MY FIRST OPERATIC CONTRACT SIGNED
By the first of December I had broken the back of the German
declensions, understood a good part of an ordinary conversation, and had
painfully acquired three or four roles in German. The gadfly of my
ambition began to torment me again, and I determined to look for a
"job."
Students often ask me "How did you get your first engagement?" This is
how. I went to see the best agent in Berlin, Herr Harder, a man of the
highest reputation for fair dealing, who was the recognized head of his
profession. Opinion as to the agent's powers of usefulness is divided
among singers. Some maintain that they have made all their good
engagements independently, others tell you that you are safe only in the
hands of a reputable agent. I have closed contracts in both ways. The
agent is not omnipotent. It is his business to watch the operatic field
and notify you when there is a vacancy that he thinks would suit you. He
is apt to know first where such vacancies are likely to occur. Directors
who are looking for singers sometimes go straight to their favourite
agent. Then he, the agent, sends you word that Herr Direktor So and So
will be at his Bureau on such a day to hear singers. When you respond,
you may find yourself the only contralto among many other voices, or you
may find yourself one of six or seven all wanting the same engagement.
The agent keeps contract blanks in his office, and when he hears of a
vacancy in an opera house, he fills in a blank with your name, the name
of the theatre, and tentatively the salary he thinks they will pay, and
sends it to you. You sign it if it suits you, and return it to the
agent. This is really nothing more than a notification that there is, or
will be, such a vacancy, and is not worth the paper it is written on.
American girls, who do not understand this, will tell you that they have
"been offered Berlin, or Vienna, or Munich," when they have merely
received one of these _Agenten-Vertraege_. A contract is worth nothing as
such, until it is countersigned by the director of the opera house, and
yourself as singer. Even then, it is not valid until you have sung as
many "trial performances" at the opera house as the contract calls for,
and for which you may have to wait six months.
I told Herr Harder what I wanted--a chance to do big roles somewhere,
salary no particular object, as I should look upon the experience as the
completion of my training. I sang for him, left with him my repertoire
and photographs, and he promised to let me know of the first opportunity
that presented itself. In a short time, he sent for me to come and see
the Director of the Theater des Westens, a Berlin theatre which at that
time was the home of a sort of popular opera. I sang for the manager,
and he was very complimentary. He offered to engage me at once, but he
added, curiously enough, that I was too good for him! They gave only the
older operas like "Trovatore," on which the copyright had expired, and
of these only the ones which the Hofoper did not give, so that I should
have no chance to sing my big parts. At the same time, he said he would
very much like to have me. The offer did not suit my plans, and I
decided to refuse it. I went on with my work until just before
Christmas, when Herr Harder made me a second proposal. This was the
position of first contralto in the garrison town of Metz in
Alsace-Lorraine. The opera was a municipal one, that is it was
subsidized by the town, they played a season of seven months, and gave a
large repertoire including some of the Ring dramas. I was to go down
there, sing for the management, and if they liked me, begin my
engagement the following September, giving me time to make additions to
my German repertoire. As I was a beginner of course I could not give the
usual guest performances.
_Vorsingen_ is a trying ordeal. The great theatres have regular days for
hearing aspirants, but this was a small theatre. The appointment is
usually made on the stage, sometimes during, sometimes just after a
rehearsal. Groups of the singers regularly engaged in the opera house
stand in the wings, and you feel a nameless hostility emanating from all
of them, especially from the one whom you are going to try to supplant.
The theatre is like a cavern, and the acoustic is of course totally
unknown to you. Two or three pale spots down in the orchestra chairs
indicate the whereabouts of the director and perhaps the stage manager
and first Kapellmeister who have come to hear you. The overhead
"rehearsal lights" are very unbecoming and you are quite conscious of
it. If you are to sing with orchestra, the conductor presents you to the
players, "_Meine Herren, Fraeulein----._" You bow, and your insides slip
a few inches lower. My first _Vorsingen_ was with the piano. It stood at
one side of the stage, and a whipper-snapper of a third Kapellmeister
dashed more or less accurately into the prelude of the second aria from
"Samson et Dalila."
Then came a momentous interview in the Director's office. I had sung
such good German, thanks to Frau----, that he had no idea that I
understood only about three words in five of what he said. For form's
sake he kept saying, "_Sie verstehen mich, Fraeulein?_" and when I
answered "_Ja_," he was satisfied. His wife, who thought she spoke
English, was present, and tried to say a great deal, but my German
proved the more serviceable of the two. I gathered that I was offered a
two season contract, to sing the leading contralto parts, at the
princely salary of 150 marks a month! (about $35). There was no
_Spielgelt_. Salaries are usually divided into so much per month down,
and so much per performance, the number of performances per month
guaranteed; that is, one is paid for a certain number whether one sings
them or not, and any performances over and above this number are paid
extra. If a performance is lost by one's own fault, through illness for
example, the _Spielgelt_ for that performance is forfeited. Three days
absence from the cast through illness, even though one may be scheduled
to sing only once during those days, is counted as one _Spielgelt_.
