THE WANDERLUST AND WHERE IT LED ME
That season of 1879 in Paris was certainly a wonderful one; and yet,
before it was over, I caught that strange fever of unrest that sends
birds migrating and puts the Romany tribes on the move. With me it came
as a result of over-fatigue and ill-health; an instinctive craving for
the medicine of change. The preceding London season had been exacting
and, in Paris, I had not had a moment in which to really rest. Although
the days had been filled most pleasantly and interestingly, they had
been filled to over-flowing, and I was very, very tired. So, in the grip
of the wanderlust, we packed our trunks and went to Aix-les-Bains. We
had not the slightest idea what we would do next. My mother was not very
well, either, and my coloured maid, Eliza, had to be in attendance upon
her a good deal of the time, so that I was forced to consider the detail
of proper chaperonage. We were in a French settlement and I was a _prima
donna_, fair game for gossip and comment. Therefore, I invited a friend
of mine, a charming young Englishwoman, down from Paris to visit me. She
was very curious about America, I remember. She was always asking me
about "the States" and was especially interested in my accounts of the
anti-negro riots. The fact that they had been almost entirely instigated
by the Irish Catholics in New York excited her so that she felt obliged
to go and talk with a priest in Aix about it. It was she, also, who said
something one day that I thought both amusing and significant.
"My dear," she exclaimed, "tell me what are 'buttered nuts'?"
"Never heard of them," I replied.
"Oh, yes, my dear Louise, you must have! They are in all American
books!"
Of course she meant _butternuts_, as I laughingly explained. A moment
later she observed meditatively, "you know, I never take up an American
novel that I don't read some description of food!"
I think what she said was quite true. I have remarked it since. Although
I do not consider that we are a greedy nation in practice when it comes
to food, we do love reading and hearing about good things to eat.
Presently, as my mother felt better and had no real need of me, I
decided to take a little trip, leaving her at Aix with Eliza. Not quite
by myself, of course. I never reached such a degree of emancipation as
that. But I asked my English friend to go with me, and one fine day she
and I set out in search of whatever entertaining thing might come our
way. I had been so held down to routine all my life, my comings and
goings had been so ordered and so sensible, that I deeply desired to do
a bit of real gypsy wandering without the handicap of a travelling
schedule. No travelling is so delightful as this sort. Don Quixote it
was, if I remember rightly, who let his horse wander whithersoever he
pleased, "believing that in this consisted the very being of
adventures."
We went first to Geneva and so over the Simplon Pass into Italy. We
dreamed among the lakes, reading guide-books to help us decide on our
next stopping-point. So, on and on, until after a while we reached
Vienna. Three hours after my arrival there Alfred Fischoff, the Austrian
impresario, routed me out.
"Where are you bound for?" he wanted to know.
"Nowhere. That is just the beauty of it!"
"Ah!" he commented understandingly. And then he asked, "How would you
like to sing?"
Even though I was on a pleasure trip the idea allured me, for I always
like to sing.
"Sing where?" I questioned.
"Here, in Vienna."
"I couldn't. I don't sing in German," I objected.
"You could sing _als Gast_" (as a guest), he said.
Finally it was so arranged and, I may add, I was the only _prima donna_
except Nilsson who had ever been permitted to sing in Italian at the
Imperial Opera House, while the other artists sang in German. A letter
from my mother to my father at that time discloses a light upon her
point of view.
"Louise telegraphed for Eliza and her costumes. I thought at first she
was crazy, but it appears she was sane after all. A fine Vienna
engagement...."
It was an undertaking to travel in Germany in those days. The German
railway officials spoke nothing but German and, furthermore, they are
never adaptable and quick like the Italians. In France or Italy they
understood you whether you spoke their language or not; but a Teuton has
to have everything translated into his own untranslatable tongue. When
my mother had finally gathered together my costumes, she wrote out a
long document that she had translated into German, concerning all that
Eliza was to do, and where she was to go, and gave it to her so that
she could produce it along the way and be passed on to the next official
without explanation or complication. And after this fashion Eliza and my
costumes reached me safely. She was a good traveller and a good maid.
She was also very popular in that part of the world. Negroes had no
particular stigma attached to them on the Continent. Many of them were
no darker of hue than the Hindu and Mohammedan royalties who journeyed
there occasionally. So, wherever we went, my good, dark-skinned Eliza
was a real belle.
