Enrico Caruso enjoys the reputation of being the greatest tenor since
Italo Campanini. The latter was the legitimate successor of Brignoli, an
artist whose wonderful singing made his uncouth stage presence a matter
of little moment. Caruso's voice at its best recalls Brignoli to the
veteran opera habitué. It possesses something of the dead tenor's
sweetness and clarity in the upper register, but it lacks the delicacy
and artistic finish of Campanini's supreme effort, although it is vastly
more magnetic and thrill inspiring.
That Caruso is regarded as the foremost living tenor is made good by the
fact that he is the highest priced male artist in the world. Whenever
and wherever he sings multitudes flock to hear him, and no one goes away
unsatisfied. He is constantly the recipient of ovations which
demonstrate the power of his minstrelsy, and his lack of especial
physical attractiveness is no bar to the witchery of his voice.
Caruso is a Neapolitan and is now thirty-five years of age. Unlike so
many great Italian tenors, he is not of peasant parentage. His father
was a skilled mechanic who had been put in charge of the warehouses of a
large banking and importing concern. As a lad Enrico used to frequent
the docks in the vicinity of these warehouses and became an expert
swimmer at a very early age. In those halcyon days his burning ambition
was to be a sailor, and he had a profound distaste for his father's plan
to have him learn a trade.
At the age of ten he was still a care free and fun loving boy, without a
thought beyond the docks and their life. It was then that his father
ruled that since he would not become a mechanic he must be sent to
school. He had already learned to read a little, but that was all. He
was sent to a day school in the neighborhood, and he accepted the
restraint with such bad grace that he was in almost constant disgrace.
His long association with the water front had made him familiar with the
art of physical defense, and he was in frequent trouble on that account.
The head master of the school was a musician, and he discovered one day
that his unruly pupil could sing. He was an expert in the development of
the boy soprano and he soon realized that in young Caruso he had a
veritable treasure. He was shrewd enough to keep his discovery to
himself for some time, for he determined to profit by the boy's
extraordinary ability. The lad was rehearsed privately and was
stimulated to further effort by the promise of sweetmeats and release
from school duties. Finally the unscrupulous master made engagements for
the young prodigy to sing at fashionable weddings and concerts, but he
always pocketed the money which came from these public appearances.
At the end of the second year, when Caruso was twelve years of age, he
decided that he had had enough of the school, and he made himself so
disagreeable to the head master that he was sent home in disgrace. His
irate father gave him a sound thrashing and declared that he must be
apprenticed to a mechanical engineer. The boy took little interest in
his new work, but showed some aptitude for mechanical drawing and
calligraphy. In a few months he became so interested in sketching that
he began to indulge in visions of becoming a great artist.
When he was fifteen his mother died, and, since he had kept at the
mechanical work solely on her account, he now announced his intention
of forsaking engineering and devoting himself to art and music. When his
father heard of this open rebellion he fell into a great rage and
declared that he would have no more of him, that he was a disgrace to
the family and that he need not show his face at home.
So Caruso became a wanderer, with nothing in his absolute possession
save a physique that was perfect and an optimism that was never failing.
He picked up a scanty livelihood by singing at church festivals and
private entertainments and in time became known widely as the most
capable boy soprano in Naples. Money came more plentifully, and he was
able to live generously. In a short time his voice was transformed into
a marvelous alto, and he soon found himself in great demand and was
surfeited with attention from the rich and powerful. It was about this
time that King Edward, then Prince of Wales, heard him sing in a
Neapolitan church and was so delighted that he invited the boy to go to
England, an invitation which young Caruso did not accept. Now that he
had "arrived" Naples was good enough for him.
One day something happened which plunged him into the deepest despair.
Without a warning of any sort his beautiful alto voice disappeared,
leaving in its place only the feeblest and most unmusical of croaks. He
was so overcome at his loss that he shut himself up in his room and
would see no one. It was the first great affliction he had ever known,
and he admits that he meditated suicide. He had made many friends, and
some of them would have been glad to comfort him, but his grief would
admit of no partnership.
One evening when he was skulking along an obscure highway, at the very
bottom of the well of his despair, a firm hand was laid on his shoulder
and a cheery voice called out: "Whither so fast? Come home with me, poor
little shaver!"
It was Messiani, the famous baritone, who had always felt an interest in
the boy and who would not release him in spite of his vigorous efforts
to escape. The big baritone took him to his lodging and when he had
succeeded in cheering the unhappy lad into a momentary forgetfulness of
his misery asked him to sing.
"But I can't," sobbed Caruso. "It has gone!"
Messiani went to the piano and struck a chord. The weeping boy piped up
in a tone so thin and feeble that it was almost indistinguishable.
"Louder!" yelled the big singer, with another full chord. Caruso obeyed
and kept on through the scale. Then Messiani jumped up from the piano
stool, seized the astonished boy about the waist and raised him high off
his feet, at the same time yelling at the top of his voice: "What a
little jackass! What a little idiot!"
Almost bursting with rage, for the miserable boy thought his friend was
making sport of him, Caruso searched the apartment for some weapon with
which he might avenge himself. Seizing a heavy brass candlestick, he
hurled it at Messiani with all his force, but it missed the baritone and
landed in a mirror.
"Hold, madman!" interposed the startled singer. "Your voice is not gone.
It is magnificent. You will be the tenor of the century."
Messiani sent him to Vergine, then the most celebrated trainer of the
voice in Italy. The maestro was not so enthusiastic as Messiani, but he
promised to do what he could. He offered to instruct Caruso four years,
only demanding 25 per cent. of his pupil's receipts for his first five
years in opera. Caruso signed such a contract willingly, although he
realized afterward that he was the victim of a veritable Shylock.
When Vergine was through with the young tenor he dismissed him without
lavish commendation, but with a reminder of the terms of his contract.
Caruso obtained an engagement in Naples, but did not achieve marked
success at once. On every payday Vergine was on hand to receive his
percentage. His regularity finally attracted the attention of the
manager, and he made inquiry of Caruso. The young tenor showed him his
copy of the contract and was horrified to be told that he had bound
himself to his Shylock for a lifetime; that the contract read that he
was to give Vergine five years of actual singing. Caruso would have
reached the age of fifty before the last payment came. The matter was
finally adjusted by the courts, and the unscrupulous teacher lost
200,000 lire by the judgment.
In Italy every man must serve his time in the army, and Caruso was
checked in his operatic career by the call to go into barracks. Not
long, however, was he compelled to undergo the tedium of army life. In
consideration of his art he was permitted to offer his brother as a
substitute after two months, and he returned to the opera. He was
engaged immediately for a season at Caserta, and from that time his rise
has been steady and unimpeded. After singing in one Italian city after
another he went to Egypt and thence to Paris, where he made a favorable
impression. A season in Berlin followed, but the Wagner influence was
dominant, and he did not succeed in restoring the supremacy of Italian
opera. The next season was spent in South America, and in the new world
Caruso made his first triumph. From Rio he went to London, and on his
first appearance he captured his Covent Garden audience. When he made
his first appearance in the United States he was already at the top of
the operatic ladder, and, although many attempts to dislodge him have
been made, he stands still on the topmost rung.