THE LONDON SEASON
Our house in St. John's Wood that we rented for our first London season
was small, but it had a front door and a back garden and, on the whole,
we were very happy there. Whenever my mother became bored or
dissatisfied she thought of the hotels on the Continent and immediately
cheered up. There many people sought us out, and others were brought to
see us. Newcastle was always coming with someone interesting in tow.
Leonard Jerome, who built the Jockey Club, came with Newcastle, I
remember, and so did Chevalier Wyckoff, who had something to do with
_The Herald_, and did not use his title.
[Illustration: =Duke of Newcastle=
From a photograph by John Burton & Sons]
It was always said of the Duke and Duchess of Newcastle that "he married
her for her money and she married him for his title, so that they each
got what they wanted." It may have been true and probably was, for they
did not seem an ardently devoted couple, and yet it is difficult to
believe the rather cruel report--they were both so much too lovable to
merit it. The Duchess was a beauty and, when she wore the big, blue,
Hope Diamond,--(I have often seen her wearing it) she was a most
striking figure. As for Newcastle himself, I always found him a most
simple, warm-hearted, generous man, full of delicate and kindly
feelings. He had big stables and raced his horses all the time, but
it was said of him that he generally lost at the races and one might
almost know that he would. He was a sort of "mark" for the racing sharks
and they plucked him in a shameless manner. I first met the Newcastles
at the dinner table of the Dowager Duchess of Somerset, and more than
once afterwards has Newcastle whispered to her "hang etiquette" and
taken me in to dinner instead of some frumpy marchioness or countess.
We became acquainted with the Tennants of Richmond Terrace. Their house
was headquarters for an association of Esoteric Buddhism;--A. P.
Sinnett, the author of the book entitled _Esoteric Buddhism_, was a
prominent figure there. The family is perhaps best known from the fact
that Miss Tennant married the celebrated explorer Stanley. But to me it
always stood for the centre of occult societies. The household was an
interesting one but not particularly peaceful.
I suppose the world is full of queer people and situations, but I do
think that among the queerest of both must be ranked Lord Dudley, who
owned Her Majesty's Theatre. He lived in Park Lane and was a very grand
person in all ways, and, according to hearsay, firmly believed that he
was a teapot, and spent his days in the miserable hope that somebody
would be kind enough to put him on the stove! He did not go about
begging for the stove exactly; his desire was just an ever-present,
underlying yearning! He was a nice man, too, as I remember him. A man by
the name of Cowen represented the poor peer and we gave Cowen his
legitimate perquisites in the shape of benefit concerts and so forth;
but we all felt that the whole thing was in some obscure manner terribly
grim and pathetic. Many things are so oddly both comic and tragic.
During the warm weather we went often into the country to dine or lunch
at country houses. I shall never forget Mr. Goddard's dinner at his
place. He had a glass house at the end of the regular house that was
half buried in a huge heliotrope plant which had grown so marvellously
that it covered the walls like a vine. The trunk of it was as thick as a
man's arm, and the perfume--! My mother wrote in her diary a single line
summing up the day as it had been for her: "Lovely day. Strawberries and
two black-eyed children." For my part, I gathered all the heliotrope I
wanted for once in my life.
Mr. Sampson's entertainment is another notable memory. Mr. Sampson was
financial editor of that august journal _The London Times_, much sought
after by the large moneyed interests, and lived in Bushy Park, beyond
Kensington. Mrs. Heurtly was our hostess; and Lang, who had just been
running for Prime Minister, was there and, also, McKenzie, an East
Indian importer in a big way who afterwards became Sir Edward McKenzie,
through loaning to the Prince of Wales the money for the trousseau and
marriage of the Prince of Wales's daughter Louise to the Duke of Fife,
and who then was not invited to the wedding! It was through Sampson,
too, that I first met the famous critic Davidson, and I think it was on
the occasion of his party that I first met Nilsson's great friend Mrs.
Cavendish Bentinck.
Among all the memories of that time stands out that of the home of the
dear McHenrys in Holland Park, overlooking the great sweep of lawn of
Holland House on which, it is said, the plotters of an elder day went
out to talk and conspire because it was the only place in London where
they could be sure that they would not be overheard. Alma Tadema lived
just around the corner and we often saw him. Another interesting
character of whom I saw a good deal at that time was Dr. Quinn, an
Irishman, connected through a morganatic marriage with the royal family.
