HOME AGAIN
Mapleson asked me to stay on the other side and sing in England,
Ireland, and France at practically my own terms, but I refused to do so.
I had made my English success and now I wanted to go home in triumph. My
mother agreed with me that it was time to be turning homeward. So I
accepted an engagement to sing under the management of the Strakosches,
Max and Maurice, on a long concert tour.
I have only gratitude for the manner in which my own people welcomed my
return. The critics found me much improved, and one and all gave me
credit for hard and unremitting work. "Here is a young singer," said
one, "who has steadily worked her way to the highest position in
operatic art." That point of view always pleased me; for I contend now,
as I have contended since I first began to sing, that, next to having a
voice in the first place, the great essential is to work; and then
_work_; and, after that, begin to WORK!
New York as a city did not please me when I saw it again. I had
forgotten, or never fully realised, how provincial it was. Even to-day I
firmly believe that it is undoubtedly the dirtiest city in the world,
that its traffic regulation is the worst, and its cab service the most
expensive and inconvenient. All this struck me with particular force
when I came home fresh from London and Paris.
My contract with the Strakosches was for twenty-five weeks, four
appearances a week, making a hundred performances in all. This tour was
only broken by a short engagement under my old director Maretzek at the
Academy of Music in Philadelphia, an arrangement made for me by Max
Strakosch when we reached that city in the spring; and, with the
exception of _Robert le Diable_, _Trovatore_, and one or two other
operas, I spent the next three years singing in concert and oratorio
entirely. It was not enjoyable, but it was successful. We went all over
the country, North, South, East, West, and everywhere found an
enthusiastic public. Particularly was this so in the South as far as I
personally was concerned. The poor South had not yet recovered from the
effects of the Civil War and did not have much money to spend on
amusements, but, when at Richmond the people learned that I was Southern
born, more than one woman said to me:
"Go? To hear you! Yes, indeed; we'll hang up all we have to go and hear
you!"
One of my popular fellow-artists on the first tour was James M. Wehli,
the English pianist. He was known as the "left-handed pianist" and was
in reality better suited to a vaudeville stage than to a concert
platform. His particular accomplishment consisted in playing a great
number of pieces brilliantly with his left hand only, a feat remarkable
enough in itself but not precisely an essential for a great artist, and,
even as a pianist, he was not inspired.
My first appearance after my European experience was in a concert at the
Academy of Music in New York. It was a real welcome home. People cheered
and waved and threw flowers and clapped until I was literally in tears.
I felt that it did not matter in the least whether New York was a real
city or not; America was a real country! When the concert was over, the
men from the Lotus Club took the horses out of my carriage and dragged
it, with me in it, to my hotel. And oh, my flowers! My American title of
"The Flower _Prima Donna_" was soon reestablished beyond all
peradventure. Flowers in those days were much rarer than they are now;
and I received, literally, loads and loads of camellias, and roses
enough to set up many florist shops. Without exaggeration, I sent those
I received by _cartloads_ to the hospitals. And one "floral offering"
that I received in Boston was actually too large for any waggon. A
subscription had been raised and a pagoda of flowers sent. I had to hire
a dray to carry it to my hotel; and then it could not be got up the
stairs but had to spend the night downstairs. In the morning I had the
monstrous thing photographed and sent it off to a hospital. Even this
was an undertaking as I could not, for some reason, get the dray of the
night before; and had to hire several able-bodied men to carry it. I
hope it was a comfort to somebody before it faded! It is a pity that
this tribute on the part of Boston did not assume a more permanent form,
for I should have much appreciated a more lasting token as a remembrance
of the occasion. It must not be thought that I was unappreciative
because I say this. I love anything and everything that blooms, and I
love the spirit that offers me flowers. But I must say that the pagoda
was something of a white elephant.
While thinking of Boston and my first season at home, I must not omit
mention of Mrs. Martin. Indeed, it will have to be rather more than a
mere mention, for it is quite a little story, beginning indirectly with
Wright Sandford. Wright Sandford was the only man in New York with a big
independent fortune, except "Willie" Douglass who spent most of his time
cruising in foreign waters. Wright Sandford was more of a friend of mine
than "Willie" Douglass, and I used to haul him over the coals
occasionally for his lazy existence. He had eighty thousand a year and
absolutely nothing to do but to amuse himself.
