From The life and professional career of Emma Abbott (1891) by Sadie E. Martin:
On the night of December 29, the company was billed to open the new opera house at Odgen, Utah, with the Rose of Castile. The house was just completed, and the walls were not thoroughly dry, but the star’s dressing room was made comfortable by sufficient heat, and blanketing walls and windows. By accident, however, a window became lowered while Miss Abbott was disrobed, and she was at once thrown into a terrible chill, from which it seemed impossible to recall her. She had been indisposed for several days, and had taken immense doses of quinine as a bracer, to carry her through a series of colds, each one of which seemed to settle more deeply upon her.
The excitement of the occasion may have added _ slightly to the nervous phase of the trouble, as when ready for Act I. she was called upon to respond to an address of welcome by the editor of the Ogden Standard. This called for a hurried change of costume, and another at the close of her own address, which rendered her somewhat nervous. Both Editor. Cannon and Miss Abbott were received by the large audience with hearty applause, and, when silence was restored, she, in clear tones and with winning smile, said :
“Dear Friends—I may say very dear friends, I thank you Srom the bottom of my heart for your more than kind welcome. I have long wished to visit your city, and now that I find myself in your beautiful temple of art, I am astonished and delighted at what I see. It has been my good fortune to open opera houses in many cities, but never have I sung in one more magnificent, more elaborate than this. Iam happy to be with you, and, hoping that ct may not be the last time, I will close by saying with Juliet, ‘Stay but a little, and Iwill come again.’ ”
The Standard, of Dec. 30, gave the following notice of the performance: ‘Shortly after 8 p. m. the orchestra rendered a brief overture, the curtain rose, and Frank J. Cannon, editor Ogden Standard, appeared to make a speech of greeting and introduction. Referring in terms of deserved compliment to the founders and proprietors of the establishment, delivered a glowing tribute to Mr. Whittaker, the architect, and speaking in commendatory terms of all who had taken part in making the structure a success, he proceeded to speak of the star of the evening in choice and appropriate language. At this juncture Miss Abbott appeared, and was warmly received. She was elegantly attired, and exhibited none of the weariness she must have felt through the constant work lately undergone; work in which travel by rail has formed no insignificant factor. Her response was quite brief, but in well chosen words, and evinced a heartiness and friendliness which was thoroughly reciprocated. Both speeches were fittingly punctuated with applause. * * * Forty choristers sang the opening number, and in the midst of their melody, ‘‘ Elvira,” in the person of Miss Abbott, tripped gaily upon the stage, and received another rapturous greeting. From first to last her work was a charm to all listeners; from the opening solo up to and including her special and conspicu. ous flights of vocalism in the tout ensemble, the audience were enchained with that peculiar form of delight which comes of ‘a liking only fully gratified.’ It was soon apparent to those who had never seen the prima donna before, that they were beholding high-class acting, as well as listening to a high class of singing, that has made the singer a name, a fame and a fortune second to a very few. Those who were acquainted with the artiste and her methods, knew, without waiting, that, even if she were divested of the wonderful faculty of song she possesses, she would still shine as an actress of peculiar and altogether attractive power.
‘‘When she trills, it seems like the murmur of aspen leaves in the groves of Paradise, wafted upon wavelets of perfumed air ; and her rounded roulades and caroled cadences sound to the imaginative mind and reverent ear closely akin to the vespers of the angelic host when first they voiced their songs of praise in the Garden of the Gods. In all seriousness, Miss Abbott has a range of compass and such an elastic control of her vocal powers, throughout embellished with excellent intonation and splendid phrasing, all set to such pleasing and plenteous melody, and is so comely in person and attractive in manner that we have no hesitation in crowning her as ‘the dimpled queen of song.” Ogden is pleased to welcome her, and hopes to greet her yet many times ere the curtain is finally rung down upon this fleeting life.”
The Standard of Wednesday, December 31, says of Bohemian Girl: ‘‘The lovers of music and song were served with a rare treat yesterday afternoon and evening, being favored at both performances with the ‘‘ Last Rose of Summer” by that gifted woman. Those who heard her sing this charming song at the matinee and again in the evening were doubly pleased. The thunders of applause which greeted her showed the feeling which the people had for her and for the much loved song.
* * Miss Abbott sang with excellent voice, and the sweetness of her tone was a surprise even to her friends. She was warmly encored.
