STEPS OF THE LADDER
In the three years between my _debut_ and my appearance in _Faust_ I
sang, in all, a dozen operas:--_Rigoletto_, _Linda_, _I Puritani_,
_Sonnambula_, _Ballo in Maschera_, _Figlia del Reggimento_, _Les Noces
de Jeannette_, _Lucia_, _Don Giovanni_, _Poliuto_, _Marta_, and
_Traviata_. Besides these, I sang a good deal in concert, but I never
cared for either concert or oratorio work as much as for opera. My real
growth and development came from big parts in which both musical and
dramatic accomplishment were necessary.
Like all artists, I look back upon many fluctuations in my artistic
achievements. Sometimes I was good, and often not so good; and,
curiously enough, I was usually best, according to my friends and
critics, when most dissatisfied with myself. But of one thing I am
fairly confident:--I never really went backward, never seriously
retrograded artistically. Each _role_ was a step further and higher. To
each I brought a clearer vision, a surer touch, a more flexible method,
a finer (how shall I say it in English?) _attaque_ is nearest what I
mean. This I say without vanity, for the artist who does not grow and
improve with each succeeding part is deteriorating. There is no standing
still in any life work; or, if there is, it is the standing still of
successful effort, the hard-won tenure of a difficult place from which
most people slip back. The Red Queen in _Through the Looking Glass_
expressed it rightly when she told Alice that "you have to run just as
hard as you can to stay where you are."
As Gilda I was laying only the groundwork. My performance was, I
believe, on the right lines. It rang true. But it was far from what it
became in later years when the English critics found me "the most
beautiful and convincing of all Gildas!" As Linda I do not think that I
showed any great intellectual improvement over Gilda, but I had acquired
a certain confidence and authority. I sang and acted with more ease; and
for the first time I had gained a sense of _personal responsibility_
toward, and for, an audience. When I beheld only three hundred people in
my first-night Boston audience and determined to win them, and did win
them, I came into possession of new and important factors in my work.
This consciousness and earnest will-power to move one's public by the
force of one's art is one of the first steps toward being a true _prima
donna_.
_I Puritani_ never taught me very much, simply as an opera. The part was
too heavy as my voice was then, and our production of it was so hurried
that I had not time to spend on it the study which I liked to give a new
_role_. But in this very fact lay its lesson for me. The necessity for
losing timidity and self-consciousness, the power to fling oneself into
a new part without time to coddle one's vanity or one's habits of mind,
the impersonal courage needed to attack fresh difficulties:--these
points are of quite as much importance to a young opera singer as are
fine breath control and a gift for phrasing. _Sonnambula_, too, had to
be "jumped into" in the same fashion and was even more of an
undertaking, though the _role_ suited me better and is, in fact, a
rarely grateful one. Yet think of being Amina with only one week's
rehearsing! _Sonnambula_ was first given by us as a benefit performance
for Brignoli. It was generally understood to be in the nature of a
farewell. Indeed, I think he said so himself. But, of course, he never
had the slightest idea of really leaving America. He stayed here until
he died. But to his credit be it said that he never had any more
"farewell" appearances. He did not form the habit.
I have spoken of how hopeless it is for an opera singer to try to work
emotionally or purely on impulse; of how futile the merely temperamental
artist becomes on the operatic stage. Yet too much stress cannot be laid
on the importance of feeling what one does and sings. It is in just this
seeming paradox that the truly professional artist's point of view may
be found. The amateur acts and sings temperamentally. The trained
student gives a finished and correct performance. It is only a
genius--or something very near it--who can do both. There is something
balanced and restrained in a genuine _prima donna's_ brain that keeps
her emotions from running away with her, just as there is at the same
time something equally warm and inspired in her heart that animates the
most clear-cut of her intellectual work and makes it living and lovely.
