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Famous Prima Donnas
[Illustration: EDNA MAY
As Violet Grey in "The Belle of New York."]
Famous Prima
Donnas
By
Lewis C. Strang
_Author of_ "_Famous Actors of the Day_," "_Famous
Actresses of the Day_," "_Famous Stars
of Light Opera_," "_Players and
Plays of the Last Quarter
Century_," _etc._
Illustrated
L.C.PAGE.&.COMPANY
BOSTON PUBLISHERS
_Copyright 1900_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
_All rights reserved_
Third Impression, February, 1906
_COLONIAL PRESS_
_Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co._
_Boston, U. S. A._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTION ix
I. ALICE NIELSEN 1
II. VIRGINIA EARLE 21
III. LILLIAN RUSSELL 30
IV. JOSEPHINE HALL 46
V. MABELLE GILMAN 56
VI. FAY TEMPLETON 67
VII. MADGE LESSING 81
VIII. JESSIE BARTLETT DAVIS 88
IX. EDNA WALLACE HOPPER 104
X. PAULA EDWARDES 113
XI. LULU GLASER 120
XII. MINNIE ASHLEY 134
XIII. EDNA MAY 147
XIV. MARIE CELESTE 156
XV. CHRISTIE MACDONALD 172
XVI. MARIE DRESSLER 181
XVII. DELLA FOX 192
XVIII. CAMILLE D'ARVILLE 208
XIX. MARIE TEMPEST 222
XX. MAUD RAYMOND 233
XXI. PAULINE HALL 239
XXII. HILDA CLARK 253
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
EDNA MAY as Violet Grey in "The Belle of New York" _Frontispiece_
ALICE NIELSEN in "The Fortune Teller" 7
VIRGINIA EARLE as Winnifred Grey in "A Runaway Girl" 21
LILLIAN RUSSELL as "The Queen of Brilliants" 42
MABELLE GILMAN in "The Casino Girl" 56
FAY TEMPLETON singing the "coon" song, "My Tiger Lily" 67
MADGE LESSING 81
EDNA WALLACE-HOPPER 104
PAULA EDWARDES 113
LULU GLASER 120
MINNIE ASHLEY 134
CHRISTIE MACDONALD 172
MARIE DRESSLER 181
DELLA FOX 192
MARIE TEMPEST 222
Introduction
The musical stage in the United States may be said to be a birthright
rather than a profession. A critical examination of the conditions
quickly shows one that the number of women at present prominent in light
opera and kindred forms of entertainment, who have earned their
positions by continued endeavor and logical development in their art, is
comparatively small. The majority are, in fact, the happy victims of
personality, who have been rushed into fame chiefly by chance and a
fortunate combination of circumstances. They are without the requisite
training, either in the art of singing or in the art of impersonation,
that would entitle them to be seriously considered as great vocalists or
as great actors. They are, however, past mistresses in the one
essential for their profession,--the art of entertaining.
The readiest proof of this peculiar state of affairs is the almost
universal brevity of the careers of the women just now in the ascendancy
in the musical drama. Ten years of professional life is more than many
of them can claim. Arising suddenly into conspicuous popularity as they
have, their reputations are founded, not on the sure basis of careful
preparation and long and diversified experience, but on the uncertain
qualities of personal magnetism and physical beauty. They shine with a
glory that is perhaps deceptive in its brilliancy; they are the sought
for by many managers, the beloved of a faddish public, and the much
exploited of the newspaper press.
The difficulties that encumbered the path of the compiler of this book,
dealing with the women of the musical stage in this country, were
numerous. First among them was the choice of subjects. The selection
could not be made with deference to any classification by merit, for the
triumphs of personality were not amenable to such a classification. The
compiler was compelled by the conditions to bring his own personality
into the case, and to choose entirely by preference. He could not be
governed by an arbitrary standard of comparison; for how can
personality, which is a quality, an impression, hardly a fact, and
certainly not a method, be compared? In the present instance, the writer
found it expedient to limit himself to those entertainers who have given
at least some evidence of continued prominence. It may be, therefore,
that a few names have been omitted which are rightly entitled to a place
in a work of this kind. Nevertheless, the list is surely representative,
even if it be not complete.
