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opera-ghosts · 3 days ago

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From The memoirs of Beniamino Gigli by Gigli, Beniamino, 1890-1957:

[...] Then someone brought me an imposing pile of incredibly voluminous newspapers. A headline in the Pittsburg Dispatch declared: ‘Tenor with Queer Name Ranks Next to Caruso.’ The New York journals, while more dignified in tone, were still far more enthusiastic than I had dared to hope for. I was especially pleased by what the Herald Tribune said about me: ‘A loyal Italian, possessed of full faith in the Boito tradition, he disclosed himself as a servant of art and not a mere seeker after personal glory.’ The New York Times reproached me with ‘a persistent disposition to sing to the audience instead of to Margherita’, but conceded that I had ' 'a voice of really fme quality, which he does not often force, still fresh and possessed of colour’. The World was cautiously non-committal : ‘ Gigli may never set the river on fire, but he will certainly prove himself of value at the opera house.’ The Evening Mail noted ‘occasional hints of tremolo, and a certain breathless effort’. But the Sun thought that ‘Gigli comes very near to the younger Caruso’; and Max Smith in the New York American wrote a description of my singing that I still treasure because, modesty apart, I think it was accurate : ‘ His voice is a lyric tenor of pecuhar warmth and mellowness in the middle register, notable for the beauty of its timbre, remarkably elastic, exquisite in mezza voce, luscious in full-blooded emission. While Gigli’s voice in itself is one of the finest voices of its kind that New Yorkers have heard since the advent of Caruso, the dramatic intensity, the emotional vitality, the expressiveness which inform his singing are even more remarkable.’

[...] When, on New Year’s Day 1921 I faced the Metropolitan audience, knowing them to be disappointed because I was not their favourite, I felt no ambition to displace him in their hearts. It was only proper that they should be faithful to him, that they should grieve for his sickness. Let them hear me as I am, I thought; let them know me as Gigli, not as someone who is trying to step into Caruso’s shoes. For this reason, I think I sang more quietly than usual, as much as possible in mezza voce, never seeking to provoke applause; somehow, I felt, it would not be decent. As it happened, ‘L’Amore dei Tre Re’ lent itself to this mood, for it contains no arias or duets sung to the audience, and affords no scope for mere display of voice.

[...]

‘Manon’ had a rather glorious tradition at the Met. When it was first produced there, on January ist, 1895, the great French tenor Jean de Reszke sang Des Grieux ; the following year he sang the role again, partnered by Melba, and after a series of mediocre productions there was a spectacular revival in 1909 with Geraldine Farrar and Caruso. Comparisons, it seemed, were inevitable, although this was the sort of criticism that I never could quite get used to. ‘Gigli does not look the part of Des Grieux. The unapproachably perfect Des Grieux at the Met remains Jean de Reszke. . . .’ Whether or not these critics were old enough to have heard de Reszke themselves, they wrote as if they had. But they did concede that I sang the ‘Dream Song’ ‘beautifully’ ; that was something.

[...] All these preparations came to naught, so far as the critics were concerned, through a stupid accident on the night of the premiere, November 24th, 1922. In the fourth act, I lost my footing on the steps of Juliet’s bier and tumbled down them unromantically on to the stage. ‘Gigli’, they chorused next day, ‘failed to convince as a tragic lover.’ I sighed with wry amusement. When it came to my singing, they were a little more gracious. ' Gigli has found in Romeo a role that indulges all the virtues of his voice,’ declared the New York Sun ; but the shade of Jean de Reszke still hovered in the background, providing ‘older opera-goers’ with ‘unforgettable and unbeatable memories’.

[..] This was perhaps mainly due to the beauty of the one great tenor aria, ‘O Paradiso\ which lies embedded in the rest of the opera like a jewel in a rag-bag. Vasco da Gama sings it when, on reaching land at last after his long and perilous voyage, he is suddenly confronted with the dazzling and exotic spectacle of the temples and temple dancers of Madagascar. His feelings at that particular moment were easy enough to imagine, and at the premiere of the Metropolitan revival of ‘L’Africana', on March 21st, 1923, 1 was able to give a rendering of the aria which aroused even the critics to enthusiasm. The names of Jean de Reszke and Caruso, my predecessors in the role at the Metropolitan, were of course mentioned; but not to my disadvantage. The title-role was sung by Rosa Ponselle. The critics were dissatisfied with her acting; privately I sympathized with her, for as I have said, I thought the role of Selika as full of inconsistencies as my own. But the funny thing was that they praised my acting. ‘For once Mr. Gigli,’ etc. And the New York Globe declared: ‘The real triumph of the affair is the Vasco da Gama of Mr. Gigli. . . . Any success the revival attains is due to him.’ I had taken such pains with my Romeo, and they had damned it with faint praise ; now, in a role that I had practically written off as impossible, it appeared that I had triumphed !

[..]

There was one rather trying evening when, almost suffocated by a severe cold, I had to force myself to sing through a performance of ‘Rigoletto’. I felt thankful when I got to the end of it without disgracing myself ; but the audience, to my dismay, were so pleased with me that they refused to let me go home until I sang 40 Paradiso ’ from ‘L’Africana’. I tried to explain to them, in bad Spanish, about my cold ; but they pretended not to understand. Finally I gave in, wondering if I would have any voice left by the morning. Then I hurried back to my hotel, took an aspirin and some grog, wrapped a woollen scarf round my throat, and went to bed. Shortly afterwards I heard a commotion in the street underneath my window; a crowd seemed to be gathering; there were shouts of what was, unmistakably, my name. Sing O Paradiso” again ! ’ they were calling out. ‘Please, Senor Gigli, sing “O Paradiso” again !’