Illness is, in fact, almost a crime. In addition to losing your money,
you have to have witnesses to prove that you are really ill, for theatre
directors in Germany are a suspicious lot and take nothing for granted.
If you wake on the morning of a performance with laryngitis, that dread
enemy of the voice, or if you fall downstairs on your way to the theatre
and sprain your ankle, you must notify the theatre before a certain
hour in the day, perhaps ten or twelve, or four o'clock, that you cannot
sing that night. Your word for it alone won't do. Every theatre has
special doctors on its list, and you must call in one of these, whether
he is your regular physician or not. He makes an examination and gives
you a signed statement that you are unable to appear, adding, if the
disorder be serious, how many days it will be in his opinion, before you
can return to work. It often happens that the man most experienced in
treating your illness, the best throat specialist in town, for example,
is not on the books as "Theater-Arzt," and then if you wish to be
treated by him, you sometimes have trouble with the theatre doctor. In
the theatre in which I was first engaged, I had a disagreeable
experience of this kind. I was ill with bronchitis, and sent word to the
theatre the day before, that I should not be able to sing _Marta_, in
"Faust," on the night scheduled for it. I had already committed the
deadly crime of illness once before that season, and this time my
defection was particularly annoying to the management because they had
to get a guest for "Faust" anyway, and they would be forced to send
posthaste for another to sing the _Nurse_. Their irritation with me was
equalled, if not surpassed, by that of the regular theatre doctor, whose
professional honour had been outraged the last time by my insistence
upon the services of a very clever throat specialist who lived in the
town, and whose aid I had had the bad taste to prefer to his own.
Between them, I was the corn between the upper and nether millstone.
Next day the theatre sent word that they would accept nothing but a
certificate from their own doctor, and the doctor shortly after appeared
at my bedside. I could hardly speak out loud, but managed to whisper a
request that he would write me an "_Attest_" for three days. To my
surprise he began to hem and haw, and finally stammered out: "There is
really no reason in my opinion, why you shouldn't sing this evening!" I
was so furious I saw red. I sat up in bed, and whispered savagely:
"You say I can sing tonight! Very well, get out of my room, and I'll go
to the theatre and sing this evening, with my voice in this condition,
and _you_ will be responsible for the consequences!" He got up, twisting
his hat in his hands, and stammering something. I simply fixed my eyes
on him, and fairly glared him out of the room. Then I dressed like a
hurricane and rushed to the director's office.
"I have come to sing _Marta_," I announced hoarsely.
"Oh! _liebes Fraeulein_----" began the director, positively scared by my
pale face and furious eyes, "_Of course_ we don't want you to sing when
you are so hoarse. Doctor---- was quite mistaken; please go home and
take care of yourself. We'll get a guest for the _Nurse_ at once!"
"Very well," I said, "I will go home if you say so; but remember
Doctor---- says I can sing, and I am ready to do so on his
responsibility."
I went back after my illness to see the director, who to my surprise
began to attack me violently about my absence. He stormed, and thumped
the desk, and would listen to nothing I said. I tried to tell him he had
no right to speak to me in that way, as I had really been ill, and had
always done my duty when well. He raved back that I had _not_ done my
duty, and it seemed to me so futile to argue, that I walked out without
answering and left him raving. I went home and stayed there for five
days, and at the end of that time the director sent his secretary "to
explain" and ask me to return to my duty. It was an awkward interview
for him, poor man, so I let him off easily, graciously accepted the
somewhat disguised apology, and, as I was quite recovered and eager to
sing again, signified my willingness to appear the following night.
To return to my first contract.--There was a formidable list of roles
which I must agree to have ready, and the director also insisted on my
studying with a certain well-known woman teacher in Berlin! I conveyed
to him as well as I could, that I would settle all this with my agent,
as I had no intention of agreeing to all of it, and was afraid to trust
my German to say so diplomatically. He added, "Of course you are too
good for us, Fraeulein." This was the second time I had been told I was
too good for an engagement. Every one seemed to think I ought to aim at
a secondary position in one of the big opera houses, rather than a
leading one in a smaller place. The prospect of singing pages or
confidants in a capital city, with perhaps one good role in a season,
did not meet my needs at all; but no one seemed to sympathize with my
ideas. I wanted to make a career in Germany, as if I were a German
singer, having my own recognized place in the opera house in which I was
engaged, singing the big roles by right, without intriguing or fighting
for them.
On returning to Berlin, I wrote to Herr Harder that I would learn a
certain specified number of roles in addition to those I already knew,
making about twelve in all, and ignored the singing-teacher proposition
altogether as I had formed the intention of going to coach with Jean de
Reszke. On these terms the contract was returned to me signed by the
director, and I was engaged.