JOHN MCCORMACK

THE STORY OF A SINGER

THE MACMILLAN COMPANYNEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO DALLAS

ATLANTA SANmucxsco

CCazm éTHE STORY OF A SINGER

BY L . A . G. STRONG

W ith Six teen Plates

York The Macmillan Company 194 1

Copyright, 1941, by

L . A . G. S TRONG AND J OHN M CCORMACK .

All righ ts reserved—no part of th is bookmay

‘

bq reproduced in any form W ithout

permlssxon m writing from th e publish er,ex cept by

o

a reviewer whowish es toquote brief

passages xq congection with a review wn ttenfor mclusxon mmagazme or newspaper.

Fms'r PRINT! NG.

PRINTED IH THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICAAMERICAN BOOK- STRATFORD PRESS, INC., NEW YORK

LILY

FROM TW O ADM IRERS

OR, AS ONE OF THEM PUTS IT,

TO IDEAL W IFE OF A TENOR

(Imarried Her)

FOREW ORD

A W ORD as to how this book came to be written. I hadheard the name of John Mccormack in Dublin before19 10, the year When I saw his name and portrait on a posterissued by the Gramophone Company. In some propheticway, this poster struckmy imagination. When, in 19 1 z, I

first heard records of him,the blow went deeper. The first

record I ever bought was his, and by the time I first heardhimsing, at the Queen’s Hall in 1924, I possessed dozens,including some of the earliest Odeons, described on pages48, 49, 77 , and 78 .

To-day I have over 1 60 of his records. I amby nomeansa blind admirer, and I can take no interest Whatever in agreat deal that he has sung, but he is tome incomparablythe finest of lyric tenors, and the perfect interpreter ofIrishmusic.Thus, after I had written a life of TomMoore, it seemedappropriate that I should write of the Irishman W homostresembles him. The more I know of John, the strongerthat resemblance, physical and spiritual, appears . That thebook upon Moore brought me John

’s acquaintance andfriendship was another pointer. Then, quite unexpectedly,at his suggestion, the opportunity arose.In formand substance, this book is a collaboration. Myhope is to draw a portrait of the artist and theman: singer,patriot,musician, talker,mimic, Count of the HolyRomanEmpire, an Irishman With a rough side to his tongue aswell as a smooth, and W ith vitality enough tomake enemies

vii

as well as friends:To this end I have Wherever possible lethimspeak in his own words. The audiences that flocked tohimall over the world came to hear his voice, and theyshall hear it often in these pages. I provide the recitative ;he sings the aria.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I HAVE to thank a number of pe0p1e for their kind and

valuable help, the more so as the subj ect of this study is

not at his best With dates and other such tiresome ex actitudes . Foremost among the helpers 15 Mr. Ronald Phillips,W ho has suppliedmost of the data in the two appendices,and been patient With allmy queries. To Countess McCor

mack I owe a number of picturesque details and help ofevery kind. Imust also thank particularly Miss Mary Scott,Mr.Walter Legge of His Master’s Voice and Covent Garden, Mr. Bernard Brophy, Mrs. Eva Metman, various t elations of the subject, and my Wife .

L. G. S.

ILLUSTRATIONS

J OHN MC CORM ACK Frontzspzeoe(Pboto: Havemn, Santa Monica)

MAESTRO SABATINI

SIGNORA SABATINI

J OHN MC CORM ACK IN 1903(Photo: I. 0 . Simmons, Athlone)

LILY MC CORM ACK WITH CYRIL IN 1907(Photo: 1. Robinson 69 Sons Ltd ., Dublin)

AS J OHN WAS W HEN HE F IRST M ET LILY

(Photo: I. 0 . Simmons, Athlone)AS HE APPEARED IN

‘

FAUST’

IN DUBLIN, 1906

AS ‘

DON OTTAVIO’ IN MOZART’S ‘

DON GIOVANNI’

smJ OHN M URRAY soon ‘ WITH CY'

RIL MC CORMACK

M ISS M ARY SCOTT WITH CYRIL

ON HIS F IRST HARRISON TOUR IN 1908

(Photo: Lafayette Ltd Dublin)

LILY M C CORMACK(Photo: Hartsook)

MELBA

CARUSO

(Photompplied by Ex clusive News Agency)

J OHN M C CORM ACK AS GOLFER(Photo: D. Scott Chisholm, Los Angeles)

J OHN AS ANGLER(Photo: S . Cashman, Dublin)

J OHN M C CORM ACK AND HIS PORTRAIT BY SIR W ILLIAMORPEN

(Photo: International Illustrations)

ix

FACING PAGE

WITH HIS MOTHER AND FATHER, HANNAH AND ANDREWM C CORMACK, AT GREYSTONES, NEAR DUBLIN, 1925

(Photo: Bain News Service, New Yark)

A FAM ILY PORTRAIT, COUNT AND COUNTESS M C CORMACKWITH CYRIL AND GWEN, TAKEN AT THEIR CALIFORNIAHOM E, 193 1

(Photo: Alex ander Kahle)

COUNT OF THE HOLY ROMAN EM PIRE(Photo: G. Felici

,Rome)

J OHN M C CORMACK AND LUCREZ IA BORI DURING THEIR FIRSTBROADCAST IN AM ERICA, 1926

(Photo: Bain News Service, New Y07k)

WITH HIS GRANDDAUGHTER(Photo:

‘Daily Ex press,

’ Manchester)

JOHN MCCORMACK

THE STORY OF A SINGER

CHAPTER 1

IN SOME OF the country parts of Ireland yofi'

will find nosignposts . If a stranger remonstrates, the pe0p1e stare athimmsurprise .

‘Sure,why should we want a signpost? ’ they ask him.

‘Don’t we know the way?’

A similar difficulty stands in the way of anyone.

whotries to write an Irishman’3 life . His contemporaries imagine that what IS so well known to themmust be known toall . They offer no signposts. And there are other difl'iculties.

The Irish look on biography as an art, and, once they takeit up, practise it for its own sweet sake . I do not refer tothe professional biographers, who, oddly enough, inclineto austerity; but to the ordinary public, the amateurs .These go to it with a will, presenting the seeker after

truth with a profusion of circumstantial detail . This detailwill be magnificently true to character—at least, to theView they have decided to takefi but it will not be hampered by regard for fact. And the view they takemay begoverned by another peculiarity of the national genius. Ifhe has been to school with a man,

or drunk a pint withhim, the average Irishman refuses to be impressed by anything themanmay do thereafter. Fame won outside Irelandis particularly dangerous . The Irish will accept it at first,and take credit for it ; but as soon as the subj ect becomespublic property, they turn their talents to depreciation .

So, whatever sources hemay draw on, the optimist who

sets out to write the life of a famous Irishman is unlikely

to getmuch help fromhis subj ect’s contemporaries. It hasbeen sad to find how many of the stories told about JohnMccormack arise fromthe amiable national characteristicsnoted above . Each was hen trow to: none was true .

The finest tenor that ever came out of Ireland was bornat Athlone, on the banks of the Shannon, and received thenames of John Francis. The date of his birth was June 14th ,1 884. Later, there was a dispute in the family, his fatherinsisting that the month was not June but July. Mrs.Mccormack retorted that she knew June was themonth,because she was present when the event occurred.

John Francis was the fourth of eleven children. Hisfather andmother were both born in Scotland, in the Lowland town of Galashiels. His grandfather on his father’sside was a Sligoman; hismother’s family are Scots. Of thewhole family, John is the only one who never showed asingle Scottish characteristic. Indeed, there are one or twohe has reason to covet.Hismother gave himhumour, gentleness, and charm. A

look of half-bewilderedmelancholy, simple, almost childlike, which is visible in several of the early portraits; andwhich still settles upon his face when he is tired, smoothingout the lines andmaking himseemyoung and vulnerable,is her legacy also. Fromhis father he inherited energy,drive, and ambition.

‘

If I had your education and your chances,’ Andrew

Mccormack would declare, ‘I would be Prime Minister ofEngland.

’

The father had a good singing voice . Indeed, various

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‘Stop ! ’ cries the Lieutenant. ‘

If you put your head outside that door, I

’ll put a bullet in it ! ’

Cried John,‘Stop ! If you put your bullet outside that

door, I’

ll put a head on it ! ’

And Father Kielty led the laughter that followed.

The little incident is interesting as well as funny. I thinkthememory burned itself very deep into the singer’smind,or the slip represented a tendency that was part of hispsychologicalmake—up; for he has always been apt to varythe words of his songs, and formany years never trustedhis memory on the concert platform, keeping always alittle book in which the words were written. Even this hasnot saved himfromoccasional mistakes, one or two of

which have found their way into his records.

Sligo brought John on fast. It was a spartan life, andplayed its part in fittinghimwith the constitution that asinger needs. Up in themorning at six , even in winter, withno heating in the dormitory; the hours long, the workhard, the food plain: it was no nursery for a weakling, andJohn, though thin as a rail, grew tough and strong. He

continued tomake good progress, and wasw ell liked bothby staff and boys, with whomhis liveliness and powers asamimicmade himvery popular.When he came home for the holidays, John took amoredominant part in the family sing- songs. The McCormacksloved to sing, and would gather round the piano on alloccasions . Up till then, none of his relations had thoughtthat his gifts were anything out of the ordinary. Indeed, forsome years still, they would profess not to understand ‘allthe fuss that wasmade of John’s voice.’

4

But now, with the fresh confidence which school gavehim, John would sit down and reel off the latest songs,everything he had heard during the term, and compel theirattention

,whether they liked it or not.

Whatever John’s family might think, one man at Sligohad ideas about the boy

,and was prepared to back them.

‘Oh,John ! I have permission fromthe President. You

may sing forme at the Town Hall to-morrow night andThursday

,and I will give you five shillings for the two

concerts. What will you sing? ’

That was John’s introduction to the concert platform.

‘Oh,Mr. John ! Why did you have to show off your

learning an’ education at the Town Hall last night? Whydidn’t you sing your songs in English? ’

That was John’s first experience ofmusical criticism. He

had sung his songs in English .

It came about in this way. During the winter of 1 900

Father Hynes, a beloved Professor at Sligo College, whowas later to become President of University College, Galway, was organizing a concert in the Town Hall for one ofhis favourite charities . All the famous singers in Sligo wereto sing, and there weremany of them.

It was at this concert he invited the boy to sing . Theeffect only John can describe .

‘For all the rest of that day I hardly heard a word thatwas said tome. I went to bed and dreamed of perfect dresssuits with red silk handkerchiefs tucked in the waistcoat,ofmustachios royally upcurled, and of long hair oiled andbrushed back fromOlympian foreheads . I dreamed of ovations, of doves being let down in a basket fromthe top of

the prosceniumarch to flutter and coo at my feet. Idreamed of horses being taken frombetween the shafts ofmy carriage by wildly cheeringmultitudes . I dreamed anddreamed, until I heard that rude awakener and summonerto mundane things—the six o ’clock bell in the morningbringingme back to earth with a bump .

’

The great evening came, and John, though nervous asa kitten, sang well enough, and held his own with the professionals. It was not till next day he received the salutarycriticismquoted above .This first appearance

,and that criticism

,were the basis

of his whole career.‘Every fee I have ever received since then is simply anaccumulation at compound interest of that original fee,’he said . Then, reaching sideways and tappingme impressively on the knee,

‘Sure we can’t climb Parnassus if wedon’t know where 1t is. If our feet are not placed upon themountain path

,how can we reach the top ? An aeroplane

may soar over it, but it can’t land there—even by accident.

Go on,

’ he added quickly,‘tellme that’s irrelevant. But at

least I know what Imean.

’

And the criticism, showing himthe necessity to get hiswords across to the audience, was the first step towards themaking of a diction that has never been surpassed : a dictionso perfect that it could get the patter—swift words of theliveliest folk—song pianim

'mo to the back of the gallery atthe Albert Hall.

The two years that followed weremore academic thanmusical. His ambition now strongly kindled

,John pleaded

for extra time to give to hismusic. Dr. Kielty had otherviews. He hadmarked the boy’s strong religious sense, and

6

this, coupled with his quickness at his books, led himtohope that John would be a priest. So, to every request, hereplied with a gentleness that disarmed protest.

‘My boy,’ he said

,

‘study your Latin . That will bemuchmore important for you in your future .’It was important, though not quite in the way the goodFather h0ped : for, when John went to Italy, it enabledhimto get a working knowledge of Italian in six weeks .So the last two years at Sligo went theirWay 111

‘

a roundof examinations . John did well in all of them. In 1902 heleft the college, full of gratitude to it and to the staff forall their care .Back at Athlone, he sat down to discuss with his fatherwhat career he should follow. A university education wasimpossible ; there was not enough money. All things considered, it seemed best to enter for one of the scholarshipsoffered by the Dublin College of Science .John put his name down

,and was just setting himself to

work seriously for the examination, when Providence tooka hand

,and he was invited to sing at a charity bazaar in

Athlone . The people who heard him, including the professional singers appearing at the concert, offered the boyevery sort of encouragement

,and told himthe career of

a singer was the only one he should think of.

This encouragement blew to a blaze the ambitionsdamped down at Sligo . Once again John’s mind ran tonothing but mu51c . His father intervened with stemad

monitions to study, and John did his best to obey, but histhoughts were onmusical scores instead of text—books

,and

the quick wits fostered at Sligo did not get a fair chance .When the result of the examination appeared

,there were

written up the names of thirteen scholars . Next in line wasJohn’s name. He hadmissed his scholarship by one place .

‘

I’

Ve often wondered,’ he says

,

‘what would have happened to me ifmy name had appeared thirteenth instead

of fourteenth . Is thirteen unlucky or lucky forme? I’mnot sure, but I can make a damn good guess.’Ar any rate, he had failed to get his scholarship, andthere he was, at the ripe age of eighteen, alone in Dublin .

Something had to be done .Various friends fromSligo, of his own age, were inDublin too

,studying for the Civil Service . Long consulta

tions were held, and John finally decided to join his friendsand study for the Civil Service examinations of 1903 . Ac

cordingly,he settled down to work, making his goal a

second division clerkship .

John worked, and worked hard, but he never took theexamination.

‘God in His infinite Providence had evidently givenmemusic as my vocation.

’

That being so, the necessary instruments of Providencewere soon forthcoming . During that winter Johnmet twomen who helped to shape his career, and to whomhe willalways be grateful. Frank Manning, 3 very skilful playeron themandolin, had heard himsing and was a great admirer of his voice .

‘I tell you who you must meet,’ said Manning .

‘Youmust meet Vincent O ’

Brien. He would be apt to do youa lot of good .

’

Manningmade the introduction, and O ’

Brien, already afigure of power in the Dublin musical world, realized atonce that here was a voice of unusual quality. He set to

,

and gave the boy the first singing lessons he had ever had .

Nothing responds so quickly to skilled attention andto practice as the singing voice . In a few months John hadso far improved that, helped also by the generosity of

Dr. Dudley Forde, he entered for the tenor class at theFeis Cecil, the nationalmusical festival in Dublin. The firstprize was a goldmedal, awarded each year by Luigi Denza,the composer, who acted as adjudicator.

8

There were fourteen tenors entered for the competition.

John was the fourteenth . Each had to sing the test piece,followed by a song of his own choosing. The test piecewas ‘Tell Fair Irene

,

’

fromHandel’s Atalanta: an aria ofsuch difficulty that not for close on tw enty years did Johnagain venture to sing it in public . It requires considerableagility, andmone place has a run of ten bars . After hearing thirteen versions of this aria, the aud ience may wellhave been sick of it, but John was in no state to worryabout them. In the grip of a nervousness that would hardlylet himknow what he was doing

,with his throat hurting

,

his heart pounding, and his knees shaking, he somehow goton the platform.

Then something happened which eased the strain. Theaccompanist was a tall thin youngman with hair as blackas a crow’s Wing. His name was Hamilton Harty . He gavethe fourteenth singer a friendly nod, and played the openingbars .An exclamation fromthe singer stopped him.

‘Sure,’ protested John .

‘That’s too fast . I can’t sing it atthat pace .’

The accompanist swung round on the music stool, andtook a good look . He smiled .

‘Very well,’ he said .

‘Showme how you like it .

’

So John, taking his own time, sang the aria . After that,his own choice was easy. Feelingmuch better, he followedup with the old Irishmelody ‘The Snowy Breasted Pearl .

’

As soon as he had finished, there was a moment ofsilence

,then prolonged applause . Signor Denza rose to give

his adjudication . He beamed upon the audience .‘You have shown by your applause,

’ he said,

‘that youhave made my decision forme, and you are quite right.The winner is the youngman whomyou have just heard .

’

This time the number fourteen was not unlucky.

Two other facts are worth mentioning about that Fez's.

9

In the soprano class, the adjudicator, the well-known basssinger Denis O ’

Sullivan,awarded the first prize to one

Miss Lily Foley, of whommore presently. And in the classfor basses, one of the competitors, though he did not winthemedal, was to be heard of again .

“His name was JamesJoyce .

Soon after this John received his first out- and- out professional engagement.

‘I wonder,’ said Father O ’

Reilly, the organizer of theconcert. ‘Would

'

you like to sing forme at Blackrock?I haven’tmuchmoney to offer you, I’mafraid : only threegumeas.

’

Only three guineasl To a boy of nineteen, whose firstfee had been five shillings, it was riches. John acceptedeagerly, and contributed two items to a programme consisting of twenty. In the first part, Mr. J . F. Mccormick(sic) , after whose name was added in brackets ‘

Fet'

s GoldMedallist,

’ sang ‘The Irish Emigrant. ’ TO the second partMr. J . F. Mccormack, having recovered his true identity,contributed ‘The Snowy Breasted Pearl .’ Many of the otheritems were in Erse : the star was an opera singer namedMiss Lily O ’

Dempsey, and during the interval a short address on Sr. Patrick was delivered by Mr. Eamonn O ’Neill.

It was that sort of concert.

Concert engagements now began to flow in,giving the

young tenor that confidence in his voice which only platformexperience can bring . He began to realize that one

10

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ing of what the singer has to contend With,give thema

peculiar interest. John is a severe judge ; generously re

sponsive, catholic in his appreciation,merciless to the second rate, instantly appreciative of first- class work in anycategory. I therefore amgiving throughout any judgmenthe utters on famous singers that is not too vigorouslyphrased .

Of these early performances in Dublin, three stand out,and are still Vivid to himafter close on forty years. Thesewere Philip Brozel in Pdglid ccz

'

,

‘the best Canio I everheard’ ; the Don José of Joseph O

’Mara,‘the finest dramatic

rendering of the part in all mymemory’

; and the Faustof Edward Davies.

‘

There was a tenor for you,’ John exclaimed .

‘TeddyDavies at that time had the sweetest, themost natural andeasy tenor voice I have ever heard .

’ 1

~Irish voices are naturally sweet and sympathetic in quality

,but the tenors tend to be nasal, high-pitched, and thin

at the top . Thus the singers fromoutside, particularly inopera

,were an excellent corrective . No one with John’s

instinct for singing could hear the open ringing tone of agood tenor without registering in his mind a quality atwhich to aim—a quality the native tenor often lacked .

John’s début was made at an exciting time . These first1 Two of these verdicts are of great interest tome personally. Brozel

I never heard, though my father, a good judge, heard h imand has

spoken often of h im. I heard O ’Mara ln Carmen very late 1n his career.

His Voice was thin, and he had to take the climax of‘The Flower

Song’ falsetto, but h is singing was Vigorous and dramatic, and his

actingmagnificent . Edward Davies I heard as Faust somewhere about

19 14, with an ex ceptionally sweet-Voiced Margherita, by name DorothyMoulton. His singingwas easy and his stage

-craft ex cellent, but the

voice had by then lost its best quality.

1 2

days of the new century saw the rise of the Irish literarymovement. An intense national consciousness had comeupon the city

,as it realized

,first with bewilderment

,then

with a rush of deep, long- buried feelings, that a new lifewas st1rr1ng. Dublin, long despised, long regarded as adegenerate provincial city, had given birth to somethingfresh and strong that was all its own. Characteristically,Dublin was apt to j eer at first . It could not believe its owngood fortune . It had to dissemble its emotion. But theemotion was there. The rush of national feeling helped allartists

,and must have helped John too, though not di

rectly. The great men had no time for singers. Only oneof themunderstood the art of singing— and he did not helpJohn.

It has been said more than once that John owed hisstart in Dublin to that saint of the Abbey Theatremovement

,Edward Martyn, who plays so large a part in George

Moore ’s trilogy. Martyn was an enthusiast for choral singing, Which he loved with the force of a rare character, andhis judgment was held in high regard . This love of his,by the way

, was seized upon by the ingenious Moore, whonever rested till he had either found a weakness in thosewhomhe admired

,or, if he could not find a weakness, till

he had discredited one of their Virtues .Aware of this trait

,the élite of Dublin shrank from

Moore’s admiration,being apprehensive of 1ts mevitable

sequel . For a time all Moore’s regard was concentrated onA . E .

, whom'he hymned as a saint. Then came the reaction .

‘I must find a flaw in that perfect soul,’ he went about

repeating ; but he got no help, even in Dublin, and wasreduced at last to fasten upon the devotion between A . E .

and his secretary,and allege that the poet was neglecting

his wife .A . E .

,learning that this was to go into the next chapter

of the trilogy, trotted off and obtained an injunction, leav

I 3

ingMoore to complain bitterly of his selfishness, and transfer his admiration to Edward Martyn.

Martyn one daymet W . B . Yeats, and spoke of Moore .‘I can’t see why you are all so afraid of what Moorewill write about you in his book,

’ he said.

‘Now, I don’t

mind what he says aboutme.

’

Yeats looked sideways at himwith a sharp glint ofamusement.

‘Yes, but, Edward, do you know what he is going tosay about you? ’

Martyn beamed.

‘I don’t know, and I don’t care. ’

‘I think you will,Edward, when you hear what it is .

’

‘Not I. He can say what he likes.’‘Edward—do you know what he is saying? He is sayingthat it is not choral singing you like, but choirboys .

’

Martyn leaped up, transfigured with rage .‘The blackguard ! The scoundrel ! I’ll have the law on

No charge could have beenmore baseless : but Moore’sinfinitemalice had found its target, threatening to aspersethe purest of Martyn

’s passions, his love ofmusic.It would be pleasant to record that this lovable andhuman character, this patron saint of choral singing, helpedthe young Irish tenor and did his best for him. In plainfact, he hindered .

Soon after his début, John had a shot at the pro- cathedralchoir. Itmeant only 1;25 a year, but that was a lot to theboywhose first fee had been five shillings.Before Vincent O ’

Brien and Edward Martyn, John sanghis song—choosing ‘When Other Lips,

’

fromThe Bo

hemian Girl.When he had finished, O

’

Brien raised his eyebrows en

quiringly at Martyn .

‘Dear Edward’ shook his head.

‘No good,’ he said.

‘His voice is too strong.

’

It was an odd verdict upon a voice that was never not

I4

able for volume, but, such was Martyn’s prestige,it held

,

and John did not get his 1; z5 a year.Long afterwards, when the singer was famous, he laugh

inglymentioned this incident in an interview: whereonMartyn wrote to the papers and repudiated it . He addedthat John’s was always a small voice, and he had neverbeen able to see why somuch fuss wasmade of ir.

Of his sincerity there can be no question;~-W e can onlyconclude that his memory was at fault.

The audience at the Feis was, as always, a special audience . Intellectual Dublin was not represented, any morethan it was at small occasional concerts. John’s introduction to the élite was made when he first sang at the B0hemian Club .

Before he came on,a youngman got up to recite . The

youngman had just been elected to Parliament for Belfast.The piece he chose was entitled ‘Sentenced to Death .

’ Theyoungman announced it as ‘

Santanced ta Dath .

’ His namewas Joe Devlin .

John,when he sang, was quite well received . The élite

were pleased, but there was no excitement. For some ti1ne,only a very few,

even among ludges of singing, realizedthe exceptional promise of his voice .

I S

CHAPTER 2

ONE DAY John received an invitation to sing at his hometown

,Athlone . His natural nervousness fought with an

equally natural desire to show the folk at home what hecould do . Then came a piece of sheer bad luck . He caughta heavy cold

,and for a few days it seemed that he would

have to cry off . But the cold cleared away, the voice cameback

,and

,though it was none too happy, it was not bad

enough to warrant cancelling the engagement.Colds are the bane of a singer’s life . If ever a medicalgenius arises who can cure them

,the legion of those who

live by their voice Will praise himabove all human benefactors . There are skilled doctors who can patch up asinger’s voice, who stand in the wings with spray andpaint and somehowmake it last himthrough the evening.

But there is always a price to pay, in the formof a longerperiod of disablement afterwards ; and the hideous anxietyof wondermgwhether one

’s voice will last the evening,and how far onemay trust it, only the singer knows.And only the singer knows that horrible dilemma

i

whicha cold brings. Which is worse—to appear, to be heard atless than one’s best

,and risk giving the audience a bad

impression? Or to cancel the date, disappoint audience andorganizers

,and perhaps never be offered the engagement

again?It is a cruel choice . On the one hand, nothing does anartistmore harmthan to be considered chancy.

‘Oh ! don’t book him. He let us down two years ago,

16

and he didn’t turn up at Oldhamlast Christmas either.’The singer’s imagination is quick to hear this

, and balance it against another utterance, just as damaging .

‘What on earth are you booking himfor? I heard himat Liverpool, and he was rotten .

’

To apologize to an audience, to say he has a cold,maywin the singer indulgence for themoment ; but the chancesare that the audience

,and, worse, the organizers of the

concert,will remember himonly as aman who sang badly

because he had a cold .

Besides, there is the money side of the question. Veryoften a singer simply cannot afford to forgo an engagement. Hemust be there

,and do the best he can, knowing

all the time that he is singing far below his true form,and

doing his voice no good . Once his fame ismade, he maybe able to afford to nurse his voice

,and to sing only when

he is fit . Until then,he sings as long as he has a croak left

So, Madame Schumann—Heink sang as one of the Rhinemaidens, suspended in the air by a belt round hermiddle,a few days after bearing a child . She had to have themoney. Though not in want, Madame Marchesi, to savea performance and oblige a distraught impresario, rose fromher bed— she had influenza

,and her temperature was 102

and sang a long and exacting role, not only findinga voice,but braving all the draughts and chills of an opera housein winter. But singers are a tough race, and neither heroinewas the worse.

Singers,like actors, will do anything rather than dis

appoint their public . Madame Blanche Marchesi,daughter

of the altruist justmentioned, tripped and fell full lengthon her face a few seconds before she had to sing at a concert in London. The orchestra was waiting, the conductorready to hand her on to the platform. Delay was impossible . Shaken

,in severe pain

,hardly able to see

,she emerged

I 7

smiling and,aided by the special power which comes to

singers in their distress,got through her aria.

I remember a concert which was to have been givenby two artists

,the tenor TomBurke, and a violinist. The

audience was of the type that attends celebrity concertsin the provinces . They had come to hear the singer, andwere prepared to sit through the intervals provided by theViolinist, or even to enjoy themmildly, if they were spectacular or recognizablymelodious. Thus they were not atall pleased when they heard that the tenor was sufferingfroma sudden and severe attack of ’

flu .

The situation was unpleasant for both artists . TomBurkewas never one to spare himself. Three times he came ou,

shivering in high fever, and tried to sing, before giving upthe attempt as hopeless. It is pleasant to record that, socourageously and skilfully did the Violinistmeet the occasion, the audience applauded himenthusiastically, and, instead of enduring,

"

asked for more . The Violinist wasYovanovitch Bratza.

So it was with low spirits that John, a bigmufiler roundhis throat, stood on the smoky platformof the Broadstonein Dublin, waiting for his train. This station exists nolonger, and, despite the sentimental memories which itevokes in the breasts of Dubliners, 1t IS no loss. It was hardto get at, small, dirty, noisy, draughty, and cold. The airsthat racked it were of an unholy colour

,imparting to por

ters and passengers alike an appearance of having dweltfor a long time in a cellar and fed upon toadstools. Johnseemed forlorn indeed, a thin, frail- looking boy, his naturalpallor rendered ghastly by his surroundings, with large

1 8

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but these were“the only times they didmeet; for, at seventeen, Lily was still at school.

Then Lily, professionally speaking, stole a march onJohn. She was booked one night to sing at the Celtic Literary Society in Stephen’s Green . In the audience was amannamed Riordan

,who had come over fromAmerica to en

gage singers for the Irish Village at the St . Louis Fair. He

heard Lily sing, was charmed by her voice and presence,

and came round afterwards to see her.Riordan was tall and distinguished looking, and musthavemade an impression on any girl of seventeen. He congratulated Lily on her -

voice, and then struck her breathlessby suddenly asking her to go over to Sr. Louis for theduration of the Fair, at a fee of ten pounds per week andall expenses found .

The girl rushed home, delirious with excitement, andtold her parents. They looked at each other, pursed uptheir lips, and shook their heads. All the way to America,at her age? Who was this Mr. Riordan? Lily’s rhapsodiesabout his appearance did nothing to ease theirminds. Theiranx iety was natural enough

,being after the manner of

parents everywhere,and particularly after the manner of

Irish parents in the year 1 904.

But Lily, small though she was, had a will of her own.

When she was set on a thing,she got it . She gave her

parents no peace,and at last they consented

,reluctantly,

on condition that Lily’s sister went too .

John was well pleased to hear of her success, as werehermany friends . A complimentary concert was arranged

20

for her, to celebrate the event and give her a send-off.John was asked to sing at this, and of course consented .

For him, the concert wasmarred by a small and ratherabsurd incident. He was on the platform

,in the middle

of Sir Arthur Sullivan’s then popular ballad ‘Once Again.

’

Ar the beginning of the second verse occur the words‘And back my memory slips .

’ The suggestion was toostrong. Back John’s memory slipped, his mind became ablank, and he stood theremouthing helplessly, like a goldfish . Fortunately, someone in the front row gave himhisline

,and he was able to finish .

So Lily went off amid applause and good wishes. Johnwas so genuinely modest, despite his ambition, that henever somuch as thought of the possibility that hemightbe asked to go too. But a kind angel was looking after hisaffairs . One day, some time after Lily’s engagement, hewas introduced to Mr. Riordan .

‘Well, Mr. Mccormack . Tell me now—would you liketo come to America? ’Oddly enough, though he knew Lily had been asked,John had not heard about Mr. Riordan, and the questionat first conveyed nothing to him. He looked at the tallstranger

,wondering what the catch was . Then, suddenly,

amad hope leaped in his heart.‘I would like to go anywhere,

’ he said,in as offhand a

manner as he couldmanage .Riordan smiled.

‘I amperfectly serious,’ he said.

‘I amengaging Irish , artists for the Irish Village at the St. LouisExposition .

’

He went on to mention the artists he had already en

gaged . John was only interested in one of the names . Acontract giving himten pounds a week and a return ticketto Sr. Louis, Missouri, left himno thought for anybodyelse . It seemed to himthe realization of all his dreams. Noother engagement in his whole life gave himthe same thrill.

2 1

So it came about that, four weeks after Lily had gone,John set sail fromQueenstown for New York on theLuoam'

a,taking with himmanymessages fromthe Foleys.

He shakes his head ruefully at thememory.

‘The voyage was a nightmare. I have crossed the Atlanticat least a hundred times since, and been round the worldthree times, but that trip on the Lucama ISmore Vivid thanall the rest together. FromSunday afternoon until Thursday I lay in my cabin, which I shared with three otherbad sailors, sad, lonesome, sick, and miserable. I couldn’teat and I couldn’t sleep . Oh ! how I pitied all poormen thathad to go down to the sea in ships.

’

New York was reached in fine weather, but, strange tosay, though John has a goodmemory, he has no recollection at all of New York’smarvellous skyline, which, evenin those days, was supposed to dazzle the benighted traveller fromIreland and leave himbreathless. His only vividrecollection ofNew York on this trip is the Flatiron Building on a very windy day.

‘The ladies wore their skirts longer in those days,’ he

says . ‘

It was just as well ! ’

Then followed two nights in the train ; and one caneasily imagine what they meant to a boy who had neverbeen out of Ireland . The train brought himto St. Louisearly in the morning, tired, grubby, disillusioned. TOfreshen himself up, he went into a barber

’s shop near thestation. The barber sized himup, and proceeded to givehim‘the works.’ When it was over, John asked for his bill .Eyebrows were raised .

‘Youmean the check.

’

‘I would give you a cheque and welcome,’ said John,‘only I have no bank account.’

Ar this the eyebrows went up still higher, and the assistants asked John if he had just come fromthe ‘old country.

’

Resenting what he thought was a slur on his beloved Ireland, he told themhis country was as young as theirs .

2 2

They did not argue the point, but handed over the check—1 dollar 75 cents— seven shillings for a hair- cut, a shave,and the pat of a powder puff. John never got over thecharge . It rankles still .

Of his personal success at the Fair, John took the objective view that has always characterized him. He sang agroup of three songs twice a day.

‘I had the success one would expect to come to a boyof nineteen

,no more, no less. My colleagues were every

thing Irish colleagues cbuld be. One of themwas thatsuperb actor, fromthe Abbey Theatre in Dublin, DudleyDigges, now so well known in America on stage andscreen. Another is sitting by the fireside with our grandchild on her knee, warningme not to get sentimental . So,as I’ve always been, I hope, a patient and dutiful husband,I won’t.’

The importance of the whole time at St . Louis,the

thing that reallymattered, was the growth of his friendship with Lily. For the next twomonths John escorted thesisters wherever they went. The pair had long since losttheir shyness, and John poured out all his hopes and ambitions. Lily was an excellent listener and a wise one.

WilliamLudwig had been perfectly right. She was thevery one to look after him, and she did it in a friendlyway, without fuss or possessiveness.Even though the success which John obtained was only

that which might be expected for a boy of nineteen, hisvoice and gifts produced a strong impression on themusicalpublic at St . Louis. He made many friends, and they all

2 3

advised himthat such a voice could be fully trained nowhere but in Italy.

This was a new idea to John, but he took to it readilyenough . All his life he has had an instinct enabling himto recognize at once where his future lay. The moment ahint was given, the instinct said yes. Even though theproject seemed madly improbable, he knew not only thathemustmake for it, but that it would come . Accordingly,he resolved that the first thing to see about, when he gothome, was to provide themeans to go to Italy and study.

He got home sooner than he expected . The Irish Villagewas not proving quite Irish enough for the citizens of Sr.

