Memoirs of an American Prima Donna Part 14

[Ill.u.s.tration: =Christine Nilsson as Queen of the Night=

From a photograph by Pierre Pet.i.t]

"Great heavens!" I gasped, "what is she doing? What is the woman thinking of!"

Of course I knew she was doing it to get volume and vibration and to give that trying climax some character. But to say that it was a fatal attempt is to put it mildly. She absolutely killed a certain quality in her voice there and then and she _never recovered it_. Even that night she had to cut out the second great _aria_. Her beautiful high notes were gone for ever. Probably the fatality was the result of the last stroke to a continued strain which she had put upon her voice. After that she, like Mario, began to be dramatic to make up for what she had lost. She, the cla.s.sical and cold artist, became full of expression and animation. But the later Nilsson was very different from the Nilsson whom I first heard in Paris during the winter of 1868, when, besides singing the music perfectly, she was, with her blond hair and broad brow, a living Ophelie. As I have said, Faure, the baritone, was her Hamlet in that early performance. He was a great artist, a great actor in whatever _role_ he took. His voice was not wonderful, but he was saved, and more than saved, by his style and his art. He was a particularly cultivated, musicianly man whose dignity of carriage and elegance of manner could easily make people forget a certain ungrateful quality in his voice. It was Faure who had the brains and perseverance to learn how to sing a particular note from a really bad singer. The bad singer had only one good note in his voice and that happened to be the worst one in Faure's. So, night after night, the great artist went to hear and to study the inferior one to try and learn how he got that note. And he succeeded, too. This is a fair sample of his careful and finished way of doing anything. He was a big artist, and to big artists, especially in singing, music is almost mathematical in its exactness.

Adelina Patti, who had also left London for the winter, was singing at the _Italiens_ in Paris. I went to hear her give an indifferent performance of _Ernani_. It was never one of her advantageous _roles_.

Adelina had a most extraordinary charm and a great power over men of very diverse sorts. De Caux, Nicolini, Maurice Strakosch, who married Adelina's sister Amelia, all adored her and felt that whatever she did must be right because she did it. Nicolini, who had been a star tenor singing all over Italy before she captured him, was willing to forget that he ever had a wife or children. Maurice was for years her "manager and representative," and as such put up with incredible complexities in the situation. There is a long and lurid tale about Nicolini's wife appearing in Italy when Nicolini, Maurice, and Adelina were all there.

The story ended with Nicolini being kicked downstairs and the press commented upon the episode with an apt couplet from Schiller to the effect that "life is hard, but merry is art!"

The names of Paris and of Maurice Strakosch in conjunction conjure up the thought of Napoleon III, who, in his young days of exile, used to be very intimate with Maurice. Louis Napoleon, after he had escaped from the fortress of Ham, spent some time in London, and he and Maurice frequently lunched or dined together. By the way, some years later, at a dinner at the McHenrys' in Holland Park, I was told by Chevalier Wyckoff that it was he who rescued Napoleon from the prison of Ham by smuggling clothes in to him and by having a boat waiting for him. Maurice used to tell of one rather amusing incident that occurred during the London period. Louis Napoleon's dress clothes were usually in p.a.w.n, and one night when he wanted to go to some party, he presented himself at Maurice's rooms to borrow his. Maurice was out; but nevertheless Louis Napoleon took the dress clothes anyway, adding all of Maurice's orders and decorations. When he was decked out to his satisfaction he went to the party. Shortly after, in came Maurice, to dress for the same party, and called to his valet to bring him his evening clothes.

"Mr. Bonaparte's got 'em on, sir," said the man: and Maurice stayed at home!

Napoleon III was a man of many weaknesses. Yet he kept his promises and remembered his friends--when he could. As soon as he became Emperor he sent for Maurice Strakosch and offered him the management of the _Italiens_; but Maurice declined the honour. He was too busy "representing" Patti in those days to care for any other engagement. He did give singing lessons to the Empress Eugenie however, and was always on good terms with her and with the Emperor.

When I was in Paris in '68 Napoleon and Eugenie were in power at the Tuileries and day after day I saw them driving behind their splendid horses. Paris was extremely gay and yet somewhat ominous, for there was a wide-spread feeling that clouds were gathering about the throne. When thinking of that period I sometimes quote to myself Owen Meredith's poem, _Aux Italiens_,

At Paris it was at the opera there ...