Sometimes it is difficult for an experienced artist to say just where
instinct stops and art begins. When I sang Amina I was greatly
complimented on my walk and my intonation, both most characteristic of a
somnambulist. I made a point of keeping a strange, rhythmical, dreamy
step like that of a sleep-walker and sang as if I were talking in my
sleep. I breathed in a hard, laboured way, and walked with the headlong
yet dragging gait of someone who neither sees, knows, nor cares where
she is going. Now, this effect came not entirely from calculation nor
yet from intuition, but from a combination of the two. I was in the
_mood_ of somnambulism and acted accordingly. But I deliberately placed
myself in that mood. This only partly expresses what I wish to say on
the subject; but it is the root of dramatic work as I know it.
The opera of _Sonnambula_, incidentally, taught me one or two things not
generally included in stage essentials. Among others, I had to learn not
to be afraid, physically afraid, or at any rate not to mind being
afraid. In the sleep-walking scene Amina, carrying her candle and robed
in white, glides across the narrow bridge at a perilous height while the
watchers below momentarily expect her to be dashed to pieces on the
rocks underneath. Our bridge used to be set very high indeed (it was
especially lofty in the Philadelphia Opera House where we gave the opera
a little later), and I had quite a climb to get up to it at all. There
was a wire strung along the side of the bridge, but it was not a bit of
good to lean on--merely a moral support. I had to carry the candle in
one hand and couldn't even hold the other outstretched to balance
myself, for sleep-walkers do not fall! This was the point that I had to
keep in mind; I could not walk carefully, but I had to walk with
certainty. In a sense it was suggestive of a hypnotic condition and I
had to get pretty nearly into one myself before I could do it. At all
events, I had to compose myself very summarily first. Just in the middle
of the crossing the bridge is supposed to crack. Of course the edges
were only broken; but I had to give a sort of "jog" to carry out the
illusion and I used to wonder, the while I jogged, if I were going over
the side _that_ time! In the wings they used to be quite anxious about
me and would draw a general breath of relief when I was safely across.
Every night I would be asked if I were sure I wanted to undertake it
that night, and every time I would answer:
"I don't know whether I _can_!"
But, of course, I always did it. Somehow, one always does do one's work
on the stage, even if it is trying to the nerves or a bit dangerous. I
have heard that when Maud Adams put on her big production of _Joan of
Arc_, her managers objected seriously to having her lead the mounted
battle charge herself. A "double" was costumed exactly like her and was
ready to mount Miss Adams's horse at the last moment. But did she ever
give a double a chance to lead her battle charge? Not she: and no more
would any true artist.
[Illustration: =Muzio=
From a photograph by Gurney & Son]
_Sonnambula_ also helped fix in my mentality the traditions of Italian
opera; those traditions that my teachers--Muzio particularly--had been
striving so hard to impress upon and make real to me. The school of the
older operas, while the greatest school for singers in the world, is one
in which tradition is, and must be, pre-eminent. In the modern growths,
springing up among us every year, the singer has a chance to create, to
trace new paths, to take venturesome flights. The new operas not only
permit this, they require it. But it is a pity to hear a young,
imaginative artist try to interpret some old and classic opera by the
light of his or her modern perceptions. They do not improve on the
material. They only make a combination that is bizarre and inartistic.
This struck me forcibly not long ago when I heard a young, talented
American sing _A non giunge_, the lovely old _aria_ from the last act
of _Sonnambula_. The girl had a charming voice and she sang with musical
feeling and taste. But she had not one "tradition" as we understood the
term, and, in consequence, almost any worn-out, old-school singer could
have rendered the _aria_ more acceptably to trained ears. Traditions are
as necessary to the Bellini operas as costumes are to Shakespeare's
plays. To dispense with them may be original, but it is bad art. And
yet, while I became duly impressed with the necessity of the
"traditions," during those early performances, I always tried to avoid
following them too servilely or too artificially. I tried to interpret
for myself, within certain well-defined limits, according to my personal
conception of the characters I was personating. The traditions of
Italian opera combined with my own ideals of the lyric heroines,--this
became my object and ambition.
