Stage-struck; or, She would be an opera-singer

Front matter

OR,

She Wotild be an Opera-Singer.

BY

Preface

It is easier, I believe, to write a book than a preface. And why? Because one can write a book without giving a reason for doing it ; whereas, in writing a preface, one is supposed to suggest a reason for writing the book. From the criticisms of one's friends, it would seem that they consider a book should be written solely to please them.

I love my friends, but I love Art better; and of all art, I love the art of music best. It is with the hope of strengthening this art — especially in relation to my own country — that I submit " Stage-Struck'* for public judgment.

As the theatre is the finishing-school for the drama, or the conservatory for musicians of every grade, so is the opera-house the true finishing-school for the singer. An American is patriotic in everything but music. He will subscribe thousands to enable a speculating manager to pay fabulous amounts to Patti, but he will not pay units to establish a national opera-house, or a real "Academy of Music." I look forward to the day when our professors, instead of telling their pupils that they must go to Europe, will be in a position to say: " Now you are sufficiently advanced to go — not to Europe, but — round the corner to the finishing-school that has been provided for you

6 Preface.

by your fathers, your brothers, and your Nation." It is the old story of every boy in the public schools fully expecting some day to be President of the United States. But we have our White House in America, and do not send him to Europe to hunt for it. The ambition of the Italian woman is to sing at La Scala; of the Austrian, to sing at the Imperial Opera; of the French woman, at the Grand Opera; of the German, at the Royal Opera at Berlin; of the Spaniard, at Madrid; of the English woman, at Covent Garden: but of the American, as matters are at present — well, where she can!

It is this fact which places all ambitious American singers at such a disastrous disadvantage; and it is this that has induced me to write " Stage-Struck," with the sincere hope that it may serve the double purpose of a guide-post showing my country-men what should be done, and a danger-post warning my inexperienced country-women what to avoid.

Beyond saying this, I make no appeal for toleration. I put forward no excuses for having "rushed into print."

For the sake of my country-women, I regret the fact that the story is a true one; but, if this narration of truth in the form of fiction serve to warn others of the dangers of being "stage-struck," my work will at least have had the success I wish for it. I knew Annabel. Her experiences were precisely what I have related. I have told them plainly, because I wished them to be plainly understood.

Blanche Roosevelt.

London, April 27, 1884.

STAGE-STRUCK.

Chapter I

La Crosse is one of the prettiest towns in Wisconsin. It takes its name from the prairie on which the first settlement was made, more than forty years ago, by Colonel Nathan Myrick. Whence the prairie took its name is not known unless from a tribe of Redmen who at some remote date claimed it for their huntingground. In front, on a level with it, flows the rapid Mississippi, while beyond and behind rise hills, or ** bluffs" as they are commonly called, which form gigantic barriers and nestle both river and town in their protective embrace. The situation is beautiful. Islands gleam here and there in the river, and in summer when seen from the town look like small specks of emerald green. A little below the city, and abutting on the bank, is a picturesque old mill.

Close by, there is a long strip of sanded shore; and here the workingmen's children on summer afternoons play, and wade out into the river, dressed in long oldfashiorfed cotton frocks, which they borrow of their grannies when they go down by the mill to paddle. Here the crystal waters run up and down the sand like silver serpents, licking and kissing the white grains, which glimmer with diamond-like brightness. In winter the river is frozen over, and there are frequent sleighing-parties on it. Usually these parties take place at night, when the atmosphere is so still and clear that sounds travel for miles, and the calm air is made merry with the sound of sleigh-bells and of laughter.

On a bright night in the latter part of December, a party of young people glided over the ice. They were going down the river about sixteen miles in sleighs to Smith's Landing, where the evening was to wind up with a candy-pull and a dance at Deacon Hart's. But this was not all: an important ceremony was to take place. Annabel Almont, of Smith's Landing, who since her childhood had ** never missed a Sunday going up to La Crosse to sing in the church-choir," was to be presented with a purse of money to aid her in going to Europe to be an opera-singer.