‘“‘At Tuesday’s matinee the opera Martha was given, and as Miss Abbott made her appearance on the stage she was greeted with rapturous applause. From first to last she charmed her listeners with her volumes of heavenly music. As Martha Miss Abbott appeared at her best, and from the opening solo to her wonderful flights of vocalism, held her audience almost spellbound, and only when the voice had ceased did any one dare to breathe, and then the applause shook the building. The chief interest of the opera was, of course, the singing of ‘‘The Last Rose of Summer.” This song has made Abbott famous, and her name will always be linked with it. Her by-play in Martha is simply delightful in its piquant grace and abandon. She fairly carries the audience with her. The performance was a triumph, and thoroughly appreciated by listeners.”
On returning to her hotel at the close of the performance, she found herself in a raging fever, and to allay her thirst drank large draughts of iced milk. To this Rosa, her attendant, objected, but she would not be denied, because, as she said, ‘‘T seem to be on fire, and this is all that cools my blood.” This chilled her stomach, already rendered sensitive by the quinine, and caused it thereafter to reject the slightest quantity either of food or medicine. On the next morning Miss Abbott was quite ill, but decided to go to Salt Lake City early in the day that she might obtain all the rest possible before the evening’s performance.
When she entered the opera house that Tuesday evening, it was evident to all who were familiar with her habits and manners, that she was indeed very ill, and all at once besought her to remain off the stage, return to her hotel, and place herself in the hands of a physician. <‘‘But I must not disappoint these people,” said she, ‘‘I was in bad voice when here before, and to-night I must redeem myself. I cannot forego this performance, but, oh, I am so very ill.”’ She sank prostrate several times while making up, scarcely uttering a word during the entire time; a fact which betokened the severity of her illness. When slightly indisposed she was extremely nervous, and easily irritated, talking continually about her indisposition. But on this occasion she was satisfied with anything, and breathed not a word of complaint. At intervals she would cast a look of agony upon those around her, and shake her head as if in mute despair.
When dressed she was fairly carried through the wings, and just as she made her entrance, braced herself, saying, ‘‘ I must sing if I die for it.” All look of suffering passed from her face, and in its place there came an expression almost saint-like in its beauty. ‘The manager, Mr. Pratt, his wife, and Miss Annandale occupied a box, and to them the fact that Miss Abbott was suffering intense agony, although her rendering of the part of Elvira was perfectly charming, was evident. There was something in her face, her manner, and in the quality of her voice which seemed more than human, and seemed to inspire them with terror.
Manager Pratt left the box at the close of the act, and finding his fears confirmed went at once after Dr. Pinkerton, who accompanied him to the theater. A hasty inquiry into her condition revealed even then the fact that she was alarmingly ill. Of her condition at that hour Dr. Pinkerton writes : ‘‘T reached the theater just before the second act. She complained of a terrible pain in the left side, and informed me that she had a severe chill at five that afternoon. Her respirations were forty per minute, pulse 120, temperature 104$°F. I advised her to have her manager acquaint the audience with the fact that she was alarmingly ill, and that she be taken at once to her hotel. This she persistently refused to do, saying she must sing that night. The people who witnessed that performance will probably never forget her sufferings, as it was apparent to all that she was dangerously ill.”
When the united pleadings of Dr. Pinkerton and her manager failed to persuade her to ‘‘ring down” for the evening, the doctor did all in his power to brace her for the work, and arrest the disease. A bottle of champagne was brought, and given by the teaspoonful, and when the theater closed that evening, although all were aware of her illness, not one dreamed that their favorite songstress had sung her last note on earth.
From the first the physicians had little hope of saving their patient on account of her inability to retain either food or medcine, and yet they left no means untried. They watched carefully every symptom, and spent hours at her side.
The expressions of opinions by physicians at remote distances to the effect that Miss Abbott was drugged to death by hypodermics of morphia sulphate are as unkind as they are unwise and unprofessional. Doctors Pinkerton and Bascom refrained from the use of hypodermics until assured beyond a doubt that Miss Abbott was past all chance of recovery, and only resorted to them at that time that her last hours might be robbed of the terrible agony which sometimes characterizes the end with victims of pneumonia. Both assured Miss Ellerington that it was their last resort to give their patient rest and a peaceful death.
On Thursday, when visited by her physician, Miss Abbott, using an expression common among the profession regarding future dates, remarked to him, ‘‘ Doctor, I think I am booked.” ‘¢ Booked ! for where, Miss Abbott?” ‘‘For Paradise, doctor.” To this the doctor replied that should she relinquish hope of recovery his task would be more difficult, and said, ‘‘ We rely much upon your courage and hopefulness to carry you through.” ‘« Ah, doctor,” said she, ‘‘I shall sing my next song in Heaven. But I’m not afraid to die, doctor, I’m not afraid.”
