"Never heard of them," I replied. "Oh, yes, my dear Louise, you must have! They are in all American books!" Of course she meant _butternuts_, as I laughingly explained. A moment later she observed meditatively, "you know, I never take up an American novel that I don't read some description of food!" I think what she said was quite true. I have remarked it since. Although I do not consider that we are a greedy nation in practice when it comes to food, we do love reading and hearing about good things to eat. Presently, as my mother felt better and had no real need of me, I decided to take a little trip, leaving her at Aix with Eliza. Not quite by myself, of course. I never reached such a degree of emancipation as that. But I asked my English friend to go with me, and one fine day she and I set out in search of whatever entertaining thing might come our way. I had been so held down to routine all my life, my comings and goings had been so ordered and so sensible, that I deeply desired to do a bit of real gypsy wandering without the handicap of a travelling schedule. No travelling is so delightful as this sort. Don Quixote it was, if I remember rightly, who let his horse wander whithersoever he pleased, "believing that in this consisted the very being of adventures." We went first to Geneva and so over the Simplon Pass into Italy. We dreamed among the lakes, reading guide-books to help us decide on our next stopping-point. So, on and on, until after a while we reached Vienna. Three hours after my arrival there Alfred Fischoff, the Austrian impresario, routed me out. "Where are you bound for?" he wanted to know. "Nowhere. That is just the beauty of it!" "Ah!" he commented understandingly. And then he asked, "How would you like to sing?" Even though I was on a pleasure trip the idea allured me, for I always like to sing. "Sing where?" I questioned. "Here, in Vienna." "I couldn't. I don't sing in German," I objected. "You could sing _als Gast_" (as a guest), he said. Finally it was so arranged and, I may add, I was the only _prima donna_ except Nilsson who had ever been permitted to sing in Italian at the Imperial Opera House, while the other artists sang in German. A letter from my mother to my father at that time discloses a light upon her point of view. "Louise telegraphed for Eliza and her costumes. I thought at first she was crazy, but it appears she was sane after all. A fine Vienna engagement...."