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 competition of several
favourites of the English people. At my own theatre, Her Majesty's, was
Mme. Titjiens, 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 passion, at least with more passion
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.
[Illustration: =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 associations 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
basso 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
Titjiens, 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
assiduous 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 Fanny Kemble, I never knew very well
as she was a good deal of an invalid.
[Illustration: =Clara Louise Kellogg as Linda, 1868=
From a photograph by Stereoscopic Co.]
On the 9th we repeated _Faust_ and on the 11th we gave _Traviata_. This
also, I feel sure, must have irritated Adelina. It is a curious little
fact that, while the opera of _Traviata_ was not only allowed but also
greatly liked in London, the play _La Dame aux Camilias_--which as we
all know is practically the _Traviata libretto_--had been rigorously
banned by the English censor! _Traviata_ brought me more curtain calls
than ever. The British public was really growing to like me!
_Martha_ followed on the 15th. This was another _role_ in which I had to
challenge comparison with Nilsson, who was fond of it, although I never
liked her classic style in the part. It was given in Italian; but I sang
_The Last Rose of Summer_ in English, like a ballad, and the people
loved it. I wore a blue satin gown as Martha which, alas! I lost in the
theatre fire not long after.
Then came _Linda di Chamounix_, the second _role_ that I had ever sung.
I was glad to sing it again, and in England, and the newspapers spoke of
it as "a great and crowning success" for me. As soon as we had given
this opera, Gye, the _impresario_ at Covent Garden, decided it was time
to show off Patti in that _role_. So he promptly--hastily, even--revived
Linda for her. I have always felt, however, that Linda was tacitly given
to me by the public. Arditi, our conductor at Her Majesty's, wrote a
waltz for me to sing at the close of the opera, _The Kellogg Waltz_, and
I wore a charming new costume in the part, a simple little yellow gown,
with a blue moire silk apron and tiny pale pink roses. The combination
of pink and yellow was always a favourite one with me. I wore it in my
early appearance as Violetta and, later, also in _Traviata_, I wore a
variant of the same colour scheme that was called by my friends in
London my "rainbow frock." It was composed of a _grosgrain_ silk
petticoat of the hue known as apricot, trimmed with mauve and pale
turquoise shades; the overskirt was caught back at either side with a
turquoise bow and the train was of plain turquoise. I took a serious
interest in my costumes in those days--and, indeed, in all days! This
latter gown was one of Worth's creations and met with much admiration.
More than once have I received letters asking where it was made.
The English public was most cordial and kindly toward me and unfailingly
appreciative of my work. But I believe from the bottom of my heart that,
inherently and permanently, the English are an unmusical people. They do
not like fire, nor passion, nor great moments in either life nor art.
Mozart's music, that runs peacefully and simply along, is precisely what
suits them best. They adore it. They likewise adore Rossini and Handel.
They think that the crashing emotional climaxes of the more advanced
composers are extravagant; and, both by instinct and principle, they
dislike the immoderate and the extreme in all things. They are in fact a
simple and primitive people, temperamentally, actually, and
artistically. I remember that the first year I was in London all the
women were singing:
My mother bids me bind my hair
And lace my bodice blue!
It wandered along so sweetly and mildly, not to say insipidly, that of
course it was popular with Victorian England.
Finally, came _Don Giovanni_ on December 3d. I played Zerlina as I had
done in America. Later I came to prefer Donna Anna. But in London
Titjiens did Donna Anna. Santley was the Almaviva and Mme. Sinico was
the Donna Elvira. The following spring when we gave our "all star cast"
Nilsson was the Elvira. I had no Zerlina costume with me and the
decision to put on the opera was made in a hurry, so I got out my old
Rosina dress and wore it and it answered the purpose every bit as well
as if I had had a new one.
The opera went splendidly, so splendidly that, two days later, on the
5th, we gave it again at a matinee, or, as it was the fashion to say
then, a "morning performance." The success was repeated. I caught a most
terrible cold, however, and returned in a bad temper to Miss Edward's
Hotel to nurse myself for a few days and get in condition for the next
performance. But there was destined to be no next performance at the old
Drury Lane.
The following evening at about half-past ten, my mother, Colonel
Stebbins, and I were talking in our sitting-room with the window-shades
up. Suddenly I saw a red glow over the roofs of the houses and pointed
it out.
"It's a fire!" I exclaimed.
"And it's in the direction of the theatre!" said Colonel Stebbins.
"Oh, I hope that Her Majesty's is in no danger!" cried my mother.
We did not think at first that it could be the theatre itself, but
Colonel Stebbins sent his valet off in a hurry to make enquiries. While
he was gone a messenger arrived in great haste from the Duchess of
Somerset asking for assurances of my safety. Then came other messages
from friends all over London and soon the man servant returned to
confirm the reports that were reaching us. Her Majesty's had caught fire
from the carpenter's shop underneath the stage and, before morning, had
burned to the ground.
Arditi had been holding an orchestra rehearsal there at the time and the
last piece of music ever played in the old theatre was _The Kellogg
Waltz_.
[Illustration: =Mr. McHenry=
From a photograph by Brady]