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 ship'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 partisanship 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.

No one can live in the atmosphere of artistic Paris without being interested in other branches of art besides one's own. That is a charming trait of French people;--they are not a bit prejudiced when it comes to recognising forms of genius that are unfamiliar. The stupidest Parisian painter will weep over Tschaikowsky's _Pathetique Symphony_ or will wildly applaud one of the rather c.u.mbersome Racine tragedies at the Theatre Francais. I knew Cabanel quite well (not, I hasten to add, that he would be apt to cultivate an artistic taste in anybody) and I met Jules Stewart at the Robins', whose father was the greatest collector of Fortuneys in the world. I think it was he who took me to the Loan Exhibition of the Barbizon School of Painting that year. The pictures were hung beautifully, I remember, so that one could see the stages of their development.

It was about the same time that I first heard Josephine de Reszke in Paris. In any case it was somewhere in the seventies. She was a soprano with a beautiful voice but not an attractive personality. Her neck was exceptionally short and set so far down into her shoulders that she just escaped deformity. She was very much the blonde, northern type, and still a young woman. I have heard that she did not have to sing for monetary reasons. A few years later she married a wealthy Polish banker and left the stage. At the time I first heard her the de Reszke men were not singing. It was in _Le Roi de Lah.o.r.e_ that I heard her, with Lascelle. I never listened to anything more magnificently done than Lascelle's singing of the big baritone _aria_. Maurel followed him as a baritone. He was a great artist also, with possibly more intelligence in his singing than Lascelle. Lascelle relied entirely on his glorious voice; in consequence he never realised all in his career that might have been possible. In reality, if you have one great gift, you have to develop as many other gifts as possible in order to present and to protect that one properly! A little later I heard Maurel in _Iago_.

(This reminds me of _Oth.e.l.lo_ in Munich, when Vogel, the tenor, sang out of tune and nearly spoiled Maurel's work). What an actor, and what an intelligence! One felt in Maurel a man who had studied his _roles_ from the original plots. He played a great part in costuming, but, curiously enough, he could never play parts of what I call elemental picturesqueness. His Amonasro in _Ada_ was good, but it was a bit too clean and tidy. He looked as if he were just out of a Turkish bath, immaculate, in spite of his uncivilised guise. He could, however, play a small part as if it were the finest _role_ in the piece; and he had an inimitable elegance and art, even with a certain primitive romantic quality lacking. But what days those were--of what marvellous singing companies! I hear no such vocalism now, in spite of the elaborate and expensive opera that is put on each year.

In my mother's diary of this period I find:

Louise presented to Verdi and we had no idea she would appear in any newspaper in consequence....

She went to hear the d.a.m.nation of _Faust_ last Sunday and says the orchestra was _very_ fine. The singing is not so much. She went to hear _Ada_ last night at the Grau Opera House with Verdi to conduct and Krauss as Ada. Chorus and orchestra fine artists.

_Well_--she was _disappointed_! Krauss sings so false and has not as much power as Louise. She came home quite proud of herself. Took her opera and marked everything. Says her _tempo_ was very nearly correct; but yet she was disappointed. Krauss changes her dress.

Louise does not....

We went to Miss Van Zandt's _debut_. She made a veritable success.

Has a very light tone. The _Theatre Comique_ is small. She is extremely slender and, if not worked too hard, will develop into a fine artist. Our box joined Patti's. I sat next to her and we lost no time in chatting over everything that was interesting to us both. She told me her whole story. I was very much interested; and had a most agreeable evening. Was glad I went.

In a letter written by my mother to my father I find another mention of my meeting Verdi:

"Louise was invited to breakfast with Verdi, the composer of _Ada_. She said he was the most natural, unaffected, and the most amiable man (musical) she ever met."

CHAPTER XXIX

TEACHING AND THE HALF-TALENTED

I have gone abroad nearly every summer and it was on one of these trips, in 1877, that I first met Lilian Nordica. It was at a garden party given by the Menier Chocolat people at their _usine_ just outside Paris, after she had returned from making a tour of Europe with Patrick Gilmore's band. A few years later she and I sang together in Russia; and we have always been good friends. At the time of the Gilmore tour she was quite a girl, but she dressed her hair in a fashion that made her look much older than she really was and that threw into prominence her admirably determined chin. She always attributed her success in life to that chin.

