"THE THREE GRACES"
In 1877, I embarked upon a venture that was destined, in spite of much
success, to be one of the most unpleasant experiences of my professional
career. Max Strakosch and Colonel Mapleson, the younger--Henry
Mapleson--organised a Triple-Star Tour all over America, the three being
Marie Roze, Annie Louise Cary, and Clara Louise Kellogg. The press
called us "The Three Graces" and wrote much fulsome nonsense about
"three pure and irreproachable women appearing together upon the
operatic stage, etc." The classification was one I did not care for.
Here, after many intervening years, I enter and put on record my
protest. At the time it all served as advertising to boom the tour and,
as it was most of it arranged for by Mapleson himself, I had to let it
go by in dignified silence.
Nor was Henry Mapleson any better than he should have been either, in
his personal life or in his business relations, as his wives and I have
reason to know. I say "wives" advisedly, for he had several. Marie Roze
was never really married to him but, as he called her Mrs. Mapleson, she
ought to be counted among the number. At the time of our "Three-Star
Tour," she was playing the _role_ of Mapleson's wife and finding it
somewhat perilous. She was a mild and gentle woman, very sweet-natured
and docile and singularly stupid, frequently incurring her managerial
"husband's" rage by doing things that he thought were impolitic, for he
had always to manage every effect. She seldom complained of his
treatment but nobody could know them without being sorry for her.
Previous to this relation with Mapleson, Marie Roze had married an
exceedingly fine man, a young American singer of distinction, who died
soon after the marriage. She had two sons, one of whom, Raymond Roze,
passed himself off as her nephew for years. I believe he is a musical
director of position and success in London at the present day. Henry
Mapleson did not inherit any of the strong points of his father, Col. J.
M. Mapleson of London, who really did know something about giving opera,
although he had his failings and was difficult to deal with. Henry
Mapleson always disliked me and, over and over again, he put Marie in a
position of seeming antagonism to me; but I never bore malice for she
was innocent enough. She had some spirit tucked away in her temperament
somewhere, only, when we first knew her, she was too intimidated to let
it show. When she was singing _Carmen_ she was the gentlest mannered
gypsy that was ever stabbed by a jealous lover--a handsome Carmen but
too sweet and good for anything. Carlton was the Escamillo and he said
to her quite crossly once at rehearsal,
"You don't make love to me enough! You don't put enough devil into it!"
Marie flared up for a second.
"I can be a devil if I like," she informed him. But, in spite of this
assertion, she never put any devil into anything she did--on the stage
at least.
[Illustration: =Colonel Henry Mapleson=
From a photograph by Downey]
Very few singers ever seem to get really inside Carmen. Some of the
modern ones come closer to her; but in my day there was an unwritten law
against realism in emotion. In most of the old standard _roles_ it was
all right to idealise impulses and to beautify the part generally, but
Carmen is too terribly human to profit by such treatment. She cannot be
glossed over. One can, if one likes, play _Traviata_ from an elegant
point of view, but there is nothing elegant about Merimee's Gypsy.
Neither is there any sentiment. Carmen is purely--or, rather,
impurely--elemental, a complete little animal. I used to love the part,
though. When I was studying the part, I got hold of Prosper Merimee's
novel and read it and considered it until I really understood the girl's
nature which, _en passant_, I may say is more than the critic of _The
New York Tribune_ had done. I doubt if he had ever read Merimee at all,
for he said that my rendering of Carmen was too realistic! The same
column spoke favourably in later years, of Mme. Calve's performance, so
it was undoubtedly a case of _autres temps, autres moeurs_! Carmen
was, of course, too low for me. It was written for a low mezzo, and
parts of it I could not sing without forcing my lower register. The
Habanera went very well by being transposed half a tone higher; but the
card-playing scene was another matter. The La Morte _encore_ lies very
low and I could not raise it. Luckily the orchestra is quite light there
and I could sing reflectively as if I were saying to myself, as I sat on
the bales, "My time is coming!"