Louis, and the organizers therefore took steps to bring itinto line with their ideas . A stage act of the old-fashionedOirish type was introduced, and John resented this soangrily that he resigned fromthe company.

Having resigned, he had no course but to return to Ireland. This meant leaving Lily. There was only one wayto support such a parting, and, before he sailed, John andshe were secretly engaged.

When John got home to Athlone—it was on the 8th ofJuly -he found himself the white- headed boy indeed.

Neighbours,friends, and acquaintances flocked in upon

him, and he had to tell mdetail every happening of hisAmerican travels . He never lacked the instinct of a goodstoryteller, and the story did not lose in the telling. To

disappoint so eager an audience was impossible. They gotwhat they wanted

,yea

,andmore also . Nobody was by to

spoil things, and a good time was had by all—including thehero .

24

MAESTRO SABAa

SIGNORA SABATINI

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When presently Caruso came out, John contrived to bumpinto him. Each bowed and said ‘Scusi’—and John was ableto go home and report that he had already had a conversation with Caruso .

Not so long afterwards, when the two were firmfriends,John told Caruso of this incident, to the greatman

’s unbounded delight.

As soon as he got back to Dublin, John set about providingthemeans to get to Italy. Hearing Caruso had beenthe last spark ; he was afiame with eagerness. He told all

his friends of his ambition, and they and the Dublin publicrallied to his support . A series of concerts was given during the winter

,John saved every penny he could lay hands

on, and finally all arrangements weremade that he shouldgo to MilanmOctober of the following year, 1 905, andstudy under the famous Maestro, Vincenzo Sabatini .Meanwhile Lily had come home fromSt . Louis, andJohn was of course a frequent visitor to the house of herparents . She wholly approved and seconded his ambitionto get the best training, even though itmeant his leavingher formonths at a time . This strong practical streak inher nature, this capacity to take the long View,

has beenof the greatest service toJohn throughout his whole careera strong, effective backing for the inspiration she has givenhim. To an artist of his temperament, such a wife was invaluable . In fact—once more we have to say it—WilliamLudwig was right. John wanted someone to look after him,

in all senses of the word.

The spring of 1905 was saddened for both by the death,

2 6

in March, of Lily’s father. But the loss drew John more

firmly than ever into the family. It gave hima new protective right. All now put their hopes on himand hiscareer, and the added responsibility strengthened hismanhood .

At last, in October, came the day that hemust say goodbye and start for Italy. The question where he was to livehad been anxiously debated and settled . Twomaiden ladiesof the name of Beethan ran a pensim’z on theVia Brera.Their establishment had been highly recommended, andthe McCormacks and Foleys in j oint synod decided thatJohnmight safely be entrusted to its care . The ladies wrotethat they wouldmeet John at the station .

‘But,’ came the family chorus, ‘they don’t know you and

you don’t know them, so how in the wide earth are youto recognize each other? ’

It was Lily, with her practical sens' e, who solved the

problem. John was to write and tell the ladies that hewould tie a white handkerchief round his right armas hegot off the train .

All went according to plan . The farewells were said,the j ourneymade

,and at last, shy, awkward, conscious of

glances fromhis fellow- travellers,John tied on his

'

whitehandkerchief and stepped out of the train.

‘I felt like a kicker at a hunt,’ he said,

‘when they tie ared ribbon round its tail to warn you to keep clear of itsheels .’

Fortunately ,for his feelings, he did not have to standlong on the platformwith his white handkerchief. The twoold English ladies bore down on himwith welcomingsmiles. Oncemore his trick of looking forlorn had proveda good friend to him. In any event, the Misses Beethanwere charming and kind hearted, and looked after himsplendidly for the whole of his stay. He was not onlycomfortable but happy on the Via Brera .

27

It is” good to hear himtalk of those days .‘My guardian angel still watched over me,

’ he says.‘Maestro Vincenzo Sabatlmwas not only the perfectteacher. He was like a father to me for the whole timethat I worked with him. He was patient, kindly, and conservative, themodel of all a teacher should be.

’

The language difficulty wasmade easy by the fact thatSabatini’s wife was an Englishwoman, with the prosaicmaiden name of Jelly. A singer herself, she had made areputation as a coloratura soprano before hermarriage .The two had a famous son, Rafael Sabatini, the novelist,

who inherited hismother’s linguistic gifts, and could writeequally well in several languages. Signora Sabatini playedthe accompaniments at her husband’s lessons, and this wasa great comfort to John.

The day after he came, John had his first lesson. Hismeeting with Sabatini was a surprise . The famous teacherwas thin and ofmediumheight. Nothing about himsuggested themusician. His clothes were severe and ordinary.

He wore a stiffmoustache . What hair he had was brushedup a la pompadour. ‘He looked just like something you’dsee inWhitehall, going into the War Ofi ce.

’

As is the case with somany famous teachers, Sabatini’svoice was not remarkable ; but he was once principal tenorin the Opera at Oporto, and was very proud of the factthat he had been a fellow- student of the great Fancelli

,who

created the part of Radames in Aida.

Sabatini’s studio was small, no bigger than an ordinarydrawing—room. It was severe and bare, and, as befits asinger’s studio, full of light. On the piano stood a large

28

photograph of Sembrich, whomSabatini never tired of

extolling as the perfect singer. The ease and flex ibility of

a coloratura soprano were the ideal Sabatini set before hispupils ; and any one who has heard the record Johnmade,years afterwards, of

‘

Pur will realize that one pupilat any rate achieved it .

Into this studio, at precisely half- past two on the dayafter his arrival

,came the Irish boy for hisi first lesson . He

was, as usual, very nervous. W hat would the Maestrothink of his voice? Would he think it bad, and send himhome ? Would he nod wearily, and take under his wingjust another tenorPNot only John’s ambition, but the loving anx iety of the home in Athlone, the good wishes andthe money of those friends in Dublin—all hung on whathe could do in the next fewminutes .Yet, underneath the nervousness, his determination gave

hima desperate confidence. Deep inside him, the boy knewthat he had the necessary powers. Most artists, even beforetheir career is started

,have an intuition that tells themwhat

they are going to be. This now supported John and steadiedhis breathing. So, though he knew no word of Italian, hereturned the Maestro’s friendly smile, cleared his throat,and prepared to do his damnedest.Signora Sabatini, well understanding, sat down and

played a few arpeggios, and gave the beginner a‘Mi- mi

mi’ or two, to set himat ease and loosen up his voice .Then, his hand still shaking, John put on the piano thescore of his ch osen aria— ‘

Ah non credew'

tu’fromMignon

—.which he sang in EnglishHe could not tell how his voice sounded in the smallstudio, but he had the good sense to sing naturally andnot to force it . Wheremany a beginner would have triedto show off his volume, John was shrewd enough to realizethat it was the voice, and the voice alone, that could impress the Maestro .

7-9

The voice seemed to come easily enough. He finished

the song, and stood, awaiting the verdict.Sabatini nodded encouragingly, and at once set his pupilto some simple exercises. Not till he saw his wife after thelesson did he reveal his surprise and delight.

‘I cannot place that young man’s voice,’ he said, withsomething like awe . ‘God has placed it already.

’

But the young singer hadmuch to learn, and there beganfor hima routine which never altered . So long as he wasunder Sabatini

,each day he had hismiddaymeal at twelve,

and at half-past twowas in the studio, singing his exercises .The standards set by Sabatini, and reverenced by hispupils, would appal the singers of to- day. The Maestroheld up as example the great singers of the past, and thepupils modelled themselves upon these, never resting tillthey came as near as their gifts would take themto thesame flex ibility, the same ease, the same command .

For two to three months Sabatini kept John at theseexercises

,and would not let himtouch an aria . To all the

boy’s pleadings to be allowed to break the monotony hereturned the same answer, gentle but unyielding.

‘Ah .

’ Giovanni, sez'

gz'

ovine,mm1172 giamo (Ah !

John, you are young, but one day you will understand.)‘And

,

’ says the singer,

‘to that gentle soul I have oftenreplied since : “Si

,Maestro

,adesso'

capisco.

”

(Yes, Maestro,now I do understand .) To this day, I still sing the exerciseshe gaveme, which I thought were such a bore .’

Thismust sound a strange language to the young singersof to-day, whose chief View of training is to ask how little

30

they need do in order to get to Covent Garden or theB .B .C. But that is how the artistes of a past generationworked . Karsavina

’

s Theatre Street,Paderewski

’

smemoirs,Caruso ’s story as told by his wife, Stanislavski

’s monumental books on acting, Chaliapin

’

s life- story—these anda score of others testify to the incessant labour and application needed to perfect the craft of a great artist. Toomany people still believe that the gift is all thatmatters .I remember sitting in a railway carriage at Plymouth theday after Caruso died . Amiddle- aged lady was shown thenews in the paper by one of her daughters .

‘It’s not fair,’ she said.

‘He was born with a voice, andall he had to do was open hismouth and sing .

’

All ! Caruso tells us that, despite all his hard work, attwenty—eight his voice was still so short that he could notreach the top notes of an aria Puccini wished himto sing.

The composer, bymaking himbend double and lean thetop of his head against the wall, at last got his voice farenough back in his head, and stretched it to include thenotes required .

John needed no such gymnastic —God had placed hisvoice : but he had towork hard, and, being a good worker,he was obedient and followed everything the Maestro bade .

Visits to the opera were an important part of the students’ training. Fromtheir place in the gallery, they listenedjudicially

,praising or pulling topieces the singers who had

arrived.

With all the “

efi'

rontery of youth, they criticized thetone production of the soprano, the phrasing of the tenor,

3 1

and the acting of the baritone, and thought'

howmuch better they could do it if only a poormisguidedmanagementwould let themcome down and show the way. After theopera, they would forgather in the Galleria, and, over aglass of Pilsner and a cold roast-beef sandwich, spend th enight in passionate discussion of music, drama, and thevocal art.

‘Themwere the days,and we had our share of them! ’

It is sad to relate that of all John’s immediate circleof students

,his fellow-pupils under Sabatini, not one

achieved greatness. Still, they had their fun, and their liveshave been the better for what they learned, and for thosenights of argument and high endeavour.During this first season, it was John

’s good fortune to seeand hear somemarvellous performances both in the operahouse and in the theatre . The singing and acting of RosinaStorchio at the Scala is amemory that nothing can efiacefromhismind . It was amarvellous evening, held togetherby the conducting of Arturo Toscanini . Among the othersingers John heard was the Spanish tenor Antonio Paoli, abearded man with a powerful but unsteady voice, whoprided himself on a supposed resemblance to the greatTamagno . He heard Fernando de Lucia, the tenor, an unrivalled singer of Neapolitan songs, little guessing that hewas tomeet himlater. He heard the celebrated coloraturasoprano, Celestina Boninsegna, with Emilio de Marchi, thefirst Cavaradossi. He heard Edoardo Garbin as Pinkertonto the Butterfly of Angela Pandolfini, daughter of theoriginal Amonasro in Aida.

The studentsmarvelled together at the paradox of Garbin’s voice. They shook their heads over the snarl and‘whiteness’ of his lower register, and gasped in admirationat the brilliant, open, ringing high notes that seemed tobelong to another voice altogether. ‘Themwere the days.’One evening John was invited by a couple of fellow

3 2

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CHAPTER 3

THE YEAR 1906 was the turning point of John’s career.A few weeks earlier, Sabatini had announced that his pupilwould now be permitted to study his first aria . It was called‘Bella delmo Sorrz'so,’ froma long-forgotten opera namedReginella by Gaetano Braga, a composer now k nown entirely for his

‘Angel

’s Serenade.

’

John worked hard at the aria, and one afternoon setout

,with Signora Sabatini at the piano

,to sing it for the

Maestro . He put into it everything he had, and, as he wasfinishing, there walked into the studio a large, round-faced,massiveman

,obviously an old friend of the Maestro’s . The

two held an animated conversation in Italian, much toofast for John’s unaccustomed ears to follow. When silencehad fallen—‘that’s what it always sounds like, when twoforeigners stop talking in a language one doesn’t understand’—Signora Sabatini turned to John.

‘Giovanni, would you like tomake your début in AmiooFritz at SavonaP’

John had never heard of Amico Fritz,nor had he the

vaguest idea where Savona might be. All excitement andenthusiasm, he answered with the first Dublin phrase thatsprang to his lips.

‘Oh ! Signora, would a duck swimP’The lady translated this reply literally to her husband

,

who looked nonplussed, and said to her in puzzled accentsthat he could not see what a duck swimming had to dowith John’smaking his début. But thematter was explained,and John accepted the engagement.

34

It was hardly remunerative . After studying the role,John was to spend two weeks in Savona rehearsing, andthen sing ten performances of Mascagni

’

s Amico Fritz forexactly nothing at all . As a special concession, he was tobe given a Semta d ’Onore—a sort of benefit night—onwhich he was to receive all the profits of the performancegiven in his honour. But nomoney considerations countedin his mind . Here at last he was to make his début, inGrand Opera, in Italy.

Before the performances could be billed, there was thequestion of choosing a name . Mccormack was to Italianears both unpronounceable and meaningless . They couldnever take seriously a singer with such a collection of

consonants . The Sabatinis bent grave brows of consideration to the problem, but John had the answer. Lily

’s namewould go splendidly into Italian, and there was the bestpossible precedent. The great bass, Signor Foli, who hadwon world fame in the latter part of the last century, wasborn at Waterford plain Foley . A double omen ! So Johnmade his Italian début as Giovanni Foli .

Savona is a little seaport town of some fifty thousandinh abitants

,beautifully situated on the Gulf of Genoa .

Many a moonlit night during his two months’ stay theyoung singer sat by the edge of the sea, thinking of thehistory the waves could recount if they had tongues . He

had every excuse for the thought, since the people are veryproud of their city, and ask nothmgbetter than to tell itsstory, at considerable length . John heard how the Carthaginians occupied it in 20 B .C ., how the jealous Genoeseruined the harbour in the sixteenth century, and how Pope

35:

Pius the Seventh lived there in 1 809 as Napoleon’s prisoner.

He was shown the famous tomb of the parents of PopeSixtus IV with the figures by Michele and Giovanni d

’

Aria

di Como . With the singer’s characteristicmemory, he hasforgotten what the tomb looked like, but remembers Verywell the beautiful sounding names of the artists. In thechurch of San Giovanni Battista, and close to the theatre,was a marvellous ‘

Adoration’ by Diirer. John often stoodin front of the picture, and it played a great part in developingthat love of pictures which grew as he grew, andmade hima collector of discernment.The fortnight of rehearsal went pretty smoothly, thoughthe singers were of very unequal merit, and John madehis début in the Teatro Chiabrera on Saturday, January1 3th, 1 906.

As can be seen fromthe photograph taken at the time,he was scarcely the ideal protagom

'

sta in the opera.1 Fritzis supposed to be about thirty-five years of age, whereasJohn was twenty- two and looked younger. Still, in operathe personal appearance of the singer is usually the lastpoint to be considered ; and it was a decided change to havea hero younger, slimmer, and better looking than heneed be.

Altogether, the omens were favourable . As a generalrule

,Italian audiences are very kind to strangers. There

was no pretending that Johnwas an Italian, but . he hadadopted an Italian name, which was accounted to himfor Virtue .He was very nervous, as always . At first sight, the name

of Foli seemed a sort of alibi . What an Italian audience didto Giovanni Foli need notmatter verymuch

,once he got

home, to J . F. Mccormack. But there was notmuch comfort in this . On the other hand, there was a responsibilityof not disgracing a name precious for two reasons .1 The photograph, alas, cannot be found.

36

The first performance went well enough, but the newtenor could not claimto have made any great sensation .

However,the audience were kind, and as the evening went

on John lost his nervousness and warmed up, so that, bythe time he tackled the aria in the last act, he was fullymaster of himself, and in possession of the acute intelligence which has always been his safeguard as a singer.The climax of the aria comes on a high flat with the

full orchestra blazing awayunder the voice . John’

s Volce,

never particularly strong,was, asmay be imagined, small

and immature then. He knew that he could never be heardover that orchestralmass and so, instead of attempting tosing the note

,he opened his mouth as wide as he could,

and struck a typical tenor’s attitude . The audience, thinking they heard a beautiful B flat

,applauded furiously, and

insisted on his repeating theUnfortunately, that was the only occasion on whichthey demanded an encore. It was a pleasant lesson in humility, to be encored for a note he never sang.

John’s press notices the next day expressed benign approval.

‘The tenor,Giovanni Foli, made himself attentively

listened to observed the local critic, and went on tosay

,

‘

he divested himself of the English phlegmso as toput on the artistic Italian habit.’ It was perhaps a backhanded compliment, especially to an Irishman, but nodoubt it was kindlymeant. The critic also spoke of John’s‘beautifulmellow voice .’Presently came the benefit night . John approached it

full of hope . It was as well he had a sense of humour,for, when the performance was over and the takingscounted, he found that, far fromgetting anything, he owedthe management a considerable sum. The one consolationwas a song specially written by the composer Desconzifor himto sing on the occasion. The song was called

37

‘Tomem.’ Oddly enough, it was never published, thoughit was a graceful little song with the following pleasingwords

Dimi fanciulla, che fai li sulla portaSi triste e sola, col freddo ad aspettare?Che ! tu non sai? lamiamamma emorta,E qui l

’

attendo che deve ritornarePovera fanciulla, ah ! tu non sai

Che imorti da laggiu, non tornanmaiP

Tornan gli augelli alnido in primavera,Tornan le stelle in ciel, fatta la sera,Tomano ai rami i fiorellinimiei,So tornan tutti, tornera anche Lei !

During the run ofAmiooFritz John got a further chance,when the tenor engaged to sing in an opera called LaCabrera fell ill. The Opera, by a young Frenchman namedDupont

,had been awarded the Sonzogno Prize in Milan,

the same prize that Mascagni won with Cavalleria Rasticana. It was a dull little opera, and made no impression.

John only remembered it because he had to learn the tenorpart in a week.

The season at Savona closed with a very good performance of another dull opera called Siberia

,which met the

reception its name would suggest.

It was good to get back to the studio and to the beloved Maestro, and to tell himin full detail everything thathad happened . At Savona, with no one to help himbyspeaking English, John had perforce to get on with hisItalian. Now,much to his surprise, he found himself ableto tell Sabatini everything in his own language . Themas

38

ter roared with laughter at the story of the high B flatwhich John had never sung.

‘Giovanni,’ he said with a wink, as soon as he had re

covered,‘there are a goodmany tenors to whomI would

like to teach that trick .

’

Soon after his return, John was given an audition at LaScala, but nothing came of it except a few encouragingwords froma kindly, bearded gentlemanmj ohn . did notknow who he was at the time, but was later on to findhima good friend . His name was Giulio Gatti—Casazza,and he was to become famous asmanager of the Metropolitan Opera House in New York.

Every day the singing lesson was held at precisely thesame time in the afternoon. The first half-hour was givenup to the exercises—John was now begmnmgto recognizethe value of those wonderful scales and phrases : the secondhalf- hour was given to the study of some opera. In Marchit was Fdust

,and by the end of themonth John had been

engaged to sing Faust at a little Village near Florence calledSanta Croce sul Arno . This time he was actually offered afee—his contract called for ten performances of Famt attwenty—lire per performance, i.e. about sixteen shillings.He was to pay his own way to Santa Croce and back, andto live there for six weeks, on a grand total of two hundredlire, or round about eight pounds .

‘Wonderful to relate,’ he says

,

‘I lived through ir. Itrecalls to mymind a story of two drunk men discussingtheir infancy ’ and their respective weights at birth .

“Do you know what?” said one to the other. I only

weighed four pounds when I was born ! ”“Lord,

” said his friend .

“Did you live? ”“Oh ! indeed I did— and you should seeme now .

Fdust at Santa Croce was performed by a highly cosmopolitan cast. The Margherita was a Brazilian, the Siebeland the Valentine were Russian, the Faust was an Irishman,

39

the Mephistopheles was a Greek, and they all sang theFrench opera in Italian. The chorus andmost of the littleorchestra came fromthe Village . All in all, it was themostpleasantly informal engagement of a long career.John got on well, except for one slight contretemps .In Italy the mortal sin for a singer is to break on a topnote . John had seen and heard an Italian audience react toa broken top note

,and himself lived in constant dread of

cracking. This night the thing happened. He was singingthe phrase after Margherita’5 exit in the second act, andcame to the high B natural, when, 10 and behold, it justhappened.

John did not wait for the chorus of whistles which hefelt sure was coming, but in his own words, ‘just easedhimself off the stage . ’ Unfortunately, the chorus,mistakingtheir cue

,traipsed off after him—and the stage was left en

tirely empty during the playing of the waltz which finishesthe act.Immediately the curtain came down, the conductor, a

fieryNeapolitan, rushed round to the back. John hastenedto explain . The littleman wasmost sympathetic, but someone had to be cursed, so he turned on the chorus, and in ashort time John learned every swear-word in the Italianlanguage and a goodmany in the Neapolitan dialect.John was still scared, but word went round to the audience, and fromthe beginning of the third act he was applauded after every phrase . The opera finished late thatnight, leaving John with a deep gratitude to his kindlySanta Croce friends .

The season finished in themiddle ofMay, and John camehome for his summer holiday. He gave a few concerts in

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Ireland, and after one of themreceived a cr1t1c1smso telling and so prophetic that it must be set down in full. Itappeared in the Irish Society and Social Review for Julythe 7th , and was written by Mrs. Power O

’

Donoghue:

‘

The great attractioni‘

of the concert, and themost advertised,was the appearance of Mr. J . F . Mccormack, the youngAthlone tenor, whose beautiful voice set all ‘ Dublint talkingand speculating, something over a year ago. He was then veryimmature, but twelvemonths in Italy under a prime instructorhas done much for him, and he is now on the h igh road to agreat future. I believe that he will yet dominate the restrictedlittle world of tenors—not in Ireland only, but across the water,in short, wherever he sings. He has amarvellous voice, as wasevidenced by h is beautifully tender rendering of “Ah ! Moonofmy delight, and

“In her simplicity,” while the power which

he subsequently threw into that bunch of keys “Salve d imow”

wasmost commendable. In the latter itemhe rang out the topC fromthe full chest, in absolutely thrilling fashion, and hisentire reading of the song displayed a rare intelligence

,united

with great beauty of voice.‘I amnot going to join the great bulk of his critics, who,

fromthe fulsomeness of their compliments, s tultify the value

of their own judgment. I amnot going to say of h imthat h issinging is absolutely faultless, because it is not . He still hassuch a lingering defect as pronouncing “endearing” as thoughit began with i, and of saying “t’me” instead of giving theproper value to the vowel in the first word quoted. These arejust such defects as an Italian singing master allows to passunnoticed, but educated critics are jarred by them, and neitherman norwoman can take a high place on an English platformor stage until they can sing the language of their countrywithout any faults of pronunciation.

‘

W h at I have written is perfectly fair criticism. The youngsinger under notice has one of the best tenor voices

,I should

say, in the world to- day, coupled with delightful sympathyand a quite splendid grip of what composersmean. Moreover

,

he sings good music, which is refreshing, and discards thefashionable vocal rot which consists for the most part of apedantic instrumental composition, with a small accompani

4 1

ment for the voice. W h ile concedingall this, however, and

verymuch more that I leave unsaid, I do not recede an inchfrommy opinion that to singEnglish well a student muststudy it with one who is himself a master of the languagenot with a foreigner. .

‘YoungJ . F. Mccormack sings perfectly in time, and no

doubt will continue to do so, because he 15 going in for opera,and studyinga repertoire, and he knows quite well that tomake hemi-demi- semiquavers of written crotchets, and semibreves ofminims, will never dowith orchestra. Imay say for

himthat h e IS faultlessly 1n tune also, and although I givemy compliments—but no fiattery—and I kissmy hand toacross the water, to fair Italy, whither he has gone with the

youth ful bride whomhemarried on Monday this week,—and ,inmy h eartof hearts, I give h imthe homage that 13 due—notas to one who has already attained the standard of his own

ideals, but to one whomost surely will. ’

The great joy of coming home was, of course, to beoncemore with Lily. Aswas only natural, the two decidedthat they could not bear to be separated again. Mrs . Foleyraised objections, saying that they were still too young,and John’s future too uncertain . But travel and experiencehadmade aman of John . He said flatly that, if he was notallowed to marry Lily, he would refuse to go back toMilan and continue his studies .Appalled at such determination, Mrs. Foley gave in.

The two weremarried in the Pro-Cathedral at Dublin on

July the zud, and went to London for their honeymoon.

They had very little money, but their hopes were unbounded. They lived simply—they had to- for the one indulgence they allowed themselves was costly. They went

42

to the opera at Covent Garden every night,and heard

many of the greatest artists of the time.One evening was memorable, not only for the singing,but for a prophecy. The two McCormacks, sitting in theamphitheatre- the best place in the house for listeningheard and saw La Traviata with Melba as Violetta, Carusoas Alfredo, and Battistini as the father. The singing was,of course, magnificent, but the eye did not come“b as

well as the ear, for the costumes were all anyhow. Melbawas inmodern dress, Caruso and Battistini in plumed hatsand velvet costumes, silken hose, and buckled slippers .During an interval, John turned to Lily.

‘That is where I’mgoing to be one day,’ he said, j erkinghis head towards the stage .

‘And letme tell you this,me girl . If ever I getmy foot in there, they

’ll have a divilof a j ob to getme out. ’The very next morning

,Lily had a letter fromher

mother, anxiously suggesting that the honeymoon hadgone on long enough, and that the couple should makestraight for Milan. John agreed, and they began to packup. Then suddenly he came in,

the newspaper in his hand .

‘

Look at this, Lily. Battistini in Tschaikowsky’s EugenOne

’

gin! We simply must hear that. It’s one of the great

performances . ’Lily looked doubtful . ‘When is itP’ she asked .

‘Next Tuesday.

’

Lily shook her head .

‘No,John. That’s fiveWhole days

away.We can’t possibly wait that long .We can’t afford it .

’

‘Ah, sure,“

LilyJohn pleaded for all he was fit, saying what a wonder

ful lesson in singing it would be for himto hear the operawith this matchless baritone ; but Lily was adamant.

‘She put her foot down,

’ he says regretfully,‘and al

though she has a very small foot, when she puts it down, itstays down . So I never heard Battistini in Eugen

' One’

gin.

43

Oh ! I admit I tease '

her about it even to this day. So now,

young brides of singers : never let financial reasons standin the way of your husband if he wants to hear a greatsinger in a grand opera, because you will never hear theend of it.’

Lily bears himout—though she puts it somewhat differently.

‘Well,

’ she says,

‘as you can imagine, I never heard theend of that. If anyone mentions that opera, even to thisday

,I get a very -black look fromJohn.

’

So the two set sail on the day arranged, and came toMilan with their heads in the clouds . They were to needall their optimism. Luckily both had plenty. Things lookedforbidding and dismal enough, yet the idea of defeat orfailure never entered theirminds. Engagements, in John

’sown phrase, were scarce as hens

’ teeth . Through July andthe hottest August they ever experienced anywhere

,they

stayed on in dVlilan,John going for audition after audition

that got himnowhere .One could live cheaply in Italy in those days

,but

,even

so, it became evident that there was no point in staying.

After long consultations with the Sabatinis, the pair decided to go back and try their luck in London. TheMaestro told John that he had been a good pupil

,and that

,

if he remembered all he had been told and kept faithfullyto his exercises, his voice would grow in strength and

quality, and hemight face the future confidently.

‘You are still very young, Giovanni,’ he said.

‘Yourvoice is not yetmature . But you are on the right lines now,

44

doing nothing wrong, and as you grow older the voicewill grow with you

,and improve each year. ’

So,late 1n September, John and Lily returned to Lon

don to chance their arm. They had nothing but their hopes,John’s voice

,and a few letters of introduction. The most

prized of these was fromBishop Clancy, written fromSligo, to the Archbishop of Westminster, Dr. Bournelater Cardinal Bourne . The Bishop had beenone of John’shelpers when he was trying to get to Milan . His letter was

on a par with his earlier generosity.

But letters of introduction, however laudatory, do notmake a living. John and Lily were in a strange city. Therecan be few things better for a young couple than to sharetheir poverty and face their difficulties together. Parents,benevolent and anxious, are apt to insist that the youngman obtain a settled position before he marry. They forget the tremendous stimulus and the sense of responsibilitybrought by a struggle which is shared ; and, nomatter howdeep the understanding between the pair, the struggle cannot be fully shared until they aremarried.

How sharp and discouraging the struggle can be Johnnow knew. Auditions had to be fought for, and, whenthey were won

,they brought nothing. The Gramophone

Company would have nothing to do with him, in spite ofthe records he had made before—or perhaps because ofthem. An audition at Daly

’s Theatre brought the offer ofa j ob in the chorus of amusical comedy at three pounds aweek . It was not accepted . The one good thing that audition did was to begin a friendship with theman who wassitting at the piano— the baritone Gordon Cleather, a fineartist and a good friend .

Still, there were a few engagements . For a fee of two

guineas John sang as‘assisting artist’ at the Palace Pier,

Brighton . He sang in a ‘

flyingmatinée’ at Portsmouth in

support of Camille Clifford, the statuesque Gibson girl,45

with Margaret Cooper. At another concert he supportedGeorge Grossmith, and at yet another assisted Edna May,who was captivated by the young tenor’s voice, andshowed hima kindness and encouragement which he hasnever forgotten. An introduction to Henry Mills, whoran the National Sunday League Concerts, brought an en

gagement to appear the very next day.

Another practical benefactor was Teddy Bailey, whoowned the old Queen’s Hotel in Leicester Square . Bailey,brother- in—law of Sir Harry Preston, that patron saint ofsport, used to give after—dinner concerts in the hotel diningroomon Sunday nights. The fee was one guinea, with anexcellent supper thrown in—a highly acceptable contribution to the McCormacks’ finances.

But these concerts had for John an even greater importance . They illustrated a fact so valuable to beginningartists of every kind as to justify a digression.

A celebrated teacher of singing in London used to impress upon his pupils that they should never sing for lessthan five guineas. One of these pupils, at the start of hiscareer, met another who had made a considerable reputation.

‘Tellme,’ said this singer to the novice, ‘did old So- andSo fill you up with that stuff about never taking less thanfive guineasP

’

‘

Yes,’ replied the novice .

‘Well,’ said the singer,

‘I h0pe to God you’re not doing it .

’

And he went on to impress upon his listener the importance of appearing

.

anywhere and everywhere .‘Sing for a guinea, sing for half a crown,

’ he urged,

‘

be

cause you never know who may hear you, and what anengagementmay lead to .

’

The novice followed the advice, accepted a two guineafee the next day, and booked two engagements, one at

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Despite his chagrin,when Bisphamexplained to himthe

reason for his dismissal John burst out laughing.

To offset this rebufi'

came a solid success. Although HisMaster’s Voice were the leading gramophone company,there were others

, and one of the best known, the OdeonCompany, gave John his first regular recording contract.The contract was for six years, the fee 1 50 a year,

for which sumJohn was tomake not more than twelvedouble—sided records a year. These terms seemed generousto the young singer, but the company had backed a winner

,and as early as the summer of the next year they were

doing well out of their new artist.The first records were drawing-roomballads and Irish

folk- songs. A few of themare still to be had, in specialpressings made by the Regal-Zonophone Company. Theyare interesting curiosities . The voice is light, and oftenmuffied by bad recording, and the accompaniments are terrific.

In some of the quieter songs, a Moore’s melody or two,the accompaniments, although grotesque, do not seriouslyinterfere with the singer. In others, notably

‘God SaveIreland’ and ‘A Nation Once Again,

’ an extraordinaryagglomeration of instrumentalists, in spirit and executionresembling the band that sits in a wagonette at a travellingcircus, kick up such a din that the singer can only beheard at intervals, warbling desperately like a blackbirdin a thunderstorm. For the final stanza of ‘A Nation OnceAgain,

’ one deep bass trombone, the player of which hasobviously been holding himself in with difficulty,

burstsinto a pecan of such virtuosity and power that poor Johnis all but obliterated .

In those records where the voice can be heard reason

48

ably well— the early records can be distinguished fromtheothers by the label ‘J . F. McCormack, tenor, Dublin,’ anda very low rate of revolution

,seventy-five or seventy- four

to the minute— there is still not a great deal to mark thesinger out fromother good tenors making records at thesame time . The recording mechanismof those early daysdid nor succeed in catching the light and shade of John’svoice . It has a plummy quality, particularlyon the lowernotes

,and the diction is not clear. The high notes ring,

but as if they were emerging at great pressure froma verysmall orifice. As anyone knows who has seen John sing,this is far frombeing the case . Mercifully, the twelvemonths that followed saw a great improvement in thestandard of recording.

The Odeon contract ran for four of its six years, afterwhich another company bought the singer out . The laterOdeon records were of far better quality, and we shallreturn to thempresently.

The end of the year found John and Lily back in Dublin. John had a few engagements, on concert platforms andat private houses . He sang for Vincent O ’

Brien,who was

delighted by the progress he hadmade and by the increasedpower and range of his voice .Early in the New Year John came back to Londonalone, leaving Lily in Ireland with her mother. She was

expecting a child about the end of March . John’s heartwas low, but the sheer necessity of getting started was astimulus, and he attacked London with a determinationharder than anything he had yet felt.A couple of concert engagements came his way

,the

49

second of which was to support Mabel Green and theCherniavsky brothers at Cambridge . The Cherniavskys atthis time were appearing as a trio of child prodigies . Johnsang Franco Leoni’s ballad ‘

In Sympathy,’ and the moreVigorous ‘Mattinam’ of Leoncavallo .

He ran back to Dublin to see how Lily was getting on,

the expenses of the trip being helped by an ‘

At Home’concert in the Pembroke Road . He could only afford tostay a day or two, then returned to London .

This time luck came his way, and he obtained an audition with Maestro Alberto Visetti

,a celebrated teacher of

smgmg. Visetti was a man of exquisite manners, whoseemed to belong to another age . Formany years he hadaccompanied Patti, and he had a fund of anecdotes abouthis diva, which he loved to tell.Visetti was the soul of kindness, and would have encouraged any beginner

,but he was genuinely impressed by

John’s voice . He gave himtwo letters of introduction,one to WilliamBoosey of Chappells, the other to ArthurBoosey of Boosey 81 Co. The two were cousins, and strongtrade rivals .John presented his letter at Chappells, was kept waitinga long time

,and then told that Mr. Willie Boosey was

very busy,and hemust come another day. The phrase had

a familiar ring, and John left the Bond Street house withhis Irish pride a little hurt.

