Memoirs of an American Prima Donna Part 12

She did get one in without delay and I was speedily invited to come and sing. I thought I would pay a particular compliment to my English hostess on that occasion by choosing a song the words of which were written by England's Poet Laureate, so I provided myself with the lovely setting of _Tears, Idle Tears_; music written by an American, W. H. Cook by name, who besides being a composer of music possessed a charming tenor voice. In my innocence I thought this choice would make a hit.

Imagine my surprise therefore when my hostess's comment on the text was:

"Very pretty words. Who wrote them?"

"Why," I stammered, "Tennyson."

"Indeed? And, my dear Miss Kellogg, who _was_ Tennyson?"

Almost immediately after Colonel Stebbins bought her a handsome set of the Poet Laureate's works with which she expressed herself as hugely pleased, although I am personally doubtful if she ever opened a single volume.

She did not forget the _Tears, Idle Tears_ episode, however, and had the wit and good humour often to refer to it afterwards and, usually, quite aptly. One of her most charming notes to me touches on it gracefully.

She was a great letter-writer and her epistles, couched in flowery terms and embellished with huge capitals of the olden style, are treasures in their way:

" ...I know all I feel; and the Tears (_not idle Tears_) that overflow when I read about that Charming and Ill.u.s.trious 'glorious Queen' ... who is winning all hearts and delighting everyone...."

Another letter, one which I think is a particularly interesting specimen of the Victorian style of letter-writing, runs:

...I read with great delight the "critique" of you in _The London Review_, which your Mamma was good enough to send me. The Writer is evidently a man of highly Cultivated Mind, capable of appreciating Excellency and Genius, and like the experienced Lapidary knows a pearl and a Diamond when he has the good fortune to fall in the way of one of high, pure first Water, and great brilliancy. Even _you_ must now feel you have captivated the "elite" of the British Public, and taken root in the country, deep, deep, deep....

My mother and I used often to go to see the d.u.c.h.ess and, through her met many pleasant English people; the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Newcastle, Lady Susan Vane-Tempest who was Newcastle's sister, Lord Dudley, Lord Stanley, Lord Derby, Viscountess Combermere, Prince de la Tour D'Auvergne, the French Amba.s.sador,--I cannot begin to remember them all--and I came really to like the quaint little old d.u.c.h.ess, who was always most charming to me. One small incident struck me as pathetic,--at least, it was half pathetic and half amusing. One day she told me with impressive pride that she was going to show me one of her dearest possessions, "a wonderful table made from a great American treasure presented to her by her dear friend, Commodore McVickar." She led me over to it and tenderly withdrew the cover, revealing to my amazement a piece of rough, cheap, Indian beadwork, such as all who crossed from Niagara to Canada in those days were familiar with. It was about as much like the genuine and beautiful beadwork of the older tribes as the tawdry American imitations are like true j.a.panese textures and curios. This poor specimen the d.u.c.h.ess had had made into a table-top and covered it with gla.s.s mounted in a gilt frame, and had given it a place of honour in her reception room. I suppose Mr. McVickar had sent it to her to give her a rough general idea of what Indian work looked like. I cannot believe that he intended to play a joke on her. She was certainly very proud of it and, so far as I know, n.o.body ever had the heart to disillusion her.

More than once I encountered in England this incongruous and inappropriate valuation of American things. I do not put it down to a general admiration for us but, on the contrary, to the fact that the English were so utterly and incredibly ignorant with regard to us. The beadwork of the d.u.c.h.ess reminds me of another somewhat similar incident.

At that time there were only two really rich bachelors in New York society, Wright Sandford and William Dougla.s.s. Willie Dougla.s.s was of Scotch descent and sang very pleasingly. Women went wild over him. He had a yacht that won everything in sight. While we were in London, he and his yacht put in an appearance at Cowes and he asked us down to pay him a visit. It was a delightful experience. The Earl of Harrington's country seat was not far away and the Earl with his daughters came on board to ask the yacht's party to luncheon the day following. Of course we all went and, equally of course, we had a wonderful time. Lunch was a deliciously informal affair. At one stage of the proceedings, somebody wanted more soda water, when young Lord Petersham, Harrington's eldest son, jumped up to fetch it himself. He rushed across the room and flung open, with an air of triumph, the door of a common, wooden ice-box,--the sort kept in the pantry or outside the kitchen door by Americans.

"Look!" he cried, "did you ever see anything so splendid? It's our American refrigerator and the joy of our lives! I suppose you've seen one before, Miss Kellogg?"

I explained rather feebly that I had, although not in a dining-room. But the family a.s.sured me that a dining-room was the proper place for it. I have seldom seen anything so heart-rendingly incongruous as that plain ugly article of furniture in that dining-room all carved woodwork, family silver, and armorial bearings!

They were dear people and my heart went out to them more completely than to any of my London friends. I soon discovered why.