La Crosse is a go-ahead city. Its lumber interests are enormous. It has direct communication with St. Louis and New Orleans through the steamboats which ply on the " Father-of- Waters," and its commercial importance is great. It has stores, churches, high-schools, grammar-schools, a fine court-house, and many rich dwellings, surrounded by trees and flowers or parks, built by the successful tradesmen and lumbermerchants. It is also a music-loving city, and looks with pride on its fine opera-house, which yearly attracts the best talent " on the road." But Smith's Landing is a poor place, and can boast of little save that it is so near La Crosse and the home of Annabel Almont. Its people are old like its houses (the

Stage-Struck. g

younger members having migrated " up the valley") and the two places present one of those strong contrasts so often met with in the New World, and which is the inevitable result of promiscuous settlement.

The last of the sleighs had filed through the main street, and all were drawn up before the deacon's door. Len, the deacon's son and pride, glanced proudly at the house as he led the way inside. And well he might, for it was the finest at the Landing — substantial, square, and three-storied. The foundations were of stone from the neighboring bluffs; the upper part was of wood painted white with green blinds; and the ground-floor had two bay-windows. The interior was richly decorated. The drawing-rooms, or, as they were called, the parlors, were furnished with a suite in carved rosewood and cherry satin, protected by various " doyleys" in tatting, crochet, and the celebrated "Afghan stitch." It was the envy of every housewife in Smith's Landing. A young girl came out on the steps to welcome them. Turning to the deacon's Len, she essayed to speak.

He interrupted her. "Not a word, for Heaven's sake! Think of your voice, and be silent. Nod, nod freely; I know that means 'Thank you.' This is the great night of your life, and you must sing the tops of their heads off, just to show 'em that Redmond's girl is nowhere. Come on in," he continued, turning to the others. " We are home at last, and the show'U soon begin."

Annabel Almont, the young girl who was to sing the tops of her friends* heads off, was the pride of the church where she sang and worshipped, and was about lO St age-Struck,

to be sent abroad to study for the opera. From earlychildhood she had been the mainstay of the choir. Every " professor" who had come to the town had solemnly opined that such a voice had never before been heard, and the elders in the congregation of St. John's Church believed it to be rather superior to that possessed by an angel. When, therefore, it was decided that she should go to Europe, it was felt that some slight testimonial ought to be given to one who was likely to shed such a lustre on La Crosse and Smith's Landing.

The deacon and his wife stood at the door, welcoming the youths and maidens as they poured in. The arm-chairs in the " best parlor" were already tenanted by stately prim old ladies, and by some of the younger matrons who, having the right of way, had made immediate good use of it to secure the most comfortable places. Annabel was, of course, the star of the evening. Old and young looked at her with envious eyes, and, as she walked here and there amongst the guests, many were the remarks which followed her.

Preparations were being made for the ceremony, which was to be something very imposing. In the mean while, the stream of small-talk ran fast and furious. Three old women sat in three chairs. As Annabel passed before them, Mrs. Redmond, from * * ^^ the mother of a girl who had already gone abroad to learn to sing, was speaking to Miss Hetty, the "tallest" gossip in the town, and to Miss Hopkins, an acidulated old maid who delighted to " hear anything."

" Look at her," she said, "going to Europe just because my gal's gone. She wouldn't take me with her

Stas^e-Struck, 1 1 because I am* too sea-sick; and besides, it is a false notion that American girls can't go off to Europe alone. When they travel from Maine to Californy without pertection, I guess they can cross the herrin'- pond without anybody runnin' off with 'em. But I must say, I am lonesome without her sometimes. I used to get lots of epistolary letters from her, but now she hardly ever writes. I don't say much, 'cause I must keep a stiff upper lip; but I kin tell you, if I had a thousand girls I'd never let one of 'em go to Europe again — no, not even to be an opery-singer."