There was much to interest me in Vienna, not only as a foreign capital
of note, but also as a curiosity. In a long life, and after many and
diverse experiences, I never had been in a city so entirely bound up in
its own interests and traditions. The luckless sinner battering vainly
upon the gates of Heaven has a better fighting chance, all told, than
has the ambitious outsider who aspires to social recognition by the
Viennese aristocracy. If an American is ever heard to say that he or she
has been received by Viennese society, those hearing the speech may
laugh in their sleeve and wonder what society it was. The thing cannot
be done. A handle to one's name, an estate, all the little earmarks of
"nobility" are not only required but insisted on. I believe it to be a
safe statement to make that no one without a title, and a title
recognised by the Austrians as one of distinction, can be received into
the inner circle. Even diplomatic representatives of republics are not
exempt from this ruling. They may have the wealth of the Indies, and
their wives may possess the beauty of Helen herself, and yet they are
not admitted. For this reason Austria is a most difficult post for
republican legations. Republican representatives do not stay there
long. Usually, the report is that they are recalled for diplomatic
reasons, or their health has failed, or some other pride-saving excuse
to satisfy a democratic populace. Vienna was, and I suppose is, the
dullest Court in the whole world. The German Court at one time had the
distinction of being the dullest, but that has looked up a bit during
the reign of the present Kaiser. But Austria! The society of Vienna has
absolutely no interest in anything or anybody outside its own sacred
Inner Circle.
On one occasion I was guilty of a great breach of etiquette. Meyerbeer's
son-in-law, a Baron of good lineage, was calling on me, and a
correspondent from _The London Daily Telegraph_, whom I had met socially
and not professionally, happened to be present. Although I knew from my
foreign experiences that possibly it was hardly the correct thing to do,
I, not unnaturally, presented them to each other. To my surprise the
Baron became stiff and the young Englishman somewhat ill at ease. I must
say, however, the Englishman carried it off better than the Baron did.
When the Austrian had departed, my newspaper acquaintance told me that I
had committed a social _faux pas_ in making them known to each other.
Introductions are absolutely _taboo_ between titled persons and
"commoners," as they are sternly called. A baron could not meet a
newspaper man!
As a case in point, an Englishman of very distinguished connections
arrived in Vienna at the time of one of the Court balls. He applied at
his Embassy for an invitation, but was told that such a thing would be
quite impossible. Viennese etiquette was too rigid, etc. Therefore, he
did not go to the ball. But it so chanced that, a little later, when he
went to call on the British Ambassador, he mentioned, casually enough,
that he had a courtesy title but never used it when travelling.
"Why didn't you say so?" exclaimed the Ambassador. "I could have got you
an invitation quite easily, if you had only explained that!"
Even the opera was very official and imperial. The Court Theatre was a
government house, and the manager of it an _Intendant_ and a rather
grand person. In my time he was Baron Hoffman; and he and the Baroness
asked me often to their home and placed boxes at the opera at my
disposal, this last courtesy being one that the regular artists at the
opera are never permitted to receive. The Imperial Opera House of Vienna
is perhaps the most complete operatic organisation in existence and
especially, at that time, was the company rich in fine _prime donne_.
Mme. Materna was considered to be the greatest dramatic singer then
living. Mlle. Bianchi was a marvellous _chanteuse legere_, the equal of
Gerster. Mme. Ehn was the most poetical of _prime donne_ and not unlike
Nilsson. Of Lucca's fame it is needless to speak again.
I sang seven _roles_ in Vienna: _Lucia_, the _Ballo in Maschera_,
_Mignon_, _Traviata_, _Trovatore_, _Marta_, and one act of
_Hamlet_,--the mad scene, of course. It was during _Marta_ that I had
paid to me one of the most satisfying compliments of my life. Dr.
Hanslick was then the greatest musical critic of Europe, a distinguished
and highly cultivated musical scholar, even if he did war against Wagner
and the new school. To the astonishment of the whole theatre, between
the acts, he wandered in by himself behind the scenes to call upon me
and offer his congratulations. Only one other singer had ever been thus
honoured by him before. He was graciousness itself and, in his paper,
the _Neue Frei Presse_, he wrote these memorable words:
"Miss Kellogg is an artist of the first order--the only one to compare
with Patti. It is the first time since Patti has gone that we have heard
what one can call singing! I congratulate Vienna on having heard such a
colossal artist!"
