ACROSS THE SEAS AGAIN
I was glad to be going again to England. My farewell to my native land
was, however, more like an ovation than a farewell. One long table of
the ship's grand saloon was heaped with flowers sent me by friends and
"admirers." The list of my fellow passengers on this occasion was a
distinguished one, including Bishop Littlejohn, Bishop Scarborough,
Bishop Clarkson, and other Episcopal prelates who were going over to
attend the conference in London; the Rev. Dr. John Hall; Maurice Grau,
Max Strakosch, Henry C. Jarrett, John McCullough, Lester Wallack,
General Rathbone of Albany, Colonel Ramsay of the British army,
Frederick W. Vanderbilt, and Joseph Andrede, the Cape of Good Hope
millionaire. I was interviewed by a _Sun_ reporter, on deck, and assured
him that I was going abroad for rest only.
"No," I said, "I shall not sing a note. How could I, after such a
season--one hundred and fifty nights of constant labour. No; I shall
breathe the sea air, and that of the mountains, and see
Paris--delightful Paris! With such a lovely summer before me, it would
be a little hard to have to work."
It was like old times to be in England once more. Yet I found many
changes. One of them was in the state of my old friend James McKenzie
who had been in the East Indian trade and had a delightful place in
Scotland adjoining that of the Queen, through which she used to drive
with the incomparable John Brown. I had been invited up there on my
first visit to England, but was not able to accept. When I asked for him
this time I learned that he had been knighted for loaning money to the
Prince of Wales. A girl I knew quite well told me, this year, a touching
little story of a half-fledged romance which had taken place at Sir
James's place in Scotland. The Prince who was known in England as
"Collars and Cuffs" and who died young, was with the McKenzies for the
hunting season and there met my friend,--such a pretty American girl she
was! They fell in love with each other and, though of course nothing
could come of it, they played out their pathetic little drama like any
ordinary young lovers.
"Come down early to dinner," the Prince would whisper. "I'll have a bit
of heather for you!"
And when they met in London, later, he took her to Marlborough House and
showed her the royal nurseries and the shelves where his toys were still
kept. The girl nearly broke down when she told me about it. I have
thought of the little story more than once since.
"He hated to have me courtesy to him," she said. "He used to whisper
quite fiercely: 'don't you courtesy to me when you can avoid it--I can't
bear to have you do it!'"
My new _role_ in London that season was Aida. For, of course, I was
singing! It went so well that Mapleson (pere) wanted to extend my
engagement. But I was very, very tired and, for some reason--this,
probably,--not in my usual "form," to borrow an Anglicism, so I decided
to go to Paris and rest, meanwhile waiting for something to develop that
I liked well enough to accept. Maurice Strakosch had been my agent in
England, but it seemed to me that his methods were becoming somewhat
antiquated. So I gave him up and decided that I would get along without
any agent at all. I also gave up Colonel Mapleson. Mapleson owed me
money--although, for that matter, he owed everybody. Poor Titjiens sang
for years for nothing. So, when, as soon as I was fairly settled in
Paris, the Colonel sent me earnest and prayerful summons to come back to
London and go on singing _Aida_, I turned a deaf ear and sent back word
that I was too tired.
My first appearance in London this season was at a Royal Concert at
Buckingham Palace to which, as before, I was "commanded." There were
present many royalties, any number of foreign ambassadors, dukes,
duchesses, marquises, marchionesses, archbishops, earls, countesses,
lords, and viscounts. Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales wore, I
remember, a gown of creme satin brocade trimmed with point d'Alencon,
trimmed with pansy-coloured velvet; and her jewels were diamonds,
pearls, and sapphires. Her tiara was of diamonds and she was decorated
with many orders. Said an American press notice:
Miss Kellogg, it is a pleasure to say, achieved a complete triumph
and received the congratulations of the Prince and Princess of
Wales and of everyone present.... And not a whit behind this was
the great triumph she gained on the evening of June 19th, in her
character of Aida, without doubt the most impressive and ambitious
of her impersonations, and which has won for her in America the
highest praise from musical people and public on account of the
intensity of feeling which she throws into the dramatic action and
music. The London _Times_ critic, who is undoubtedly the best in
London, bestows praise in unequivocal language for the excellence
of Miss Kellogg's interpretation. That Miss Kellogg has been so
successful as a singer will be glad news to her friends, and that
she has been so successful as an American singer will be still
better news to those people who feel keenly for our national
reputation as lovers and promoters of the fine arts.