‘Well,

’ he thought to himself.

‘I may as well get bothletters offmy chest on the same day.

’

So he said a prayer, and, hoping for the best, walked upBond Street, turned into Regent Street, and presentlyfound himself at number two hundred and ninety-five. He

hesitated, then walked into the sh0p .

A languid and well-dressed young man came up andasked his business. John handed over his letter—then, hiscourage failing, he hurried out into Regent Street again.

50

He could not bear to wait and get an answer like the onehe had had in Bond Street.A few days later came a letter fromMaestro Visetti,enclosing one to himfromArthur Boosey.

‘How can I get in touch,’ it ran,

‘with the crazy youngIrishman who presented your letter of introduction? I sentdown word that he was to be shown tomy office

, but hehad vanished . He intriguesme. Will you tell himto comehere at eleven o ’clock on Fr1daymorning, and bring somemusic? ’John could not go that Friday morning, but anotherappointment was made . The omens were good. At thepiano sat Samuel Liddle, whomJohn recalls as one of thegreatest accompanists he ever heard . John sang ‘The FlowerSong’ fromCarmen

,then a ballad by Stephen Adams

,

very popular at the time, called ‘Nirvana .’

When he had finished, Boosey looked at Liddle.‘Sammy,

this boy could sing that new song you played forme thismorning.

’

Liddle turned his smiling bespectacled eyes on John.

‘Can you readmusic? ’ he asked.

John grinned.

‘I’ll try.

’

The song, which John read inmanuscript, was a settingof Charles Kingsley’s verses,

‘A Farewell,’ in which the poet

assures some unspecified young lady that, by the exerciseof unintelligent Virtue

,shemay win

‘a purer poet’5 laurelthan Shakespeare’s crown . The poemconsists of threestanzas, and ends with these inspiring words

Be good, sweetmaid, and let who can be clever.Donoble things

,not dreamthem, all day long;

And somake Life, Death, and that vast ForeverOne grand, sweet song.

The setting is simple, and the song speedily became agreat favourite with teachers of singing, since it calls for

51

and a good wind . John seems to havefulfilled all its requirements, for Boosey engaged himthenand there to sing it and ‘The Flower Song’ at the BalladConcert at the Queen’s Hall for March the I st. His feewas to be three guineas .Though fromthat date his real success began, this wasnot John’s first appearance at the Queen’s Hall. The excellent Henry Mills came forward with the offer of anengagement to sing in a Sunday League Concert as ‘assistingartist

’ to the Violinist Marie Hall . The concert tookplace on Sunday, February the 1 7th. Supporting artistswere Caroline Hatchard, Mildred Jones, a boy sopranonamed Gordon Travis

,and Harry Dearth, the genial bass.

Marie Hall was accompanied by Hamilton Harry, and thesolo pianist was Irene Scharrer.After the concert, John fell into conversation withHarry Dearth, and presently confided to himhis ambitionto sing in opera.

‘Why don’t you try?’ he blurted out .

‘With that grandvoice of yours, you

’d be a cert.’

Harry Dearth, like John, had begun in a small way, andthe money he was now making seemed great wealth. Hesmiled and shook his head.

‘Why should I bother? I’mgetting goodmoney.

’

‘What are you getting? ’ John persisted.

‘Imake fifty to seventy-five a week,’ Harry Dearth re

plied,‘and I’msatisfied . Wouldn’t you beP’

John shook his head vigorously.

‘Oh, God, no,’ he replied.

The days of the Ballad Concerts at the Queen’s Hall areover, and musically they are no loss. But they gave the

52

young singer the chance to show his talent,and one may

doubt whether they were any worse than what has takentheir place . Looked at squarely, the sentiment of thedrawing- roomballad was no worse than the slush of thecrooner—and it was a good deal better for the voice .John’s appearance on March the x st was an immediate

and resounding success . Everyone, critics and audience,realized at once that something exceptional had arrived.

Arthur Boosey immediately engaged himfor the remaining concerts of the season, and for the whole series of theseason following.

John received much encouragement also fromhis colleagues . After the concert

,he had a conversation with

Plunket Greene, who was particularly concerned lest heshould lend his voice to music that was unworthy of it .

Plunket Greene spoke scathingly of some of the items performed at the concert, singling out for special attack oneof the Indian Love Lyrics,which had been sung by VerenaFancourt.John did not quite know what tomake of all this .‘Ah ! sure,

’ he protested .

‘It’s not a bad ditty.

’

Plunket Greene snorted .

‘

It’

s a hermaphroditty,’ he said

sternly.

The two singers remained friends till Greene’3 death, andJohn

,though he could not but be aware of the flaws ln

his equipment and technique, always admired his interpretative power and cherished himas a friend .

The second ' concert, exactly a fortnight later, broughta very large audience—though itmust in fairness be guessedthatmost of themhad come to hear Clara Butt, who was

the chief singer. But, quite apart fromthat, the young tenorhad become ‘news,

’ and some of the best known criticsturned out to appraise him.

John was at the top of his form, and his singing broughthima notice in the Daily Telegraph which didmore than

53

any single thing tomake his success in England . The notice was written by Robert Maguire . Though primarily apolitical writer

,Maguire was very fond ofmusic, and was

quite a good singer himself. He and John afterwards became very good friends, and sang together in the littleCatholic church at Streatham, where both of themlived.

‘The idols of the occasion,’ wrote Maguire,

‘were DameClara Butt and the new Irish tenor John Mccormack

‘Mr. Mccormackmade a great impression, as good newtenors seldomfail to do . It would, of course, be absurd tosay that his voice has either the brilliance, power, or rangeof Caruso ’s, but, quite frankly, it has a great deal of theCaruso smooth, pure, and attractive quality.

’

Caruso was then, as he remained till his death, the kingof tenors. For a young singer to have his namementionedin the same breath with Caruso meant success . Otherpapers followed suit, and John received the title of

‘TheIrish Caruso .

’ In musical circles, this might do himmoreharmthan good : but itmade the public eager to hear him,

and laid the foundations for his success.But the Telegraph was not the only paper to praise himspontaneously. In the Musical Opinion and Musical Re

view,a writer signing himself ‘

W . B .

’ devoted more thanhalf his notice to John. W . B . admitted to being puzzled.

‘No doubt the voice was excellent,’ he wrote,

‘yet theactual effect of his singing seemed to be in excess of thevoice . A more perfect and more beautiful display ofvocal art I would not wish to hear. The chief and peculiarcharmof Mr. McCormack’s singing appears when usingeasily the middle notes from(say) D downwards : he hasadequate power and the high notes produced with greatease are of a clear ringing quality.

‘Contrary tomy own precept never to prophesy unlessyou know, I amabout to be guilty of that rash proceeding.

I believe that this unheralded young singer will—at any

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CHAPTER 4

THE BALLAD CONCERTS were useful to John inmore waysthan one . Quite apart fromthe steady work they gavehim, work of the kind for which he was best fitted, theymade himone of the best friends of his career. This was

Arthur Boosey, a great gentleman, to whomJohn’s debtof gratitude can never be repaid. Boosey not only lookedafter John fromthe musical point of View. He had perception enough to forgive the boy

’s occasional bluntnessand gaucherie, and to give himadvice with a franknessequal to his own .

The growing-pains of a young artist are extremely painful. He is born with a knowledge of certain things, and heclings to that knowledge desperately, as his one guide ina world of chaos. The knowledgemay give himan inwardconfidence, an arrogance even, but at the same time he israw and vulnerable, and terribly anxious to please . Hiselders intimidate him, he finds it hard to differ fromtheirexpressed opinions

,and, as a result, he is driven either to

keep silence,and afterwards feel bitterly ashamed, or to

contradict themand assert his own feeling with disproportionate Violence .John’s tendency was to this lattermethod. Boosey neverresented his frankness

,either to himself or to others

,but

strove gently tomake himmoremoderate .‘Now, John,

’ he would say,‘curb your Irish enthusiasm.

’

It was an odd expression for awkward candour, butmost happily chosen

, for it at once acquitted John of any

56

desire to ’wound, and suggested that what he felt was amere natural excess of something he could not help .

The Irish enthusiasmcertainly needed curbing . One dayBoosey greeted John with the news that Stephen Adamshad written a song Specially for him, and was coming inperson to show it . Stephen Adams had for years been kingof the ballad world, and, although his throne was now beginning to wobble, he was still verymuch the greatman.

So John, suitably impressed, came to audience, and stoodreverently while Samuel Liddle played the new song.

It was a waltz song called ‘Brown Eyes,’ and, as he lis

tened, John’s reverence swiftly sank to zero .

As soon as the song was finished, Stephen Adams turnedto the young singer. He was an imposing figure, well oversix feet in height, and he wore his reputation like a cloak .

‘

W ellP’ he said.

John gulped.

‘I think it’s awful.’

Stephen Adams’s majestic brows rose high . Then theydrew down .

‘I think you are a very impertinent young man,

’ heboomed.

A very awkwardmoment followed . Liddle blinked behind his glasses and fidgeted with themusic . Arthur Boosey

”

assumed the expressionless look of a butler welcoming guestswhen the parlourmaid drops a tray. John cocked an eyeat the ceiling and hummed to keep himself in countenance .Adams stalk ed to the piano, picked up his song, and de

parted in all the wrath of outragedmaj esty.

Instead of abusing John, Boosey turned to himwith acharming smile.

57

‘Well,’ he said

,

‘that’s done it .

’

John stoodmulishly, like a cross child.‘Hang it all,

’ he said,‘

it was awful. ’‘I know it was,

’ said Boosey.

‘You are perfectly right.But

,John

,youmust bemore tactful! You did not have to

tell himyour opinion quite so frankly. There are otherwa s.

’

I);was not the first time that Boosey had had to apply

the brake, but he did it always with such kindness andunderstanding that he commanded John’s full confidence. IfJohn is not always amodel of tact to- day, the ‘Irish enthusiasm’ is a good dealmore under control than it would havebeen had there been no suchman as Arthur Boosey.

On March the 27th Lily’s baby, a boy, was born in

Dublin . John rushed over post-haste to find the motherand son both doing splendidly.

‘To this day,’ he complains, ‘she laughs as she recallsmy

look of utter foolish helplessness, when the nurse put Cyrilintomy arms. But sure,

’

twas small blame tome. I had noexperience of fatherhood .

’

But London was calling, and John could not stay anylength of time in Dublin . Concert engagements were coming in well, and at the regular Queen

’s Hall concerts Johnwas steadily increasing his reputation. That which took

58

AS J OHN W AS WHEN HE

F IRST M ET LILY

APPEARED IN‘

FAU ST’ IN DUBLIN, 1906

place on April the a 1 st brought hima letter which wasthe beginning of a long friendship .

‘

DEAR MR. MCCORMACK,

‘

It was with the greatest pleasure that I heard yousing at the Queen’s Hall last evening, and an additional joyto hear your beautiful rendering of “Like Stars Above .

‘You have indeed a grand voice, and your phrasing isthat which we should like to hear in all vocalists’ efforts !I shall look forward to writing you a song for next season.

Pray accept my heartiest congratulations on the successyou havemade already, and, with all best wishes for yourfuture career.

Yours sincerely,W . H. SQUIRE .

’

No wonder John was pleased. The famous ’cellist wasfast coming to the front as a composer of ballads ; and,after all, the man who has written a song should know ifone has sung it well .1

In May came a Visit to Dublin, during which John tookthe title part in Fdust as guest artist of the Dublin AmateurOperatic Society. A few days later, he sang Turiddu inCavallerz

’

a Rusticzma. Both performances were under theexperienced direction of Barton McGuckin. John made agreat success

,although several papers commented upon

the fact that his acting did not reach the same standard ashis singing. He admits readily that as an operatic actor hewas no Chaliapin . This seems odd , seeing that he couldobviously have been an excellent actor on the legitimatestage . It is plain that something constrained himto put theWhole dramatic expression into his voice

,and to be con

tent with merely formal gestures . I remember reading inthe Irish Statesman an account of TomBurke’s appearance1 I amdeferringall question ofmusical values till Chapter 1 2 .

59

in an opera, in which the writer—I have an idea that it wasWalter Starkie—praised Burke for refusing to act in thetraditionalmanner, and compared his ‘noble aloofness andausterity’ with that of Mccormack.

Be that as it may, John, for whatever reason, confinedhimself in opera to singing his music with the maximumexpression of which he was capable, and making suchdramatic gestures as would harmonize with thosemade byhis colleagues .The performance of Famt in Dublin was a real feat, because the orchestra was tuned a semitone high—a strain onthe tenor and soprano, and no joke for contralto, baritone,and bass .

Then came the second of John’s great strokes of luck.

In the early summer of 1907 all the Colonial Premierscame to London for an Imperial Conference . Of thesePremiers, twomen stood out: Canada’s SirWilfred Laurier,and General Louis Botha, the statesman—warrior fromSouth Africa.The Irish Nationalist Party gave a banquet for Bothaand the others at the House of Commons, and broughtalong two singers to entertain them, Denis O

’

sullivan andJohn.

General Botha enjoyed himselfmightily. He had alwaysloved Ireland and everything Irish, as his wife was a descendant of Robert Emmett. He was delighted with bothsingers.

‘I never heard music so beautiful,’ he said.

‘But of allthe songs, I like best

“The Wearing of the Green.

” It hassuch a grip in ir.’

‘The Wearing of the Green’ was sung, not by John, butby O’

sullivan . On the other hand, Botha and Mr. Morley

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But the singer’s friends protested that he hadmade greatprogress in the interval

,and at last Sir John went. After

the concert, he picked up the programme .‘Well,

’ he said.

‘I don’t know about So- and- So. But thatother young fellow,

who sang “The Flower Song —what’shis name—Mccormack—he’ll go far.

’

Sir John Murray Scott was a man of outstanding personality. Huge, tall, and heavy, weighing over twentyStone

,he was an excellentmusician, and played the piano

with the lightest touch possible . An expert on pictures,on

sculpture, on furniture, he lovedmusic best. He had heardevery great singer, violinist, and pianist of his time .So it was into an atmosphere both friendly and expectantthat John came when he paid his first call. He was receivedby Miss Mary Scott, Sir John

’s sister. Her heart went outin sympathy to the boy. Obviously, he had nomoney. He

did not look as if he even had enough to eat. His face wasthin and drawn, his manner alternately shy and friendly.

She could feel his desperate eagerness to get ou,and

,with

it, a sort of authority, a knowledge of his own powers .‘

If only I could be heard,

’ he kept repeating.

‘

If onlythey would hearme.

’

She complimented himon his success at the Queen’sHall . He shook his head impatiently.

‘It’s not enough . I don’t want you to think I’mungrateful. I was lucky to get ir—Very lucky. But I’ve more inme than that. At least, I hope so.

’

He looked at her,serious, anxious . Then he smiled . They

talked of other things for a while, till John rose to go. A

piece ofmusic was lying open on the piano . It was a duetGoring-Thomas’s ‘Dear Love of Mine . ’ John looked up.

‘Do you singP’ he asked .

‘Yes. ’‘Do you know thisP

’

‘Yes.’

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‘

Let’s sing it .

’

They sang it together. In the room, the beauty of John’svoice was overwhelming. Its soft fullness, its extraordinarylight and shade were farmore apparent than in the largespace of the Queen’s Hall. Miss Scott was enchanted . Bythe time John left

,he hadmade a friend for life .

More Visits followed . Sir John heard himsing, and allhis faith in John’s future was confirmedf '

Better, he- liked

the boy. For hours John sat at his feet, listening to his talesof the transcendental piano playing of Liszt, of W ieniawski

’

s gorgeous tone, and of Mario and Patti smgmgtogether in UBarbiere d i Siw

'

glz'

a.

John pressed himeagerly with questions about the technique of these great singers .

‘Tell me about Mario, Sir John . Is it true,as Sabatini

says, that he was as flex ible as the best sopranosP’

‘Mac,’ said the big man impress1vely,

‘there never wasa time when his runs and scales were less clear than Patti’s

,

and there were many times when I thought they wereclearer. ’

John would have liked to believe ir,but he remained

sceptical until a couple of years later, when he heard SirCharles Santley. The great Victorian baritone was thenover seventy, but he sang runs as John never heard mansing thembefore or since . His performance of ‘

DelMinewcz

'

ar del Vento’fromHandel’s Ottone still remains to John

amodel of Handelian singing.

John was greatly flattered by the fatherly interest ofSir John Murray Scott, as well hemight be. The mteresttook a very practical turn. One day, when John had beentalking, Sir John planted a hand on each of his enormousknees .

‘What do you wantP’

he asked himbluntlyJohn looked himin the eyes . ‘I want to get to CoventGarden .

’

63

Sir John said nothing, but next day he went round tosee Harry Higgins, the manager. Higgins was impatient.

‘I can’t be bothered,’ he said.

‘

I’

Ve a list as long as yourarm, allwantingme to hear them.

’

Sir John looked at himfix edly.

‘I know something aboutmusic,’ he said, ‘and I tell youthat I never heard a voice like this since Mario .

’

Despite himself, Higgins was impressed .

‘All right,blast you,

’ he said.

‘Bring himalong .

’

Sir John brought himalong, and John sang.

‘

Yes, yes,’ said Higgins . ‘

It’

s a lovely voice, I grant you.

But it’s too small . He’ll never be heard over an orchestra.Sir John laughed.

‘Make your damned orchestra play softer,’ he replied .

If he had never said another word, the hearts of singersall the world over would go out to him. How often, whenan enthusiastic conductor ismaking the strings saw theirinstruments in half and the brass choir blow their headsoff, while on the stage a poor inoffensive tenor is tryingto pour forth his love andmake himself heard even by thelady he is addressing, could one wish for a Sir John Murray Scott, to bellow in the conductor

’s car,‘Make your

damned orchestra play softer.’John’s audition wasmade in September, in the presence

of Percy Pitt, the English conductor, and Maestro Mu

gnone, the famous conductor fromNaples. Pitt was, asusual, non—committal . Mugnone, after praising John’sItalian pronunciation, asked himto wait.John waited what seemed hours, and had sunk deep ina dreamof depression when he heard Pitt say

,

‘Themanagement are pleased, and will be glad to engage you forthe autumn season, if you will accept fifteen pounds aweek .

’

John jumped to his feet.‘I would accept anything to get into Covent Garden

,

’

64

he exclaimed ; and then, remembering what he had said toLily,

‘Once I get in,you will never getme out.’

The management made no attempt to get himout.Nothing less than a European war was able to do that.

John’s début was put down for October the 1 5th . Thepart he was to sing was Turiddu in Caw llerz

'

a Rusticcm'

a .

At the first rehearsal, when he was presented to his colleagues, John got on the wrong side of the conductor,Panizza . He had turned up in a silk hat andmorning coat,a customwhich he thought was de figueur. The conductorthereupon reported himto the management as no seriousartlst .

Once they got to know each other, however, the twogot on quite well. The Maestro was a good routine conductor, and not hard to follow.

John’s colleagues were charming. The Santuzza was

Borghild Bryhn, a statuesque young Scandinavian with agorgeous voice . The operatic stage suffered a severe losswhen shemarried young and retired . Her voice and styleresembled those of Flagstad, and she was a fine actress .The Alfio was Angelo Scandiani, with whomJohn wasto singmany operas both in London and in Australia

,and

who was to become one of his dearest friends and colleagues. Af ter he retired fromthe operatic stage

, Scandiani

became generalmanager of the Scala in Milan.

When the great night came, John was desperatelynervous . Sir John Murray Scott had been the soul of kindness to him. He had insisted on his coming to the house,and had given himand Lilya good lunch. Then John hadbeen sent to lie down and rest .

65

In good time, he had been wakened with a bottle ofwhite wine and a dozen oysters, and sent down finally tothe theatre in Sir John’s own b .roughamBut all the kind attentions in the world could notmake

himany less nervous. Nervousness is an afihction he hasnever got over, and what he says on the subjectmay be ofcomfort to many young singers and actors .He was speaking only a short while ago tome and to

W alter Legge,the manager of Covent Garden and the

recording manager of His Master’s Voice .‘I have known,

’ said John,‘every great singer for the

past thirty years, and there was not one—nat one—whowasnot nervous before singing. Once, when I was in New

York,I saw a newspaper interview with Flagstad, in which

she said she was never nervous. I hadmet her after a superbperformance as Isolde . She did not speak English verywellthen, and, of course,my knowledge of her language wasnil, but in amixture of English and German she toldmeshe was always nervous.

‘I looked at the article again, and then saw what hadhappened . The interviewer had let himself go in his finalparagraph .

“The amateur going in front of his public”

I like that personal pronoun !—“is nervous always . The trueprofessional”—and what in art’s name is a true professional?—“sure of his effects and treating his art as a science isnervous NEVER .

” How one is to treat an art as a science,

I’mafraid I can’t explain . That young interviewer wasmix ing up nervousness with fear—a very different thing .

’

Nervousness, as distinct fromfear, every sensitive artisthas to contend with always . However, as a singer

’s ex perience increases, he learns to minimise or to abolish altogether the effect which nervousness has upon him. He

learns not to let it hamper his performance . He learns toregard it as something unpleasant, like a toothache, whichis always there, butmust be disregarded, and which at all

66

costs must not be allowed to interfere with his breathingor to constrict his throat.John

,on his first night at Covent Garden, had not yet

acquired this freedom. Ca wllefia is not kind to a nervousbeginner, for Turiddu has to open with thesung off- stage before the curtain rises, as a part of theoverture. Indeed, there was every excuse for fright. He was

in the presence of themost critical audience in the world,and he found the vast space of the Covent Garden stagemost bewildering. He got through the performance in adream, numb, hardly knowing what he was doing . If hewas nervous before the curtain went up, he was doublynervous by the time it went down, for fear that he haddisgraced himself. Little as he could remember, he knewthat he had not sung his best. He expected disaster.To his amazement, he received a tremendous welcome.Six times he was called before the curtain. Shouts of‘Mccormack, Mccormack,’ rang through the house, and,though he was too shy to take a call alone, it was clear toall that the ovation was for him.

‘

If I had known,’ he said to the reporters afterwards

,

‘that the audience would have been so generous to a beginner, I should have been able to do somuch better. Thesize of it all confusedme—but I hope I gotmy voice intothe space .’

The hope was justified . Seldomcan a young singer havehad such a reception frompress and public—and John

,at

twenty- three,was the youngest principal ever to havebeen engaged at Covent Garden. The press next day wasuniformly sympathetic . The report in the W estminsterGazette is typical, and summed up what was said by allthe others :

‘

If Mr. John Mccormack, the young Irish tenor recentlydiscovered, whomade his London operatic début last nightmCavalleria Rusticum

,had been an Italian he would perhaps

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hardly have attracted very much attention. It would havebeen said that he had a small voice of pleasingquality, whichwould doubtless be heard to better advantage in a smallerbuilding, and that i s about all. W e have not got somany 11operatic tenors

,however, that we can afford to deal with

themso lightly, and therefore Mr. Mccormackmay be con

sidered a littlemore closely. On the whole his début was certainly successful. His voice is not, indeed, quite large

.

enoughfor th e vast spaces of Covent Garden, but it is certain]y one

of a very pure and agreeable quality, and he employs it withexcellent judgment and taste. He has other qualifications forthe operatic stage, too—for one thing, a slimand gracefulfigure, which attribute alone serves almost to place himin aclass by himself amongoperatic tenors, while his acting, ifmore or less conventional at present, is easy and natura1. Nodoubt in time, too, his voice will gain in power without, itmay be hoped, losing any of lts sweetness. Ar present it is notvery big, and when he was heard side by side with Scandiani,say, it was impossible not to be struck by the contrast in thematter of volume and resonance, and Scandiani himself ishardly reckoned a giant. On the other hand, it must not beforgotten that Mr. Mccormack is not a baritone, but a tenor,and tenors, as we know, are judged by a standard of theirown, and must not expect everyone to prove a second Tamagno or Caruso. Mr. Mccormack is certainly neither the onenor the other, but it would be very pleasant none the less tohear himat Covent Garden in place of some of those whocome to uswith bigger reputations and perhapsmore powerfulvoices frombeyond the Channel.The Times

,commenting soberly according to its wont,

admitted that the ‘assembled multitude was greater thanusual,

’ and that the scene at the end of Ca wllew'

a was ‘onenot often witnessed in our chief Opera house .’ It went onto say that John had for obvious reasons a great deal tolearn

‘But he certainly created a favourable impression, andthere is no denying the beauty of the tenor voice Whichfrequently has been heard in the concert room. Thequality of his voice, j oined to his apparent possession of

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Donna Anna that he would be father as well as lover toher. The Italian chorus at rehearsal noted the fact, andlaughed audibly. John laughed too, but dare not be audible .The Don Giovanni was Mario Sammarco, who had sungTonio in Pagliaocz

’

on the night of John’s début. Sammarco was something of a freak. He was a beautiful singerand an excellent actor, the best Rigoletto withinmemory,but nature nevermeant himfor a Don Giovanni . He was

short,and his figure was not at all heroic, yet so fine an

actor was he, somagnificently could he hold himself, thatan audience was hypnotized into forgetting his lack of

inches.There was something hypnotic about his singing too .His voice was one of the shortest on record, its compassbarely stretching over the single octave . Within this narrow range it wasmellow, powerful, and of beautiful quality, though occasionally disfigured by a strong vibrato.

Listening to Sammarco, a brother artist might first of allthink ‘This is a strange voice’ ; then,

‘I don’t like it’ ; then‘But there’s something in it after all’ ; and finally

‘This ismagnificent .

’

Sammarco had no agilita, but in parts like Figaro inThe Barber of Seville, hemanaged once again to hypnotizethe audience, by the sheer Vigour and élan of his attack,into believing that he was singing the runs.How on earth he managed some of the great baritoneroles, with their wide compass, remains amystery. I askedJohn, who sang with himso often, how he did it . Hescratched his head.

‘I don’t know,

’ he confessed.

The conductor was Percy Pitt, a man with verymanyfriends in the musical profession, but, to John, the mostuninspiring conductor under whomhe ever sang. Anothersinger who shared this opinion was the great baritoneAntonio Scotti. One evening Scotti was listening to a colleague, John Rotsell of the StockholmOpera House, sing

7 0

AS‘

DON orrAV10’ IN MOZART’S ‘

DON GIOVANNI,

(J OHN M C CORM ACK’

S FAVOURITE RoLE )

ing the title part in Don Giovanni. In the famous aria ‘

Fin

ch’ha‘n dal vino

,

’ Forsell and the orchestra were by nomeans together. Nothing that Pitt could do joined the gapbetween them. Scotti’s comment was : ‘

Emzmcorso dz’

cavallz'

ed ha vintoFarsell.’

(It was a horse race, and Forsellwon .)Of all the many operas in which John sang during hiscareer

,his favourite was and is Don Gioi 'mz

'

.

‘I loved to sing the part of Don Ottavio,’ he says,

‘andI think I sang it well .

‘I loved everyone else ’s part as well. I used to stand allthe time in the wings, so that I should notmiss a note ofthat heaven—inspiredmusic. Mozart was well named Wolfgang Amadeus, the loved of God .

’

John’s reception in this part was evenmore cordial than

the first .

‘The Don Ottavio of Mr. John Mccormack,’ said TheTimes

,

‘

was a great success ; the songs—both of themweregiven—were sung with fine taste and vocal finish ; while thetimbre of the voice is exactly what is wanted in the part.’The DailyNews said that he sang ‘withmuch beauty ofvoice and instinctive feeling for phrasing.

’ The Outlookcommended his avoidance of exaggeration and sentimentality. The Tribune

,while praising the beauty of his voice,

remarked that the disproportion between its volume andthat of Madame Litvinne’s was not to the benefit of Mozart

’

s music . The Standard,the Referee, the Telegraph,

all the papers agreed that the newcomer had greatlystrengthened the good impressionsmade at his début, andhad shown himself a worthymember of the company.

After this success, the question arose as to what operaJohn should sing next. Tetrazzini was soon to appear, and

1 It was of one of Don Ottavio’s arias,‘Ilmia teso'

ro andate a comolar,

’

that hemade, in 19 10, the record generally considered his best, and the

classic interpretation of the aria.

7 1

themanagement decided that the young Irish tenor shouldsing with her. Great though her reputation was abroad,the authorities were sceptical of her success; but John, notknowing this, was wildly excited.

Tetrazzini had been engaged for Rigoletto, Lucia diLammermoor

,and La Traviata. Should John sing the Duke

in the'

first, or Alfredo in the last? This point themanagement decided in a way that has puzzled John ever since .The order went forth that John should sing the Duke, because it was ‘

somuch easier than Alfredo.’John has since discussed this decision with many greattenors

,including Caruso

,andmany great directors

,includ

ing Campanini, without ever findinganyone to agree withthe Covent Garden authorities of that day. Caruso, whenthe question was put to him, could not believe that Johnwas serious.

‘But it is absurd ! ’ he exclaimed, throwing out his hands.‘The Duca is one of thé

'

mos’ really difiicult parts in Italianopera of that kind . But Alfredo—Alfredo can be played bya compmmrzo.

’

John himself always felt that the tenor part in Traviata—and he sang itmany times—was the stupidest, least effective part in all opera. Hemaintains that itmust have beenafter hearing a performance of Traviata that Von Biilowuttered his famous honmot—‘The tenor voice is a disease.’

So it came about that John sang in Rigoletto instead ofLa Traviata

,andmade a success hemight otherwise have

mlssed .

The part was taken by an Italian tenor fromTrieste,Giuseppe Krismer, who also sang with Tetrazzini in Lucia.

7 2

CHAPTER 5

W HILE HE W AS studying his part in the -

new Opera, Johnspentmany happy hours in Sir John Murray Scott’s house .Sir John was more than delighted with his success

,and

John was overjoyed to be able to show that his patron’sinterest had been worth while .An added pleasure at this time was that Mrs. GodfreyPierce

,daughter of the great Mario

,was staying in the

house . Always anxious to hear details about celebratedsingers, John drew her out, and listened raptly to manystories of her father and Madame Grisi, hermother.One of th ese stories greatly took his fancy. It is not

new, but it is worth repeating. Mario and Grisi had beenengaged to sing at an ‘

At Home .’ The guest of the occasion was a very distinguished noble lord. After congratulating the two artists on their beautiful singing, he turnedto Madame Grisi and asked, ‘How are the little GrisettesP’

‘My lord,’ replied Madame Grisi, ‘they are quite well .

But you aremistaken. Youmust surelymean Marionettes . ’Mario never shaved

, and had a beautiful silken beard,of which he was tremendously proud . A bearded tenorlooked a little odd in certain roles, and Mario was told asmuch, but would not listen . One day the Czarina of Russiatold himhe should shave off his beard to play a certain part.The Italian bowed.

he said,‘

j e fuamdonnemi ma fuz'

e Si vous la

ooulez . Max'

s 7mbat he ! Oh , jamais.”

Another fact, particularly interesting to John, was thatMario and Grisi together for an ‘

At Home ’ received a

7 3

hundred guineas. The cost of singing had gone up sincethose days. Caruso’s fee for such an appearance was 500,

and John was often to get ‘

as near asmade nomatter.’

Themorning of the first rehearsal with Tetrazzini Johnnever forgot.The artists had gathered in the foyer of Covent Garden.

Panizza, the conductor, was sitting, softly playing arpeggios at the piano in the corner. Sammarco had an armaboutJohn’s shoulders, and was trying out on him, withmany aburst of laughter, his newly learned English . The othersingers

,who were playing the smaller parts, were sitting

round on sofas . All were in a state of tension waiting forthe diva.At last there was a humof excitement on the stair outside

,and a sound ofmany voices approaching. The singers

all got to their feet, and in flounced Tetrazzini .The Florentine nightingale was nothing to look at. Shewas short, plump, and vivacious, with quick, excitedmovements, and brilliant black eyes . But there was somethingabout her, a simplicity, a warmth, a directness, which atonce attracted her colleagues. After introductions andgreetings, in which she professed herself delighted tomeetthe rest of the cast, and indeed seemed delighted, the rehearsalbegan . John, who had liked her on sight, was immediately captivated by her work.

‘She had a superb vocal technique . The middle of hervoice was white and breathy, probably fromoverwork asa young singer. But above E flat she was superb . Herchromatic scales upward and downward were marvels ofcleamess, and her trill was a trill indeed . She could get an

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crowds assembled than had come to hear Melba andCaruso . The queues began early in the morning, and,when the hour drew near, extra police had to be fetchedto control the traffic . This time Tetrazzini’s success wasgreater than ever; but John stood up to her well.After his solo and duet with Gilda, just before the Ab

duction scene, John was recalled enthusiastically severaltimes. Tetrazzini, beaming with pleasure, congratulatedhimwarmly then and there, to the obvious delight of theaudience .The Times said that John ‘made quite a furore by hisbeautiful singing of “La domed e

‘mobile.

” The MorningPost

,after saying that John’s voice was best suited to

Operaticmusic of that type, continued

‘He sangthe aria at the opening of the opera with freedomand warmth , and gave “La domed e

‘mobile” with good toneand delightful abandon as well as with a certain unconven

tionality in his turns whichmisled the conductor but won anenthusiastic encore.’

It went on to comment unfavourably upon his acting,and suggested that his bearing suggested only a temporarypromotion to the position of Duke .Mary Anderson (Madame de Navarro) , whose friendship John hadmade at Sir John Murray Scott

’s, supportedthis criticism.

‘Giovanni,’ she scolded him,

‘do learn to stand still onthe stage . The art of listening on the stage is almost lost.Themoment he comes on, everyone wants to act.

’

She followed up this advice by speaking Hamlet’s adviceto the players to John alone. Her kindness, and the extremebeauty of her voice, touched deeply the always susceptible young singer.A day or so later, in congratulation on

'

his success, MaryAnderson sent himher photograph . The photograph and

76

SIR J OHN MURRAY SCOTT AND

M ISS MARY SCOTTWITH CYRIL

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‘

W hat’s that? I never recorded that.’‘You did—and in English, too .

’

‘I don’t believe ye.

’

‘

Listen, then.

’

I put the record on,and a lyrical, passionless voice be

gan sweetly to informus of Ganio ’s unhappy plight. Johnput up with it till the phrase ‘

On with themotley.

