ANOTHER SEASON AND A LITTLE MORE SUCCESS
One of the pleasant affairs that came my way that year was Sir Morton
Peto's banquet in October. Sir Morton was a distinguished Englishman who
represented big railway interests in Great Britain and who was then
negotiating some new and important railroading schemes on this side of
the water. There were two hundred and fifty guests; practically
everybody present, except my mother and myself, standing for some large
financial power of the United States. I felt much complimented at being
invited, for it was at a period when very great developments were in the
making. America was literally teeming with new projects and plans and
embryonic interests.
The banquet was given at Delmonico's, then at Fifth Avenue and
Fourteenth Street, and the rooms were gorgeous in their drapings of
American and English flags. The war was about drawing to its close and
patriotism was at white heat. The influential Americans were in the mood
to wave their banners and to exchange amenities with foreign potentates.
Sir Morton was a noted capitalist and his banquet was a sort of "hands
across the sea" festival. He used, I recall, to stop at the Clarendon,
now torn down and its site occupied by a commercial "sky scraper," but
then the smart hostelry of the town.
I sang that night after dinner. My services had not been engaged
professionally, so, when Sir Morton wanted to reward me lavishly, I of
course did not care to have him do so. We were still so new to _prime
donne_ in New York that we had no social code or precedent to refer to
with regard to them; and I preferred, personally, to keep the episode on
a purely friendly and social basis. I was an invited guest only who had
tried to do her part for the entertainment of the others. I was
honoured, too. It was an experience to which anyone could look back with
pride and pleasure.
But, being English, Sir Morton Peto had a solution and, within a day or
two, sent me an exquisite pearl and diamond bracelet. It is odd how much
more delicately and graciously than Americans all foreigners--of
whatever nationality indeed--can relieve a situation of awkwardness and
do the really considerate and appreciative thing which makes such a
situation all right. I later found the same tactful qualities in the
Duke of Newcastle who, with his family, were among the closest friends I
had in England. Indeed, I was always much impressed with the good taste
of English men and women in this connection.
An instance of the American fashion befell me during the winter of
'63-'64 on the occasion of a big reception that was given by the father
of Brander Matthews. I was invited to go and asked to sing, my host
saying that if I would not accept a stipulated price he would be only
too glad to make me a handsome present of some kind. The occasion turned
out to be very unfortunate and unpleasant altogether, both at the time
and with regard to the feeling that grew out of it. I happened to wear a
dress that was nearly new, a handsome and expensive gown, and this was
completely ruined by a servant upsetting melted ice cream over it. My
host and hostess were all concern, saying that, as they were about to go
to Paris, they would buy me a new one. I immediately felt that if they
did this, they would consider the dress as an equivalent for my singing
and that I should never hear anything more of the handsome present. Of
course I said nothing of this, however, to anyone. Well--they went to
Paris. Days and weeks passed. I heard nothing from them about either
dress or present. I went to Europe. They called on me in Paris. In the
course of time we all came home to America; and the night after my
return I received a long letter and a set of Castilian gold jewelry,
altogether inadequate as an equivalent. There was nothing to do but to
accept it, which I did, and then proceeded to give away the ornaments as
I saw fit. The whole affair was uncomfortable and a discredit to my
entertainers. Not only had I lost a rich dress through the carelessness
of one of their servants, but I received a very tardy and inadequate
recompense for my singing. I had refused payment in money because it was
the custom to do so. But I was a professional singer, and I had been
asked to the reception as a professional entertainer. This, however, I
must add, is the most flagrant case that has ever come under my personal
notice of an American host or hostess failing to "make good" at the
expense of a professional.
Well--from time to time after Sir Morton's banquet, I sang in concert.
On one occasion I replaced Euphrosyne Parepa--she had not then married
Carl Rosa--at one of the Bateman concerts. The Meyerbeer craze was then
at its height. Good, sound music it was too, if a little brazen and
noisy. _L'Etoile du Nord_ (I don't understand why we always speak of it
as _L'Etoile du Nord_ when we never once sang it in French) had been
sung in America by my old idol, Mme. de la Grange, nearly ten years
before I essayed Catarina. My _premiere_ in the part was given in
Philadelphia; but almost immediately we came back to New York for the
spring opera season and I sang _The Star_ as principal attraction. Later
on I sang it in Boston.
It was always good fun playing in Boston, for the Harvard boys adored
"suping" and we had our extra men almost without the asking. They were
such nice, clean, enthusiastic chaps! The reason why I remember them so
clearly is that I never can forget how surprised I was when, in the boat
at the end of the first act of _The Star of the North_, I chanced to
look down and caught sight of Peter Barlow (now Judge Barlow) grinning
up at me from a point almost underneath me on the stage, and how I
nearly fell out of the boat!
