... CHAPTER XXXIII GOING TO AND FRO God is its author, and not man; He laid EMULATING the example of Satan was I during the busy autumn of 1900, "going to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it." My second visit to the Pacific Coast was with the company from the Metropolitan Opera House of New York; one of high distinction, as ever, with the names of Mesdames Melba, Nordica, Eames, Gadski, Schumann-Heink, and Olitzka, with Edouard de Reszke, Van Dyck, and many other prime favorites with the public. I sang frequently, and in the parts with which my name was associated. At Christmas and other times I sang in oratorio, and brought out in concert such new works as Liza Lehmann's setting of "In Memoriam" and Arthur Somervell's " Maud," Tennyson's fine poems fitted to beautiful though somewhat somber music. American composers were also urged upon the public attention, for I sang the songs of Howard Brockway, Herman Wetzler, and John Alden Carpenter, who has come to be one of the best of our native writers. Singing with me were Miss Lillian Blauvelt, the soprano, Mrs. Morris Black, known in the opera houses of Europe as Madame Cahier, and the late Evan Williams, a Welsh tenor with a voice of gold. Several times I appeared at miscellaneous entertainments with Monsieur Coquelin and Madame Sarah Bernhardt, whose impersonation of Hamlet that season afforded me the most interesting evening I ever spent in a theatre. Early in 1901 I sang at the Philharmonic Society's concerts in New York, under the conductorship of Emil Paur, Richard Strauss's noble songs, "Hymnus and Pilgers Morgenlied," settings of poems by Schiller and Goethe respectively. Though I know of no other singer who has thus paired these compositions, I recommend them to the attention of all barytones. In opera that season we had Madame Milka Ternina, a Croatian whose majestic appearance, splendid voice, and great histrionic power placed her high in public esteem. Walter Damrosch first brought her to America, but some mysterious nervous trouble kept her from appearing after she had been announced. Upon her recovery she rendered Wagner's heroines superbly, her Isolde being one of the best I have ever seen. There was never an artist more serious, but once when I was singing with her in "Tristan und Isolde," as I came forward on the deck of the ship in the first act to tell her my master would have speech with her, to my amused amazement the stately Ternina calmly winked her right eye at me, not once but several times. She forgot her lines as she did so, but had the presence of mind to remain silent till she had collected herself, coming in at a convenient place in the music soon after. While she was silent she crossed the stage, contrary to the directions, and forced me to accommodate myself to the new situation, sorrowfully realizing why she had taken so unusual a course. For her cheek thus turned from the audience, after her winking had become constant, began to twitch in a most painful manner. No operations on the nerves of her face gave permanent relief, and in her forced retirement the stage lost a brilliant ornament. Jean de Reszke was stricken by influenza early in the year, and sang only a few times after his recovery. Andreas Dippel, from whose tongue opera seemed to slip, was his substitute, and has been known to dress in the cab between his hotel and the opera house on a call following de Reszke's sudden illness; but neither he of the hundred rôles nor any others of the company could, alone or together, fill the vacancy Jean de Reszke left. Dippel was not heroic enough in figure to fill the eye, Van Dyck's mode of singing left too much to be desired by the ear, Burgstaller had too small a repertory, Kraus was so vast that his Siegfried in armor looked like a huge armadillo, even Tamagno the Italian and Alvarez the Spaniard, admirable artists both, could by no means vie with de Reszke in the extent of their repertories. Taking him for all in all he was the finest artist of his generation, a tower of strength to our company, and a vocal and physical adornment to the stage he elevated by his presence. I sang with de Reszke for the last time at the farewell performance of the season at the Metropolitan on the evening of April 29, 1901, when Monsieur Coquelin and Madame Bernhardt also bade a temporary good-by to America. The remarkable program comprised the first scene of the third act of Gounod's "Romeo and Juliet," with Salignac and Suzanne Adams as the lovers, Miss Bauermeister as Gertrude, and Plançon as the Friar; the second act of "Tristan und Isolde," with the brothers de Reszke and Mesdames Nordica and Schumann-Heink; the Mad Scene from "Lucia," sung by Madame Melba in wonderful contrast to the preceding; Gozlan's comedy in one act, "La Pluie et le Beau Temps," exquisitely rendered by Coquelin and Madame Bernhardt; the evening concluding with the third act of "The Valkyrie," in which I as Wotan supported Madame Nordica's Brünnhilde, as so often before. When Madame Bernhardt was playing in Louisville, Kentucky, the home of our own Mary Anderson, the fashionable attendance on her opening night was so great that she could not get a carriage to take her to her theatre. Faute de mieux she hired an old-fashioned coach in rags and tatters, drawn by a rawboned nag, and driven by a good-for-nothing, white-woolled darky in an ancient suit and forlorn top hat. Something about the combination struck the fancy of the divine Sarah, who ordered the ramshackle vehicle to return for her. When the play was over Sambo drew up at the stage door, only to be ordered away by a policeman, who would not believe the ragged driver's assertion that Madame Bernhardt had used his vehicle. Ordered away the second time by the officer, the aged negro descended from the box, opened the door of the barouche with a flourish, and said: "Look here, boss, if you don't believe I done brung Miss Sarah to this here theatre, just you smell my hack." During the spring of 1901 I was singing in Chicago at one of the series of popular four o'clock concerts, the orchestra being under Theodore Spiering. As I was to appear in Philadelphia the next evening, it was essential that I should catch the limited express after the concert. In my contract it was stipulated that the program was to be arranged so that I could finish in time to get my train. I had a cab at the stage door of the Studebaker Theatre, in which were my impedimenta, and I had nothing further to do but to deliver the last group and go. After singing I jumped in, urged the driver to hasten and the horse fell down! What to do? Get the horse up on four legs again. We did it with the help of several passers-by. I reached the station, the porter running beside me with my things, to find the train already moving; but I luckily scrambled aboard before the doors of the vestibule were closed. Audiences are never aware of the nervous anxiety incidents so slight cause the artist. I went to London for the season of 1901 at Covent Garden, entering immediately upon rehearsals of Villiers Stanford's new opera in four acts founded upon Shakespeare's "Much Ado About Nothing," the admirable libretto in English made by Julian Sturgis. This really fine work was rehearsed and played with great enthusiasm by those of us who sang and had been written with equal gusto; as Stanford told me in his delightful Irish way, "It ran right out of the end of my pen." But the London Press would have none of it, though they had heralded it in glowing terms, and were so disappointed in the outcome that they said they had made "much ado about nothing." To my mind this judgment was entirely unwarranted. The work is beautiful and will well repay study by those interested in opera in English. Marie Brema was enchanting as Beatrice, I was Benedick, the English tenor John Coates was Claudio, Robert Blass made an amusing Dogberry, Suzanne Adams was lovely as Hero, Plançon superb as the Friar, and the part of Leonato was assigned to the gifted American basso, Putnam Griswold, who ere long joined the great majority, to the infinite regret of his friends and of the public. Many and notable were the occasions upon which I sang |