MY FIRST HOLIDAY ON THE CONTINENT
It seemed very odd to be really idle. From the time I was thirteen I had
been working and studying so systematically that to get the habit of
leisure was like learning a new and a difficult lesson. It took time,
for one thing, to find out how to relax; nervous persons never acquire
this art naturally nor possess it instinctively. It is with them the
artificial product of painful experience. All my life I had been
expending energy at top pressure and building it up again as fast as I
could instead of sometimes letting it lie fallow for a bit. When I
became exhausted my mother would speedily make strong broths with rice
and meat and vegetables and anything else that she considered nourishing
to stimulate my jaded vitality; then I would go at my work again harder
than ever. When I had finished one thing I plunged, nerves, body, and
brain, into another. To be an artist is bad enough; but to be an
American artist--! To the temperamental excitability and intensity is
added the racial nervousness; and lucky are such if they do not go up in
a final smoke of over-energised effort. When I was singing I was always
in a fever before the curtain rose. All the day before I was restless to
the point of desperation. Instead of letting myself go and becoming
comfortably limp so that I might conserve my strength for the
performance itself, I would cast about for a hundred secondary ways in
which to waste my nervous force. I was nearly as bad as the Viennese
_prima donna_, Marie Willt. The story is told of her that a reporter
from a Vienna newspaper went to interview her the afternoon before she
was to sing in _Il Trovatore_ at the Royal Opera and enquired of the
scrubwoman in the hall where he could find Frau Willt.
"Here," responded the scrubwoman, sitting up to eye him calmly.
When the young man expressed surprise and incredulity she explained, as
she continued to mop the soapy water, that she invariably scrubbed the
floor the day she was going to sing. "It keeps me busy," she concluded
sententiously.
Think of the force that went into that scrubbing-brush which might have
gone into the part of Leonora! But it is not for me to find fault with
such a course of action because I followed a very similar one. If I did
not exactly scrub floors, I did, somehow, contrive to find other equally
adequate ways of dissipating my strength before I sang. Yet here I was,
actually taking a holiday, with no chance at all to work even if I
wanted to!
When we arrived in Nice the lemons and oranges on the trees and a sky as
blue as painted china made the place seem to me somewhat unnatural, like
a stage setting. Not yet having learned my lesson of relaxation, I soon
became restless and wanted to be again on the move. Nevertheless we
stayed there for nearly a month. My mother seemed to like it. She made
many friends and spent hours every day painting little pictures--quite
dear little pictures they were--of the bright coloured wild flowers
that grew roundabout. But possibly a few extracts from the diary kept by
my mother of this visit will not be out of place here. The capital
letters and italics are hers.
_Dec. 25_--Christmas morning. Sun shone for two hours. Left for
Nice. Arrived at 5 P.M. A very cold night. Cars warmed by zink
hollow planks [boxes] filled with Boiling water which are replaced
every three hours at the different stations. Notwithstanding shawls
and wraps suffered with the cold. Nothing to eat until we arrived
at twelve at Marseilles, where [we] got a poor, cold soup and
miserable cup of tea. Arrived at the Hotel Luxembourg in Nice at
6.30 P.M. The city and hotels crowded with people from all parts of
the world. Rheumatic people rush here to get into the _sunshine_--a
_thing_ seldom seen in Paris or London in winter. Nice is simply a
watering-place _without the water_, unless one means the Sea
Mediterranean which almost rushes into the Halls of the Hotels. All
languages are here spoken; therefore no trouble for any nation to
obtain what it desires. The streets are pulverised magnesia.
Everybody looks after walking as though they had been to mill
"turning hopper."
In our promenade [to-day, Dec. 27] we meet in less than twenty
minutes as many different nationalities, or representatives of
each. Poor in soil, poor in colour, poor in taste is Nice. The
Hotels compose the City. Roses bloom by the roadsides in abundance.
The gardens of the Hotels are yellow with Oranges. Palm trees line
the streets, none of which have shade trees that ever grow enough
to shade but _one person at a time_--no soil--no vigour--sun does
all the maturing. Things ripen from necessity, not from the soil.
