It was not exactly getting down before a “totem pole,” though almost as extravagant, for there were nobler ways of worshiping the genius of music than by being ridiculous. The great master, though, was used to that sort of thing--in fact, rather liked it--and so went on with his wine and his kisses till midnight, adding to the delight of his worshipers by at last seating himself at the piano and playing one of his own compositions.[5]
Another artist with world-wide reputation, who summers about Lake Zurich even now, is Madame Lucca, the prima donna. She owns beautiful Villa Goldenberg at the upper end of the lake. I often see her about town, on foot, shopping.
One day as I was passing “Goldenberg” on the steamer, I pointed to it, remarking to a fine-looking German with whom I was conversing, that it was “one of the prettiest spots of all.” “Yes,” he answered, “I have never regretted owning it.” “Owning it,” I exclaimed; “why Madame Lucca lives there, and I supposed she owned it.” “So she does,” he answered smilingly, as he gave me a little nudge; “so she does, but I own her. I am her husband.”
I meet many well-known characters in my frequent trips up and down the lake.
One evening lately, as I sat on the steamer deck, nearing my home at Küssnacht, a rather prepossessing young lady inquired of me in English if that were the home of William Tell. After a little conversation she walked to the bow of the boat, and the middle-aged lady who seemed to be her companion, said to me: “Do you know who that is you were talking with? That is the daughter of Jefferson Davis.”
Pretty soon the girl came back, and I had the pleasure of communicating a bit of news to her that must have been of interest. I had read in the telegrams, that very day, of some famous admirer in America presenting to her father the magnificent estate of Bellevoir, on the Mississippi.
Amusing incidents occur, too, almost daily, from American travelers, going up and down the lake, supposing me to be a native, not acquainted with the American tongue. They are sometimes very free in their remarks about people they see on the boat.
The other evening, while sitting on the deck on my way home, I noticed a little party of three ladies and a gentleman, excitedly wringing their hands, talking English, and wondering what on earth they would do. They had lost the name of the place they were going to, and could not tell even how to get home again. Not a soul on the boat spoke a word of English; they were sure of that.
“Notice that man sitting there with a newspaper,” said the gentleman of the party, indicating myself. “Kate, you talk a little German,” he went on; “try your Dutch on him.” “Not for the world,” answered the lady appealed to. “That might be a prince, or a baron, or somebody.” “Well, his clothes don’t look like it, anyway,” chirped in a second of the young ladies. “Did you ever see such an unfashionable necktie in your life?” “An odd looking genius that, anyway. I would not be afraid of him.” “Go right up to him and blurt it out; he’s good natured, I’ll bet a dollar,” chimed in the gentleman. “Never mind his necktie; it’s information we’re after.” “Yes, but my German--I don’t know,” said the lady; “I don’t know three words, and you know I don’t.” “Oh! go on--nonsense--walk right up to him, and see how pretty he’d smile on you,” said all three.