[...]

From Berlin I went on a recital tour of Scandinavia, visiting Oslo for the first time ; and from Oslo I went back to London for another concert at the Albert Hall. It was completely sold out. In spite of the fact that I was suffering from nervous exhaustion and fatigue, I found more favour with the English critics on this occasion than I had ever done before. ‘ Gigli by his soft phrases transformed the Albert Hall into an intimate music-room,’ wrote the Manchester Guardian , and it added: 'Gigli’s voice is for quiet moonlit nights; he should have sung in Illyria to the Duke.’ I felt suitably grateful for these unusual compliments !

[...]

San Francisco and Los Angeles. I stopped at Detroit on the way, to make a broadcast for the Ford Motor Company, with the Detroit Symphony Orchestra under Eugene Ormandy. This broadcast was important for me. It was my first contact with the American public after a long absence. Would my old friends remember me, I wondered? And the people who had never heard me before — would they be interested ? The response was reassuring; I got enthusiastic letters from several thousand listeners. And Samuel Chotzinoff wrote in the New York Evening Post: ‘Mr. Gigli definitely belongs to opera, and it is to be hoped that the Met will let bygones be bygones and take advantage of the singer’s return, in the interests of Verdi, Donizetti and Massenet. There appears to be no tenor better qualified by nature at the moment to cope with the suavities and elegances of the music of these masters.’

[...]

That night I was carried away, inspired. I lost myself in the role. It was all so true, so close to the core of human passion, that I had no need to act. I was really in love with Carmen, tortured by jealousy of Carmen, consumed with longing for Carmen. By the time we got to the tremendous scene in the fourth act when Don Jose begs, entreats Carmen to come away with him — -‘ SI , Carmen , si, ce tempo ancora ’ — and she refuses, I had lost all recollection of the tenor Beniamino Gigli. I was Don Jose. Love and despair welled up from my heart and almost choked me. I had tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. I trembled all over. Finally I broke down. The emotion was too much ; singing had become impossible.

[...] A pleasant incident at the moment of my departure from San Francisco served as yet another reminder of those far-off days of my own beginnings. While some of my colleagues and myself were crossing on the ferry to board the train for Chicago, a girl of sixteen sang Italian songs for us. She had been bom in San Francisco, of Italian parents : Tetrazzini had happened to hear her sing when she was fourteen, and had encouraged her to study. I gave her my good wishes for the future, and asked her to tell me her name. Fourteen years later I had occasion to remember it, when Lina Pagliughi. became my partner at the Scala.

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opera-ghosts · 4 days ago

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Beniamino Gigli, born March, 20.1890. On this photo you can see him at a Recital in Lucerne 1942.

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opera-ghosts · 5 days ago

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Royal Opera Covent Garden 1904. Conductor was Hans Richter.

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opera-ghosts · 5 days ago

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From Musical America 1917-12-22:

Florence Easton Loves loves home even more than opera

No Frills to the New Soprano of the Metropolitan and Her Husband, Francis Maclennan, the Tenor —Started Career as a Pianist in Canada—Sang With Her Mate in England and on the Continent —Musicianship Makes Studying of Réles Easy for Her—Seeking More Duets for Their Unique Recitals.

Several years ago a certain musical writer in Europe sought Florence Easton and Francis Maclennan for an interview. The journalist happened to visit the Maclennans’ home at a moment the soprano was dispatching some prosaic household affairs; Mr. Maclennan, we believe, was having a jolly time with the children. The serene spectacle was too much for the writer. Later on she (for it was a woman) remarked to a third person: “Think of it! I went to the Maclennans’ residence for a chat on art and I found them engaged in ordinary household work; so, of course, I left.” Domesticity and opera singing were non-mixable quantities in the mind of this writer.

When we visited the Maclennans the morning after Mrs. Maclennan’s début at the Metropolitan we came upon almost the same domestic picture, minus the children. It was quite early in the morning, but Florence Easton, the Santuzza of the evening before, was as fresh and poised as if she had not just passed through the most racking ordeal that a singer can experience in this country—a début at the Metropolitan.

“If we could only find time to run over to Port Washington!” sighed Mrs. Maclennan. It developed that their little girl is staying at that place with the soprano’s mother. Their little boy is now in a French school in Switzerland, where he is slowly but surely forgetting English, a fact which worries his parents considerably.

It is not altogether intentional that we have given a glimpse of the home life of this couple; we find it would be quite impossible otherwise to convey our impression of the charming and direct simplicity of these two singers. We have found that the intimate nature of virtually all the real and great artists we have met is nourished by the same wel) of wholesome simplicity.

Mrs. Maclennan, or rather Florence Easton, is a native of Yorkshire, England. Mr. Maclennan was born in Michigan.

“When I was very small,” said Miss Easton, “my parents moved to Toronto. Mother was a soprano and my father was also a musician, director of the Parkdale Church choir.” The little girl began to know the oratorios and music of the church, displaying so much aptitude that her parents allowed her to study the piano. At the age of eight she appeared in her first recital.

Begins with Manners

After her mother’s death she went with her father to Paris. A year later her father died in Paris and the young gir] was left alone. However, a friend presented her to Charles Manners of the Manners Opera Company and Miss Easton began her operatic career.

“IT had had no idea of becoming an opera singer,” related Miss Easton, “for all my training had been in the direction of concert work, but I soon found myself making my début as Arlene in “The Bohemian Girl” in London with the Manners company.” She studied all the available réles and laid the foundations for the extensive répertoire which she now commands in five languages.