After the subjects had been chosen, the question, how to treat them, at
once became paramount. Again the bothersome limitations of personality
asserted themselves; and one perceived immediately that criticism,
meaning by that the consistent application of any comprehensive canon of
dramatic art, was out of the question. The vocal art of the average
light opera singer is imperfect, and the histrionic methods in vogue
show little evidence of careful training: they are neither subtle nor
complex. Indeed, the average woman in light opera is not an actress at
all in the full meaning of the word. She does not fit herself into the
parts that she is called upon to play, and she does not attempt
expositions of character that will stand even the most superficial
analysis. She acts herself under every circumstance. Describe in detail
her work in a single role, and she is written down for all time.
Yet, should one limit his critical vision to a single part, he not only
fails to touch the main point at issue, but he runs the risk, as well,
of self-deception and misunderstanding. The artistic worth of a player
of personality is invariably overestimated after the first hearing; and
the sure tendency of even the experienced observer, particularly if he
be of sympathetic and sanguine temperament, and constantly on the watch
for the slightest indication of unusual talent, is to mistake
personality for art. The result is that, after indulging himself to the
full in eloquent rhapsody, he encounters, upon a more intimate
acquaintance, mortifying disillusionment.
What is of genuine value in the player of personality is the elusive
force that makes her a possibility on the stage, and the problem is to
get that peculiar magnetism on paper. It is a problem unsolved so far as
the writer is concerned. One can dodge above, below, and aroundabout a
personality, but he cannot pierce directly into it. When it comes to the
final word, one is left face to face with his stock of adjectives. Most
unsatisfactory they are, too. None of them seems exactly to fit the
case. They serve well enough, perhaps, to convey one individual's
notions regarding the personality under discussion, but they are indeed
lame and limping when it comes to presenting any definite idea of the
personality itself.
As for the biographical data in the book, they are as complete and as
accurate as diligence and care can make them. The woman in music is
conscientiously reticent regarding the details of her early struggles
for position and reputation. Nothing would seem to be so satisfactory to
her as a past dim and mystifying, a present of brilliancy unrivalled,
and a future of rich and unshadowed promise.
Famous Prima Donnas
CHAPTER I
ALICE NIELSEN
Five years ago Alice Nielsen was an obscure church singer in Kansas
City; to-day she is the leading woman star in light opera on the
American stage. One feels an instinctive hesitation in putting her in
the first place, however sure he may be that she is justly entitled to
it. He anxiously seeks the country over for a possible rival. He feels
that Alice Nielsen has hardly been tested as yet, for she has been only
two seasons at the head of her own company, and she has not appeared in
an opera which is of itself artistically worthy of serious
consideration. Moreover, she is such a little thing,--a child, it would
seem,--and is it safe to take seriously a child, even a child of so many
and so potent fascinations?
This feeling of doubt, caused by Miss Nielsen's stage youthfulness, is,
it appears to me, the pith of the whole difficulty, and therein lurks a
curious paradox. Alice Nielsen's great charms are her youth, her
spontaneity, and her ingenuousness; but these very qualities are the
ones that make one pause and consider before giving her the artistic
rank that she has honestly earned. Alice Nielsen seems almost too human
to be really great. She is too natural, too democratic, too free from
conceit. She is never disdainful of her public, and she is never bored
by her work.
One cannot help being charmed by this little woman, who sings as if
singing were the best fun in the world; who is so frankly happy when her
audience likes her work and applauds her; and who goes soaring up and
away on the high notes, sounding clear and pure above chorus and
orchestra, without the slightest apparent effort and without a trace of
affectation or of artificial striving for effect. Everybody who has ever
written anything about Alice Nielsen has declared that she sings like a
bird, freely, naturally, and easily, and this metaphor describes exactly
the impression that she creates.
Her voice one appreciates at once,--its volume and its colorful
brilliancy, its great range, and its rich, sympathetic, and musical
qualities; what he misses in her are the conventionalities of the prima
donna,--the awe-inspiring stage presence, the impressive posings and
contortious vocalizations. The world is very apt to take one at his own
estimate until it gets very well acquainted with him. Alice Nielsen has
never proclaimed herself a wonder, and the world has not yet fully made
up its mind regarding her as an artist. It acknowledges her great
personal charm, her delightful music, but it is not just sure whether
she can act.
