We hope deliverance is near at hand; but who knows how long before we have peace and quiet again?
_May 28th._--MacMahon has stormed the barricades and has entered Paris, taking fifty thousand prisoners. Gallifet has ordered thousands to be shot.
We are rescued from more horrors. Thank G.o.d! these days of trembling and fear are over.
Pascal Grousset was killed on the barricades. I am thankful to say that Raoul Rigault has also departed this world. Courbet, Regnaud, a promising young painter, and how many shall we know of afterward, have been shot.
We hear that Auber became quite crazy and wandered out on the ramparts, and was killed with the soldiers. He deserved a better fate, my dear old friend! I am sure his heart was broken, and that that day we breakfasted with him was not his first but his last _jour de bonheur_.
Seventy-two days of Communism has cost France 850,000,000 francs.
DINARD, _June 18, 1871._
DEAR MOTHER,--Our peaceful life here is a great contrast to the bombs of poor dilapidated Paris. I have still the screams and bursting sh.e.l.ls of the Faubourg St. Honore in my ears.
When I wrote of Strakosch"s persisting in his idea of my singing in concerts, I did not dream that I should be telling you that I have succ.u.mbed to his tempting and stupendous proposition. It is true that I have said _yes_, and _vogue la galere!_
And the most curious thing is that the whole family sitting in council have urged me to do it.
"Why not?" said Mr. Moulton, making mental calculations. "I would, if I were you," said Mrs. Moulton, overflowing with enthusiasm.
"I agree," said Charles, only seeing the fun of a new experience.
"But," I urged, "I doubt if I can stand on my own merits. Singing in public as an amateur is one thing, and singing as an artist is another."
This wise saying was scorned by the council.
I have ordered some fine dresses from Worth, and if my public don"t like me they can console themselves with the thought that a look at my clothes is worth a ticket.
Well, the fatal word has gone forth; I shall probably regret it, but it is too late now.
Therefore, dear mother, please break the news gently to the family and the genealogical tree, whose bark, I hope, is worse than its bite.
We leave for America in September. Strakosch goes before, "to work it up,"
he says.
NEW YORK, _October._
MY DEAR MOTHER-IN-LAW,--Don"t send any more letters to the Barlows". We thought that it was better not to stay with them (pleasant as it was) any longer. There was such a commotion in that quiet house, such ringing of bells and running about. The servants were worn out attending to me and my visitors.
I don"t know where to begin to tell you about this wonderful escapade of ours. I call it my "bravura act." It is too exciting! I copy a letter just received from Strakosch, in answer to a letter of mine, to show you what the process of "working up" is. He writes: "You wonder at your big audiences. The reason is very simple. In the first place, people know that you are thought to be the best amateur singer in Paris--"La Diva du Monde"--besides being a favorite in Parisian society, and that you have not only a beautiful voice, but also that you have beautiful toilettes.
This is a great _attraction_. In the second place, I allow (_as a great privilege_) the tickets to be subscribed for; the remaining ones are bought at auction. You see, in this way the bids go _"way up_.... I am glad I secured Sarasate to supplement," etc.
We have taken a suite of rooms in the Clarendon Hotel, so as to be near the opera-house, where I go to practise with the orchestra. You cannot imagine how intense the whole thing is.
To feel that I can hold a great audience, like the one that greeted me the first night, in my hand, and to know that I can make them laugh or cry whenever I please--to see the ma.s.s of upturned faces--is an inspiring sensation. The applause bewildered me at first, and I was fearfully excited; but one gets used to all things in the end. My songs, "Bel raggio" (Rossini), "Voi che sapete" (Mozart), and "La Valse de Pardon de Ploermel" (Meyerbeer), were all encored and re-encored.
I said to Strakosch, "I can"t go on forever, tripping on and off the stage like that!" He answered, laconically, "Well, you see people have paid much for their tickets, and they want their money"s worth."
I said, "I wish the tickets cost less."
The flowers (you should have seen them!) were mostly what they call here "floral tributes" (what you would call _des pieces montees_), and were brought in by a procession of ushers and placed on the stage. I do not mention the quant.i.ties of bouquets handed up to me!