[Illustration: Musical notation: Ri-pe-te-ra: l'av-el!....an-cor!
au-cor!..La Morte n-cor!]
In the fortune-telling quartette I arranged with one of the Gypsy
girls--Frasquita, I think it was,--to sing my part and let me sing hers,
which was very high, and thus relieve me.
A _role_ in which I made my _debut_ while I was with Marie Roze and Gary
was Aida. Mapleson was anxious that Roze should have it, but Strakosch
gave it to me. One of Mapleson's critics wrote severely about my sitting
on a low seat instead of on the steps of the dais during the return of
Rhadames, I remember in this connection. But nothing could prevent Aida
from being a success and it became one of my happiest _roles_. A year or
two later when I sang it in London my success was confirmed. Gary was
Amneris in it and ranked next to the Amneris for whom Verdi wrote it,
although she rather over-acted the part. I have never seen an Amneris
who did not. There is something about the part that goes to the head.
Speaking of my new _roles_ at that period, I must not forget to mention
my mad scene from _Hamlet_; nor my one act of _Lohengrin_ that I added
to my _repertoire_. Lucia had always been one of my successes; and I
believe that one of the points that made my Senta interesting was that I
interpreted her as a girl obsessed with what was almost a monomania. She
was a highly abnormal creature and that was the way I played her. It was
a satisfaction to me that a few people here and there really appreciated
this rather subtle interpretation. In commendation of this
interpretation there appeared an anonymous letter in _The Chicago
Inter-Ocean_, a part of which read:
"In her rendering of this strange character (Senta) Miss Kellogg
keeps constantly true to the ideal of the great composer, Wagner.
In her acting, as well as in her singing, we see nothing of the
woman; only the abnormal manifestations of the subject of a
monomania. The writer is informed by a physician whose observations
of the insane, extending over many years, enable him to judge of
Miss Kellogg's acting in this character, and he does not hesitate
to say that she delineates truthfully the victim of a mind
diseased. Such a delineation can only be the result of a careful
study of the insane, aided by a wonderful intuitive faculty. The
representation of the mad Ophelia in the last act of _Hamlet_,
given by Miss Kellogg last Saturday, fully confirms the writer in
the belief that no woman since Ristori possesses such power in
rendering the manifestations of the insane."
[Illustration: =Clara Louise Kellogg as Aida=
From a photograph by Mora]
The portion of my tour with Roze and Cary under the management of Max
Strakosch that took me to the far West, was particularly uncomfortable.
Fortunately the financial results compensated in a large measure for the
annoyances. Not only did I have Mapleson's influence and his
determination to push Marie Roze at all costs to contend with, and the
trying actions and personality of Annie Louise Cary, but I also was
subjected to much embarrassment from a manager named Bianchi, with whom,
early in my career, I had partially arranged to go to California. Our
agreement had fallen through because he was unable to raise the sum
promised me; so, when I did go, with Roze and Cary and Strakosch, he was
exceedingly bitter against me.
Annie Louise Cary was, strictly speaking, a contralto; yet she contrived
to be considered as a mezzo and even had a try at regular soprano
_roles_ like _Mignon_. It is almost superfluous to state that she
disliked me. So far as I was concerned, she would have troubled me very
little indeed if she had been willing to let me alone. I would not know
her socially, but professionally I always treated her with entire
courtesy and would have been satisfied to hold with her the most
amicable relations in the world, as I have with all singers with whom I
have appeared in public. Annie Louise Cary, however, willed it
otherwise. _The Tribune_ once printed a long editorial in which Max
Strakosch was described as pacing up and down the room distractedly,
crying: "Oh, what troubles! For God's sake, don't break up my troupe!"
This was rather exaggerated; but I daresay there was more truth than
fiction in it. Poor Max did have his troubles!