The Emperor there in his box of state Looked grave, as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city gate, Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The Tuileries court was a very brilliant one and we were accustomed to splendid costumes and gorgeous turnouts in the Bois, but one day I came home with a particularly excited description of the "foreign princess" I had seen. Her clothes, her horses (she drove postilion), her carriage, her liveries, her servants, all, to my innocent and still ignorant mind, proclaimed her some distinguished visiting royalty. How chagrined I was and how I was laughed at when my "princess" turned out to be one of the best known _demi-mondaines_ in Paris! Even then it was difficult to tell the two _mondes_ apart.

A unique character in Paris was Dr. Evans, dentist to the Emperor and Empress. He was an American and a witty, talented man. I remember hearing him laughingly boast:

"I have looked down the mouth of every crowned head of Europe!"

When disaster overtook the Bonapartes, he proved that he could serve crowned heads in other ways besides filling their teeth. It was he who helped the Empress to escape, and the fact made him an exile from Paris.

He came to see me in London years afterwards and told me something of that dark and dramatic time of flight. He felt very homesick for Paris, which had been his home for so long, but the dear man was as merry and charming as ever.

We spent in all only a short time in Paris. Two months were taken out of the middle of that winter for travelling on the Continent, after which we returned to the French city for March. When we first started from Paris on our trip we were headed for Nice. It was Christmas Day, and cold as charity. Why _did_ we choose that day of all others on which to begin a journey? Our Christmas dinner consisted of cold soup swallowed at a station. Christmas!--I could have wept!

CHAPTER XV

MY FIRST HOLIDAY ON THE CONTINENT

It seemed very odd to be really idle. From the time I was thirteen I had been working and studying so systematically that to get the habit of leisure was like learning a new and a difficult lesson. It took time, for one thing, to find out how to relax; nervous persons never acquire this art naturally nor possess it instinctively. It is with them the artificial product of painful experience. All my life I had been expending energy at top pressure and building it up again as fast as I could instead of sometimes letting it lie fallow for a bit. When I became exhausted my mother would speedily make strong broths with rice and meat and vegetables and anything else that she considered nourishing to stimulate my jaded vitality; then I would go at my work again harder than ever. When I had finished one thing I plunged, nerves, body, and brain, into another. To be an artist is bad enough; but to be an American artist--! To the temperamental excitability and intensity is added the racial nervousness; and lucky are such if they do not go up in a final smoke of over-energised effort. When I was singing I was always in a fever before the curtain rose. All the day before I was restless to the point of desperation. Instead of letting myself go and becoming comfortably limp so that I might conserve my strength for the performance itself, I would cast about for a hundred secondary ways in which to waste my nervous force. I was nearly as bad as the Viennese _prima donna_, Marie Willt. The story is told of her that a reporter from a Vienna newspaper went to interview her the afternoon before she was to sing in _Il Trovatore_ at the Royal Opera and enquired of the scrubwoman in the hall where he could find Frau Willt.

"Here," responded the scrubwoman, sitting up to eye him calmly.

When the young man expressed surprise and incredulity she explained, as she continued to mop the soapy water, that she invariably scrubbed the floor the day she was going to sing. "It keeps me busy," she concluded sententiously.

Think of the force that went into that scrubbing-brush which might have gone into the part of Leonora! But it is not for me to find fault with such a course of action because I followed a very similar one. If I did not exactly scrub floors, I did, somehow, contrive to find other equally adequate ways of dissipating my strength before I sang. Yet here I was, actually taking a holiday, with no chance at all to work even if I wanted to!

When we arrived in Nice the lemons and oranges on the trees and a sky as blue as painted china made the place seem to me somewhat unnatural, like a stage setting. Not yet having learned my lesson of relaxation, I soon became restless and wanted to be again on the move. Nevertheless we stayed there for nearly a month. My mother seemed to like it. She made many friends and spent hours every day painting little pictures--quite dear little pictures they were--of the bright coloured wild flowers that grew roundabout. But possibly a few extracts from the diary kept by my mother of this visit will not be out of place here. The capital letters and italics are hers.