The summer after my _debut_, I went on a concert tour under Grau's
management, but my throat was tired after the strain and nervous effort
of my first season, and I finally went up to the country for a long
rest. In New Hartford, Connecticut, my mother, father, and I renewed
many old friendships, and it was a genuine pleasure to sing again in a
small choir, to attend sewing circles, and to live the every-day life
from which I had been so far removed during my studies and professional
work. People everywhere were charming to me. Though only nineteen, I was
an acknowledged _prima donna_, and so received all sorts of kindly
attentions. This was the summer, I believe, (although it may have been a
later one) when Herbert Witherspoon, then only a boy, determined to
become a professional singer. He has always insisted that it was my
presence and the glamour that surrounded the stage because of me that
finally decided him.
I did not sing again in New York until the January of 1862. Before that
we had a short season on the road, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and other
places. As there were then but nine opera houses in America our
itinerary was necessarily somewhat limited. In November of that year I
sang in _Les Noces de Jeannette_, in Philadelphia, a charming part
although not a very important one. It is a simple little operetta in one
act by Victor Macci. The _libretto_ was in French and I sang it in that
language. Pleasing speeches were made about my French and people wanted
to know where I had studied it--I, who had never studied it at all
except at home! The opera was not long enough for a full evening's
entertainment, so Miss Hinckley was put on in the same bill in
Donizetti's _Betly_. The two went very well together.
The critics found _Jeannette_ a great many surprising things, "broad,"
"risque," "typically French," and so on. In reality it was innocent
enough; but it must be remembered that this was a day and generation
which found _Faust_ frightfully daring, and _Traviata_ so improper that
a year's hard effort was required before it could be sung in Brooklyn. I
sympathised with one critic, however, who railed against the translated
_libretto_ as sold in the lobby. After stating that it was utter
nonsense, he added with excellent reason:
"But this was to have been expected. That anyone connected with an opera
house should know enough about English to make a decent translation into
it is, of course, quite out of the question."
It was really funny about _Traviata_. In 1861 President Chittenden, of
the Board of Directors of the Brooklyn Academy of Music, made a
sensational speech arraigning the plot of _Traviata_,[1] and protesting
against its production in Brooklyn on the grounds of propriety, or,
rather, impropriety. Meetings were held and it was finally resolved that
the opera was objectionable. The feeling against it grew into a series
of almost religious ceremonies of protest and, as I have said, it took
Grau a year of hard effort to overcome the opposition. When, at last, in
'62, the opera was given, I took part; and the audience was all on edge
with excitement. There had been so much talk about it that the whole
town turned out to see _why_ the Directors had withstood it for a year.
Every clergyman within travelling distance was in the house.
[1] The book is founded upon Dumas's _La Dame aux Camelias_.
Its dramatic sister _Camille_ was also opposed violently when Mme.
Modjeska played it in Brooklyn in later years. These facts are amusing
in the light of present-day productions and their morals, or dearth of
them. _Salome_ is, I think, about the only grand opera of recent times
that has been suppressed by a Directors' Meeting. But in my youth
Directors were very tender of their public's virtuous feelings. When
_The Black Crook_ and the Lydia Thompson troupe first appeared in New
York, people spoke of those comparatively harmless shows with bated
breath and no one dared admit having actually seen them. The "Lydia
Thompson Blonds" the troupe was called. They did a burlesque song and
dance affair, and wore yellow wigs. Mr. Brander Matthews married one of
the most popular and charming of them. I wonder what would have happened
to an audience of that time if a modern, up-to-date, Broadway musical
farce had been presented to their consideration!
At any rate, the much-advertised _Traviata_ was finally given, being a
huge and sensational success. Probably I did not really understand the
character of Violetta down in the bottom of my heart. Modjeska once said
that a woman was only capable of playing Juliet when she was old enough
to be a grandmother; and if that be true of the young Verona girl, how
much more must it be true of poor Camille. My interpretation of the Lady
of the Camellias must have been a curiously impersonal one. I know that
when Emma Abbott appeared in it later, the critics said that she was so
afraid of allowing it to be suggestive that she made it so, whereas I
apparently never thought of that side of it and consequently never
forced my audiences to think of it either.