I regard Miss Nielsen as a thoroughly competent actress in a limited
field. She is fitted neither physically nor temperamentally for heroics,
but she is fully equal to the requirements of operatic light comedy. She
acts as she sings, simply and naturally, and her appeal to her audience
is sure and straightforward. As an instance of this, take her striking
first entrance in "The Singing Girl." She appears on a little bridge,
which extends across the back of the stage. She runs quickly to the
centre, then stops, stoops over with her hands on her knees in Gretchen
fashion, and smiles with all her might. The action is quaint and
attractive, and she wins the house at once. Alice Nielsen's smile is
really a wonderful thing, and it is one proof that she knows something
about acting. It never seems forced. Yet, when one stops to think, he
must see that a girl cannot smile at the same time, night after night,
without bringing to her aid a little art. To appear perfectly natural on
the stage is the best possible acting, and that is just what Alice
Nielsen does with her smile.
However, "The Singing Girl," for which Victor Herbert wrote the music,
Harry Smith the lyrics, and Stanislaus Stange the libretto, like "The
Fortune Teller," in which Miss Nielsen made her debut as a star during
the season of 1898-99, was from any standpoint except the purely
spectacular a pretty poor sort of an opera. There was a great deal to
attract the eye. The costuming was sumptuous, the groupings and color
effects novel and entrancing, and the action throughout mechanically
spirited. Mr. Herbert's music, which was plainly written to catch the
public fancy, fulfilled its purpose, though that was about all that
could be said in its favor. It waltzed and it marched, and it broke
continually into crashing and commonplace refrains. It was strictly
theatrical music, with more color than melody, showy and pretentious,
but without backbone.
There was really only one song in the whole score that stuck to the
memory, and that was Miss Nielsen's solo, "So I Bid You Beware."
Possibly, even in this case I am giving Mr. Herbert more credit than
belongs to him, for Miss Nielsen's interpretation of the ditty was
nothing short of exquisite. She found a world of meaning in the simple
words, coquetted and flirted with a fascinating girlishness that was
entrancing, and flashed her merry blue eyes with an invitation so purely
personal that for a moment the footlights disappeared.
[Illustration: ALICE NIELSEN
In "The Fortune Teller."]
Mr. Stange's libretto was wofully weak. It seemed to be full of holes,
and into these a trio of comedians were thrust with a recklessness born
of desperation. What Mr. Stange did faithfully was to keep Miss Nielsen
on the stage practically all the time that she was not occupied in
taking off petticoats and putting on trousers--or else reversing the
process. To be sure, he succeeded in bringing about these many changes
with less bewilderment than did Harry Smith in the case of "The Fortune
Teller," the plot of which no one ever confessed to follow after the
first five minutes of the opening act. Alan Dale once described this
peculiar state of affairs in the following characteristic fashion:--
"In 'The Fortune Teller' the astonishing Harry B. Smith, who must have
gone about all summer perspiring librettos and dripping them into the
laps of all the stars, has woven a role for Miss Nielsen that is stellar
but difficult to comprehend. Miss Nielsen appeared as three people who
are always changing their clothes. Just as the poor little woman has got
through all her vocal exercises as Irma, Mr. Smith insists that she
shall be Musette in other garbs. And no sooner has she appeared as
Musette and sang something else than Mr. Smith rushes her off and claps
her into another garb as Fedor. You don't know who she intends to be
from one minute to another, and I am quite sure that she herself
doesn't. The variety of dresses, tights, wraps, jackets, and hats
sported by this ambitious and earnest little girl is simply astonishing.
It must be very difficult to accomplish these chameleon-like changes
without getting rattled. Miss Nielsen seemed to enjoy herself, however;
and as for getting rattled, she coquetted with her audience as archly
after the twelfth change as she did after the first."
Alice Nielsen was born in Nashville, Tennessee. Her father, from whom
she probably inherited her musical talent, was a Dane. He was an
excellent violinist, but he was never able to turn his gifts to
financial advantage. During the Civil War he fought on the Union side
and received a severe wound that is believed to have been the indirect
cause of his death, which occurred when Alice was about seven years old.
Alice Nielsen's mother was of Irish parentage,--a woman of sturdy and
sterling qualities.
After the war the family settled in Warrensburg, Missouri, and remained
there until after Mr. Nielsen's death. There were four children in the
family, three girls and a boy, and Alice was next to the oldest. After
the death of Mr. Nielsen, Mrs. Nielsen removed with her children to
Kansas City and opened a boarding-house at the corner of Thirteenth and
Cherry streets. Alice was at that time about eight years old. For some
years she attended school at St. Teresa's Academy, and later she studied
music and voice culture under a Kansas City music-teacher, Max Desci.
