With the return of Abbey, Schoeffel, and Grau in 1891, Wagner virtually
disappeared from the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House as their
entire energies were turned toward producing operas of the
French-Italian School. It was a natural reaction from the seven years of
opera in German and the pendulum swung far to the other side. A company
of truly great singers had been assembled by the new managers; the
audiences revelled in their _bel canto_, and as Abbey, Schoeffel, and
Grau assumed the entire financial responsibility of the enterprise, the
directors of the opera-house were also well satisfied. They had become
tired of the growing deficits of the German opera.
The head and controlling spirit of the firm was Henry Abbey, a
magnificent and honorable gambler in “stars” whom he paid so liberally
that, while he sometimes gained large profits, he many times lost more
heavily. The chances of profit were too small and generally it was too
much like the roulette tables at Monte Carlo, with the odds in favor of
the stars.
John Schoeffel was not much more than the hyphen between Abbey and Grau.
I never could see that he did anything except, perhaps, arrange for the
advertisements of the opera company when it visited Boston, where he
lived as lessee of the Tremont Theatre.
The actual direction of the opera season, the arranging of the
repertoire, the engagement of the artists, and the handling of them was
in the hands of Maurice Grau, who had developed into a first-class opera
manager. He claimed but little knowledge of things artistic, but he was
astute and had a real flair, up to a certain point, for giving the
public what it wanted. He was honorable in his dealings with the artists
and in a grudging way (which operatic artists often have) they liked
him, although they tortured him incessantly. He used to sit in his
office like a spider from morning until night, working out repertoires,
quarrelling with the singers or placating them, and altogether having no
interests in life beyond that—except, perhaps, the national game of
poker, in which he and a small group of cronies used to indulge—and a
great affection for his little daughter.
With the exception of “Lohengrin,” which had sporadic performances in
the Italian language, poor Wagner was virtually boycotted, and with my
great adoration for him I chafed under this condition more and more.
The winter of 1893-94 I had been asked to arrange something original in
the way of an entertainment for a charity in which I was interested, and
as Materna, Anton Schott, and Emil Fischer were at that time in America,
I conceived the idea of giving a stage performance of the
“Götterdämmerung” at Carnegie Hall. Materna was old and fat, but her
voice was still glorious; Anton Schott still made a personable
_Siegfried_, and Emil Fischer was at the height of his vocal and
histrionic powers. The scenery, though simple, was well improvised and
part of it specially painted, and the weapons and other properties were
borrowed from the Metropolitan Opera House.
The success was so remarkable that we repeated the work several times
and added “Walküre.” This seemed to me conclusive proof that the
American public were more than ready for the return of Wagner, and I
called on Abbey and Grau to suggest that they include a certain number
of Wagner performances in German in their repertoire. They threw up
their hands in horror at the idea, saying that Wagner spelled ruin, but
as they were very kindly disposed toward me (I had conducted many
orchestral concerts for some of their instrumental stars) they suggested
that if I wanted to be foolish enough to give Wagner performances
myself, they would gladly rent the Metropolitan Opera House to me in the
spring and on easy terms. Almost irresistibly I was drawn into the
resolve to take their suggestion seriously, although it was made
laughingly and sceptically as to its outcome. I consulted a number of
devoted friends who shared my optimism and finally decided to make the
plunge, and, in order to finance my mad scheme properly, I sold my house
on West 55th Street.
At the home of Miss Mary Callender and Miss Caro de Forest, both of them
true friends and music lovers, a “Wagner Society” was formed, the
purpose of which was to help the sale of subscription seats for my
venture and to spread the propaganda for the project in every way. At
the first meeting of this society so many seats were subscribed for that
the success seemed assured, and, besides this, the directors of the
Metropolitan Opera House, although they were entitled to the free use of
their boxes, suggested to me very generously that as Abbey and Grau
would charge a nominal rental of five hundred dollars a night for my
performances they would pay me that amount for the use of their boxes,
so that I should have the house virtually rent free.
Abbey and Grau, who looked on me as a kind of foolish boy who was
plunging madly toward destruction, told me with equal generosity that I
could have whatever of their enormous stock of costumes and properties
might prove of use for the Wagner operas.
About this time I received a letter from Mr. William Steinway, then the
head of the house of Steinway & Sons, and a great lover of music, asking
me to come down to see him, as he was very much interested in my project
for the return of Wagner to the Metropolitan. I did so and found him at
his desk crippled with gout but very cheerful and happy over my venture,
for which he prophesied great success. He suggested, however, that while
he realized that the idea and the venture were entirely mine, and that I
was entitled to every credit and advantage from it, it would be a very
generous act on my part if I invited Anton Seidl to share the conducting
of the Wagner operas and music-dramas. He pointed out that Seidl was
looked on by the American public as a great Wagner conductor, and his
co-operation would show that I intended to found my project on the
broadest and most generous lines. He said that if I would agree to his
suggestion, he would arrange a meeting for Seidl and myself at his
office for the following day, and I could be sure of his heartiest
personal and financial support.