Before becoming an opera singer she had done about everything else. She had been a book-keeper, had worked at the sewing machine, and sung in obscure choirs. The chin enabled her to surmount such drudgery. A young person with a chin so expressive of determination and perseverance could not be downed. She told me at that early period that she always kept her eyes fixed on some goal so high and difficult that it seemed impossible, and worked toward it steadily, unceasingly, putting aside everything that stood in the path which led to it. In later years she spoke again of this, evidently having kept the idea throughout her career. "When I sang Elsa," she said, "I thought of Brunhilde,--then Isolde,--" My admiration for Mme. Nordica is deep and abounding. Her breathing and tone production are about as nearly perfect as anyone's can be, and, if I wanted any young student to learn by imitation, I could say to her, "Go and hear Nordica and do as nearly like her as you can!" There are not many singers, nor have there ever been many, of whom one could say that. And one of the finest things about this splendid vocalism is that she has had nearly as much to do with it as had G.o.d Almighty in the first place. When I first knew her she had no dramatic quality above _G_ sharp. She could reach the upper notes, but tentatively and without power. She had, in fact, a beautiful mezzo voice; but she could not hope for leading _roles_ in grand opera until she had perfect control of the upper notes needed to complete her vocal equipment. She went about it, moreover, "with so much judition," as an old man I know in the country says. But it was not until after the Russian engagement that she went to Sbriglia in Paris and worked with him until she could sing a high _C_ that thrilled the soul. That _C_ of hers in the Inflammatus in Rossini's _Stabat Mater_ was something superb. Not many singers can do it as successfully as Nordica, although they can all accomplish a certain amount in "manufactured" notes. Fursch-Nadi, also a mezzo, had to acquire upper notes as a business proposition in order to enlarge her _repertoire_. She secured the notes and the requisite _roles_; yet her voice lost greatly in quality. Nordica's never did. She gained all and lost nothing. Her voice, while increasing in register, never suffered the least detriment in tone nor _timbre_.

It was Nordica who first told me of Sbriglia, giving him honest credit for the help he had been to her. Like all truly big natures she has always been ready to acknowledge a.s.sistance wherever she has received it. Some people--and among them artists to whom Sbriglia's teaching has been of incalculable value--maintain a discreet silence on the subject of their study with him, preferring, no doubt, to have the public think that they have arrived at vocal perfection by their own incomparable genius alone. All of my training had been in my native country and I had always been very proud of the fact that critics and experts on two continents cited me as a shining example of what American musical education could do. All the same, when I was in Paris during an off season, I took advantage of being near the great teacher, Sbriglia, to consult him. I really did not want him actually to do anything to my voice as much as I wanted him to tell me there was nothing that needed doing. At the time I went to him I had been singing for twenty years.

Sbriglia tried my voice carefully and said:

"Mademoiselle, you have saved your voice by singing far _forward_."

"That's because I've been worked hard," I told him, "and have had to place it so in self-defence. Many a night I've been so tired it was like _pumping_ to sing! Then I would sing 'way, _'way_ in front and, by so doing, was able to get through."

"Ah, that's it!" said he. "You've sung against your teeth--the best thing in the world for the preservation of the voice. You get a _white_, flat sound that way."

"Then I don't sing wrong?" I asked, for I knew that the first thing great vocal masters usually have to do is to tell one how not to sing.

"Mademoiselle," said Sbriglia, "you breathe by the grace of G.o.d!

Breathing is all of singing and I can teach you nothing of either."

Sbriglia's method was the old Italian method known to teachers as _diaphragmatic_, of all forms of vocal training the one most productive of endurance and stability in a voice. I went several times to sing for him and, on one occasion, met Plancon who had been singing in Ma.r.s.eilles and, from a defective method, had begun to sing out of tune so badly that he resolved to come to Paris to see if he could find someone who might help him to overcome it. He was quite frank in saying that Sbriglia had "made him." I used to hear him practising in the Maestro's apartment and would listen from an adjoining room so that, when I met him, I was able to congratulate him on his improvement in tone production from day to day. Phrasing and expression are what make so many great French artists--that, and an inborn sense of the general effect. French actors and singers never forget to keep themselves picturesque and harmonious. They may get off the key musically but never _artistically_. Germans have not a particle of this sense. They are individualists, egoists, and are forever thinking of themselves and not of the whole. When I heard Slezak, I said to myself: "If only somebody would photograph that man and show him for once what he looks like!"