“The work was fascinating, but tremendously trying,” continued Miss Easton, “particularly as in those days I had no idea of the close relationship of diet and art. I thought it was possible to live on cream puffs and cakes and, of course, I collapsed.” Francis Maclennan, the young American, was a member of the cast and—but why remark the obvious—haven’t they been married and singing in the same companies together all this time?

“She weighed ninety-eight pounds when we were married!” remarked Mr. Maclennan. His wife was always an omnivorous student even while ill. Once, for example, her career as a pianist was interrupted by severe illness and she was in a cast for months. But even 0 she studied as far as it was possible.

Opera in All Tongues

Thoroughly grounded as a musician, Miss Easton found little difficulty in restudying during the summer Bertha in “Le Prophéte,” Carmen, Margaret in French and the “Aida,” “Nozze de Figaro,” “Pagliacci,” “Butterfly,” “Cavalleria,” “L’Oracolo” and “Huguenots” roéles in Italian. Not a bad summer! And Miss Easton, of course, knows each réle in English, just as she and Mr. Maclennan know their Wagnerian réles in English. Miss Easton expressed intense interest in the réle of St. Elizabeth, which she is to create at the Metropolitan very soon.

Speaking about her Santuzza début on the double bill, which featured Caruso in “Pagliacci,” Miss Easton recalled that she appeared last with the great tenor in Europe in “Aida,” “Bohéme” and “The Girl of the Golden West.”

_“No wonder Caruso is beloved of all singers and all persons!” she exclaimed, giving some examples of the tenor’s uniquely gracious attitude toward his colleagues, high and low. For example, Caruso will insist that other artists take curtain calls and will not monopolize all the audience’s attention, like certain esteemed singers.

To Resume Duet Recitals

The Maclennans will again appear in their novel duet recitals after the opera season. Mr. Maclennan, we should say, is searching for all available duets, particularly ones by American composers. He is also devoting his time to recitalgiving and restudying his répertoire in French and Italian.

He was recalling their days with the splendid “Parsifal” produced by Savage, when we asked the usual question concerning opera in America.

“The Savage Opera Company was actually prosperous,” replied Miss Easton, “and would doubtless be in existence today.”

“And what was the reason then for abandoning opera if it really could have been established those few years ago?”

“Oh,” laughed Miss Easton, “Mr. Savage used to say that he had more trouble with operatic artists in one year that he had during his whole theatrical career.”

Managers would not suffer like Mr. Savage, thought we, if they were careful to select human beings like Francis Maclennan and Florence Easton.

In 1902, she suffered a further setback. Her father died, and her grandmother summoned her back from Paris, where she was studying and singing, to South Bank.

“My grandparents had good old-fashioned ideas that a woman’s place to sing was in the home, and discouraged my efforts,” she later said. “They even selected a husband for me. When this point had been reached, I quietly disappeared, and once more went back to my vocal work.”

She made her operatic debut in Newcastle in 1902 and by 1905, aged 23, she was in north America where critics hailed her as the “voice of girlish romance”.

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opera-ghosts · 6 days ago

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For Women’s History Month, we’re sharing women with a connection to Mme. Sembrich. Today we’re highlighting Frieda Mielke, Sembrich’s companion, maid, private secretary and close friend for 40 years.

Having first met at a European opera house when Frieda was singing in the chorus, they became fast friends over their love of singing. Miss Mielke unfortunately later lost her singing voice, but became an indispensable help to Sembrich on all of her tours.

Miss Mielke passed away in 1927 at the age of 72, at Sembrich’s home on Lake George.

#classical music #opera #music history #bel canto #composer #classical composer #aria #classical studies #maestro #chest voice #Frieda Mielke #classical history #history of music #historian of music #musician #musicians #diva #prima donna

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opera-ghosts · 7 days ago

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Today's birthday is of a woman who's more of a forgotten singer as she sang mostly in concert and comic opera -- Lillian Blauvelt (1873-1947).

Here we see an autograph section of a larger autograph page, letter she wrote to William Seltsam (the man who brought us IRCC (Int'l Record Collectors Club) and HRS (The Historic Record Society).

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opera-ghosts · 9 days ago

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From Great Women-singers Of My Life by Herman Klein:

It was something of a coincidence that one short mid-Victorian decade should have witnessed the keen rivalry existing between four of the greatest sopranos that ever sang in London. They were first appearing here at one time — Tietjens, Patti, Lucca, and Nilsson — in 1867, the season in which the Swedish artist made her debut at Her Majesty’s. The same brilliant quartet reassembled pretty regularly 1877, until when the much-loved Tietjens disappeared from the scene. Patti, who came in 1861, only preceded Pauline Lucca by two years, so that the entire constellation spread its effulgence over our local firmament within a space of nine seasons.

That the effort of one star to outshine another bred jealousies is not to be gainsaid. The four were well “ at it ”, indeed, what time the present writer began edging his way into the gallery at Covent Garden and Her Majesty’s. But even before then he had been listening to lively arguments over the family tea-table about the relative merits of these distinguished prime dome ; to discussions as to how supreme each was in her particular line ; how each had her own special role or group of roles wherein the others could not approach her. All went well, I concluded, so long as they steered clear of each other’s particular domain. And that they generally succeeded in doing except in the matter of one alluring part, to wit. Marguerite in Gounod’s Faust.

The new opera had come over fresh from Paris in Pauline Lucca’s first year here — 1863 ; but that season the part of the heroine was only sung by Tietjens at Her Majesty’s and by Miolan-Carvalho (the original French Marguerite) at Covent Garden. In the following year it was undertaken at Covent Garden both by Pauline Lucca and Adelina Patti ; and three years later not only by them but by Christine Nilsson. Then began the invidious game of comparisons. It was unanimously agreed that Tietjens did not look the part; she was too stout and not dreamy enough. Patti was open to criticism because she did not act it with sufficient passion, though she sang the music divinely.

