LONDON AGAIN
After nearly three years of concert and oratorio and racketing about
America on tours, it was a joy to go to England again for another
season. The Peace Jubilee Association asked me to sing at their
celebration in Boston that spring, but I went to London instead. The
offer from the Association was a great compliment, however, and
especially the wording of the resolution as communicated to me by the
secretary.
"Unanimously voted:--That Miss Clara Louise Kellogg, the leading _prima
donna_ of America, receive the special invitation of the Executive
Committee, etc."
The spring season in London was well along when we arrived there and,
before I had been in the city a day, I began to feel at home again.
Newcastle and Dr. Quinn called almost immediately and Alfred Rothschild
sent me flowers, all of which made me realize that this was really
England once more and that I was among old and dear friends.
I was again to sing under Mapleson's management. The new opera house,
built on the site of Her Majesty's that had burned, was highly
satisfactory; and he had nearly all of his old singers again--Titjiens,
Nilsson, and myself among others. Patti and Lucca were still our rivals
at Covent Garden; also Faure and Cotogni; and there was a pretty, young,
new singer from Canada with them, Mme. Albani, who had a light, sweet
voice and was attractive in appearance. Our two innovations at Her
Majesty's were Marie Roze from the Paris Opera Comique--later destined
to be associated with me professionally and with Mapleson
personally--and Italo Campanini. Campanini was the son of a blacksmith
in Italy and had worked at the forge himself for many years before going
on the stage, and was the hero of the hour, for not only was his voice a
very lovely one, but he was also a fine actor. It was worth while to see
his Don Jose. People forgot that Carmen herself was in the opera. Our
other tenor was Capoul, the Frenchman, Trebelli-Bettini was our leading
contralto and my friend Foli--"the Irish Italian from Connecticut"--was
still with us.
Campanini, the idol of the town, was, like most tenors, enormously
pleased with himself. To be sure, he had some reason, with his heavenly
voice, his dramatic gift, and his artistic instinct; but one would like
some day to meet a man gifted with a divine vocal organ and a simple
spirit both, at the same time. It appears to be an impossible
combination. When Mapleson told Campanini that he was to sing with me in
_Lucia_ he frowned and considered the point.
"An American," he muttered doubtfully. "I have never heard her--do I
know that she can sing? I--Campanini--cannot sing with a _prima donna_
of whom I know nothing! Who is this Miss Kellogg anyway?"
"You're quite right," said the Colonel with the most cordial air of
assent. "You'd better hear her before you decide. She's singing Linda
to-night. Go into the stalls and listen to her for a few moments. If you
don't want to sing with her, you don't have to."
That evening Campanini was on hand, ready to controvert the very idea of
an American _prima donna_ daring to sing with him. After the first act
he came out into the foyer and ran into the Colonel.
"Well," remarked that gentleman casually, winking at Jarrett, "can she
sing?"
"Sing?" said Campanini solemnly, "she has the voice of a flute. It is
the absolutely perfect tone. It is a--miracle!"
So, after all, Campanini and I sang together that season in _Lucia_ and
in other operas. While Campanini was a great artist, he was a very petty
man in many ways. A little incident when Capoul was singing _Faust_ one
night is illustrative. Capoul, much admired and especially in America,
was intensely nervous and emotional with a quick temper. Between him and
Italo Campanini a certain rivalry had been developing for some time,
and, whatever may be asserted to the contrary, male singers are much
bitterer rivals than women ever are. On the night I speak of, Campanini
came into his box during the _Salve dimora_ and set down to listen. As
Capoul sang, the Italian's face became lined with a frown of annoyance
and, after a moment or two, he began to drum on the rail before him as
if he could not conceal his exasperation and _ennui_. The longer Capoul
sang, the louder and more irritated the tapping became until most of the
audience was unkind enough to laugh just a little. Poor Capoul tried, in
vain, to sing down that insistent drumming, and, when the act was over,
he came behind the scenes and actually cried with rage.
On what might be called my second _debut_ in London, I had an ovation
almost as warm as my welcome home to my native land had been three years
before. I had forgotten how truly the English people were my friends
until I heard the applause which greeted me as I walked onto the stage
that night in _Linda di Chamouix_. Sir Michael Costa, who was conducting
that year, was always an irascible and inflexible autocrat when it came
to operatic rules and ideals. One of the points of observance upon which
he absolutely insisted was that the opera must never be interrupted for
applause. Theoretically this was perfectly correct; but nearly all good
rules are made to be broken once in a while and it was quite obvious
that the audience intended this occasion to be one of the times. Sir
Michael went on leading his orchestra and the people in front went on
clapping until the whole place became a pandemonium. The house at last,
and while still applauding, began to hiss the orchestra so that, after a
minute of a tug-of-war effect, Sir Michael was obliged to lay down his
baton--although with a very bad grace--and let the applause storm itself
out. I could see him scowling at me as I bowed and smiled and bowed
again, nearly crying outright at the friendliness of my welcome. There
were traitors in his own camp, too, for, as soon as the baton was
lowered, half the orchestra--old friends mostly--joined in the applause!