He was very short and jolly, and very Irish. He had asthma horribly and
ought really to have considered himself an invalid. He gasped and
wheezed whenever he went upstairs, but he simply couldn't resist dinner
parties. He loved funny stories, too, not only for his own sake but also
because his friend, the Prince of Wales, liked them so much. My mother
was very ready in wit and usually had a fund of stories and jokes at her
command, and Dr. Quinn used to exhaust her supply, taking the greatest
delight in hearing her talk. He would come panting into the house, his
round face beaming, and gasp:
"Any new American jokes? I'm dining with the Prince and want something
new for him!"
He loved riddles and conundrums, particularly those that had a poetical
twist in them. One of his favourites was:
_Why is a sword like the moon?_
_Because it is the glory of the (k)night!_
I have heard him tell that repeatedly, always ending with a little
appreciative sigh and the ejaculation, "that is so poetical, isn't it?"
One lovely evening we drove out to Greenwich to dinner, in Newcastle's
four-in-hand coach. It was not the new style drag, but a huge, lumbering
affair, all open, in which one sat sideways. There were postillions in
quaint dress and a general flavour of the Middle Ages about the whole
episode. There was nothing of the Middle Ages about the dinner however.
There were twenty-five of us present in all; among the number Lady Susan
Vane-Tempest, a beautiful woman with most brilliant black hair, and
Major Stackpoole, and dear Lady Rossmore, his wife (who was so impulsive
that I have seen her jump up in her box to throw me the flowers she was
wearing), and some of the Hopes (Newcastle's own family), that race that
always behaves so badly! A little later in the season, my mother and I
accepted with delight an invitation from the Duke and Duchess of
Newcastle to visit them at their place in Brighton. The Duke naively
explained that he had been having "a run of rotten luck" of late, and
thought that I might turn it. Apparently I did, for the very day after
we got there his horse won in the races.
I sang, of course, in the evening, as their guest. There was no thought
of remuneration, nor could there be. The graceful way in which our dear
host showed his appreciation was to send me a pin, beautifully executed,
of a horse and jockey done in enamel, enclosed in a circle of perfect
crystal, the whole surrounded with a rim of superb diamonds and
amethysts--purple and white being his racing colours. The brooch was
inscribed simply with the date on which his horse ran and won.
I wore that pin for years. When I had it cleaned at Tiffany's a long
time afterwards, it made quite a sensation, it was so unique. Once, I
remember, I was in the studio dwelling on Fifteenth Street of the
Richard Watson Gilders when I discovered that, having dressed in a
hurry, I had put my pin in upside-down. I started to change it, and then
said:
"O, what's the use. Nobody will ever notice it. They are all too
literary and superior around here!"
The first man Mrs. Gilder presented to me was evidently quite too much
interested in the pin to talk to me.
"Excuse me," he at last said politely, "but you will like to know, I
feel sure, that your brooch is upside-down."
"O, is it," said I sweetly. But I did not take the trouble to change it
even then, and, afterwards, I would not have done so for worlds, for I
should have been cheated out of a great deal of quiet amusement. One of
the contributors to _The Century_ was later presented to me, and the
effect of that pin upside-down was more irritating than it had been to
the first man. He almost stood on his head trying to discover what was
the trouble. At last:
"You've got your pin upside-down," he snapped at me as though a personal
affront had been offered him.
"I know I have," I snapped back.
"What do you wear it that way for?" he demanded.
"To make conversation!" I returned, nearly as cross as he was.
"I don't see it," he said curtly. As a matter of fact I had just
realised that upside-down was the way to wear the pin henceforward. I
said to Jeannette Gilder the next day:
"My upside-down pin was the hit of the evening. I am never going to wear
it any other way!"
I have kept my word during all these years. Never have I worn
Newcastle's pin except upside-down, and I have never known anyone to
whom I was talking to fail to fall into the trap and beg my pardon and
say, "you have your brooch on upside-down." Years later I was once
talking to Annie Louise Gary in Rome and a perfectly strange man came up
and began timidly:
"I beg your pardon, but your----"
"I know," I told him kindly. "My pin is upside-down, isn't it?"