Lucca, however, did both, for she sang and acted splendidly; but her Marguerite was considered a “ very forward minx ”, and “ a titter always went round the house when the curtain fell upon the Garden Scene ”. (By the way, it was actually questioned at the time whether this episode was altogether “ proper ”, and whether the opera ought to have been licensed by the Lord Chamberlain.) Regarding Nilsson’s Marguerite one heard nought save undiluted praise. It was pronounced to be in every respect absolutely ideal; and after all these years I again venture to declare that to be my own opinion too.

It has been worth while to recall these burning rivalries of the sixties, not only because they were replete with absorbing interest to the opera-goers of that period, but because they indicate more clearly the class of talent, the strength of the opposing forces that a newcomer had then to contend against, compared with the easy task that would await, let us say, a Pauline Lucca to-day. She, as we are about to see, was a genius fully as remarkable in her way as any of the famous singers whom she encountered upon the terrain of Italian Opera. Only she was a trifle unlucky to have had to struggle in the same arena against three giants who were practically as big as herself. As it was, she proved strong enough to hold her own, and, indeed, instead of suffering by comparison with them, she left behind a reputation so high that the present generation may be glad to hear more about her.

One point should be remembered. Pauline Lucca did not take part in the historic “ Coalition season ” of 1869, when. Her Majesty’s Theatre having been reduced to ashes, Gye and Maplcson joined forces in Bow Street. Whether it was because she declined to enter the lists against her illustrious antagonists at close quarters was never made clear; anyhow she refused to come. And, if she had, the problem would have been even harder for the two impresarios than that which faced Benjamin Lumley at Her Majesty’s in 1845, when he had in his company four of the most celebrated ballet-dancers of the century — Taglioni, Carlotta Grisi, Cerito, and Lucille Grahn (Fanny Elssler was not one of the quartet as has often been stated).

“ One of the most brilliant operatic artists of a brilliant epoch ”, Pauline Lucca was born of Italian parents at Vienna on April 25, 1841. Her unusually strong “ girl's voice ” attracted notice, and several teachers in the town took her in hand. But pecuniary means were lacking for more advanced study until one day she acted as remplagante for the soprano soloist at the Karl-Kirche, where she was singing in the choir. Then some leading musical notabilities, perceiving her exceptional talent, arranged to defray the cost of her vocal training, first under Richard Levy, and later under Otto Uffmann. To obtain stage experience, she also entered the chorus of the Hofoper and soon made her mark in the small part of the chief bridesmaid in Der Ereischiit This led to her being engaged to sing Italian parts at the opera-house at Olmiitz, where she made her debut in September, 1859, as Elvira in Verdi’s Ernani , and achieved an instantaneous success.

But Olmiitz was not to keep her for long. Prague had heard of her and offered her a contract. She was on the point of leaving for the Bohemian capital when something unpleasant happened. One of her fair companions in the company, jealous of her success, took occasion at rehearsal to insult her rather grossly. Pauline went straight to the manager and told him that unless she received an ample apology she would never come back to sing at Olmiitz again. His reply took the form of a threat to have her imprisoned unless she completed her contract. That was enough for the high-spirited Pauline.

Determined not to give way or to let the manager get the benefit of her services, she walked off to the citadel and gave herself up as an offender against the law. She slept that night in a detention-cell. On the following day the hubbub caused in the town by her conduct aroused the hoped-for popular indignation, and in consequence the artist who had started the trouble was compelled to apologize. Thereupon Fraulein Lucca left forthwith for Prague, where, in March, i860, she made a second successful ddbut, this time as Valentine in Les Huguenots.

We arrive here at the first important turning-point in the career of a singer who was almost as famous for her wilful and capricious temper as for her fascinating and all-conquering genius. Unfortunately, little firsthand information is available concerning the details of her early essays in opera ; but when the simple facts are as picturesque as they were in her case, the ordinary minutias of artistic development do not matter much. Besides, a comparatively short time was to elapse before Lucca made her first appearance in London, and our chief interest in the woman and her art really dates from that event.

What occurred then, at Prague ? To begin with, we find our youthful prima donna of 19 suddenly cutting adrift from her Olmutz repertoire of soprano leggiero parts, such as Elvira in Ernani, and — like Patti at New Orleans in the very same year — shouldering the dramatic soprano burden of Valentine in Les Huguenots. Not alone that. It is on record that now and then in Prague she sang Norma — another heavy role, even if not essentially designed for stout ladies in particular, as was formerly inferred from the fact that it was Tietjens’s own cheval de bataille.

Anyhow, the name of Pauline Lucca was on all lips when one day the mighty Intendant of the Royal Theatre and Opera-House at Berlin, Baron von Hiilsen, found himself by chance in the ancient city of Prague. Naturally he went to hear the new V alentine ; and the experience is said to have deprived him of the power of speech for every purpose save that of securing this gifted creature for his own capital. Needless to say the Baron succeeded. He signed a contract with her for the following season for more thalers per month than he had ever before paid to a debutante ; which contract was destined to be supplemented soon afterwards by a decree that made the young lady “ Court-singer to the King of Prussia ” for life.