Miss Hetty patted her friend's shoulder affectionately, and chimed in, " My dear, don't say so. You know you would ; and if you wouldn't, they would — it's all the same. But how will Annabel live ? That's what beats me. Lord bless me, them Almonts is poor and stuck up ! There hain't a hen-coop in my garden as rickety as their old house. The father is a poor sort of a man. But I won't say nothing more, only how long will this purse hold out, and — and — Well, I sha'n't say no more; only if I wanted to, I could tell—"

Miss Hopkins giggled and drew her chaii* closer to Miss Hetty's. Insinuatinga very withered small hand under her pocket-handkerchief, which was spread out catty-cornered on her lap, she began cooing in broken snatches —

"Do tell; do tell.. What is it ? Of course we won't mention it again. Anything told me is sacred. And as to Mrs. Redmond — why, she is the salt of the earth; wild horses wouldn't drag anything from that woman."

Miss Hetty, thus importuned, began. " It isn't much, but I overheard her talking one day with Len, the deacon's son. He said he was going to Europe as soon as he could, to learn to sing. She said she would like to go, but didn't know how she could. Now, this was only last fall, and I believe that it is cut and dried. My dears, they are going to elope; that's what it is."

" Oh, Hetty, Hetty, how can you ?" sobbed Miss Hopkins. "But oh, oh! don't talk so loud. Goon; do go on. Of course I won't breathe a word of it. We won't breathe a word of it — will we ?" and she nodded to Mrs. Redmond, whose black eyes danced like those of a rattlesnake.

" Breathe it !" she muttered. '' I should think not."

Hetty went on. " She spoke about Canada and her uncle — all stuff, of course. They both talked up the singing business together, and how they got on in the church-choir. You know they are both in it. She said her mother could not come away at once with her; but that she would do anything to be an opera-singer — would make any sacrifice; would leave her family and home at a moment's notice, and — and — "

"And go with him," said Miss Hopkins, triumphantly. " I knew it. Oh, you may as well tell the truth; of course she said it."

"Well, I presume she did. I could'nt take my Bible oath that she did say it; but I — I — You are sure that you won't repeat what I've been telling you ? I am a little anxious."

"Anxious, my dear ?" said Mrs. Redmond. " Nothing could induce us to even hint the slightest shade of the substance of the shadow of such a thing. What do you take us for ?"

''Well, I heard this, and. I firmly believe that — Now, do I look like a woman who would invent ?"

" Stop, Hetty," said Miss Hopkins. " I won't say anything, but when she has fled with her purse and her — her — no, I will not say the word — may I break the news to her mother, and to a few of my intimate friends ?"

Miss Hetty was about to reply, when the folding doors were opened, and Deacon Hart appeared, leading Annabel by the hand. There was a stir, a hush, and a burst of applause. The deacon bowed, then waved the young girl into a seat. He hemmed and hawed, and at length commenced.

" Sisters and brothers, we are gathered here on a solemn occasion. I am not used to public speaking in my own house, and I ask your indulgence. But the occasion is a very solemn one. I may add that it is also a joyful occasion. I — " He stopped and looked around. A dead silence followed his words. He took courage, and continued. "A joyful one. Our young friend — our sister in the Lord, I may say — has given much pleasure by her sweet voice, and has caused the choir to assert itself as the leading choir in any church of La Crosse or any other town. The congregation, wishing to show an affectionate regard and appreciation of the talents of this young lutevoiced soprano, has made up a purse, which I now have the honor and pleasure of presenting to her."

Annabel was nudged violently by Miss Hetty, who was near. "Get up and bow," she said; "get up, quick."

Annabel half rose and looked around. A flush of pleasure tinted her soft cheeks, and her eyes deepened with excitement and pride.

Deacon Hart took her by the hand, and then the applause became tumultuous, deafening. He hemmed and hawed, and began again.

