PETIT VAL, June 17th. We have been here a week, rejoicing in the lilacs and roses and all the spring delights. The nightingales are more delightful than ever. There is one charmer in particular, who warbles most enchantingly in the cedar-tree in front of my window. He has a lady-love somewhere, and he must be desperately in love, for he sings his little heart out on his skylarking tours to attract her attention. I try hard (naïve that I am) to imitate his song, especially the trill and the long, sad note. I wonder if either of them is deceived: whether she thinks that she has two lovers (one worse than the other), or, if he thinks he has a poor rival who can't hold a candle to him.
Auber wrote a cadenza for the "Rossignol" of Alabieff, which he thought might be in nightingale style. But how can any one imitate a nightingale? Auber, in one of his letters, asked me: "Chantez-vous toujours des duos avec votre maître de… champs?"
[Illustration: À MADAME LILLIE MOULTON]
PARIS, January, 1864.
The Princess Beauvau is a born actress, and nothing she loves better than arranging theatricals and acting herself. She rooted up some charity as an excuse for giving a theatrical performance, and obtained the theater of the Conservatoire and the promise of the Empress's presence. She chose two plays, one of Musset and the other, "l'Esclave," of Molière—and asked me to take part in this last one.
"Oh," I said, "I cannot appear in a French play; I would not dare to." But the Princess argued that, as there were only four words to say, she thought I could do it, and in order to entice me to accept, she proposed introducing a song; and, moreover, said that she would beg Auber to furnish a few members of the Conservatoire orchestra to accompany me. This was very tempting, and I fell readily into the trap she laid for me.
I consulted Auber about my song, and we decided on Alabieff's "Rossignol," for which he had written the cadenza. He composed a chorus for a few amateurs and all the orchestral parts.
I was to be a Greek slave; my dress was of white, flimsy, spangled gauze, with a white-satin embroidered bolero, a turban of tulle, with all sorts of dangly things hanging over my ears. I wore baggy trousers and babouches. You may notice that I did not copy Power's Greek slave in the way of dress.
I was completely covered with a white tulle veil, and led in by my fellow- slaves, who were also in baggy trousers and babouches. There could be no doubt that we were slaves, for we were overloaded with chains on arms, ankles, and waist. I found circulation a very difficult matter shuffling about in babouches, which are the most awkward things to walk in. One risks falling forward at every step.
When they got me in front of the orchestra the slaves drew off my veil and there I stood. The chorus retired, and I began my song. I had had only one rehearsal with the orchestra, the day before; but the humming accompaniment to my solo, that the unmusical slaves had to learn, had taken a week to teach.