Among madame’s pets at her castle is one Jumbo, an American parrot, who carried with him to Wales his country’s admiration for his mistress. For when she goes forth into the great world, he puts on a dejected bearing, and in a voice touched with tears keeps calling, “Where is Patti? Where is Patti?” But the parrot only gives word to what is felt by all the good folks of Swansea Valley; for the pets and the people, of high and low degree, miss this wonderful little woman when she is away, and she in turn longs for her pets and her peasants, her country roads and princely retreat, with that whole-hearted longing which doubtless gives much to the depth of feeling the world knows in her rendition of “Home, Sweet Home.” This little song, that makes the whole world kin, bears to the difficult song work of Patti some such relation as does her life of artlessness to her life of art. Her nature undisguised is childlike and spontaneous.
When I took ship on the City of New York in May, 1892, in the same party with Madame Patti, and her husband, Signor Nicolini, she was full of greetings, and words of parting to those coming and going just before we sailed.
Nicolini’s devotion to his wife was the remark of the ship. He was ever thoughtful of her, and his services were continual, from his first one in the morning, that of delivering her mail to her.
Previous to sailing, a Boston lady friend had sent aboard seven or eight letters, with the direction that one should each morning be delivered to Madame Patti. What a merrymaking there was when the usual, or rather, unusual letter bobbed up every morning! A fresh-cheeked young country girl could not have been more demonstrative. But such is her single-mindedness: her heart is young, and that is no doubt one of the great causes of the depth of her beauty. An ocean voyage generally washes out the skin-deep variety, but when I saw Patti every day, rich Spanish beauty turned up with her every time. She was the pet of the people without seeming to be conscious of it, and went along through the days like other folks, speaking to friend after friend in the language of their preference, for it makes no difference to her—German, French, Spanish, Italian or English; and with all her naïvete, she is an adroit and charming diplomat.
“You must visit me,” she said one day on the steamer to me. “I will not take no for an answer. I will follow you all over England with telegrams, if you do not.”
“I will follow you all over England with telegrams.”
I went.
At Paddington station I found that my hostess was truly a royal one, for there was the private car of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, awaiting her. The interior was banked with flowers, from end to end, and snatching up bunches here and there, Patti would be all in a glee over them. As the train moved, three beautiful young girls ran down the length of the station to get a last glimpse of Patti. Two of them threw up their hands, their faces flushed with the race; but the third sped to the end of the platform. It was a pretty picture.
In our party were Madame and Monsieur Nicolini, madame’s companion and two maids, Nicolini’s attendant and valet. I completed the group, and with reason was congratulating myself, knowing the scarcity and luxury of the private car in England. As we swept by Neath, the former home of my hostess, then the seat of Henry M. Stanley, her eyes sparkled, for home meant so much to her, and she was almost there. What a lark there was too on our short run, with Patti singing “On the Bowery,” and snatches from other “fad” airs, Nicolini joining in, and now breaking away on his own account into “Annie Rooney” with the refrain, “Adelina Patti is my sweetheart.”