There are some things accessible to genius that are beyond the
reach of character [wrote one reviewer]. Abbott expects to make
_Traviata_ acceptable very much as she would make a capon
acceptable. She is always afraid of the words. So she substitutes
her own. Kellogg sang this opera and nobody ever thought of the bad
there is in it. Why? _Because Kellogg never thought of it._ Abbott
reminds me of a girl of four who weeps for pantalettes on account
of the wickedness of the world!
Violetta's gowns greatly interested me. I liked surprising the public
with new and startling effects. I argued that Violetta would probably
love curious and exotic combinations, so I dressed her first act in a
gown of rose pink and pale primrose yellow. Odd? Yes; of course it was
odd. But the colour scheme, bizarre as it was, always looked to my mind
and the minds of other persons altogether enchanting.
_A propos_ of the Violetta gowns, I sang the part during one season with
a tenor whose hands were always dirty. I found the back of my pretty
frocks becoming grimier and grimier, and greasier and greasier, and, as
I provided my own gowns and had to be economical, I finally came to the
conclusion that I could not and would not afford such wholesale and
continual ruin. So I sent my compliments to Monsieur and asked him
please to be extra careful and particular about washing his hands before
the performance as my dress was very light and delicate, etc.,--quite a
polite message considering the subject. Politeness, however, was
entirely wasted on him. Back came the cheery and nonchalant reply:
"All right! Tell her to send me some soap!"
I sent it: and I supplied him with soap for the rest of the season. This
was cheaper than buying new clothes.
Tenors are queer creatures. Most of them have their eccentricities and
the soprano is lucky if these are innocuous peculiarities. I used to
find it in my heart, for instance, to wish that they did not have such
queer theories as to what sort of food was good for the voice. Many of
them affected garlic. Stigelli usually exhaled an aroma of lager beer;
while the good Mazzoleni invariably ate from one to two pounds of cheese
the day he was to sing. He said it strengthened his voice. Brignoli had
been long enough in this country to become partly Americanised, so he
never smelled of anything in particular.
_Poliuto_ by Donizetti was never as brilliant a success as other operas
by the same composer. It is never given now. The scene of it is laid in
Rome, in the days of the Christian martyrs, and it has some very
effective moments, but for some reason those classic days did not
appeal to the public of our presentation. I do not believe _Quo Vadis_
would ever have gone then as it did later. The music of _Poliuto_ was
easy and showed off the voice, like all of Donizetti's music: and the
part of Paulina was exceptionally fine, with splendid opportunities for
dramatic work. The scene where she is thrown into the Colosseum was
particularly effective. But the American audiences did not seem to be
deeply interested in the fate of Paulina nor in that of Septimus
Severus. The year before my _debut_ in _Rigoletto_ I had rehearsed
Paulina and had made something tragically near to a failure of it as I
had not then the physical nor vocal strength for the part. Indeed, I
should never then have been allowed to try it, and I have always had a
suspicion that I was put in it for the express purpose of proving me a
failure. That was when Muzio decided to "try me out" in the concert
_tournee_ as a sort of preliminary education. Therefore, one of the most
comforting elements of the final _Poliuto_ production to me was the
realisation that I was appearing, and appearing well, in a part in which
I had rehearsed so very discouragingly such a short time before. It was
a small triumph, perhaps, but it combined with many other small matters
to establish that sure yet humble confidence which is so essential to a
singer. So far as personal success went, Brignoli made the hit of
_Poliuto_.
[Illustration: =Clara Louise Kellogg as Lucia=
From a photograph by Elliott & Fry]
Lucia was never one of my favourite parts, but it is a singularly
grateful one. It has very few bad moments, and one can attack it without
the dread one sometimes feels for a _role_ containing difficult
passages. Of course Lucia, with her hopeless, weak-minded love for
Edgardo, and her spectacular mad scene, reminded me of my beloved
Linda, and there were many points of similarity in the two operas. I
found, therefore, that Lucia involved much less original and
interpretive work than most of my new parts; and it was never fatiguing.
Being beautifully high, I liked singing it. My voice, though flexible
and of wide range, always slipped most easily into the far upper
registers. I can recall the positive ache it was to sing certain parts
of Carmen that took me down far too low for comfort. Sometimes too, I
must admit, I used to "cheat" it. We nearly always opened in _Lucia_
when we began an opera season. Its success was never sensational, but
invariably safe and sure. Sometimes managers would be dubious and
suggest some production more startling as a commencement, but I always
had a deep and well-founded faith in _Lucia_.