Sir Michael never before had broken through his rule; and I do not fancy
he liked me any the better for being the person to force upon him this
one exception.
I include here a letter written to someone in America just after this
performance by Bennett of _The London Telegraph_ that pleased me
extremely, both for its general appreciative friendliness and because it
was a _resume_ of the English press and public regarding my former and
my present appearance in England.
Miss Kellogg has not been forgotten during the years which
intervened, and not a few _habitues_ cherished a hope that she
would be led across the Atlantic once more. She was, however,
hardly expected to measure herself against the _creme-de-la-creme_
of the world's _prime donne_ with no preliminary beat of drum and
blowing of trumpet, trusting solely to her own gifts and to the
fairness of an English public. This she did, however, and all the
English love of "pluck" was stirred to sympathy. We felt that here
was a case of the real Anglo-Saxon determination, and Miss Kellogg
was received in a manner which left nothing of encouragement to be
desired. Defeat under such circumstances would have been
honourable, but Miss Kellogg was not defeated. So far from this,
she at once took a distinguished place in our galaxy of "stars";
rose more and more into favour with each representation, and ended,
as Susannah in _Le Nozze di Figaro_ by carrying off the honours
from the Countess of Mlle. Titjiens and the Cherubino of Mlle.
Nilsson. A greater achievement than this last Miss Kellogg's
ambition could not desire. It was "a feather in her cap" which she
will proudly wear back to her native land as a trophy of no
ordinary conflict and success. You may be curious to know the exact
grounds upon which we thus honour your talented countrywoman, and
in stating them I shall do better than were I to criticise
performances necessarily familiar. In the first place, we recognise
in Miss Kellogg an artist, and not a mere singer. People of the
latter class are plentiful enough, and are easily to be
distinguished by the way in which they "reel" off their task--a way
brilliant, perhaps, but exciting nothing more than the admiration
due to efficient mechanism. The artist, on the other hand, shows in
a score of forms that he is more than a machine and that something
of human feeling may be made to combine with technical correctness.
Herein lies the great charm often, perhaps, unconsciously
acknowledged, of Miss Kellogg's efforts. We know at once, listening
to her, that she sings from the depth of a keenly sensitive
artistic nature, and never did anybody do this without calling out
a sympathetic response. It is not less evident that Miss Kellogg
is a consummate musician--that "rare bird" on the operatic boards.
Hence, her unvarying correctness; her lively appreciation of the
composer in his happiest moments, and the manner in which she
adapts her individual efforts to the production of his intended
effects. Lastly, without dwelling upon the charm of a voice and
style perfectly well known to you and ungrudgingly recognised here,
we see in Miss Kellogg a dramatic artist who can form her own
notion of a part and work it out after a distinctive fashion.
Anyone able to do this comes with refreshing effect at a time when
the lyric stage is covered with pale copies of traditionary
excellence. It was refreshing, for example, to witness Miss
Kellogg's Susannah, an embodiment full of realism without
coarseness and _esprit_ without exaggeration. Susannahs, as a rule,
try to be ladylike and interesting. Miss Kellogg's waiting-maid was
just what Beaumarchais intended, and the audience recognised the
truthful picture only to applaud it. For all these reasons, and for
more which I have no space to name, we do honour to the American
_prima donna_, so that whenever you can spare her on your side we
shall be happy to welcome her on ours.
It was during this season in London that Max Maretzek and Max Strakosch
decided to go into opera management together in America; and Maretzek
came over to London to get the company together. Pauline Lucca and I
were to be the _prime donne_ and one of our novelties was to be Gounod's
new opera _Mireille_, founded on the poem by the Provencal poet,
Mistral. I say "new opera" because it was still unknown in America;
possibly because it had been a failure in London where it had already
been produced. "The Magnificent" thought it would be sure to do well in
"the States" on account of the wild Gounod vogue that had been started
by _Faust_ and _Romeo and Juliette_.
[Illustration: First edition of the _Faust_ score, published in 1859 by
Chousens of Paris, now in the Boston Public Library]
I was to sing it; and Colonel Mapleson sent Mr. Jarrett with me to call
on Gounod, who was then living in London, to get what points I could
from the master himself.
Everybody who knows anything about Gounod knows also about Mrs. Welldon.
Georgina Welldon, the wife of an English officer, was an exceedingly
eccentric character to say the least. Even the most straight-laced
biographers refer to the "romantic friendship" between the composer and
this lady--which, after all, is as good a way as any of tagging it. She
ran a sort of school for choristers in London and had, I believe, some
idea of training the poor boys of the city to sing in choirs. Her house
was usually full of more or less musical youngsters. She was, also,
something of a musical publisher and the organiser of a woman's musical
association, whether for orchestral or choral music I am not quite
certain. From this it will be seen that she was, at heart, a New Woman,
although her activities were in a period that was still old-fashioned.