’

Thenhe jumped up.

‘

Off with themotley, for God’s sake,’ he exclaimed, andcharged over to the machine .Next I played himhis record of Tosti’s This isa very different pair of shoes. I have heard many singersin this song

,and have five records of it, but John

’s, thoughmade so long ago, will stand with the best. He listenedcritically, his large head on one side .

‘Ah,

’ he exclaimed after one note, ‘imitation Caruso’ ;m

‘

another place,‘Vulgar ! imitation De Lucia ! ’ Then,

when the young tenor slurred fromone note to another,‘Ah God

,man—make up yourmind ! ’

After the sustained pianissimo' at the end,‘

Tom.

’

Tom.

” he nodded .

‘Ah now, that’s not bad. That’s not bad . He had some

thing in him, that young fella had .

’

Another day he was playing some of his old records tous in the Kensington studio . Of one effect he cr1ed,

‘That’spure Mccormack,’ and then, aiming a kick at themachine,‘No one could do that but you, you bHe knows exactly what he could do and could not doand what he can still do. If you ask him, he will tell you.

But of conceit, in the sense of rating his powers abovetheir value, or of thinking himself entitled to special consideration outside his own world, he has none . A careerwhich has enabled himto meet a large number of theworld’s outstanding men and women has given himashrewd sense of human values. He is no respecter of per

78

sons,except those who deserve respect for their worth as

human beings,and he himself asks to be judged by no

other standard .

So John, thanks to his own good sense and to the goodoffices of Sir John Murray Scott and,more than anything,to the care which Lily took of him, avoided all the snaresthat beset the young artist who has made a success. Hishead was not turned, either by the praise of critics or theadoration of that host of women with more money thansense

,and more susceptibility than either, who besiege

artists of every kind . A good—looking boy with a tenorvoice, and a great future before himfor all to see —he wasa marvellous bait. How hungrily would they have swallowed him, if they had the chance . But they did not get ir.

John was in good hands . And, for all his youth and lack ofexperience

,he had strength and character.

An incident which happened about this time is worthtelling for the credit which it does the people concerned .

John came one evening to Sir John Murray Scott,his

face pale and drawn .

‘

W hy,Mac

,

’ cried Sir John .

‘What’s wrong? No badnews fromhome? ’

‘No,thank God .

’

‘Well,thené —P

’

‘Sir John . I hate this : but I can’t helpmyself. I’min the

devil of a hole, and I’ve no one I can come to, only your

self. Can you lend me three hundred pounds? I give youmy world I

’ll pay you back in threemonths’ time . ’Sir John slowly shook his head .

‘No,Mac. I’msorry— but Imake 1t a rule never to lend

money . It onlymeans one loses one’5 friends . ’

79

John took the blow standing.

‘I see,Sir John. Forgiveme for asking you .

’

The unhappiness in his face, combined with a real dignity, did something to Sir John. Hemade up hismind.

‘Mac . I’ll breakmy rule .’

He went over to his desk, and wrote the cheque.‘Here you are .’

There were tears in John’s eyes as he protested his gratitude, and reiterated his promise to. repay.

Sir John was shamefaced as he told his sister of hisbroken rule

,but she warmly backed himup.

‘

I’

Ve never taken a chance so willingly,’ said Sir John.

‘I ’ll stake everything on him.

’

Miss Scott noted the date in her diary. The weeks wentby, and at last the day drew near. On the evening before,she reminded her brother that the repayment was due nextday. Sir John sighed.

‘It’ll break my heart if he fails . I’mfond of that boy.

I’

d have given himthemoney willingly—only it’s not right. ’Nex tmorning, at breakfast, there was no letter. Brotherand sister looked at each other.

‘There ’s time yet,’ said Miss Scott: but it was with heavyhearts that they went about their day’s business.Then, at lunch time, there was a letter on the table inJohn’s handwriting, with the cheque inside . He had kepthis word .

‘Good boy,’ said Sir John.

‘Good boy.

’

Of the many friends whomthis first autumn season atCovent Garden brought John, one was outstanding . Thatwas Lewis Waller. The two men were held together by

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appearance for the last act, she used the full resources ofhermake-up box.

After the opera John eagerly asked Lewis what hethought of the performance .The actor praised his singing very highly, but,

‘

strange1yenough,

’

as John says, was somewhat critical of his acting.

‘

And what did you think of ViolettaP’ John asked him.

‘She sang like an angel . But, good God, John, what didshe do to herself in the last act? Stick her face in

‘

a flourba P

’

John sang Tram'

ata with the ladymany times after that,but never again dared look at her face during that scene inthe last act.

John had been engaged by Arthur Boosey for the wholeof the 1 907

—8 series of Ballad Concerts, and Boosey suggested to himthat hemight like to pick a new ballad andintroduce it himself.John was only too willing. He began looking around forsomething to suit him, but could not find anything heliked . Then, one day, there walked into his lodgings inTorringt on Square Charles Marshall, whomhe had firstmet as accompanist at the Sunday Supper Concerts at theQueen’s Hotel, Leicester Square .As a result of these concerts, Marshall had taken a likingto John, and had asked if he could one day show himsomeof his own songs. John was immensely flattered

,forMar

shall was not only a pet pupil of Sir Arthur Sullivan,but

had been accompanist to the great tenor Joseph Maas .S0hemade Marshall very welcome. Marshall sat downat the upright piano in the parlour and played a songwhich he had just finished . The words were by Tom

8 2

ON HIS F IRST HARRISON TOUR 1N 1908

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difficult? Is it a one-man song, or can all tenors sing it?What is the compass? Can you transpose it for baritonesand basses? Can women sing it? Has it sales valueP’Instead of answering, Marshall pulled the manuscript

fromhis pocket, and John sang ‘I Hear You Calling Me’

for Arthur Boosey.

Boosey was charmed with the song. He felt convincedthat John couldmake a big personal success with it

,but

he was a little doubtful about its sales value .‘

Letme sing it at the next Ballad Concert,’ John pleaded .

‘Certainly,’ Boosey replied.

‘I will put it in the hands ofthe printers at once, and I h0pe, for both your sakes aswell as our own, that the song will be the success youbelieve .’

Actually, John did not sing the song till March 1908 .

Marshall accompanied him, and the song was a huge success. It has remained identified with John’s name fromthat day‘ to this, and his record of it has sold farmorecopies than any other hemade .

At the’ end of 1907 John returned to Dublin, with allthe laurels of his success at Covent Garden, and onW ednes

day, the 4th of December, he had a tremendous receptionat the Rotunda. The press was delirious nex t day, and hisold friends were both delighted and amazed by the progress he hadmade . His voice was stronger

,particularly in

the upper register, and he sang with far greater finish andassurance .So a great year ended fittinglywith a triumph amongsthis own people ; and, much though his London successmeant to him, no plaudits

.

could sound as sweetly in John’sears as those fromhis native land.

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CHAPTER 6

IMMEDIATELY ON HIS return to London, John was sign edup for a tour of the provinces by Percy Harrison of Birmingham.

This extraordinaryman was probably the most picturesque figure in the whole history of concert giving inEngland. Smallish, spare, with a high complexion, longside whiskers

,and very little hair, Harrison dressed with

the utmost neatness and precision . His voice was highpitched

,and he spoke at a tremendous speed. He had

twinkling, kindly eyes, which were a real indication of

his character, for he cared for all his art1sts as if they hadbeen his children.

Daddy Harrison,as they all called him, was the father

of all ‘International Celebrity Concerts . ’ His concerts werenever so described—they were called simply ‘HarrisonConcerts’—but the stars of his tours were always ‘International Celebrities .’ He had no need to advertise the claim.

It was taken for granted by his devoted subscribers . Theartists naturally raised no objection to being thus described,and everybody was happy.

The Company generally consisted of four singers,with

a solo violinist or pianist. Hard things have been said ofthese tours and their like, but John

'

defends themstoutly.

‘I guarantee,’ he said,

‘that the art1st1c level of the Harrison Concerts was as high as that of any InternationalCelebrity Concerts since, whilst froma purely vocal pointof view the singing was superior. My dear old friend,

85

Harold Holt,’

who has done wonders formusic in England

,may shout Ingrate

” atme, but, after all, I set out tosay what I think, and I give my opinion for what it isworth.

’

John’s first Harrison tour opened in Birmingham. TheCompany consisted of Albani, Marie Stuart, Dalton Bakerthe baritone

,John, and Marie Novello the pianist. When

they arrived at Euston station, Daddy Harrison was readyto greet themat the door of their private saloon. In everyhotel they found their rooms already engaged, and theyhad a sort of communal sitting—room.

This might have been a severe test for all concernedbut an extraordinary feature of Harrison tours was thatthe artists invariably got on happily together. They hecame a real family under Daddy’s paternal care, andlearned not only to know but to love one another. In thesitting-room, whoever wanted to write letters wrote them;whoever wanted to read read, sometimes to the tune of aChopin schema played with the soft pedal down, or to thedronings of amuted Violin.

‘During allmyHarrison tours,’ John says

,

‘I never hearda word spoken in anger among us artists. Of course, wehad heated arguments about the taste of the audience andtheir power to estimate what was what— always, of course,depending on the applause which was given to the Protagonists of the argument, if you know what Imean : butwe were always one happy family.

’

The tour was a great success, and the press noticesenthusiastic. In every case John was picked out, and itsaysmuch for the family spirit referred to that this causedno disharmony with his colleagues . Once or twice whenthe baritone was indisposed his place was taken by thatdistinguished singer, Ivor Foster. In the same way, MarieNovello wasmore than once replaced by Vera Margolies.Thismade no difference to the general harmony.

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Thornton had a voice of glorious power, most naturallyproduced. It took her into the highest company, but hersinging lacked subtlety and finish . Dilys Jones and Caroline Hatchard made considerable reputations, and theirnames are remembered “by amateurs of singing, but thatis all.

Kirkby Lunn and Edna Thornton were prolificmakersof gramophone records, but hardly any of these survive inthe catalogues of to- day. Edna Thornton takes part in aquartet or two, Kirkby Lunn can be heard in one or twosolo records and a duet with John. Of the men, WalterHyde, a steady and excellent tenor with a sympatheticvoice

,has not a single record left to his name . John as

suresme he was one of the best Siegmunds he ever heard.

Robert Radford is a little more fortunate, but even he isbadly represented now . Gifted with a noble voice, andexcelling in dignified roles (his Sarastro in The Magic

Flute was unforgettable) he was formany years the acknowledged leader among British basses, and was later tobe one of the props of the British National Opera. Johnsays of him

,

‘I always thought he deserved a knighthood.

’

Of themall, John was tomake by far the greatest namein his profession .

The presiding genius and the social inspiration of theGrand Season in those far Edwardian days was the beautiful and gentle Lady de Grey, afterwards Marchioness ofRipon. She was a woman of exquisite beauty, and herbeauty was equalled by her charm. An excellent amateurmusician, she showed the singers every kindness, and received fromthema devotion commanded by no one else.

88

Throughout the Grand Season she gave, every Sundayevening, a musical party at her home, Coombe Court, atKingston . To these parties she invited the chief singersfromthe opera. These occasions were a sheer joy. The

parties were informal, the singers were her guests, and

their only hope was to give as much pleasure to theirhostess’s friends as they themselves received .

To John, she was not only the greatest society figure ofthe time, but an inspiration . He recalls particularly an evening when she spoke to himof Jean de Reszke .

‘Mccormack,’ she said, ‘

if you never heard Jean,whetheras Lohengrin, Romeo, Siegfried, or Walter von Stolzing,you missed the greatest vocal treat of all time . At least,that is what I think. As for h is Tristan—there are no wordsto describe it .

’

The outstanding evening at Coombe Court John hadthe great honour of singing before Queen Alexandra. TheQueen sat beside Lady de Grey, on a settee quite near thepiano, and listened with rapt attention to themusic . John’sfellow—artists were Maggie Teyte and Gilibert . MaggieTeyte was an exquisite singer, who to John

’s mind sangFrench songs better than any French singer he ever heard

,

with the possible exception of Edmond Clement. Her soprano voice was extraordinarily sympathetic 1n quality.

Gilibert, amountain of aman, had a light baritone voiceof lovely quality, which he used with exquisite delicacy inold French chansons. Ou the operatic stage he was chieflyknown for his rendering of the father in Louise. Gilibert

’

s

enormous bulk brought into relief the delicacy of his work.

Among his songs John sang ‘I Hear You Calling Me,

’

which was now popular everywhere . After he had finished, Lady de Grey told himthat the Queen wished tospeak with him. His knees knocked like a nigger minstrel

’

s bones as he approached, but the Queen’s smile was

so charming that at once she put himat his ease .89

Shemade himsit beside her, and then asked himhow heproduced the soft A natural on the word ‘calling .

’ Johndid his best to explain. (As a matter of fact, he does notknow.)

‘I ama little hard of hearing,’ Queen Alexandra said.

‘

In

the Albert Hall I can scarcely hear a brass band. But Icould hear that note with perfect distinctness.

’

John has always treasured that compliment.

The season went on, and John consolidated his positionwith every opera he sang. Then, onemorning at rehearsal,a buzz of excitement ran round. The artists were told,unofficially at first, that there would be a gala performanceby Royal Command, in honour of the Visit of the Presidentof the French Republic .At once the singers broke up into little groups to discuss the possible programme .would it be all French or allItalian? Would there be some German opera in it ? Whichsingers would be invited to take part?There was, however, no

‘leakage of information,’ sothey had to be as patient as they could until the officialannouncement that the gala performance would be heldon May the 2 7th .

To this generation a gala performance by Royal Command at Covent Garden can mean very little. In Edwardian days they were gala performances indeed . Duringhis eight seasons at Covent Garden

,John sang in three .

He insists on describing the first occasion himself.‘Covent Garden Opera House lent itself wonderq y

for such performances . The house was amass of themost

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But each prima donna had a legion of fans, and the battle raged unceasingly between them.

Of his own performance John can remember very little .As usual, he was terribly nervous. W hen Sammarco andhe entered the stage

,they were blinded by the reflection

of the lights on the gorgeous breastplate of diamonds wornby the Gaekwar of Baroda. Pulling themselves together, thepair sang the beautiful duet fromthe first act of Bizet’sopera very well, although not nearly as well as they

‘hadsung it at the general rehearsal. This fact did not escapePrince Francis of Teck, who told themboth asmuch veryfrankly the day after.

‘Prince Francis was beloved by all us artists. It was his

customto come back- stage and tell us candidly what hethought of our performances . He was an excellent critic,incidentally. He enjoyed our reactions, and we were flattered by his very kind interest in our work. W hy shouldn

’twe beP’

It was a delight to John tomeet Sammarco oncemore.The Italian was progressing with his English, and couldnow speak it fluently, but he could nevermaster the pronunciation sufficiently to sing it Well, and he complainedthat it was an accursed language in which it was impossibleto sing. He still relied on John for his English lessons

,and

was to do so for several years to come .

At this point I intruded with a question which Johnmust often have heard before.

‘How do the singers of to-day compare with those of19OSP

’

92

John looked atme.

‘To be perfectly frank,’ he said,

‘with a few exceptions,

they don’t compare at all . I know, of course, that distancelends enchantment to the View; and years, to the ears . Allthe same

, I’mconvinced that in singing we have gone off

the gold standard . It’s not to be wondered at . The attitudeof the modern student towards the art of singing is completely different fromthat of the student inmy- .days . Wehave fine singers to- day: Flagstad the magnificent, Rethberg, Melchior, Tauber, Pinza, John Charles Thomas, andLawrence Tibbett—but where are the Melbas

,the Ter

ninas, the Schumann-Heinks? Where is there anyone toset beside Caruso, or Plangon, or Battistini, or Jean deReszkeP Damn it,man, there

’s no comparison .

‘I’ll tell you something more . Broadcasting has had aterrible effect on singing. I have never been an admirer ofpower as power in a voice, though I have been thrilled tothe marrow when Caruso poured forth that streamof

golden tone in Aida or Gioconda or La Im'

ve. He was

unique and glorious. But, leaving himon one side, considered as sound, I prefer a purely lyrical voice to a dramatic voice. Damn it all, what ismere volume? I ’ll neverforget

'

a remarkmade bymy good friend Bill Thomer, toone of his pupils. (Bill is an excellent teacher, by the way.)This pupil’s ambition when he started “to take vocal,” asthey call it in America, was to learn to sing terrific topnotes . You’re right—he was a tenor. Bill tried to tell himthat he should strive for quality rather than quantity. Theyoungman couldn’t see ir.

“My God,” roared Bill at himat last. Wouldn’t you

rather be a canary than a cow?‘But to-day, since broadcasting has come, you can nevertell whether a voice is lyrical or dramatic . In fact youcan’t tell whether it’s a voice at all . The thinnest of pipeylittle feminine squeaks can be made to sound like a Ta

93

magno byelectric energy over a loud speaker, and a pianissz

'mo can be produced bymanipulating some blasted gadgetin the control room. The young singer of to- day doesn’thave to study for years to acquire a vocal technique . Allhe needs ismicrophone technique—whatever thatmay be.

I don’t know how long it takes himto acquire that.‘Oh no, I amnot going to make a fool ofmyself andpretend that radio hasn’t done some wonderful things formusic. It has, of course . It has brought the great orchestralmasterpieces into the home

,played under the finest con

ductors, giants like Toscanini and Stokowski. It has givenus, specially in America, superb performances of suchoperas as Valkyrie and Tristan and the Meistersinger. Myonly quarrel with 1t is its effect on the art of singing.

‘One thing more . Nowadays everyone seems to sufferfromthe unitationmania. The ambition of the youngsingers of to-day seems to be that they should be claimed as asecond somebody-or- other. You have only got to listen- infor five minutes to some record of a successful popularsong, and it is almost impossible to tell who’s the originaland who’s the imitator.’

‘I don’t know that that comes toowell fromyou, John,’I put in unkindly.

‘Who was called the Irish CarusoP’

He sat up on the sofa with a jump .

‘I didn’t callmyselfthat. That was the newspapers.’

‘Who ragged one of his own records, and found in itimitations of Caruso and De LuciaP’He turned to Bernard Brophy, who was looking on andlaughing .

‘Will ye listen to this ould divil of a fella ! Anyway,there’5 degree in all things . Why, only the other day Iheard an otherwise sane young Englishman, a tenor, imitatingmy good friend Richard Tauber, even to the extentof putting in a foreign accent. And as for the singers whoaffect an Irish accent

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of Mercy. It was held at the Albert Hall,and invitations

were issued by the Prince and Princess of W ales . The programme is given below.

Overture ‘

The Meistersinger’

W agner

THE ROYAL AMATEUR ORCHESTRAL SOCIETYConductor—Mr. ERNEST FORD

‘Othello’ Fantasia Violin ErmtMr. EFREM ZIMBALIST

‘My heart is weary’

Goring-ThomasMiss EDNA THORNTON

Cavatina ‘

Barbiere’ Rossini

Signor SAMMARCO

Jewel Song Gounod

Madame DONALDAVioloncello

Monsieur HOLLMAN

Recitative and Aria ‘

Jephtha’

Mr. BEN DAVIES

Suite ‘

L’

Arlé sienne’

. Bizet

THE ROYAL AMATEUR ORCHESTRAL SOCIETY‘Maid of Athens’ Gounod

Sir CHARLES SANTLEY

‘

Lo! Here the gentle lark’

Madame MELBA(Flute Obhlz

'

gatoh Mr. A . FRANSELLA)

(a)‘Arioso’ Leoncavallo

(19)‘

Lamia canzone’Signor CARUSO

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‘Habanera’ Bizet

Madame MARIA GAYPrologo Leonoawllo

Signor SCOTTI‘Ah ! Moon ofmyDelight

’

Liza Lehmamz(‘

Persian Garden’)Mr. JOHN MCCORMACK

Quartette (‘

Rigoletto’

Madame MELBA, Miss THORNTON, Signor CARUSO,

Signor SCOTTI

March W agner

THE ROYAL AMATEUR ORCHESTRAL SOCIETY

Aeoompam’

sts:

Signor TOSTI, Signor BARALDI, Mr. HAMILTONHARTY, zmd Mr. LANDON RONALD

Seldomcan such an assembly have appeared on a singleplatform. Zimbalist had not yet reached the peak of hisreputation, but the purity and sweetness of his tone wereeverywhere acknowledged. He was later to marry thatexquisite singer, Alma Gluck, and to record with hermanybeautiful examples of twominds working as one . Donaldawas at the height of her fame, Hollman, the ’cellist, had aEuropean reputation

,and Ben Davies was in the full ma

turity of his powers . Incidentally, John has told me thatthe middle notes of Ben Davies

’

s voice were among themost beautiful he ever heard in his life .Santley was, of course, an oldman, but he showed thatthe invitation to take part in the concert was no compliment paid out of compassion to the great light of an earliergeneration. Albert Fransella, who played the obbligato forMelba, was the Virtuoso flautist of his time ; and Maria Gayhad the year before startled London with the passion andrealismof her Carmen .

And the accompanists ! It was altogether an astounding

97

programme, and John’s pride at taking part in itmaywellbe understood.

One incident is worth remark . Santley, having sung hissong

,came round and sat with the other artists to hear

Caruso. As Caruso ’s voice filled the hall, the old man’shandsome features were disfigured by a sneer.

‘Huh ! ’ he exclaimed.

‘

So they call that singing nowadays . ’

No one took any notice . Santley looked right and leftunder his bushy white eyebrows, and repeated the remark.

John was at the height of his hero-worship of Caruso,and his Irish blood boiled up. He turned on the oldman.

‘Yes,’ he said

,

‘

we call that singing.What do you call itP’

Santley chuckledmalevolently.

‘Yelling,’ he said.

‘Yelling,my boy. That’s what I call it.’‘Well,

’ retorted John,‘I like yelling .

’

And he turned his back on the old baritone, who wenton sneering and muttering to himself until Caruso hadfinished .

Fortunately, John cooled down speedily. Moral indignation is as bad for the voice as it is for the digestion.

A further feature of interest about this concert is thatthe design on the cover of the programme bears the signature of Ernest Thesiger.Another concert, within four days of this one, had acast very nearly as distinguished. It was given at theQueen’s Hall to celebrate the diamond jubilee of W ilhehnGanz. Out of compliment to him, Patti made one of herrare returns to the concert platform. She sang ‘

Voz'

che

sapete’fromFigaro, Tosti

’

s‘La and was joined

in ‘La cz

'

darem’ by no less a partner than Edouard deReszke . Other contributors to the programme were Donalda

,Ben Davies

,Ada Crossley, Mischa Elman, Marie

Tempest, Irene Vanbrugh, Lewis Waller, and GeorgeGrossmith . John sang ‘

Celeste Aida?

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It was John’s turn to come on first . He made his en

trance, and stood on the little raised dais, followed byFreddic Sewell, the accompanist. The babble subsided, buta low rumble went on still, oddly muffled, like an argument carried on behind thick curtains.John sang ‘

Che gelidamanim’fromLa Bohéme. The

continuous obbligato ofmuffled speech, instead of annoying him, suddenly struck himas funny. It became an agonynot to burst out laughing. He had tomake the greatesteffort to concentrate, but justmanaged to hold himself “

in

until he reached the ante-room, where he burst into guffaws which almost scared the gentle Nordica out of her

The King had applauded louder and longer than anybody, though obviously he had not listened to a note.John threw back his head and laughed again at thememory.

‘

As amatter of fact,’ he said, ‘my sympathies were allwith the King. Itmust be awful to have to stay in a roomand listen tomusic which at the best entertains youmildly,and at the worst interferes with an important conversa11011 .

‘Nordica had much the same experience, but I shallnever forget her singing of Schumann’s “Der Nusshcmm”that famous evening. I have never heard any singer comewithin leagues of it .

’

John sang for a second time before the King this samesummer. The occasion was a concert he gave at the AlbertHall for the sufferers of the Messina earthquake . Sir JohnMurray Scott was chairman of the committee in charge

,

and the King and Queen acceded to his request to be thepatrons of the concert. A little while later, they announcedthat they would be pleased to attend it.Queen Alexandra came at the beginning. Half-waythrough the programme, amessenger came in frantic haste

100

fromSir John Murray Scott, bidding John come immediately to the front door, as the King was arriving.

John reached the foyer puffinglike a porpoise, speechless, and shaking with fright. Sir John presented himtothe King. John’s tongue seemed glued to the roof of hismouth, but he got it unstuck at last, and managed tothank the King for his gracious presence .The King nodded.

‘Please go back and tell the orchestra not to play GodSave the King,

” he said .

‘I want to slip into the boxquietly and unnoticed .

’

John clicked his heels like a Prussian subaltern,and

rushed back to Landon Ronald to tell himthe King’swishes. Ronald raised his eyebrows in surprise, but obeyed ;and the programme went on in due order. But thememoryof those two hectic rushes stillmakes John short of breathwhenever it comes into hismind .

101

CHAPTER 7

AT THE end of the Grand Season of 1908, John felt he hadearned a holiday, and the family went over to Ireland . He

sang at four concerts there, then had to come back to thelittle house in Ferncroft Avenue to prepare for the comingseason.

Prominent among his engagements was one to sing atthe BirminghamFestival . This festival was one of the bestin England .

‘The choir was superb . They sang with theutmost polish and with matchless tone . Their intonationand colour were things of joy.

’

John was engaged to sing in Elij ah and in the ManzoniRequiemby Verdi . The conductor of the festival was Mr.

(now Sir) Henry Wood . John was not friendly disposedtowards him, since Henry Wood had refused to hear himin 1906, when he was struggling to gain a hearing. Johnhad a letter of introduction fromWilliamLudwig, whoknew Henry Wood well. Wood’s reply had been that hewasmuch too busy to hear young singers .

‘But then,’

as John says,‘aren’t we allP’

The Elijah for this performance was Clarence Whitehill, the American baritone, who hadmade himself worldfamous byhis singing of Wagnerian r01es . Whitehill wasa handsome giant, a magnificent specimen of manhood.

His Elijah was intensely dramatic. In the oratorio therecomes a point when the second tenor

, Ahab, has to re

proach Elijah and blame himfor the condition of affairs.The second tenor on this occasion was small even for atenor; and when Whitehill turned upon himwith the full

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dignation . He went straight up to Muriel Foster, and saidin a voice loud enough for all to hear,

‘That is the worstperformance of Verdi’s RequiemI ever heard .

’

The singers knew it was none of the best, but Johnresented this criticism. He turned to Whitehill.

‘

W ho the hell IS thismajor—generalP’ he demanded, ‘and

what does hemean by rushing in here and givmghis opinion unaskedP

‘Good heavens,’ Whitehill replied,

‘that’s no general !That’s Sir Edward Elgar.’

John did not know whether to be more angry or less .All knew who was to blame for the performance, and hereplied sulkily

,

‘He should not put us all in the samecategory.

’

It soon became evident that he did not . Madame Acktécame forward smiling, and asked Muriel Foster to introduce her to the great composer. Elgar barely acknowl

edged the introduction. He nodded coldly, and would notshake hands . Ackté burst into tears.This increased John’s resentment. He went on fumingand grumbling, despite Whitehill’s attempts to soothe him.

‘

After all,’ said the baritone,

‘Sir Edward Elgar ought toknow something aboutmusic .’

‘Hemay that,’ John replied truculently,

‘but thank Godhismusic is better than hismanners ! ’And he nursed a prejudice which lasted until he nextmet Elgar, nearly twenty- seven years afterwards . This wasat the Albert Hall, at a benefit concert for the Musicians

’

Benevolent Fund. John was presented to Elgar by a greatfriend of themboth, the late Sir Landon Ronald. He re

minded Elgar of the performance in Birmingham—only tofind that Elgar had forgotten all about his obj ections, andremembered it only for Muriel Foster’s lovely singing.

At once John’s resentmentmelted away, and he felt thatgush of warmfeeling which always follows the removal

104

of a negative emotion . He told Elgar of the joy his Dreamof Gerontimgave him, whether he sang in it or listenedto 11.

‘Elgar was courteous and kindly as only an English gentleman can be.We drank a glass of champagne, which was

strictly forbidden by,his doctor, to our newborn friend

ship ; and I amindeed proud to say it lasted until he died .

’

He looked atme over the tops of his glasses .‘Elgar was one of the best story- tellers I have ever heard .

He had an impish sense of humour. He was.the soul of

simplicity. He had no false ideas about hismusic, and hadvery definite ideas as to how it should be sung and played.

Oh,yes, very definite ideas they were, as many of my

colleagues who have performed with himand knew himcan testify.

‘Once I had the great joy of going through the Dreamwith himat Mary Anderson’s home in Broadway. I hadsung it in Americamany times, and had got into little habits of my own in several places . Elgar pulled me up on

every one of them, and insisted on his own phrasing, andespecially on his own tempo .

‘The Dreamof Gerontz'

us is and always will be one ofmy favourite works. I love to sing it, but I think I loveeven better listening to it. Some of the Smart Alecks amongthe music critics have said it smelt of incense . So be it . Ifeel sure, as a Catholic

,that the cloud of incense from

Elgar’

s thurible still ascends before the throne of the GreatInspirer, to thank Himfor the gift He bestowed on thatgreat soul . ’

John hasmany memories of Elgar. One night, after anElgar concert given by the B .B .C . Orchestra at the Queen’sHall, during which the composer had conducted his secondsymphony, he came to a little supper which John gave forhim. After supper, he began telling reminiscences of hisearly days in Worcester. He told how one day he took a

105

position as teacher of the Violin at a school so that hecould buy a special Christmas present for my darlingAlice .’ But the school collapsed

,and Elgar could not buy

the gift.Next he described how he jotted down the melody of

‘

Land of Hope and Glory’ as he was walking by the bankof a river in search of the wary trout ; and how, during thewar of 19 14

—1 8, he heard it sung in pitch darkness in anunderground station at Finchley Road during an air-raid.

When he had finished talking, Elgar sat down at thepiano and began to strum. John interrupted to ask himwhether he had ever written an opera.Elgar turned in surprise .‘That’s odd,

’ he exclaimed .

‘I was thinking about -it atthat verymoment. But, Count John, it will never be performed. Here is the principal tenor aria.’

He played it, a typical Elgarmelody, lying very high .

It was in the key of G Major, and John ventured the opinion that it would be more singable in G flat, a favouritekey of his.

Elgar disagreed, as John knew he would . He liked thekey of G, and the aria soundedmore brilliant in that key.

Some months afterwards, John received a letter fromhim, in which he said he thought that perhaps, after all,the aria would be better in G flat. It went on,

‘Why didn’tI remembermyMeyerbeerP

’

‘Great musician, large-hearted gentleman, I amproudthat he calledme friend .

’

After the BirminghamFestival, John was engaged bythe Welsh Choral Society in Liverpool to sing in Handel’s

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had this failing, but fromKreisler he learned to better hisnatural gift for rhythm,

and, as Plunket Greene used toput ir

,to ‘sing through the rests .’

In the years to come, John and Kreisler were to makemany gramophone records together. A number of thesestill remain in the catalogue . They reveal an astonishingcollaboration, a similarity of tone as well as of phrasing.

If anyone wants to hear collaboration of this kind at itshighest, I recommend the short record which both madeof Herbert Hughes

’

s setting of Moore’s ‘I Saw fromtheBeach .

’ In this record Kreisler’

s‘

forward’ rhythm is

matched by John’s, and the subtlety of the singer’s phrasing can only be appreciated by a careful listener—thoughanyone will be obliged to sit up and take notice

, if he putsou, after this record, any other record of the same air.

Besides tone and phrasing, the two artists shared a characteristic which has puzzled many of their admirers andexasperated manymusicians. While completely responsiveto the highest inmusic, and authoritative in their performance of ir, they performwith apparent conviction worksof a level so different that some musicians deny themthename ofmusic at all. Most Kreisler recitals include morceaux and pretty trifles: most Mccormack recitals includea group of drawing- roomballads and encores of no musical interest. This quality in John I hope to discuss fullyin Chapter 1 2 . For whatever reasons, Kreisler has it tooas he shares the singer’s extraordinary power of disinfecting these dubious, false, or over- simple works ; of desentimentalizingthem,

andmaking themfor themoment soundlikemusic.For examples of their austerity in performance ofmusiceasilymade lush, onemay cite their record of the

‘Barca

role’fromthe Tales ofHofimamt . For perfect balance of

instrument and voice, a piece which nothing can desentimentalize, Godard ’s ‘

Berceuse de Iocelyn.

’ For collabora

108

tion in realmusic, the Rachmaninov songs they recordedtogether in America, and Strauss’s ‘Morgen

’—an unusualrendering, which will not easily be superseded.

John’s own opinion of Kreisler can hardly be got downin words.

‘Nothing I can say can add lustre to the name of thatgreat artist. He has always remainedmy x ideal Violinist. Infact, I have always said there are Violinists and Violinists,and Fritz Kreisler. No one who has not enjoyed Fritz’sfriendship can really estimate theman as well as the artist.One cannot imagine any field of endeavour in which hewould not be a success . He has the mental equipment tofit himfor any profession. Add to that his innate refinement, his heart of gold, and hismusical soul, and you haveFritz Kreisler. ’

Another joy of that season, 1908—9, was to appear in a

series of concerts with Busoni . The great Italian took afancy to the young Irishman, and after each concert theyhad supper together, talking to each other in Italian all thetime . John was as proud as a peacock, a young singer oftwenty-four hobnobbing with that giant among pianists,Ferruccio Busoni.It was not only his reputation that attracted John . Hissenses were stormed by Busoni ’s playing. Finding John intears one night after his playing of Chopin’s CMinor Nocturne, Busoni said :

‘Giovanni, come out in front, and I will play an encorefor yourself.

’

John went, and Busoni played Liszt’s arrangement of

the Rigoletto quartet‘

with thrilling fire and vehemence .

109

When,with the audience

,John called ‘Bravo,

’ he received a solemn bow and a gigantic wink all to himself.The pair had a champagne supper that night.

John was kept busy throughout the winter season. Hewas getting good fees, and altogether the prospects of thelittle home in Hampstead were really bright.The McCormacks were making friends on all sides. Atthe old Irish Club in Charing Cross Road, John was introduced one evening to the guest of honour, the MarcheseMarconi. He felt himselfmuch honoured tomeet thismanof genius, and said so frankly.

Marconi said he had heard John sing at Covent Garden,and complimented himon the way he sang Italian.

