We were invited to one of Rossini's Saturday evenings. There was a queer mixture of people: some diplomats, and some well-known members of society, but I fancy that the guests were mostly artists; at least they looked so. The most celebrated ones were pointed out to me. There were Saint-Saëns, Prince Poniatowski, Gounod, and others. I wondered that Richard Wagner was not there; but I suppose that there is little sympathy between these two geniuses.
Prince Metternich told me that Rossini had once said to him that he wished people would not always feel obliged to sing his music when they sang at his house. "J'acclamerais avec délice 'Au clair de la lune,' même avec variations," he said, in his comical way. Rossini's wife's name is Olga. Some one called her Vulgar, she is so ordinary and pretentious, and would make Rossini's home and salon very commonplace if it were not that the master glorified all by his presence. I saw Rossini's writing-table, which is a thing never to be forgotten: brushes, combs, toothpicks, nails, and all sorts of rubbish lying about pell-mell; and promiscuous among them was the tube that Rossini uses for his famous macaroni à la Rossini. Prince Metternich said that no power on earth would induce him to touch any food à la Rossini, especially the macaroni, which he said was stuffed with hash and all sorts of remnants of last week's food and piled up on a dish like a log cabin. "J'ai des frissons chaque fois que j'y pense."
Not long ago Baron James Rothschild sent Rossini some splendid grapes from his hothouse. Rossini, in thanking him, wrote, "Bien que vos raisins soient superbes, je n'aime pas mon vin en pillules." This Baron Rothschild read as an invitation to send him some of his celebrated Château-Lafitte, which he proceeded to do, for "the joke of it," he remarked. "It is so amusing to tell the story afterward." Rossini does not dye his hair, but wears the most wiggy of wigs. When he goes to mass he puts one wig on top of the other, and if it is very cold he puts still a third one on, curlier than the others, for the sake of warmth. No coquetry about him!
Rossini asked me to sing.
"I will, with pleasure," I said. "I only wish that I knew what to sing, I know that you do not like people to sing your music when they come to your house."
"Not every one," he said, beaming with a broad smile; "but I have heard that you have an unusually beautiful voice, and I am curious to hear you."
"But," I mischievously answered, "I do not know 'Au clair de la lune,' even with variations."
"Oh! the naughty Prince," said he, shaking his finger across to where Prince Metternich was standing. "He told you that. But tell me, what do you sing of mine?"
Auber had told me to take "Sombre Forêt," of "William Tell," in case I should be asked. Therefore I said that I had brought "Sombre Forêt," and if he liked I would sing that.
"Bene! bene!" he replied. "I will accompany you."