If she were in her prime to-day, she would undoubtedly be a militant
suffragette. She was also noted for the lawsuits in which she figured;
one particular case dragging along into an unconscionable length of time
and being much commented upon in the newspapers.
Gounod and she lived in Tavistock Place, in the house where Dickens
lived so long and that is always associated with his name. On the
occasion of our call, Mr. Jarrett and I were ushered into a study, much
littered and crowded, to wait for the great man. It proved to be a
somewhat long drawn-out wait, for the household seemed to be in a state
of subdued turmoil. We could hear voices in the hall; some one was
asking about a music manuscript for the publishers. Suddenly, a woman
flew into the room where we were sitting. She was unattractive and
unkempt; she wore a rumpled and soiled kimono; her hair was much
tousled; her bare feet were thrust into shabby bedroom slippers; and she
did not look in the least as if she had had her bath. Indeed, I am
expressing her appearance mildly and politely! She made a dive for the
master's writing-table, gathered up some papers--sorting and selecting
with lightning speed and an air of authority--and then darted out of the
room as rapidly as she had entered. It was, of course, Mrs. Welldon, of
whom I had heard so much and whom I had pictured as a fascinating woman.
This is the nearest I ever came to meeting this person who was so
conspicuous a figure of her day, although I have seen her a few other
times. When dressed for the street she was most ordinary looking. Gounod
was in the house, it developed, all the time that we waited, although he
could not attend to us immediately. He was living like a recluse so far
as active professional or social life was concerned, but he was a very
busy man and beset with all manner of duties. When he at last came to
us, he greeted us with characteristic French courtesy. His manners were
exceedingly courtly. He was grey-haired, charming, and very quiet. I
think he was really shy. With apologies, he opened his letters, and,
while giving orders and hearing messages, a pretty incident occurred. A
young girl, very graceful and sweet looking, came into the room. She
hurried forward with a little, impulsive movement and, curtseying deeply
to Gounod, seized one of his hands in both of hers and raised it to her
lips.
"_Cher maitre!_" she murmured adoringly, and flitted away, the master
following her with a smiling glance. It was Nita Giatano, an American,
afterwards Mrs. Moncrieff, now the widow of an English officer, who was
studying with Gounod and living there and who, later, became fairly well
known as a singer. Then Gounod proceeded to say pleasant things about my
_Marguerite_ and was interested in hearing that I was planning to do
_Mireille_. We then and there went over the music together and he gave
me an annotated score of _Mireille_ with his autograph and marginal
directions. I treasured it for years afterwards; and a most tragic fate
overtook it at last. I sent it to a book-binder to be bound, and, when
the score came back, did not immediately look through it. It was some
time later, indeed, that I opened it to show it off to someone to whom I
had been speaking of the precious notes and autograph. I turned page
after page--there were no notes. I looked at the title page--there was
no signature. That wretched book-binder had not scrupled to substitute a
new and valueless score for my beloved copy, and had doubtless sold the
original, with Gounod's autograph and annotations, to some collector for
a pretty sum. When I tried to hunt the man up, I found that he had gone
out of business and moved away. He was not to be found and I have never
been able to regain my score.
_Mireille_ was not given for several years, as affairs turned out, and I
rather congratulated myself that this was so, for it was not one of
Gounod's best productions. I once met Mme. Gounod in Paris, or, rather,
in its environs, at a garden party given at the Menier--the Chocolat
Menier--place. She was a well-mannered, commonplace Frenchwoman, rather
colourless and uninteresting. I came to understand that even Georgina
Welldon, with her untidy kimono and her lawsuits, might have been more
entertaining. I asked Gounod, on this occasion, to play some of the
music of _Romeo and Juliette_. He did so and, at the end, said:
"I see you like my children!"
Gounod was chiefly famous in London for the delightful recitals he gave
from time to time of his own music. He had no voice, but he could render
programmes of his own songs with great success. Everybody was
enthusiastic over the beautiful and intricate accompaniments that were
such a novelty. He was so splendid a musician that he could create a
more charming effect without a voice than another man could have
achieved with the notes of an angel. Poor Gounod, like nearly all
creative genuises, had a great many bitter struggles before he obtained
recognition. Count Fabri has told me that, while _Faust_ (the opera
which he sold for twelve hundred dollars) was running to packed houses
and the whole world was applauding it, Gounod himself was really in
need. His music publisher met him in the streets of Paris, wearing a
wretched old hat and looking very seedy.
"Why on earth," cried the publisher, "don't you get a new hat?"
"I did not make enough on _Faust_ to pay for one," was the bitter
answer.