PETERSBURG
When I received my engagement to sing at the Opera in Petersburg I was
much pleased. The opera seasons in Russia had for years been notably
fine. Since then they have, I understand, gone off, and fewer and fewer
stars of the first magnitude go there to sing. In 1880, however, it was
a criterion of artistic excellence and position to have sung in the
Petersburg Opera. My mother and I, a manager to represent me, my
coloured maid Eliza, and some seventeen or eighteen trunks set out from
Vienna; and we looked forward with pleasurable anticipation to our
winter in the mysterious White Kingdom, not knowing then that it was to
be one of the dreariest in our lives.
Our troubles began just before we reached Warsaw, when we had to cross
the frontier. We were, of course, stopped for the examination of
passports and luggage and, although the former were all right, the
latter was not, according to the views of the Russian officials. I had,
personally, fifteen trunks, containing the costumes for my entire
_repertoire_ and to watch those Russians inspect these trunks was a
veritable study in suspicion. It was late at night. Unpleasant
travelling incidents always happen late at night it would seem, when
everything is most inconvenient and one is most tired. The Russians
appeared ten times more official than the officials of any other nation
ever did, and the lateness of the hour added to this impression. Indeed
they were highly picturesque, with their high boots and the long skirts
of their coats. The lanterns threw queer shadows, and the wind that
swept the platform had in it already the chill of the _steppes_. I have
no idea what they believed me to be smuggling, bombs or anarchistic
literature, but they were not satisfied until they had gone through
every trunk to its uttermost depths. Even then, when they had found
nothing more dangerous than wigs and cloaks and laces, they still seemed
doubtful. The trunks might look all right; but surely there must be
something wrong with a woman who travelled with fifteen personal trunks!
And I do not know that I altogether blame them. At all events they were
not going to let me cross the frontier without further investigation,
and I was rapidly falling into despair when, suddenly, I had a brilliant
thought. I gave an order to my maid, who proceeded to scatter about the
entire contents of one trunk and finally found for me a large, thin,
official-looking document, with seals and signatures attached to it. The
Russians stood about, watchful and mystified. Then I presented my
talisman triumphantly.
"The Czar!" they exclaimed in awed whispers; "the Czar's signature!"
Whereupon several of them began bowing, almost genuflecting, to show
their respect for anyone who possessed a paper signed by the Czar. It
was only my contract. The singers at the Russian Opera are not engaged
by an impresario, but by the Czar, and that document which served us so
well on this occasion was a personal contract with His Imperial Majesty
himself.
So we succeeded in eventually crossing the frontier and getting into
Russia, and, after that, the _espionage_ became a regular thing. The spy
system in Russia is beyond belief. One is watched and tracked and
followed and records are kept of one, and a species of censorship is
maintained of everything that reaches one. At first, one hardly realises
this, for the officials have had so much practice that it is done with
the most consummate skill. Every letter was opened before it reached me
and then sealed up again so cleverly that it was impossible to detect it
except with the keenest and most suspicious eye. Every newspaper that I
received, even those mailed to me by friends in England and France, had
been gone over carefully, and every paragraph referring to Russia--the
army, the government, the diplomacy policy, the Nihilistic
agitations--had been stamped out in solid black.
We stopped at the Hotel d'Europe, and one might think one would be free
from surveillance there. Not a bit of it. We soon saw that if we wanted
to talk with any freedom or privacy we should have to hang thick towels
over the keyholes. And this is precisely what we did!
As soon as we reached Petersburg, I was called for a rehearsal--merely a
piano affair. I went to it garmented in a long fur cloak, some
flannel-lined boots that I had once bought in America for a Canadian
trip, and a little bonnet perched, in the awful fashion of the day, on
the very top of my head. It was early in October at this time and not
any colder than our normal winter climate in the United States of
America. There is but little vibration of temperature in Russia, but
there are days before November when the snow melts that are very trying.