One "floral tribute" received an ovation as it was borne up the aisle by four men, and hauled up on to the stage by a man who came from the side scenes. It was a harp made entirely of flowers, about six feet high. It made quite a screen for me as I went in and out. The card of the harp was brought to me, and I read, "H. P. Stalton, "Asleep in Jesus," North Conway." I had no idea what it meant, but mama remembered that some years ago, when she and I were traveling in the White Mountains, we stopped overnight at the little town of North Conway. At the hotel we heard that a lady had died, and her son was terribly grieved. There was to be a funeral service the next morning in the parlor of the inn. I asked, "Do you think that I might sing something?" "Of course, _any_ music would be welcome,"
was the answer. So I chose the hymn, "Asleep in Jesus," which I sang when the time came. As there was nothing but an old piano, I preferred to sing without accompaniment. I was very much affected, and I suppose my voice showed my emotion, because other people were equally affected. As for the young man, he knelt on the floor and put his hands over his face and sobbed out loud. Poor fellow, my heart bled for him!
I sang the hymn through with difficulty. The last verse I sang _pianissimo_ and very slowly. The silence was painful; you could have heard a pin drop. The whole scene was very emotional, and I remember feeling that I never wanted to go through such a thing again. The young man had not forgotten, after all these years, either the song or the singer. Hence the beautiful harp of flowers to thank me. I should have liked to have seen him, to thank _him_.
There is a very sad, pathetic, and patriotic song called "Tender and True"
by a composer, Alfred Pease, which I sing. Strakosch said, "You must have in your _repertoire_ something American." This song is about a young soldier who takes "a knot of ribbon blue" from his ladylove, and who dies on the battle-field with the knot of ribbon on his breast. When I sing "the flag draped over the coffin lid" the whole audience is dissolved in tears. The women weep openly; the men hide behind their opera-gla.s.ses and try to blow their noses noiselessly between the verses.
I always finish with "Beware!" and Charles always accompanies me, which pleases him very much. He thinks that American audiences are very appreciative, because they stand up and clap and the women wave their handkerchiefs.
I tell him they stand up because the next thing they are going to do is to go out.
WORCESTER, _December, 1871._
DEAR MOTHER,--Thanks for your letter. I had hoped to have received better news of Charles.
When he left Thursday he did not look well, but I thought it was owing to the excitement and late hours and the irregular life we have been leading.
He wanted to go to Cambridge, where he thought that he could take better care of himself. I would have gone with him, but I felt that I could not leave Strakosch and Worcester in the lurch.
If I don"t receive a rea.s.suring telegram from you, I shall start off without delay.
I was dreadfully nervous and unstrung, as you will see, when I tell you how I blundered. I do not like singing in oratorio. Getting up and sitting down all the time, holding and singing from a book, losing my place and having to find it in a hurry, is not what I like. However, I got on very well at first, but there is a place in the score where three angels come forward and sing a trio without accompaniment. Then the soprano (me) steps in front and sings, without a helping note: "Hail, Hail, O Lord G.o.d of Hosts!" The orchestra and chorus take up the same phrase after me.
I sang boldly enough, "Hail, Hail, O Lord G.o.d of Hosts!" but suddenly felt cold shivers down my back when Zerrahn tapped his baton on his stand, thereby stopping all further proceedings, and turning to me said, in a low whisper, "A half-tone lower."
Good gracious, how could I find the right note! First I had to remember the last tone I had sung, then I had to transpose it in my head, all in an instant. It was a critical moment.
Suppose I did not hit the right note! The whole orchestra and the two- hundred-man-strong chorus would come thundering after me--the _orchestra on the right key_ and _the chorus following in my footsteps_.
I turned cold and hot, and my knees trembled under me. You may imagine what a relief it was when I heard things going on as if nothing had happened. _I had struck the right note!_ And I finished the oratorio without further disaster. I do not think that any one in the audience remarked anything wrong.
I said to Zerrahn, after: "Could you not have helped me? Could you not have given me the note?"
"No," he answered. "Impossible! I could not ask the nearest violinist to play the note, and I could not trust myself to find it. I was as nervous as you were."
[Mrs. Moulton was called to Cambridge the next day. Mr. Moulton had died suddenly.]
CUBA, HAVANA, _January, 1873._
DEAR MAMA,--We left New York in a fearful blizzard. It was snowing, hailing, blowing, and sleeting; in fact, everything that the elements could do they did on that particular day. We were m.u.f.fled up to our ears in sealskin coats, furs, boas, and so forth, and were piloted over the wet and slippery deck to our stateroom on the upper deck, which we wished had been on the under deck, as it was continually washed by the "wild waves."
We knew pretty well "what the wild waves were saying"; at least Laura did, and they kept on saying it until well into the next day.