‘You sing it almost as if you spoke it,’ he said.

‘I do speak it .

’

Thereafter, through a long friendship, the Marchesehardly ever spoke to himin English. John found himcharming.

‘He was the gentlestman I ever knew, and shy as a girl.I remember one evening sitting beside himat a dinner atwhich he was to speak . He never broke his fast during thewhole meal . When I remarked on this, and said that bynow he ought to be used to public speaking, he toldme itwas torture for himuntil he got going. Then it was fairlyeasAr

lways, after that firstmeeting, when John was singingat Covent Garden, Marconi would come to see Lily in theinterval, and say how he thought John was doing. He wasa devotee of opera, and almost lived at Covent Gardenduring the season.

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notices,but neither the claque nor the subsidized press

helped him. He did notmake a hit in Naples .All the same, the engagement brought one interestingencounter. Ou one of John’s free nights, he and Lily wentto the San Carlo to hear an opera called SamGiovanni Battista. The name part was sung by the famous baritoneKaschmann ,

but, in spite of that, Lily and John found theOpera a bore

,and the evening would have been a total loss,

but for one thing.

Sitting just in front of John was the tenor Fernando deLucia. John had heard himseveral times at the Scala whenhe was a student, and had always been a very great admirer of his singing and acting.

John nudged Lily, and pointed out'

De Lucia with greatpride. Then he listened carefully to every word which thetenor spoke to his companion.

During one of the intervals, De Lucia asked his friendwhat operas were to be performed during the comingweek. His friend told himthat the only important thingwas the début of a young English tenor—i.e. J ohn .

Eagerly John leaned forward to hear the great man’scomments.

‘Oh,’ said De Lucia,

‘let us go. At least, there will besomething to laugh at .

’

For a moment John felt like bursting into tears. Thenhis sense of humour came to the rescue .He leaned forward and tapped De Lucia on the shoulder.‘Maestro, I amthe poor devil who ismaking his débutnext week, and I h0pe there won

’t be anything to laugh at .

’

De Lucia wasmost embarrassed, and was profuse in hisapologies and explanations . When Johnmade his début inRigoletto, the great tenor came round on purpose to congratulate him.

‘I loved himfor ir,’ says John, ‘but I did not feel I hadearned his encomiums.’

1 1 2

Another evening, John and Lily were asked to a littleparty given by the assistant stagemanager of the San Carlo .His daughter

,a charming girl with beautiful liquid brown

eyes, and hair in ringlets down her back, acted as hostess.The girl spoke splendid English

,and made an immediate

hit with Lily.

During the evening John’s host drew_himaside .

‘Giovanni,

’ he said,

‘I thinkmy littlegirl 13 gomgto bea great singer one day. She has a lovely quality of voice,and a natural gift of song .

’

Johnmade the usual ‘good wish’ reply, and never gavethe little girl another thought

,until he came onemorning

in 1 9 14 to Covent Garden for a rehearsal of Boito’s Mefis

tafele. When he was introduced to the Margherita, he recognized with surprise and delight his little friend, nowa lovely woman and a lovelier singer. She was ClaudiaMuzio

,who died suddenly and tragleally, at the height of

her career, in 1935.

On their way back fromthe Naples engagement, Lilyand John stopped in Rome . John was vividly reminded ofone of the first hymns he had ever learned at school inAthlone . This was

‘A Hymn to the Pope,’ written for thesilver jubilee of his Holiness Pope Leo XIII . It had amelody composed by Vincent O

’

Brien’

s father, and the opening lines ran thus :

Full in the panting heart of RomeBeneath the Apostles’ crowning dome,Mid pilgrims’ lips that kissed the groundBreathes in all tongues one holy sound,God bless our Pope, the Great, the Good.

1 1 3

‘Now, findingourselves beneath the Apost les

’ crowning dome, John says,

‘

we were literally filled with awe .Two simple Irish Catholics in the Eternal City for the firsttime ! I have travelled asmuch asmostmen, fromLondonto San Francisco, fromParis to Tokio, fromCape Townto Shanghai

, fromBerlin to Sydney, fromPrague to Quebec

,but no city I have ever Visited affects me as Rome

does. I have been theremanymany times since that Aprilin 1 909, but that strange thrill remains, or rather is t enewed.

’

Lily and John were met in Rome by their friends theNavarros

,who were perfect guides for two inexperienced

travellers. They knew Rome fromall the Seven Hills tothe sea. Through their kindness, and through the intervention of the late Monsignor Fraser, afterwards Archbishop of Glasgow, Lily and John were received in audience by Pope Pius X. This can be told in no other wordsthan John’s .

‘I shall never forget thatmoment when the door of thePope’s apartment opened, and we were ushered into thepresence of His Holiness . The Father of Christendomroseto greet us. W e genuflected before himand kissed his ring.

He gently raised us to our feet. He spoke of our Visit toRome and hoped that our stay would be pleasant. He was

interested in the fact that I had studied in Italy. He blessedthe rosaries and crucifix es we had brought with us.

‘

W e kneeled before himagain . He placed his hands onboth our heads and gave us his solemn benediction. Werose and backed fromhis presence .

‘

As he turned to go to his desk, I noted the round shoulders, the silvery white hair, a little long at the back, hanging over the collar of his white soutane

,butmostly I no

ticed the air of deep fatigue . I could almost hear our HolyFather reciting Numdimittis.

‘The door closed, and, unblushingly I confess it, I wept.

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John was just wondering who on earth this could be,when Campanini turned and beckoned to him.

‘Giovanni—meet Mr. Oscar Hammerstein.

’

Hammerstein came to the point at once . He alwayscame to the point at once.

‘Would you like to sing forme at the Manhattan OperaHouse in New YorkP

’ he asked.

John tried to appear nonchalant, as if an engagement inNew York were an everyday affair in his life.

‘I would be delighted to sing for you, Mr. Hammerstein,

’ he replied.

‘All right,’ replied the impresario .

‘I will give you athree year contract at seven hundred dollars a week forthe first season, nine hundred for the second, and twelvehundred and fifty for the third . Three performances aweek.We open in November. Mr. Campanini will arrangeall the details about transportation and repertoire . Goodbye, and the best of luck.

’

He turned away, leaving John staggered by this exampleof American business brevity. So staggered was he that hehad no time to be staggered hy his fee.

While he was still gasping, Hammerstein suddenlystopped, and looked at himwith a knowing twinkle inhis eye.

‘McCormack, an Irishman, singing Italian opera in NewYork. Sounds like a cinch? We should get a brand newaudience of opera-goers.’

Such was John’s introduction to Oscar Hammerstein.

Hammerstein was an extraordinary man, something of a1 16

genius,and the greatest showman of his time . He was an

inventor, and had a good working knowledge of music .Once he made a bet that he would write a comic opera,words andmusic

,in twenty- four hours . He won the bet,

although he afterwards said that the only comic thingabout the opera was that it was written in twenty-fourhours .Hammerstein had a mania for the theatre, andh is Victoria Vaudeville House was the high—spot in that profession . But vaudeville was not enough, and Hammersteindecided that he would build an opera house in New

York.

When Hammerstein decided a thing, it was done. He

chose his site, on West Thirty-fourth Street. He found hisarchitect. He discussed the plans; and he built his operahouse—one of the easiest to sing in in the world . He sentscouts to Europe to search for talent for his company, andthen, not trusting them, he followed themhimself.With the unerring eye and ear of the true showman, hegot his company together. He engaged Campanini as hisconductor and generalmanager, and in both capacities theItalian was a tower of strength . Even before the operahouse was finished, the company was formed—and what acompany! Tetrazzini, Mary Garden, Bonei, Zenatello,B almores, Sammarco, Maurice Renaud, Gilibert, Bressler,Gianoli—these, and many others, came to America underthe Hammerstein banner.A little later Hammerstein decided to run an operahouse in London. The building he chose 1s now the 81011picture- house in Kingsway; but, despite all his energy andshowmanship, and the formidable cast of singers he en

gaged,the London public regarded Covent Garden as the

only home of opera, and gave himsuch poor support thatthe venture came to an end .

1 1 7

In the career of any successful artist, the events thatmake himare so dovetailed one into another that it is impossible to pick out one and point to it as decisive . If anysingle piece of good fortune in John’s career could bepicked out

,it would be this engagement to sing in New

York under Hammerstein. True, it came his way throughCovent Garden

,and Covent Garden came his way through

Sir John Murray Scott, and Sir John Murray Scott came

his way through the Boosey concerts, which in their turncame his way through Visetti, and so on, back to the verystart. But the Hammerstein engagement introduced himtoNew York, and so to the whole American continent,where the basis of his fame and fortune was to lie .

‘Opportunity did not knock on my door,’ he says . ‘

It

did not have to—Oscar Hammerstein opened the door andlet it in .

’

The instant the rehearsal was over, John rushed to thetelephone to tell Lily the good news .Lily was of course overjoyed, but her mother instinctat once came to the fore .

‘Who will take care of the childrenP’

she wanted toknow.

‘Nevermind about that,’ said John.

‘

If you stay at hometo look after the children, who will look aftermeP’It was a nice point, but, fortunately, someone was athand to solve ir. Lily’s sister, known to all the McCor

macks as Auntie, undertook the care of the children, so

that Lily was free to go. The children still thank her afterall these years, but John has a strong suspicion that shethoroughly spoiled them.

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character. Born in Ireland, he had come to America as ayoung man, and at once became interested in newspaperwork. Profitingby his experience, he turned press agent,a game at which he excelled. He was very tall and verythin, like a human string-bean. His head was curiouslyshaped. It rose in a high dome, and he accentuated thedome by parting his fine silky hair in themiddle . His facewas narrow and long, and his eyes smiled kindly. Billy wasone of themost popular figures in all Operatic New York.

Everyone loved him: artists, actors,musical critics.As they drove to the Opera house, Billy gave John soundadvice as to how to get on the good side of Hammerstein .

‘He likes the Irish,’ Billy said,

‘but I have told himthatyou are one of the temperamental ones thatmight fight firstand apologize afterwards.

’

John did not know what to make of that. In any case,he need not have worried. He never had a cross word withOscar Hammerstein during the whole time he sang for

The season was to open on November the 7th with LaTraviata. It brought old friends together: John singingAlfredo to the Violetta of Tetrazzini, with Sammarco asthe father.One morning, as John came out of the opera houseafter a rehearsal, a tall, finely set-up youngman came up

‘Are you not John McCormackP’‘I am.

’

‘Well, I aman Irishman fromthe Kingdomof Kerry ;and I want to welcome you to New York and to tell youwe are proud to have an Irishman singing in Italian opera

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andmademe silent and cranky. In fact, when the childrenwere Very young, they used to say,

“Popmust be singingsomewhere to-night, as he won’t speak above a whisper,and he’s awful bad tempered.

It can be imagined then in what a state of nerves hefound himself on that November evening. Doctor Dupont,the Company’s adviser, camemost nobly to his rescue . Hestood in the wings during the entire performance, lookingafter John every time he came off, and pulling himthroughasmuch by his encouragement as by hismedicaments. Infact, John sang so well that some of the critics thought thatthe announcement he had a cold was a stunt to gain sympathy.

Tetrazzini and Sammarco, as ever, weremarvellous colleagues

,but John’s greatest thrill of all came when, after

the performance, Oscar Hammerstein came into his dressing- room. The greatman came across and put an armaffec

tionately round his shoulder.‘Well done, Mike,

’ he said,‘you’ll do

He never called John anything but Mike fromthat day.

That night John left an orderwith the porter to sendall the papers up nextmorning. There was no doubt whatever about his success. Every single notice was good

,but

what specially encouraged John was the feeling that hewas singing in a friendly atmosphere. To one of John’stemperament, itmeant a great deal to have behind himthatfeeling of goodwill, of anxiety that he should succeed, ofconstructive criticism. He felt it in New York throughoutthe whole of his career.John has a great deal to say aboutmusical criticism,

and,

1 2 2

as always, he expresses himself forcibly . Honest statementsof opinion never came amiss to him,

provided always thatthey were spoken in the best interests of the music

,the

public, or the performer.What he abominates, and protestsagainst to his last breath, is the sneering type of criticismwhich IS msPired by malice or superiority, or desire toshow how clever the critic is . The man who shows off atthe expense of the work or the performer is con '

t'

emptibleeverywhere

,and John has plenty to say about him. For

himself, he has neverminded hard knocks, so long as theywere fairly given . If told that he was bad in this or that,he would study to improve

,and be grateful if he found

that what was said was true . But the sort of criticismthatbegan froma prejudice, that blamed himfor not doingsomething he never set out to do, that showed ignoranceof what he was doing, never out any ice with himat all.He has never been able to believe those artists who saythey never read their press notices . He has always read his,and eagerly.

‘My experience all over the world has been thatmusicalcritics on the whole are fair-minded

,honestmen who write

what they think . I have disagreed with themcompletelymany times, and I always will, but they have as good aright to their opinion as I have tomine . ’He burst out laughing.

‘That putsme inmind of an evening with Rachmaninov.

He is a very,

dear friend of ours, and one night, when hehad come to dinner with us in New York

,he asked me,

before the other guests arrived, to put on some of the latestrecords I had made .

‘I put on “Nw wet die Sehmttcht kemt” by Tschaikow

sky, with the’cello obbligato by my friend, Lauri Ken

medy—an excellent ’cellist, by the way. The song had notproceeded five bars before the deep Russian voice of Rachmaninov boomed out “It is too slow.

”

1 2 3

‘I expostulated, but to no effect. Rachmaninov kept repearing “Ir is too slow.

”

“I like it atmy tempo, said I.Perhaps you do . But it is not Tschaikowsky’s tempo .

‘

This was rather shattering, and I suppose I looked putout

, for Madame Rachmaninov intervened and spoke toher husband severely in Russian.

‘Serge listened to her, accepting her rebuke . Then hisvery expressive face lit up in a smile .

‘He turned to me and said, “John, my wife says youhave a perfect right to your opinion—BUT YOU ARE

W RONG.

”

‘

W e have laughed over that episode many a time . Infact, it is our pet story about each other.

’

Another joy to John during that first season in New

York was the generous and consistent support of his ownrace . No question of politics or religion ever arose todarken that relationship . John felt that the people of Irishblood were supporting and aiding him, and were perhapsa little proud of him,

because they knew in their hearts thathe was trying his best to be a credit to his country, and wasdetermined to show that the stage Irishman of Boucicault,the red whiskers and the caubeen and the clay pipe

,were

a caricature and an insult to all Irishmen . It has been hislifelong endeavour to show that Irish folk-music is themostbeautiful in all the world, and that in Ireland there is sucha thing asmusical culture andmusical appreciation.

The first Irishman to go behind the scenes at the Manh attan Opera House and greet himwas Judge McAdoo.

This celebratedman was born in the north of Ireland, and1 24

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gave himthe greatest pleasure and the greatest personalsuccess was Donizetti’s The Daughter of the Regiment.Tetrazzini was

,of course, the heroine, and Gilibert played

the sergeant, in which role he.gave

a superb performance .In the Italian version there 1s no aria for the tenor, butDonizetti wrote one specially for the French edition, and,by great luck

, Gilibert had a copy of the French score .Rehearsals were half-way through, and the first performance already announced, when Gilibert proposed that Johnshould sing the aria. The immediate difficulty was that irwas in French . Nothing daunted, John took down theFrench words, and began to translate theminto Italian.

‘I do not think the Italian was Dantesque,’ he said,

‘butat least it made sense, which is more than the words ofmany arias do .

’

Under the title ‘Perw

'

ver vicino arMaria,

’ John sang thearia, and with it had by far his greatest success in Opera.It was peculiarly suited to his voice, and the recordmadeof it that same season still brings himback the thrill ofthat first performance of The Daughter of the Regiment.

New York enjoyed a wonderful feast of opera in thosedays when the Manhattan flourished . Between the Manhattan and the Metropolitan Company existed a strong andhealthy rivalry. Naturally, 111 thematter of their conductorand their principal tenor the Metropolitan won handsdown. Toscanini and Caruso were in a class by themselves.But with the rest of the company the Manhattan couldhold their own. To match the Metropolitan’s GeraldineFarrar, they had Mary Garden. Tomatch Emmy Destinn,they had Mazarin—unforgettable in Electra

,even though

1 26

it was sung in French . For the Metropolitan’s AntonioScotti, the Manhattan had Maurice Renaud, a really greatactor with a genius for costume and make-up; and theywere able to follow up with Zenatello, one of the finest ofItalian lyric tenors, whose only fault was a desire for abigger voice than God had given him; with Sammarco,Gilibert, the lovely Lina Cavalieri, little Emma Trentini,a wonderful Musetta in La Bohe

‘me,and the Irish tenor

thrown in for good weight.One day at rehearsal Oscar Hammerstein came in in astate of high glee . He had just had an advance tip that theMetropolitan were going to put on La Bohéme

,with

Caruso, Farrar, and Scotti.He came up to John.

‘Mike, I’mgoing to do Bohe‘me the same night, with

Lina Cavalieri, Sammarco, and you . They may win thesinging contest at the Met1

'

0politan, but we shall get thegood looks stakes.’

John had always thought Geraldine Farrar one of theloveliest women he ever saw ; but he did not say a word toHammerstein.

New York took a great interest in the performance, and,leaving Caruso out of it, John reckons the Manhattanabout held their own.

Hammerstein’s only comment was, ‘Well, Mike,we rangdown eight minutes before they did .

’ But whether hemeant this for praise or blame, John could notmake outHowever, he had something else to remember the per

formance by, and that was Lina Cavalieri . She was a dazzlingcreature, picked by international vote as the loveliestItalian woman of her time . Her voice was nothing wonderful—it would have been asking Nature too much thatone woman should combine such beauty with a first- classvoice ; but she sang quite well . The only difficulty she gaveher colleagues was that she loved to act with a capital A.

1 2 7

‘I tried inmy quiet way to keep up with her in the firstthree acts

,

’ says John,

‘but inthe last—well, she didn’t act

me off the stage, but she pretty nearly actedme off the bedon which she lay dying, and she literally actedmywig011

in the ecstasy of her love . I didn’t tearmy hair in patoxysms of grief at her death. She tore it forme. In fact, Ihad to buy a new wig for my next performance- anddamned expensive it was too .

’

Two other colleagues during this season found John’sacting powers fall short. He was singing Cavallet ia Rusticana with Carmen Melis, a Chilean, another lovely creaturewith a very fair voice . The lady protested that John wastoo reserved and quiet as her Sicilian lover. Turiddu shouldbe fiery and passionate .In one scene, Turiddu is supposed to cast Santuzza from

himin a fit of anger. It is unusual in Ireland for gentlemen to throw their lady friends about, and John was alittle on the diffi

'

dent side.‘Do not be afraid ! Carmen Melis scolded him.

‘

Use yourstrength when you throwme across the stage. I can takecare ofmyself.

’

When, next evening, the great scene came, John tookher at her word, and hurled his Santuzza fromhimwithsuch vigour that she went for six, landing in the wmgs onthe far side of the stage . John was terrified, because shehad to come back and sing the big duet with Alfio . Shecame ou, limping badly. The audience applauded

,thinking

this a piece of business . At the end of the duet John rushedup to her and apologizedmost profusely. The lady smiledand took it in amost charming fashion, but told John thatshe was black and blue fromthe fall. She even wished togive a demonstration, but Lily intervened, assuring herthat they were perfectly ready to take her word.

The third Santuzza, Mazarin, produced themost devastating criticismof all .

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would accept to release him. They asked two thousandpounds. Then the Victor Company cabled the Gramophone Company in London, asking themto pay half ofthis sum. They had a working agreement with the English company about all their artists.The Gramophone Company thought the Victor Company had gone crazy.What—pay two thousand pounds forthe release of John McCormack, whomthey, only threeyears before, had refused to engage at any price ! Who,only six years before, had been glad to make ten recordsfor fifty pounds ! It was preposterous. The Americansmustbe crazy.

Crazy or not, the Victor Company paid the whole twothousand pounds, and on February the 10th , 1 9 10, theygave John a contract which did not lapse till February1938 . He was to receive ten thousand dollars in advance ofroyalties, and ten per cent of the listed price of each record .

‘There has been somuch poppycock written aboutmyVictor contract andmy fabulous earnings fromthe sale ofrecords,

’ John says,‘that I amsetting down the terms of

that contract here . Don’t think I’mcomplaining ! Ou thecontrary, I amproud of that contract. I’mgrateful to theVictor Company for helping so much in the building ofmy personal following—not to mention the welcomecheques which helped me to buy a Rolls-Royce and aFranz Hals portrait, as well as a couple of not- so-goodracehorses . But on ten per cent of the listed price of therecords, you can easily see that the monumental earningswhich the press credited to me were just impossible . Itouchedmypeak at close on three hundred thousand dollarsone year, and that beat Caruso. Enrico, when he heard ofit, said with a laugh,

“Congratulations,Mac. But don’t let

it happen again.

”

‘Amongst the ten records Imade that year was one that,

1 30

as I said before,far outsold any record I ever made I

Hear You Calling Me .”‘I have left till the end, on purpose, the name ofmyverydear old friend who signed that contract on behalf of theVictor Company. I want here to thank himnot only forthe contract

,but for the great gift of his friendship . Bless

you,Calvin G. Child ! ’

During that winter season the company Visited Washington,

where they were honoured by thepresence of President Taft at a performance . Then they went to Boston,where began John’s great friendship with Caruso . It washere that Caruso gave John his first photograph, with thepleasing if quaint inscription,

‘

To McCormack, veryfriendly, Enrico Caruso .

’

This old and rather faded photograph is one of John’smost treasured possessions . He had a special reason forvaluing it . When he had gone as a student to Milan, hehad bought a photo of Caruso as Des Grieux in Manon

,

and signed it himself ‘

To John McCormack, fromEnricoCaruso .

’ Now he had the reality. That the ‘Very friendly’

was no mere form, but came fromthe heart, John hadmany proofs in the years to come .The tour went on with the usual ups and downs . In Cin

cinnati, where they arrived in the middle of March, theweather was bitter

,and Tetrazzini developed such a cold

that her voice sank to a whisper. When the company arrived, they found the house ahnost sold out; but as soon asthemanagement announced that Tetrazzini could not sing,the people went straight to the box office and got their

1 3 1

money back. The company gave their performance nevertheless, but to the smallest audience they had ever seen.

Throughout the whole of the season, there were concertsevery Sunday, and at one of these Johnmade his first concert appearance in New York. He chose as his two itemsthe aria fromLucia

,and the old Irishmelody with which

he had won his goldmedal in 1903 ,‘The Snowy Breasted

After the performance Oscar Hammerstein prophesiedthat concert singing,

'

not opera, would be John’s forte in

America. Calvin Child and the Victor Company thoughtthe same . They were good prophets.The season was finishing, the days were busy, and John

’sdifficulty, if anything, was to avoid hospitality. Everywhere were people anxious to fete himandmakemuch ofhim. One evening, when they were singing in Washington,a card was brought in to John, announcing Major Butt.Major Butt walked in, greeted him, and told himthatPresident Taft wanted himto lunch at the White Housenext day.

John could not believe his ears. ‘There must be somemistak e,’ he said.

‘Well,’ said Butt,

‘the President told me to invite theyoung Irish tenor, John McCormack, to lunch ; and you’reJohn McCormack, aren’t you? ’John was still incredulous. Next day he and Lily walkedround the Wh ite House for half an hour before he pluckedup courage to approach the door. But the Presidentmadethemvery welcome, showing themthe greatest kindness,and next day gave John the added honour of presenting hiscolleagues to him.

Major Butt was the President’s military aide. He andJohn became very close friends. One day Butt commentedon their friendship .

‘Something tellsme,’ he said, ‘that it will last our lives . ’

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Of‘Hibernia O Cara,’

W here the ‘

pom’

di terra’s’ grow.

Mem’

ry takes himback to placesW h ich in youthful days he knew.

To Kilkenny dei Gatti,Gatti which each other slew,

To the Sala della TaraFor arpeggios renowned,

To the Laghi di Killarney,W h ich in beauties rare abound,

And with fondest recollectionHegoes back—in dreams, you know

And on Blamey’5 old pietraPlants a warmIl Bacio.

He recalls the broad riviera,Called the Shannon on themap,

And the little thatched taverneW ith liquori strongon tap,

And the sturdy contadini,Living always as of yore,

W ith porcellimthe parlorAnd pollastri at the door.

And the cheeks color di roseOf the nero-haired colleen

In carissima Hibernia,W here the erba grows so green.

Thus h is heart remains still loyalAnd wherever hemay stray

San Patrizio watches 0’er himIn amost especial way.

And though using foreign lingo,

Yet the fact he won’t disguise,That his name it is McCormack,W hich you can

’

t Italianize.And perhaps some day he

’ll ventureGivingup h is foreign ways,

And do Loh-engrin in IrishAnd set all the world ablaze.

I 34

After an uneventful trip, John and Lily arrived back inLondon for the 19 10 Grand Season at Covent Garden. Asit happens

,all John’s long sea voyages— they includemore

than a hundred crossings of the Atlantic—have been un

eventful .For both parents

,the great excitement of coming home

was to see the children . Then John was oncemore in theroutine at Covent Garden, rehearsing old operas and studying new ones .Onemorning he was called to the otfice . Neil Forsythe,themanager, was in great excitement.

‘

,John ’ he exclaimed, ‘I have a great surprise for you .

’

John’s mind naturally ran to the thought of a rise insalary, but the surprise was nothing so banal, nothing somercenary. He was told, as if he were receiving a statesecret, that he was to have the great privilege of singingLa Boheme with Madame Melba, at her own request.John was duly impressed, and deeply grateful for thecompliment, but he could not get over a sense of disappointment. A call into the sanctumsanctoru'mof the general manager

,awed tones and bated breath, and then the

news that he was to sing with Melba—it was something ofan anticlimax. Still, Melba was Melba, and the undisputedqueen of the Royal Opera.La Bohe

‘me has always been one of John’s favouriteoperas, both to sing and to hear. It was in Bo'he

‘me that hefirst heard Caruso in 1904, and came under the spell of thatincomparable voice . The part of Rodolfo always suitedhim, and was lucky for him. Ou the day after his farewellconcert at the Albert Hall in 19 38, he sat down at hispiano and went through the whole opera fromthe first barto the last.

I 3S

Now he was to Sing it at Covent Garden, and withMelba.There has seldombeen an artist about whomopinion

was so sharply divided as about Melba, both as singer andcolleague. Her host of hero-worshippers insisted that shewas a combination of Malibran and Patti, with a heart ofgold towards her colleagues. The others ms1sted that shepossessed a voice of lovely quality, was a perfectmistressof vocal technique, was childish as an actress, and—to put itmildly—unkind to her colleagues.John had every opportunity of getting to know Melba

,

and his verdict on her is based on sound experience . Hesang five seasons with her at Covent Garden, and touredwith her as her principal tenor. He speaks of her as hefound her; and his summing-up is that she was neither asgreat as her worshippers made her, nor nearly as bad asher detractors would like tomake her.Before singing with Melba at Covent Garden, Johnwent with her on a short tour. They were joined by thepianist,WilhelmBackhaus, at that time a youngman withamopof golden hair—like Leopold Stokowski, onlymore so.

Melba was verymuch in command . Orders went forthat the beginning of the tour that no one was to take an encore until she had sung one. Th is struck John as very odd .

He thought she should be delighted if the small fry weresuccessful, because that would mean that the appetite ofthe audience was being gently whetted, and they wouldthe better appreciate the queenly fare about to be placedbefore them. However, that was the standing order for thetour

,and it had to be respected.

Now for John’s account of Melba in his own words.First, as a singer.

‘Melba’s vocal equipment was splendid. The tone wasbeautiful, and beautifully placed . Her technique was perfection. Her trill was exquisite, her scales were pearl- like,

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her picchettzzti were like a bird’s notes. Her diction in

English was Australian, just as it was in French and Italian.

(I never heard her sing in German .) Her phrasing was, asa rule

,uninspired

,and sometimes it sounded slipshod, yet

she sang certain phrases in a way no other singer I everheard could even approach . In Romeo et Juliette she so carried me away by the sheer exquisite beauty of thesoundin the beginning of the second act that, one night in Melbourne

,I forgot to sing my answering phrase as Romeo .

And who that ever heard Melba in Boh éme will forget thefinale in the third act, especially that phrase beginning“Vorrez

'

che etemo durasse Tome it was theperfection of the vocal art.

‘Her acting? She was just as good or bad as I was . As theDublin j arveys used to say,

“I leave it to yourselves .‘

As a colleague, she was amass of contradictions . I haveknown her do some of the kindest things, and some of themost cruel . In thematter of sharing applause, I can franklysay she was by far themost selfish singer I ever sang with .

Applause wasmeat and drink to her. In Paris,at a charity

matinée of La Boheme,she hadmego tomy colleagues and

ask themto let her have a curtain alone at the end of thethird act, of all places !

‘Perhaps I can best expressmy feelings about Melba asa colleague by saying that in the seventeen years I knewEnrico Caruso, I never heard himsay an unkind word ofa fellow- artist. Melba was different.

‘Nevertheless, when she sang, she made one forget thecolleague, and listen to the singer. I can pay her no greatercompliment.’

John sang La Bohéme oftener than any other opera.During his comparatively short operatic career he sang

I 37

with eighteen difi’erent Mimis. Some he has quite forgotten. Five stand out. As a singer, Melba took the palm,

though she neither looked nor acted the part. Dramatically,Geraldine Farrar was superb . Pictorially, Lina Cavalieristood by herself. But, all in all, John

’s ideal Mimis wereLucrezia Bori and Claudia Muzio . Both were splendidartists, both sang the part beautifully, both acted it withgreat simplicity and pathos

,and both were lovely to look

at .

John’s ideal cast for La Bohe‘me is as follows :

Rodolfo Enrico CarusoMimi Lucrezia Bori or

Claudia MuzioMusetta Emma Trentini

(at the beginningof her career)Vanni Marcoux

Schazmw'd Charles GilibertMario SammarcoFrancesco Daddi

Conductor—Cleofonte Campanini.

John’s first performance with Melba was a great occasion for him. Itmarked an epoch in 1115 career at CoventGarden . Melba’s endorsement of his singing set a seal onhis work, and broke down the last bit of snobbishness remaining among those who believed that nothing good couldcome out of Ireland . For that, John was, and still is, grateful to her.During that season Puccini paid a Visit to London

,and

came to the opera one night to hear La Bohe‘me. Johnmethimon the stage after the performance . He came to the

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About themiddle of the season, alarming reports beganto come fromNew York that Oscar Hammerstein wasgoing to give up the Manhattan Opera House and sell outto the Metropolitan Opera Company. John, disturbed bythis, asked Campanini. The conductor had heard rumourstoo, and onemorning they were confirmed . The Manhat

tan Opera House was sold bag and baggage to the Metropolitan Opera Company, just like a baseball team. Theywere to sing eight weeks in Chicago and eight weeks inPhiladelphia, with special guest performances by the wholecompany at the Metropolitan on Tuesday nights . Johnagreed to the new pr0posal, and it was lucky for himthathe did, for fromthat new arrangement his long concertcareer in America began.

It was, in his View, a great tragedy for Americanmusicthat Hammerstein could not carry on at the Manhattan.

For one thing, the performances at the Metropolitan, during the time it had to compete against the Manhattan

,

reached heights they had never reached before. GattiCasazza was brought over fromthe Scala in Milan tomanage the Metropolitan, and the wonderful success hemadeof it is amatter of history. Toscanini was brought to takecharge of themusic, and to give such performances asNew

York never heard before or since .John had heard Toscanini conduct many times at theScala, but says that at the Metropolitan he performedmiracles.Miracles were necessary. At the Scala, there had alwaysbeen a keen sense of discipline throughout the whole or

ganization. The chorus, the orchestra, the principals, feltit an honour to be engaged there, and were inspired by thespecial atmosphere of that historic house, so that Toscanini

140

found a white-hot mass afire with enthusiasm, which hecould weld as he wished, andmodel as his genius bade him.

At the Metropolitan things were different. The star systemprevailed, and the slogan of the star systemis a paraphrase of ‘

L’e’

wt c’estmoi’ son io!’Under Tos

canini all that fell away. Themusic was all thatmatteredand

,miraculously, the stars responded to hismagic beat.

‘I never heard Caruso sing as well as he sang under Toscanini. Nor Farrar. Nor Destinn. As for the chorus andorchestra

,they were like the Irishman who shaved 011 his

beard after two years, and said to his friends,“Do you

know, I had a divil of a time recognizingmeselfP” I knowthat I thought there was a new chorus and orchestra at theMetropolitan on the first night of Boris Godomtojf, whenAdamo B idur sang the name part, under Toscanini . I didnot recognize them! ’

But to return to Covent Garden . The Company againperformed Don Giovanni

,this season with another Don

,

John Forel of the Stockhohn opera. He was an excellentsinger and actor, and John reckons himone of themost satisfactoryDons he ever heard. Destinn was an unforgettableDonna Anna .

‘Her singing of the recitanve before the aria Or sai

che l’onore

”was dramatic perfection, and her singing of

the aria in the last act,“N011mi dir

,

” remains one ofmytreasuredmemories of the vocal art at its highest.’Then

,one night towards the end of the season, John got

a real surprise . During the second act of La Bohe‘me

,dur

ingwhich Rodolfo and Mimi have quite a little time for14 1

conversation, Melba said to him,

‘Mccormack, how wouldyou like to come to Australia withmeP’For amoment John did not realize what shemeant. He

‘This is so sudden ! ’ he said.

Melba’s eyes glinted .

‘Don’t be a damn fool,’ she snapped .

‘I amserious . I amtaking an opera company to Australia next year, and Iwant you to be the principal tenor.’

John was delighted, and told her so. Ar once they beganto talk over the repertoire—and were suddenly broughtback to La Boheme by the agitated voice of the MaestroSuggeritore—the prompter, Maestro Pla - and the nudgesof their colleagues on the stage .There weremany details to arrange before the contract

for Australia could be signed . John had to get permissionto cut short his season at Covent Garden, and to cut hisAmerican season in half. However, Melba wangled the oneand he wangled the other, and finally he signed his contract for opera in Australia: ten weeks in Sydney and tenin Melbourne, three performances a week, at fifty poundsa performance . As it turned out, they did twelve weeks inSydney and eight in Melbourne ; but that is another story.

