forth, lute in hand, to
seek his spouse in the shades of Hades. From the first scenes, where she
laments and implores, to the last, where she succumbs to despair, she
held her audience spell-bound. How she had fitted herself for her task I
well remember. Classical scholar as she was, she read her Orpheus in the
Greek original, and the costume she wore was of her own designing.

I was much at her house in the Rue de Douai in those days, and it was
made doubly attractive to me by Monsieur Viardot, who himself was a man
of great artistic and literary attainments. His book on the "Galeries de
l'Europe" is a standard work; he had formed a collection of pictures by
the best Dutch masters, and he was devoted to them as only the true
connoisseur can be. Amongst the many celebrities that I met there were
Ary Scheffer, Tourgenieff, Saint Saens, and, on one occasion, Richard
Wagner. He had come with his manuscript score of "Tristan and Isolde."
Madame Viardot was at the piano reading it at sight, and mastering its
intricacies with the grasp of the true musician; whilst Wagner stood by
her side, turning the leaves and occasionally breaking in with a word or
two.

"N'est ce pas, Ma_t_ame," he said, carried away by the grandeur of his
own creation. "N'est ce pas, Ma_t_ame, que c'est su_p_lime?"

I chanced to be the only one privileged to be present on that occasion.
Close at hand stood a casket in which a treasure was preserved, the
original score of "Don Giovanni." No wonder I was fully impressed by the
situation, actually in touch as I felt myself with the master of the
past and the master of the present. If what I was listening to was well
named the Music of the Future, might not the score enshrined in that
casket be called the Music of Eternity?

An event that was looked forward to with the greatest interest by the
privileged group which enjoyed Rossini's hospitality, was the
performance of the "Stabat Mater" at his own house. Those who wanted to
be on the list of the invited did well to conciliate Madame; but that
was not always an easy matter. She knew her own mind, and would give one
a piece of it when she felt so inclined. The following is characteristic
of her little ways:--I called one day to introduce a Mr. Mertke, a young
musician just arrived from Leipsic, to Rossini. The master was busy
conducting a rehearsal of that "Stabat," and so, remembering it was
Madame's reception day, I thought I would improve the occasion b