"What do you expect me to do?" he would demand plaintively. "I've no one
to play with!"
Whenever I was starting on a tour he would send me wonderful hampers put
up by Delmonico, with the most delicious things to eat imaginable in
them, so that my mother and I never suffered, at least for the first day
or two, from the inconveniences of the bad food usually experienced by
travellers. A very nice fellow was Wright Sandford in many ways, and to
this day I am appreciative of the Delmonico luncheons if of nothing
else.
When we were _en route_ for Boston on that first tour,--a long trip
then, eight or nine hours at least by the fast trains--there sat close
to us in the car a little woman who watched me all the time and smiled
whenever I glanced at her. I noticed that she had no luncheon with her,
so when we opened our Delmonico hamper, I leaned across and asked her to
join us. I do not exactly know why I did it for I was not in the habit
of making friends with our fellow-travellers; but the little person
appealed to me somehow in addition to her being lunchless. She was the
most pleased creature imaginable! She nibbled a little, smiled, spoke
hardly a word, and after lunch I forgot all about her.
In Boston, as I was in my room in the hotel practising, before going to
the theatre, there came a faint rap on the door. I called out "Come in,"
yet nobody came. I began to practise again and again came a little rap.
"Come in," I called a second time, yet still nothing happened. After a
third rap I went and opened the door. In the dark hall stood a woman. I
did not remember ever having seen her before; but I could hardly
distinguish her features in the passage.
"I've come," said she in a soft, small voice, "to ask you if you would
please kiss me?"
Of course I complied. Needless to say, I thought her quite crazy. After
I had kissed her cheek she nodded and vanished into the darkness while
I, much mystified, went back to my singing. That night at the theatre I
saw a small person sitting in the front row, smiling up at me. Her face
this time was somewhat familiar and I said to myself, "I do believe
that's the little woman who had lunch with us on the train!" and
then--"I wonder--_could_ it also be the crazy woman who wanted me to
kiss her?"
During our week's engagement in Boston we were confronted with a
dilemma. Max Strakosch came to me much upset.
"What are we going to do in Providence--the only decent hotel in the
town has burned down," he said. "You'll have to stop with friends."
"I haven't any friends in Providence," I replied.
"Well, you'll have to get some," he declared. "There's no hotel where
you could possibly stay and we can't cancel your engagement. The houses
are sold out."
Presently a cousin of mine, acting as my agent on these trips, came and
told me that a man had called on him at the theatre whose wife wished to
"entertain" Miss Kellogg while she was in Providence!
The idea appalled me and I flatly refused to accept this extraordinary
invitation; but those two men simply forced me into it. Strakosch,
indeed, regarded the incident as a clear dispensation from heaven.
"Nothing could be more fortunate," he said, "never mind who they are,
you go and stay with them anyway. You've wonderful business waiting for
you in Providence."
Well--I went. Yet I felt very guilty about accepting a hospitality that
would have to be stretched so far. It was no joke to have me for a
guest. I knew well that we would be a burden on any household,
especially if it were a modest one. When I was singing I had to have
dinner at half-past four at the latest; I could not be disturbed by
anything in the morning and, besides, it meant three beds--for mother,
myself, and maid. In Providence we arrived at a tiny house at the door
of which I was met by the little woman of the train who was, as I had
surmised, the same one who had wanted me to kiss her. Supper was served
immediately. Everything was immaculate and dainty and delicious. Our
hostess had remembered some of the contents of the Delmonico hamper that
I had especially liked and had cooked them herself, perfectly.