Later, I was asked to the Hoffmans' again to meet Herr Hanslick and his
wife; and they were only two of the many distinguished and interesting
people that I met at the _Intendant's_ house. Sonnenthal was one of
them, the great actor from the Hoftheatre. And Fanny Elssler was
another. I wonder how many people to-day know even the name of Fanny
Elssler, the dancer who captivated the young King of Rome and lived with
him for so long? There is mention of her in _L'Aiglon_. When I met her
she was seventy odd, and very quiet and dull. She was vastly respected
in Austria and held an exceedingly dignified position.
I learned enough German to be able to sing in German for the _Intendant_
and his friends, with I know not what sort of accent. They were very
polite about it always, saying more than once to me, "what a gentle
accent!" But my German was dealt with less kindly by my audience one
night. The spoken dialogue in _Mignon_ simply had to be made
comprehensible and therefore I had mastered it, as I thought, quite
acceptably enough. But somewhere in it I came what our English friends
call a most awful "cropper." I do not know to this day what dreadful
thing I could have said, but it afforded the house an ecstasy of
amusement. The whole audience laughed loudly and heartily and long; and
I confess I was considerably disconcerted. But, all things considered,
the Viennese audiences were satisfactory to sing to. They have one
little custom, or mannerism, that is decidedly encouraging. When they
like anything very much, they do not break the action by applauding,
but, instead, a little soft "Ah!" goes all over the house. It was an
indescribably comforting sound and spurred a singer on to do her best to
please them. I sang Felina in _Mignon_, and the Viennese, to my eternal
gratitude, liked me in the part. I remembered Jarrett and the "wooden
gestures" he had fixed upon me in the _role_, and it was most
satisfactory to have people in the Austrian Capitol declare that I was
"an exquisite creation after Watteau!" Of course the Germans and
Austrians were so wedded to Materna's rather heroic style of singing
that I suppose any less strenuous methods might well have struck them as
unforceful, but--_a propos_ of Materna and the inevitable comparison of
my work with hers--the _Fremden Blatt_ was kind enough to print:
"The grand voice, the powerful high tones, and the stupendously
passionate accents were not heard. Yet she knows how to sing with a
full, strong voice, with high tones, and with a graceful
passionateness!"
That expression "graceful passionateness" has remained in my vocabulary
ever since, for it is a triumph of clumsy phraseology, even for a German
paper.
I want to quote Dr. Hanslick once more;--it is such a lovely and amazing
thing to quote:
"From her lips," said this illustrious critic, speaking of your humble
servant, "we have heard Verdi's hardest and harshest melodies come forth
refined and softened."
Is this believable? Edward Hanslick did really apply the adjectives
"hard" and "harsh" to Verdi's music! It has to be read to be believed,
but what he said is on file.
Speaking of "gentle accent," I had, on one occasion, the full beauty of
the Teutonic language borne in upon me in a peculiarly striking form. It
was in _Robert der Teufel_, that I heard in Vienna. The instance that
struck me was in the great scene during which he practises magic in the
cave and makes the dead to rise so that they can dance a _ballet_ later
on. Alice is wandering around, and the devil is in a great state of mind
lest she has seen or overheard something of his magic.
"_Was hast du gesehen?_" says he.
"_Nichts!_" she replies.
"_Nichts?_" he repeats.
"_Nichts_," insists she.
That "_Nichts!_" was repeated over and over until the whole theatre
echoed and resounded with "nichts-ts-ts-ts!" like spitting cats. There
never was anything less musical.
"Heavens, Alfred," said I to Fischoff, who was with me at the time,
"can't they change it to '_Nein?_'"
But he regarded me in a shocked manner at the very idea of so
sacrilegiously altering the text!
German scores are full of loud ringing passages, built on guttural,
hissing, spitting consonants. But, then, we must remember that
librettists the world over are apparently men of an inferior quality of
intellect who know little about music or singing. I cannot help feeling
that by nature and cultivation the German writers of the texts for opera
suffer from an additional handicap of traditional density. Even one of
the greatest of all operas, _Faust_, suffers from being built upon a
German theme. At least, I should perhaps say, it suffers in sparkle,
vivacity, dramatic glitter. In the deeper, poetic meanings it remains
impervious alike to time, place, and individual view-point. I never
fully appreciated the _role_ of Marguerite until I met the German people
at close range. Then I learned by personal observation why she was so
dull, and limited, and unimaginative. Such traits are, as I suddenly
realised, not only individual; they are racial. Any middle-class girl of
sixteen might of course have been deceived by Faust with the aid of
Mephisto, but that Gretchen was German made the whole thing a hundred
times simpler.