I have found no confirmation of the statement that Pauline Lucca was engaged for Berlin through the influence of Meyerbeer ; or even that he asked the Baron von Hiilsen to go to Prague to hear her. What we do know for certain is that at that period Meyerbeer was living in Berlin and working on his last opera, L'Africaine ; that he was on the look-out for a singer to create the part of the dusky heroine ; and furthermore, that it was after he had witnessed Lucca’s glorious performance of Valentine at Berlin — i.e. the first time he ever saw her — that he was heard to exclaim, “ There is my Selika I ”

When her parents learned the news at Vienna it caused them mingled joy and regret : joy that their little girl should have been “ born under such a lucky star ”, and regret because it was unlikely that either Berlin or Meyerbeer would tolerate for the present the idea of letting her return to her native town. As a matter of fact, she accepted Meyerbeer’s offer instantly and with unfeigned delight. Without loss of time she began to study of Selika with the composer, although the new opera was not yet nearly completed.

It would be difficult to furnish an adequate picture of the sensation that Pauline Lucca aroused during her first season in Berlin. Her d£but, be it noted, took place on April i, 1861, just six weeks prior to the first appearance of Patti at Covent Garden. That event it strongly resembled, both in regard to the nature and extent of the local enthusiasm and its repercussion in the opera-houses of Germany and Austria. The rush to hear her increased each time her name appeared in the bills. The announcement, “ Lucca is singing to-night ”, sufficed to crowd the big house from floor to ceiling.

Her dramatic talent is said to have taken on an added subtlety and power with each fresh character that she portrayed. Her voice must have been entrancingly beautiful in the dawn of its freshness, seeing how wonderfully rich and matured it sounded to my ears ten years later. It aroused the ecstatic admiration of the Berlin critics though they had perforce to admit that her vocal technique still left much to be desired. For her coloratura , if fluent and crisp, was neither brilliant nor dazzling. It had not come to her “ naturally ”, with little or no instruction, as, for example, Patti’s had come to her whilst she was still in her teens .

An interesting comparison between Patti and Lucca is drawn by the late Mathilde Marchesi in her book. Marched and Music. It may appropriately be quoted here, although it refers to a later period (1876), when the two stars were shining simultaneously at the Italian Opera in Vienna. Says the famous teacher :

“ This was a rare treat, for every evening one had the choice between Patti, with her extraordinarily beautiful voice and delightful method, and Lucca with her marvellous dramatic talent. The former excited the greatest admiration and carried us quite away with the charm of her singing ; but the latter appealed to the feelings of her audiences and in great dramatic moments would take our hearts by storm. It was a thousand pities that Lucca’s natural and remarkable talent should not have been properly cultivated. The wonderful progress she subsequently made in her singing was mainly due to the excellent example of Italian singers she had before her ; she was the best Carmen I ever saw".

Enough has been said to show that Pauline’s success in Berlin was something quite out of the common. Her versatility astounded the cognoscenti. After realizing the tragic grandeur of her Norma, her Agathe, her Leonora and her Valentine, they loved to revel in the irresistible comedy of her two great juvenile impersonations, Chcrubino in Figaro and Zcrlina in Fra Diavolo, which she thenceforward made her own. No wonder Meyerbeer saw in her his ideal Sclika. He became more and more anxious that she should be the first artist to undertake the part.

Unluckily, that was not to be. L'Africaine had been promised by Meyerbeer to the Paris Opera, and there it would have to be sung to the French text of its author, Eugene Scribe. The latter had originally handed it to the composer so long before as 1840 (together with that of Le Prophite ) and again in its ultimate revised form in 1852. The authorities were quite willing to engage any special artist selected by Meyerbeer ; but Lucca, greatly though she appreciated the honour, positively declined to accept it. She had never sung in French ; she did not care to learn ; and nothing should induce her to undertake either the trouble or the responsibility of such a task. Someone else, for aught she cared, might be the Selika in Paris ; she “ would afterwards create the part elsewhere ”. And, as we shall see, that was what actually came to pass.

Towards the close of that phenomenal year, 1861, whilst Pauline Lucca was living and studying in Berlin, she received a surprise visit from no less a person than Adelina Patti. The two young women had never seen each other. Until the preceding spring both had been practically unknown to the larger European public. But, after her amazing triumph in London, the new diva had been engaged through her brother-in-law, Maurice Strakosch, for a few “ guest ” performances at the Berlin Hofoper during the month of December. At that moment Pauline was not singing; but Strakosch, always well informed on operatic matters, had heard of her vogue in the Prussian capital, and determined to take his little relative to see her in her modest lodgings ”. He says in his amusing book. Souvenirs d’un Impresario : They found her in bed, looking very juvenile and interesting. Her first word was an exclamation of surprise on beholding Adelina Patti — herself a sweet and adorable creature. ‘ What I ’ exclaimed Lucca, almost involuntarily, can you be the great Patti ? ’ ” Instead of telling us what followed he merely adds that, The rivalry between the two singers existed only upon the stage, for outside the theatre they were always upon the best terms of camaraderie ” . Which I venture rather to doubt.

Only another year at Berlin — all idea of persuading Pauline to go to Paris being finally abandoned — and one fine spring morning, on entering Meyerbeer’s study, her beloved master and friend greets her with the news that he has been entrusted by Mr Frederic Gye with an offer for her to sing in London during the current season (1863). With a cry of joy, she rushes forward to embrace him, accepts the offer, and signs the contract without even troubling to look at the terms. This incident is worth recalling, as a preliminary to her first journey to London, inasmuch as she made the terms in question the ostensible ground or an entirely novel and eccentric line of behaviour during her stay in England.