" On this auspicious occasion, I feel it my duty to say a few words. Years ago a family came to our Landing from La Crosse, a family whom we have all grown to know and respect. In this family was one young girl. At the age of six she was one day discovered in a tree, singing — singing like a mocking-bird—

" *0 woodman, spare that tree.'

But to proceed. A man passing by heard her. This man was a famous singing-master. He came to vilages; he discovered voices; he stirred up dormant lambition; he set the music-ball a-rolling; he demonstrated to us that, although a new town, we had the mighty instincts of art which make us the equal in everything to great cities. He got up classes, and then things culminated in grand concerts. The girl singing in the tree was Annabel Almont. The learned singing-master who first heard her has been gathered to his fathers, but by a special Providence another took his place, and yet another.

" When I heard Annabel, at the tender age of six, in' Those Evening Bells;* when at ten she led her class in * I want to be an Angel;' when, later on, she had mastered * 'Way down upon the Suwanee River/ and 'What is Home without a Mother ? ' my breast glowed. I said to myself, we must give this voice to the world. Have we a right to keep trammelled in our choir a talent which is bound to paralyze the universe ? This girl is destined to become a great star on the lyric stage, and a star which will rise from our own sky. But for this she must go to Europe. She has little money; still, what is vulgar lucre compared with talent ? We will give her of ours — ahem — a moderate amount of ours."

The deacon paused to refresh himself with a glass of water. He then continued:

"When La Crosse's name shines in history, will it be for her mills, for her river commerce, for her new post-office, for her town-hall, for her mighty levees against which the great leviathan Mississippi vainly dashes in awful and sublime frenzy ? I say, No. Nine cities claim to be the birthplace of Homer; hundreds will vainly claim to be the birthplace of Annabel Almont. But History will do justice to La Crosse; she will say that it was her native town. God bless you, my dear" — giving her the purse. "And now, as a parting favor, sing the song which stamped you yet in youth as the one upon whose shoulders Molly Brown's" (he probably meant Malibran's) " mantle was to fall. We will afterwards proceed with the candy-pull. I see all of the young folks are waiting for their taffy."

The deacon sat down, perspiring and wiping his brow. Annabel was trembling and anxious, and she held the purse tight in her hand.

Len whispered, "Courage. Isn't it perfectly elegant ? Sing for dear life. Do you know how much you have got in your purse ? I will accompany you. What shall you sing ?"

"Oh, I don't know," answered Annabel; "lam so frightened, and I can't see mamma. Where is she ? and where is father?"

"Mamma! father !" said Len. " Nevermind them; you belong to the world. You must bear up. How can you ever expect to be a singer, when you have time to ask about your family at this critical moment? But there they are, bowing and smiling, and urging you to go on."

Sure enough there they were, hustled in a corner. For a moment the authors of her being were forgotten. She took heart; and Len, seating himself at a new brown melodeon, commenced a few chords.

The deacon arose. " I think that I represent the wish of all present when I ask for the simple song which goes straight home to all our hearts, which recalls our earliest past, and reminds us of our eternal future."

Len struck the prelude to " I want to be an Angel." " Come, Annabel," he said, " if you wait any longer, father's wings will have time to sprout."

She commenced, but emotion almost choked her voice. When she got to " A harp within my hand," she thrilled all over. A loud murmuring of applause went up. She clasped her purse, and went bravely on. Before the song was over, her lovely voice soared up like a young lark. At the lines,

*' There right before my vision, ^

So glorious and so bright,'* there was not a dry eye in the house; nothing but music, laughing, and crying.

Annabel was overwhelmed with congratulations, and all crowded so around her that her mother could scarcely get near. Elder Watson stood by her, and pressed her hand in his moist palm. He was an unctuous man, although a good one, and was called the boss musical critic of the town, owing to his profound knowledge of botany.