_Dec. 25_--Christmas morning. Sun shone for two hours. Left for Nice. Arrived at 5 P.M. A very cold night. Cars warmed by zink hollow planks [boxes] filled with Boiling water which are replaced every three hours at the different stations. Notwithstanding shawls and wraps suffered with the cold. Nothing to eat until we arrived at twelve at Ma.r.s.eilles, where [we] got a poor, cold soup and miserable cup of tea. Arrived at the Hotel Luxembourg in Nice at 6.30 P.M. The city and hotels crowded with people from all parts of the world. Rheumatic people rush here to get into the _sunshine_--a _thing_ seldom seen in Paris or London in winter. Nice is simply a watering-place _without the water_, unless one means the Sea Mediterranean which almost rushes into the Halls of the Hotels. All languages are here spoken; therefore no trouble for any nation to obtain what it desires. The streets are pulverised magnesia.

Everybody looks after walking as though they had been to mill "turning hopper."

In our promenade [to-day, Dec. 27] we meet in less than twenty minutes as many different nationalities, or representatives of each. Poor in soil, poor in colour, poor in taste is Nice. The Hotels compose the City. Roses bloom by the roadsides in abundance.

The gardens of the Hotels are yellow with Oranges. Palm trees line the streets, none of which have shade trees that ever grow enough to shade but _one person at a time_--no soil--no vigour--sun does all the maturing. Things ripen from necessity, not from the soil.

_Sat.u.r.day 28_--Clear beautiful morning. Beach covered with promenaders. At twelve Louise and I took a long walk towards Villa Franca--sun very hot--met Richard Palmer who had just arrived.

Enjoyed the morning; were refreshed by our walk. Mr. Stebbins and Charlie called. Drive at 5. Evening had a light wood fire upon the hearth, making rooms and hearts cheerful in direct opposition to the roaring of the wild sea at our very feet. Proprietor of Hotel sent up his Piano for Louise. Basket Phaetons--2 ponies--are hired here for one franc an hour--fine woods but dusty.

_29th.--Sunday_--Magnificent morning. The sea smooth as gla.s.s.

Women line the beach spreading clothes to bleach. There is a short diluted Season of Italian Opera here. _Ernani_ was announced for last evening. There is no odor from the Mediterranean, no sea weeds, no sh.e.l.ls, a perfectly clean barren beach. I don't believe it is even salt. Shall go and sip to satisfy Yankee curiosity.

There are two Irish heiresses here whose combined weight in gold is 9000 lbs., and the way the n.o.bs and sn.o.bs tiptoe, bow, and sc.r.a.pe is something to behold. They are always dressed alike. We are cold enough to have a small wood fire morning and evening in a very primitive style fireplace 18 inches square. Handirons made of 2 cast iron virgins' heads and busts. Bellows thrown in.

_One_ P.M.--Took a double Pony Basket Phaeton, Louise and I on the front seat, she driving a grey and bay pony. Drove to Villa Franca where the American fleet is anch.o.r.ed. Saw the old flag once more, which brought home most vividly to my heart and roused the old longing for the dear old spot.

_30th._ No letters. No news of trunks. The Monotonous sea singing Hush at measured intervals, not one wave even an inch higher than another. This cannot be a real sea, the Mediterranean, _or it would sometime change its tone_. Yesterday rode through the old Italian part of the City. Houses 6 or 7 stories high. Streets just wide enough for a donkey cart to get through. Never can pa.s.s each other.

One has to back out.

_Tuesday 31._ Took our usual walk. Listened to the band in the Public Gardens. This is a poor, barren country. I believe the plates are _licked by the inhabitants instead of the dogs_. This place is too poor for _them_. The only good conditioned looking people here are the priests. They are bursting with inward satisfaction and joy. When in Paris last October we heard of a most wonderful pair of earrings that had been presented to Adelina Patti by a Gent who glided under the name of Khalil Bey, worth Millions!

When in Paris again in December there was a great stir about the Private Picture Gallery of a very wealthy man who had met with severe and great losses at the gaming table. Our friends tried to obtain admission for us to see them, but through some slip we failed. Upon our arrival in Nice, one day there was great confusion and agitation among the Eager. Servants were standing in corners and evidence of something was very vivid. Finally the mystery was solved. And we learned that a great Prince had arrived from St.