_Saturday 28_--Clear beautiful morning. Beach covered with
promenaders. At twelve Louise and I took a long walk towards Villa
Franca--sun very hot--met Richard Palmer who had just arrived.
Enjoyed the morning; were refreshed by our walk. Mr. Stebbins and
Charlie called. Drive at 5. Evening had a light wood fire upon the
hearth, making rooms and hearts cheerful in direct opposition to
the roaring of the wild sea at our very feet. Proprietor of Hotel
sent up his Piano for Louise. Basket Phaetons--2 ponies--are hired
here for one franc an hour--fine woods but dusty.
_29th.--Sunday_--Magnificent morning. The sea smooth as glass.
Women line the beach spreading clothes to bleach. There is a short
diluted Season of Italian Opera here. _Ernani_ was announced for
last evening. There is no odor from the Mediterranean, no sea
weeds, no shells, a perfectly clean barren beach. I don't believe
it is even salt. Shall go and sip to satisfy Yankee curiosity.
There are two Irish heiresses here whose combined weight in gold is
9000 lbs., and the way the nobs and snobs tiptoe, bow, and scrape
is something to behold. They are always dressed alike. We are cold
enough to have a small wood fire morning and evening in a very
primitive style fireplace 18 inches square. Handirons made of 2
cast iron virgins' heads and busts. Bellows thrown in.
_One_ P.M.--Took a double Pony Basket Phaeton, Louise and I on the
front seat, she driving a grey and bay pony. Drove to Villa Franca
where the American fleet is anchored. Saw the old flag once more,
which brought home most vividly to my heart and roused the old
longing for the dear old spot.
_30th._ No letters. No news of trunks. The Monotonous sea singing
Hush at measured intervals, not one wave even an inch higher than
another. This cannot be a real sea, the Mediterranean, _or it would
sometime change its tone_. Yesterday rode through the old Italian
part of the City. Houses 6 or 7 stories high. Streets just wide
enough for a donkey cart to get through. Never can pass each other.
One has to back out.
_Tuesday 31._ Took our usual walk. Listened to the band in the
Public Gardens. This is a poor, barren country. I believe the
plates are _licked by the inhabitants instead of the dogs_. This
place is too poor for _them_. The only good conditioned looking
people here are the priests. They are bursting with inward
satisfaction and joy. When in Paris last October we heard of a most
wonderful pair of earrings that had been presented to Adelina Patti
by a Gent who glided under the name of Khalil Bey, worth Millions!
When in Paris again in December there was a great stir about the
Private Picture Gallery of a very wealthy man who had met with
severe and great losses at the gaming table. Our friends tried to
obtain admission for us to see them, but through some slip we
failed. Upon our arrival in Nice, one day there was great confusion
and agitation among the Eager. Servants were standing in corners
and evidence of something was very vivid. Finally the mystery was
solved. And we learned that a great Prince had arrived from St.
Petersburg. A Turk! Who was sharing our fate (the order of things
is all reversed in Nice. You commence life there by beginning at
the top and working your way down) and taken rooms on the 6th
floor, accompanied by 2 servants, one especially to take care of
the Pipe. His name is Khalil Bey--about 50 years old--a hard,
Chinese, cast-iron face run when the iron was very hot--sinking
well into the mould--one eye almost blind--short small feet--he
seemed to commence to grow at the feet and grew bigger and wider as
he went up.
_3rd._ He moves in the best "society" over here--has his Box at the
Opera--tells frankly his losses at cards--so many million
francs--is a man of influence even among a certain class and that
far above mediocre. Met him at an evening entertainment. Found him
a great admirer of Patti in certain _roles_--very good judgment
upon musical matters in general--and a professed _Gambler_.
_4th._ Rained all day. A lost day to comfort outside and in.
_5th._ Another day of the same sort. Weary with looking at the
sea.
_6th._ Clearing. Sunshine at intervals.
_7th._ Mr. Kinney called in afternoon. Conversation related to
Americans in Europe. Came to the conclusion that as a general rule
none but the class denominated "fast" come to Europe and like it.