She made me promise never to stay anywhere else than with her when I was
in Providence and I never have. In all, throughout the many years that
have intervened between then and now, I must have visited her more than
twenty times. During this period I have been privileged to watch the
most extraordinary development that could be imagined by any
psychologist. When I first stopped with her there was not a book in the
house. While everything was exquisitely clean and well kept, it was
absolutely primitive. On my second visit I found linen sheets upon the
beds and the soap and perfume that I liked were ready for me on the
dressing-table. She studied my "ways" and every time I came back there
was some new and flattering indication of the fact. Have I mentioned her
name? It was Martin, Mrs. Martin, and her husband was conductor on what
was called the "Millionaire's Train" that ran between Boston and
Providence. I saw very little of him, but he was a nice, shy man, much
respected in his business connection. He was "Hezzy" and she was
"Lizy"--short for Hezekiah and Eliza. They were a genuinely devoted
couple in their quiet way although he always stood a trifle in awe of
his wife's friends. She was about ten years older than I and had a
really marvellous gift for growing and improving. After a while they
left the first house and moved into one a little larger and much more
comfortable. They had a library and she began to gather a small circle
of musical friends about her. Her knowledge of music was oddly
photographic. She would bring me a sheet of music and say:
"Please play this part--here; this is the nice part!" But she was, and
is, a fine critic. Some big singers are glad to have her approval. As in
music so it was with books--the little woman's taste was instinctive but
unerring. She has often brought me a book of poetry, pointed out the
best thing in it, and said in her soft way:
"Don't you think this is nice? I _do_ think it is _so_ nice! It's a
lovely poem."
There was a young telegraph operator in Providence who had a voice. His
name was Jules Jordan. Mrs. Martin took him into her house and
practically brought him up. He, too, began to grow and develop and is
now the head of the Arion Society, the big musical association of
Providence that has some of the biggest singers in the country in its
concerts. Mrs. Martin entertains Jules Jordan's artistic friends and
goes to the concert rehearsals and says whether they are good or not.
She knows, too. "I am called the 'Singers'' friend," she said to me not
very long ago. She criticises the orchestra and chorus as well as the
solos, and she is right every time. I consider her one of the finest
critics I know. As for the professional critics, she is acquainted with
them all and they have a very genuine respect for her judgment. She is
the sort of person who is called "queer." Most real characters are. If
she does not like one, the recipient of her opinion is usually fully
aware of what that opinion is. She has no social idea at all, nor any
toleration for it. This constitutes one point in which her development
is so remarkable. Most women who "make themselves" acquire, first of
all, the social graces and veneer, the artificiality in surface matters
that will enable them to pass muster in the "great world." She has
allowed her evolution to go along different lines. She has really grown,
not in accomplishments but in accomplishment; not in manners but in grey
matter. Indeed, I hardly know how to find words with which to speak of
Mrs. Martin for I think her such a wonderful person; I respect and care
for her so much that I find myself dumb when I try to pay her a tribute.
If I have dared to speak of her humble beginnings in the first little
house it is because it seems to me that only so can I really do her
justice as she is to-day. She is a living monument of what a woman can
do with herself unaided, save by the force and the aspiration that is in
her. Meeting her was one of the most valuable incidents that happened to
me in the year of my home-coming.
It seems as if I spent most of my time in those days being photographed.
Likenesses were stiff and unnatural; and I am inclined to believe that
the picture of me that has always been the best known--the one leaning
on my hand--marked a new epoch in photography. I had been posing a great
deal the day that was taken and was dead tired. There had been much
arranging; many attempts to obtain "artistic effects." Finally, I went
off into a corner and sat down, leaning my head on my hand, while the
photographer put new plates in his camera. Suddenly he happened to look
in my direction and exclaimed:
"By Jove--if I could only--I'm going to try it anyway!" Then he shouted,
"Don't move, please!" and took me just as I was. He was very doubtful as
to the result for it was a new departure in photography; but the attempt
was very successful, and other photographers began to try for the same
natural and easy effect. Another time I happened to have a handkerchief
in my lap that threw a white reflection on my face, and the photographer
discovered from it the value of large light-coloured surfaces to deflect
the light where it was needed. This, too, I consider, was an unconscious
factor in the introduction of natural effects into photography. I never,
however, took a satisfactory picture. People who depend on expression
and animation for their looks never do. My likenesses never looked the
way I really did--except, perhaps, one that a photographer once caught
while I was talking about Duse, explaining how much more I admired her
than I did Bernhardt.
