ACROSS THE CHANNEL
Titjiens had smelled smoke and she had been told that it was nothing but
shavings that were being burned. Luckily, nobody was hurt and, although
some of our costumes were lost, we artists did not suffer so very much
after all. But of course our season was summarily put an end to and we
all scattered for work and play until the spring season when Mapleson
would want us back.
My mother and I went across to Paris without delay. I had wanted to see
"the Continent" since I was a child and I must say that, in my heart of
hearts, I almost welcomed the fire that set me free to go sightseeing
and adventuring after the slavery of dressing-rooms and rehearsals.
Crossing the Channel I was the heroine of the boat because, while I was
just a little seasick, I was not enough so to give in to it. I can
remember forcing myself to sit up and walk about and even talk with a
grim and savage feeling that I would die rather than admit myself beaten
by a silly and disgusting _malaise_ like that; and after crossing the
ocean with impunity too. Everyone else on board was abjectly ill and I
expect it was partly pride that kept me well.
In Paris we went first to the Louvre Hotel where we were nearly frozen
to death. As soon as we could, we moved into rooms where we might thaw
out and become almost warm, although we never found the temperature
really comfortable the whole time we lived in French houses. We saw any
number of plays, visited cathedrals and picture galleries, and bought
clothes. In fact we did all the regulation things, for we were
determined to make the most of every minute of our holiday. Rather
oddly, one of the entertainments I remember most distinctly was a
production of _Gulliver's Travels_ at the Theatre Chatelet. It was the
dullest play in the world; but the scenery and effects were splendid.
I was not particularly enthusiastic over the French theatres. Indeed, I
found them very limited and disappointing. I had gone to France
expecting every theatrical performance in Paris to be a revelation.
Probably I respect French art as much as any one; but I believe it is
looked up to a great deal more than is justified. Consider Mme.
Carvalho's wig for example, and, as for that, her costume as well. Yet
we all turned to the Parisians as authority for the theatre. The
pictures of the first distinguished Marguerite give a fine idea of the
French stage effects in the sixties. A few years ago I heard
_Tannhaeuser_ in Paris. The manner in which the pilgrims wandered in
convinced me in my opinion. The whole management was inefficient and
Wagner's injunctions were disregarded at every few bars. The French
Gallicise everything. They simply cannot get inside the mental point of
view of any other country. Though they are popularly considered to be so
facile and adaptable, they are in truth the most obstinate, one-idead,
single-sided race on earth barring none except, possibly, the Italians.
Gounod's _Faust_ is a good example--a Ger man story treated by
Frenchmen. Remarkably little that is Teutonic has been left in it.
Goethe has been eliminated so far as possible. The French were held by
the drama, but the poetry and the symbolism meant nothing at all to
them. Being German, they had no use for its poetry and its symbolism.
The French colour and alter foreign thought just as they colour and
alter foreign phraseology. They do it in a way more subtle than any
usual difficulties of translation from one tongue to another. The
process is more a form of transmuting than of translating--words,
thoughts, actions--into another element entirely. How idiotic it sounds
when Hamlet sings:
_Etre--ou n'etre pas!_
Perhaps this, however, is not entirely the fault of the French.
Shakespeare should never be set to music.
There is also the question of traditions. I may seem to be contradicting
myself when I find fault with a certain French school for its blind and
bigoted adherence to traditions; but there should be moderation in all
things and a hidebound rigidity in stupid old forms is just as
inartistic as a free-and-easy elasticity in flighty new ones. It is
possible to put some old wine in new bottles, but it must be poured in
very gently. French artists learn most when once they get away from
France. Maurel is a good example. Look at the way he grew and developed
when he went to England and America and was allowed to work problems and
ideas out by himself.
Once when in Paris I wanted to vary and freshen my costume of
Marguerite, give it a new yet consistent touch here and there. I was not
planning to renovate the _role_, only the girl's clothes. Having always
felt that the Grand Opera was a Mecca to us artists from afar, I
hastened there and climbed up the huge stairway to pay my respects to
the Director. Monsieur had never heard of me. Frenchmen make a point
never to have heard of any one outside of France. The fact that I was
merely the first and the most famous Marguerite across the sea did not
count. He was, however, very polite. He brought out his wonderful
costume books that were full of new ideas to me and delighted me with
numberless fresh possibilities. I saw unexplored fields in the direction
of correct costuming and exclaimed over the designs, Monsieur watching
my enthusiasm with bored civility. There was one particularly enchanting
design for a silver chatelaine, heavy and mediaeval in character. I could
see it with my mind's eye hanging from Marguerite's bodice. This I said
to M. le Directeur: but he shook his dignified head with a frown.
"Too rich. Marguerite was too poor," he said with weary brevity.
"Oh, no!" I explained volubly and eagerly, "she was of the well-to-do
class--the burghers--don't you remember? Marguerite and Valentine owned
their house and, though they were of course of peasant blood, this sort
of chatelaine seems to me just the thing that any German girl might
possess."
"Too rich," Monsieur put in imperturbably.
"But," I protested, "it might be an heirloom, you know, and----"
"Too rich," he repeated politely; and he added in a calm, dreamy voice
as he shut up the book, "I think that Mademoiselle will make a mistake
_if she ever tries anything new_!"
As for sightseeing in France, my mother and I did any amount of it on
that first visit. Sometimes I was charmed but more often I was
disillusioned. There have been few "sights" in my life that have come up
to my "great expectations" or been half as wonderful as my dreams. This
is the penalty of a too vivid imagination; nothing can ever be as
perfect as one's fancy paints it. The view of Mont Blanc from the
terrace of Voltaire's house near the borderland of France and
Switzerland is one of the few in my experience that I have found more
lovely than I could have dreamed it to be. Of all the palaces that I
have been in--and they have numbered several--the only one that ever
seemed to me like a real palace was Fontainebleau. Small but exquisite,
it looked like a haven of rest and loveliness, as though its motto might
well be: "How to be happy though a crowned head!"