" My dear," he said, " you've wilted us all. Patti can't touch you with a ten-foot pole. Go and conquer. When you feast at kings' tables, when queens call you by your first name, when princesses treat you like a sister, when the boiled-down aristocrats of the Old World grovel at your feet, do not forget the choir where you first knew fame, or that John Watson bet tall dollars that you'd lap over all of 'em;" and he implanted a paternal kiss on her brow.

The deacon then asked a benediction; and no sooner was it finished than all poured into the great dining-room, where preparations had been made for the candy-pull.

The huge kettle, with quarts of molasses in it, was already simmering over the fire. The usual "frills," as Miss Hetty called them — namely, some maple-sugar, a little salt, a chunk of butter, and a little soda — had been already added to the brew. Well-greased platters were on the long table, with the fresh butter shining on the porcelain. There was a pile of plates, and the butter was passed round so that all might grease their hands. When the molasses was considered well boiled, it was ladled out into the huge platl8 Stage-Struck.

ters. The hot molasses now became a gluey paste, divided up. All stood anxiously around the table whilst the butter was distributed, and the pulling process commenced. Each had a liberal portion. The hot paste was pounded, rolled, beaten, stretched, massed together again; and loving couples got slyly into corners with their lot of candy between them. What flirtation would not thrive under a quarter of a yard of yielding candy-paste acting as a bond of union !

'* Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell."

There were occasional screams of, " Oh, how hot !" " I am burning my fingers." " Come and help me pull mine." And each girl adroitly managed to burn her fingers precisely at the moment when the youth came near whom she wanted by her side.

' Soon the critical moment arrived. Whose candy was the best, the whitest, the most brittle, and the quickest made ? A jury was impanelled to decide. As soon as their verdict was delivered, the elders came in. A rosette was solemnly pinned on the breast of the victor, and supper was announced as ready. Then there was a cry, " O, let's have some pop-corn with our candy !"

Len spoke up. " No; supper first — supper first. Those who are in favor of supper hold up their hands."

" No, no," said another voice; "that isn't the square thing. Annabel must decide, because she is going to be an opera-singer."

Annabel accepted the umpireship shyly. " I should say," she said softly, " that those who are hungry should eat, and those who want corn-popping should have it now."

This decision was received with acclamation. Some went off to supper, and others — amongst these Annabel— were for the pop-corn,

Len, who had changed his mind, went to the kitchen, and came back with the corn-poppers — little closed pans made entirely of wire net, with long handles, very like miniature warming-pans. Some shelled corn was distributed, and in a few minutes the little yellow kernels were browning and snapping over the fire in their wire cages, and then bursting into white flakes, like orange-blossoms or a fourleaved clover.

*'Go ahead, anybody," said Len. "This is Liberty Hall." He was vigorously shaking his popper. " Don't wait for me, although I'll soon have mine done."

Annabel stood next him. She took the handle of the popper. " Let me shake it," said she, insinuatingly; then she whispered, "Did I sing well?"

" Yes," said he, yielding up the wire cage, ** elegantly. What a lovely evening! I shall never forget it till my dying day, and that will be years and years from now. When will you go to Europe — before me ? I intend starting as soon as possible; at a minute's notice. Don't say anything, but I'll spring it on this community like a patent trap, so everybody's head'U swim. Oh, there is nothing mean about me ! I do as I please; that comes of being a P. I. G. — perfectly independent gentleman. It's different with girls. But you can't complain; you are in clover."

, She dreamily agitated the corn-popper, and murmured, " I wonder if — if I shall ever become a great singer."

" A great singer !" he echoed, amazed. " Why, you are one now. When the money was taken up, there wasn't a human being who didn't allow that you were the best they ever heard; and some, you know, have been to Boston and all over."

She held out her popper. " Mine is ready," she said; and they went towards the table.