So there was John, at the end of the Grand Season of19 10,with all his plans reshufiied and all his labels changed.

He was no longer amember of the Manhattan Opera Company, but of the Chicago-Philadelphia Opera Company.Hewas to sing half the Grand Season in 19 1 1 , and spend theother half on the ocean. Such reshufflings and such upsetshave followed himthroughout his career. Even in his homeafi

'

airs, Lily and he have often laughed to see how seldomanything arranged long ahead turns out as planned.

During this Grand Season of 19 10, England was saddened by the death of the beloved Edward VII. The funeral was something John has never forgotten.

m2

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CHAPTER 9

OCTOBER 1 9 10 FOUND the McCormacks in Chicago for theopening of the season by the Chicago—Philadelphia Company. The entire adventure was underwritten by Mr. andMrs. HaroldMcCormick. Mrs.McCormick was the daughter of the oil king, John D . Rockefeller, and Harold hadhis fortune fromMcCormick ’s farming fix tures.

The two had a sumptuous house by Lake Michigan, alarge spread- eagle house of the Chicago millionairesqueperiod inside and out. They entertained a great deal.

‘Guests were always “bidden” rather than invited ; thetable of course groaned with good things ; the floral decorations always had a motive and consisted of out-ofseason flowers; the china was Sevres, and the goblets wereof gold . But, alas and alack, the Rockefellers never allowedanything into those goblets stronger than water. Can youimagine anythingmore incongruous and insipid than coldwater in golden gobletsP

’

The generalmanager of the new company was AndreasDippel. Dippel used to be known at the Metropolitan asthe old stand-by tenor, because he knew practically everyOpera in the repertoire, sang in every language, and couldbe counted upon to step into any role at amoment’s notice . It would be toomuch to expect that he should have abeautiful voice as well. He had notThe musical director was John’s old friend, CleofonteCampanini . The Irish are superstitious, but Campanini outran everyone John had ever known. John asked himone

144

day how it happened that he did not go to New York forthe last Hammerstein season.

‘Giovanni,’ the conductor replied,

‘I do not know whatthe real reason was

,but I knew that I would not return.

’

‘But,Maestro

, how could you be so sure?’

‘Giovanni, I never begin anything on the thirteenth oron a Friday. When the ship arrived formy last season atthe Manhattan, I noticed inmy diary that It was the thirteenth . I asked the captain to let me stay on board untilthe next day. He kindly consented, and I remained ; but,nextmorning, I had amessage fromthe captain that Imustleave the ship . I went tomy hotel, and, B iomia ! it wasFriday ! I knew then I would never conduct for Hammerstein agam.

’

John burst out laughing. He could not have been seriousat thatmoment if it had cost himhis j ob . For about fiveminutes Campanini was very angry indeed . When he wasangry, he had amarvellous fund of Italian expletives, andJohn got themall. Then he laughed too, and said he wouldtake very great care that nothing of the kind ever happeneda ain.gAs a conductor, Campanini was first and foremost adisciplinarian . He was not by anymeans a greatmusician ;in fact, it was doubted whether he could really read anorchestral score . He conducted all the well-known Italianoperas fromthe piano score . The assistant conductor, Marcel Charlier

,and ArthurRosenstein, the very skilful accom

panist, were of the greatest value to Campanini, especiallyin the study of such works as Pelle

’

as and Louise.

Once he had become letter—perfect in a score, however,Campanini retained it always . His flair for phrasing and fordramatic effect did the rest. A splendid presence and an

excellent baton technique completed his equipment. Noteven his greatest admirers would have mentioned himinthe same breath as Toscanini or Nikisch or Weingartner or

I45

Karl Muck; but he was a fine conductor, considerate to hissingers and easy to work with.

‘

W e weighed anchor,’ John says,

‘with the usual uninterestingrehearsals.We gave a couple of toots on the ship

’shorn in the shape of an orchestral rehearsal. The bell rangout fromthe bridge “Full speed ahead,” otherwise the callboy’s“Overture

,ladies and gentlemen” - in several languages

—and our ship was under way.

’

FromJohn’s own point of view the Chicago season wasjust a routine one, containing the usual operas of the repertoire. Fromthemusical point of View, there was one highlight. Formore than a year much ballyhoo had been set

going about the new Puccini opera, which had an American libretto and an American scene . The libretto of Mad

ame Butterfly had been taken froma play by an Americanauthor, Luther Long

'

, but the scene was laid i11 Japan. Thistime the scene was laid in sunny California, and the nameof the opera was The Girl of the Golden W est

,or, in

Italian, La Fmciulla del Overt. In this version of the titlethe word ‘golden’ was omited . John suggests that Puccinikept the gold for himself.The world premiere took place in New York underToscanini, with Caruso, Emmy Destinn, and PasqualeAmato . The production was by David Belasco

, who wrotethe original play. The singing, of course,was glorious, floodupon flood of golden tone, but not even the genius of aBelasco could make Caruso into a cowboy, nor Destinninto the female equivalent. To put it charitably, she did notlook the part . Amato, an exceptionally good- looking singer,

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his head at that time that Bassi did not like him, for of all

the artists that appeared with himon that fateful Octoberthe 15th , Bassi was the only one who did not come to hisdressing-roomto wish himwell. The traditional wishamong Italians is ‘

Per dirtz'

in hocca al lupo,’ which

'

wishes

you literally‘into themouth of the wolf.’ Germans, on the

other hand, hope you will break your leg and your back.

‘I wonder what their origin was,’ says John.

‘I wonderif j ealous singersmeant themliterally in the long ago whenthey were supposed to hate each other. That’s a horriblethought ! Anyway

,I can show by actual example over and

over again that there is no profession where there is suchreal generosity and appreciation of a colleague’s efforts asthere IS among singers.’Bassi had an extraordinary voice . It was beautiful inquality when he gave it a chance, but he had forced itfroma light lyric tenor to a ‘

quasi dramatioo,’ likemany alyric tenor before him

,and as a natural result he had de

ve10ped a wobble. This was so strong that it was difficultfor the listener to tell whether he was singing one note orthe next. ‘

It was impossible,’ as a distinguished critic wroteonce of a tenor singing Tristan

,

‘to get his wave- length.

To this Bassi added the distressing foible of scooping upto his high notes in such a way that the audience wonderedfor some time if he was ever going to get them. In spite ofall this, he had the knack of gaining an audience

’s sympathics, and his singing, with all its oddities, could be quitemoving. He was a good routine Italian tenor actor

,with a

power of far transcending these limitations every now andagain ; and in the last act of The Girl of the Golden W est

he sang Johnson’s aria with great effect, gripping both theaudience and his fellow-players.Renaud played the sheriff.‘This I have always thought the most stupid piece ofmiscasting I ever saw,

’ John comments, ‘until I saw a very

148

good looking motion-picture star, all he-man and allAmerican in voice and personality, trying to play Parnell- and, believe 11 or not, trying to play himwith sideburnsinstead of Parnell’s flowingbeard .

At all events, Renaud, a Frenchman fromthe crown of

his handsome head to the soles of his feet, was a patheticfigure trying to sing the part of a wild-west Americansheriif in Italian. As an actor and amaster of -stagemake-up,John placed himwith Chaliapin and Vanni Marcoux. AsAthanaelmThais

,Renaud was amazing. His ravaged ap

pearance at the end, with his great eyes blazing 111 a tortured face, will never be forgotten by anyone who saw

him. He was wonderful too in Tales ofHofimmn and inRigoletto.

Apart fromthe lovely performance of Carolina White,

John’smost vividmemory of this production was the singing of the Belgian baritone, Armand Crabbé , in the verysmall part of the camp minstrel. Crabbewas one of thetragedies of opera. He had a glorious baritone voice, equalin all its regi sters, with a range ofmore than two octaves;but he was aman of tiny stature, standing only five feetin his shoes.As the season proceeded, Andreas Dippel conceived theidea of sending five or six singers into some of the largernearby cities to give concerts . These concerts, asmay beimagined, were not very interesting fromamusical pointof View. Two dramatic sopranos, a mezzo- soprano, andtwo tenors, accomplished singers though theymight havebeen individually, did not conduce to a programme ofgreat variety. Carolina White was one soprano, and Madame W ayda, who was to go to Australia with John as adramatic soprano, was the other. The mezzo- soprano wasMadame Olitzka, a singer of European reputation, andJohn’s fellow-tenor was Nicola Zerola, a dramatic tenorwith a powerful voice, noted for his performance as Otello,

149

which he was to give later at Covent Garden. The accompanist was Spencer Clay.

Zerola had one foible which caused the unhappy Campanini a good deal of trouble . If the action of the operawere interrupted by applause that lasted more than a fewseconds

,he was unable to carry on the note . In one or two

places, particularly in Aida, Zerola always had to resumeafter such an interruption. He would sing his phrase anywhere, but always too high . The only way to meet thedifficulty was tomake an unofficial addition to the score,the strings giving the errant tenor his note so 1 as to bringhimin where he belonged.

John’s keenest recollection of these concerts is the lambasting he took fromone of the critics in Minneapolis.This gentleman for some reason took a violent dislike toJohn . A few years later he committed suicidewhen suffering frompersecution mania.

It is a sad fact about executivemusicians that, once theyare established

,their story tends to lose humanity. Just

as the pianist in Arnold Bennett’s Sacred and Profane Lovecomplains that his life is a series of station platforms andhotel bedrooms, so the human story becomes submerged inamere series of seasons, tours, and recitals .John is far toomuch alive, and his story far too lively,to be allowed this fate . Fromthis point on, therefore, Ishall be less concerned to follow the story fromyear toyear than to pick out its high- lights and follow the manwhomthey illumine .The season at Chicago was successful for John bothpersonally and artistically. His friendship with Campgrew steadily, and the two were often together. Discipli

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John looked at the score,and saw that the unhappy bari

tone had been asked to sing,‘

W e beg the privilege of ahunt upon the range of your hills .’

After hours of hard work, Sammarco succeeded in singing the phrase as ‘Wee bag the preeveeleedge 011 a oontupon the raaange off your heels.

’

In despair,John sang it back to himin his own accent.

Sammarco collapsed on a chair and laughed until the tearsran down his cheeks. Thereafter, every time theymet, thetwo would try to see who could get this immortal phraseout first.

‘Themusic of Natoma,’ John says, ‘

was just so and so.

Victor Herbert was a great master of operetta, and I always feel that Natom was an overgrown operetta, onethat had grown bigger and noisier and more bombastic .The name part

,exquisitely played by Mary Garden, had

some beautiful phrases with the American Indian flavour,though, inmy opinion, not so original as Charles W akefield

Cadman’s American music.‘The part of the tenor was, if anything, more famousand stupid than the usual tenor part. Themusic was veryhigh and very ineffective . I remember appealing to JoeRedding to tell me how in the name of music I was tophrase the strange sentence

,

“Tellme, gentlemaiden, haveI seen you in my dreams, I wonder?

” “I wonder” fiummox edme altogether, and I amdamned if I know now howNatoma could tell himwhether he had seen her in hisdreams . Still, queer things happen in opera libretti.’

The first performance of Natoma was a great occasion.

Almost every newspaper in the country sent a representative, and the atmosphere was electric. The singers, thechorus

,and the orchestra were all keyed up to give of

152

their best. Campanini was like a horse champing at the bit.Victor Herbert perspired and looked like a beetroot. JoeRedding was outwardly calm, but burnt-up inside .All in all

,the performance went with a swing. John,

full of enthusiasm,sang and acted as well as he knew how.

Victor Herbert was very flatteringto himafterwards, andgave himhis photograph with all the motifs of the operawritten on it .

The company gave the opera in New York at theMetropolitan two weeks later, but it never caught on.

Now it lies on John’s library shelf accumulating dust ; andcomposer

,librettist

,and conductor have passed to their

reward .

‘I have often wondered,’ he said,

‘

if there is any greaterspeculation in the world of art than writing a grand opera.The poor composer, bitten by the fatal bug, gets the libretto . He studies it, he re- studies it, he digests ir, he visualizes it on the stage, he considers its possible dramatic appeal, and then he calls upon hismuse to inspire him. Aftertwo or three years of heart-breaking work and brain fagnot to mention eye fag—he shows it to some impresario .

The impresario decides to take a chance and produce itwith no remuneration to the poormusical slave, of course,tillmost of the expenses are paid. Then come tedious t ehearsals with orchestra, conductor, singers, stagemanagers,and the whole pack of them.

‘

At last, the first performance ! Everything goes well.The public Seems pleased, and the impresario is enthusiastic. The poor composer says to himself: “Irwas a hard tussle and a terrible grind, but I think it was worth it .

”

‘He is awake at cock- crow to read the notices. He seizesthe papers with trembling hands, and as often as not, amistof tears fills hisweary eyes, as he sees his four or five years

’

hard work dismissed with supercilious reference to theWagner influence in the first act, the Debussy atmosphere

1 53

in the second, and the want of an individual idiomin thethird. Bah ! ’

John banged his fist on the lid of the piano .

‘To me, the whole thing is unspeakably cruel. I don’tfor one moment question the good faith of the men whowrite these cr1t1cisms, but I think, and I always will think ,

that it is grossly unfair to damn amusician’s hard work onone or two hearings . After all, it is infinitely easier to criticize than to create

,and it is notmy idea of criticismto harp

on similarity in phrases or harmony with the great ones ofthe art. Absolute originality is impossible inmusic. Whatdifference does itmake to themusicalwhole that there arelikenesses in two works?

‘

The schema fromthe F Major Violin and Piano SonataofBeethoven is none the less a great work because it is takenbodily fromthe Gregonan chant,

“Adora te Devote.

”

What difference does it make to the musical worth of

Verdi’s Otello that in themonologue,“Oh pianto 0h dual,”the master used a long phrase absolutely identical with aphrase in Gounod’s Romeo et Iulz

'

ette,with the same har

monies.P Does it detract fromthe originality of La Boheme

that it opens with the same phrase as the Liszt E Flat ConcertoPOr of Butterfly, th at Puccini remembered The Bartered Bride overture of SmetanaP

‘You, Leonard—yes, youl—you don’t know what it is like .

You can’t know. If you get an adverse criticism, you stillhave your book . The painter still has his picture . The sculptor still has his statue. But the poor composer has only hismemories

,some sweet, some inefiably sad—memories of

perhaps one or two performances, after his long, wearystruggle .

‘

As I said before, I have no grouse againstmusic critics .They are not always decrying the efforts of young composers, they are not always looking forWagner influencesand Debussy atmospheres. But, on the average, they praise

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John was honoured with an invitation to sing on thisoccasion

,but his share was very modest. He sang with

Tetrazzini,Sammarco, and Vanni Marcoux in the Lesson

scene fromThe Barber of. Seville.

As Rosina, Tetrazzini excelled herself. Her display of

vocal fireworks in the ‘Carnival of Venice’ was ahnost incredible . Everything in the coloratura trick- box was outon display, and she even found a few new tricks for theoccas1on.

‘The coloratura soprano of to-day,’ said John—‘and, by

the way, it is a formof singing I abhor~the coloraturasoprano of to—day sounds like a badly frightened canary.

She lets out a series of disconnected pip- squeaks. But Tetrazzini was a lyric soprano who could also sing coloratura,and did.

’

Her colleagues on this occasion had little to do, and didit creditably. Sammarco was a magnificent Figaro, andVanni Marcoux an incomparable Don Basilio . The Frenchbass, well established even by then, had a long and remarkable career in front of him. He was singing in Monte Carlo,still in splendid voice, twenty-five years after that. For allI know, hemay be singing still.The second itemon the programme was an act of Aida,with Emmy Destinn, Paul Franz, and Dinh Gilly. Franz,who had a tenor voice of heroic volume, was a fine singer,but Destinn dominated the performance .The programme was rounded off by the Russ1an Ballet.

Apart fromthis gala performance, the high-light of the19 1 1 season was the London premiere of The Girl of theGolden W est. Destinn once more gave a glorious vocalperformance, but her appearance and her acting were asunsuitable to the part as in New York .

1 56

‘My old friend Dinh Gilly played the sheriff and was

magnificent. In fact, I never saw anyone approach himinthis part. I know Dinh will forgiveme for saying that noteven his mother could call himhandsome ; but he was a

fine figure of a man, and the ruggedness of his featuresadded character to his performance . ’The cowboy was again Amedo Bassi. Later in the seasonthe part was taken by the American tenor Riccardo Martin, and the year following by Giovanni Martinelli, a finetenor and a great artist.When John had come back fromAmerica, he had taughtCyril

,then four years old , the waltz fromthe Puccini

opera. The child had a quick ear, and sang thisall over thehouse and through the neighbours’ fences.Two or three Sundays before the first performance in

London, Tetrazzini asked Lily and John to tea and toldthemto be sure and bring the children . On arrival at thehouse, the first person Cyril ran into was Camp(Campanini was Tetrazzini ’s brother- in-law .)Cyril accosted the conductor with the completest con

fidence.

‘Mr. Campanini,’ he said .

‘Do you know the waltz fromThe Girl of the Golden W est? Because if you don’t, I willsing it for you .

’

He proceeded to do so, with complete aplomb . Campawas flabbergasted . The opera had not yet been heard

in London, and here was a baby singing one of the principalmotifs . Suddenly he looked at John.

‘Oh, Giovanni,’ he exclaimed, ‘you have done this on

purpose .’

As had been arranged in his contract, John cut theGrand Season in half so as to tour Australia with Melba.

I S7

Lily and the children went on ahead on the old Blue Starliner Themistocles, sailing round the Cape to avoid theterrific heat of the Red Sea in July.

John soon had reason to approve their choice . Stoppingto give a concert in Paris, he set out fromMarseilles forSydney in an old- fashioned tub called the Ophz

'

r. The

Ophir has long ceased to disturb the ocean and those whosailed upon its breast. She had been the vessel chosen tobring the Duke and Duchess of York, afterwards KingGeorge V and Queen Mary, on their first trip to Australiain the ’nineties. She brought John safely, too, but the tripthrough the Red Sea out- sweltered anything he had beenable to imagine . He gave himself up for dead : he longedto die . Instead, he sweated and stifled in a heat that seemedbeyond the power ofman to support.The Ophir crossed the Indian Ocean in a dead cahn,escorted by eight or ten albatrosses. John watched themfascinated for hours

,admiring that poetry ofmotion, that

perfect minimumof exertion. Again and again he foundthe lines of ‘The Ancient Mariner’ sounding in his head .

He felt better now that Aden was passed, and he was

practising every day. This trip provides one of the far-offlinks with himto which I have referred in the Foreword .

A colonial bishop, father of a great school friend ofmine,was travelling on the same boat, and spoke of the joy ofhearing John’s voice daily, even through closed doors.The Ophz

'

r

'

arrived at Colombo early in the morning.

Before leaving London,John had been warned not tomiss

seeing the sunrise there . He remembered the warning, andwas rewarded with a sight which he never forgot.The dawn began to reach up into the tremendous height

of the sky, and a mountain appeared, silhouetted againstthe crimson fingers. As the sun rose, the silhouette of themountain became fainter and fainter. By the time the sunwas fairly up in the sky, themountain had completely dis

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these Visitations, besides being absolutely necessary as publicity, were a real pleasure . No one had yet dreamed ofthe crowds of autograph hunters, whipped up by pressagents

,which came with the growth of themotion—picture

industry. If anyone asked for an autograph in 19 1 1 , it wasa compliment indeed . John was thrilled when an amateurphotographer asked himto pose for a picture . He wouldnot be thrilled to- day, when the autograph fiend is a pestto artists and public alike . The campaigns ofmovie- stars’press agents to trumpet the sex ual attractions of the starprovoked John to comment I had better not set down.

‘Would you believe this? he shouted .

‘A Hollywoodpress agent actually had two charmingmaidens hide underthe bed of a star as he sailed for Europe, and got themtostick their silly heads fromunder it just as the photographer

’

s bulb flashed .

‘

If aman thinks he 18 Napoleon, you shove himinto anasylum. If a press agent tries to tell the public that his staris Casanova, he should be treated the same way.

‘

And mind you, no one is more disgusted by all thisflapdoodle than the poor Victim. I have spoken with praetically every big star in Hollywood— as fine a bunch ofmen as you couldmeet in any profession—and I can assurethese shriekingmaidens and simperingmisses that

, if theyheard what their idols said about them, they would throwten fits.

’

The train journey to Sydney was in those days none toofast or comfortable . South Australia had one gauge, Victoria another, and New South Wales went back to thefirst again, so that in a journey of eight hundredmiles onehad to change trains twice . John was told that Victoriawas j ealous of the rest of Australia, and insisted on havinga gauge of its own, just to be exclusive .He had heard a great deal about the beauty of Sydney

160

harbour, but ever since he saw it first, he has allowed itssons to say all they like about it .

‘I have seen it fromthe ocean, I have seen it frombothtowering Heads

,I have sailed into its every bay, and it

remains forme amonument to the Creator of all Beauty.

’

16 1

CHAPTER 10

THE COMPANY OPENED on September the zud at His Majesty

’

s Theatre withm '

eta. According to the press, nosuch brilliant audience had ever assembled in Australia.This was not surprising, since Melba had come home toher own country. She had sung there in concerts manytimes, but now she was to sing in opera, and show Australians how an Australian had conquered the world .

Melba gave an inspired performance . There was realwarmth in her singing, and she was obviouslymoved bythe ovation she received . In the front row, leading theapplause, was her old father, who sat beaming on all

around him.

Afterwards, Melba told the audience that she had realized her life’s ambition.

‘I have brought Covent Garden to Australia,’

she said.

Angelo Scandiani, who had sung with John on the nightof his début, sang Pere Germont, and' John was the Alfredo . Both sang well

,and shared in the triumph, as did

the young conductor, Giuseppe Angelini.The press notices were enthusiastic, and spoke of Johnin superlative terms . They did not hesitate to speak of ‘atriumph forMelba and McCormack .

’ Photographs of Johnappeared everywhere

,and his car, which he had just

bought, came in for a great deal of attention.

The question of publicity, and its effect upon the artist,has never been fully investigated . Every man or womanwho appears regularly in public has to face the problem

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This position was not altogether a sinecure . At one ofthe innumerable parties given for the company by the hospitable Australians, Angelini wanted to tell one of theguests how lovely he thought her. His English vocabularywas extremely small, and the lady had no Italian . Accordingly, he summoned John, and poured forth an impassioned streamof praises. John entered into the spirit of thething with great gusto . He translated into rhapsodicalIrish the passionate Italian of his friend. At the climax ofhis rhapsody, he caught a glint in Lily

’s black eyes. Shehad heard only the translation. Very sheepishly he explained.

‘I wished I could have translatedmyself to a safedistance. ’

‘I have hadmore than thirty years of public life,’ Johndeclared,

‘and nowhere have I found amoremusic- lovingpeople than the Australians. Mind you, they have theirfaults—and plenty of_ them. They are insular. They listenpassionately to the side of a story they wish to hear. Theidea of giving anyone the benefit of the doubt is ahnostimpossible to them. Press propaganda is truth, and gossipis inspired .

‘But they are wonderq ymusical and gloriously en

thusiastic. Their taste is excellent. No audience in theworld compares with an Australian audience in its hungerfor the really beautiful things inmusic. This is not onlymy experience, but that of every performer who has gonethere . I will never forget their kindness tome personally inthose early days. Nor will I forget their cruelty whensilly propaganda charged me with all kinds of offences .Evenmy undying love for the land ofmy birth, andmyunchanging belief 111 her inalienable right to be free, werecharged againstme as crimes.

‘But I amgetting ahead ofmy story—and you don’t like

that,I know. God, what a bully the man is . I like to go

jumping about in my life, as the whimtakesme. I don’t

164

believe in all this pedantic arranging of things in order.’‘I know you don’t

,

’ I replied .

‘I gowalking up and downthis life of yours like a park keeper picking up bits ofpaper on the end of a stick .

’

The season progressed, and, as the press cuttings show,

press and audiences grewmore andmore enthusiastic. Theaudiences now had their set favourites, whomthey wouldcall before the curtain by name . This could be embarrassing

,and it did not always please the diva. But John, though

the prime favourite of the audiences after Melba, remainedon excellent terms with her.One night he was prevented by a sudden attack of

hoarseness fromsinging Fdust. The company’s doctor,Herbert Marks

, worked all day on himto try and bring hisvoice back, but to no purpose. Albert Quesnell, a ,

goodfriend of John’s

,had to go on instead . When the an

nouncement wasmade fromthe stage, the gallery set upa song of ‘

W e want John McCormack,’ which lasted untilthe orchestra began the overture . Th is was taken verywell by the good-natured Quesnell, whose only comeback was to say, that he never thought John’s name wouldsound so badly when sung by a chorus .There was an excellent spirit throughout the company,and allworked with a will. Everybody, fromMelba to thelowliest chorister or stage hand, wanted the season to be ahuge success . In the first fortnight the company rehearsedand produced seven operas,

‘

and the performances were allof excellent standard . The Operas were Traviata

,Rigo

letto,Faust

,Romeo et luliette, Bohe

‘me,Butterfly, and

165

Tosca,all given in the original language with a ninety per

cent Australian orchestra and a ninety per cent Australianchorus. The audiences were proud of their chorus andorchestra, as they had every right to be, and the visitorswere proud to be identified with them.

One of the outstanding singers of the company wasMadame W ayda, the Polish soprano alreadymentioned asa member of the Chicago-Philadelphia Opera Company.

She sang later on at Covent Garden with very considerable success

,but she had one characteristic which made

things difficult for her colleagues, and that was to singwith extreme slowness. Sometimes she sang so slowly as toseemthe forerunner of the torch singer and the crooner;though, unlike theirs, the sound she made was beautiful.

It was during this season at Sydney that John first sangRomeo . He has never forgotten the first night. The heatwas terrific : the thermometer in the wings stood at ninetyfive. John had studied

'

the part assiduously. He had costumesmade in London, and a wig by Clarkson. He hadtaken lessons in fencing in case he should try to use asword like a shillelagh . Ou the opening night, he felt thathe looked the part . He did not think he had acted it toobadly, and he knew that he had sung it fairly well.When he arrived back at the hotel

,therefore, be ex

pected Lily tomake a great fuss of him.

All he got was,‘Hullo, John ! I thought your wigwas

awful.’

His face fell, his eyes filled with tears.‘I have often got back at her since,

’ he said with relish .

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seemed to sense an antagonistic feeling in the press . Thenshe caught cold after cold, and had to cancel some of herperformances. She became depressed, and one night, as

they walked up and down the stage in the second act ofLa Bohe

‘me,she told John that she had decided to cut

short the Melbourne season and return to Sydney for a

farewell fortnight.John was flabbergasted . He had taken a charming housein one of Melboume’s beautiful suburbs for the whole season

,and the children were having a glorious time. Now

he had to pack up and return to Sydney, leaving the family behind .

He began to expostulate and protest. He pointed out toMelba the great expense of such a move ; but she wouldnor listen. Never did he sing the lovemusic of La Boh émewith less enthusiasmthan that night.He was all the angrier because he was

'

having such agood time personally. The audiences took himto theirhearts

,and the critics were enthusiastic. One, writing in

the Melbourne Society of his performance in Rigoletto,said thatMcCormack was head and shoulders above everybody in the cast.Proudly John bore this home and showed it to Lily.

Lily was delighted to see it in print.‘

Of course, it’s not true,

’

she said .

John grinned,‘I know it’s not true . But it sounds good .

’

Apart fromhis work, he had made a great number offriends . Moreover, he had been playing cricket. The operacompany had its own team, of which John was amember.On the day after the first performance of Romeo et [aliette

,the teamplayed a scratch eleven on the Fitzroy

Ground.

John was in great form. Hemade the highest score ofhis 1ife—51 . This feat was largely due to the encouragement of a crowd which applauded every stroke with cries

168

J OHN M C CORMACK ASGOLFER AND ANGLER

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egy of the game . Itmay be. All I know is that it getsmeworked up into such a state of frenzy I can’t enjoy thegame.’And now

,at the whimof a disappointed prima donna,

John had to leave all this and go to Sydney alone .The company, already depressed at this premature finishto the Melbourne season, were thrown into real gloombythe death of a colleague . Dammacco, the principal bass,fell suddenly ill and died . His had been one of the

,out

standing successes of the tour. He had a finemanly voice,was an excellent actor, and seemed destined for a greatcareer.

Sydneymade an even greater fuss of the company whenthey returned for their farewell fortnight. They seemedto realize the compliment that Melba was paying them.

There was a strong rivalry between the two cities, Sydneyand Melbourne, and the Sydney public were flattered byMelba’s return, since it proved to their minds that theywere themoremusicallyminded and had the better taste .The season closed, as it had opened, in a grand gala. The

old His Majesty’s Theatre was crowded with a wildly enthusiastic audience . The last chord had been played

,and

the stage was a mass of flowers fromthe admirers of allthe singers. The bouquets varied fromsimple bunches ofviolets to huge wreaths of silvered laurel . Melba stood inthemiddle of the stage, surrounded by the colleagues whohad done their utmost tomake her Visit a success .

‘Speech,speech, speech !

’ yelled the audience.Melba raised a hand, and stepped forward. Instantlysilence fell. The singers looked at one another. Melba wasgoing to be generous. All those stories they had heard of

170

her petty j ealousies, her want of generosity to her colleagues, were just spiteful invention.

Then Melba spoke .‘I want to thank you all,

’ she said,‘

for supporting ourOpera company. But I want to thank you especially forcoming on the nights when I did not sing.

’

The singers stared . It was not possible . They could notbe hearing aright. No one could be so unspeakably

‘

Ungra

cions,so ungrateful . Hot protests rose to their lips, for, in

Melbourne especially,they had kept the season going

when Melba was ill and could not sing.

Then, suddenly, the strain was eased . The ridiculousside of the thing struck them, and a gale of laughter sweptthrough the company.

Melba stepped back bowing, acknowledging the ap

plause, and found herself surrounded by laughing faces.‘What are you all laughing atP

’ she enquired .

Nobody told her.

John stayed in Australia well over into the new year.On his return to Melbourne he sang in The Messiah onChristmas night in the huge Exhibition Building. Duringthe afternoon rain fell in such torrents that everyone wasafraid half the audience would be kept away. It was, ofcourse, midsummer in Australia. Luckily, at about six inthe evening the rain took off, and a magnificent sunsetbrought the people pouring out of their homes .John had had a special reason for being concerned aboutthe size of the audience . When the Philharmonic Societyapproached himto sing, he named a fee which struck themas too high . Instead, they persuaded himto accept a per

1 7 1

centage of the receipts. So huge was the audience that hischeque turned out to be far more than the fee he hadoriginally asked.

The performance reached an extraordinary level. Oneof thosemysterious waves of enthusiasmand co-operationbetween the audience and the artists inspired principals,chorus

,and orchestra alik e .

Something of the regard in which John was already heldis shown by the advertisements in the local papers whichran like this :

Soloists:

Miss Lilian Reid.

Mdlle. Voluntas—Ranzenberg.

Mr. John McCormack.

Mr. John McCormack.

Mr. John Mccormack.

Mr. Horace Stevens .

It was invidious: it was quite indefensible : but that washow they printed ir.Ou New Year’s Day of 1 9 1 2 John sang his first concertin Australia in the same huge building.With himappeareda young New Zealand soprano who was also amember ofthe Melba Opera Company, and who was presently tomake a great success in England. She was Rosina Buckman, now the wife of that fine tenor and admirablemusician, Maurice D

’

Oisly.

An extra link, since forged between themand John, isthat they have often been examiners at the Feis in Dublinwhich gave himhis start.Thi s first concert was a tremendous success with bothpublic and press . By special request; John sang a numberof Irish ballads. One notice, fromthe Melbourne Austral

asian,gave John such pleasure and amusement that he

framed it . It ran as follows

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the relief of findingthemselves alive was so great that theybegan to laugh.

Nextmorning, as if to atone, the sun shone gloriouslyand the sea wasmolten gold .

‘

For sheer scenic beauty, I have never seen a country tobeat New Zealand. I have travelled over both the Northand South Islands, I have been fromAuckland to Wellington and fromChristchurch to Dunedin ; and for variety ofscenery New Zealand comes out top. Add to this a charming, kindly, hospitable, broad-minded people, and I challenge the world on behalf ofNew Zealand—God bless her !My concerts in Wellington and Auckland were a great

‘I hadmarvellous audiences, fromthe point of numbers

as well as enthusiasm. All the same,it is a fact that I have

always hadmore real pleasure in singing for a small audience which I knew to be friendly than for a large one thatI had to convince . I have had a good deal of experience ofboth types. One Sunday night long ago, I sang at a concert in Scarborough . The holding of Sunday concerts was

a new venture,much resented by the church-going people, who looked on themas sacrilegious. We Catholics feeldifferently about that, thank God ! At all events, we hadan audience of about thirteen or fourteen, and I sang thesame number of songs as there weremembers of the audience . It was like singing in your own drawing-roomto agroup of friends.

‘I have been told I always sang better for a small audience than for a big one . I have felt thatmyself too . Rachmaninov, I remember, had the same feeling. He said thatit was affection and admiration that brought the smallaudience

,but in a large audience there was always an ele

ment of curiosity.

’

The second concert in Auckland brought to an endJohn’s first visit Down Under. At it he scored by far the

I 74

greatest personal success of his life up till that time . Lilyand he were tremendously entertained, and mademany afriend . Some of themproved less even than fair-weatherfriends—but the great majority remained and remainfaithful.

‘I have never asked that a friend should agree witheverything that I did . I have always believed firmly inwhat Emerson said in his essay on Friendship—

“I

'

wouldrather be a thorn in the side ofmy friend than his echo .

Well —I have neverminded the thorn pricks coming frommy friends, but I have the utmost contempt for the socalled friend who hides the thorn in a velvet glove .

‘I have a good old friend who thinks the same, althoughhe expresses it better. That is Colonel Fritz Brase, that excellent and seriousmusician, the first Musical Director ofthe Irish Free State Army Band . I remember one day hesaid tome in Dublin

,

“Mein gelz'

ebterHerr Gray“,I cannot

suffer theman who puts both hands round your neck andstabs you in the back with the other.”

Lily and John left New Zealand for Vancouver on theSS . Mamma. They stayed at Suva for eight or nine hours,seeing practically nothing, as they were in the middle ofthe rainy season, then went to Honolulu .

