to play under the composer’s windows, but Oscar never winced. The hotel
authorities had to telephone the police in order to get rid of a string
of Italian piano-organists passionately grinding out popular melodies
on Twenty-ninth Street. Plates of sinister ham sandwiches were sent
to his room, accompanied by a brigade of cocktails. And the tray was
always returned empty, with the composer’s thanks. I’ve forgotten the
other pranks we played, and all to no purpose. Complaints were made at
the hotel office that a wild man was howling and thumping the keyboard;
again, uselessly, for, barricaded, the composer refused to give up the
fort. Exhausted, but smiling, Oscar at the end of the allotted time
invited the jury on awards to listen to his music. It proved a tuneful
hodge-podge, also proved the composer’s retentive memory. Every operetta
composer was represented. The book was a joy. It would have pleased
little Daisy Ashford. (Why doesn’t some humor-loving musician set The
Visiters to music?) Kerker threw up the sponge. He had to pay the
bet. The curious side of the affair is that the operetta was actually
produced at the New York Theatre a few months later, reinforced by extra
numbers, considerably “edited,” and it met with some success. To be
sure, the composer was also the owner and manager of the three theatres
clustered under one roof. That first night of The Kohinoor was not only
notorious, it was side-splitting. The audience, of the true Tenderloin
variety, laughed themselves blue in the face. I can only recall that
the opening chorus consumed a third of the first act. Oscar knew the
art of camouflage years before the word was imported. Two comic-stage
Jews alternately sang, “Good morning, Mr. Morgenstern; good morning, Mr.
Isaacstein,” while the orchestra shifted the harmonies to avoid monotony.
I fancy that was a device of Kerker’s. Oscar “composed” a second
operetta, but it never achieved the popularity of The Kohinoor.
During a certain period the Hammerstein hat was without duplicate, except
that worn by William M. Chase, the painter. Nevertheless, the Hammerstein
hat was unique, not alone for the gray matter it covered, but because
of its atmospheric quality. It was a temperamental barometer. When the
glass had set fair the tilt of the hat was unmistakable. If storm clouds
had gathered on the vocal horizon the hat registered the mood and righted
itself like a buoy in agitated waters. Its brim settled over the eyes of
its owner; his people flurried into anonymous corners. Or else the hat
was pushed off his forehead: unbuttoned then his soul. You might dare
to approach and beg for seats. A weather gauge was Oscar’s hat. Ask his
one-time famulus, W. J. Guard. He knew. Or Mary Garden. Oscar had hurled
his hat at her head in the long ago. What a brim it had, this hat. Oh!
the breadth and flatness thereof. How glossy its nap, in height how
imposing. To have described Hammerstein without his hat would have been
as disastrous as to give the Ring without Wotan. Shorn of it the owner
would have been like Alberich sans Tarnhelm. As an Irishman would have
said: His hat was his heel of Achilles. Oscar sported it while sleeping.
Inside was stencilled the wisdom of Candide: “Il faut cultiver notre
Jardin.” (Mary, of course.) Many painters yearned to portray that hat
in Oscar’s dome of action. The impressionists would have painted it in
complementary tones; the late William M. Chase would have transformed
it into a shiny still-life. George Luks would have made it a jest for
Hades; Arthur B. Davies would have changed it into a symbol—the old
Hebraic chant, Kol Nidre, might have been heard echoing around its
curved surfaces, as echoes the Banshee on a funereal night in dear old
Tipperary. It was a hat cosmopolitan, alert, joyous, both reticent and
expensive. It caused a lot of people sleepless nights, did this sawed-off
stovepipe with its operatic airs. Why did Oscar Hammerstein wear it?
For the same reason that a miller wears his hat, and not for tribal or
political reasons. Requiescat in Oscarino! Pardon my Latin.
But Oscar musical? Oscar a man of fine musical tastes or intelligence?
Basta! He had the native wit to select as General for his operatic army
a skilled conductor and a musician of judgment and vision. That is the
reason New York had such a wide and novel repertory offered to it at the
Manhattan Opera House. When Signor Cleofonte Campanini left Hammerstein
his musical fortunes began to wane. But as a dynamic driving force I
cannot name his equal, except Jack Haverly, or Barnum.
* * * * *
When I was on the professional staff of the National Conservatory—the
only musical institution in this country that deserved the appellation—I
was intrusted by the President, Jeannette M. Thurber, with the care on
his arrival of Dr. Antonin Dvorak, Bohemian composer and musical director
of the Conservatory. For the “man in the street” his name means his
Humoresque as played by the inimitable Fritz Kreisler, or wheezed out by
some unmusical instrument of torture; canned music; in the consecrated
phrase of Arthur Whiting, “musical waxworks.” But Dvorak also composed
The New World symphony, and other trifles; these, however, do not trouble
or soothe the digestion of table d’hôtes. With “Old Borax,” as Parker the
composer affectionately called Dvorak, in tow I assured Mrs. Thurber that
he would be safe in my hands, and then I proceeded to show him certain
sections of our old town, chiefly the near east side. As he was a fervent
Roman Catholic I found a Bohemian church for him; he invariably began
his day by attending the first mass. Jauntily I invited him to taste the
treacherous national drink called whisky cocktail. He nodded with that
head which looked like an angry bulldog bearded. At first he scared me
with his fierce Slavonic eyes, yet he was as mild-mannered a musical
pirate as ever scuttled a pupil’s counterpoint. I always thought of him
as a boned-pirate. But I made a mistake in believing that American strong
waters would upset his nerves. We began our rounds at Goerwitz’s, then,
as now, Scheffel Hall, which stood across the street from the National
Conservatory. Later we went down to Gus Lüchow’s; for a musician not to
be seen at Lüchow’s argued that he was unknown in the social world of
tone. We traversed the great thirst belt of the neighborhood. At each
stopping-place Doc Borax absorbed a cocktail or two. He seemed to take
to them as a prohibitionist takes to personal abuse.