This was one of them. The first thing that happened to me at that
rehearsal to which I went in my flannel-lined shoes and my little
bonnet, was that a stern doctor confronted me and called me to account
for the manner in which I was dressed! A doctor at a rehearsal was new
to me; but it seemed that the thoughtful Czar employed two for this
purpose. So many singers pretended to be ill when they really were not
that His Majesty kept medical men on the spot to prove or disprove any
excuses. The doctor who descended upon me was named Thomaschewski. He
was the doctor mentioned in Marie Bashkirtseff's _Journal_; and he
remained my friend and physician all the time I was in the city. Said
he, brusquely, on this first meeting:
"Never come out dressed like that again! Get some goloshes immediately,
and a hat that comes over your forehead!"
I did not understand at the moment why he insisted so strongly on the
hat. I soon learned, however, what so few Americans are aware of, that
it is through the forehead that one generally catches cold. As for the
goloshes, it was self-evident that I needed them, and, after that
morning, I never set foot out of doors in Russia without the regular
protection worn by everyone in that climate. A big fur cap, tied on with
a white woollen scarf arranged as we now arrange motor veils, completed
the necessary outfit.
Marcella Sembrich and Lillian Nordica were both in the opera company
that year. Sembrich had a small, high, clear voice at that time; but she
was always the musician and well up in the Italian vocal tricks. Scalchi
was there, too, and Cotogni, the famous baritone. He was a masterful
singer and an amusing man, with a quaint way of putting things. He is
still living in Rome and has, I am sorry to say, fallen from his great
estate upon hard times. The tenors were Masini and a Russian named
Petrovitch, with whom I sang the _Ballo in Maschera_. They were all very
frankly curious about "the American _prima donna_" and about everything
concerning her. The _Intendant_ of the Imperial Opera was a man with the
title of Baron Kuester, the son of one of the Czar's gardeners. No one
could understand why he had been made a Baron, but, for some reason, he
was in high favour.
My _debut_ was in _Traviata_, as Violetta. There was an enormous
audience and the American Minister was in a stage box. Throughout the
performance I never lost a sense of isolation and of chill. The
strangeness, the watchfulness, the sense of apprehension with which the
air seemed charged, were all on my nerves. It was said that the
Opera-House had been undermined by the Nihilists and was ready to
explode if the Czar entered. This idea was hardly conducive to ease of
mind or cheerfulness of manner. I was glad that it was not sufficiently
a gala occasion for the Czar to be present. Never before had I ever sung
without having friends in front, friends who could come behind the
scenes between the acts and tell me how I was doing and, if need be,
cheer me up a bit. I knew nobody in the audience that first night, which
gave me a most forlorn feeling, as if the place were filled with
unfriendliness as well as with strangers. At last I thought of the
American Minister, Mr. Foster (our legation in Russia had not yet
attained the dignity of an embassy). I sent my agent to the Fosters'
box, asking them to call upon me in my _loge_ at the end of the opera.
When he delivered the message, he was met by blank astonishment.
"Of course we should be delighted--and it is very kind of Miss
Kellogg," said Mr. Foster, "but there is not a chance that we should be
allowed to do so!"
And they were not.
The vigilance, even on the stage, was something appalling. Every scene
shifter and stage carpenter had a big brass number fastened
conspicuously on his arm, strapped on, in fact, over his flannel shirt
so that he could be easily checked off and kept track of. Everything in
Russia is numbered. There are no individuals there--only units. I used
to feel as if I must have a number myself; as if I, too, must soon be
absorbed into that grim Monster System, and my feeling of helplessness
and oppression steadily increased.
I had over twenty curtain calls that evening--the largest number I ever
had. But they did not entirely repay me for the heaviness of heart from
which I suffered. Never before or since was I so unhappy during a
performance. The house had been undoubtedly cold at first. As an
American correspondent to one of the newspapers wrote home: "The house
had small confidence in an operatic singer from America, for all history
of that country is silent on the subject of _prime donne_, while there
is no lack of account of such other persons as Indians, Aztecs, and
emigrants from the lower orders of Europe!"
In Russia they still reserve the right of hissing a singer that they do
not like. It is lucky that I did not know this then, for it would have
made me even more nervous than I was. My curtain calls were a real
triumph. Even the ladies of the audience arose and waved their
handkerchiefs, calling out many times: "Kellogg, _sola_!" They wanted me
to receive the honours alone; and the gentlemen joined in their calls,
"Kellogg! Kellogg! Kellogg!" until they were hoarse.