In 19 1 2 Honolulu had yet to be discovered by Hollywood . Simple and little advertised though it was, a concertwas arranged for John on his arrival . The auditorium, a

large one, was used chiefly by the United States Army for

physical jerks . It was excellent for sound, but unfortunately the roof wasmade of corrugated iron. When a real

I 7S'

tropical rain stormfell, or, even worse, a shower of hail,conditions were not of the best for John’s pianissim.

Everything went splendidly till John found himself atthemost intense moment of the second verse of ‘MotherMachree .’ As he reached the phrase ‘Oh, God bless youand keep you,

’ aa torrential shower fell on the non roof.John stopped dead—he had to . After three or four minutes

,the rain ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and, to

the intense amusement of the audience, he sang the finalwords of the song.

‘I have always been tremendously concentrated on mywork as I sang.Whenever I have letmymind wander during a song, nomatter how trivial the song happened to beand how well I knew ir, I have invariably dried up.

‘

You will never believeme, but one night I dried up inI Hear You Calling Me .” After I had been singing it fornearly twenty years too . You know I always have thewords ofmy songs in a little book. Well, I had given uphaving the words of this one, for I knew it in my sleep.

On this particular night, I lost my concentration in thesecond verse and dried up altogether. I stood gaping onthe platform

,when a young lady in themiddle of the hall

came to the rescue. She called out loudly “Oh, John—AndOh the ringing gladness of your voice .”

‘Believe it or not, that was the line that had slippedmymemory. The audience cheered the implied compliment,and I was deeply grateful for the prompt.

’

After a splendid trip, John and Lily arrived in Victoria,British Columbia. At the end of the usual customs formalities, they got into a large taxi- cab and drove to the Hotel

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per concert for the first year, with increases for the secondand third.

Lily and John were all enthusiasm. They discussed wherethey would stay in New York, whether they would bringthe children over, what school they would go to, orwhether it would be better to bring a governess. Theydiscussed everything under the sun,

until Lily suddenlystopped and exclaimed, ‘But, John, you are not free to

‘That is all right,’ said Wagner. ‘

You will be—at midnight.’

There was nothing else to do, so the three dined togetherand waited up tillmidnight. Fiveminutes afterwards Johnsigned his contract with Charlie Wagner. Wagner w as asplendid and most capable manager and a good friend .

The two worked together formany seasons, and partedcompany bymutual consent. It was an excellent association for both, bringing fame and money, and John hasnothing but good to say of it.FromPortland the pair went to California. John’s firstconcert under the new contract was in San Francisco . He

sang at the Scottish Rite Auditoriumon February the 2 7th,1 9 1 2 . The hall was crowded to the doors . There was justroomenough on the stage for the piano and for John.

Nervous as a kitten, he walked on the platformfor hisfirst number. So perfunctory was the applause that hecould hear the sound of his own footsteps.John felt that the audience were saying

,

‘You are welcome, youngman.We have heard a lot about your singing

,

but we want to judge for ourselves. Now go on and sing.

’

Saying a little prayer to St. Cecilia, he nodded to Spencer Clay at the piano, and began the concert with ‘

Cbe

gelz'

dammim’fromLa Bobéme.

Nowadays he abhors operatic arias on the concert stage .‘They are ridiculous and out of place,

’ he says,‘and lose

1 78

everything that gives themany artistic value,either mu

sically or dramatically.

’

Be that as itmay, hemust have sung this aria with conviction, for at its close he received one of the greatest ovations of his life . For the rest of the concert he was on air.When he finished his Irish group, it was easy to see towhat race the maj ority of the audience belonged . Thepress notices were marvellous, and, before he left SanFrancisco on that first visit, he sang at three more concerts, all in the space of a week .

Fromthere John went to Los Angeles, where JulianJohnson, themusical critic of the Los Angeles Times, produced another notice to be framed and go on the wall.

Such limpid use of the voice, such a delicate command ofportamento, such mezza voce, such round, luscious, appealing, ringing tone, floatingon the breath and formed apparently without the slightest physical limitation or throaty pressure—to tell the truth, all these things do not seemlogical oreven sane in these days of passion-tattering.

McCormack is by nomeans intense. “Vesti la giubba” bynomeans swims into his ken, though by another paradox heis .a superb Cavaradossi and a tragic and ahnost matchlessEdgardo. But would you have a diamond glow red, or a softsunset embattled with clangorous lightning? There are enoughopals and rubies—a sufficiency of Carusos and B almores, whileof the“ expiring Bonci race only Mccormack appears to upbearthe white standard of bel canto pure and undefiled .

’

When things like this are written about an artist, theyput himin grave danger. The young and foolishmay believe he has nothing left to learn, and, even if the art1stescape this fate, his ears may be closed to quieter judgments,more judiciously expressed . John’s comment is thatit was a good thing for all concerned that, when he gotback to London and Covent Garden, he was brought doto earth again by a good wholesome drubbing fromanEnglish critic .

I 79

The rest of this short tour brought John to Omaha,Denver

,Cleveland, Detroit, and then Chicago.

Spencer Clay had gone with himas accompanist, but hewanted to go back to London and teach, so at ChicagoJohn had to find someone else. Since he had signed withCharlie Wagner, his manager had dinned in his ears themerits of a certain American accompanist.

‘The best thing about him,

’ Wagner said,‘

is that on topof being such a goodmusician, he is very placid in temperament, and does nor lose his temper nomatter howmuch he is provoked. He would be ideal for you .

’

John guffawed. He did not believe that such a personexisted. Then, onemorning, Wagner rang himup to saythat Clarence Whitehill wanted himto go for a cocktailto his roomat the Blackstone Hotel.When John got there, Whitehill was rehearsing somesongs of Schubert. He gave John a nod, and went ou. Assoon as he had finished, he said,

‘John, I want you tomeetthe finest accompanist in America, and our grandest colleague. Teddy Schneider—John Mccormack .

’

Fromthat day, fromthatmoment in fact, began an association which did not end officially till the 16th of March1 937; and an affectionate friendship which will last as longas bothmen live . The benign figure of Edwin Schneiderat the piano was asmuch a part of a Mccormack recital asthe little note-book or ‘The Snowy Breasted Pearl.’

At Detroit, John was welcomed by a number of Irishmen under the presidency of Father Dennis Tighe

, who

had been with himat Sligo College. There was also a poemof welcome by an old Irish patriot, WilliamJ. Dawson,who had been a friend of Parnell and Justin Mccarthy. Itwas not great poetry, but it touched John

’s heart and

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two of these occasions the house was sold out. In New

York alone,he gave twelve concerts for which the total

attendance was fifty- eight thousand . At the last concert

in New York, over seven thousand people were packedinto the New York Hippodrome, five thousand wereturned away

,and John was obliged to give no fewer than

eighteen encores.These statistics naturally have no musical significance,but they proved the astonishing hold which John alreadyhad over American audiences, and they showed why hewas so soon to say good-bye to the operatic stage in favourof the concert platform.

Some reaction fromthese successes was only to be expected , and John found the London criticsmore reservedthan those of America. Reports of his huge concert success had been assiduously spread by the GramophoneCompany, and this, coupled with the fact that he wasnow no longer a novice, may have helped the critics totake a severer standard . When an artist has arrived

, his

good work is apt to be taken for granted . The occasionsthe critics notice are those when for one reason or anotherhe falls below his best.But John had too much new accomplishment to bepassed over. When he sang in The Barber of Seville withTetrazzini, the whole press was enthusiastic about his singing of the very difficult aria in the first act ‘

Ecco ridente

in oz'

elo.

’ But no compliment pleased himsomuch as a letter fromSir John Murray Scott. Sir John had so often toldhimof Mario’s excellence in this part that praise fromhimwent deeper than any other’s .

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John was particularly gratified by his success in 11 Ba?bz

'

e'

re,because he had studied it particularly hard . He

wanted to sing it like an Italian—or rather, he wanted tosing the recitatives like an Italian . Tetrazzini, on the otherhand, was determined to pay a compliment to her Englishadmirers by interpolating into the Lesson scene a song inEnglish . John tried his best to dissuade her, since her English diction was extremely odd . It was no use : she was

determined to sing an English song. Her choice fell on SirFrederick Cowen’s ‘The Swallows.’ This song was writtenfor that excellent singer, Evangeline Florence. Even whenshe sang it

,admirable though her diction was, the words

were difficult to follow. But when Tetrazzini began to

I have opened widemy latticeLettingmthe laughing breeze,

Telling happy storiesTo the flowers and the trees.

the result in so far as it was comprehensible at all, suggested what went on outside the opera house rather thanwithin it . John heard as far as

‘Hi ave hopened widamylettuce’— the rest was indistinguishable .The press next day was restrained on the subject of thisinterpolation. One critic professed not to know in whatlanguage the lady was singing .

‘But that,’ John put ih ,

‘could be said ofmany an English- speaking singer I have known . I believe it’s becausethey think they will be heard without taking care . I canthink ofmore than one singer of the front rank who hadexcellent diction in foreign languages, but whose Englishwords were indistinguishable. I think this laziness, this takingit for granted, is at the bottomof the atrocious Englishdiction one so often hears in England and America.’

1 83

SIR J OHN M URRAY scor'

r fell ill this year, and had to godown to the country to recuperate . John went down to

see himwhenever he could, and spent hours singing to h'

A strong affection existed between the two. Sir Johnlooked on ‘Mac’ almost as a son, and John gave his fullaffection in return. Some benefactors earn our full gratitude, but put a strain upon it because we cannot love them.

John not only owed the older man his start: he wouldhave loved himin any case .As soon as the Covent Garden season was finished , Johnleft for his first real concert tour of Australia and New

Zealand. Teddy Schneider could not. go with him, so heinvited his old friend and firstmaster, Vincent O ’

Brien, to

go as accompanist. O ’

Brien got leave of absence fromtheDublin Cathedral choir

,and the pa1rmet to plan the de

tails of the tour.‘Mind ye, Vincent, it

’

s a long trip,’ John warned him.

‘

It will take us literally round the world. First to Australia, then New Zealand, then to Honolulu, and so on toAmerica.’O

’

Brien was tremendously impressed. He duly appearedat the boat, bringing with hima small trunk and a regularflock of small bags of all shapes and characters.John commented rudely on these, but during the Aus

tralian part of the tour he did not notice them. As soon asthey came to the United States, however, where the wholemix umgatherumof luggage was crowded into John’s‘drawing-room’ on the train, he noticed themverymuchindeed .

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had happened to Bassi, Zenatello, andmany another lyrictenor, he never attempted to force his voice or to singmore powerfully than Nature had intended. He used hisvoice naturally, taking a spontaneous delight in it, singingabout the house, singing everywhere except in the openair. The voice knew best. It wasmade to be used, it gainedits strength frombeing used, it became not coarser butmore subtle, n0t louder but more varied : because it wasused naturally and on the sound principles learned fromthe invaluable Maestro Sabatini .Among the many stories told of John is one which Ireceived direct froma man who claimed to have beenthere . Thisman alleged that one summer night the inbahitants of a street in Dublin were startled fromtheir bedsby the sound of marvellous and full-throated singing inthe street. They put their heads out of the window, andsaw in themoonlight John Mccormack coming home aftera good dinner, happy, and fillingthe night with the volume of his voice .I always liked the story—but it is quite untrue. John hasalways had a horror of singing in the Open air

, for fear ofdamage to his voice. He has only done it twice, once atthe request of the President of the United States

,the other

time at the great Eucharistic Congress in Dublin .

The season of 19 1 3 was chiefly remarkable for the advent of Chaliapin. The giant Russian bass captured Londonon his first appearance . This was not at Covent Garden,but at Drury Lane. Though I was a schoolboy at the time,I can well remember the excitement which he caused . Untilthey heard him, people had not realized that a bass couldnot only be the hero of an opera, but could sing with the

1 86

flex ibility, the appeal, the finish , the dramatic power of aCaruso . Hitherto, with a few notable exceptions, opera hadlooked on the bass as the handyman. Basses played priests

,

Villains, aged fathers, buffo parts . Here, in Boris,was a partwhich gave a bass everything. And, beyond the trememdous power, the range, the expressiveness of his voice, Chaliapin was the greatest actormodern opera h as known . He

produced effects beyond the range of other artlsts, effectswhich enlarged the horizon of even experienced critics, andset a new standard.

John never sang with Chaliapin, but the two naturallymet, and found a good deal to say to each other. Chaliapin,one size larger than human, almost as terrifying ln his geniality as in the agonies of Boris, had a strong streak of peasant simplicity which found an answer in John ; and John,with his immediate friendliness and his fund of stories,amused and delighted the huge Russian . Each came to havea great admiration for the other, and Chaliapin, thatmaster of characterization, realized and appreciated to the fullJohn’s power of giving life to a ballad

,of suggesting char

acter by the colour of his voice, and flicking over a songwith point as quick as a wink .

The two met again for the 1 9 14 season . During thissummer an invitation came to John to take part in theSalzburg Festival Greatly complimented, he set out, andwas in Ostend when a hasty wire came fromLily tellinghim

, in view of the war situation, to go no further for themoment. When the war broke out, he was still 1n Ostend .

The years 1 9 14—1 8made a break inmany careers, evenwhen they did not cut themshort. The break in John’s

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was Violent and decisive . The beginning of the war foundhimvocally at the summit of his powers. He was later tolearnmuch in the way of interpretation, and to extend therange of his singing tomusic as yet beyond his scope. But,since the break is there, it is only natural to treat it as abreak in the story. In the next chapter therefore wepause and try to consider John’s achievement.

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fromthe gramophone record, and are often left uncertainas to quality; but enough survives to be a real guide .Whenwe ‘ talk of the singers of the ’nineties and early nineteenhundreds

,we havemore than report to go ou . Even though

the records be poor and few ,and the items tawdry, we can

hear a ghost of the voices that astounded our fathers. Howpale a ghost

,the singers themselves might be sorry to

know; they might even prefer nothing, as did one finesinger of recent times, Dinh Gilly, who called 111 all hisrecords : but we listeners are happy with what we have .

John’s birth date was as lucky for lovers of singing asfor himself. The first vigour of his developed voice coincided with the golden age of pre-war recording . He abandoned opera just at the right time . Opera, forcing thevoice up and up, was well enough for the first years ; butJohn’s was a voice capable of the most sensitive shading,and its Irish qualitymight have been damaged in continualcompetition with an orchestra.As a result

,the records ofmore than twenty years pre

serve the successive stages of a voice that has outlastedthose ofmost lyric tenors .During the war of 19 14

—1 8, his voice was recorded atits fullmaturity. The advent of electri cal recording foundit past its first freshness, but the singer

’smusicianship andsubtlety were at their highest. He continued to learn andto experiment, even after 1t became necessary to cope withthe inevitable loss of freedom. The gramophone has therefore a complete record of his history. Even thoughmanyof his finest records are unpurchasable except fromcol

l9o

lectors, his reputation is in safe keeping. None will be ableto doubt him, as we doubt the Victorian tenors . Theirquality reaches us only on the word of a generation withwhose aesthetics we are in little sympathy, and their records, made in the twilight of their careers, show moreeffort than achievement. True, some of John’s finest performances were never recorded ; but students of singing inthe future, tumingback to account for an extraordinaryreputation, will find plenty ofmaterial on which to basetheir judgment.

The first thing that will strike themis the voice itself.The earliest records

,as we have seen, promise nothing ex

traordinary. They tell us nothing of the quality perceivedat once by Vincent O ’

Brien and Dudley Forde . A light,pure tenor, thin at the top, does its best to be heard abovea Vigorous brass band accompaniment. The best of theOdeon records do the voice something like justice

,but the

singing is immature, and the accompaniments asthmaticand dolorous . It is to the records of the Victor Companyand His Master’s Voice that we must turn to hear theartist at his best.John’s voice was a pure tenor, of which the Irish colouring was strengthened by an Italian training . Keeping allthe weather of its native skies, it achieved the brightnessand ring of the best Italian voices, with none of their harshness. Rounded, steady, and true, it had themagical qualityof being released rather th an uttered . The voice exults inits own beauty: the singing is an expression of delight.Nothing can suggest its exuberance, its living beauty, but

19 1

images fromits native air. It wells up with the dark fullness of a flooded river, leaping into sunlight, gleaming withan almost unbearable brilliance, then leaving a last soft noteto float high in the air- like the coloured spray fromawaterfall, a heavenly Vis1tant rather than a ghost.Our student, properly indifferent to anecdote andmetaphor, will notice that the voice is not only perfectlyrounded

,but that it rings on every vowel with equal

brightness . Listening to the record of ‘

Salve dimow,

’ hewill hardly believe it is sung in the original key, so easilyare the notes taken

,and so full the tone . When the climax

comes,he will be astonished to hear the high C taken on

the ‘

u’

of fanciulla, as not one tenor in two hundred 1

could dreamof taking it ; and he will realize why theGramophone Company put this record into their old cc

lebrity series of Fcrust in preference to Caruso’s, even

though it broke the sequence : for Caruso sang the part inall the others

,and they were all in French.

Returning for a moment to comparisons, we mightliken the voice of the typical Italian tenor to a bright fiatband ofmetal ; of the English, to a wooden pipe, hollowat the centre ; of the German, to a pipe of metal stuffedwith felt. John’s voice was rounded and all of a piece . Ithad no hollows to be stuffed with anything. Its tone wasliving, warm,

and healthy. It had none of the whitenessthat sometimes disfigured the noble eloquence of Bonci,none of the snarl that could tarnish the silver tones ofZenatello. At one period— to judge by certain of his records— it tended to be nasal ; otherwise it had no physicalflaw. Compared even to the voice of so excellent a lyrictenor as Evan Williams, his cousin in ease and Celtic softness, John

’s voice had an additional dimension.

2

1 The only other singer'

I have heard do this IS Bonci.2 It 18 very interestingto compare records by John and Evan W illiams

of the same arias and songs. Ex cellent ex amples are ‘Che gelidamanina’

(the W elshman sings it in English) and Liddle’

s‘

A Farewell.’

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out tomeet a problemofmy own, the singers and speakerson whomI have tried it out have at once understood ir,and one teacher at least has adopted it . John, needlessto say, saw it in a flash, and nearly nodded his big headoff.

I was speaking of the innocence of his singing of Mozart. That quality of innocence was inherent in the voice,which never lost it . My wife described Caruso’s as adouble-bed voice . John’s held no such suggestion . LikeSynge

’

s Christy Mahon, it was‘always the decent boy.

’

The invitation,meltingly given, ‘Slip intomybosom’

(from‘Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal’) could be accepted by amaiden in the full confidence that ‘None other shall shareit, no one ever will

’

(‘Mother I have never

heard the cry,‘

0 you've famoiulla’ fromthe first act of LaBoheme so irresistibly sung as by John to the Mimi ofLucrezia Bori. The very outpouring of youthful ardour,it promised everything, for the first time and the last.

I referred in an earlier chapter to the resemblance asartists between John and Kreisler. Both use a golden richness of tone ; their phrasing is similar; and both, while capahle of interpreting the highest of the classics, performnumbers which are popular in the broadest sense

,and have

no interest for themusician.

Why did John sing so much rubbish? How could asinger capable of the best in Handel and Mozart

,in

Brahms and Wolf, sing some of the things he sang withevident sincerity and enjoyment? Had he no real taste atall? Was he,musically speaking, an inspired simpleton?

I94

John himself has rationalized the “matter. To sing onlythe best music

,he regards as a formof snobbery. In his

recitals,he would sing first what he owed tomusic, then

what he owed to his voice, then what he owed to his country

,and finally what he owed to the less sophisticated of

those who had paid to hear him. Many of these had nomusical taste, but were capable of emotional response tosongs of obvious and simple sentiment. W ere they to besent empty away?Here are his own words on the subject.‘Singing is most of all an expression of something felt,rather than thought— though who can say where thoughtends and feeling begins? Because theymean more to me,musically, I would rather sing songs like “Die Mainacht

”

or“Da bist d ie Rub

” than some of themore popular numbers that are always demanded of me. But I thank Godthat I can feel what the everyday man and woman feelwith regard to the homely and healthy emotions whichoften are so simply and eloquently expressed by songs oflesser musical pretensions . I have never sung music I didnot want to sing . I have my preferences, of course ; andthese are not always the same as the preferences of myaudiences . I try to go half—and half with them: I give themwhat they would not be happy without; and they, in tu

rn,must take what I would not be happy if I did not sing.

But sometimes—often, in fact—I find that a song I was notparticularly enthusiastic about when I placed it on the programme—because I had grown a little tired of it—is the oneI feelmost deeply when the time comes to put it over.’It is a reasoned answer, but I suspect that the real truthlies deeper. To each art belongs something which is peouliarly its own. A songmay bemusically valueless, yet contain something which excites a singer and gives scope forthings his voice exults to do . Caruso and John once spenthours over a drawing-roomballad demanding an effect

which John could get’ and Caruso, for all his superb technique

,could not.1 Themost commonplace balladmay en

able a singer to do something which delights andmoves toenvy his brother singers, but says nothing to the critic inhis stall . John’s stunt B flats at the end of a compositionentitled -

‘

W hen My Ships Come Sailing Home’ astoundthe student of singing, but the musician merely raises hiseyebrows. In the same way, the flawless performance withKreisler of Godard ’s ‘

Berceuse' de Iooelyn’ will produce

in themusician no reaction save regret that such voice andtechnique were not used upon bettermaterial .But

,with John

,the question goes far beyond any desire

to show what he can do . Possessed of an acute critical intelligence, with an intuitive understanding of greatmusic,he has always been immediately accessible to simple emotions simply expressed . Ernest Newman has said that it wasprecisely because he could so subtly phrase a song of Schubert or Wolf that he was able to move a huge audiencewith a popular ballad . This is true, but it is only half thetruth . John could not so have held the unsophisticatedless he were himselfmoved by whatmoved them. One sideof hismind recognized the songs forwhat they were ; but,once the first chord was struck, he gave himself up utterlyto the emotion expressed or simulated in the words .At one of his Albert Hall recitals in response to demands

for yet another encore,John came on, smiling broadly.

He said something to Edwin Schneider, his accompanist,glanced up at a box in which sat Backhaus and MischaElman, and shook with enormous irresistible laughter.He composed himself, nodded, and Schneider played

th e opening bars of ‘

Love’s Old Sweet Song’—to the usualburst of applause fromthat section of the audience whichrecognized a favourite . Smiling no longer, the tenor shuthis eyes, and sang the song as if no one had ever sung it1fThe echo effect in Bartlett

’

s‘A Dream.

’

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The trance could be broken, and self- consciousnesscould be roused so as tomake its incidence unlikely. On

one occasion Rachmaninov came into the roomwhereJohn and Kreisler were practising intently a piece of unusual na'i'vete

,which they proposed to record . He burst

out laughing.

They stopped in protest.‘Serge—what is thematter?‘

It is so funny to see two serious musicians practisingaway solemnly at such rubbish .

’

The two serious musicians began to laugh, and couldnever attempt the piece again.

But,as a rule

, if John could oncemean a song, he wouldnot let himself be put off it. However hemight joke aboutit off the platform, he could surrender to it again and aga1nbefore an audience. It was a lucky faculty, for such anaudience as his would have detected insincerity in an instant ; but it was an integral part of his character, and ofthemore serious side of his character.A Count of the Holy Roman Empire, John, as will beclear long before this

,has always been strongly religious.

The faith of a devout Catholic is not affected by inadequate words, anymore than by tawdry religious images ofthe kind exhibited in cheap shop windows. Where thefundamental truth lies beyond human expression, he knowsbetter than to be put off by childish and inadequate symbols. He accepts thembecause of what they represent

,and

because of what theymean to simple people .This circumstancemaywell have helped himto toleratebanal words andmusic because of the emotion they soughtto express

,and for the sake of the people whomhe could

move so deeply when he sang them. I amnot concernedto defend his choice of songs, but to account for the fact

198

that he sang them: to account for the fact that aman of

highly sophisticatedmusical intelligence (and no one couldtalk to himfor five minutes ' without becoming aware ofthat) should, without detriment to his serious work, havesung in complete sincerity amass of commonplace ; appealing, as did Kreisler, to listeners on every rung of themusical ladder.

The strength of his religi ous belief was a real factor inJohn’s singing. Sitting close to himat a recital, I remember, in the pianoforte prelude to César Franck

’s ‘La Pro

cession,

’ seeing his face drawn with emotion and his lipsmurmur in prayer. The song treats of holy things, so, forthe moment, the singer’s art held an extra significance.

Unaided, he could not givemore than the best he gave toevery song . Ifmore Virtue came, it could come only fromoutside .There wasmore in this than the gesture of the boxer

who crosses himself before he leaves his corner. The medieval craftsman glorified his God in all he did

,and John

hasmuch in common with him; but, in songs like ‘

La Pro

cession,

’ he was the mouthpiece of the greatest truth heknew.

Fromthemiddle years of his career, he invariably gavea place to sacred songs in his recitals.

‘I havemade it a rule,’ he told a correspondent, ‘to haveonmy programme at least one song in which I pour forthmy thanks to God or sing His glory.

’

That the song should not always be of musical valuewas not surprising .

During the Great War, the Victor Company in America asked John to make a record of

‘Onward Christian

I99

Soldiers.’ He consented, but, when the record was played,they found he had put a special emphasis on the lines

W e have Christ’s own promiseAnd that cannot fail

and turned the Evangelical war—cry into a Catholic hymn.

Perhaps as a result, the record was never released .

Despite his power of getting to the heart of a song, andthe many types ofmu51c he could sing, John’s voice andstyle were unmistakable . Even in concerted work, hecould not remain anonymous for two bars . The physicalVitality of the voice, itsmagic blend of sparkle and plangency, proclaimed himat once . Even the early Odeonrecords could not be anyone else’s.And there were other characteristics. For one thing

,he

never sang in English. Not only did he keep his brogue,but he approached the English language froma foreignstandpoint. An Irishman’s vowels are open . He does notsay

‘hay’ or ‘day,’ closed at the end, as an Englishman does.

He says hé (heh) and dé . His o’s are the Open continental

‘

oa,’ not the closed English ‘

o-oo.

’ He lengthens the ‘

00’

of

book and cook. He sounds all his consonants, and tends,like a Frenchman, to begin each syllable with a consonantinstead of with a vowel . ‘Denounce,

’

for instance,which

an Englishman sings as ‘den- ounce,’ an Irishman calls ‘dee

nounce .’ And so on and so forth .

The Irish boy fromAthlone took his brogue to Milanand found there practically the same vowels and the sameinsistence on the consonant. (One can hear every syllablea good Italian tenor utters, even though onemay not knowwhat the separate words are . Add to this a capacity forresonance on every vowel— the last thing an English singer

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could be seized on at will for an accent which flipped toneand phrase on their ever-forward course. Fromthe conventional point of View, John flagrantlymisused the English language ; but, experiencing none of the difficultieswhich beset the English singer,1 hemaintained a singularlybeautiful vocal line.This Italo-Hibemian fluency gave to his singing of English an exotic and caressing quality which told heavily infavour of love song and drawing-roomballad. His rendering of Liza Lehmann’s ‘Ah ! Moon of My Delight’ willnot be surpassed. The nostalgic softness of the Irish voice,the smooth seductive flow, and the lastmiraculously sus

tained pianissi'mo

,express perfectly the languorous pessi

mismof words and music . Those high pimissimo' noteswere a speciality of John’s . At one time he grew too fondof them, especially in themore insignificant portions of hisrepertoire

,where they embellished many a ditty in sad

need of embellishment. But they were always legitimatesinging

,always fully supported . Fromthe high soft B nat

ural that opens the last phrase of Rachmaninov’s ‘How FairThis Spot,

’ the voice swells to forte without camouflageor transition . And, in their place, how beautiful they wereat the close of Tosti’s ‘

Ideale’

; on the last vanishing syllableof

‘Take, Oh Take, Those Lips Away’

; for the final invocation of

‘The Snowy Breasted Pearl’ ; and, flicking up,irresponsible and heartless, at the end of

‘The Short Cut tothe Rosses .’

In Irish songs of all kinds John was supreme . He hasthe Irish temperament in full measure, and he brought tomusic that was in his blood a technique that gave it perfect1Hemaintains that the difficulties English singers find in singingtheir

own language are due to faulty training.

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J OHN M C CORM ACK AND HIS PORTRAIT BY SIR WILLIAM ORPENTHE ARTIST IS ON THE RIGHT

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Mccormack was, I should commend himto the following list of records

,all His Master’s Voice .

OPERA‘

Don Giovanni .’ Mozart. llmia tesoro'

.

‘

Faust.’ Gounod. Salve d imow casme pum.

‘Carmen.

’

Bizet. Il fior che avewz'

amemdata .

‘

Pescatori di Perle.

’

Bizet. Mi par d’

ud z'

rmeow .

LIEDER

Ganymede. ’ W olf.*‘Schlafendes j esuslez

'

nd . W olf. (The earlier recording,withpiano, in preference to orchestral accompaniment.)

W h ere’er You W alk. Handel.‘

To the Children’ (with Kreisler) Rachmaninov.

IRISH‘I Saw fromthe Beach’ (with Kreisler) . Moore, arr. Herbert Hughes.

‘Molly Brannigan,’

arr. Fox .

Garden where th e Praties‘

The Star of the County Down,

’

a w. Herbert Hughes (amiracle of subtle rhythmic variation) .

MISCELLANEOUS‘

Ah ! Moon of MyDelight.’

Lehmann.

‘

W h en My Sh ips Come SailingHome.’

B orel. (Purely forthe amazingstunt singing at the end .

The Fairy Tree.

’

Angels Guard Thee’

(with Kreisler) . Godard.

The Kerry Dance. ’ Molloy. (John says,‘I hate this

‘I Hear You Calling Me.

’ Marshall. (The old recording,with orchestra.

‘

The Trumpeter. ’ Dix . (A surprisingly dramatic and robustrendering of a ballad normally reserved for basses andbaritones.

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With the caution that the recordsmarked belonged tothe singer’s later period, the student will have solid groundon which to base his judgment. He will have a clue to theaffection in which John was held. He will understand thefanatical devotion to himof his own countrymen. And,fromthe Mozart record alone, he will realize that, althoughJohn could pack the Albert Hall and often sang nonsense,he had an impeccable technique

,and knew how tov use it.

A caution is needed in the case of the German lieder.

Many of themJohn sings beautifully, but his German isItalianized . There is toomuch emphasis on the consonants

,

and the singing is too forward in tone to be characteristicof the language . But his Wolf records, his

‘W aldesez'm'

amkeit

’of Brahms, his ‘Margem’ of Strauss,make such defects

of very little moment. The end of the Brahms song‘Ferne

, ferne, feme swageine Nachtz'

galP—is unforgettable.The colour of the first ‘

a’

of Nachtigall takes away thebreath.

But the records cannot do everything. There remain thememories of the living singer whichmay not outlive thosewho heard and saw him.

I shall not forget his singing of ‘She Moved through theFair,

’ with the shiver of its ending as the ghost whispersagain the old dead words of promise ; nor the last sad cryfromSchubert’s ‘Der[anglingan die Quelle’ : the passionatedeclamation of ‘

Una Ban,

’ the twilit beauty of ‘My LaganLove’—a beauty at once homely and unearthly—matchi-ngthe lonely exultation of the old Scots lament, ‘Turn Ye toMe . ’

This last the student of records can share, as he can oneof the loveliest single phrases —‘

Es ist AnakreomRub"; noother singer I have heard has achieved in this the same significance and the same simplicity. To these andmany an

other are added some few behind the scenes :‘ John sittingupright on a sofa, illustrating with voice and gesture the

205

accompaniment to Stanford’s ‘

Lament for Owen Roe O ’

Neill’ so perfectly that one realized the song for the firsttime, saw, as in a lightning flash, the rain- swept hillside andheard the drums; John championing vigorously to GeraldMoore the songs of Hubert Parry; John demonstrating atthe piano the indebtedness of a popular pseudo- Irish songto amovement froma Brahms symphony; John in wickedlybrilliant imitation of a colleague, perfect to the last gestureof galvanized brightness : there are many memories, andthey will not wear out.

The consensus of critical Opinion on John’s achievement,apart fromthe bewilderment of certain musicians at thenonsense included in his programmes, has been definite andclear. Af ter all reservations have been made, they havegranted himto be the best endowed lyric tenor of his time,amaster of phrasing and diction, and without peer in singing the songs of his own country.

Themany attempts that weremade at a final assessmentafter his retirement, emphasized these qualities. Little wouldbe gained by printing quotations fromthemhere. In thelong run it is not the opinions of critics that decide asinger’s fame . It is the legend that grows up round him. To

this legend the opinions contribute, but they do not createit . For proof of this one has only to look at the press noticesof a legion of singers enthusiastically hailed in their owngeneration, but now unremembered.

John is a ready subject for legend, and legend assuredlywill grow around him. The poor boy with nothing but hisvoice

, who made fame and fortune and conquered the206

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CHAPTER 1 3

THE WAR YEARS forma chapter in John’s life which hewould wish cut short. He shall have his wish.

The wish is dictated by no desire to conceal anything,

but bymemories of pain andmisunderstanding. The factsare plain . As soon as he could, John returned to Amenca 111fulfilment of his contract. All his income, all his prospects,all his future lay there rather than in England. It becameincreasingly difficult to be a citizen of one country and tolive and earn his living 1n another. Accordingly, he declaredhis intention of becoming an American c1t1zen.

This was regarded bymany people as an act of desertion,and he heard himself denounced both here and throughoutthe British Empire as a renegade, whose onlymotive hadbeen to escape military service.[Before going any further, I should make clear that Iwrite as an Anglo- Irishman, born, educated, and living inEngland

,whose loyalty to England has never caused him

amoment’3misgiving or uncertainty. I have always knownexactly wheremy own duties lie, and my inclinations liethere too . But I can see more than one side to this IrishEnglish

,English- Irish question, and I have never pretended

not to .It has always astonished me that England, whose past

dealings with Ireland are, to say the least, open to criticism,

should expect all Irishmen automatically to support her inwhatever she does . A great proportion do so support her.

208

The army, the navy, the air force contain Irishmen in highratio to the tiny population of their country ; and these arebacked bymany active sympathizers at home . But Englandappears at best to take this fact for granted, and in times ofgreater difficulty to ignore it . The Irishmen who put bombsin cloakrooms attract farmore attention

,and seemto be

regarded as farmore typical of their country, than thosewho labour upon England’s errands. It is a pity, if

~

onlybecause it tends to keep alive the difficulties between thetwo countnes.