I thought well of his idea, and, while Seidl and I had never been on
cordial personal terms during the old German opera days, nor afterward
when we went our separate ways as concert conductors, I felt that the
project might be much strengthened by a combination, and accordingly met
Seidl, together with William Steinway, in the latter’s office the
following day. I outlined my project to Seidl, told him of the support I
had already gained, of my arrangement with Abbey and Grau, and that I
was financing the scheme myself, but that, with full admiration for his
work in America during the years of German opera after my father’s
death, I should be glad to divide the Wagner operas with him. I showed
him a list of the eight I intended to produce. They were, as I remember,
as follows:
“Rhinegold”
“Walküre”
“Siegfried”
“Götterdämmerung”
“Tristan and Isolde”
“Meistersinger”
“Lohengrin”
“Tannhäuser”
I suggested to him that he should pick out the four which he preferred
and that I would conduct the other four. Steinway pronounced this offer
extremely fair and generous and urged Seidl to accept it, but Seidl said
he would have to think it over and would notify Steinway of his
decision.
The next day he called on Steinway at nine o’clock in the morning and
told him that he had come to the conclusion that he would not divide the
conducting of the Wagner operas with any one and, therefore, preferred
not to have anything to do with the venture. Steinway was furious, and
when he told me of this he said: “I am now with you heart and soul and
here is my check for twenty-five hundred dollars for which I will take
subscription seats for your season in different parts of the house.”
I arranged for a season of eight weeks at the Metropolitan and a tour of
five weeks which should take us as far west as Kansas City, as this Far
Western outpost had immediately put in a generous bid for three
performances.
I went abroad that spring to engage my artists and succeeded in
gathering a notable company of Wagnerian singers: Rosa Sucher, of the
Berlin Royal Opera for the _Brunhildes_ and _Isolde_; a young singer of
twenty-three, Johanna Gadski, who sang for me in Berlin, for _Elsa_ and
_Elizabeth_; Emil Fischer, of the Dresden Royal Opera, for _Wotan_ and
_Hans Sachs_, and Max Alvary, the handsomest and most dramatic of
_Siegfrieds_ and a truly knightly _Tristan_. He had studied the latter
rôle at Bayreuth and had sung it there at the first performances. At
Bayreuth I also found a highly gifted English singer, Marie Brema, who
was then almost unknown but who was the possessor of a rich and
expressive mezzo-soprano. Her talent for acting was remarkable and her
vocal range so great that I thought I could use her not only for
_Ortrude_ and _Brangäne_, but, if necessary, for the _Brunhildes_ as
well.
A great deal of the scenery for “Tristan” and the “Nibelung Trilogy” as
well as for “Tannhäuser” I had especially painted in Vienna by the firm
of Kautsky and Briosky. They were at that time at the head of their
profession, and such beautiful foliage as, for instance, in the forest
scene of “Siegfried,” had never before been seen on an American stage.
Our New York painters gathered around it in amazement when it had been
unpacked and properly mounted and hung.
Such an expert on naval matters as William J. Henderson, the eminent
music editor of the _New York Sun_, deservedly criticised the
architecture and rigging of the ship that bore _Tristan_ and _Isolde_
across the Irish seas to Cornwall. Vienna, the home of my
scene-painters, is not a seaport, and the gorgeous tent of _Isolde’s_,
and the sails and mast, while very picturesque, completely hid the
course of the ship from _Tristan_ at the helm, and if he had not been an
operatic sailor, who knew exactly where the ship was going to land at
the end of the act, he undoubtedly would have sent it crashing against
the white-chalk cliffs of England instead of guiding it safely into the
harbor of Cornwall.
In the meanwhile, the subscriptions for seats at our New York office had
gone up by such leaps and bounds that the financial success of my “crazy
venture” was assured before the box-office opened for the single sale of
tickets.
I had chosen “Tristan” for the opening performance. It was in 1895. The
general rehearsal had gone well and an immense audience filled every
available space of the opera-house and greeted me warmly as I appeared
on the conductor’s stand. I was just about to begin the prelude when a
whisper reached me that the English horn player was not in his place. It
was old Joseph Eller, who had played in the Philharmonic under my father
many years before. He had, incredible to relate, forgotten his
instrument and, discovering this only on his arrival at the
Metropolitan, had rushed home but had not yet returned. Imagine my
agitation! Everything was ready, the lights turned down and the audience
expectant, and I finally did not dare to wait any longer. I assigned the
English horn part to the third French horn player and we began the
long-drawn sighs of the violoncellos of the introductory bars of the
prelude. To my great relief I saw Eller slip into his place a few
minutes later, and the performance moved well and dramatically toward a
triumphant close, in which Alvary, especially, distinguished himself by
his marvellous acting and impassioned singing in the scene preceding the
arrival of the ship bearing _Isolde_. Sucher invested _Isolde_ with a
gentle, womanly dignity, but vocally she was no longer quite in her
prime and did not, I think, equal Lilli Lehmann or Klafsky and Ternina,
whom I brought to America the following year.
To re-enter the Metropolitan on such a Wagnerian wave after German opera
had been so ignominiously snuffed out five years before, was a great
triumph and satisfaction for me, more especially because my father had
laid the foundation eleven years before.
I produced the other Wagnerian operas in quick succession, and as the
houses were sold out for every performance the profit was considerable.
