Part 5 (1/2)

In singing with Brignoli there developed a difficulty to which Ferri's blindness was nothing. Brignoli seriously objected to being touched during his scene! Imagine playing love scenes with a tenor who did not want to be touched, no matter what might be the emotional exigencies of the moment or situation. The ba.s.s part in _Linda_ is that of the Baron, and when I first sang the opera it was taken by Susini, who had been with us on our preparatory _tournee_. His wife was Isabella Hinckley, a good and sweet woman, also a singer with an excellent soprano voice. I found that the big ba.s.so (he was a very large man with a buoyant sense of humour) was a fine actor and had a genuine dramatic gift in singing.

His sense of humour was always bubbling up, in and out of performances.

I once lost a diamond from one of my rings during the first act. My dressing-room and the stage were searched, but with no result. We went on for the last act and, in the scene when I was supposed to be unconscious, Susini caught sight of the stone glittering on the floor and picked it up. As he needed his hands for gesticulations, he popped the diamond into his mouth and when I ”came to” he stuck out his tongue at me with the stone on the end of it!

While I was working on the part of Linda myself, I heard Mme. Medori sing it. She gave a fine emotional interpretation, getting great tragic effects in the Paris act, but she did not catch the _nave_ and ingenuous quality of poor, young Linda. It could hardly have been otherwise, for she was at the time a mature woman. There are some parts,--Marguerite is one of them, also,--that can be made too complicated, too subtle, too dramatic. I was criticised for my immaturity and lack of emotional power until I was tired of hearing such criticism; and once had a quaint little argument about my abilities and powers with ”Nym Crinkle,” the musical critic of _The World_, A. C.

Wheeler. (Later he made a success in literature under the name of ”J. P.

Mowbray.”)

”What do you expect,” I demanded, in my old-fas.h.i.+oned yet childish way, being at the time eighteen, ”what do you expect of a person of my age?”

[Ill.u.s.tration: =Brignoli, 1865=

From a photograph by C. Silvy]

CHAPTER V

LITERARY BOSTON

My friends in New York had given me letters to people in Boston, so I went there with every opportunity for an enjoyable visit. But, naturally, I was much more absorbed in my own _debut_ and in what the public would think of me than I was in meeting new acquaintances and receiving invitations. Now I wish that I had then more clearly realised possibilities, for Boston was at the height of its literary reputation.

All my impressions of that Boston season, however, sink into insignificance compared to that of my first public appearance. I sang Linda; and there were only three hundred people in the house!

If anything in the world could have discouraged me that would have, but, as a matter of fact, I do not believe anything could. At any rate, I worked all the harder just because the conditions were so adverse; and I won my public (such as it was) that night. I may add that I kept it for the remainder of my stay in Boston.

At that period of my life I was very fragile and one big performance would wear me out. Literally, I used myself up in singing, for I put into it every ounce of my strength. I could not save myself when I was actually working, but my way of economising my vitality was to sing only twice a week.

It was after that first performance of _Linda_, some time about midnight, and my mother and I had just returned to our apartment in the Tremont House and had hardly taken off our wraps, when a knock came at the door. Our sitting-room was near a side entrance for the sake of quietness and privacy, but we paid a penalty in the ease with which we could be reached by anyone who knew the way. My mother opened the door; and there stood two ladies who overwhelmed us with gracious speeches.

”They had heard my Linda! They had come because they simply could not help it; because I had moved them so deeply! Now, _would_ we both come the following evening to a little _musicale_; and they would ask that delightful Signor Brignoli too! It would be _such_ a pleasure! etc.”

Although I was not singing the following night, I objected to going to the _musicale_ because certain experiences in New York had already bred caution. I said, however, with perfect frankness, that I would go on one condition.

”On _any_ condition, dear Miss Kellogg!”

”You wouldn't expect me to sing?”

”Oh no; no, no!”

Accordingly, the next night my mother and I presented ourselves at the house of the older of the two ladies. The first words our hostess uttered when I entered the room were:

”Why! where's your music?”

”I thought it was understood that I was not to sing,” said I.

But, in spite of their previous earnest disclaimers on this point, they became so insistent that, after resisting their importunities for a few moments, I finally consented to satisfy them. I asked Brignoli to play for me, and I sang the Cavatina from _Linda_. Then I turned on my heel and went back to my hotel; and I never again entered that woman's house.

After so many years there is no harm in saying that the hostess who was guilty of this breach of tact, good taste, and consideration, was Mrs.

Paran Stevens, and the other lady was her sister, Miss f.a.n.n.y Reed, one of the talented amateurs of the day. They were struggling hard for social recognition in Boston and every drawing card was of value, even a new, young singer who might become famous. Later, of course, Mrs.

Stevens did ”arrive” in New York; but she travelled some difficult roads first.

This was by no means the first time that I had contended with a lack of consideration in the American hostess, especially toward artists. Her sisters across the Atlantic have better taste and breeding, never subjecting an artist who is their guest to the annoyance and indignity of having to ”sing for her supper.” But whenever I was invited anywhere by an American woman, I always knew that I would be expected to bring my music and to contribute toward the entertainment of the other guests. An Englishwoman I once met when travelling on the Continent hit the nail on the head, although in quite another connection.