Every one said the scene was very pretty. My song was quite a success; I had to sing it over again. Then I sang the waltz of Chopin, to which I had put words and transposed two tones lower. I saw Delle Sedie in the audience, with his mouth wide open, trying to breathe for me. It has sixteen bars which must be sung in one breath, and has a compass from D on the upper line to A on the lower line. Applause and flowers were showered on me, and I was rather proud of myself. I felt like Patti when I picked up my bouquets!
Later on in the play I had to say my "four words," which turned out to be six words: On ne peut être plus joli. Though I was frightened out of my wits, I managed not to disgrace myself; but I doubt if any one heard one of the six words I said. The Empress sent me a little bunch of violets, which I thought was very gracious of her, and I was immensely flattered, for I think she took it from her corsage. I had noticed it there at the beginning of the evening.
One of the bouquets bore the card of Dr. Evans, the American dentist. It was very nice of him to remember me and send me such beautiful flowers. Dr. Evans is so clever and entertaining. Every one likes him, and every door as well as every jaw is open to him. At the Tuileries they look on him not only as a good dentist, but as a good friend; and, as some clever person said, "Though reticent to others, their Majesties had to open their mouths to him."
The other day we had a children's party. Auber came, pretending that he had been invited as one of the children. When he heard them all chattering in French, English, and German, he said, "Cela me fait honte, moi qui ne parle que le français." He was most delighted to see the children, and seated himself at the piano and played some sweet little old-fashioned polkas and waltzes, to which the children danced.
I said to them: "Children, remember that to-day you have danced to the playing of Monsieur Auber, the most celebrated composer in France. Such a thing is an event, and you must remember it and tell it to your children."
Miss Adelaide Philips is here singing, but, alas! without the success she deserves. She appeared at Les Italiens twice; once as Azucena in "Trovatore," and then as the page in "Lucrezia Borgia." If it had not been for her clothes, I think that her efforts would have been more appreciated. The moment she appeared as the page in "Lucrezia" there was a general titter in the audience. Her make-up was so extraordinary, Parisian taste rose up in arms. And as for the Borgias, they would have poisoned her on the spot had they seen her! Her extraordinarily fat legs (whether padded or not, I don't know) were covered with black-velvet trousers, ending at the knee and trimmed with lace.
She wore a short-waisted jacket with a short skirt attached and a voluminous lace ruffle, a curly wig too long for a man and too short for a woman, upon which sat jauntily a Faust-like hat with a long, sweeping plume. This was her idea of a medieval Maffeo Orsini. As Azucena, the mother of a forty-year-old troubadour, she got herself up as a damsel of sixteen, with a much too short dress and a red bandana around her head, from which dangled a mass of sequins which she shook coquettishly at the prompter. The audience did not make any demonstration; they remained indifferent and tolerant, and there was not a breath of applause. The only criticism that appeared in the papers was: "Madame Philips, une Américaine, a fait son apparence dans 'Trovatore.' Elle joue assez bien, et si sa voix avait l'importance de ses jambes elle aurait eu sans doute du succès, car elle peut presque chanter." Poor Miss Philips! I felt so sorry for her. I thought of when I had seen her in America, where she had such success in the same rôles. But why did she get herself up so? There is nothing like ridicule for killing an artist in France, and any one who knew the French could have foreseen what her success would be the moment she came on the stage. She became ill after these two performances and left Paris.
PARIS, May 7, 1863.
DEAR M.,—Auber procured us tickets for Meyerbeer's funeral, which took place to-day; it was a most splendid affair. Auber, who was one of the pall-bearers, looked very small and much agitated. The music of the church was magnificent. Auber himself had written an organ voluntary and Jules Cohen played it. Auber said, on going to the cemetery: "La prochaine fois sera pour mon propre compte."
We went to a dinner at Mr. William Gudin's (he is the celebrated painter) last night. There were the Prince and Princess Metternich, old Monsieur Dupin, Duke de Bassano, Monsieur Rouher, Baron Rothschild, and many other people. The gallery was lit up after dinner, and they smoked there (as a great exception). Smoking is against Madame Gudin's principles, but not against his, as the huge table covered with every kind of cigars and cigarettes could bear witness. Collecting cigarettes is a sort of hobby of Gudin's; he gets them from every one. The Emperor of Russia, the Chinese, the Turkish, and Japanese sovereigns, all send him cigarettes, even the Emperor. These last are steeped in a sort of liquid which is good for asthma. Every one who could boast of asthma got one to try. I must say they smelled rather uninvitingly. The Emperor loves Gudin dearly, and orders picture after picture from him, mostly commemorative of some fine event of which the Emperor is, of course, the principal figure, and destined for Versailles later. Gudin has a beautiful hotel and garden near us in the Rue Beaujon. The garden used to be square; but now it is a triangle, as a new boulevard has taken a part of it. Gudin talked much about his debts, as if they were feathers in his cap, and as for his law- suits, they are jewels in his crown!