Petersburg. A Turk! Who was sharing our fate (the order of things is all reversed in Nice. You commence life there by beginning at the top and working your way down) and taken rooms on the 6th floor, accompanied by 2 servants, one especially to take care of the Pipe. His name is Khalil Bey--about 50 years old--a hard, Chinese, cast-iron face run when the iron was very hot--sinking well into the mould--one eye almost blind--short small feet--he seemed to commence to grow at the feet and grew bigger and wider as he went up.

_3rd._ He moves in the best "society" over here--has his Box at the Opera--tells frankly his losses at cards--so many million francs--is a man of influence even among a certain cla.s.s and that far above mediocre. Met him at an evening entertainment. Found him a great admirer of Patti in certain _roles_--very good judgment upon musical matters in general--and a professed _Gambler_.

_4th._ Rained all day. A lost day to comfort outside and in.

_5th._ Another day of the same sort. Weary with looking at the sea.

_6th._ Clearing. Sunshine at intervals.

_7th._ Mr. Kinney called in afternoon. Conversation related to Americans in Europe. Came to the conclusion that as a general rule none but the cla.s.s denominated "fast" come to Europe and like it.

Mr.---- said he would give any American young gentleman or lady just 18 months in European society to lose all refinement and all moral principle, young ladies in particular. The moral principle cannot be strong when one is _laughed at for blushing_!

_8th._ Mr. and Mrs. L---- came over in the evening. Sat two hours.

Discussed Europe generally and decided _America_ was the _only place for decent people to live in_. _Death_ is all over Europe, an epidemic that has no cure. Death of all moral responsibility. Death of ambition in the way of virtue. Death of all comforts of life.

The last man that dies will be carried from the _card table_.

In my own recollection of Nice the two men princ.i.p.ally mentioned in my mother's diary, Khalil Bey and Admiral Farragut, stand out strikingly.

Khalil Bey was a fabulously rich Turk who spent his life wandering luxuriously over the face of the earth with a huge retinue of retainers nearly as picturesque as he was. He was a big, dark, murderous looking creature, not unattractive in a sinister, strange, and piratical way. He had a wild and lurid record and was especially notorious for his reckless gambling, at which his luck was said to be miraculous. He was an opera enthusiast, having heard it in every city in Europe, and was one of Adelina's admirers. My mother disliked him exceedingly, declaring he was like a big snake. But my mother never had any tolerance for foreign n.o.blemen. There were many of them at Nice and her comments were caustic and often apt. I remember her casual summing up of the Marquis de Talleyrand (the particular friend of Mrs. Stevens, an American woman from Hoboken whom he afterwards married) as "a young man belonging to some goose pond or other!"

Admiral Farragut, who was in the harbour with his flagship the _Hartford_ and several other American battle-ships, was greatly feted, being just then a great hero of the war. The United States Consul gave a reception for him which he explained in advance was to be "characteristically American." The only noticeable thing about the entertainment seemed to be the quant.i.ty and variety of drinkables that were unceasingly served by swift and persuasive waiters. The Continentals must have had a startling impression of American thirst!

The Admiral himself, however, was hardly given time to swallow anything at all, people were so anxious to ask him questions and to shake hands.

The Stebbinses and McHenrys joined us when we had been in Nice only a short time, and, after a little stay there together, we went on by way of Genoa and the Corniche Road to Pisa, and thence to Florence. At Florence we met the Admiral again and found him more charming the better we knew him. In Florence, too, we had several glimpses of the Grisi family, Madame and her three daughters. Grisi was, I think, a striking example of a singer being born and not made. When she sang Adalgisa in _Norma_ in Milan, she made a sudden and overwhelming hit. Next day every one was rushing about demanding, "Who was her teacher? Who gave her this wonderful style and tone?" Grisi herself was asked about it and she gave the names of several teachers under whom she had worked. But, needless to say, another Grisi was never made. In her case it didn't happen to be the teacher. Often the credit is given to the master when it really belongs to the pupil, or, rather, to _le bon Dieu_ who made the vocal chords in the first place. For, however we may agree or disagree about fundamental requirements for an artist--breath control, voice placing, tone colour, interpretation,--the simple fact remains that the one great essential for a singer is a voice! One little story that I recall of Grisi interested me. It was said that, when she was growing old and severe exertion told on her, she always, after her fall as Lucretia Borgia, had a gla.s.s of beer come up through the floor to her and would drink it as she lay there with her back half turned to the audience.