The first man Mrs. Gilder presented to me was evidently quite too much interested in the pin to talk to me.

"Excuse me," he at last said politely, "but you will like to know, I feel sure, that your brooch is upside-down."

"O, is it," said I sweetly. But I did not take the trouble to change it even then, and, afterwards, I would not have done so for worlds, for I should have been cheated out of a great deal of quiet amus.e.m.e.nt. One of the contributors to _The Century_ was later presented to me, and the effect of that pin upside-down was more irritating than it had been to the first man. He almost stood on his head trying to discover what was the trouble. At last:

"You've got your pin upside-down," he snapped at me as though a personal affront had been offered him.

"I know I have," I snapped back.

"What do you wear it that way for?" he demanded.

"To make conversation!" I returned, nearly as cross as he was.

"I don't see it," he said curtly. As a matter of fact I had just realised that upside-down was the way to wear the pin henceforward. I said to Jeannette Gilder the next day:

"My upside-down pin was the hit of the evening. I am never going to wear it any other way!"

I have kept my word during all these years. Never have I worn Newcastle's pin except upside-down, and I have never known anyone to whom I was talking to fail to fall into the trap and beg my pardon and say, "you have your brooch on upside-down." Years later I was once talking to Annie Louise Gary in Rome and a perfectly strange man came up and began timidly:

"I beg your pardon, but your----"

"I know," I told him kindly. "My pin is upside-down, isn't it?"

He retreated, thinking me mad, I suppose. But the fun of it has been worth some such reputation. Different people approach the subject so differently. Some are so apologetic and some are so helpful and some, like my _Century_ acquaintance, are so immensely and disproportionately annoyed.

But I am wandering far afield and quite forgetting my first London season which, even at this remote day, is an absorbing recollection to me. I had at that time enough youthful enthusiasm and desire to "keep going" to have stocked a regiment of debutantes! Although I was quite as carefully chaperoned and looked out for in England as I had been in America, there was still an unusual sense of novelty and excitement about the days there. I had all of my clothes from Paris and learned that, as Sir Michael Costa had insultingly informed me, I was "quite a pretty woman anyhow." Add to this the generous praise that the London public gave me professionally, and is it to be considered a wonder that I felt as if all were a delightful fairy tale with me as the princess?

As my mother has noted in her diary, we went one evening to Covent Garden to hear Patti sing. One really charming memory of Patti is her Juliette. She was never at all resourceful as an actress and was never able to stamp any part with the least creative individuality; but her singing of that music was perfect. Maurice Strakosch came into our box to present to us Baron Alfred de Rothschild who became one of the English friends whom we never forgot and who never forgot us. Maddox, too, called on us in the box that evening. He was the editor of a little journal that was the rival of the _Court Circular_. Maddox I saw a good deal of later and found him very original and entertaining. He ordered champagne that night, so we had quite a little party in our box between the acts.

As my mother has also noted, I went to Covent Garden to hear Mario for the first time. Fioretti was the _prima donna_, said to be the best type of the Italian school. Altogether the occasion was expected to be a memorable one and I was full of expectations. Davidson, the critic of _The London Times_ and the foremost musical critic on the Continent, except possibly Dr. Hanslick of Vienna, was full of enthusiasm. But I did not think much of Fioretti nor, even, of Mario! Yes, Mario the great, Mario the golden-voiced, Mario who could "soothe with a tenor note the souls in Purgatory" was a bitter disappointment to me. I was too inexperienced still to appreciate the art he exhibited, and his voice was but a ghost of his past glory. Yet England adored him with her wonderful loyalty to old idols.

Several distinguished artists and musicians came into our box that night, Randegger the singing teacher for one, and my good friend Sir George Armitage. Sir George was breathless with enthusiasm.

"There is no one like Mario!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands with delight.

"This is the first time I ever heard him," I said.

"Ah, what an experience!" he cried.

"I should never have suspected he was the great tenor," I had to admit.

"Oh, my dear young lady," said Sir George eagerly, "that 'la' in the second act! Did you hear that 'la' in the second act? There was the old Mario!"

His devotion was so touching that I forebore to remind him that if one swallow does not make a summer, so one "la" does not make a singer. When poor Mario came over to America later he was a dire failure. He could not hold his own at all. He could not produce even his "la" by that time. Like Nilsson, however, he greatly improved dramatically after his vocal resonances were impaired, for I have been told that when in possession of his full voice he was very stiff and unsympathetic in his acting.