Many years afterward this tutor claimed the whole credit for developing
her voice and for "bringing her out," even going so far as to sue her
for $8,000, which he alleged to be due him for music lessons. He lost
the suit, however.
Kansas City first began to talk of Alice Nielsen's voice after she
became a member of the choir of St. Patrick's Church, with which she was
connected for five years. She married the organist, Benjamin Neutwig,
from whom she was divorced in 1898. After her marriage she continued to
live in her mother's apartments at Thirteenth and Cherry streets, where,
in fact, she made her home until she left Kansas City. Appreciating his
wife's unusual gifts, Mr. Neutwig did much to develop them, and it was
perhaps due to him as much as to any one else that she became something
more than a church singer.
The Kansas City friends of Alice Nielsen relate many interesting
incidents of her early life, nearly all of which show indications of the
spirit and strength of character that have done so much toward pushing
her forward. The following anecdotes, told by a member of St. Patrick's
Church choir, were published in the "Kansas City World":--
"I was in a grocery store near Twelfth and Locust streets with Alice
one day, when she was about fifteen years old, I should judge. A couple
of boys of her age were plaguing her. She took it good-naturedly for
awhile, but finally warned them to let her alone. They persisted. Then
becoming exasperated, she picked up an egg and threw it, hitting one of
her tormentors squarely in the face. Of course the egg broke, and the
boy's countenance was a sight for the gods. I understand she apologized
afterward. This may be recorded as her first hit.
"She joined the choir of St. Patrick's Church, Eight and Cherry streets,
eleven years ago, and sang in it about five years, or until she left
Kansas City to begin her operatic career. It was there she met Benjamin
Neutwig, the organist. A great many persons were jealous of her vocal
talents, nor were certain members of the church itself entirely exempt
from twinges of envy. Indeed, a no less personage than she who was at
that time choir leader manifested symptoms of this kind to a pronounced
degree.
"I remember one Easter service, Alice, then a girl of probably eighteen,
was down to sing a solo in Millard's Mass. The leader was angry: she
thought the solo should have been assigned to her. Alice knew of the
hostility, and it worried her, but she rose bravely and started in.
Scarcely had she sung the first line when the choir leader turned and
gave Alice a hateful look.
"It had the desired effect. The singer's voice trembled, broke, and was
mute. She struggled bravely to regain her composure, but it was
useless,--she could not prevail against that malevolent gaze from the
choir leader. This, I believe, was the first and only time Alice Nielsen
ever failed in public.
"It is a wonder, in the face of petty jealousies of this kind, coupled
with the poverty of her mother, which seemed an insurmountable barrier
to a musical education, that Alice's talents were not lost to the
world. For every influence tending to push her forward, there seemed a
dozen counter influences tending to pull her back. As a child, I have
seen her many a time on the street, barefooted, clothing poor and scant,
running errands for her mother. Later in life, when she was almost a
young lady, I have known her to sing in public, gowned in the cheapest
material, and she would appear time after time in the same dress. On
such occasions she was often wan and haggard, as if from anxiety or
overwork. But once in a while she received the praise which she so
richly merited.
"One day Father Lillis received a letter from a travelling man who was
stopping at the Midland, in which he asked the name of the young woman
who sang soprano in the choir. He had attended church the day before, he
said, and had heard her sing. 'It is the most wonderful voice I ever
heard,' he wrote. 'That girl is the coming Florence Nightingale.' I
don't know whether the letter was ever answered or not, but Alice came
to know of the incident, and it pleased her.
"Both before and after she joined the choir, Alice appeared in amateur
theatricals and in church concerts. She was always applauded and
appreciated, but it was in the character of a soubrette in
'Chantaclara,' a light opera put on at the Coates Opera House by
Professors Maderia and Merrihew, that she created the most decided
sensation. This was but a few weeks before she left Kansas City."
Miss Nielsen bade farewell to Kansas City in 1892, going away with an
organization that styled itself the Chicago Concert Company, and which
planned to tour the small towns of Kansas and Missouri. This, her
earliest professional experience, ended in disaster, and Miss Nielsen
was stranded in St. Joseph, Missouri, before she had been out a week.
