Part 22 (1/2)
”And what else did we have the war for!” I finally cried. How the others laughed at me. But Eliza was fed, and well fed, too.
I had always to carry my own bedclothes on the Western tours. When we first started out, I did not realise the necessity, but later, I became wiser. Cleanliness has always been almost more than G.o.dliness to me.
Before I would use a dressing-room I nearly always had it thoroughly swept out and sometimes cleaned and scrubbed. This all depended on the part of the country we were in. I came to know that in certain sections of the South-west I should have to have a regular house-cleaning done before I would set foot in their accommodations. I missed my bath desperately, and my piano, and all the other luxuries that have become practical necessities to civilised persons. When I could not have a state-room on a train, my maid would bring a cup of cold water to my berth before I dressed that was a poor apology for a bath, but that saved my life on many a morning after a long, stuffy night in a sleeper.
The lesser hards.h.i.+ps perhaps annoyed me most. Bad food, bad air, rough travelling, were worse than the more serious ills of fatigue and indispositions. But the worst of all was the water. One can, at a pinch, get along with poor food or with no food at all to speak of, but bad water is a much more serious matter. Even dirt is tolerable if it can be washed off afterwards. But I have seen many places where the water was less inviting than the dirt. When I first beheld Missouri water I hardly dared wash in it, much less drink it, and was appalled when it was served to me at the table. I gazed with horror at the brown liquid in my tumbler, and then said faintly to the waiter:
”Can't you get me some clear water, please?”
”Oh, yes,” said he, ”it'll be clearer, ma'am, _but it won't be near so rich_!”
And all the time I was working, for, no matter what the hards.h.i.+ps or distractions that may come an artist's way, he or she must always keep at work. Singing is something that must be worked for just as hard after it is won as during the winning process. Liszt is supposed to have said that when he missed practising one day he knew it; when he missed two days his friends knew it; on the third day the public knew it. I often rehea.r.s.ed before a mirror, so that I could know whether I looked right as well as sounded right; and, _apropos_ of this, I have been much impressed by the fact that ways of rehearsing are very different and characteristic. Ellen Terry once told me that, when she had a new part to study, she generally got into a closed carriage, with the window open, and was driven about for two or three hours, working on her lines.
”It is the only way I can keep my repose,” she said. ”I only wish I had some of Henry's repose when studying a part!”
[Ill.u.s.tration: =Sir Henry Irving and Ellen Terry as the Vicar and Olivia=
From a photograph by Window & Grove]
CHAPTER XXII
LONDON AGAIN
After nearly three years of concert and oratorio and racketing about America on tours, it was a joy to go to England again for another season. The Peace Jubilee a.s.sociation asked me to sing at their celebration in Boston that spring, but I went to London instead. The offer from the a.s.sociation was a great compliment, however, and especially the wording of the resolution as communicated to me by the secretary.
”Unanimously voted:--That Miss Clara Louise Kellogg, the leading _prima donna_ of America, receive the special invitation of the Executive Committee, etc.”
The spring season in London was well along when we arrived there and, before I had been in the city a day, I began to feel at home again.
Newcastle and Dr. Quinn called almost immediately and Alfred Rothschild sent me flowers, all of which made me realize that this was really England once more and that I was among old and dear friends.
I was again to sing under Mapleson's management. The new opera house, built on the site of Her Majesty's that had burned, was highly satisfactory; and he had nearly all of his old singers again--t.i.tjiens, Nilsson, and myself among others. Patti and Lucca were still our rivals at Covent Garden; also Faure and Cotogni; and there was a pretty, young, new singer from Canada with them, Mme. Albani, who had a light, sweet voice and was attractive in appearance. Our two innovations at Her Majesty's were Marie Roze from the Paris Opera Comique--later destined to be a.s.sociated with me professionally and with Mapleson personally--and Italo Campanini. Campanini was the son of a blacksmith in Italy and had worked at the forge himself for many years before going on the stage, and was the hero of the hour, for not only was his voice a very lovely one, but he was also a fine actor. It was worth while to see his Don Jose. People forgot that Carmen herself was in the opera. Our other tenor was Capoul, the Frenchman, Trebelli-Bettini was our leading contralto and my friend Foli--”the Irish Italian from Connecticut”--was still with us.