In what still remained of the season of 1863 there was little time for anything beyond the actual debut, which took place on July 18th. It was an exceptionally brilliant success. Covent Garden, filled to overflowing, rapturously welcomed Pauline Lucca in her superb assumption of Valentine in Les Huguenots. The critics were unanimous in their praise. Considerably below medium height, she struck them as rather short in stature for the part ; but this disadvantage did not prevent her from asserting in full measure the irresistible, the almost uncanny power of the passionate intensity and feeling that imbued her singing and acting. Her dark-complexioned oval face, her lustrous eyes, her oriental type of beauty, combined with a singular variety of facial expression, lent her an extraordinary physical attractiveness. Her significant gestures and graceful, panther-like tread made her immensely interesting to watch.

This rare quality of sensuous charm was abundantly reflected in a voice of wonderful purity and sweetness. It resembled in a peculiar degree the clear, rich, penetrating timbre of a clarinet, with a touching human quality replacing the “ reedy ” timbre of the woodwind instrument. Its mellowness gave it a direct emotional appeal which awakened a responsive chord in the heart as well as the ear ; for it owed far more to nature than to art. The scale was even and smooth throughout a range extending easily to the D in alt. She possessed admirable breath-control and adequate though by no means extraordinary flexibility of bravura execution. In 1863 certain points in Lucca’s technique were undoubtedly open to criticism ; and Chorley and Davison knew how to analyze them. Ten years later, when the present writer was beginning to hear her in all her famous parts, the loopholes had either disappeared or were not to be perceived in the delight of enjoying the sheer beauty of her performance.

In 1864 came a notorious reprise of Faust (newly mounted at Covent Garden during the preceding season) with Pauline Lucca for the first time as Marguerite. Mario took the title-role and Faure his original character of Mephistopheles. It made a sensation — as well it might ; yet not entirely of the kind that had been anticipated. There was, in the opinion of the critics, a “ fly in the ointment ”. They would not accept as correct or becoming Mile Lucca’s reading of the Garden Scene. She was altogether too coquettish, too “ flirtatious ”, or, as one writer gracefully put it, “ far too * knowing ’ to have captivated so refined and gentlemanly a Faust as Signor Mario ” Mr Gye, though sympathetic, suggested that, in order to placate the critics and prevent possible trouble with the Lord Chamberlain (sic) it might be advisable for the “ forward Margherita ” to modify some of her business.

The young lady refused, however, to do anything of the sort. She declared that she knew a great deal more about the character of the German Gretchen than did either French artists or English critics. She would act the part in her way or not at all. Thoroughly annoyed, she took umbrage at the attitude of everybody, both inside and outside the opera-house, and insisted that there was a conspiracy to injure her reteputation. Furthermore, she declined to remain any longer “ in a town where such things were possible Accordingly, early in the month of June, she pleaded ill-health and took her departure for Berlin, “ leaving her manager in the lurch and, to all appearance, shaking the dust of London from her shoes for ever Rumour credited the temperamental Pauline with other reasons for leaving — among them the fogs that arose from our “ muddy river ” Thames, mingling with the smell of decaying vegetables from Covent Garden market ; but the real cause, of course, was the Faust affair. It had happened at a moment when she was dissatisfied with her salary here and genuinely upset by the death of Meyerbeer, which had occurred only a month before.

Whilst she was singing subsequently at Berlin and Vienna preparations were going on in Paris for the long-deferred production of L'Africaine. That event ultimately took place on April 28, 1865, Marie Sasse being the Selika, Naudin the Vasco da Gama, and Faure the Nelusko. The new opera enjoyed an enormous vogue, and this quickly had a bearing upon the forgiving spirit of Mr Gye. That astute manager, who had threatened his wayward prima donna with fines and imprisonment if she ever gave him the chance, withdrew his legal proceedings and, after due negotiation, re-engaged her for the current season to “ create ” Selika in his forthcoming Italian production of L'Africaine at Covent Garden.

Then it was that Pauline Lucca really came, saw, and conquered. As one writer said, “ her impersonation of Selika must be ranked among the very highest achievements in the lyric drama ”. One can only add, what a pity that Meyerbeer should not have lived to heat his “ swan song ” or to behold the Selika of his dreams ! And it was also to be regretted that the latter, thanks to the red-tape laws of the Paris Opera, should never have been seen upon the boards where U Africaine, a quarter of a century later, attained a total of 500 representations.

During each of the many seasons that she continued to appear at Covent Garden, Pauline Lucca never failed to make half a dozen appearances in her favourite role. In 1868, for instance, when she was singing with Mario in Les Huguenots, La Favorita, and Faust, when the quaint, boyish humour of her Cherubino and the no less girlish grace and charm of her Zerlina in Fra Diavolo were delighting opera-goers, it was still her glorious Selika that carried off the palm. Four years later I was lucky enough to hear her in the part myself, with Naudin and Faure in their original characters ; and that experience, it need scarcely be said, remains deeply imprinted on my memory.

What a picture she made as the swarthy, amorous African Queen ! What an entrance ! — the barbaric dignity of it, — the slowness of her gliding motion when she follows Vasco da Gama into the Admiralty Hall at Lisbon with Nelusko at her heels, he crouching and full of menace ! Her glance seemed to magnetize the whole assemblage, both on the stage and in the auditorium. Then the contrast of the succeeding scene in the prison where Vasco lies sleeping ; the soothing silkiness of Selika’ s berceuse, alternating with her outbursts of passionate devotion and apprehension. Here we listened to a gorgeous voice and exquisite singing. The whirlwind changes in the last two acts from one extreme to another of adoration and anger rendered the spectator literally breathless; and the dimax came with the tragic ending beneath the deadly branches of the upas-tree. I have seen many Selikas (including Gabriefle Krauss’s fine performance with Lassalle at Paris in 1879) ; but Pauline Lucca’s left them all far behind alike in nobility of conception and savage grandeur.

She did not return to England after the season of 1872 for ten years. During the interval she was heard in the principal opera-houses of Germany, Austria, and Russia ; and she also made a two years’ stay in America, adding constantly to a repertory that eventually comprised over fifty roles. She had in 1869 married Baron von Rhadenand, after her separation from him in ’72, Baron von Wallhofen. The latter name she bore in private when I was introduced to her during her last visit to London in 1884. I found her an amiable and vivacious personage, and we became very good friends. Besides retaining all her beauty (she was still only 43), “ her voice had lost none of its freshness, and the piquant grace of her style and the marked originality of her conceptions were even more striking than before”.

London delighted once again in her incomparable Selika and many of the former favourites of her repertory. But her Carmen was new, and, as it turned out, worth placing well in the forefront of the collection. It struck a happy mean between the positively broad or vulgar and the over-refined ; being in this respect more highly-coloured than the Carmens of Galli-Marie (the original) or Minnie Hauk, more Viennese and less definitely Spanish than those of Calve and Z6lie de Lussan. In any case, Lucca’s was equal to the finest of them in “ all the attributes of voluptuous charm, subtle power and dramatic intensity that the character demands ” ; while her rendering of Bizet’s wonderful music has never, perhaps, been equalled for picturesque beauty and force.

She was rather fond of practical jokes — mostly of a mild, harmless description. It was by semi-jocular tricks that she persuaded Bismarck to allow himself to be photographed with her (the photo was sold all over the Continent for years), and to grant her a special pass to visit the German army front in the War of 1870-1. Her curious adventures near Metz aroused considerable curiosity at the time.

Pauline Lucca’s final home was in her birthplace, Vienna. She had settled down there after her return from America in 1874, and continued to sing in opera for many years before retiring from the stage and devoting herself to teaching. She died in 1908.

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opera-ghosts · 10 days ago

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Today would have been the 154th birthday of the woman whom Kolodin called as "the divine Olive" -- Olive Fremstad (1871-1951).

She sang soprano roles and some roles often assumed by mezzos (e.g., Venus, Santuzza, Selika) and even roles normally done by mezzos (Carmen, Fricka).

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opera-ghosts · 10 days ago

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From Divas : Mathilde Marchesi and her pupils by Neill, Roger:

[...] Suzanne Adams asserted her rights in true Yankee spirit. Miss Adams, like many others, labored under the idea that a course with Marchesi would be of invaluable aid to her future … It is said that Marchesi does not love Americans over much, and that the intense favouritism shown by her causes much jealousy to exist among her pupils; but her most exasperating fault, to the serious and ambitious pupil, is the un-businesslike way she has of curtailing a lesson and dismissing her class, for this, that, or other pretex.

According to Adams, nobody had ever challenged Marchesi on these points, and when ‘our handsome, young American singer did this’, proceeding to ‘claim her money’s worth’, Marchesi refused point blank, and Suzanne ‘coolly walked out of her presence for good, followed by the entire class’. Other reports narrow down the list of absconders to her fellow-Americans. It seems unlikely that the Australians followed suit — Mathilde was consistently warm about them, in particular Frances Saville, Lilian Devlin and Nellie Rowe.

The voice of Susan Adams was not quite of the same quality as Melba’s, but it was similar in a certain way. She was one of those who grieved my mother deeply, and I hope she never realised how profoundly hurt her loving teacher was, who had even quite acted as a mother towards her, as she had no mother.

At the same time, Mathilde made it clear that, because of the problems with her health, Suzanne should delay her debut at the Opéra, maybe for several years, until she was much stronger and better equipped to deal with a professional career, and that she would be well-advised to make her debut in the less pressured atmosphere of the Opéra-Comique. ‘Miss Adams took this wise advice as an insult, turned entirely against her, left her in the most cold-blooded manner and really kindled a strike in my mother’s opera class’, wrote Blanche.

Growing up without parents, forced to fend for herself, and unhappy dealing with Mathilde’s autocratic style, Suzanne not only revolted, but also set herself up as ringleader. Over time, Blanche (and presumably her mother too) felt vindicated in their view of the situation. Although she had successful periods at the Opéra, at Covent Garden and at the Metropolitan Opera, Suzanne’s career was constantly interrupted by vocal problems, and by around the mid-1900s her voice had declined sufficiently to force a halt to her career. Of course, having abandoned Marchesi, Suzanne had to find another teacher, and she returned to her previous one, Bouhy. ‘Oh yes, I was very penitend she said.

In the event, Suzanne did not make her debut at the Opéra until 9 January 1895, some two-and-a-half years after her separation from Marchesi. Perhaps Bouhy agreed with Mathilde’s assessment that she needed more time. It may be that Gaillard wanted her to make her debut as Juliette, a role at that time occupied in that house by another American Marchesi pupil, Sibyl Sanderson. Eventually Sanderson decamped from Paris, returning to tour America, and Suzanne’s opportunity arrived. Sanderson’s biographer, Jack Winsor Hansen, offers a third interpretation of the Marchesi walkout, suggesting that Mathilde was spending too much time coaching Sanderson for her imminent debut as Massenet’s Thais.

The debut of Suzanne Adams as Juliette in January 1895 was greeted generally with applause from the Parisian press. Noting her lack of experience, but also her period as a Marchesi pupil, Le Ménestrel admired her performance, her voice and her ‘rare aplomb’, while observing that she had a certain coldness of manner, characteristic of ‘all the American women’.

