperor honoured me with a somewhat long conversation. We talked about the Opéra, and I could not help expressing my regret that the répertoire was so seldom varied, not extending beyond “Guillaume Tell,” the “Huguenots,” or the “Favorite.”
“Why,” I asked the Emperor, “is it not possible to perform in Paris new works such as are produced at the Austrian and German opera-houses?” And I said to myself, “Now or never is the moment to mention Wagner and ‘Tannhäuser.’” I made up my mind to do so without delay. I said, “I have a great request to make to your Majesty.”
“A request à propos of the Opéra!” exclaimed the Emperor, surprised.
“Yes, Sire, à propos of an opera which, above all others, I should like to see represented here. It would be the happiness of my life.”
“And what is this marvellous opera?” asked the Emperor.
“It is by Richard Wagner, Sire, one of the greatest of living composers. It is called ‘Tannhäuser’; it is done at Vienna, and, although it is not admired by everybody, connaisseurs regard it as a chef-d’œuvre.”
“‘Tannhäuser!’ Richard Wagner!” said the Emperor, stroking his moustache in the well-known way. “I have never heard either of this opera or of the composer. And you think it is really a fine work?”