Madame Marie Brema proved herself such a valuable member of the company,
both as _Ortrude_ and _Brangäne_, that I felt it would be wise to give
her the opportunity to sing _Brunhilde_ in “Walküre” as well. I,
therefore, quietly began to train her in that rôle. Unfortunately,
during a rehearsal which I had with her alone on the stage, Madame
Sucher happened to saunter in and, hearing the familiar music coming
from my piano, she suddenly beheld another woman singing _Brunhilde_.
She gave me one indignant but comprehensive glance and then majestically
sailed off the stage. A few hours later I received a letter in which she
announced to me that she wished to return to Germany on the next
steamer, as she had not been accustomed until then to have “her” rôles
sung by another as long as she was in the company.
This was the first letter of the kind that I had received during my
short career as opera impresario, but it was but the prototype of many
similar ones that followed each other like snowflakes in a storm during
my various opera seasons.
I, of course, immediately sent Madame Sucher a large bouquet of roses
and wrote to her that, quite apart from contractual obligations, I could
not understand how she would want to leave America after she had “sung
herself so gloriously into the hearts of my countrymen.” I do not know
whether my letter or the roses had any effect, or whether wiser counsels
prevailed, but she stayed with me and continued her work with great good
nature and even endured the hated sight of having Marie Brema sing
_Brunhilde_ at several of the subsequent performances.
In Kansas City we ended our stay with a matinée performance of
“Siegfried,” Madame Sucher as _Brunhilde_ and Max Alvary, the handsome,
as _Siegfried_. My readers will remember the great scene in which
_Brunhilde_ is awakened from her slumber of years by the kiss of
_Siegfried_, who bends over her in that delightful but difficult
position for a long time until a certain bar in the music denotes that
the kiss is ended. The house was crowded and the greater part of the
audience were women. Suddenly, while I was conducting the exquisite
music accompanying the extended kiss, some one in the gallery inclined
to facetiousness imitated very distinctly the smacking sound of kissing,
and, to my horror, little ripples of feminine laughter rose and fell,
awoke and died, to be renewed again. Alvary was wonderful. He raised his
handsome head, gazed with calm eyes at the audience until a death-like
silence reigned and then, with equal calm, returned to his previous
occupation. It was certainly a triumph of man over woman, or rather
women, and at the end of the act they greeted this young god with
special and adoring enthusiasm.
The entire profits of my first venture as owner and director of an opera
company for thirteen weeks amounted to about fifty-three thousand
dollars. (Alas! I did not retain this quickly gained fortune a long
time.)
I had again planted the flag of Wagner firmly in American ground and
naturally did not wish to see it pulled down again. I therefore called
on Abbey and Grau and—as I had no desire for managerial honors, the
artistic side of it only interesting me—begged them to add a German
department to their really splendid galaxy of French and Italian artists
and to let me take care of it for them. But at that time they did not
seem ready to alter their traditional operatic scheme, and my suggestion
did not meet with a favorable response. I then decided that I would go
on myself. My first season had taught me a great deal. I had acquired a
considerable stock of scenery, costumes, and properties, and I knew
where I could still further improve the artistic personnel of my
company. I thought that by arranging for a longer season of five months
I should be able to give my singers and orchestra better contracts
financially and also introduce the Wagner operas over a greater
territory.
All my friends except one urged me to go on with the work. The one
exception was Andrew Carnegie who said, with that canny business acumen
which made him one of the world’s richest men:
“Walter, you have made a great success, artistically as well as
financially; your profits have been enormous. But such a success rarely
repeats itself immediately. You rightly divined the desire of the public
for a return of Wagner opera, but this current has drawn into it many
people who have come for curiosity only, and to whom Wagner is still a
closed book. Many of these will not come back another time. Be contented
to rest on your laurels.”
Of course I would not listen to such good business advice and
accordingly engaged a company of singers for the following year, who
made a really remarkable ensemble. Among the newcomers was Madame
Katherine Klafsky whose overwhelming impersonations of _Brunhilde_,
_Isolde_, and especially of _Fidelio_, still vibrate in my memory. This
last opera gave me such joy to conduct that, although it never drew
within a thousand dollars as much as any of the other operas, I would
insist on keeping it in the repertoire. This proves conclusively that
the artist in me was much stronger than the impresario and that I really
had no business to engage in the latter occupation.
_Fidelio_ (_Leonore_), in the second act, liberates her husband from his
shackles in the prison, and he says to her, “O, my Leonore, how much
hast thou done for me!” She answers, “Nothing, nothing, my Florestan,”
and the orchestra begins a soft murmur, upon which the two voices rise
in an ecstatic duet of love. Klafsky gave this scene with such
tenderness that the entire orchestra, as well as myself, were by this
time almost choking with emotion, and it was all that I could do to lift
my baton to give the signal for the beginning of the duet.
Madame Ternina, another newcomer, was prevented by illness from
appearing in Chicago, but in Boston she created a genuine sensation. The
public divided itself into two factions, the one extolling the almost
elemental dramatic vehemence of Klafsky, who fairly poured out her
glorious voice, while the other proclaimed Ternina the greater artist
because of her more intellectual conception and a certain noble artistic
reticence.
Part of the summer of 1894 I had spent in beginning the music of an
opera on Hawthorne’s “The Scarlet Letter.” The subject had always
fascinated me and I had years before prepared a dramatic scenario for
which I finally induced Hawthorne’s son-in-law, George Parsons Lathrop,
to prepare a libretto. I completed the composition of the music the
following summer and decided to produce it during the season 1895-96
with the Damrosch Opera Company in Boston, where the scene of the
original novel is laid, in the old Colonial days of Governor Endicott.
