Part 19 (1/2)
CHAPTER XIX
HOME AGAIN
Mapleson asked me to stay on the other side and sing in England, Ireland, and France at practically my own terms, but I refused to do so.
I had made my English success and now I wanted to go home in triumph. My mother agreed with me that it was time to be turning homeward. So I accepted an engagement to sing under the management of the Strakosches, Max and Maurice, on a long concert tour.
I have only grat.i.tude for the manner in which my own people welcomed my return. The critics found me much improved, and one and all gave me credit for hard and unremitting work. ”Here is a young singer,” said one, ”who has steadily worked her way to the highest position in operatic art.” That point of view always pleased me; for I contend now, as I have contended since I first began to sing, that, next to having a voice in the first place, the great essential is to work; and then _work_; and, after that, begin to WORK!
New York as a city did not please me when I saw it again. I had forgotten, or never fully realised, how provincial it was. Even to-day I firmly believe that it is undoubtedly the dirtiest city in the world, that its traffic regulation is the worst, and its cab service the most expensive and inconvenient. All this struck me with particular force when I came home fresh from London and Paris.
My contract with the Strakosches was for twenty-five weeks, four appearances a week, making a hundred performances in all. This tour was only broken by a short engagement under my old director Maretzek at the Academy of Music in Philadelphia, an arrangement made for me by Max Strakosch when we reached that city in the spring; and, with the exception of _Robert le Diable_, _Trovatore_, and one or two other operas, I spent the next three years singing in concert and oratorio entirely. It was not enjoyable, but it was successful. We went all over the country, North, South, East, West, and everywhere found an enthusiastic public. Particularly was this so in the South as far as I personally was concerned. The poor South had not yet recovered from the effects of the Civil War and did not have much money to spend on amus.e.m.e.nts, but, when at Richmond the people learned that I was Southern born, more than one woman said to me:
”Go? To hear you! Yes, indeed; we'll hang up all we have to go and hear you!”
One of my popular fellow-artists on the first tour was James M. Wehli, the English pianist. He was known as the ”left-handed pianist” and was in reality better suited to a vaudeville stage than to a concert platform. His particular accomplishment consisted in playing a great number of pieces brilliantly with his left hand only, a feat remarkable enough in itself but not precisely an essential for a great artist, and, even as a pianist, he was not inspired.
My first appearance after my European experience was in a concert at the Academy of Music in New York. It was a real welcome home. People cheered and waved and threw flowers and clapped until I was literally in tears.
I felt that it did not matter in the least whether New York was a real city or not; America was a real country! When the concert was over, the men from the Lotus Club took the horses out of my carriage and dragged it, with me in it, to my hotel. And oh, my flowers! My American t.i.tle of ”The Flower _Prima Donna_” was soon reestablished beyond all peradventure. Flowers in those days were much rarer than they are now; and I received, literally, loads and loads of camellias, and roses enough to set up many florist shops. Without exaggeration, I sent those I received by _cartloads_ to the hospitals. And one ”floral offering”
that I received in Boston was actually too large for any waggon. A subscription had been raised and a paG.o.da of flowers sent. I had to hire a dray to carry it to my hotel; and then it could not be got up the stairs but had to spend the night downstairs. In the morning I had the monstrous thing photographed and sent it off to a hospital. Even this was an undertaking as I could not, for some reason, get the dray of the night before; and had to hire several able-bodied men to carry it. I hope it was a comfort to somebody before it faded! It is a pity that this tribute on the part of Boston did not a.s.sume a more permanent form, for I should have much appreciated a more lasting token as a remembrance of the occasion. It must not be thought that I was unappreciative because I say this. I love anything and everything that blooms, and I love the spirit that offers me flowers. But I must say that the paG.o.da was something of a white elephant.
While thinking of Boston and my first season at home, I must not omit mention of Mrs. Martin. Indeed, it will have to be rather more than a mere mention, for it is quite a little story, beginning indirectly with Wright Sandford. Wright Sandford was the only man in New York with a big independent fortune, except ”Willie” Dougla.s.s who spent most of his time cruising in foreign waters. Wright Sandford was more of a friend of mine than ”Willie” Dougla.s.s, and I used to haul him over the coals occasionally for his lazy existence. He had eighty thousand a year and absolutely nothing to do but to amuse himself.
”What do you expect me to do?” he would demand plaintively. ”I've no one to play with!”
Whenever I was starting on a tour he would send me wonderful hampers put up by Delmonico, with the most delicious things to eat imaginable in them, so that my mother and I never suffered, at least for the first day or two, from the inconveniences of the bad food usually experienced by travellers. A very nice fellow was Wright Sandford in many ways, and to this day I am appreciative of the Delmonico luncheons if of nothing else.
When we were _en route_ for Boston on that first tour,--a long trip then, eight or nine hours at least by the fast trains--there sat close to us in the car a little woman who watched me all the time and smiled whenever I glanced at her. I noticed that she had no luncheon with her, so when we opened our Delmonico hamper, I leaned across and asked her to join us. I do not exactly know why I did it for I was not in the habit of making friends with our fellow-travellers; but the little person appealed to me somehow in addition to her being lunchless. She was the most pleased creature imaginable! She nibbled a little, smiled, spoke hardly a word, and after lunch I forgot all about her.
In Boston, as I was in my room in the hotel practising, before going to the theatre, there came a faint rap on the door. I called out ”Come in,”
yet n.o.body came. I began to practise again and again came a little rap.
”Come in,” I called a second time, yet still nothing happened. After a third rap I went and opened the door. In the dark hall stood a woman. I did not remember ever having seen her before; but I could hardly distinguish her features in the pa.s.sage.
”I've come,” said she in a soft, small voice, ”to ask you if you would please kiss me?”
Of course I complied. Needless to say, I thought her quite crazy. After I had kissed her cheek she nodded and vanished into the darkness while I, much mystified, went back to my singing. That night at the theatre I saw a small person sitting in the front row, smiling up at me. Her face this time was somewhat familiar and I said to myself, ”I do believe that's the little woman who had lunch with us on the train!” and then--”I wonder--_could_ it also be the crazy woman who wanted me to kiss her?”
During our week's engagement in Boston we were confronted with a dilemma. Max Strakosch came to me much upset.
”What are we going to do in Providence--the only decent hotel in the town has burned down,” he said. ”You'll have to stop with friends.”
”I haven't any friends in Providence,” I replied.
”Well, you'll have to get some,” he declared. ”There's no hotel where you could possibly stay and we can't cancel your engagement. The houses are sold out.”
Presently a cousin of mine, acting as my agent on these trips, came and told me that a man had called on him at the theatre whose wife wished to ”entertain” Miss Kellogg while she was in Providence!
The idea appalled me and I flatly refused to accept this extraordinary invitation; but those two men simply forced me into it. Strakosch, indeed, regarded the incident as a clear dispensation from heaven.