"You are the most cordial English people I've met yet," I said to Lady Philippa Stanhope, the Earl's charming daughter. Her eyes twinkled.

"Oh, we're not English," she explained, "we're Irish!"

Yet even if I did not find the Londoners quite so congenial, I did like them. I could not have helped it, they were so courteous to my mother and me. Probably they supposed us to have Indians in our back-yards at home; nevertheless they were always courteous, at times cordial. One of the most charming of the Englishwomen I met was the Viscountess Combermere. She was one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting, a very vivacious woman, and used to keep dinner tables in gales of laughter.

Just then when anyone in London wanted to introduce or excuse an innovation, he or she would exclaim, "the Queen does it!" and there would be nothing more for anyone to say. This became a sort of catch-word. I recall one afternoon at the Dowager d.u.c.h.ess of Somerset's, a cup of hot tea was handed to the Viscountess who, pouring the liquid from the cup into the saucer and then sipping it from the saucer, said:

"Now ladies, do not think this is rude, for I have just come from the Queen and saw her do the same. Let us emulate the Queen!" Then, seeing us hesitate, "the Queen does it, ladies! the Queen does it!"

Whereupon everyone present drank tea from their saucers.

It was the Viscountess, also, who so greatly amused my mother at a luncheon party by saying to her with the most polite interest:

"You speak English remarkably well, Mrs. Kellogg! Do they speak English in America?"

"Yes, a little," replied mother, quietly.

CHAPTER XIII

AT HER MAJESTY'S

Adelina Patti came to see us at once. I had known her in America when she was singing with her sister and when, if the truth must be told, many people found Carlotta the more satisfactory singer of the two. I was glad to see her again even though we were _prime donne_ of rival opera organisations. Adelina headed the list of artists at Covent Garden under Mr. Gye, among whom were some of the biggest names in Europe.

Indeed, I found myself confronted with the compet.i.tion of several favourites of the English people. At my own theatre, Her Majesty's, was Mme. t.i.tjiens, always much beloved in England and still a fine artist.

Christine Nilsson was also a member of the company; had sung there earlier in that year and was to sing there again later in the season.

A _tour de force_ of Adelina's was my old friend _Linda di Chamounix_.

She was supposed to be very brilliant in the part, especially in the _Cavatina_ of the first act. As for Marguerite it was considered her private and particular property at Covent Garden, and Nilsson's private and particular property at Her Majesty's.

I have been often asked my opinion of Patti's voice. She had a beautiful voice that, in her early days, was very high, and she is, on the whole, quite the most remarkable singer that I ever heard. But her voice has not been a high one for many years. It has changed, changed in pitch and register. It is no longer a soprano; it is a mezzo and must be judged by quite different standards. I heard her when she sang over here in America thirteen years ago. She gave her old _Cavatina_ from _Linda_ and sang the whole of it a tone and a half lower than formerly. While the public did not know what the trouble was, they could not help perceiving the lack of brilliancy. Ah, those who have heard her in only the last fifteen years or so know nothing at all about Patti's voice! Yet it was always a light voice, although I doubt if the world realised the fact.

She was always desperately afraid of overstraining it, and so was Maurice Strakosch for her. She never could sing more than three times in a week and, of those three, one _role_ at least had to be very light. A great deal is heard about the wonderful preservation of Patti's voice.

It _was_ wonderfully preserved thirteen years ago. How could it have been otherwise, considering the care she has always taken of herself?

Such a life! Everything divided off carefully according to _regime_:--so much to eat, so far to walk, so long to sleep, just such and such things to do and no others! And, above all, she has allowed herself few emotions. Every singer knows that emotions are what exhaust and injure the voice. She never acted; and she never, never felt. As Violetta she did express some slight emotion, to be sure. Her _Gran Dio_ in the last act was sung with something like pa.s.sion, at least with more pa.s.sion than she ever sang anything else. Yes: in _La Traviata_, after she had run away with Nicolini, she did succeed in putting an unusual amount of warmth into the _role_ of Violetta.

[Ill.u.s.tration: =Adelina Patti=

From a photograph by Fredericks]

But her great success was always due to her wonderful voice. Her acting was essentially mechanical. As an intelligent actress, a creator of parts, or even as an interesting personality, she could never approach Christine Nilsson. Nilsson had both originality and magnetism, a combination irresistibly captivating. Her singing was the embodiment of dramatic expression.

In September of that year we went down to Edinburgh to see the ruins of Melrose Abbey. To confess the truth, I remember just two things clearly about Scotland. One was that, at the ruins, Colonel Stebbins picked up a piece of crumbling stone, spoke of the strange effect of age upon it, and let it drop. Around turned the showman, or guide, or whatever the person was called who crammed the sights down our throats.

"You Americans are the curse of the country!" he exclaimed sharply.

My other distinct memory--with a.s.sociations of much discomfort and annoyance--is that I left one rubber overshoe in Loch Lomond.