I gave the rôle of _Hester Prynne_ to Johanna Gadski. David Bispham
played _Roger Chillingworth_, and Barron Berthold sang the clergyman,
_Arthur Dimmesdale_.
The first performance took place February 10, 1896. American audiences
are proverbially kind to authors on first nights, and Boston was
especially interested in this opera because of Hawthorne’s novel. The
scenery presented old Boston in very picturesque fashion, and I had
spent a good deal of time with my stage-manager and costumer in the
different Boston collections of Colonial belongings in order to give a
correct picture of that period. Early portraits were consulted for the
“make-up” of Governor Endicott and other old Boston celebrities, and the
“company of ancient and honorable artillery” who appeared in the last
act carried an exact copy of the banner which still hangs, I think, in
Faneuil Hall.
Gadski gave a very touching impersonation of _Hester_, and Bispham
fairly revelled in the fiendish machinations of _Roger Chillingworth_.
The artists and composer received numberless recalls and the members of
my company united in presenting me with several charming mementos of the
day.
Mrs. John L. Gardner, who had already in those days become a real and
loyal friend and supporter, and who has, according to her wonderful
capacity for friendship, continued as such during these many years, sent
a huge laurel wreath to the stage for me, the centre of which contained
a large scarlet letter “A”! The reader may imagine what jokes were
cracked at my expense about that very prominently displayed letter.
The music was, I think, well written and orchestrated, but so much of it
had been conceived under the overwhelming influence of Wagner, that I am
afraid Anton Seidl was right when, after hearing the work in New York,
he confided cynically to his friends that it was a “New England Nibelung
Trilogy.”
Reviewing the work critically myself after these many years, I would say
that it showed sufficient talent and musicianly grasp to warrant a
composer’s career, but life and its exigencies willed otherwise, and all
the “might have beens” are but idle speculation.
An evil star seemed to shine over that winter’s opera season from the
financial standpoint. The entire country was suffering from a severe
financial depression and my company was large and expensive. I had to
travel continually, and during the entire five months carried a company
of one hundred and seventy people, including an orchestra of seventy
men, as I considered so large an aggregation my solemn duty as a Wagner
disciple and propagandist.
As Abbey and Grau finally decided to embark on a German opera department
of their own, adopting my suggestion when it was too late for me to
combine with them, they very naturally shut me out of the Metropolitan
Opera House and I was compelled, for my New York season, to lease the
old Academy of Music which had become a house for cheap theatrical
productions and had lost its high fashionable estate of other years.
My seasons in Chicago and Boston had been profitable, but many cities in
the South, with the exception of New Orleans, which gave me a wonderful
welcome, could not pay expenses, as the theatres were too small and my
company too large and literally too good.
In New Orleans we played an entire week at the old St. Charles Theatre.
The dressing-rooms for the chorus were in the cellar and just before the
first performance the women of the chorus ran shrieking up on the stage,
vowing that they would not return, as rats as large as good-sized
rabbits were scampering around the cellar. I could not believe them
until I went down and saw those horrible creatures with my own eyes.
Our last performance was to have been on Saturday night, but on that day
I received a petition signed by a number of citizens asking whether we
could give them a “Fidelio” performance with Madame Klafsky on Sunday
morning. As our train was to leave at three P. M. on that day, we had to
begin this performance at eleven o’clock in the morning. The
announcement that this extra performance was to be given was made only
the night before and in the Sunday morning papers. By eleven o’clock the
house was sold out.
I took the company as far west as Denver and everywhere virtually
introduced for the first time the “Trilogy,” “Tristan,” and “Die
Meistersinger” to the public.
I remember a performance in Providence, Rhode Island, where, in default
of a theatre, the armory had been adapted for us by an improvised stage
which was, however, so low that the orchestra could easily see what was
going on. The opera was “Lohengrin,” and just before the scene in the
last act, when _Godfrey_, the little brother of _Elsa_, appears in place
of the magic swan to rush into the outstretched arms of _Elsa_, the
stage-manager suddenly discovered that the little ballet girl who always
assumed the rôle was not present. What to do? In the emergency he
grabbed Hans, son of my prompter and at that time a kind of assistant to
everybody as call-boy, assistant librarian, etc., etc. He was only
fourteen and small of stature but with the excessive length of arms and
legs characteristic of that age. By some painful process he was forced
into the costume of _Godfrey_ and pushed on the stage just in the nick
of time. I suddenly noticed a commotion among my orchestra, and as I
followed their astonished but delighted gaze I saw the uncanny
apparition of Hans as a counterfeit _Godfrey_ standing on the stage
evidently frightened out of his wits. Gadski, who sang _Elsa_, with
great presence of mind, stretched her arms wide and not only welcomed,
but extinguished him beneath the voluminous folds of her cloak and I
doubt whether the public realized that the real princely brother had not
made his appearance.
When we finally arrived in New York, I had already lost a great deal of
the large profits of the year before, and this loss was further
increased by my season at the Academy of Music.