Campanini, the idol of the town, was, like most tenors, enormously pleased with himself. To be sure, he had some reason, with his heavenly voice, his dramatic gift, and his artistic instinct; but one would like some day to meet a man gifted with a divine vocal organ and a simple spirit both, at the same time. It appears to be an impossible combination. When Mapleson told Campanini that he was to sing with me in _Lucia_ he frowned and considered the point.
”An American,” he muttered doubtfully. ”I have never heard her--do I know that she can sing? I--Campanini--cannot sing with a _prima donna_ of whom I know nothing! Who is this Miss Kellogg anyway?”
”You're quite right,” said the Colonel with the most cordial air of a.s.sent. ”You'd better hear her before you decide. She's singing Linda to-night. Go into the stalls and listen to her for a few moments. If you don't want to sing with her, you don't have to.”
That evening Campanini was on hand, ready to controvert the very idea of an American _prima donna_ daring to sing with him. After the first act he came out into the foyer and ran into the Colonel.
”Well,” remarked that gentleman casually, winking at Jarrett, ”can she sing?”
”Sing?” said Campanini solemnly, ”she has the voice of a flute. It is the absolutely perfect tone. It is a--miracle!”
So, after all, Campanini and I sang together that season in _Lucia_ and in other operas. While Campanini was a great artist, he was a very petty man in many ways. A little incident when Capoul was singing _Faust_ one night is ill.u.s.trative. Capoul, much admired and especially in America, was intensely nervous and emotional with a quick temper. Between him and Italo Campanini a certain rivalry had been developing for some time, and, whatever may be a.s.serted to the contrary, male singers are much bitterer rivals than women ever are. On the night I speak of, Campanini came into his box during the _Salve dimora_ and set down to listen. As Capoul sang, the Italian's face became lined with a frown of annoyance and, after a moment or two, he began to drum on the rail before him as if he could not conceal his exasperation and _ennui_. The longer Capoul sang, the louder and more irritated the tapping became until most of the audience was unkind enough to laugh just a little. Poor Capoul tried, in vain, to sing down that insistent drumming, and, when the act was over, he came behind the scenes and actually cried with rage.
On what might be called my second _debut_ in London, I had an ovation almost as warm as my welcome home to my native land had been three years before. I had forgotten how truly the English people were my friends until I heard the applause which greeted me as I walked onto the stage that night in _Linda di Chamouix_. Sir Michael Costa, who was conducting that year, was always an irascible and inflexible autocrat when it came to operatic rules and ideals. One of the points of observance upon which he absolutely insisted was that the opera must never be interrupted for applause. Theoretically this was perfectly correct; but nearly all good rules are made to be broken once in a while and it was quite obvious that the audience intended this occasion to be one of the times. Sir Michael went on leading his orchestra and the people in front went on clapping until the whole place became a pandemonium. The house at last, and while still applauding, began to hiss the orchestra so that, after a minute of a tug-of-war effect, Sir Michael was obliged to lay down his baton--although with a very bad grace--and let the applause storm itself out. I could see him scowling at me as I bowed and smiled and bowed again, nearly crying outright at the friendliness of my welcome. There were traitors in his own camp, too, for, as soon as the baton was lowered, half the orchestra--old friends mostly--joined in the applause!
Sir Michael never before had broken through his rule; and I do not fancy he liked me any the better for being the person to force upon him this one exception.
I include here a letter written to someone in America just after this performance by Bennett of _The London Telegraph_ that pleased me extremely, both for its general appreciative friendliness and because it was a _resume_ of the English press and public regarding my former and my present appearance in England.