She can make a nigger melody sound worthy of Schubert and a song of Schumann go down with the common herd as if it were a nigger melody, and obtain a genuine encore for it from quite simple people.
Why, only the other night she and her husband dined with me at the Bristol, and we went to Baron Schwartzkind's in Piccadilly to meet Royal Highnesses.
Up comes the Baron with:
"Ach, Mrs. Drefor! vill you not zing zomzing? ze Brincess vould be so jarmt."
"I'll sing as much as you like, Baron, if you promise me you'll send a checque for £50 to the Foundling Hospital to‑morrow morning," says Mary.
"I'll send another fifty, Baron," says Bob Maurice. And the Baron had to comply, and Mary sang again and again, and the Princess was more than charmed.
She declared herself enchanted, and yet it was Brahms and Schumann that Mary sang; no pretty little English ballad, no French, no Italian.
"Aus meinen Thränen spriessen
Viel' blühende Blumen hervor;
Und meine Seufze warden
Ein Nachtigallen Chor...."
"Aus meinen Thränen spriessen
Viel' blühende Blumen hervor;
Und meine Seufze warden
Ein Nachtigallen Chor...."
So sang Mary, and I declare some of the royal eyes were moist.