During the New York season my wife and I stayed at the stately old house
of our dear friends, Sophie and Tina Furniss, on Fifth Avenue and
Fortieth Street. With characteristic kindness, they not only took a
large proscenium box for every performance, but, having heard that
affairs had not gone well financially, insisted that we must be their
guests for the entire New York season, in order, I suppose, that I
should not have to incur the extravagance of an hotel.
These elderly ladies, together with a married sister, Mrs. Zimmermann,
were the daughters of an old East India merchant who, in the earlier
part of the nineteenth century, had amassed a fortune. Their house was
full of lovely old furniture and mementos of a bygone age and they
dispensed within its walls a very generous and dignified hospitality.
An old colored coachman named Brown had been with them for forty years.
He always, together with a young colored footman, sat high up on their
carriage in great state and solemnity. The young footman having been
sent away in disgrace during our stay, Brown was instructed to procure
another boy to take his place. A week elapsed and the new boy had not
been found, and when Miss Sophie said to him: “Brown, why haven’t you
gotten us a new boy? Are they difficult to find?” he answered:
“No, Miss Sophie, there’s plenty o’ boys, but ah find it so hard to
ma’ch mah colah.”
He evidently was a great stickler for unanimity, not only in the color
of the livery but of the skin as well.
Miss Sophie, the oldest of these three delightful ladies, had an
incredible vitality, and although bodily infirmities and advancing years
did their best to curb her, she remained active, cheerful, and undaunted
until the end. Almost every night during my opera season of six weeks
she would hobble from the carriage to her proscenium box, supported by
her cane on one side and the footman on the other, and she listened to
the Wagnerian music-dramas with unflagging attention. Not even the
length of “Götterdämmerung” or “Meistersinger” would phase her, and
after the performance, during supper, she would proudly repeat, while
her eyes fairly snapped with laughter, some remark of mine that I had
made two years before at their country place in Lenox, during my
delivery of a series of explanatory recitals on the “Nibelung Trilogy.”
Another fellow guest was Doctor Sturgis Bigelow, an enthusiastic admirer
of Madame Ternina’s art, who had come to New York especially to be
present at all of her appearances. She was to have made her farewell to
America in the “Götterdämmerung” and Doctor Bigelow had ordered enough
flowers from half a dozen of the florists of Broadway and Fifth Avenue
to fill the entire Academy, but unfortunately Madame Ternina became ill
and her place had to be taken at the last moment by her rival, Madame
Klafsky. Doctor Bigelow had no desire to present the floral testimony of
his adoration to this rival singer, and therefore proceeded on the
difficult task of cancelling his many orders, but as many of the wreaths
and lyres had already been prepared, his bill for “damages” was quite
large.
Before Ternina sailed for home she told me that she intended to stay
away for a few years. I had paid her five hundred dollars an appearance
which was a fair honorarium at that time, as she was absolutely unknown
and therefore had not yet developed a sufficient “drawing power” to
warrant a higher fee, but she said she would not come back to America
until she could command a fee of a thousand dollars. This decision she
adhered to, and when she did return a few years later, Maurice Grau
cheerfully paid her the thousand dollars and she was immediately
proclaimed one of the greatest _Isoldes_ of our time.
My New York season opened on March 4, 1896, with Beethoven’s “Fidelio.”
The audience was a distinguished one, containing a great many of the old
Academy habitués. Grand opera had not been given there since 1888, when
the tenor, Italo Campanini, had brought over an Italian opera company.
Of Klafsky I have already spoken, but my new barytone, Dimitri Popovici,
also made a sensation. I had found him in Bayreuth, where he had sung
_Telramund_ and _Kurvenal_.
I produced my own opera, “The Scarlet Letter,” during the second week,
and the reception accorded it was more than cordial. As the Symphony
Society of New York wished to present me with an exquisitely bound copy
of Hawthorne’s “The Scarlet Letter” as a memento, Richard Welling, the
secretary and an old friend, suggested to Anton Seidl, who was in the
audience, that he be spokesman, but as he refused Welling presented the
book to me himself.
While the balance-sheet of the five months’ season showed a “loss of
forty-three thousand dollars,” the larger part of my gains of the year
before, I cannot say that my wife and I were very much cast down. Youth
is optimistic, and the loss of money is, in itself, not such a dreadful
calamity if one still has enough to pay one’s debts; and all this time I
was adding to my experience and artistic stature.
After a long consultation with my wife we both decided that the
conditions under which I had worked that disastrous winter were not
normal, and that we could well risk another season. Two factors
influenced me greatly in this decision: one, that a group of
Philadelphia citizens had come forward and desired me to consider their
Academy of Music as my artistic home, and said that they would give
every possible assistance to a regular season there, and the other was
that Abbey and Grau frankly confessed to me that they had made a mistake
in not accepting my offer of a combination. They had not been fortunate
in the choice of their German singers and had lost a hundred and fifty
thousand dollars on their German operas, which was nearly four times as
much as I had lost. Grau suggested for the following season an
interchange of certain artists, and if I would occasionally lend him
Madame Klafsky, whom he admired greatly, he would in turn give me Madame
Calvé for a few performances of “Carmen.” This arrangement seemed
admirable to me, as I was beginning to feel that Wagner opera alone was
not sufficient to give a well-balanced opera season, and that for a
longer season Philadelphia would demand a more varied repertoire.
For the following season of 1897-98 affairs moved much easier for me.
The Philadelphia committee gave me a guarantee for a regular opera
season at the Philadelphia Academy of Music. This assured me a home and
a permanent place for my large store of scenery, costumes, and
properties. Rehearsals also were thus made easier and, for my New York
season in the spring, Abbey and Grau again rented the Metropolitan Opera
House to me.
I had re-engaged Madame Klafsky, but to our great sorrow she died, and
the problem of finding a successor was a serious one. Madame Gadski, who
had charmed our audiences with _Elsa_, _Elizabeth_, and _Sieglinde_, was
rather young for the heavy dramatic rôles, although I had begun to train
her in the “Walküre” and “Siegfried” _Brunhildes_. I began negotiations
with Lilli Lehmann and was successful in obtaining her wonderful
services for the following year—but of this I have written in detail in
another chapter.
The financial results of this season were quite satisfactory, but I was
beginning to chafe more and more under the unsympathetic task of
manager. To rehearse singers and orchestra from morning until night was
a pleasure, because there was an artistic ideal to be achieved and
because there were all manner of musical difficulties to be overcome.
That was part of my work as a musician and conductor, and the fatigues
and worries connected with this were easily endured. But the managerial
duties annoyed me, and the constant intrigues among the singers,
directed sometimes against each other and at other times against the
management, often seemed to me unbearable.
In the spring of 1898 Madame Nellie Melba, the golden-voiced, told me
that she would like to join my company for the following winter, and
suggested that her manager, Mr. Charles Ellis, well known as the manager
of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, form a partnership with me, the
company to be called The Damrosch-Ellis Opera Company, half of the
repertoire to be devoted, as before, to the Wagner operas and the other
half to the performance of French-Italian operas with herself as the
principal singer. We were to pay her fifteen hundred dollars a night,
ten times a month, guaranteed. The suggestion seemed to me reasonable
and advantageous, and arrangements were made accordingly. This
combination aroused great indignation on the part of Mr. George Haven,
the president of the Metropolitan Opera House. Mme. Melba had been one
of the principal singers there for several years and he felt that it was
an act of ingratitude on her part to leave the Metropolitan, and on mine
to take her into my company, as I had myself been associated with the
Metropolitan during so many years while he was president. I did not
think that his anger was justified, as a great deal of water had flowed
down-stream since those days; and, as Melba, for reasons of her own, had
definitely decided to sever all connections with the Metropolitan, I
could not see why I should not make her a member of my company. But he
could not, or would not, see my side of the controversy, and vowed that
as long as he was president of the Metropolitan I should never set foot
in it again in a professional capacity. This vow, however, was
subsequently not adhered to, as I not only gave performances there later
with my own company, but during the seasons of 1900-01 and 1901-02
officiated again as conductor of the Wagner operas for Maurice Grau, who
had then become the sole director and lessee of the Metropolitan.
The combination of Wagnerian operas with the operas of the
French-Italian school, of which Melba was the glorious star, proved
successful from a popular and financial standpoint, and the season
showed a handsome profit for Ellis and myself, although a great part of
this was dissipated by a spring tour in which Melba, supported by a
small company of singers, chorus, and orchestra, toured the Western
cities. This tour was managed by my partner, Ellis, and I did not
accompany them, as my services as conductor were not needed for the
French operas. I had by that time definitely decided to give up all
further connection with opera as manager and devote my future life
absolutely to purely musical work as a symphonic conductor and, as I
hoped, also as composer. The harassing occupation of “managing” singers
proved increasingly distasteful to me, and I felt that I was too good a
musician and artist to waste my time with such things in which the only
advantage could be a possible pecuniary gain.
I found that many singers were like children with no clear conception of
right or wrong. Their constant life in close proximity to each other at
rehearsals and performances often begets an exaggerated conception of
themselves and their importance to the world. They think that as their
contact with the public is only over the footlights, where they receive
enthusiastic acclaim for their artistic representations, the public
literally exists only for the purpose of hearing them sing, and they
willingly ignore the fact that the public may have other interests, such
as family, finance, politics, or religion to claim its attention. As it
is important for a manager not only to maintain a balance in his ledger
but to seek the best results that a disciplined ensemble may attain, he
cannot always be in harmony with all the individual desires and demands
of his artists. He must often cast his opera in opposition to their
personal pride, and I have letters to-day from several of the greatest
artists of my company insisting that they must leave or break their
contracts because I had wounded their deepest sensibilities in putting
so and so in the rôle which they claimed for their very own.
I found that some of them even indulged in occasional efforts at petty
blackmailing. One of my tenors, who shall be nameless, had a clause in
his contract that he should not be called upon to sing _Tristan_ the day
after a very long railway journey. We had played in Cleveland, giving a
“Lohengrin” performance in which, however, the other tenor had appeared,
and took a night train in comfortable sleeping-cars in one of which my
tenor occupied a drawing-room to Pittsburgh, which is, as my reader is
aware, a distance of only 150 miles or so. As we left Cleveland my
friend the tenor appeared in my drawing-room, and, calling attention to
the clause in his contract relating to _Tristan_ and a “long” railway
trip, insisted that he could not sing _Tristan_ the following day in
Pittsburgh without endangering his voice. But if I would pay him five
hundred dollars extra he would take the great risk of injuring his voice
and would agree to sing. Naturally I was furious and told him politely
but firmly what I thought of him, and then sent for my other tenor and
told him that his rival was trying to blackmail me and I suggested to
him that if he would sing _Tristan_ for me in spite of his having sung
_Lohengrin_ the night before, I would consider it as a performance
outside of his guarantee. Needless to say he jumped at the opportunity
of gaining an extra six hundred dollars and at the same time “putting
one over” on his hated rival. I then went to bed and slept soundly on a
pillow made downy by a deed well done.