Mr.---- said he would give any American young gentleman or lady
just 18 months in European society to lose all refinement and all
moral principle, young ladies in particular. The moral principle
cannot be strong when one is _laughed at for blushing_!
_8th._ Mr. and Mrs. L---- came over in the evening. Sat two hours.
Discussed Europe generally and decided _America_ was the _only
place for decent people to live in_. _Death_ is all over Europe, an
epidemic that has no cure. Death of all moral responsibility. Death
of ambition in the way of virtue. Death of all comforts of life.
The last man that dies will be carried from the _card table_.
In my own recollection of Nice the two men principally mentioned in my
mother's diary, Khalil Bey and Admiral Farragut, stand out strikingly.
Khalil Bey was a fabulously rich Turk who spent his life wandering
luxuriously over the face of the earth with a huge retinue of retainers
nearly as picturesque as he was. He was a big, dark, murderous looking
creature, not unattractive in a sinister, strange, and piratical way. He
had a wild and lurid record and was especially notorious for his
reckless gambling, at which his luck was said to be miraculous. He was
an opera enthusiast, having heard it in every city in Europe, and was
one of Adelina's admirers. My mother disliked him exceedingly, declaring
he was like a big snake. But my mother never had any tolerance for
foreign noblemen. There were many of them at Nice and her comments were
caustic and often apt. I remember her casual summing up of the Marquis
de Talleyrand (the particular friend of Mrs. Stevens, an American woman
from Hoboken whom he afterwards married) as "a young man belonging to
some goose pond or other!"
Admiral Farragut, who was in the harbour with his flagship the
_Hartford_ and several other American battle-ships, was greatly feted,
being just then a great hero of the war. The United States Consul gave a
reception for him which he explained in advance was to be
"characteristically American." The only noticeable thing about the
entertainment seemed to be the quantity and variety of drinkables that
were unceasingly served by swift and persuasive waiters. The
Continentals must have had a startling impression of American thirst!
The Admiral himself, however, was hardly given time to swallow anything
at all, people were so anxious to ask him questions and to shake hands.
The Stebbinses and McHenrys joined us when we had been in Nice only a
short time, and, after a little stay there together, we went on by way
of Genoa and the Corniche Road to Pisa, and thence to Florence. At
Florence we met the Admiral again and found him more charming the better
we knew him. In Florence, too, we had several glimpses of the Grisi
family, Madame and her three daughters. Grisi was, I think, a striking
example of a singer being born and not made. When she sang Adalgisa in
_Norma_ in Milan, she made a sudden and overwhelming hit. Next day every
one was rushing about demanding, "Who was her teacher? Who gave her this
wonderful style and tone?" Grisi herself was asked about it and she gave
the names of several teachers under whom she had worked. But, needless
to say, another Grisi was never made. In her case it didn't happen to be
the teacher. Often the credit is given to the master when it really
belongs to the pupil, or, rather, to _le bon Dieu_ who made the vocal
chords in the first place. For, however we may agree or disagree about
fundamental requirements for an artist--breath control, voice placing,
tone colour, interpretation,--the simple fact remains that the one great
essential for a singer is a voice! One little story that I recall of
Grisi interested me. It was said that, when she was growing old and
severe exertion told on her, she always, after her fall as Lucretia
Borgia, had a glass of beer come up through the floor to her and would
drink it as she lay there with her back half turned to the audience.
This is what was _said_; and it seemed to me like a very good scheme.
The director of the railway between Rome and Naples, M. De la Haute, put
his private car at our disposal. In the present era of cars equipped
with baths and barber shops, libraries and writing rooms, it would seem
primitive, but it was quite the last word in the railroad luxury of that
period. I was charmed with the Italian scenery as we steamed through it
and, above all, with the highly pictorial peasants that we passed. Their
clothes, of quaint cut and vivid hues, were exactly like stage costumes.
"Why," I exclaimed excitedly, peering from the car window, "they are all
just out of scenes from _Fra Diavolo_!"
