the second act, I found her upon the stage with Jean de Reszke, who was assisting her to the rocky couch beneath the great tree, where presently the audience was to see her surrounded by the flames which Wotan called forth at the conclusion of "The Valkyrie," and in the sleep from which Siegfried was presently to awaken her. I took my place in a box to witness the remainder of the performance. Melba was extremely nervous, not only because she was singing in a language to which she was unaccustomed, but in a part which was entirely unsuited to her, and which, though she knew it perfectly, she was ill-advised to have assumed at all.

In this act Melba, accustomed to the older repertory, was apparently forgetful of the Wagnerian tradition to remain well within the scene, and Jean de Reszke, in the heavy fur coat of Siegfried, was kept busy patrolling the forward part of the stage to keep the white-clad Melba from rushing into the footlights, over which she had so many times sung to delighted audiences. Unfortunately for the celebrated and gifted prima donna the task she had here set herself was too much for her vocal powers and she sang but little in the subsequent performances of the season.

As the act progressed my mind was carried forcibly back to a scene that had greatly impresed me in boyhood. I had been to a fire at night in which an enormous barn and stable connected with a stock farm were completely destroyed. Many cattle which had been driven into adjacent fields were so attracted by the flames that a considerable force of men was kept busy preventing the animals from rushing headlong to death. Near where I stood in the night a white calf in great excitement was trying to make its way toward the fire, but the field between the young animal and the conflagration was in this instance patrolled by the mother cow, whose maternal instinct was superior to the call of the light.

Illustrative of the vagaries of artists, I recall a Sunday night concert at the Metropolitan Opera House, when Calvé was on the bill with Plançon, myself, and others. Opera singers are often not accustomed to concerts. Bare boards without scenery; musicians on the stage instead of in the orchestra pit; waiting through a disjointed collection of instrumental and vocal numbers until one has to appear on the platform without that make-up which is such a disguise and inside of which one feels so much at home - such things as these often tend to make the opera singer extremely nervous. Upon the occasion I refer to, Madame Mantelli was calm, as indeed altos usually are; the tenor Cremonini was moderately excited, but Plançon was weeping violently, mopping from his cheeks and beard the tears that continued to flow until the moment for him to walk upon the platform; when, having given vent to his emotions in song, he quieted down for the rest of the evening. I myself was somewhat upset by these manifestations of the idiosyncrasies of vocalists, especially when Madame Calvé demanded that the orchestral accompaniment to her piece be transposed into a key that was uncomfortable to the players as well as for her voice. Later she had such a quarrel with Alvarez, the tenor, that as they performed in "Carmen" together I was much relieved to find that Alvarez had not planted his dagger between her shoulder blades as he seemed to do, almost pinning her with his knife against the door of the bull ring. But the curtain went up at the end of the performance upon Calvé, smiling and beautiful as usual, while she and the tenor in all his glory took the rapturous curtain call.

That spring I visited Chicago several times, not only with the opera but for concert engagements. It happened that at this time Henry Irving and Ellen Terry were acting in the windy city. I found myself staying in the same hotel and on the same floor with Miss Terry, whom I had known in London for a number of years. Hearing me singing, she sent word by her attendant to ask if I would not do her the pleasure of rehearsing in her sitting-room. She wished to hear the music of which she was so fond, but of which naturally enough she could get but little, as she was constantly working and unable to attend concerts.

I was glad to do as the celebrated actress requested, and, though she remained much of the time in another room, she could hear everything that went on through the open door while I rendered several selections from my forthcoming concert. Presently Miss Terry entered the room and sat down quietly to listen. At the conclusion of the songs, she said: "I like some of those things very much, but what were those wonderful songs you sang half an hour ago? I could catch words from the Bible, and they sounded like the grandest sermon I ever heard in my life." I took from the piano the "Four Serious Songs" by Brahms, which she looked at and handled with a reverence that shed new light upon the character of this brilliant creature, whom I had already seen and admired in most of her repertory. I had frequently met her in private, but here she was at eleven o'clock in the morning, fresh and alert as always, clad in a comfortable dressing gown and slippers, looking like

the mother of all the characters in which I had seen her upon the stage.

Earnestly she requested me to preach her that sermon over again. "Now," she said, "I am your congregation and will sit under you to listen to the truth, for I am persuaded that music is a part of the voice of the Almighty."

Though Brahms was not essentially dramatic in his style and never composed an opera, yet he gave out in this swan song something of the poignancy of the emotions which he felt, but which he so often elected to conceal from the world.

Never have I sung more feelingly to the largest of audiences than I did that morning to my audience of one. Carried away by the situation as I stood behind the back of a chair, I found myself actually using such gestures as an earnest clergyman might use, as he expounded to his congregation the Word of the Lord. As I finished, the tears that coursed down Miss Terry's cheeks were the most graceful tribute I had ever received, and yet the tribute was not to me, for I was merely the mouthpiece, the interpreter, of noble music wedded to words of power.

CHAPTER XXIII

FORTUNE GOOD AND ILL

Take all that comes, the hard goes with the soft;
All are from God and His decrees fulfill

- From the Arabic.

In the classic auditorium of the Academy of Music in Philadelphia, assisted by my friends, the gentlemen of my beloved Orpheus Club, I gave early in the season one of my own concerts. No more loyal body of men ever supported an artist in his native city, after what they were pleased to call my triumph abroad, than this body of enthusiasts, who made me feel that the old saying, "A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country," was completely disproved. No one could have been more highly complimented than I was when they made me an honorary member of their society, and I almost came to believe that the world was assuming a fresh outlook on things, by which musical people would forego all symptoms of jealousy.

Perhaps the reason is to be found in the attitude of such societies of amateurs as the Orpheus Club, which in their intimate associations are on the plane of the dilettante, even though some of their members may be professionals, and do not allow any spirit of envy to enter the realm of art. The spirit of the amateur, the true lover of music, reigns supreme. I can truthfully say that when I myself was an amateur, I looked forward through each recurrent week to the Monday night rehearsal of this club with a delightful anticipation of the