After this the conversation languished, and I feared it would die for
want of fuel. I felt that I had been spinning my web in vain--that I
might catch some other fly, but not Verdi, when suddenly he said:

"You tell me that you sing often with the Queen. Which duets of mine do
you sing?" he asked with seeming interest.

I named several.

"What voice has the Queen? Soprano or contralto?"

"The Queen's voice is mezzo-soprano," I answered.

"And yours?" he asked.

"Mine is about the same, equally mezzo-soprano."

This seemed to amuse him.

"Do you think the Queen would like to have me write something [quite
jocosely] equally mezzo-soprano?"

"I am sure that the Queen," I answered, gushingly, "would be
overjoyed."

"_Bene_," said the great _maestro_ with a smile. "Then I win."

"How enchanting!" I cried, crimson with enthusiasm. "But may I beg one
thing?"

"Beg! _Je vous en prie_."

"_Fa dieze_ [F sharp] is a weak point in both our voices."

"_Bene_," he said, waving his hand toward his piano. "I will write a
duet for you, and only put one G minor in it."

"G minor!" I exclaimed. "Why, that is--"

He interrupted, "Have you ever noticed that G minor is much easier to
sing than P sharp?"

He did not wait for my assurance that I did not notice any difference,
but said, suddenly, "When do you go to Monza?"

"We are waiting to hear. Perhaps to-morrow."

"Ah," he said, thoughtfully, as if turning over in his mind whether or
not he could have the duet ready.

MONZA, _October 19th_.

Bonghi came yesterday. At the request of the Queen he read aloud my
sketch of the Hamlet legend before the _promenade en voiture_. The
Queen thanked me and said that she was going to keep the manuscript,
but Bonghi cut my literary wings by pronouncing in his brusque way
that, although it was interesting and he liked the contents, it was
badly written.

"_Chere madame_," he said, "you write very well, but you do not know
the art of punctuating. You write as the water runs, as the arrow
flies; therefore, in reading what you have written I have no time to
breathe. I cannot separate the different ideas. A comma means a _point
d'arret_, a moment of repose. Every period should be an instant in
which to digest a thought."

I felt crushed by this, but tried to defend myself by saying that I had
only written it for one indulgent eye, and ended lamely by promising
that the next time I wrote anything I would be more careful. "