He retreated, thinking me mad, I suppose. But the fun of it has been
worth some such reputation. Different people approach the subject so
differently. Some are so apologetic and some are so helpful and some,
like my _Century_ acquaintance, are so immensely and disproportionately
annoyed.
But I am wandering far afield and quite forgetting my first London
season which, even at this remote day, is an absorbing recollection to
me. I had at that time enough youthful enthusiasm and desire to "keep
going" to have stocked a regiment of debutantes! Although I was quite as
carefully chaperoned and looked out for in England as I had been in
America, there was still an unusual sense of novelty and excitement
about the days there. I had all of my clothes from Paris and learned
that, as Sir Michael Costa had insultingly informed me, I was "quite a
pretty woman anyhow." Add to this the generous praise that the London
public gave me professionally, and is it to be considered a wonder that
I felt as if all were a delightful fairy tale with me as the princess?
As my mother has noted in her diary, we went one evening to Covent
Garden to hear Patti sing. One really charming memory of Patti is her
Juliette. She was never at all resourceful as an actress and was never
able to stamp any part with the least creative individuality; but her
singing of that music was perfect. Maurice Strakosch came into our box
to present to us Baron Alfred de Rothschild who became one of the
English friends whom we never forgot and who never forgot us. Maddox,
too, called on us in the box that evening. He was the editor of a
little journal that was the rival of the _Court Circular_. Maddox I saw
a good deal of later and found him very original and entertaining. He
ordered champagne that night, so we had quite a little party in our box
between the acts.
As my mother has also noted, I went to Covent Garden to hear Mario for
the first time. Fioretti was the _prima donna_, said to be the best type
of the Italian school. Altogether the occasion was expected to be a
memorable one and I was full of expectations. Davidson, the critic of
_The London Times_ and the foremost musical critic on the Continent,
except possibly Dr. Hanslick of Vienna, was full of enthusiasm. But I
did not think much of Fioretti nor, even, of Mario! Yes, Mario the
great, Mario the golden-voiced, Mario who could "soothe with a tenor
note the souls in Purgatory" was a bitter disappointment to me. I was
too inexperienced still to appreciate the art he exhibited, and his
voice was but a ghost of his past glory. Yet England adored him with her
wonderful loyalty to old idols.
Several distinguished artists and musicians came into our box that
night, Randegger the singing teacher for one, and my good friend Sir
George Armitage. Sir George was breathless with enthusiasm.
"There is no one like Mario!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands with
delight.
"This is the first time I ever heard him," I said.
"Ah, what an experience!" he cried.
"I should never have suspected he was the great tenor," I had to admit.
"Oh, my dear young lady," said Sir George eagerly, "that 'la' in the
second act! Did you hear that 'la' in the second act? There was the old
Mario!"
His devotion was so touching that I forebore to remind him that if one
swallow does not make a summer, so one "la" does not make a singer. When
poor Mario came over to America later he was a dire failure. He could
not hold his own at all. He could not produce even his "la" by that
time. Like Nilsson, however, he greatly improved dramatically after his
vocal resonances were impaired, for I have been told that when in
possession of his full voice he was very stiff and unsympathetic in his
acting.
Sir George Armitage, by the way, was a somewhat remarkable individual, a
typical, well-bred Englishman of about sixty, with artistic tastes. He
was a perfect example of the dilettante of the leisure class, with
plenty of time and money to gratify any vagrant whim. His particular
hobby was the opera; and he divided his attentions equally between
Covent Garden with Adelina and Lucca, and Her Majesty's with Nilsson,
Titjiens, and Kellogg. When operas that he liked were being given at
both opera houses, he would make a schedule of the different numbers and
scenes with the hours at which they were to be sung:--9.20 (Covent
Garden), _Aria_ by Madame Patti. 10 o'clock (Her Majesty's), Duet in
second act between Miss Nilsson and Miss Kellogg. 10.30, Sextette at
Covent Garden, etc., etc. He kept his brougham and horses ready and
would drive back and forth the whole evening, reaching each opera house
just in time to hear the music he particularly cared for. He had seats
in each house and nothing else in the world to do, so it was quite a
simple matter with him, only,--who but an Englishman of the hereditary
class of idleness would think of such a way of spending the evening? He
was a dear old fellow and we all liked him. He really did not know much
about music, but he had a sincere fondness for it and dearly loved to
come behind the scenes and offer suggestions to the artists. We always
listened to him patiently, for it gave him great pleasure, and we never
had to do any of the things he suggested because he forgot all about
them before the next time.
