But, to be fair, I must add in conclusion that she could be very friendly too, and playful in her way. It would be ungrateful of me not to record how she greeted me with "Bon soir, cher amour," one evening. But that was at Wieniawski's wedding, and I suppose the darts of Cupid were flying about.
As far as I could judge, she made that illustrious husband of hers an excellent wife; she knew what he liked, and she took care that he had it, whether it was a favourite dish or a favoured visitor; and, what was more, she knew whom to keep at a distance, a valuable quality in the wife of a man whom every musician, good or bad, professional or amateur, wanted to know, and who was besieged by autograph-hunters, interviewers, and the host of nondescripts who are ever anxious to cling to the tail of Pegasus.
I have known more than one wife of that most useful genus, and have not always quite liked their methods; as when, on one occasion, I had run over to Paris, I called on an old friend, also a great composer. His better half, who always jealously guarded the approaches, espied me from the top of a high staircase. "Ah, c'est vous, Monsieur Félix," she cried with genuine delight. "Comme cela se trouve bien; justement j'ai un paquet à envoyer à Londres." I had a long and interesting chat with the master, in exchange for which I gladly took Madame's most undesirable parcel.
In the summer of 1860 my father made a short stay in Paris. He was most cordially welcomed by friends and colleagues, amongst these the Erards, Viardots, Crémieux, Auber, Ambroise Thomas, and Rossini. The Maestro was at that time staying at his villa in Passy. Referring to his first visit there, my father writes:—
"Felix had been made quite at home in the villa on former occasions. To me the Salon on the ground floor with its rich furniture was new, and, before the Maestro himself appeared, we looked at his photograph in a circular porcelain frame, on the sides of which were inscribed the names of his works. The ceiling is covered with pictures illustrating scenes in the lives of Palestrina and Mozart; in the middle of the room stands a Pleyel piano.
"When Rossini came in, he gave me the orthodox Italian kiss, and was effusive in expressing his delight at my reappearance, and very complimentary on the subject of Felix. In the course of our conversation he was full of hard-hitting truths and brilliant satire on the present study and method of vocalisation. 'I don't want to hear any more of their screaming,' he said; 'I want a resonant voice, full-toned, not screeching; I care not whether it be for speaking or singing, everything ought to sound melodious.'
"He then spoke of the pleasure he felt in studying the piano. 'And, if it were not presumption,' he added, 'in composing for that instrument. I find it hard, however, to make my fourth and fifth fingers do their duty properly.'
"Talking of the present style of playing, he said: 'How they maltreat the piano! Ils enfoncent non seulement le piano, mais encore le fauteuil et même le plancher!' (They smash not only the piano, but the chair and the very floor).
"Every instrument, he went on to say, should be treated according to its special character. Sor, the guitarist, and Vimercati proved the possibility of obtaining great artistic results with slender means. I happened to have heard both these artists, and could quite endorse his views. He told me that, arriving late one evening at a small Italian town, he had already retired to rest, when Vimercati, the resident Kapellmeister, sent him an invitation to be present at a performance of one of his operas. In those days he was not yet as hard-hearted as he is now, when he once for all refuses to be present at the performance of any work of his; so he not only went to the theatre, but played the double-bass as a substitute for the right man, who was not forthcoming. This reminded me of what I once experienced to the cost of my nerves at York, when the part of the viola in Mozart's D Minor Symphony was missing, and the bassoon was flat. I showed Rossini on the piano what the effect was like, and he laughed heartily. Then he wanted a little serious music. I improvised, and he said, 'Cela est il gravé? C'est de la musique qui coule de source; il-y-a l'eau de réservoir et l'eau de source; l'une ne coule que quand vous tournez le robinet, elle sent la vase, l'autre, fraiche et limpide, coule toujours. Aujourd'hui on confond le simple et le trivial; un motif de Mozart on l'appellerait trivial si on osait!' (Has that been published? That is music which flows spontaneously. There is tank-water and spring-water; one runs only when you turn on the tap, and always savours of mud, the other ever flows fresh and clear. But nowadays people do not know the difference between the trivial and the simple; they would call a melody of Mozart's trivial if they dared.)
"He was delighted to hear that encouragement was given to the serious study of the organ at the Leipsic Conservatorio, and he regretted the decay of church music in Italy. On the subject of Marcello's and Palestrina's 'sublime creations' he was quite eloquent. When we parted he made me promise to call on him once more before the day fixed upon to dine with him. I was happy to do so, and, when I next came, Rossini, yielding to my request, but not without modestly expressing diffidence in his own powers, played an Andante of his in B flat, beginning somewhat in this style: