In the spring of 1885 I was to accompany Mr. Stanton as assistant
director and musical adviser to engage singers for the following season
of German opera at the Metropolitan Opera House, but as Mr. Stanton’s
little daughter became ill and subsequently died, I went over alone and
have always been quite proud of the four contracts I had ready for
Stanton’s signature when he, a month later, arrived in Germany. These
were Lilli Lehmann, soprano from the Royal Opera House in Berlin; Emil
Fischer, bass from the Royal Opera House in Dresden; Max Alvary, lyric
tenor from Weimar, and Anton Seidl, conductor of the Angelo Neumann
Wagner Opera Company. These four artists became subsequently the
mainstay of the German opera and in America developed to greater and
greater power and fame.
Lilli Lehmann, at that time forty years of age, had sung principally the
coloratura rôles, and with these had made a great local reputation
throughout Germany and Austria. She had sung the _First Rhine Maiden_ at
Bayreuth in 1876, and an occasional _Elsa_ in “Lohengrin,” but it was
not until she came to America that she began to sing the _Brunhildes_
and _Isoldes_ which made her one of the greatest dramatic sopranos of
her time. Curiously enough, she insisted on making her first appearance
in America as _Carmen_, a rôle to which she gave a dramatic, tragic, and
rather sombre significance, but in which the lighter, coquettish touches
were perhaps not sufficiently emphasized.
She had achieved her pre-eminence as a dramatic soprano only after years
of the hardest kind of work, and had only through her indomitable will
and energy changed her voice from a light coloratura to a dramatic
soprano, and as I was at that period only twenty-three and already
occupied a position of considerable responsibility, it took some time
before she was ready to concede that I was really a musician of serious
purpose who was working day and night to fit myself for the various
responsibilities so suddenly thrust upon me.
Conducting is an art with a technic of its own, and good musicianship
alone is not sufficient. During a performance the conductor must know
how to make his singers and players convey his interpretation, and to do
this, a glance of the eye and many different movements of hands and head
have to speak a language of their own which his executants must quickly
understand and follow. The conductor must also know when and how to
follow a soloist with sympathy. This technic cannot be acquired
overnight, and I owe to Lilli Lehmann a valuable hint in this
connection. As Anton Seidl was the accredited and celebrated Wagner
conductor, these operas and any other novelties of importance naturally
fell to him, and it remained for me to conduct only such operas as he
did not care to assume—Meyerbeer’s “Le Prophète,” Verdi’s “Trovatore,”
etc., etc. This caused me great sorrow and anguish of heart, as a great
part of my training had been in the modern operas. I almost knew the
Wagner music-dramas by heart and had received a very thorough training
in the symphonies of the classic composers, but for the operas of
Meyerbeer and Verdi, I had a youthful intolerance, and of their
traditions of tempi and nuance I knew but little, with the exception,
perhaps, of Meyerbeer’s “Le Prophète,” which had been marvellously
performed under my father the preceding year and in which Marianne
Brandt had sung the part of the mother with incredible pathos and
nobility.
One day, while I was rehearsing “La Juive,” of Halévy, Lilli Lehmann
turned on me during the intermission and said: “Walter, in those old
operas you do not watch the singers enough, you are occupied with the
orchestra as if you were conducting a symphony. You give them the cue
for their entrances and you look at them instead of at your singers. We
need you and you need us. The orchestra have their printed parts before
them; we sing by heart and have to rely on the conductor for difficult
entrances. Watch my lips when I sing, and you will know when I breathe
and you will breathe with me; you will immediately also sense the _tempo
rubato_ which is such an important part in the proper phrasing of these
older operas.”
This advice was a revelation to me, and I found to my delight that by
heeding it, not only was I able to follow the singers with the
orchestra, but even to influence the singers in regard to tempi. At the
performance of “La Juive” I must have stared at Lilli like a Cheshire
cat whenever she was singing. The music went with remarkable unanimity
and elasticity, and at the close of the performance Lilli, who was never
very profuse in praise, turned to me and said: “You see, Walter, how
well it goes. What did I tell you?”
In this way, slowly and often painfully, I strengthened my grasp of the
technic of my craft, and with increased assurance on my part came an
increased compliance on the part of the singers to follow my artistic
desires as regards the interpretation of their rôles.
But the operas that I was permitted to conduct were still only the
left-overs from Anton Seidl’s richly laden table, and he was naturally
not willing to give up any of his prerogatives to a man so much younger.
My first real opportunity came in the year 1890, when Seidl was to
conduct an exquisite opera by Peter Cornelius, “The Barber of Baghdad.”
Paul Kalisch, Lilli Lehmann’s husband, was to sing _Nureddin_ and Emil
Fischer the loquacious Barber. Cornelius had been a devoted and close
friend of my father and mother in the old Weimar days under Liszt. Liszt
had produced this opera in Weimar in those days, but the Weimar public
had rejected it because of what they considered to be its ultramodern
tendencies, and because of this, Liszt had resigned his position of
Grand Ducal Kapellmeister. I was naturally much interested in our New
York production. I had attended almost every rehearsal and had revelled
in the exquisite beauties and humor of the work.
