Nicolini would go in front of madame, who quickly took his arm and they would lead the way into the great conservatory or winter garden, where flowers are rushing into bloom the year round. The fragrant air is musical with singing birds, and the effect is magical under the effulgence of the electroliers. The windows command a magnificent view of the country around, mountain and valley and winding river, spread just at the feet of the castle; salmon brooks, stretches of thousands of acres, and hunting grounds covering nearly ten miles of fine shooting. With her own fingers Patti puts a boutonnière on guests here and there, and then we intrust ourselves to the mercy of one of Britain’s greatest chefs.
Just here I am reminded of Norris, the Irish butler, whose sense of humor almost broke up his self-possession. At the table while I was telling stories he would hold down his upper lip with his teeth, like the side of a tent, afraid to let it go, lest it might be blown away by a breeze of laughter. As it was, the lip kept wrinkling. Both Madame Patti and I saw it, but concealed our knowledge from Norris, for the poor conventional soul’s heart would have been broken, had he suspected that we knew of his having lost the icy calm of a properly conducted butler. He would “list” his head over to one side, cough, fly around in unnecessary ways, and altogether expend a great deal of energy in keeping down the humorous side of his nature.
The attachment of Patti’s servants to her is as constant as that of her friends and her pets. Norris had been with her thirteen years; one servant had been with her five years; another, her Swedish valet, for nine years; then there were the driver, Joe; George, her courier; and the general manager, a man of varied accomplishments and great executive ability, Guillaume Heck.
Among all those about her, none is so close as is Caroline Baumeister, an Austrian woman, her companion, who has been with her nearly forty years. Constantly at her side with her council and care, Caroline is Patti’s friend in every sense of the word. Of excellent family, robust in mind and body, of that well-balanced, soothing and serene temperament which has finally made Patti a child in her dependence upon it. Caroline has a Mexican girl, Padro, as her assistant.
After dinner we pass into the billiard rooms, of which there are two, with French and English and American tables. At the end of one of these rooms is a monster orchestrion, which cost thirty thousand dollars, and which furnishes music during the games. Anything may be played on it, from Wagner to the latest popular air, by simply inserting a roll. These rolls, by the way, cost one hundred dollars each; in truth golden music.
During these little after-dinner billiard games the sincerity and simplicity of Patti is seen to great advantage. For instance, imagine the picture of the great diva catching up a billiard cue, and marching around the room, followed by all the guests, to the tune of the Turkish March played on the orchestrion. Often during the course of the evening, when she could stand the buoyant effect of the music no longer, she would break into song, trilling as naturally as a bird, and as spontaneously.
After a certain time spent in the billiard rooms, we would wander through a continuation of the winter garden, into one of the most cherished possessions of Patti, her private theatre. This theatre was erected at a great cost, and with a care for detail which may be imagined, when it is known that Mr. Irving sent down his head carpenter from London, to see that perfection was reached at every point. Mr. Irving has said several times that it was the most perfect thing of its kind he had ever seen. Every property is complete; there are the traps, the thunder and lightning, everything metropolitan, even the floor, which is adjustable either for inclined auditorium purposes or for the level of a ball-room floor. There are six dressing-rooms, and the stage, built for sixty people, has a “run” of eighty feet, while the auditorium will accommodate three hundred and fifty and the gallery eighty people. During the little evenings, the gallery is generally filled by domestics and peasants. Programmes are prepared with elegance for each entertainment. I have one now—the operatic matinée in honor of His Royal Highness, Prince Henry of Battenberg, and party:
Overture “Martha,” orchestra. Vocal concert (artists, Madame Adelina Patti-Nicolini, Madame Giulia Valda, Signor Vovara), “Faust” Act III, Garden Scene, in which Signor Nicolini, as Faust, took part. The conductor was Signor Arditi. The programme is richly embellished in purple and scarlet and gold.
One of the ornaments on the walls of this beautiful little theatre is the armor worn by Patti in her creation, at the age of nineteen, of the character of Joan of Arc. She also appears in a splendid painting on the curtain, as “Semiramis” in her triumphal car.
During my stay the idea struck Patti of having a little entertainment in my honor. So George, the courier, was posted off to Swansea to get an orchestra, and other parts of the equipment needed for this hasty-pudding matinée, for there was only one day in which to get ready.