Following her debut at the Opéra, Suzanne may have encountered vocal problems, and was given mostly secondary roles at the house. “We never saw her name on the bill in a principal role’, wrote Blanche Marchesi, ‘only from time to time was she cast for a small part’. Blanche ignored the fact that in 1898 Suzanne arrived as a prima donna at both Covent Garden and the Met and was consistently given starring roles. Her debut on 10 May at Covent Garden was again as Juliette, The Era introducing her as ‘a young American of Irish extraction, who has had the advantage of studying under Madame Marchesi’, continuing:

It may be said at once that Miss Adams is quite mistress of her art, and her singing of brilliant and exacting music is sweet, silvery and effective. Her acting is graceful and natural, and altogether her debut was entirely successful.

The Graphic noted that she ‘is young and pretty, with a light and bird-like voice and the true Marchesi method’. Aside from Juliette, that season she also sang Donna Elvira in Don Giovanni, Marguérite in Faust (alternating with Eames and Calvé), Euridice in Gluck’s Orfeo, and Micaéla in Carmen (Calvé her Carmen). That summer in London, she married the cellist Leo Stern (remembered as the soloist in the premiére of Dvorak’s Cello Concert in 1896). By 8 November she was making her debut at the Met — as Juliette once more — initially in Chicago and arriving at New York on 4 January (Jean de Reszke her Roméo). That season in New York she also sang the Queen in Les Huguenots, Marguérite, Micaéla, Cherubino in Le nozze di Figaro and Donna Elvira. Of her debut, the critic of the New York Times, WJ Henderson, gave her a mixed reception:

Miss Adams has a slight figure and a juvenile appearance, which are well suited to such parts as Juliet. Her voice is a very light and sweet-toned soprano. As far as could be judged last night, when the young lady was decidedly nervous, the voice is well placed; but in its emission she was uncertain owing to her lack of confidence ... She was occasionally a trifle flat ... and she has a geat deal to learn.

By the end of the 1898-99 season at the Met, Suzanne Adams’s rather narrow core repertoire was in place, to be repeated both there and at Covent Garden in future years, with occasional detours (as Nedda in Pagliacci, Hero in Stanford’s Much Ado About Nothing and Rozann in Lalo’s Le roi d’Ys). Her career at Covent Garden extended over eight seasons, the last in 1906, but at the Met she sang only four. In 1907 she returned to New York from London to sing in vaudeville, ‘not in her best voice’, reported the New York Times. Her singing career over, little is known about her subsequent life, based in London. Her husband Leo Stern died in 1904 and she remarried in 1915 a ‘gentleman of independent means’, John Lumsden Mackay. It was rumoured that she ran a laundry after her retirement (and that she taught).

As with others, she made half a dozen cylinders for Bettini in New York around 1900-01, none of which are known to have survived. A little later (1901-03), she was recorded live by Henry Mapleson on his Edison cylinder phonograph at the Met — brief extracts from Les Huguenots, Massenet’s Le Cid, Faust and a song by her husband Leo Stern. In London in 1902 Suzanne made six sides (i.e. discs) for G & T and then a further eleven sides were made for Columbia in New York. Opinion has always been divided on the merits of her disc recordings. On the positive side was PG Hurst, a supporter of her work at Covent Garden and on record:

.. for her voice and style perfectly reproduced the Marchesi method, having that delicious limpidity and bird-like ease so much appreciated by London audiences. She gave dignity and disdain to Donna Elvira, an ingénue charm to Marguerite, Nedda and Micaéla, and was the ideal Gilda ...!?

Hurst advised strongly against collecting her recordings for Columbia, suggesting that if one were to come across them, ‘these records are best destroyed, when found’.’ On the other hand, reviewing her G & T Red Label output in The Record Collector, Laurie Hevingham-Root confessed that he approached her work ‘with a great deal of trepidation, because I do not see eye-to-eye with certain collectors as to her artistic stature’.

Returning to the Mapleson cylinders, and in particular to his recording of the cabaletta from Act 2 of Les Huguenots, ‘A ce mot tout sanime’, this had always been assumed to be sung by Nellie Melba, but in 1968 John Stratton questioned this, making the case that Suzanne Adams was more likely the singer involved. Before 1960, Stratton himself wholeheartedly shared the attribution to Melba:

Melba was, in those days, dazzling and even electrifying ... There is little doubt that a more spectacular piece of singing has never been recorded. The facility of her scale work, the full-voiced brilliance of her attacks even up to the D-flat, the wonderfully light upward skips, and finally the marvellous full trill held to what seems to be the end of her breath before ascending undaunted to the D-flat again — such singing is not often to be heard.

Yet eight years later, Stratton changed his opinion entirely, not about the superlative nature of the singing, but about who was doing it — nailing his colours to Suzanne Adams. In doing so, he offered various pieces of evidence, the most telling of which is that the recording is sung in French. On the two occasions within the time-frame that Melba performed that opera at the Met, both were given in Italian, whereas the performances with Adams were in French. However, as Stanley Henig has noted:

This ‘evidence’ ignores the fact that in this so-called golden age different languages might be used in the same performance. Mapleson himself, in The Strand Musical Magazine states that, “The suggeritore [prompter] has a very responsible post ... several of the operas have been published with different librettos, especially the works of Meyerbeer, and it is quite a usual matter for the suggeritore to have three different editions of Les Huguenots ... before him ... It is quite an ordinary matter to hear Faust, Marguerite and Mephistopheles sing the French version, whilst Valentino and Siebel are only acquainted with the Italian libretto.” -

In spite of this clear participant evidence, many have now concluded that Adams is the singer in question, whereas both Henig and this writer remain committed to Melba, mostly on the basis of what is heard. While Adams was evidently a good Marchesi-styled bel canto singer, there is no evidence from her other recordings that she had the brillance and facility of Melba.

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