The subscribers to the opera were divided into three classes in
Petersburg; and, as a singer who was popular was demanded by all the
subscribers for each of the three nights, it was a novel sensation to
conquer an entirely new audience each night.
In the Opera-House, as in every other house in Petersburg, one had to go
through innumerable doors, one after the other. This architectural
peculiarity is what makes the buildings so warm. Russians build for the
cold weather as Italians build for warm. The result is that one can be
colder in an Italian house than anywhere else on earth, and more
correspondingly comfortable in a Russian. Even the Petersburg public
Post-Office had to be approached through eight separate doorways. There
were a number of other unusual features about that theatre. One was the
custom of permitting the _isvoshiks_ (drivers) and _mujiks_ (servants)
to come inside to stay while the opera was going on. It struck me as
most inconsistent with the general strictness and red tape; but it was
entertaining to see them stowed away in layers on ledges along the
walls, sleeping peacefully until the people who had engaged them were
ready to go home. Another odd thing was the odour that permeated the
house. It was not an unpleasant odour; it seemed to me a little like
Russia leather. I could not imagine what it was at first. Afterwards I
found that it _did_ come from the sheep-skins worn by the _isvoshiks_.
The skins are cured in some peculiar way which leaves them with this
faint smell.
The thing I particularly appreciated that first night was the honour and
good fortune of making my _debut_ with Masini, who, according to my
opinion, was without exception the best tenor of his time. He would
have pleased the most exacting of modern critics, for he was the true
_bel canto_. It is told of him that, in the early years of his career,
he sang so badly out of tune that no impresario would bother with him.
So he retired, and worked, until he had not only overcome it but had
also made himself into a very great artist. The night before I sang with
him, I went to hear him. At first I thought his voice a trifle husky,
but, before the evening was over, I did not know if it were husky or
not, he sang so beautifully, his method was so perfect, his
breath-control was so wonderful. It was a naturally enchanting voice
besides. I have never heard a length of breath like his. No phrase ever
troubled him; he had the necessary wind for anything. In _L'Africaine_
there is a passage in the big tenor solo needing very careful breathing.
Masini did simply what he liked with it, swelling it out roundly and
generously when it seemed as if his breath must be exhausted. When the
breath of other tenors gave out, Masini only just began to draw on his.
I am placing all this emphasis on his method because I know breathing to
be the whole secret of singing--and of living, too! Masini was a grave,
kind man, not a great actor, but with a stage presence of complete
repose and dignity. His manner to me was charmingly thoughtful and
considerate during our work together. Yet he was a man who never spoke.
I mean this literally: I cannot recall the sound of his speaking voice,
although I rehearsed with him for a whole season. His greatest _role_
was the Duke in _Rigoletto_ and there was no one I ever heard who could
compare with him in it.
Nordica was a young singer doing minor _roles_ that season and, both
being Americans, we saw a good deal of each other and exchanged
sympathies, for we equally disliked Russia. Our Yankee independence was
being constantly outraged by the Russian spy system, and we were always
at odds with it. One night, when we were not singing ourselves, we had a
box together to hear our fellow-artists, and invited Sir Frederick
Hamilton to share it with us. As we knew there was sure to be a crowd
after the opera, Nordica suggested that we should leave our wraps in an
empty dressing-room behind the scenes and go out by that way when the
performance was over. This we accordingly did, going behind through the
house by the back door of the boxes, and as a matter of course we took
Sir Frederick with us. We had momentarily forgotten that in Russia one
never does what one wants to, or what seems the natural thing to do.
When we were discovered bringing an Englishman behind the scenes, there
was nearly a revolution in that theatre!