"It never draws a capacity house," I would be told.
"But it never fails to get a fair one."
"It never makes a sensation."
"But it never gets a bad notice." I would say.
Martha was a light and pleasing part to play. Vocally it taught me very
little--little, that is to say, that I can now recognise, although I am
loath to make such a statement of any _role_. There are so many slight
and obscure ways in which a part can help one, almost unconsciously. The
point that stands out most strikingly in my recollection of _Martha_ is
the rather rueful triumph I had in it with regard to realistic acting.
Everyone who knows the story of Flotow's opera will recall that the
heroine is horribly bored in the first act. She is utterly uninterested,
utterly blasee, utterly listless. Accordingly, so I played the first
act. Later in the opera, when she is in the midst of interesting
happenings and no longer bored, she becomes animated and eager, quite a
different person from the languid great lady in the beginning. So, also,
I played that part. Here came my triumph, although it was a left-handed
compliment aimed with the intention only to criticise and to criticise
severely. One reviewer said, the morning after I had first given my
careful and logical interpretation, that "it was a pity Miss Kellogg had
taken so little pains with the first act. She had played it dully,
stupidly, without interest or animation. Later, however, she brightened
up a little and somewhat redeemed our impression of her work as we had
seen it in the early part of the evening." I felt angry and hurt about
this at the time, yet it pleased me too, for it was a huge tribute even
if the critic did not intend it to be so.
Although I did sing in _Don Giovanni_ under Grau that year in Boston, I
never really considered it as belonging to that period. I did so much
with this opera in after years--singing both Donna Anna and Zerlina at
various times and winning some of the most notable praise of my
career--that I always instinctively think of it as one of my later and
more mature achievements. I always loved the opera and feel that it is
an invaluable part of every singer's education to have appeared in it.
_The Magic Flute_ never seemed to me to be half so genuinely big or so
inspired. In _Don Giovanni_ Mozart gave us his richest and most complete
flower of operatic work. In our cast were Amodio, whom I had heard with
Piccolomini, and Mme. Medori, my old rival in _Linda_, who had recently
joined the Grau Company.
[Illustration: =Clara Louise Kellogg as Martha=
From a photograph by Turner]
All this time the war was going on and our opera ventures, even at their
best, were nothing to what they had been in the days of peace. It
seemed quite clear for a while that the old favourites would not draw
audiences from among the anxious and sorrowing people. For a big success
we needed something novel, sensational, exceptional.
On the other side of the world people were all talking of Gounod's new
opera--the one he had sold for only twelve hundred dollars, but which
had made a wonderful hit both in Paris and London. It was said to be
startlingly new; and Max Maretzek, in despair over the many lukewarm
successes we had all had, decided to have a look at the score. The opera
was _Faust_.
With all my pride, I was terrified and appalled when "the Magnificent"
came to me and abruptly told me that I was to create the part of
Marguerite in America. This was a "large order" for a girl of twenty;
but I took my courage in both hands and resolved to make America proud
of me. I was a pioneer when I undertook Gounod's music and I had no
notion of what to do with it, but my will and my ambition arose to meet
the situation.
Just here, because of its general bearing on the point, I feel that it
is desirable to quote a paragraph which was written by my old friend--or
was he enemy?--many years later when I had won my measure of success,
"Nym Crinkle" (A. C. Wheeler), and which I have always highly valued:
There isn't a bit of snobbishness about Kellogg's opinions [he
wrote]. For a woman who has sung everywhere, she retains a very
wholesome opinion of her own country. She always seems to me to be
trying to win two imperishable chaplets, one of which is for her
country. So you see we have got to take our little flags and wave
them whether it is the correct thing or not. And, so far as I am
concerned, I think it is the correct thing.... She has this
tremendous advantage that, when she declares in print that America
can produce its own singers, she is quite capable of going
afterwards upon the stage and proving it!