In those concert and oratorio years I remember very few pleasurable
appearances: but unquestionably one of the few was on June 15th, when
the Beethoven Jubilee was held and I was asked to sing as alternative
_prima donna_ with Parepa Rosa. Although I had done well in the Crystal
Palace, I was not a singer who was generally supposed nor expected to
fill so large a place as the American Institute Colosseum on Third
Avenue, and many people prophesied that I could not be satisfactorily
heard there. I asked my friends to go to different parts of the house
and to tell me if my voice sounded well. Even some of my friends out in
front, though, did not expect to hear me to advantage. But, contrary to
what we all feared, my voice proved to have a carrying quality that had
never before been adequately recognised. The affair was a great success.
Parepa Rosa did not, as a matter of fact, have quite so big a voice as
she was usually credited with having. She had power only to _G_. Above
the staff it was a mixed voice. She could diminish to an exquisite
quality, but she could not reinforce with any particular volume or
vibration.
There was another occasion that I remember with a deep sense of its
impressiveness:--that of the funeral of Horace Greeley, at which I sang.
I knew Horace Greeley personally and recall many interesting things
about him; but, naturally perhaps, what stands out in my memory is the
fact that, a few days before he died, he came to hear me sing Handel's
_Messiah_, being, as he said afterwards, particularly touched and
impressed by my rendering of _I know that my Redeemer liveth_. When he
came to die, the last words that he said were those, whispered faintly,
as if they still echoed in his heart. It may have been because of this
fact that it was I who was asked to sing at his funeral.
On my return from abroad I was, of course, wearing only foreign clothes
and, as a consequence, found myself the embarrassed centre of much
curiosity. American women were still children in the art of dressing. At
one time I was probably the only woman in America who wore silk
stockings and long gloves. People could not accustom themselves to my
Parisian fashions. In Saratoga one dear man, whom I knew very well, came
to me much distressed and whispered that my dress was fastened crooked.
I had the greatest difficulty in convincing him that it was made that
way and that the crookedness was the latest French touch. A recent
fashion was that humped-up effect that gave the wearer the attitude then
known and reviled as the "Grecian Bend." It was made famous by
caricatures and jokes in the funny papers of the time, but I, being a
new-comer so to speak, was not aware of its newspaper notoriety.
Conceive my injured feelings when the small boys in the street ran after
me in gangs shouting "Grecian Bend! Grecian Bend!"
Another point that hurt the delicate sensibilities of the concert-going
American public was the fact that at evening concerts I wore low-necked
gowns. On the other side the custom of wearing a dress that was cut down
for any and every appearance after dark, was invariable, and it took me
some time to grasp the cause of the sensation with my modestly
_decollete_ frocks. People, further, found my ease effrontery, and my
carriage, acquired after years of effort, "putting on airs." In spite of
the cordiality of my welcome home, therefore, I had many critics who
were not particularly kind. Although one woman did write, "who ever saw
more simplicity on the stage?" there were plenty of the others who said,
"Clara Louise Kellogg has become 'stuck up' during her sojourn abroad."
As for my innocent desire to be properly and becomingly clothed, it
gave rise to comments that were intended to be quite scathing, if I had
only taken sufficient notice of them to think of them ten minutes after
they had reached my ears. That year there was put on the millinery
market a "Clara Louise" bonnet, by the way, that was supposed to be a
great compliment to me, but that I am afraid I would not have been seen
wearing at any price!
In this connection one champion arose in my defence, however, whose
efforts on my behalf must not be overlooked. He was an Ohio journalist,
and his love of justice was far greater than his knowledge of the French
language. Seeing in some review that Miss Kellogg had "a larger
_repertoire_ than any living _prima donna_," this chivalrous writer
rushed into print as follows:
We do not of course know how Miss Kellogg was dressed in other
cities, but upon the occasion of her last performance here we are
positively certain that her _repertoire_ did not seem to extend out
so far as either Nilsson's or Patti's. It may have been that her
overskirt was cut too narrow to permit of its being gathered into
such a lump behind, or it may have been that it had been crushed
down accidentally, but the fact remains that both of Miss Kellogg's
rivals wore _repertoires_ of a much more extravagant size--very
much to their discredit, we think ...