We were, indeed, going through the mountains of the _Fra Diavolo_
country, where the inhabitants lived in continual fear of the bands of
brigands that infested the mountains. Zerlina and Fra Diavolo were
literally in their midst.
M. De la Haute gave a delightful breakfast for us on one of the terraces
outside Naples with the turquoise blue bay beneath, the marvellous
Italian sky overhead, and Vesuvius before us. Albert Bierstadt, the
American artist, was of the company, and afterwards turned up in Rome,
whither we went next. When we made the ascent of Vesuvius, my mother
recounts in her diary: "There must have been at least a hundred Italian
devils jumping about and screaming to take us up. It seemed as if they
must have just jumped out of the burning brimstone."
In Rome we dined with Charlotte Cushman. This was, of course, some years
before her death and she was not yet ravaged by her tragic illness. She
was very full of anecdotes of her friends, the Carlyles, Tennyson, and
others, whom she had just left in England. To our little party was added
Emma Stebbins, who had been doing famously in sculpture, and, also,
Harriet Hosmer, the artist, as well as one or two clever men. It was
Carnival Week, and so I had my first glimpse of a true Continental
_festa_. I had never before seen any real Latin merriment. The
Anglo-Saxon variety is apt to be heavy, rough, or vulgar. But those
fascinating people had the wonderful power of being genuinely and
innocently gay. They became like happy children at play. They threw
confetti, sang and laughed, and tossed flowers about. It was a veritable
lesson in joy to us more sober and commonplace Americans who looked on.
While I was in Rome I was presented to the Pope, Pius IX, a most lovely
and genial personality with a delightful atmosphere about him. I was
told that he had very much wanted to be made Pope and had played the
invalid so that the Cardinals would not think it was very important
whether they elected him or not; so that they could say (as they did
say), "Let us elect him:--he'll die anyhow!" He was duly elected and,
just as soon as he was in the Pontifical Chair, his health became
miraculously restored! When we were presented I could not help being
amused at the extraordinary articles brought by people for the good man
to bless. One woman had a pair of marble hands. Another offered the
Pontiff a photograph of himself; and his Holiness had evident difficulty
in keeping a straight face as he explained to her that really he could
not bless a likeness of himself. Etiquette at these Vatican receptions
is very strict as to what one must wear, what one must do, and where one
must stand. Sebasti, of Sebasti e Reali, the famous Roman bankers, has
the tale to tell of a Hebrew millionaire from America who contrived to
secure an invitation to one of these select audiences and, not being
able to see the Pope clearly on account of the crowd, climbed upon a
chair to get a better view. In the twinkling of an eye a dozen
attendants were after him, whispering harshly, "Giu! Giu! Giu!" ("Get
down! Get down! Get down!") and the Israelite climbed down exclaiming in
crestfallen accents: "How did you know it?"
I have never been presented to the present Pope, but I gather from my
friends in Rome that his administration is, as usual, a rather
complicated affair. The ruling power is Cardinal Rampolla, the Mephisto
of the Church, for whom a distinguished Marchesa has a _salon_ and
entertains, so that, in this way, he can meet people on neutral ground.
On our return trip we crossed Mont Cenis by diligence. From Lombardy,
with the smell of orange flowers all about us, we mounted up and up
until the green growing things became fewer and frailer, and the air
chillier and more rarified. Between six and seven thousand feet up we
struck snow and changed to a sleigh. We made the whole trip in eleven
hours--a record in those days. Think of it, you modern tourists who
cross Mont Cenis in three! But you will do well to envy us our diligence
and sleigh just the same, for you--oh, horrors!--have to do it through a
tunnel instead of over a mountain pass! We felt quite adventurous, for
it was generally considered a rather hazardous undertaking. By March
first we were back again in Paris and, before the end of the month, Mr.
Jarrett and Arditi joined us with my renewed contract with Colonel
Mapleson.
It seemed to me a very short period before it was time for me to go back
to Drury Lane for the real London season. Spring had come and Mapleson
was ready to make a record opera season; so we said good-bye to our
friends in Paris and turned once more toward England.