We had difficulty in finding a satisfactory Prascovia. Prascovia is an
important soprano part, and had to be well taken. At last Albites
suggested a pupil of his. This was Minnie Hauck. Prascovia was sung at
our first performance by Mlle. Bososio who was not equal to the part.
Minnie Hauck came into the theatre and sang a song of Meyerbeer's, and
we knew that we had found our Prascovia. Her voice was very light but
pleasing and well-trained, for Albites was a good teacher. She
undoubtedly would add value to our cast. So she made her _debut_ as
Prascovia, although she afterwards became better known to the public as
one of the most famous of the early Carmens. Indeed, many people
believed that she created that _role_ in America although, as a matter
of fact, I sang Carmen several months before she did. As Prascovia she
and I had a duet together, very long and elaborate, which we introduced
after the tent scene and which made an immense hit. We always received
many flowers after it--I, particularly, to be quite candid. By this time
I was called The Flower Prima Donna because of the quantities of
wonderful blossoms that were sent to me night after night. When singing
_The Star of the North_ there was one bouquet that I was sure of getting
regularly from a young man who always sent the same kind of flowers. I
never needed a card on them or on the box to know from whom they came.
Miss Hauck used to help me pick up my bouquets. The only trouble was
that every one she picked up she kept! As a rule I did not object, and,
anyway, I might have had difficulty in proving that she had appropriated
my flowers after she had taken the cards off: but one night she included
in her general haul my own special, unmistakable bouquet! I recognised
it, saw her take it, but, as there was no card, had the greatest
difficulty in getting it away from her. I did, though, in the end.
Minnie Hauck was very pushing and took advantage of everything to
forward and help herself. She never had the least apprehension about the
outcome of anything in which she was engaged and, in this, she was
extremely fortunate, for most persons cursed with the artistic
temperament are too sensitive to feel confident. She was clever, too.
This is another exception, for very few big singers are clever. I think
it is Mme. Maeterlinck who has made use of the expression "too clever to
sing well." I am convinced that there is quite a truth in it as well as
a sarcasm. Wonderful voices usually are given to people who are,
intrinsically, more or less nonentities. One cannot have everything in
this world, and people with brains are not obliged to sing! But Minnie
Hauck was a singer and she was also clever. If I remember rightly, she
married some scientific foreign baron and lived afterwards in Lucerne.
Once I heard of a soldier who was asked to describe Waterloo and who
replied that his whole impression of the battle consisted of a mental
picture of the kind of button that was on the coat of the man in front
of him. It is so curiously true that one's view of important events is
often a very small one,--especially when it comes to a matter of mere
memory. Accordingly, I find my amethysts are almost my most vivid
recollection in connection with _L'Etoile du Nord_. I wanted a set of
really handsome stage jewelry for Catarina. In fact, I had been looking
for such a set for some time. There are many _roles_, Violetta for
instance, for which rich jewels are needed. My friends were on the
lookout for me, also, and it was while I was preparing for _The Star of
the North_ that a man I knew came hurrying in with a wonderful tale of a
set of imitation amethysts that he had discovered, and that were, he
thought, precisely what I was looking for.
"The man who has them," he told me, "bought them at a bankrupt sale for
ninety-six dollars and they are a regular white elephant to him. Of
course, they are suitable only for the stage; and he has been hunting
for months for some actress who would buy them. You'd better take a look
at them, anyhow."
I had the set sent to me and, promptly, went wild over it. The stones,
that ranged from the size of a bean to that of a large walnut, appeared
to be as perfect as genuine amethysts, and the setting--genuine soft,
old, worked gold--was really exquisite. There were seventy stones in
the whole set, which included a necklace, a bracelet, a large brooch,
ear-rings and a most gorgeous tiara. The colour of the gems was very
deep and lovely, bordering on a claret tone rather than violet. The
crown was apparently symbolic or suggestive of some great house. It was
made of roses, shamrocks, and thistles, and every piece in the set was
engraved with a small hare's head. I wish I knew heraldry and could tell
to whom the lovely ornaments had first belonged. Of course I bought
them, paying one hundred and fifty dollars for the set, which the man
was glad enough to get. I wore it in _The Star_ and in other operas, and
one day I took it down to Tiffany's to have it cleaned and repaired.
The man there, who knew me, examined it with interest.
"It will cost you one hundred and seventy dollars," he informed me.
"What!" I gasped. "That is more than the whole set is worth!"
He looked at me as if he thought I must be a little crazy.
"Miss Kellogg," he said, "if you think that, I don't believe you know
what you've really got. What do you think this jewelry is really worth?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "What do you think it is worth?"
"Roughly speaking," he replied, "I should say about six thousand
dollars. The workmanship is of great value, and every one of the stones
is genuine."