Speaking of crowned heads reminds me that while we were in Paris Mr.
McHenry, our English friend from Holland Park, made an appointment for
me to be presented to the ex-Queen of Spain, the Bourbon princess,
Christina, so beloved by many Spaniards. I was delighted because I had
never been presented to royalty and a Spanish queen seemed a very
splendid sort of personage even if she did not happen to be ruling at
the moment. Christina had withdrawn from Spain and had married the Duke
de Rienzares. They lived in a beautiful palace on the Champs Elysees.
There are nothing but shops on the site now but it used to be very
imposing, especially the formal entrance which, if I remember correctly,
was off the Rue St. Honore. Mrs. and Mr. McHenry went with me and, after
being admitted, we were shown up a marble staircase into what was called
the Cameo Room, a small, austere apartment filled with cameos of the
Bourbons. Queen Christina liked to live in small and unpretentious
rooms; they seemed less suggestive of a palace.
I found that "royalty at home" was about as simple as anything could
conceivably be; not quite as plain as the old Dowager Duchess of
Somerset to be sure but quite plain enough. The Queen and the Duke de
Rienzares entered without ceremony. The Queen wore a severe and simple
black gown that cleared the floor by an inch or two. It was a perfectly
practical and useful dress, admirably suited for housekeeping or tidying
up a room. Around the royal lady's shoulders hung a little red plaid
shawl such as no American would wear. She was Spanishly dark and her
black hair was pulled into a knot about the size of a silver dollar in
the middle of the back of her head. I have never seen her _en grande
toilette_ and so do not know whether or not she ever looked any less
like a respectable housekeeper. She had a delightful manner and was most
gracious. She had, with all the Bourbon pride, also the Bourbon gift of
making herself pleasant and of putting people at their ease. Of course
she was immensely accomplished and spoke Italian as perfectly as she did
Spanish. The Duke seemed harmless and amiable. He had little to say, was
thoroughly subordinate, and seemed entirely acclimated to his position
in life as the ordinarily born husband of a Queen.
Our visit was not much of an ordeal after all. It was really quite
instinctively that I courtesied and backed out of the room and observed
the other points of etiquette that are correct when one is introduced to
royalty. As it was a private presentation, it had not been thought
necessary to coach me, and as I backed myself out of the august
presence, keeping myself as nearly as possible in a courtesying
attitude, I caught Mr. McHenry looking at me with amused approval.
"Well," said he, when we were safe in the hall and I had straightened
up, "I should say that you had been accustomed to courts and crowned
heads all your life! You acted as if you had been brought up on it!"
"Ah," I replied, "that comes from my opera training. We learn on the
stage how to treat kings and queens."
Not more than a fortnight after this I had an offer for an engagement at
the Madrid Opera for $400.00 a night, very good for Spain in those days.
I suppose that it came indirectly through the influence of Queen
Christina. I wanted to go to Spain, but my mother would not let me
accept. We were almost pioneers of travel in the modern sense and had no
one to give us authoritative ideas of other countries. People alarmed us
about the climate, declaring it unhealthy; and about the public, which
they said was capricious and rude. The warning about the public
particularly frightened me. I should never object to my efforts being
received in silence in case of disapproval, but I felt that I could not
survive what I had been told was the Spanish custom of hissing. I was
also told that Spanish audiences were very mercurial and difficult to
win. So we refused the Madrid Opera offer, and I have never sung in
either Spain or Italy principally because of my dread of the hissing
habit.
That same year I heard Christine Nilsson for the first time, in _Martha_
at the Theatre Lyrique and, later, in _Hamlet_ at the same theatre with
Faure. Shortly after both Nilsson and Faure were taken over by the Grand
Opera. Ophelie had been written for Nilsson and composed entirely around
her voice. She created the part, singing it exquisitely, and Ambrose
Thomas paid her the compliment of taking his two principal soprano
melodies from old Swedish folk-songs. Nilsson could sing Swedish
melodies in a way to drive one crazy or break one's heart. I have been
quite carried away with them again and again. There was one delicious
song that she called _Le Bal_ in which a young fellow asks a girl to
dance and she is very shy. It was slight, but ever so pretty, and it had
a minor melody that was typically northern. These were the good days
before her voice became impaired. In this connection I may mention that
it was Christine Nilsson who, having heard the Goodwin girls sing _Way
Down upon the Swanee River_, first introduced it on the stage as an
_encore_.
While speaking of Nilsson, I want to record that I was present on the
night, much later, when she practically murdered the high register of
her voice. She had five upper notes the quality of which was unlike any
other I ever heard and that possessed a peculiar charm. The tragedy
happened during a performance of _The Magic Flute_ in London and I was
in the Newcastles' box, which was near the stage. Nilsson was the Queen
of the Night, one of her most successful early _roles_. The second aria
in _The Magic Flute_ is more famous and less difficult than the first
aria and, also, more effective. Nilsson knew well the ineffectiveness of
the ending of the first _aria_ in the two weakest notes of a soprano's
voice, A natural and B flat. I never could understand why a master like
Mozart should have chosen to use them as he did. There is no climax to
the song. One has to climb up hard and fast and then stop short in the
middle. It is an appalling thing to do: and that night Nilsson took
those two notes at the last in _chest tones_.
[Illustration: =Christine Nilsson as Queen of the Night=
From a photograph by Pierre Petit]
"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 classical 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 pawn, 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!