Part 27 (1/2)
In 1878, on a Western trip, I remember my making a point, in some place in Kansas, of singing in an inst.i.tute on Sunday for the pleasure of the inmates. We had done this sort of thing frequently before, notably in Utica. So we went to the prison to sing to the prisoners. I said to the company, ”I am going to sing to give _pleasure_, and not a hymn is to be in the programme!” When I was told of the desperadoes in the place I was almost intimidated. The guards were particularly imposing. I played my own accompaniments and I sang negro melodies. I never had such an audience, of all my appreciative audiences. Never, I feel sure, have I given quite so much pleasure as to those lawless prisoners out in Kansas.
CHAPTER XXVIII
ACROSS THE SEAS AGAIN
I was glad to be going again to England. My farewell to my native land was, however, more like an ovation than a farewell. One long table of the s.h.i.+p's grand saloon was heaped with flowers sent me by friends and ”admirers.” The list of my fellow pa.s.sengers on this occasion was a distinguished one, including Bishop Littlejohn, Bishop Scarborough, Bishop Clarkson, and other Episcopal prelates who were going over to attend the conference in London; the Rev. Dr. John Hall; Maurice Grau, Max Strakosch, Henry C. Jarrett, John McCullough, Lester Wallack, General Rathbone of Albany, Colonel Ramsay of the British army, Frederick W. Vanderbilt, and Joseph Andrede, the Cape of Good Hope millionaire. I was interviewed by a _Sun_ reporter, on deck, and a.s.sured him that I was going abroad for rest only.
”No,” I said, ”I shall not sing a note. How could I, after such a season--one hundred and fifty nights of constant labour. No; I shall breathe the sea air, and that of the mountains, and see Paris--delightful Paris! With such a lovely summer before me, it would be a little hard to have to work.”
It was like old times to be in England once more. Yet I found many changes. One of them was in the state of my old friend James McKenzie who had been in the East Indian trade and had a delightful place in Scotland adjoining that of the Queen, through which she used to drive with the incomparable John Brown. I had been invited up there on my first visit to England, but was not able to accept. When I asked for him this time I learned that he had been knighted for loaning money to the Prince of Wales. A girl I knew quite well told me, this year, a touching little story of a half-fledged romance which had taken place at Sir James's place in Scotland. The Prince who was known in England as ”Collars and Cuffs” and who died young, was with the McKenzies for the hunting season and there met my friend,--such a pretty American girl she was! They fell in love with each other and, though of course nothing could come of it, they played out their pathetic little drama like any ordinary young lovers.
”Come down early to dinner,” the Prince would whisper. ”I'll have a bit of heather for you!”
And when they met in London, later, he took her to Marlborough House and showed her the royal nurseries and the shelves where his toys were still kept. The girl nearly broke down when she told me about it. I have thought of the little story more than once since.
”He hated to have me courtesy to him,” she said. ”He used to whisper quite fiercely: 'don't you courtesy to me when you can avoid it--I can't bear to have you do it!'”
My new _role_ in London that season was Ada. For, of course, I was singing! It went so well that Mapleson (pere) wanted to extend my engagement. But I was very, very tired and, for some reason--this, probably,--not in my usual ”form,” to borrow an Anglicism, so I decided to go to Paris and rest, meanwhile waiting for something to develop that I liked well enough to accept. Maurice Strakosch had been my agent in England, but it seemed to me that his methods were becoming somewhat antiquated. So I gave him up and decided that I would get along without any agent at all. I also gave up Colonel Mapleson. Mapleson owed me money--although, for that matter, he owed everybody. Poor t.i.tjiens sang for years for nothing. So, when, as soon as I was fairly settled in Paris, the Colonel sent me earnest and prayerful summons to come back to London and go on singing _Ada_, I turned a deaf ear and sent back word that I was too tired.
My first appearance in London this season was at a Royal Concert at Buckingham Palace to which, as before, I was ”commanded.” There were present many royalties, any number of foreign amba.s.sadors, dukes, d.u.c.h.esses, marquises, marchionesses, archbishops, earls, countesses, lords, and viscounts. Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales wore, I remember, a gown of creme satin brocade trimmed with point d'Alencon, trimmed with pansy-coloured velvet; and her jewels were diamonds, pearls, and sapphires. Her tiara was of diamonds and she was decorated with many orders. Said an American press notice:
Miss Kellogg, it is a pleasure to say, achieved a complete triumph and received the congratulations of the Prince and Princess of Wales and of everyone present.... And not a whit behind this was the great triumph she gained on the evening of June 19th, in her character of Ada, without doubt the most impressive and ambitious of her impersonations, and which has won for her in America the highest praise from musical people and public on account of the intensity of feeling which she throws into the dramatic action and music. The London _Times_ critic, who is undoubtedly the best in London, bestows praise in unequivocal language for the excellence of Miss Kellogg's interpretation. That Miss Kellogg has been so successful as a singer will be glad news to her friends, and that she has been so successful as an American singer will be still better news to those people who feel keenly for our national reputation as lovers and promoters of the fine arts.
