was just warm enough not to be cold.  The conversation opened, of course, on music.  I said that I admired his music more than that of any other composer in the world.  This was stretching a point, but it brought a pale smile to his verdigris countenance (this is unworthy of the worst punster).  I told him that I often had the honor of singing with the Queen, and that we sang many duets from his operas.  He did not seem to be much impressed by this miracle and received it with amiable indifference.

I longed to hear him talk, but with the exception of a few “veramentes” and “grazies” he remained passive and silent.  By way of saying something he asked me if I had heard Tamagno in “Othello.”

“Yes,” I said.  “I cannot think of anything more splendid.  I never heard anything to equal him, and Monsieur Maurel is equally fine, is he not?”

“His singing is well enough,” answered Verdi, “but his accent is deplorable.”

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.