I sang in _Traviata_ four or five times in Petersburg and in _Don
Giovanni_ and in _Semiramide_. This last was the forty-fifth _role_ of
my _repertoire_. The Russian Opera season was less brilliant than usual
that year because the Czarina had recently died and the Court was in
mourning. The situation was one that afforded me some amusement. The
Czar, Alexander, who was killed that same winter, had for a long time
lived with the Princess Dolgoruki, as is well known, and, when the
Czarina died, he married the Dolgoruki within a few weeks. To be sure,
the marriage did not really count, for she could never be a Czarina
because she was not royal, but she was determined to establish her
social position as his wife and insisted on keeping him in the country
with her at one of the out-of-the-way places. And all the time the Czar
went right on with his official mourning for the Czarina! There was
something about this that strongly appealed to my American sense of
humour. When the Czar did finally leave the country palace and come back
to Petersburg, he was in such fear of the Nihilists that he did not dare
come in state, but got off the train at a way-station and drove in.
Fancy the Czar of all the Russias having to sneak into his own city like
that! And the worst of it was that all that vigilance was proved soon
after to have been justified. Because of the situation of affairs, the
Royal Box at the Opera was never occupied. Even the Czarevitch and his
wife (Dagmar of Denmark, sister of Alexandra of England) could not
appear. I am inclined to believe that, on the whole, Petersburg society
was rather glad of the dull season. As there were no Court functions,
the individual social leaders did not have to keep up their end either,
and it must have been a relief, for times were hard, owing to the recent
Nihilistic panic, and Russians do not know how to entertain unless they
can do it magnificently. As a result of the dull social season, I did
not go out much in society. But I was much interested in such glimpses
as I had of it, for "smart" Russia is most gorgeously picturesque. Many
Americans visit Petersburg in summer when everyone is away and so never
see the true Russian life. Indeed, it is a very stunning spectacle. The
sleighs, the splendid liveries, the beautiful horses, the harnesses, the
superb furs--it is all like a pageant. I loved to see the _troikas_
drawn by three horses, with great gold ornaments on the harnesses; and
the _drozhkis_ in which the _isvoshiks_ drive standing up. The third
horse of the _troika_ is one of the typically Russian features. He is
attached to the pair that does the work, and his part is to play the
fool.
I remember a famous sleigh ride I had in a very smart _drozhki_, behind
a horse belonging to one of the English Embassy secretaries. The horse
was an extraordinarily fast one and the _drozhki_ was exceptionally
light and small. The seat was so narrow that the secretary and I had to
be literally buttoned into it to keep us from falling out. The
_isvoshik's_ seat was so high that he was practically standing erect and
nearly leaning back against it. Evidently the man's directions were to
show off the horse's gait to the best advantage; and I know that the
speed of that frail sleigh upon the icy snow crust became so terrific
that I had to grip the sash of the _isvoshik_ in front of me to stay in
the sleigh at all.
And, oh, the flatness and mournfulness of those chill wastes of snow
outside the city! It was of course bitterly cold, but one did not feel
that so much on account of the fine dryness of the air. For me the
light--or, rather, the lack of it,--was the most difficult thing to
become accustomed to. But if I did not altogether realise the cold for
myself, I certainly realised it for my poor horses. I had a splendid
pair of blacks that winter and, when I was driven down to the theatre,
they would be lathered with sweat. When I came out they would be covered
with ice and as white as snow. There would be ice on the harness too,
and the other horses we passed were in the same condition. I was much
distressed at first, but it appeared that Russian horses were quite used
to it and, so I was told, actually throve on it.
Petersburg is full of little squares and in every square were heaps of
logs, laid one across another like a funeral pyre, which were frequently
lighted as a place for the _isvoshiks_ to warm themselves. The leaping
flames and the men crowded about, in such contrast to the white snow,
seemed so startling and theatrical in the heart of the city that nothing
could have more sharply reminded us that we were in a strange and
unknown land.
The fact that the days were so unbelievably, gloomily short (dawn and
bright noonday and the afternoon were unknown) grew to be very
depressing. Coasting on the great ice-hills is a favourite Russian
amusement, and it is a fine winter sport. But that, too, is shadowed by
the strange half-light, which, to anyone accustomed to the long, bright
days of more temperate lands, is always conducive to melancholy. There
was no sun to speak of. Such as there was moved around in almost one
place and stopped shining at four in the afternoon. I never had the
least idea of the time; hardly knowing, in fact, whether it was day or
night.