Two days before the performance, Seidl became dangerously ill and I was
in a fever of uncertainty whether Stanton would postpone the performance
or let me conduct it. I found that Lilli Lehmann protested loudly that
it would be impossible for me to conduct this work, that it was too
difficult and too intricate, and that it needed a conductor of many
years’ experience and plenty of rehearsals at that. But I seemed to have
“good friends at court” and it was decided that I should conduct the
general rehearsal that morning for which singers, chorus, and orchestra
had been hastily called together, and if all went well I was to conduct
the performance. As I walked into the orchestra pit I could see Lilli
Lehmann seated all by herself a few rows back, looking at me with what
seemed to me baleful and threatening eyes. But as I turned my back on
her and gave the signal for the overture, my apprehension left me and I
gave myself up completely to the music. The curtain rose and Kalisch
began _Nureddin’s_ lovely song together with his attendants on awakening
from his long illness to renewed health and with renewed longings for
his beloved _Margiana_. Everything went as if on wings and at the end of
the act I saw, to my delight, among the singers who were rushing toward
me with affectionate congratulations, Lilli, the stately, telling me
that she had not believed it possible, but was now convinced that I had
a thorough grasp of the music and could conduct it successfully.
The performance the next day went even better than the rehearsal, and I
date from this my entry as a full-fledged opera conductor, and my
relations with Lilli Lehmann became artistically more and more fraternal
and personally more and more friendly.
In 1897-98 I engaged her to sing _Isolde_ and the _Brunhildes_ in my
Damrosch Opera Company and paid her a thousand dollars a night and all
hotel and travelling expenses for two people (her sister Marie travelled
with her), and she also insisted that I must pay her laundry bills. But
I found that this remarkable woman, having established her right to
these perquisites by contract, refused to abuse them, and when she found
that I paid quite a large figure for her “parlor, bedroom, and bath” at
the Normandie Hotel near the Metropolitan, she was furious; and, saying
that she did not see why these rascally hotel proprietors should be
enriched by me, she moved to a much cheaper suite at the top of the
hotel and she and her sister did a great deal of their laundry in their
own bathroom, partly because she wished to save me the expense, and also
because she insisted that all American laundries ruined delicate
lingerie. Incidentally the elevator boys insisted that she never tipped
them, and I sent my manager to her hotel to do this, as otherwise she
would not have received adequate service.
So much has been written about her marvellous portrayal of the heroic
figures in the Wagner music-dramas that it is hardly necessary for me to
add anything to the general chorus of admiration, but I wish to
emphasize the fact that by far the greater part of the credit belongs to
her for her indomitable will and perseverance, as nature had not given
her originally a dramatic voice. It was a wonderfully clear and high
coloratura soprano, but by persistent practice she developed an ample
middle and lower register and made it equal to the emotional demands of
an _Isolde_ or a _Brunhilde_.
Her acting was majestic, but in the first act of “Tristan” and in the
second act of “Götterdämmerung” her anger was like forked flashes of
lightning. I suppose that her technic of acting would be called
old-fashioned to-day, as those were the days of statuesque poses, often
maintained without changes for long stretches at a time.
On the forenoon of the days that she had to sing _Isolde_ she always
sang through the entire rôle in her rooms with full voice, just to make
sure that she could do it in the evening. Compare this to those delicate
prima donnas who, on the days when they have to sing, often speak only
in whispers in order that their precious vocal cords may not be
affected.
Having achieved so much through her own energy and triumphed over so
many obstacles, she thought that she could similarly transform her
husband, Paul Kalisch, from a lyric to a dramatic tenor. How she worked
and harassed that poor man! She certainly was the stronger of the two,
and while his entire inclination was toward easy and delightful
companionship with others of similar inclinations, she forced him to
study and to sing for hours at a stretch, but with only partial success
as far as his transformation into a real dramatic and “heroic” Wagner
tenor was concerned. It simply was not in his nature to become “heroic,”
and when, as sometimes happened, he committed some blunder, some false
entrance while singing _Siegfried_ in the “Götterdämmerung,” the glances
which _Brunhilde_ cast upon him on the stage were so terrible, so
pregnant with punishment to come, that from my conductor’s stand I used
to pity the poor man thus compelled to swim around in a pond which was
so much larger than he wanted; and often after such a performance I
would find him moodily seated all alone at a table in the restaurant of
the hotel with a pint bottle of champagne before him and with no desire
to go upstairs and face the anger of his _Brunhilde_ spouse.