In an interview in London Max Strakosch was asked with regard to his
plans for another season:
"Why do you contemplate giving English opera instead of Italian?"
"For two reasons," he replied. "The first is that English is very
popular now and the great generality of people in England and
America prefer it. This is especially the case in England. The
second reason is that, although Kellogg is the equal of an Italian
operatic star, fully as fine as Gerster, immeasurably superior to
Hauck, people with set ideas will always have their favourites, and
partisanship is possible; whereas in English opera Kellogg stands
alone, unapproachable, the indisputable queen."
"What is all this talk I hear about a lot of rich men coming to the
front in New York to support Mapleson's operatic ventures with
their money?"
"Why, it is all talk; that's just it. That sort of talk has been
talked for years back, but they never do anything. Why didn't these
rich men that want opera in New York give me any money? I stood
ready to bring out any artists they wanted if they would guarantee
me against loss. But they never did anything of the kind, and I
have brought out the leading artists of our times at my own risks.
The only man who's worth anything of all that lot that's talking so
much about opera now in New York is Mr. Bennett. He's got the
_Herald_, and that has influence."
"What do you think of Americans as an opera-going people?" he was
asked.
"While we have many music-lovers in America, it is nevertheless a
difficult matter to cater to our public," Max replied. "Here in
England there is such an immense constituency for opera; people who
have solid fortunes, which nothing disturbs, and who want opera and
all other beautiful and luxurious things, and will pay largely for
them. In America hard times may set everybody to economising and,
of course, one of the first things cut off is going to the opera."
"Was all that gossip about disputes and jealousies between Kellogg
and Gary last season a managerial dodge for notoriety?"
"Dear me, no. I haven't the slightest idea how all that stuff and
nonsense started. Kellogg and Gary were always good friends. If
Gary wasn't pleased with her treatment last year, why should she
engage with us again? Besides, what rivalry could there possibly be
between a soprano and a contralto? The soprano is the _prima donna_
incontestably, the star of the troupe."
In Paris my mother and I took an apartment on the Rue de Chaillot, just
off the Champs Elysees. One of the first things I did in Paris was to
refuse an offer to sing in Budapesth. While in Paris I, of course, did
sing many times, but it was always unprofessionally. I had a wonderful
stay in Paris, and went to everything from horse shows to operas. Those
were the charming days when Mme. Adam had her _salon_. I met there some
of the most gifted and brilliant people of the age. She was the editor
of the _Nouvelle Revue_, and it was through her that I met Coquelin. He
frequently recited at her receptions; and it was a great privilege to
hear his wonderful French and his inimitable intonation in an _intime_
way.
The house where I enjoyed visiting more than any other except the
Adams', was that of Theodore Robin, who had married a rich American
widow and had a beautiful home on Parc Monceau. His baritone voice was
a very fine one, and he had studied at first with a view to making a
career for himself; but he was naturally indolent and, having married
money, his indolence never decreased. Valentine Black was another friend
of ours and we spent many an evening at his house listening to Godard
and Widor play their songs. Widor was the organist at Saint Sulpice and
had composed some charming lyric music. Godard was a very small man,
intensely musical. He had the curious gift of being able to copy another
composer's style exactly. Few people know, for instance, that he wrote
all the recitative music for _Carmen_. It is almost incredible that
another brain than Bizet's should have so marvellously caught the spirit
and the mood of that music.
The Stanley Club gave me a dinner in the following March at which my
mother and I were the only ladies present. Mr. Ryan was the President of
the Club and represented the _New York Herald_. The foreign
correspondents of the _Evening Post_ and the _Boston Advertiser_ were
there, and next to Ryan sat Richard Watson Gilder who was representing
the _Century Magazine_. There were also there several poets and writers,
and more than one painter whose picture hung in the _Salon_ of that
year. No one asked me to sing; but I felt that I wanted to and did so.