All day Friday the symptoms remained about the same; the patient suffering the most intense agony. To her medical adviser’s inquiry where she suffered most, she answered, ‘‘Everywhere, everywhere ; such dreadful pain.” The one thing most feared by her physicians and dreaded by herself was delirium, put although nearly always present in pneumonia, Miss Abbott’s mind remained clear from the first until the end. From the beginning her hearing was impaired, and she often asked her physicians if that would return in the event of recovery.
On Saturday she hovered between life and death, and was told of her precarious condition. Her reply was, ‘‘I know it. Z She remembered the day and date, and her custom of sending on Saturday of each week a check to each of her aged parents. She was too weak to raise her head, but asked to be supported while she affixed her signature for the last time. She realized this, and said, ‘‘That is the last check I shall ever sign.” ‘‘No, no, Miss Abbott,” replied her private secretary, Mr. Consadine, ‘‘not the last. I only wish I might become possessor of all you will yet sign.” «Ah, no, Dan, that is my last; for my dear old father.”
Now and then she would remark, ‘‘ To-morrow will be Sunday, Sunday,” betokening the fact that she remembered the date of her husband’s death. When asked by the physician if she wished to transact any business, she replied, ‘ I would like if it were God’s will to live another year. I wanted to see my dear husband’s monument completed; then, too, during the coming year I had hoped to build a home for my family, where all might live together, and where when I needed rest I might retire. Then there is my new opera; I was having it written especially for my company and myself, and I would so much like to live to put that on. These three things I have greatly desired, but, doctor, if it is God’s will, I am willing to die.” After this she seemed to be thinking of the company, and would say, ‘‘On Monday the company will go on—will go on, and I—must—wait—here,” showing that she even yet hoped for recovery. When the pain could no longer be endured without greatly hastening the end, Dr. Pinkerton suggested a hypodermic of morphia, that she might gain a little rest; she consented. On Sunday morning about three o’clock Miss EL lerington noted the commencement of the peculiar rattling sound in the breathing, which to prevent her from giving way to grief the physician attributed to a breaking up of mucous in the throat, but to Alice’s loving ear it foretold the approach of the end, and as she leaned forward, hoping her fears might prove groundless, the patient noted the movement and inquired the cause. Now and then she would turn to the patient watcher at her side and say, ‘‘ Alice, dear, pray, pray that I—may— live—through this day and this night ; Alice—this—day—and —this—night.” At noon on Sunday Miss Ellerington was sent to her room for a little rest, the physician saying, ‘‘ You will be needed to-night.” She remained absent only a few hours, her watch at the invalid’s side being replaced by Mrs. Pratt, Miss Vernon and Miss Franklin. At night Dr. Pinkerton remained in an adjoining room, while Mr. and Mrs. Pratt, Miss Eilerington, and Rosa also rested near, leaving, during the early part of the night, Miss Franklin and Miss Vernon on watch. Soon after midnight Miss Ellerington joined them, and detected in the center of the right hand a spot which was icy cold. To her it seemed significant, and as she noted the chill spreading and taking possession of the entire hand, her heart sank within her, and still she tried to hope. The sufferer caught only snatches of rest, and so earnestly longed for the coming day that long before the first streak of light appeared, she asked that the curtains might be pinned back to admit the first rays of dawn. About four o’clock Miss Ellerington noted a change, and called Dr. Pinkerton, to whom Miss Abbott said, ‘‘ A wonderful change has taken place. What it is I cannot tell, but it is a wonderful change.” To his inquiry concerning the pain, she replied, ‘‘It is all gone all gone.” Slowly but surely she sank, rousing only when some one called her name. Miss Ellerington and Mrs. Pratt both said to her, ‘‘ Don’t you know me; can you see me?” to which there was no response. Mrs. Pratt said, ‘«It’s Addie, don’t you know Addie?” <‘‘Oh! yes, Addie,” replied the dying woman, and smiled. ‘‘ Alice” and ‘¢ Addie” were the last names she ever uttered.
On being asked if she wished the company called, she answered, ‘‘ The company—all—all—” Every member responded, and as they filled the hall and doorways, naught could be heard but sobs of anguish. Michelena, Pruette, Broderick, McCormack and Oonsadine, broke down, and cried like children ; while the weeping of the ladies formed a sad accompaniment. The sound of the crying reached the ears of her they all so tenderly loved, so deeply mourned, and with an effort to look at each she rallied for an instant and said distinctly, ‘‘ I’m— not afraid.”