Next morning I received word from tenor No. 1 that he had changed his
mind, was feeling very well, and would sing, but I very haughtily told
him that it was too late and that I had already made other arrangements.
So far this story seems a wonderful example of virtue triumphant and
vice defeated, but, alas, life’s problems do not always work out that
way! During the day my dramatic soprano who was to have sung _Isolde_
became hoarse and the opera had to be changed, so that all my carefully
reared structure of righteousness and meting out of punishment to the
guilty one fell to the ground with a very dull thud.
This is only one of many such instances, some of them childish and
others really wicked. But the most unmoral thing about it is that when
the culprits were great artists, no matter how much they enraged me by
their wickedness, after they had appeared again triumphantly as
_Siegfried_ or _Isolde_ I would often become so enthusiastic over their
work that their slate would be washed clean and I was ready to forgive
them again and to begin anew. Such is the power of art, and a grateful
public will always be willing to remember only the artistic uplift which
they have received from the artist and forget his personal weaknesses.
Naturally my strictures apply only to certain of the singers. There were
many who were always honorable in their relations with me. Among the
most devoted of the members of my company I should mention the singers
of the chorus. Many of these had been at the Metropolitan in the German
opera days. Their salaries were small, but if one of their number fell
ill or suffered other misfortune, none so quick as they to help, and
they always endured the hardships of travel with great good humor and
unfailing courtesy and decency toward me.
Among other reasons that impelled me finally to give up the opera was
the realization how comparatively seldom absolute artistic perfection
can be obtained at a stage performance. There are so many people
concerned in it that it is almost impossible always to obtain a cast
which is thoroughly satisfactory, and one “second rater” can spoil an
ensemble. Still another problem was the question of stage illusion. I
gave this a great deal of attention and study, and spent a great deal of
money on scenery and lighting. I examined the best inventions in this
direction in the opera-houses of Germany and imported many of them. I
was the first to bring over the very clever swimming-machines used in
Dresden by the Rhine Maidens in “Rhinegold.” But Wagner’s demands on the
stage are so extraordinary that a real illusion is not often possible.
His music excites the imagination and is often all sufficient. One can
see the glorious flames crackling and burning around the sleeping
_Brunhilde_ when one hears an orchestra of a hundred playing the music
of the “Fire Charm,” but how seldom does a stage performance enhance
this illusion! The _Brunhilde_ may be too big and too fat, or the light
of the flames may too clearly show that the scenery is but painted
canvas and pasteboard after all, and our sophisticated eyes know only
too well how the plumber’s steam-pipes convey the steam that is intended
to simulate the smoke of the flames from the boiler in the cellar. It
sometimes seemed to me, after striving in vain to carry out Wagner’s
ideal of a union of all the arts in order to produce a new and perfect
art form (the “music-drama”), as if this great genius had really
committed a gigantic mistake, and as if the very artistic illusion and
semblance of verity was destroyed by the scenic paraphernalia.
Of course there were performances over which a happy star seemed to
shine and which now and then gave us complete satisfaction and
happiness. But the static quality of scenery became to me more and more
a hindrance to an imagination ready to soar on the wings of the music.
I carried on my opera company for another year in conjunction with Mr.
Charles Ellis, and then definitely resolved to cease all managerial
activities and to confine myself absolutely to purely musical work. It
took me some time to arrive at this decision, as opera work has also a
very fascinating side, and I had made real friends with many of my
singers.
I had found Ellis to be a delightful partner. He had had years of
experience as manager of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, and his equable
temperament and fairmindedness had made him many friends. I sold to him
my share in all our scenery, costumes, and properties as he wished to
continue operatic work with Madame Melba as his principal star, and I
agreed to conduct a limited number of Wagner performances for him in
Philadelphia during the following season.
After the four hectic years I had spent with the Damrosch Opera Company
I was glad of such an opportunity to take stock of the past and cogitate
on the future.
My wife and I rented the old Butler place in Westchester County, near
Hartsdale—a lovely old mansion surrounded by dark pine forests and with
the little Bronx River trickling through—and there we spent most of the
winter until May. I wrote a violin sonata there and enjoyed the
tranquillity of a life freed from operatic worries and excitements.
In 1900 I was once more tempted into the field of opera, but this time
it carried with it no managerial or financial responsibility.
Maurice Grau was at that time the lessee of the Metropolitan Opera
House. Abbey had died a few years before and the directors, who had
gradually realized that it was Grau who had been the real “man behind
the gun,” gave him and a small group of financial backers the lease of
the Metropolitan Opera House. Grau invited me to return to the
Metropolitan as conductor for the Wagner operas. He had at that time a
strong group of Wagnerian singers. At the head was the inimitable Jean
de Reszke, together with his brother Edouard. Grau had also taken over
from my company Madame Ternina, David Bispham, and Madame Gadski. The
latter had been a member of the Damrosch Opera Company for the entire
four years of its existence. She was only twenty-three when I first
engaged her, possessor of a lovely voice, and an indefatigable worker.