A tragic but rather amusing occurrence in Pittsburgh should here be
recorded. The Damrosch Opera Company was playing a week there at the
Alvin Theatre. On the night in question we were to give
“Götterdämmerung” with Lilli Lehmann as _Brunhilde_. All was well. No
singers had sent ominous messages of illness during the day, and I had
just sat down to a quiet dinner at the Duquesne Club, previous to the
performance, when a telephone summoned me. It was my wardrobe mistress,
Frau Engelhardt, an excellent woman, devoted to her work, who had been
at the Metropolitan in the old German opera days and who had been with
me ever since the founding of the Damrosch Opera Company. She implored
me to come to the theatre immediately as something dreadful had
happened. I of course left my dinner with but faint hope of eating it
later on, arrived at the theatre and found the stage silent as the
grave, the scene set for the first act of “Götterdämmerung” and
seemingly no one there but Frau Engelhardt, who in greatest agitation
begged me to come immediately to Madame Lehmann’s dressing-room, where
the “something dreadful had happened.”
I knocked at her door and heard a tragic and hollow voice call “come
in,” and as I opened the door a sight indeed terrible met my astonished
gaze. There stood Lilli Lehmann, already apparelled in her white
_Brunhilde_ garb, but covered from head to foot with soot, so black that
she seemed more fit for a minstrel show than a Wagner music-drama. Her
face was covered with black streaks, especially where her tears had made
long and terrible furrows down her cheeks. I could not imagine what had
happened, and only gradually and between hysterical bursts of tears, I
learned that Lilli, according to her custom, had gone to the theatre
hours before the performance and had proceeded to dress herself, only
looking into the glass at the last moment to prepare her make-up. She
had then discovered the terrible condition of her face and costume. It
seemed that the janitor had given the heater in the cellar a special
raking which had sent tons of this dreadful Pittsburgh soft-coal soot
flying through the registers and into the dressing-rooms where it
settled like a pall on everything within reach.
Lilli vowed that it was absolutely impossible for her to sing that night
and I was in despair. It suddenly came to me that if I could divert her
mind in some way the tension might be eased, and I therefore turned on
poor trembling Frau Engelhardt and told her in as angry tones as I could
dramatically summon, that she was discharged, that it was her duty to
take care of my artists, and to allow such an outrage to happen to the
greatest of all of them was something which I could not understand or
forgive.
As soon as I denounced our wardrobe mistress in this manner, Lilli
pricked up her ears and remonstrated with me at my injustice. She
insisted that it was not Frau Engelhardt’s fault and that it was very
wrong of me to discharge her. It showed that I had no heart and she for
one would never hold her responsible for such an occurrence. Slowly I
allowed myself to be persuaded and at the psychological moment gently
left the dressing-room, giving Frau Engelhardt a comprehensive glance
which she understood. I knew that the two women together would soon set
matters to right.
Outside the dressing-room I found my faithful Hans, son of my prompter,
Goettich. I gave him some money and told him to run to a florist and buy
a bunch of the whitest flowers that he could find and to bring them to
Madame Lehmann with my compliments. I then returned to the club and
finished my dinner.
When I got back to the theatre just before the performance, I found
Lilli already on the stage, newly attired in clean white robes, but as
she turned toward me I could still discern darkish streaks beneath the
make-up of her cheeks, and in her sombre, dramatic voice she said:
“Walter, I thank you for the lovely white flowers, but they will never,
never wash me clean again.” Her singing that night seemed to me more
glorious than ever.
From Pittsburgh we went to New York, where I had arranged with Abbey and
Grau to give me the Metropolitan Opera House for a short season of three
weeks. As I wanted a special attraction for New York, I engaged Madame
Nordica for a few “Lohengrin” performances in which she was to sing
_Elsa_, and Lilli Lehmann, _Ortrude_, a part that she had never sung in
New York, but whose dramatic possibilities interested her very much and
for which she was eminently suited. At first she was furious that I had
engaged any other singer for New York. “If I was sufficient to carry on
your season out of town, I do not see why you have to engage that ——
for New York.” But I explained to her my managerial reasons and somewhat
pacified her, and as soon as we arrived in New York I arranged for a
little rehearsal on the stage of the Metropolitan for Lehmann, Nordica,
and myself, in order that all the scenes, especially of the second act,
in which their acting together was of importance, might be properly
arranged. At this rehearsal Lehmann treated Nordica with icy disdain,
but Nordica acted with such clever tact and deference that Lehmann could
find no hook upon which to hang her anger, and the rehearsal passed off
with outward calmness, although I could feel the volcano trembling
beneath. As we passed out into the street in the late afternoon a
terrible rain-storm was raging and Lilli saw Madame Nordica approach a
coachman in livery who was waiting with opened umbrella to take her to
her coupé. Lilli, clad in a long gray rain-coat and old hat, turned to
Nordica: “Ha, you ride? I valk!” she said, as she lifted her dress and
showed a pair of great boots.
Incidentally my “showman’s instinct” had proved correct. Our
performances of “Lohengrin” with this combination proved artistically
very interesting and the public flocked to hear them. Nordica’s _Elsa_
had been very carefully trained at Bayreuth, and Lehmann’s _Ortrude_ was
truly demoniac, worthy to rank with that of Marianne Brandt’s in its
representation of concentrated hatred.
[Illustration: LILLI LEHMANN AS ISOLDE]