After the "Jewel Song" and the "Polonaise," someone asked for "Way Down
on the Suwanee River." I sang it, and was struck by the incongruous
touch of the little negro melody, the brilliant Stanley Club, and all
Paris outside.
No one can live in the atmosphere of artistic Paris without being
interested in other branches of art besides one's own. That is a
charming trait of French people;--they are not a bit prejudiced when it
comes to recognising forms of genius that are unfamiliar. The stupidest
Parisian painter will weep over Tschaikowsky's _Pathetique Symphony_ or
will wildly applaud one of the rather cumbersome Racine tragedies at the
Theatre Francais. I knew Cabanel quite well (not, I hasten to add, that
he would be apt to cultivate an artistic taste in anybody) and I met
Jules Stewart at the Robins', whose father was the greatest collector of
Fortuneys in the world. I think it was he who took me to the Loan
Exhibition of the Barbizon School of Painting that year. The pictures
were hung beautifully, I remember, so that one could see the stages of
their development.
It was about the same time that I first heard Josephine de Reszke in
Paris. In any case it was somewhere in the seventies. She was a soprano
with a beautiful voice but not an attractive personality. Her neck was
exceptionally short and set so far down into her shoulders that she just
escaped deformity. She was very much the blonde, northern type, and
still a young woman. I have heard that she did not have to sing for
monetary reasons. A few years later she married a wealthy Polish banker
and left the stage. At the time I first heard her the de Reszke men were
not singing. It was in _Le Roi de Lahore_ that I heard her, with
Lascelle. I never listened to anything more magnificently done than
Lascelle's singing of the big baritone _aria_. Maurel followed him as a
baritone. He was a great artist also, with possibly more intelligence in
his singing than Lascelle. Lascelle relied entirely on his glorious
voice; in consequence he never realised all in his career that might
have been possible. In reality, if you have one great gift, you have to
develop as many other gifts as possible in order to present and to
protect that one properly! A little later I heard Maurel in _Iago_.
(This reminds me of _Othello_ in Munich, when Vogel, the tenor, sang out
of tune and nearly spoiled Maurel's work). What an actor, and what an
intelligence! One felt in Maurel a man who had studied his _roles_ from
the original plots. He played a great part in costuming, but, curiously
enough, he could never play parts of what I call elemental
picturesqueness. His Amonasro in _Aida_ was good, but it was a bit too
clean and tidy. He looked as if he were just out of a Turkish bath,
immaculate, in spite of his uncivilised guise. He could, however, play a
small part as if it were the finest _role_ in the piece; and he had an
inimitable elegance and art, even with a certain primitive romantic
quality lacking. But what days those were--of what marvellous singing
companies! I hear no such vocalism now, in spite of the elaborate and
expensive opera that is put on each year.
In my mother's diary of this period I find:
Louise presented to Verdi and we had no idea she would appear in
any newspaper in consequence....
She went to hear the damnation of _Faust_ last Sunday and says the
orchestra was _very_ fine. The singing is not so much. She went to
hear _Aida_ last night at the Grau Opera House with Verdi to
conduct and Krauss as Aida. Chorus and orchestra fine artists.
_Well_--she was _disappointed_! Krauss sings so false and has not
as much power as Louise. She came home quite proud of herself. Took
her opera and marked everything. Says her _tempo_ was very nearly
correct; but yet she was disappointed. Krauss changes her dress.
Louise does not....
We went to Miss Van Zandt's _debut_. She made a veritable success.
Has a very light tone. The _Theatre Comique_ is small. She is
extremely slender and, if not worked too hard, will develop into a
fine artist. Our box joined Patti's. I sat next to her and we lost
no time in chatting over everything that was interesting to us
both. She told me her whole story. I was very much interested; and
had a most agreeable evening. Was glad I went.
In a letter written by my mother to my father I find another mention of
my meeting Verdi:
"Louise was invited to breakfast with Verdi, the composer of _Aida_. She
said he was the most natural, unaffected, and the most amiable man
(musical) she ever met."