My mother's diary reads:
_June 13._ Last night _Nozze di Figaro_. Mr. and Mrs. McHenry sent
five bouquets. Splendid performance.
_15._ Dined at Duchess of Somerset's.
_16._ Dined with Mr. and Mrs. McHenry. Stebbins--Vanderbilts.
_18._ _Don Giovanni._ Checks from Mr. Cowen. Banker came to see us.
Duke of Newcastle--Sir George Armitage.
_20._ Benedict's Morning Concert, St. James' Hall. _Encore_
"Beware"--_Don Giovanni_ in the evening.
_21. Sunday._ Dined with Duke and Duchess of Newcastle. Major
Stackpoole, Lady Susan Vane-Tempest and others. Rehearsed _La
Figula_.
_Monday._ Rehearsal of _La Figula_. In the evening went to hear
Patti. Didn't like Patti. Received letter from Colonel Stebbins
from Queenstown.
_Tuesday._ Rehearsed _La Figula_. Called at Langham on Godwin--all
came out in the evening.
_Wednesday 24._ Morning performance of _Le Nozze_--got home at 6.
P.M. Charity concert for Mr. Cowen at 8.30 at Dudley House.
_Thursday._ Rehearsal of _La Figula_. Concert in the evening at
Lady Fitzgerald's.
_Monday._ Louise and I went to drive. Do not learn anything
definite about the future--where I am to be next winter--no one
knows. I do not see any settled home for me any more. Sometimes I
am satisfied to have it so--at others--get nervous and uneasy and
discontented. Yet I have lost interest in going home--it will be so
short a visit--so soon a separation--then to some other stranger
place--new friends--new faces--I want the old. The surface of life
does not interest me.
_Tuesday._ Dined at Langs'--large party.
_Wednesday 15._ Went to Crystal Palace--Mapleson's Benefit. The
whole performance closed with the most magnificent display of
Fireworks I ever saw--most marvellous.
_16._ _Don Giovanni_--full house--great success in the
part--Duchess and Lady Rossmore threw splendid bouquets--house very
enthusiastic--papers fine--Mrs. McHenry and Mr. Sampson came
down--Duke of Newcastle and Major Stackpoole--Miss Jarrett.
_Monday. Le Nozze di Figaro._
_Tuesday. La Figula._
_Thursday._ Went to theatre. Saw Nilsson and all the artists. Went
to hear Patti in _Romeo and Juliette_--Strakosch gave us the box.
Strakosch introduced Rothschilds.
_Friday._ _Le Nozze di Figaro._ Baron Rothschilds, Sir George
Armitage came around.
_Saturday._ Sir George breakfasted with Louise. Rothschilds
called--letter from Mr. Stebbins.
_Sunday morning._ Dr. Kellogg of Utica called--spent several hours.
Santley called--and McHenry in the evening.
I was greatly shocked by the heavy drinking in the 'sixties that was not
only the fashion but almost the requirement of fashion in England. My
horror when I first saw a titled and distinguished Englishwoman in the
opera box of the Earl of Harrington (our friend of the charming luncheon
party), call an attendant and order a brandy and soda will never be
forgotten. It was the general custom to serve refreshments in the boxes
at the opera, and bottles and glasses of all sorts passed in and out of
these private "loges" the entire evening. Indeed, people never dreamed
of drinking water, although they drank their wines "like water"
proverbially. Such prejudice as mine has two sides, as I realise when I
think of the landlady of our apartment which we rented during a later
London season in Belgrave Mansions. When singing, I had to have a late
supper prepared for me--something very light and simple and nourishing.
Our good landlady used to be shocked almost to the verge of tears by my
iniquitous habit of drinking water _pur-et-simple_ with my suppers.
"Oh, miss," she would beg, "let me put a bit of sherry or _something_ in
it for you! It'll hurt you that way, Miss! It'll make you ill, that it
will!"