The flaky corn was emptied into a white bowl; then it was prepared, with a little salt sprinkled over it, and a little drawn butter. After this, handfuls were rolled in the hot molasses. In no time the balls began piling themselves up, and supper was announced as quite ready. There was a sound of hammering in one corner, where some children were cracking hickory-nuts.

The room was filled to overflowing. In addition to the children's voices, the deacon's, Miss Hetty's, Miss Hopkins's, Annabel's mother's, and those of the other guests chimed in. Every one was talking at once, and the supper disappeared as if by magic. The tables groaned with home luxuries. There were great loaves of spiced bread, gingerbread cookies, marble-cake, pies, sandwiches of every kind, cider, coffee, and homecured cucumbers, salted before sunset and pickled at just the right time, not to speak of various relishes and preserved fruit.

When Miss Hetty sat down, she sighed, saying,

" Well, Deacon Hart, I must say this affair has been a success, and we owe it all to you."

The deacon smiled blandly, but disclaimed any special credit to himself. He said, " It was in the cause of art, dear Miss Hetty. Annabel's a sweet singer. You know what Shakespeare said about the man who had no music in his soul. I am not like that man. I adore music. Even an accordeon sends me off into ecstasies, and I lie awake nights to listen to the calliope on the steamboats. I want to see Annabel succeed, and no one can say I believe in a girl spending her life knitting stockings when she has a voice worth cultivating. Len is also a singer. He's good for nothing else; so I expect he'll want to be starting abroad soon, although he may never go on the stage. I'm fond of my boy; but if Art calls, he must obey."

All now was being prepared for the dance. The table was put away, the melodeon was dragged near the door, and the " Virginia Reel " was coaxed out of it in wheezy but emphatic measures.

Annabel danced once. '* It will be for the last time," said Len, " until we dance together in Europe. Never mind spoiling your voice for to-night. You haven't to sing in the next few days. Annabel," he said suddenly, *' are you sorry that you are going away ?"

" No. I — I mean that I shall miss all of my friends — you — "

" Thanks. But you won't miss me long; I am going to Europe myself. We will both fetch up stars in some great foreign opera company yet. I suppose my voice really is about the best in the town next to yours." He led her to a seat.

" There is no doubt of it. I—"

Annabel's mother came towards her just then. "My dear, you must go home; you are so tired."

" Yes, mamma."

She rose obediently, and, after bidding every one a tender farewell, they started to go. This was a signal for a general breaking-up of the company. All the women and most of the men kissed her. She was to leave the next day, and there was nothing but congratulations and cries of " Good luck" and " Don't forget us when you become a great artist."

When the final farewells were over, they went away. The door opened once again, and an old slipper came flying after Annabel.

" That's for luck," shouted a voice. The slipper had been thrown by Elder Watson in person.

It hit her upon the head with a little thud. There was a shout from the party as she snatched at it; but she did not pick it up, as she feared her doing so would spoil her luck.

And this was her farewell. The next day she started with her family to New York, the first stage on her way to Milan.

Chapter II

Annabel found that a stay in New York for a Western girl was not to be despised. Instead of the intended three months, she spent over a year in Gotham. Len had gone to Europe close upon the heels of the candy-pull. He was now, he wrote, " a great star, and had sung in Italy in * La Sonnambula ' more than sixty times." She was anxious to get away, yet half sorry. She had been studying hard all these months. Her mother had gone to Canada to " Uncle Jim," to see if he would not help her. The purse had long since been exhausted; they had even known real poverty in Gotham; yet she had lost neither courage nor ambition. At* last her father managed to scrape together a little money, and she Was on the eve of departure for Europe. Going alone, of course; but all American girls did that. Still, as the last moments of her stay approached, she could not help feeling a little sad. She went down to the steamer with her father and a few friends, and she was almost glad that her mother was not there to bid her a second farewell. They had parted before she went to Canada. There was the usual crowd at the dock to see the steamer off, and the usual number of bouquets were hurled on to the deck. Annabel stood leaning over the bulwarks. Her father shouted out to her,