Sir George Armitage, by the way, was a somewhat remarkable individual, a typical, well-bred Englishman of about sixty, with artistic tastes. He was a perfect example of the dilettante of the leisure cla.s.s, with plenty of time and money to gratify any vagrant whim. His particular hobby was the opera; and he divided his attentions equally between Covent Garden with Adelina and Lucca, and Her Majesty's with Nilsson, t.i.tjiens, and Kellogg. When operas that he liked were being given at both opera houses, he would make a schedule of the different numbers and scenes with the hours at which they were to be sung:--9.20 (Covent Garden), _Aria_ by Madame Patti. 10 o'clock (Her Majesty's), Duet in second act between Miss Nilsson and Miss Kellogg. 10.30, s.e.xtette at Covent Garden, etc., etc. He kept his brougham and horses ready and would drive back and forth the whole evening, reaching each opera house just in time to hear the music he particularly cared for. He had seats in each house and nothing else in the world to do, so it was quite a simple matter with him, only,--who but an Englishman of the hereditary cla.s.s of idleness would think of such a way of spending the evening? He was a dear old fellow and we all liked him. He really did not know much about music, but he had a sincere fondness for it and dearly loved to come behind the scenes and offer suggestions to the artists. We always listened to him patiently, for it gave him great pleasure, and we never had to do any of the things he suggested because he forgot all about them before the next time.

My mother's diary reads:

_June 13._ Last night _Nozze di Figaro_. Mr. and Mrs. McHenry sent five bouquets. Splendid performance.

_15._ Dined at d.u.c.h.ess of Somerset's.

_16._ Dined with Mr. and Mrs. McHenry. Stebbins--Vanderbilts.

_18._ _Don Giovanni._ Checks from Mr. Cowen. Banker came to see us.

Duke of Newcastle--Sir George Armitage.

_20._ Benedict's Morning Concert, St. James' Hall. _Encore_ "Beware"--_Don Giovanni_ in the evening.

_21. Sunday._ Dined with Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Newcastle. Major Stackpoole, Lady Susan Vane-Tempest and others. Rehea.r.s.ed _La Figula_.

_Monday._ Rehearsal of _La Figula_. In the evening went to hear Patti. Didn't like Patti. Received letter from Colonel Stebbins from Queenstown.

_Tuesday._ Rehea.r.s.ed _La Figula_. Called at Langham on G.o.dwin--all came out in the evening.

_Wednesday 24._ Morning performance of _Le Nozze_--got home at 6.

P.M. Charity concert for Mr. Cowen at 8.30 at Dudley House.

_Thursday._ Rehearsal of _La Figula_. Concert in the evening at Lady Fitzgerald's.

_Monday._ Louise and I went to drive. Do not learn anything definite about the future--where I am to be next winter--no one knows. I do not see any settled home for me any more. Sometimes I am satisfied to have it so--at others--get nervous and uneasy and discontented. Yet I have lost interest in going home--it will be so short a visit--so soon a separation--then to some other stranger place--new friends--new faces--I want the old. The surface of life does not interest me.

_Tuesday._ Dined at Langs'--large party.

_Wednesday 15._ Went to Crystal Palace--Mapleson's Benefit. The whole performance closed with the most magnificent display of Fireworks I ever saw--most marvellous.

_16._ _Don Giovanni_--full house--great success in the part--d.u.c.h.ess and Lady Rossmore threw splendid bouquets--house very enthusiastic--papers fine--Mrs. McHenry and Mr. Sampson came down--Duke of Newcastle and Major Stackpoole--Miss Jarrett.

_Monday. Le Nozze di Figaro._

_Tuesday. La Figula._

_Thursday._ Went to theatre. Saw Nilsson and all the artists. Went to hear Patti in _Romeo and Juliette_--Strakosch gave us the box.

Strakosch introduced Rothschilds.

_Friday._ _Le Nozze di Figaro._ Baron Rothschilds, Sir George Armitage came around.

_Sat.u.r.day._ Sir George breakfasted with Louise. Rothschilds called--letter from Mr. Stebbins.

_Sunday morning._ Dr. Kellogg of Utica called--spent several hours.

Santley called--and McHenry in the evening.

I was greatly shocked by the heavy drinking in the 'sixties that was not only the fashion but almost the requirement of fashion in England. My horror when I first saw a t.i.tled and distinguished Englishwoman in the opera box of the Earl of Harrington (our friend of the charming luncheon party), call an attendant and order a brandy and soda will never be forgotten. It was the general custom to serve refreshments in the boxes at the opera, and bottles and gla.s.ses of all sorts pa.s.sed in and out of these private "loges" the entire evening. Indeed, people never dreamed of drinking water, although they drank their wines "like water"

proverbially. Such prejudice as mine has two sides, as I realise when I think of the landlady of our apartment which we rented during a later London season in Belgrave Mansions. When singing, I had to have a late supper prepared for me--something very light and simple and nourishing.

Our good landlady used to be shocked almost to the verge of tears by my iniquitous habit of drinking water _pur-et-simple_ with my suppers.

"Oh, miss," she would beg, "let me put a bit of sherry or _something_ in it for you! It'll hurt you that way, Miss! It'll make you ill, that it will!"