So much for Scotland. We did not stay long; and were soon back in London ready for work.

Our rehearsals were rather fun. It seemed strange to be able to walk across a stage without getting the hem of one's skirt dirty. English theatres are incredibly clean when one considers what a dirty, sooty, grimy town London is. Our opera was at the old Drury Lane, although we always called it Her Majesty's because that was the name of the opera company. I was amused to find that a member of the company, a big young ba.s.so named "Signor Foli," turned out to be none other than Walter Foley, a boy from my old home in the Hartford region. I always called him "the Irish Italian from Connecticut."

We opened on November 2d in _Faust_. There was rather a flurry of indignation that a young American _prima donna_ should dare to plunge into Marguerite the very first thing. The fact that the young American had sung it before other artists had, with the exception of Patti and t.i.tjiens, and that she was generally believed to know something about it, mattered not at all. English people are acknowledged idolaters and notoriously cold to newcomers. They cling to some imperishable memory of a poor soul whose voice has been dead for years: and it was undoubtedly an inversion of this same loyalty to their favourites that made them so dislike the idea of Marguerite being selected for the new young woman's _debut_. But, really, though on a slightly different scale, it was not so unlike the early days of _Linda_, over again when the Italians accused me with so much animosity of taking the bread out of their mouths. It can easily be believed that, with Nilsson holding all records of Marguerite at Her Majesty's, and with Adelina waiting at Covent Garden with murderous sweetness to see what I was going to do with her favourite _role_, I was wretchedly nervous. When the first night came around no one had a good word for me; everybody was indifferent; and I honestly do not know what I should have done if it had not been for Santley--dear, big-hearted Santley. He was our Valentine, that one, great, incomparable Valentine for whom Gounod wrote the _Dio possente_.

I was walking rather shakily across the stage for my first entrance, feeling utterly frightened and lonely, and looking, I dare say, nearly as miserable as I felt, when a warm, strong hand was laid gently on my shoulder.

"Courage, little one, courage," said Santley, smiling at me and patting me as if I had been a very small, unhappy, frightened child.

I smiled back at him and, suddenly, I felt strong and hopeful and brave again. Onto the stage I went with a curiously sure feeling that I was going to do well after all.

I suppose I must have done well. There was a packed house and very soon I felt it with me. I was called out many times, once in the middle of the act after the church scene, an occurrence that was so far as I know unprecedented. Colonel Keppel, the Prince of Wales's aide (I did not dream then how well-known the name Keppel was destined to be in connection with that of his royal master), came behind during the _entr'acte_ to congratulate me on behalf of the Prince. In later performances his Highness did me the honour of coming himself. The London newspapers--of which, frankly, I had stood in great dread--had delightful things to say. This is the way in which one of them welcomed me: " ...She has only one fault: if she were but English, she would be simply perfect!" The editorial comments in _The Athenaeum_ of Chorley, that gorgon of English criticism, included the following paragraph:

Miss Kellogg has a voice, indeed, that leaves little to wish for, and proves by her use of it that her studies have been both a.s.siduous and in the right path. She is, in fact, though so young, a thoroughly accomplished singer--in the school, at any rate, toward which the music of M. Gounod consistently leans, and which essentially differs from the florid school of Rossini and the Italians before Verdi. One of the great charms of her singing is her perfect enunciation of the words she has to utter. She never sacrifices sense to sound; but fits the verbal text to the music, as if she attached equal importance to each. Of the Italian language she seems to be a thorough mistress, and we may well believe that she speaks it both fluently and correctly. These manifest advantages, added to a graceful figure, a countenance full of intelligence, and undoubted dramatic ability, make up a sum of attractions to be envied, and easily explain the interest excited by Miss Kellogg at the outset and maintained by her to the end.

But, oh, how grateful I was to that good Santley for giving the little boost to my courage at just the right moment! He was always a fine friend, as well as a fine singer. I admired him from the bottom of my heart, both as an artist and a man, and not only for what he was but also for what he had grown from. He was only a ship-chandler's clerk in the beginning. Indeed, he was in the office of a friend of mine in Liverpool. From that he rose to the foremost rank of musical art. Yet that friend of mine never took the least interest in Santley, nor was he ever willing to recognise Santley's standing. Merely because he had once held so inferior a position this man I knew--and he was not a bad sort of man otherwise--was always intolerant and incredulous of Santley's success and would never even go to hear him sing. It is true that Santley never did entirely shake off the influences of his early environment, a characteristic to be remarked in many men of his nationality. In addition to this, some men are so sincere and simple-hearted and earnest that they do not take kindly to artificial environment and I think Santley was one of these. And he was a dear man, and kind. His wife, a relative of f.a.n.n.y Kemble, I never knew very well as she was a good deal of an invalid.

[Ill.u.s.tration: =Clara Louise Kellogg as Linda, 1868=