Max Strakosch was an Austrian by birth and, having lived the greater
part of twenty-five years in this country, considered himself an
American. He began his career with Parodi, somewhere back in the rosy
dawn of our operatic history. Parodi was a great dramatic singer--the
only woman of her day--brought over as the rival of Jenny Lind. Later
Max Strakosch was with Thalberg, after which he was connected with the
importation of various opera troupes having in their lists such singers
as Madame Gazzaniga, Madame Coulsen, Albertini, Stigelli, Brignoli, and
Susini. In all these early enterprises he was associated with his
brother Maurice. He would himself have become a musician, but Maurice
advised differently. So, as he expressed it, he always engaged his
artists "by ear"; that is, he had them sing to him and in that way
judged of their availability. Maurice used to say to him, "If you are
merely a technical musician you can only tell what will please
musicians. If you have general musical culture, and know the public, you
can tell what will please the public." And, as Max sometimes amplified,
"I have discovered this to be correct in many cases. Jarrett, who acted
as the agent of Nilsson and Lucca, is not a practical musician. Neither
is Morelli, who is a great impresario; neither is Mapleson. But they
know what the public want and they furnish it." After he separated from
his brother in operatic management, Max travelled with Gottschalk, with
Carlotta Patti, and first brought Nilsson to America. Capoul, Campanini,
and Maurel all made their appearance on the American operatic stage
under his guidance.
Do you find your artists difficult to manage? [he was asked by a
San Francisco reporter].
In some respects, yes, [was his reply]. They have certain operas
which they wish to sing and they decline to learn others. The
public get tired of these and demand novelty. With Miss Kellogg
there is never this trouble. She knows forty operas and knows them
well. She has a wonderful musical memory. She is a student, and
learns everything new that is published. She has worked her way to
her present high position step by step. She is sure of her
position. She has an independent fortune, but loves her art and her
country. But she is not obliged to confine herself to America. She
has offers from London, Paris, and St. Petersburg, and will
probably visit those places next season. She is just now at the
zenith of her powers. She has learned _Paul and Virginia_, a very
charming opera written for Capoul, and which will be given here for
the first time in the United States. If we give our contemplated
season of opera here she will sing Valentine in _The Huguenots_ for
the first time.
This same reporter has described Max as follows:
He can be seen almost at any hour about the Palace Hotel when not
engaged with a myriad of musicians--opera singers long ago stranded
on this coast, young vocalists with voices to be tried, chorus
singers seeking employment, players on instruments wanting to
perform in his orchestra, and people who come on all imaginable
errands--or looking at the objects of curiosity about the city. He
is always in a state of vibration; has a tongue forever in motion
and a body never at rest. He is as demonstrative as a Frenchman. He
talks with all the oscillations, bobs, shrugs, and nervous
twitchings of the most mercurial Parisian. He has a pronounced
foreign accent. When speaking, his voice runs over the entire
gamut, only stopping at _C_ sharp above the lines. In the
dining-room he attracts the attention of guests and waiters by the
eagerness of his manner. When interested in the subject of
conversation, he throws his arms sideways, endangering the lives of
his neighbours with his knife and fork, rises in his seat, makes
extravagant gestures.... His greeting is always cordial,
accompanied by a grasp of the hand like a patent vice or the gentle
nip of a hay-press.
Mlle. Ilma de Murska, "The Hungarian Nightingale," was with us part of
the time on this tour. She was a well-known Amina in _Sonnambula_ and
appeared in our all-star casts of _Don Giovanni_. She was said to have
had five husbands. I know she had a chalk-white face, a belt of solid
gold, and a menagerie of snakes and lizards that she carried about with
her. This is all I remember with any vividness of Murska.
It all seems long, long ago; and, I find, it is the ridiculously
unimportant things that stand out most clearly in my memory. For
instance, we gave extra concerts, of course, and one of them lasted so
long, thanks to _encores_ and general enthusiasm, that Strakosch had to
send word to hold the train by which we were leaving. But the audience
wanted more, and yet more, and at last I had to go out on the stage and
say:
"There's a train waiting for me! If I sing again, I'll miss that train!"