There were weeks on our Western tours when she would appear on five
successive days as _Elsa_, _Elizabeth_, _Sieglinde_, and _Eva_. She was
a hard student and her voice developed more and more. During her last
year with me she added the “Walküre” and “Siegfried” _Brunhildes_ to her
repertoire, studying them with me, partly on the trains while
travelling, partly in the hotels and theatres of the various cities we
visited. When she went into the Grau Company, she added the
“Götterdämmerung” _Brunhilde_ and _Isolde_, thereby completing the
entire circle of Wagner soprano parts, except _Kundry_.
Jean de Reszke, like Lilli Lehmann, turned to the Wagnerian rôles in the
high noon of his operatic career. He had made his fame in the
French-Italian operas, but Wagner attracted him irresistibly.
I remember that during one of the seasons of the Damrosch Opera Company
we were playing in Boston at the Boston Theatre while the Abbey and Grau
Company were performing in the huge Mechanic’s Hall. Jean and Edouard de
Reszke attended one of my “Siegfried” performances with Max Alvary in
the title-rôle. They applauded their colleague vociferously, and after
the performance Jean lamented to me that he was compelled to sing
nothing but _Fausts_ and _Romeos_ and _Werthers_, while it was the
ambition of his life to sing Wagner. The memory of his extraordinary
impersonations of these rôles later on is too vivid to need comment from
me. Illness kept him away from America one year, and when he returned I
was again at the Metropolitan as conductor of the Wagner operas. It was
a joy to work with this man. Great artist, courteous gentleman, and
generous colleague, and (what is most valuable to a conductor)
indefatigable at rehearsals. His return was like the triumphant entry of
a victorious monarch. He was a marvellous mimic, and used to give us
delicious imitations of the various artists of the company coming into
his dressing-room to offer their congratulations after his first
reappearance.
De Reszke would first depict the French tenor colleague who in polite,
reserved, and even patronizing accents would say:
“Vraiment, mon cher, vous-avez chanté très bien ce soir, très bien, je
vous assure!”
Then would come the German barytone in a double-breasted frock coat and
punctiliously polite manner, saying:
“Erlauben Sie mir, Herr de Reszke, Ihnen meine grosse Hochachtung aus zu
drücken für den wirklich ausgezeichneten Genuss den Sie uns heute Abend
bereitet haben.”
He was followed by the Italian barytone, who would rush in impulsively
and, kissing Jean on both cheeks, would exclaim:
“Caro mio, carissimo!” followed by a flood of Italian words.
Then came the real climax of the scene. Enter the electrician who,
thrusting a “horny hand of toil” into that of de Reszke, would exclaim
in real “Yankee” accents:
“Jean, you done fine!”
Edouard de Reszke, the huge bass brother with the heart of a child and
an imperturbable good nature, was an equally good mimic. But his
wonderful stories and impersonations were of a decidedly Rabelaisian
character and will not bear repetition here.
With these two well-corseted but un-Corsican brothers, Madame Ternina or
Madame Nordica, Madame Schumann-Heink, and David Bispham we gave
performances of “Tristan” which came as near perfection as I ever hope
to witness.
Madame Nordica had been for years a so-called “utility” singer at the
Metropolitan. She had been trained in the French-Italian repertoire, and
while her voice was beautiful she had not yet achieved full stardom,
perhaps because she was American born and lacked the European cachet,
which at that time was more important than it is to-day. She was not by
nature musically gifted and was able to learn a rôle only by the hardest
and most painful work of endless repetition and rehearsals. But her
ambition was boundless—she bided her time and, like Lilli Lehmann,
gradually worked herself into the Wagner repertoire. Realizing its
advertising value, she offered herself to Madame Cosima Wagner for the
“Lohengrin” production at Bayreuth. She meekly accepted every
instruction given her there during the months of preparations, no matter
how meticulous or artificial some of them seemed to her, and the success
which she obtained there launched her successfully on her career as a
Wagner singer. I trained her in the _Brunhildes_ as well as _Isolde_ and
was amazed at the way in which she achieved through hard work what
nature gives to others overnight.
I remember her coming to Philadelphia to sing “Götterdämmerung” with my
company. She arrived the previous day and I found her still very
uncertain in the second act, which is rhythmically very difficult. I sat
down with her at eight o’clock that evening and we went over that second
act again and again until about four o’clock in the morning. It was
ghastly but wonderful. At ten A. M. I gave her an orchestral rehearsal
and in the evening she sang the rôle with perfect assurance and with
hardly a mistake.
One performance of “Tristan” which we gave with the Grau Company in
Baltimore at the Lyric Theatre, which has perhaps the best acoustics of
any auditorium in the country, still stays vividly in my memory. At the
close we were so elated that all concerned kissed each other
ecstatically after the last curtain fell. Those are the rare moments
that make one forget the many times perfection in opera seems impossible
to attain.
[Illustration: MATHILDE MARCHESI]
[Illustration: NELLIE MELBA]