Now, alcohol I abhor. Therefore I stuck to my usual three-voiced
invention of hops, malt, and water. We conversed in German, for he knew
no English, and I rejoiced at meeting a man whose Teutonic accent, above
all whose grammar, was worse than mine. Yet we got along swimmingly—an
appropriate enough image, as the thirst-weather was wet, though not
squally. He told me of his admiration for Brahms and of that composer’s
admiration for Dvorak. I agreed with Brahms. After he had put away about
nineteen cocktails, maybe more, I said, rather thickly: “Master, don’t
you think it’s time we ate something?” He gazed at me through those
jungle whiskers, which met his tumbled hair half way. He grunted: “Eat! I
no eat. We go to Houston Street. You go, hein! We drink the slivavitch.
It makes warm after beer.” I didn’t go that evening to the East Houston
Street café with Dr. Antonin Dvorak. I never went there with him, for I
not only feared the slivavitch, but also that deadly Humoresque played
by a fake gypsy fiddler, attired in a red coat and wearing an ineffable
grin. Such a man as Old Borax was as dangerous to a moderate drinker as
a false beacon to a shipwrecked sailor. His head was like iron. He could
drink as much spirits as I could beer, and never turn a hair. I tell this
anecdote, not for a moral purpose, but as one of the rapidly vanishing
specimens of rum-lore, soon to become legendary. Next year the nation
will be put in cotton-wool and its feeble will coddled by noble precepts
and winning words from mouths smoking with fiery wisdom. And yet—it was
a better time when Hammerstein smoked or Dvorak drank than the dusty
prospect ahead for baffled thirsts.
ENRICO CARUSO
Enrico Caruso is dead. The enormous displacement caused by this
lamentable happening is not alone confined to the artistic sphere but
literally to the entire civilized world. We doubt if there are more than
a half dozen public men on the globe to-day whose demise would so stir
the universal imagination as has the passing of the incomparable tenor,
for it must not be forgotten that the voice of Caruso has been heard,
still is, and always will be listened to, from the equator to both poles,
thanks to his vocal records, meagre, mechanical things, if you will, yet
at least the simulacrum of his golden organ. It is a curious commentary
on Théophile Gautier’s famous poetic dictum that empires perish but art
endures; that many of the great names contemporary with Caruso’s wall
surely be forgotten, but the memory of his achievements not. Mankind
always recalls with satisfaction the artists who have given pleasure to
the senses. Kings are embalmed in deathless verse or live on the canvas
of poet and painter. Yet where to-day are the monarchs who patronized
Shakespeare, or Velasquez, or Molière? Their very titles would be
forgotten were it not for art.
But actor and singer have not the luck of creative artists; they do but
interpret, therefore, with their disappearance from the painted scene,
for the majority there is naught but oblivion. The happy few who seem as
of yesterday are, in the musical world: Patti, Rubinstein, Liszt, Rubini,
Chopin—as pianist—Paganini, Malibran, and Lilli Lehmann. Great exemplars.
To this brief list is now added Caruso. And he has one tremendous
advantage over his celebrated predecessors—his voice is a living reality,
after a fashion. That same voice has given profound satisfaction in
hundreds of thousands of homes scattered over the world; that voice
cheered the boys in the trenches during the World War. After all, it is a
sort of immortality, this record, about as vital as we may hope for in a
universe of changeless change.
Enrico Caruso is dead. There have been and will be other tenors, yet for
this generation his memory is something sacred and apart. It is doubtful
if the Metropolitan Opera House will again echo such golden music as
made by his throat—that is, doubtful in our time. When he first came
here, not two decades ago, there was a rich fruitiness to his tones that
evoked such disparate images as the sound of a French horn and a golden
autumnal sunset. Always the word golden comes to the lips. Golden, with
a thrilling human fibre. Not the finished vocal artist that he developed
into, nevertheless there was something indescribably fresh, luminous and
youthful in the singing of the early Caruso. I had heard him in London
before he sang here, which, alas! was to be his last home. Veteran as
I was I could hardly trust my ears when he poured forth a golden stream
of music, and with effortless art. It needed no critical clairvoyancy to
predict that a star of the first magnitude had arisen in the firmament of
art. That was in 1902, and since then this star grew in lustre and beauty
till the day of his death. Caruso had not even then achieved his grand
artistic climax. He was ever a prodigious student.