Through all these years, therefore, I have been fearful that some Rip
Van Winkle claimant might rise up and take my beloved amethysts away
from me!
My general impressions of this period of my life include those of the
two great pianists, Thalberg and Gottschalk. They were both wonderful,
although I always admired Gottschalk more than the former. Thalberg had
the greater technique; Gottschalk the greater charm. Sympathetically,
the latter musician was better equipped than the former. The very
simplest thing that Gottschalk played became full of fascination.
Thalberg was marvellously perfect as to his method; but it was
Gottschalk who could "play the birds off the trees and the heart out of
your breast," as the Irish say. Thalberg's work was, if I may put it so,
mental; Gottschalk's was temperamental.
Gottschalk was one of the first big pianists to come to New York
touring. He was from New Orleans, having been born there in the French
Quarter, and spoke only French, like so many persons from that city up
to thirty years ago. But he had been educated abroad and always ranked
as a foreign artist. He must have been a Jew, from his name. Certainly,
he looked like one. He had peculiarly drooping eyelids and was
considered to be very attractive. He wrote enchanting Spanish-sounding
songs; and gave the banjo quite a little dignity by writing a piece
imitating it, much to my delight, because of my fondness for that
instrument. He was in no way a classical pianist. Thalberg was. Indeed,
they were altogether different types. Thalberg was nothing like so
interesting either as a personality or as a musician, although he was
much more scholarly than his predecessor. I say predecessor, because
Thalberg followed Gottschalk in the touring proposition. Gottschalk
began his work before I began mine, and I first sang with him in my
second season. He and I figured in the same concerts not only in those
early days but also much later.
[Illustration: =Gottschalk=
Photograph by Case & Getchell]
Gottschalk was a gay deceiver and women were crazy about him. Needless
to say, my mother never let me have anything to do with him except
professionally. He was pursued by adoring females wherever he went and
inundated with letters from girls who had lost their hearts to his
exquisite music and magnetic personality. I shall always remember
Gottschalk and Brignoli comparing their latest love letters from matinee
girls. Some poor, silly maiden had written to Gottschalk asking for a
meeting at any place he would appoint. Said Gottschalk:
"It would be rather fun to make a date with her at some absurd,
impossible place,--say a ferry-boat, for instance."
"Nonsense," said Brignoli, "a ferry-boat is not romantic enough. She
wouldn't think of coming to a ferry-boat to meet her ideal!"
"She would come anywhere," declared Gottschalk, not at all
vaingloriously, but as one stating a simple truth. "I'll make her come;
and you shall come too and see her do it!"
"Will you bet?" asked Brignoli.
"I certainly will," replied Gottschalk.
They promptly put up quite a large sum of money and Gottschalk won. That
dear, miserable goose of a girl did go to the ferry-boat to meet the
illustrious pianist of her adoration, and Brignoli was there to see. If
only girls knew as much as I do about the way in which their stage
heroes take their innocent adulation, and the wicked light-heartedness
with which they make fun of it! But they do not; and the only way to
teach them, I suppose, is to let them learn by themselves, poor little
idiots.
As I look back I feel a continual sense of outrage that I mixed so
little with the people and affairs that were all about me; interesting
people and important affairs. My dear mother adored me. It is strange
that we can never even be adored in the particular fashion in which we
would prefer to be adored! My mother's way was to guard me eternally;
she would have called it protecting me. But, really, it was a good deal
like shutting me up in a glass case, and it was a great pity. My mother
was an extraordinarily fine woman, upright as the day and of an unusual
mentality. Uncompromising she was, not unnaturally, according to her
heritage of race and creed and generation. Yet I sometimes question if
she were as uncompromising as she used to seem to me, for was not the
life she led with me, as well as her acceptance of it in the beginning,
one long compromise between her nature and the actualities? At any rate,
where she seemed to draw the line was in keeping me as much as possible
aloof from my inevitable associates. I led a deadly dull and virtuous
life, of necessity. To be sure, I might have been just as virtuous or
even more so had I been left to my own devices and judgments; but I
contend that such a life is not up to much when it is compulsory.
Personal responsibility is necessary to development. Perhaps I reaped
certain benefits from my mother's close chaperonage. Certainly, if there
were benefits about it, I reaped them. But I very much question its
ultimate advantage to me, and I confess freely that one of the things I
most regret is the innocent, normal coquetry which is the birthright of
every happy girl and which I entirely missed. It is all very well to be
carefully guarded and to be made the archetype of American virtue on the
stage, but there is a great deal of entirely innocuous amusement that I
might have had and did not have, which I should have been better off
for having. My mother could hardly let me hold a friendly conversation
with a man--much less a flirtation.
[Illustration: =Jane Elizabeth Crosby=
Mother of Clara Louise Kellogg
From a tintype]