In an interview in London Max Strakosch was asked with regard to his plans for another season:
”Why do you contemplate giving English opera instead of Italian?”
”For two reasons,” he replied. ”The first is that English is very popular now and the great generality of people in England and America prefer it. This is especially the case in England. The second reason is that, although Kellogg is the equal of an Italian operatic star, fully as fine as Gerster, immeasurably superior to Hauck, people with set ideas will always have their favourites, and partisans.h.i.+p is possible; whereas in English opera Kellogg stands alone, unapproachable, the indisputable queen.”
”What is all this talk I hear about a lot of rich men coming to the front in New York to support Mapleson's operatic ventures with their money?”
”Why, it is all talk; that's just it. That sort of talk has been talked for years back, but they never do anything. Why didn't these rich men that want opera in New York give me any money? I stood ready to bring out any artists they wanted if they would guarantee me against loss. But they never did anything of the kind, and I have brought out the leading artists of our times at my own risks.
The only man who's worth anything of all that lot that's talking so much about opera now in New York is Mr. Bennett. He's got the _Herald_, and that has influence.”
”What do you think of Americans as an opera-going people?” he was asked.
”While we have many music-lovers in America, it is nevertheless a difficult matter to cater to our public,” Max replied. ”Here in England there is such an immense const.i.tuency for opera; people who have solid fortunes, which nothing disturbs, and who want opera and all other beautiful and luxurious things, and will pay largely for them. In America hard times may set everybody to economising and, of course, one of the first things cut off is going to the opera.”
”Was all that gossip about disputes and jealousies between Kellogg and Gary last season a managerial dodge for notoriety?”
”Dear me, no. I haven't the slightest idea how all that stuff and nonsense started. Kellogg and Gary were always good friends. If Gary wasn't pleased with her treatment last year, why should she engage with us again? Besides, what rivalry could there possibly be between a soprano and a contralto? The soprano is the _prima donna_ incontestably, the star of the troupe.”
In Paris my mother and I took an apartment on the Rue de Chaillot, just off the Champs elysees. One of the first things I did in Paris was to refuse an offer to sing in Budapesth. While in Paris I, of course, did sing many times, but it was always unprofessionally. I had a wonderful stay in Paris, and went to everything from horse shows to operas. Those were the charming days when Mme. Adam had her _salon_. I met there some of the most gifted and brilliant people of the age. She was the editor of the _Nouvelle Revue_, and it was through her that I met Coquelin. He frequently recited at her receptions; and it was a great privilege to hear his wonderful French and his inimitable intonation in an _intime_ way.
The house where I enjoyed visiting more than any other except the Adams', was that of Theodore Robin, who had married a rich American widow and had a beautiful home on Parc Monceau. His baritone voice was a very fine one, and he had studied at first with a view to making a career for himself; but he was naturally indolent and, having married money, his indolence never decreased. Valentine Black was another friend of ours and we spent many an evening at his house listening to G.o.dard and Widor play their songs. Widor was the organist at Saint Sulpice and had composed some charming lyric music. G.o.dard was a very small man, intensely musical. He had the curious gift of being able to copy another composer's style exactly. Few people know, for instance, that he wrote all the recitative music for _Carmen_. It is almost incredible that another brain than Bizet's should have so marvellously caught the spirit and the mood of that music.
The Stanley Club gave me a dinner in the following March at which my mother and I were the only ladies present. Mr. Ryan was the President of the Club and represented the _New York Herald_. The foreign correspondents of the _Evening Post_ and the _Boston Advertiser_ were there, and next to Ryan sat Richard Watson Gilder who was representing the _Century Magazine_. There were also there several poets and writers, and more than one painter whose picture hung in the _Salon_ of that year. No one asked me to sing; but I felt that I wanted to and did so.
After the ”Jewel Song” and the ”Polonaise,” someone asked for ”Way Down on the Suwanee River.” I sang it, and was struck by the incongruous touch of the little negro melody, the brilliant Stanley Club, and all Paris outside.