It was an eventful week, however, and Miss Nielsen vividly recalls it.
"We got out somewhere in far Missouri," said Miss Nielsen, "with the
thermometer out of sight and hotels heated with gas jets and red
flannel. Nobody had ever heard of us. I don't think that in some of the
towns we struck they'd ever heard anything newer than the 'Maiden's
Prayer,' and that was as much as they wanted. They called me 'the
Swedish Nightingale,' and you can imagine how I felt,--a nightingale in
such a climate, and Swedish at that. But I just sang for all I was worth
and I tried to educate them, too. I sang the 'Angel's Serenade,' and
they didn't like it, because when they tried to whistle it in the
audience, they couldn't. We didn't carry any scenery; we just had a lot
of sheets with us, and used to drape the stage ourselves.
"One 'hall' we came to, there was no dressing-room, so we strung a sheet
in one corner, and some one put a table behind with a lamp on it. The
'ladies of the company' (myself and the contralto) occupied this
improvised dressing-room. Suddenly we discovered that we were
unconsciously treating the audience to a shadow pantomime performance.
There was only one way out of the difficulty,--we women must shield each
other. So I held my skirts out while the contralto dressed, and she did
the same for me.
"I remember in one place we had managed to excite the hayseeds into
coming to hear us, and the hall was quite full. We were giving a little
operetta. Somehow or other it didn't seem to please the public, and they
were in a mood to be disagreeable,--yes, restless. They wanted their
money's worth; they were mean enough to say so.
"We held a consultation behind our sheetings, and the tenor suddenly
remembered that once upon a time, when he was a school-boy, he used to
amuse his comrades with tricks. 'Could he do them now?' we asked. He
would do his best, he said. So he got a wooden table, hammered a nail
into it, bent it a little, and slipped a curtain ring on his finger.
"The trick was to lift the table with the palm of the hand, the ring and
nail being invisible. Just in the middle of the trick the nail broke.
Well, I believe that audience was ready to mob us. The bass, seeing the
situation, made a dive for the money in the front of the house, and we
escaped. It was a packed house, too. There must have been as much as
eight dollars."
"Did you ever have to walk?"
"Yes, indeed. We walked eight miles once to a town,--snowballed each
other all the way. It was lots of fun. When we got there the local paper
had an advance notice something like this: 'We are informed that "the
Swedish Nightingale" and others intend to give a show in the schoolhouse
to-night. Any one who pays money to go to their show will be sorry for
it.'
"The local manager, an Irishman, asked us to sing a little piece for him
when we arrived. After we had done so, he said he had never heard
anything so bad in all his life. As to the nightingale, he would give
her three dollars to sing ballads, but the rest of the troupe were
beneath contempt. His language was a dialect blue that was awful. I tell
you it was hard luck singing in Missouri."
In St. Joseph Miss Nielsen was fortunate enough to secure an engagement
to sing in a condensed version of the opera "Penelope" at the Eden
Musee. She received seventy-five dollars for her services, and this
money paid the railroad fares of herself and some of the members of the
defunct concert company to Denver, Colorado. There her singing attracted
the attention of the manager of the Pike Opera Company, which she joined
and accompanied to Oakland, California.
Her first part with a professional opera company was that of Yum Yum in
"The Mikado." The Pike Opera Company later played in San Francisco, and
in that city she was heard in "La Perichole" by George E. Lask, the
stage manager of the Tivoli Theatre, which was, and is still, I believe,
given over to opera after the style of Henry W. Savage's various Castle
Square Theatre enterprises in the East. Miss Nielsen was engaged for the
Tivoli Company. She sang any small parts at first, but gradually arose
until she became the prima donna of the organization. In all, she is
said to have sung one hundred and fifty parts at the Tivoli, where she
remained for two years.
While she was singing Lucia, H. C. Barnabee of The Bostonians, which
organization was then playing in San Francisco, read of her in the
newspapers and went to hear her. The result was the offer of an
engagement, which she accepted. Her first part with The Bostonians was
Anita in "The War Time Wedding." Then she was given the small part of
Annabelle in "Robin Hood." She also sang in "The Bohemian Girl" and was
Ninette in "Prince Ananias." The next season she created Yvonne in "The
Serenade," and was the hit of the opera,--so much of a hit, indeed, that
nothing remained for her but to go starring in "The Fortune Teller."