Then the people laughingly consented to let me go.
Another funny little episode happened in San Francisco, when I did for
once break down in the middle of a scene. It was--let me see--I think it
must have been in our last season of English opera, instead of in "The
Three Graces" tour, for it occurred in _The Talisman_, but speaking of
California suggests it to me. We carried six Russian singers. They all
joined the Greek Church choir later. One of them was a little man about
five feet high, with a sweet voice, but an extremely nervous
temperament. There was an unimportant _role_ in _The Talisman_ of a
crusading soldier who had to rush on and sing a phrase to the effect
that St. George's boats and horses were approaching from both sides; I
do not recall the words. The only man who could sing the "bit" was our
five-foot Russian friend. He had to wear a large Saracen helmet and
carry a shield six feet high; and his entrance was a running one. I,
playing Lady Edith Plantagenet, looked around to see the poor little
chap come staggering along under the immense shield and to hear a very
shaky and frightened voice gasp: "Sire, St. George's floats and boats,
and flounts and mounts--" I tried to sing "A traitor! A traitor!" but
got only as far as "A trai--" when I was overcome with an impulse of
laughter and the curtain had to be rung down!
I recall, too, a visit I had from a Chinese woman. I had bought
something from a Chinese shop in San Francisco, and the wife of the
merchant, dressed most ceremoniously and accompanied by four servants,
came to see me and expressed her desire to have me call on her. So a
cousin who was with me and I went, expecting to see a Chinese interior;
but we found the most _banal_ of American furnishings and surroundings.
Afterwards we visited Chinatown and one of the opium dens, where we saw
the whole process of opium smoking by the men there, lying in bunks
along the wall like shelves. It was on this trip, too, when going West,
that, as we reached the Junction in Utah to branch off to Salt Lake
City, we found the tracks were all filled up with the funeral
train--flat decorated cars with seats--left from the funeral of Brigham
Young.
But the strongest recollection of all--yes, even than the troubles
between Annie Louise Cary and myself--stands out, of that Western tour,
the knowledge of the good friends I won, personally and professionally,
a collective testimonial of which remains with me in the form of a large
gold brooch shaped like a lyre, across which is an enamelled bar of
music from _Faust_ delicately engraved in gold and with diamonds used as
the notes. On the back is inscribed:
"Farewell from friends who love thee."
The same year I sang at the triennial festival of the Haendel and Haydn
Society of Boston. Emma Thursby, a high coloratura soprano, was with us.
So were Charles Adams and M. W. Whitney. Gary also sang. It was a very
brilliant musical event for the Boston of those days. It was in Boston,
too, although a little later, that Von Bulow called on me and, speaking
of practising on the piano, showed me his fingers, upon the tips of
every one of which were very tough corns. In further conversation he
remarked, with regard to Wagner, "Ah, he married my widow!" When singing
in Boston one night, during "The Three Graces" tour, at a performance of
_Mignon_, there was noted by one newspaper man who was present the
somewhat curious fact that in singing that Italian opera only one of the
principals sang in his or in her native tongue. Cary was an American,
Roze a Frenchwoman, Tom Karl (Carroll) an Irishman, Verdi (Green) an
American, and myself. The only Italian was Frapoli, the new tenor.
[Illustration: =Faust Brooch Presented to Clara Louise Kellogg=]
In 1878, on a Western trip, I remember my making a point, in some place
in Kansas, of singing in an institute on Sunday for the pleasure of the
inmates. We had done this sort of thing frequently before, notably in
Utica. So we went to the prison to sing to the prisoners. I said to the
company, "I am going to sing to give _pleasure_, and not a hymn is to be
in the programme!" When I was told of the desperadoes in the place I was
almost intimidated. The guards were particularly imposing. I played my
own accompaniments and I sang negro melodies. I never had such an
audience, of all my appreciative audiences. Never, I feel sure, have I
given quite so much pleasure as to those lawless prisoners out in
Kansas.