There will not be any critical dispute as to Caruso’s place in the
history of his art. Even in the brief span of life accorded the present
writer Caruso looms formidably. Originally a lyric, he ended as a
heroic tenor. His vocal range was extraordinary. In his repertory he
demonstrated his catholicity. From Meyerbeer’s Les Huguenots to Flotow’s
Marta, from Rigoletto to Pagliacci, there are few lyric works that he
missed. La Forza del Destino was revived for him by Mr. Gatti-Casazza,
and he could squander his extraordinary art on such a trifle as
Mascagni’s Lodoletta. But to all his undertakings he brought a refreshing
sincerity and tonal beauty. It is not to be denied that he was happier in
Italian than French music; his Rhadamès outshone his Faust. Nevertheless,
he overcame the seemingly insuperable difficulties of a foreign style
and diction, and his John of Leyden in Le Prophète and Eléazer in La
Juive rank among his greatest achievements, not to mention his Samson.
There was the note of the grand manner in the assumption of John and
incomparable pathos in the delineation of Halévy’s persecuted and
vengeful old Hebrew. As an actor he grew amazingly the last decade of his
artistic career. Compare his lighthearted, frivolous Duke in Rigoletto
with the venerable Jew in La Juive. Then we realize how far intense
study intelligently directed may carry a singer. It has often been a
cause of critical wonderment why Caruso never sang the music of Richard
Wagner. What a Lohengrin he would have been, what a Parsifal, yes, even
a Tristan! He knew every note of these rôles. Once for my delectation
he hummed the plaintive measures of the dying Tristan. Tears came to my
eyes, so penetratingly sweet was his tone, so pathetic his phrasing.
I have heard tenors from Brignoli, so fat that he waddled, to the
Spaniard Gayarré; from Italo Campanini to Masini, Nicolini and the
stentorian Tamagno; no one of these boasted the luscious voice of Caruso.
Some have outpointed him in finesse, Bonci; Tamagno outroared him; Jean
de Reszke had more personal charm and artistic subtlety; there have been
fierier Turridùs and more sympathetic Don Josés, but Caruso’s natural
voice was paved with lyric magic, it was positively torrential in its
golden mellowness. When in his prime, full of verve and unaffected
gaiety—think of L’Elisir d’Amore and Marta—he was unapproachable. There
were many of us who would rather have been Caruso than ruler of these
United States.
The social man in him was irresistible. Generous, overflowing with the
joy of life, his sense of humor found one outlet in his caricatures—his
pencil was clever as well as witty—and in the company of his friends. He
was a good friend. No need here to speak of his ready response to those
in trouble. He was exploited, of course, yet his belief in humanity was
never shaken. An Italian patriot, he was also a lover of his adopted
land. He was always a boy. He really never grew up. The eternal boy in
him, mischievous, mirthful, coupled with his gift of mimicry, endeared
him to every one. He fairly bubbled with kindly humor, and not the least
among his many admirable traits was his conscientious attitude toward
his audiences. Not to disappoint an expectant audience often cost him
much personal suffering. He has sung when he should have been in bed with
doctors and nurses. In Brooklyn he persisted in singing until a ruptured
vein filled his throat with blood. The same desire, and not a craving
for more fame or money, impelled him to make long and fatiguing trips in
order that remote audiences might enjoy his matchless voice.
Like the majority of his countrymen, he was frugal in his habits, eating
little and drinking less. He abused the use of tobacco, and because
of his nervousness cigarettes were a sedative. However, they did not
fatally hurt his throat as has been asserted. And considering his
exalted position and his innumerable temptations, Caruso was hardly a
rake. Scandal clustered about his name. Cruel persecution pursued him,
but at the close of his life he was happily married and the father of
a passionately loved daughter. A democratic man, he at no time bore
himself with the arrogant airs of the traditional tenor. Beloved by his
associates, especially beloved by the chorus, he was accessible to all
and sundry. Truly a refreshing contrast to the proverbially haughty
signore with a high C in his chest.
Born of humble parentage, Caruso suffered a severe apprenticeship to
his art. In Naples we have met people who remember him singing in
the streets, around various cafes, in company with a strummer on the
guitar. Pasquale Amato, a fellow-townsman as well as a colleague at the
Metropolitan Opera House, has told me of the far-away days when Enrico
sang in two operas every Sunday at the Teatro Mercadante, at Naples,
and of the summers at Salerno when, during entr’actes he would drop a
string from his dressing-room window and draw up a fond prize—sardine and
cream cheese sandwiches. He was thin then and his appetite was that of
a growing youth. The local manager knew that the only way to be sure of
him for the two Sunday performances was to lock him in the theatre till
the last curtain had been rung down. He confessed to me that once as a
boy his mother had chastised him not gently because he let the household
bread bake till it burned. But enough. Books might be crowded with
interesting stories of the great man. A good comrade, a loving husband
and father, the giant tenor of his generation, Enrico Caruso is dead. But
to his admirers he remains the dearest memory in this drab, prosaic age.