These difiiculties cut both ways. One result of themisthat many Irish people regard America as amore naturalhome for themthan England. It is to America that theyturn when their own country can no longer support them,

for reasons which they may have been taught, howeverwrongly, to lay at England

’s door. John, an Irishman,found himself bound by business contracts to work thegreater part of the year in a country which not onlymadehimwelcome but offered himten timesmore than England.

He accepted the welcome and the offer, and he stayed. Ai

though there were Englishmen who remained in Americato fulfil their business contracts, they were forg1ven. TheIrishman was not.And, because any stick is good enough to beat a dog,allmanner of lies grew up around the truth . It was a deepcomfort to John at this time to receive a letter fromKreisler. Kreisler had served in the Austrian Army and, beingwounded, was packed off to safety by a people which hadnot wished himto j eopardize himself in the first place . He,

too, was the subject of attack, and had the strength ofcharacter tomeet it .

‘When truth is no longer possible betweenman andman,’he wrote to John,

‘rumour comes into its own. We haveto suffer it.

’

With the entry of Amer1ca4 nto the war, John’s position

at once became easier. Having declared his intention to

become an American citizen, John became automaticallyliable formilitary service . He did not claimexemption.

But the Americans are realistic about this kind of thing.They realized that John could be put to better nationaluse than as a soldier or a cook. He was urged to claimexemption, but still refused. His case came into court, andthe perplexed judge found the way out of the difficulty.

He sent forLily, and asked her if it was true that John washer solemeans of support. Lily admitted this.The judge sat back in his chair.‘Thank God,

’ he exclaimed fervently.

‘I did not wantto be lynched for sending John Mccormack into the army.

’

John at once went to John Ryan, President of the Anaconda Copper Company

,and Vice-President of the Ameri

can Red Cross.‘I will give you fifty thousand dollars a year,

’ he said,‘

or I’

ll do a tour fromNew York to Los Angeles and back,whichever you prefer.’

Ryan smiled.

‘I can get all the dollars I want,’ he said,

‘but I can’t get the sort of propaganda that would be. I’lltake the tour. ’

And he placed his private car at John’s service fromChicago to Los Angeles.Accordingly, throughout the war, John sang for the RedCross, earning enormous sums ofmoney, and so was en

abled tomake a contribution of solid and practical value.So conspicuous were his services that he received a specialcertificate of thanks fromPresident Wilson. His adoptedcountrymen at least were satisfied with the part he hadplayed.

One wordmore . The French people have no reputationfor tolerance to the embmque’ or the shirker. It is clearthat

,whatever certain people may have thought in Eng

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CHAPTER 14.

11 11 1113111 0, AS MUST have been apparent to the reader, Johnwas a youngman whose character had few complications.The story of the early years shows a nature lik eable, generous, impulsive, 113 11 but shrewd ; a strong character withan amiable weakness or two, a driving ambitionmodifiedby diflidence and regard for the feelings of others; a naturecandid and trustful, with unexpectedly deep reserves, anda strong, uncomplicated religious sense .I have said nothingyet—and readersmust havemarked

the omission —about the most interesting and importantaspect of John’s leap into fame and money; and that is,how he took i t. What effect had sudden wealth upon hischaracter?The answer is, very little . It gave hima sense of power,against which his simplicity protected him. No one whohas been poor and has had to put up with indifferent orcruel treatment can resist a satisfaction at being able tosay,

‘Now, you so- and but men of John’s temperament are always more given to the direct enjoyment oftheir good fortune than to resentments and the paying offof scores. John could nourish a grudge against aman untilhe met himagain . Then, if the man were friendly, thegrudge would speedilymelt ; and John would afterwardscurse himself for a weak—minded fool, trying hard to keepup his grudge, and failing. A really generous temperament cannot be forced against its grain.

When one considers the severity of his first struggles,

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the suddenness and completeness of his success, and all thedangers such success brings to temperament as well ascharacter, one must admit that the boy fromAthlonecomes through very well. The test he had next to face was

sterner; he did not get through unscathed . The years19 14

—1 8 left an indelible mark upon his character.To a friendly nature like John’s it is almost unbearableto feel that one is disliked . A bad notice hurts‘

and bewildershimbecause it seems an evidence of hostility he c annothave deserved. 19 14

—1 8 taught himmore than dozens ofbad notices. To be assailed and hurt, when he was naturallypeace- loving and easy-going ; to have to justify himself,when allhe had thought of was to be let go his way unmolested ; to have what appeared to himthe right and obviouscourse attacked as base ; to see himself and his motivesdescribed in terms he would use only forwhat he detested ;these were experiences calculated tomodify any simplicityand trust and candour. They modified John’s ; yet ninetenths of what I have written above is true of himto-day.

What the four years did was not all harm. They toughened theman, they hardened him, they drove himto relymore strongly on inner sanctions. But the John of 19 1 8 waswarier, coarser,more worldly-wise than the John of 19 14.

There was a new suspicion behind the eyes, the suspicionOf aman who has been hurt and takes care not to uncoverhimself. Because such caution was foreign to him, for awhile John suffered badly. He was able presently to Openup again and to be his old self

,but the scars remained . Even

to- day, old campaigner though he is, he can be readilyhurt, and he shrinks instantly at any note of reserve or lackof enthusiasmin those he is with . He is afraid of exposinghimself and beingmisunderstood for his pains ; and becausehe is irremediably open and direct, because he cannot helpexposing himself, he is quick at self-mockery before theenemy can thrust at him.

2 1 3

To a declared enemy he is formidable and tremendous.He has been hit hard himself, and he knows how to hitback.

Those four years did something to himof which he willalways be the better. They showed a man who in manyways was littlemore than a child that actions which to himwere natural and unquestioned could appear unrecognizably different to others. This drove himback upon hiscentral difiidence; but his success came to the rescue. He

leaned on it, and learned fromit. It taught himto standalone . And, themoment he learned this, he was able to seehowmany others had learned it too, and to draw strengthfromthem.Whenever his voice admitted himto their company, his character, toughened under duress, won himtheir deeper recognition. The John of to-day hasmet toomany of the world’s greatmen not to know who he is andwhat he is. Those four years were a necessary stage in hisgrowth for bringing the first shadow of adversity upon acareer that, its early struggles apart, had been all sunshine.He emerged fromthe ordeal a better artist.That

,maybe

,is themost important point. A great talent

attracts the experience it needs for its development. John’ssinging after 19 1 8 had matured and developed out of allproportion to its rate of development before.It is a common error to treat artists as if their art wereall that mattered, and the Joys and sorrows of their liveswere somuch fodder for it . Yet, again and again, the livesof artists reveal an extraordinary power to profit artisticallyfromexperience . In the case of a great artist, there is noparadox. The art is an expression of the whole personality

,which in its turn is moulded and developed by the

experience. What matters is that the experience be genuine

,be deeply suffered, and come unsought. It is worse

than useless for the artist to chase experience . He can only

profit by what comes to himbecause he is theman he is.2 14

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gaining somemeasure of understanding of the rest. At theleast, he will have an immediate intuition of mastery insomeone else . He will know at a glance whether the painteror pianist or surgeon or advocate is amaster of his craft.He will also be able to follow intelligently the techniqueof that craft.For instance, John, though he will sing With convictionthemost banal and fatuous of lyrics once it is set tomusic,has an excellent sense of words and is an acute judge ofwriting. When he writes himself he is inclined to rhetoric,and very good rhetoric it can be. But that does not preventhimfromjudging writing of a very different kind, andfromdetectingmercilessly repetition and tautology. I wishI could have reproduced his comments on the rough draftof this manuscript. Unfortunately he would not give meleave to do so, as they were expressed often in terms ofunseemly vigour. I can best sumup by saying that theywere forcible

,constructive

,and

,nine times out of ten,

dead right.To return to themeetings which his war work brought.These meetings were salutary

,because the persons con

cerned lay wholly outside the orbit of his ordinary workand its contacts. He met and was appraised bymen withshrewd, hard minds who knew nothing of singing and

cared less. The reputation of any artistmeant less to themthan a box ofmatches . It lay as far outside their interestsas the remoter facts of entomology or botany. John foundhimself, if anything, suspect, a strange animal. He wouldbe treated with guarded respect as an ally, and his reception would depend entirely upon his human value and thedegree to which he delivered the goods.John emerged creditably fromboth tests.Wh at the success did to himI cannot, as I said, describe. I can onlyguess at it fromexperiences ofmy own on a verymuchsmaller scale . In the spring of 19 39, I was asked, with a

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number of others, to speak at recruiting rallies for theMinistry of Labour. Usually I speak only onmatters connected with books and writing to audiences who havecome to hear about suchmatters . Instead, I foundmyselfin drill halls, on platforms decorated with Union Jacks,surrounded by provincial mayors and army ofl'icers, sus

pect, a strange animal, confronting audiences who had notcome to hear a novelist and broadcaster discourse, but wereagglomerations of all types, and had to be made to listen.

If one emerges fromsuch a test undamaged, and notesa change in the atti-tude of themilitary gentlemen and theprovincial mayors

,etc., something happens which is hard

to describe, but which in the long run does a man good.

It happened to John very often, and on a very large scale .

John was lucky personally throughout the war to losenone of his immediate circle of relatives and friends. Thenearest loss fell to Lily. Thomas Foley, who was an officialof the Dublin Corporation, was crossing with his wife toHolyhead by themail- boat Leimter on themorning of the1oth October 19 1 8 . They were going to the death- bed ofa relative inEngland. They never got there, for the Leimterwas torpedoed, and went down a fewmiles fromthe Irishcoast, taking the Foleys with her.The worst feature of their death was that they had a

family of ten children, for whomno provision was left.Here was something John could do, and did . He took responsibility for the ten,made himself their second father,brought themup, educated them,

and launched theminthe world.

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It was a characteristic action for which he would nomore take credit than he would for washing his handsbefore ameal .

During the last months of the war,John received sev

eral letters froma sergeant in the American Army. Thesergeant had written first of all as an admirer, and, whenJohn replied, he wrote again. The two exchanged lettersat intervals ; then the correspondence ceased, and Johnheard nomore of his friend until one day he saw his namein the paper.The sergeant had come in one day to find hiswife with

anotherman, and had shot themboth dead. It was a casewhere the unwritten law held good, and there was nodeath penalty.

Not all John’smemories of these years are sombre . Thecontacts had their humorous side . Immediately the war wasended, John was one day introduced to the combinedSenate and Congress of the State of Minnesota. The Govcruor of the State, whose name proclaimed himof Scandinavian origin, gave a long and enthusiastic speech of

praise, towards the end of which he suddenly turned toJohn and enquired in an undertone,

‘What was the name, please? ’The war also provided one of the best excuses for asinger he ever heard. One of Melba’s protégés, who suc

ceeded John, was the tenor, Guido Ciccolini . To be pickedout by Melba was a sufficient tribute to voice and ability,so that the incident which follows can be told withoutunfairness. After a concert at which John had heard himsing

,Ciccolini came to him.

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A strong influence which helped himtomake the changewas the work of Ernest Newman . Newman’s writing onHugo Wolf not only inspired John with ambition to singW olf’s songs, but pointed out a way of study. The ex perience and musicianship of Edwin Schneider did the rest.The excursion into liederwasmade at just the right time .The voice, if it had lost something of its lyric freshness,was exquisitely shaded, andmore expressive than ever. Thebreath control was perfect

,allowing formiracles of phtas

ing ; and themusical intelligence, whilemore sophisticated,had still that almostmediumistic quality which enabled thesinger to surrender to the song and yet keep his own individuality. John’s singing of Brahms and Schubert andWolf is not like a German’s singing of them, but there isa real fusion between the singer and the song, and the extraordinary evocative power of the voice calls up something which, even though it be not native to the BlackForest or the Rhine, is very far fromItaly and the Shannon.

Anyone with half an ear can tell the difference betweenthe records Johnmade just after the war and those hemadebefore it ; and it is not fanciful to relate that difference tothe things that had been happening to theman.

A pleasant interlude occurred in the summer of,

192 1 .

Cyril was at Canterbury School,NewMilford .The school’sComedy Club put on A Midsummer Nigh t’s Dream,

andCyril

,who inherited a measure of his father’s gifts, was

cast as Oberon. On the strength of this, the school authorities approached Cyril’s illustrious father, and the illustriousfather graciously consented to sing in the incidentalmusic.He sang ‘I Know a Bank’ to the Mendelssohn Song With

WITH HIS MOTHER AND FATHER,HANNAH AND ANDREW M C CORM ACK,

AT GREYSTONES, NEAR DUBLIN,1925

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treated this, but the trouble spread, and soon the tenor wasdown with a streptococcal infection of both tonsils.The infection became acute, and soon it was known thathe would be lucky to recover. If there had been any needto find out how well beloved he was by the American public, the evidence came now . At theatres and concert hallsthroughout the country, audiences stood for aminute ofsilent prayer for his recovery.

Instead of recovering, he grew worse . On Good Fridayhis condition was so bad that behind the screen in his bedroomwere all the instruments for a tracheotomy. Then,on that day of all days, when he was busiest, ArchbishopHayes came to call upon the sickman. He said the prayersfor the sick, blessed John, and gave himhis own fragmentof the True Cross .That night Gwen had been taken to the opera by thesoprano Frances Ai da . Coming out after the performance,she was horrified to see on the newspaper posters that herfather was dead.

=Alda brought her home grief- stricken tofind that that very evening John had turned the corner.

‘Sceptics may call it coincidence,’ he said grimly.

‘

Let

them.

’

Once the danger was past, his naturally strong constitution came to his help and he recovered so quickly that inamonth he was able to sail for England on the Aquitam

'

a.

As soon as he arrived in London, he consulted a famousthroat specialist, who assured himthat the precious cordshad suffered no damage . At the same time, the specialistwould not hear of his attempting to give any recitals forseveralmonths. Rest was prescribed, and plenty of it.John took the advice . It was not humanly possible for

himto keep fromsinging altogether. The family were staying in Miss Mary Scott’s house at Stow-ou- the-Wold . Hecoaxed his voice along, and found that it was in good order.Mary Anderson at Broadway was a near neighbour, and

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the McCormacks were often with her. An extra joy of

these Visits was the presence of Lionel Tertis, who for yearshad held an unchallenged position as Britain’s leading Violaplayer. The pair discovered a great aflinity between thetenor fiddle and the tenor voice . Tertis introduced Johnto a number of old English arrangements for Viola andvoice, which they practised together, and which rousedJohn to great enthusiasm. He planned to get Tertis to 10mhim1n some of his programmes, but for various reasonsthe plan nevermaterialized .

Another meeting this summer was of importance notonly to John but to Irish music. Herbert Hughes was atthat timemusical critic of the Daily Telegraph . Johnmethimthrough Robin Legge

,and

, findinga fellow—enthusiastfor Irish folk-music, encouraged Hughes to add to the settings he had begun to make of Irish airs. These settingswere soon to become a feature in all John’s programmes.When presently Hughes came toAmerica to write a seriesof articles, John introduced four of his settings into a recital

,with the composer at the piano . This concert did a

great deal forHughes’

s reputation in America ; but he wasso nervous that John had doubts whether they would gethimon to the platformat all.When the ordeal was over, Hughesmopped his forehead.

‘I will never write a rude word about an accompanistagain,

’ he said ruefully.

The visit to England was”

a great stimulus in every way.

Cyril and Gwen were left there to go to school, John andLily promising to return and spend Christmas with them.

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There had been, too, the joy ofmeeting numbers of oldfriends. Many were dead. There was no Sir John MurrayScott ; he had dropped dead years before, in the foyer ofthe house he gave to the nation, the home of the Wallacecollection ; but Miss Mary Scott extended welcome enoughfor both . Daddy Harrison had gone, and many another,but there were plenty to welcome John back and to reassure himabout singing again in England . The best reassurance of all came fromClara Butt, whose heart was asbig as her voice .

‘

If they talk ofmaking a fuss when you go on the platform, John,

’

she declared,‘I will take your hand and walk

on it with you . Then we will see what they do .

’

And KennerleyRumford, English of the English, sworethe same .So John went back with Lily, restored in health, heartened, and taking new songs with which to refresh his programmes. Some of themwere Russian, and for a while heentertained the notion of learning that language in orderto sing them. In the end, however, discretion prevailed, andhe sang themin English .

Ou the voyage he tried his voice at the ship’s concert,

and an excited audience found 1t ummpaired .

But the real test was to come. Was his health sufficientlyrestored, and would his voice stand a full-length recital?There was only one way to find out.The first concert was announced, and an immense audience came to hear it—an audience which realized that theoccasion was critical for the singer and for themselves.When John walked on to the platformthere was a loudburst of welcoming applause, cut suddenly short. A common impulse of anxiety urged the audience to find out atonce how things stood . And John, always sensitive to themood of an audience, and keyed up already with theknowledge that he had to re- establish himself—had almost

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John was honoured by a reception given to himby theCatholic Club of New York. Archbishop Hayes came topraise the guest of the evening

,and welcomed himwhole

heartedly as an artist, as a true lover of Ireland, and as asincere and devoted son of Mother Church . The musicalprofession was represented by Marian Telva, of the Metropolitan Opera, who acknowledged John

’s position as asinger bymaking a deep curtsey to himwhen she came onto the platformto sing ; by that excellent baritone, ReinaldW errenrath, who sang with John onmany occasions, andcollaborated with himon records ; and by John’s old friendthe ’cellist, Joseph Hollman. Needless to say, John had tosing himself. He alsomade a speech, which is worth printing in full for the light it sheds upon the speaker.

‘I amdeeply sensitive of the great honour paidme by thissplendid body ofmy co-religionists,

’

he said.

‘I feel to-nigh t asif I were beinginitiated into some secret order. In fact I knowI ambeinginitiated into the only secret order whose secretsare known to the whole w ide world, the secret order offriends, that order whichmeets in the open, in the full glareof electric light, with no oaths of secrecy, nomisuse of ourflag, and animated by the love of Himwhose symbol is aflamingcross, to do honour as they see fit to the most unworthy of the clan, andmark you I spell it with a C.

‘

To be singled out by this splendid body of representativeCatholics for such an honourmak esme very proud. I wonderif all themembers of the Catholic Club really appreciate whatth is clubmeans. I have always felt that in times of stress anddifficulties, such in fact as we are now passingthrough, thereshould be in the city of New York an organization whichcould speak as representing the Catholic laity of the city,always under the guidance of our beloved Archbishop. Of

course, the Knights of Columbus is a wonderful organization,and I amvery proud to be a knight, but that is a nationalorganization. I think we need a civic organization. It ought,therefore, to be the duty of every member of the CatholicClub to boost the club and to work to the end that theCatholic Club become such a vital force that in all things

2 26

that come up where the opinion of the Catholic laymen of thecity was required the Catholic Club would act as our spokesman.

‘

It is entirely up to th emembers of the club tomake thisorganization the representative body of Catholic thought andactivity. This cannot be done by talking, I admit. But it canbe done by showing that aman is the better Catholic for beingamember of the club .

f

‘I have seen a Catholic stand in front of the Cathedralwithhis hat in his hand talking to a pretty girl, and the samemanwhen passingthe sacred edifice pulls h is hat a little further onto his head. You know the gesture. I would like to think thatbeing amember of th e Catholic Club wouldmake aman al

ways remember the respect that is due to the house of God . Itmay be a small thing to harp ou, but you see being amusicianand an Irishman I like harps. And then again it ismuchmoredignified to try tomake America Catholic by force of goodexample than to go round the city shoutingto every friendin sight “Hello, Mac.

”

‘I believe we should at all times be proud to own we areCatholics, in fact, be a littlemore themilitant type of Catholic,and show by our dealing with our fellow-men and by thecleanness of our lives in every phase that we are the type ofmen that America needs. So heads up, Catholicmen of New

York, and God bless the Catholic Club and prosper it andguide it .

‘

W hen I was in Baltimore the other day, my very dearfriend, His Grace Archbishop Curley, gaveme a copy of thelife of His Eminence Cardinal Gibbons (God rest h is soul) ,and I was particularly struck by some words of ArchbishopIreland uttered on the occasion of the silver jubilee of HisEminence the Cardinal Archbishop. The more I read thesewords the more I thought how applicable they were to our

Good Shepherd. Please letme, as a small tribute ofmy affec

tion, quote the words:“How noble themission assigned to him. How well it has

been followed out. He is large-minded. His Vision cannot benarrowed to a ~one- sided consideration ofmen or things. Heis large-hearted. His sympathies are limited by the frontiersof humanity. Careless of self he gives h is best activities to thegood of others. He is ready for every noble work

,patriotic,

2 2 7

intellectual, social, ph ilanthropic, as well as religious, and . in

the prosecution of these he joins hands with the labourer andthe capitalist, with the white man and the black, with the

Catholic and the Protestant and the Jew . He is brave. He has

the courage to speak and to act in accordance with his con

victions themost outspoken of Catholics, the most loyalco- labourer of the Pope of Rome, the American of Americans.”

‘

If I may digress just one moment I would like to offer aprayer before the throne of the Most High to send peace tothat Motherland ofmine. I can see her tear—stained face lookinglongingly to the west for some of her American boys tohelp stop the fratricidal' war that is breakingher heart. Thefestival of Christ’s birth is at hand, and forever identified withChristmas is the salutation of the angels to the shepherds onthemountain side, “Glory to God in the highest and on earthpeace tomen of good

-will.” I refuse to believe there are nomen of good-will in Ireland. And I amconvinced that with ahelping hand fromthe sons of Innisfail over here, thosemenof good-will can get _together. I pray with all th e earnestnessofmy Catholic and Irish heart that the day-star of good-willWill quickly “light our Isle with peace and love.

”

The reference to the troubles in Ireland was shrewdas well as heartfelt, since

]

it carefully avoided taking sidesand could offend no one, whatever his Views. It is an nufortunate fact about Irish public life that onemust alwayswalk warily for fear of stepping on extremely sensitivetoes. Only the most general expressions are safe. This iswhy somany songs extolling Ireland deal exclusively withthe scenery or the love which Irishmothers shower upontheir children. Anything else is dangerous.

The Christmas holiday with the children went off splendidly, and early in January John crossed to Dublin to givehis first concert there for ten years. He had undertakento give two concerts for charity, the proceeds to be de

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sudden power to transfigure the simplest human emotionsso that those who heard were for amoment carried beyondthemselves and heard with their very souls, that was thesecret of John’s extraordinary hold upon audiences everywhere . Without this, his art and his pathos and the beautyof his voice would have commanded admiration, even love,but never the devotion which was poured out upon himbyhundreds of thousands of simple ordinary people . John’srecords and concerts were best- sellers, but the appeal was

more than a best- seller appeal. This light that occasionallyillumined what he sang, this power that used himas itschannel, 1 eached something which 15 only reached now andthen, but w hich, when 1t is 1 eached, allows people for themoment to see beyond what is to what will be. It is notfor nothing that John is a devout son of the Church . Thisis his way of rendering homage to the power which spokethrough himsometimes to his audiences .It is probable, rather it is certain, thatmost artists whobecome temporarily the channel for such powersmisunderstand themand seek to control them. Those who are wiseknow that such grace cannot be controlled, but can onlybe invoked by care and labour in the building of a technique . The technique cannot command the inspiration, butit can, as it were, prepare amagnetic field into which theinspiration can flash . We know very little about thesematters, and the artists themselves can tell us very little .One thing is certain: anyone who attempts to explain thedevotion accorded to an artist like John Mccormack interms of mob appeal, sob stuff, sentimental ballads, andtickling the public taste, ismaking a mistake. The secretlies deeper than that.

FromDublin, John went to Monte Carlo, where he sangseveral times in the royal Opera. The most interesting of

2 30

these appearances was in the premiere of La Foire de 8010tobz

’

ntzz'

,by Moussorgsky. John took the part of Grityko,

and scored a great success . The [ourml de Momco said ofhis performance

‘M. Maccormack a trouvé dans le personnage de.

Grityko

lemeilleur role qu’il ait interprété au cours de la saison. II asoupiré d ’adorable facon

.

1a romance du Ier acte: “Pleur’e 'zmontriste coeur’’ d’une exquise mélancolie parfumée de tendresse,toute frissonnante des graces nostalgiques slaves. II a dit en

perfection la jolie phrase: “Rentrez jeune fille” cc chanté en

artiste consommé le délicieux duo du 3e acte, qui nous a fait

songer a certain duo, nonmoins délicieux, du Roi d ’Ys.

’

The other opera in which he sang was his old favouriteLa Bohe

‘me. He also met old friends, including ClaudiaMuzio .

He returned to America for a concert tour in the latespring

,and was back again in Dublin in August, where he

gave two recitals at the Theatre Royal. His reception atthese was even wilder than in January. The programmeswere of an austerity which came as a surprise to the audience

,the greater part of the numbers coming fromBeetho

ven, Schubert, Handel, Rachmaninov, and César Franck.

The austerity was relaxed in the encores, which included‘Mother Machree . ’

In September, John received a remarkable honour. Thefreedomof the city of Dublin was conferred upon himan honour which, according to the Lord Mayor, the celebrated Alfred Ryme, had not been conferred upon anyonewithin livingmemory. The ceremony took place at noonon Thursday, September the 6th , when John solemnlyafiix ed his signature to the roll of honour of freemen .

2 3 1

CHAPTER I 5

THE NEXT YEAR, 1924, John came back to London and gavehis long-awaited first c oncert. The place chosen was theQueen’s Hall ; the date

,Sunday, October the 6th . Although

six years had elapsed since the wa1 , there was still a considcrable amount of feeling against him. A number of individuals had announced their intention of picketing the concert, 01 of attending it and kicking up a disturbance . Ina newspaper interview on the day before the concert, Johnrefused to be perturbed by these rumours .

‘I shall treat them,

’ he said,‘as the Irishman put it, with

silent contentment. ’All the same, it was nervous work. The Queen’s Hall

was packed by an audience divided between various kindsof curiosity. There were those who wanted to see if anything was going to happen, there were those who remembered John and were anx ious to see what ten years haddone to his voice and to hismusicianship, there were thosegoing for the first time to see whether a great reputationcould bemade good . Tenminutes before the time for starting, there was not a seat left in the hall, and the wholeaudience had over it that electric air of expectancy whichtells of a special occasion.

John was assisted by a pianist, who had the unenviabletask of going on first . Difficult though itmust have beenfor the pianist, this was a good move, for it induced theaudience to settle down as if to an ordinary concert beforebeing challenged with John himself. As soon as the pianisthad finished, the curtains were held aside, and John came

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nasality in production. All they found was the good oldIrish brogue, as strong as ever.It was a great occasion, and it removed finally fromJohn’smind and themind of hismanager any fear as to hisfuture reception in England . He was to give manymorerecitals in London, and togomany tours of the British Isles,always with success and nevermeeting any expression ofhostility.

By this time John’smannerisms on the concert platform

had become stabilized . I do not know how many recitalsof his I attended, but the composite impression that remainsis very clear.Usually, particularly in the later years, John would comeon first for a short classical group, instead of sending on aninstrumentalist as at the recital just described . On severaloccasions when I heard him, he began with an exquisite oldGerman Minne'lied

,which not only perfectly suited his

voice and manner, but was excellent for ‘singing in’—thecompass not too great, the top notes touched lightly. Thenwould follow something by Handel. An encore would bedemanded—John’s audiences were always keen to get overfull value for theirmoney. Usually the demand would begranted, and the song chosen would be in keeping withwhat had gone before .The second group of songs would have a wider range

,

that would still be of real musical value . A typical grouphere would contain songs by Schubert,Donaudy (foryearsthis composer’s lovely ‘

Luogbz'

serem'

e cari’ appeared in

almost all John’s programmes) , Quilter, Elgar, and Ban

2 34

tock, whose setting of Blake’s ‘

Love’s Secret’ gave Johnan opportunity formarvellous singing. This group wouldwind up perhaps with a piece in which the instrumentalistcollaborated . César Franck’s ‘

Pam'

s Angelicm’ was ahnostcertain to appear if the collaborator were a ’cellist.The encores to this group would be more various, butwe would not yet have come to any of the! old fayouriteswhich the audience were already begmmng to demand .

Mendelssohn’s ‘

Ou Wings of Song’ and Lidgey’

s beautifully simple ‘Earl Bristol’s Farewell ’ had a habit of cropping up hereabouts in the programme .The third group would be Irish, including one of

Moore’smelodies, two or three of Herbert Hughes’

s country songs, and something else thrown in for goodmeasure .After these the demands for encores would become uproarious. Among those granted would be ‘The Meeting ofthe Waters’ (sung to the people at the back of the stage,after a brief explanatory bow to the rest of the audience) ,‘Believe Me if all those Endearing Young Charms,’ ‘TheRose of Tralee,

’ Samuel Liddle’s ‘The Garden where thePraties Grow,

’ and,until 1930 or thereabout, Hardebeck

’

s

arrangement of ‘

Umz Bam.

’

The last group was a sort of free-for- all. It containedthe things which a large part of the audience had come tohear, and the encores would go on until John was so tiredthat he would shut the lid of the piano . No other gesturewould do—not even the ex hausted shrug of the broadshoulders and spreading of the hands . The audience had nopity. They knew what they wanted, and they got it .

John’s platformmannerisms were few . He walked onwith a kind of broad dignity difficult to describe . Just asthere was about Kreisler a leonine dignity, courteous butaloof, so John at his first appearance was withdrawn andgrave

,no matter how impassioned his welcome . He sang

with one hand clasping the little note-book, and the other

2 35

held loosely beneath it, moving occasionally in a halfgesture to supplement the expressive movements of thehead . The emotion of the song, tragic, contemplative orgay

, was strongly expressed upon his features ; he sangusually with closed eyes

,except 1n the lighter songs.

This quick response to emotion was balanced by a readiness to laugh at any unrehearsed incident, once the tensionof the first appearance was over. I remember at a recital,just before the start of the second group, when the audience were silent, and all was in readiness for that slightinclination of the head and raising of the brows toSchneider at the piano, a fussy lady eluded the scandalizedattendant and darted across in front of the platforminanxiety to find her seat. The tenor blinked, pulled himselftogether

,gave her a little bow which she did not see, and

then was shaken by an earthquake of laughter in which theaudience joined .

W hile he was singing, Johnmade fewer incidental n01sesthan any other great singer to whomI have sat close . Acontinual soft high clearing of the throat, almost caressingin its lightness, was the only thing the audience were notintended to hear. This noise brought a Spirited protest fromNorval Pierce

,the throat specialist.

‘What the hell do you do it for? ’ he asked .

‘You are onlyirritating the epithelium.

’

‘Well,’ said John,

‘

itmakesme feel comfortable .’‘Nonsense,

’ exploded the specialist. ‘Supposing you getan itch on the platform, do you scratch?

’

Between songs,John indulged in none of themoppings

and snoochings and hawkings to which many singers unashamedly give vent on the platform.

(Themost remarkablemaker of incidental noises I everheard was Chaliapin, who made small mewing sounds tohimself, of the ‘mi—mi-mi’ variety, before each song andduring the rests .)

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‘I always had three ambitions—three, that is, besidesCovent Garden. One was to own a Rolls-Royce, the secondwas to own a Franz Hals, and the third was to win theDerby. I realized numbers one and two all right, but Inever won the Derby, though it nearly brokeme trying.

’

The love of pictures went back far into John’s youth.

It will be remembered that,when he was a student in Italy,he paidmany Visits to one picture. Fromthat time on hewould go to the art gallery 111 whatever town he Visited,and the longing soon grew to have a collection of his own.

It was not to be an ordinary collection. There need notbe many pictures, but theymust be good, and theymustbe pictures that he loved . He did not keep always to theserules

,although he never bought a picture which he did not

like . It never occurred to himthat rarity and costliness wasa Virtue in itself. He bought what he wanted to look at, notmerely what he wanted to own. At all events, he soonfound himself spending farmore on pictures than he wouldever have thought possible .

‘I got the bug,’ he says,

‘and bought a lot. It’s a terriblebug once it gets you .

’

His first prize was a Corot. The picture was put up inopen auction at the Plaza Hotel in New York. John saw itand coveted it . He went away, but was irresistibly drawnback again . Presently, with dry mouth, he asked HarryRembrandt howmuch it would go for.

Rembrandt looked at him.

‘

Round about thirty thousanddollars,

’ he said .

John swallowed, turned away, and presently, when thebidding started, began to bid with the 1 est. At last heheard his voice say,

‘Twenty thousand,’ and the Corot was

knocked down to him.

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A FAMILY PORTRAITCOUNT AND COUNTESS M C CORM ACK WITH CYRIL AND GWEN

TAKEN Ar 1 11 13 111 CALIFORNIA HOM E,

‘

SAN PATRIZ IO,’ HOLLYWOOD, 193 1

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who had fallen on hard ti1nes and lived in doss houses inthe East End.We got on his track, but could not find him,

and later were happy to hear that his son, who ran a danceband

,had found something for the old man to do. The

Cofiee-Cooler’s real name was Frank Craig . So amazingwas his physique that in his late sixties he was still workingin a boxing booth and taking on all comers.Looking at this magnificent drawing, one might wellbelieve it . Themuscles are terrific, yet supple and relaxed .

There is a silky sheen on the skin; every line of the drawing grins with life .I asked John how he came by it .

‘

It was when Orpen was paintingmy portrait,’ he said .

‘I had seen a postcard reproduction of the drawing,which

Joe Kerrigan 1 had. One day, while Billy was working onthe portrait, I asked himwhere was the original. He did not*know, but he said

'

Imight hunt about for it . There was abig bundle of loose drawings in the corner of the studio

,

and I hunted through until I found it .

“I’ll give you a fiver for it,” said I.

“Stick 3 cipher on the end,” he answered

,and it’s

yours .”‘I gave himthe cheque there and then. He laughed. Hewasn’t accustomed to being paid cash on the spot.’The drawing had an extra interest for John

,since he has

always followed boxing. Jack Dempsey is an old friend ofhis

,and among the hundreds ofguests at Moore Abbey was

Gene Tunney, that unique figure among pugilists, whoseletter of thanks is ahnost touching in its nai

'

f anxiety to beasmuch at home in the world of artists as in the ring.

The Orpen portrait of John hung high above the hearthin the Kensington studio, and was well worthy of thehonour. No reproduction that I have seen does it anything

1 This was J . M. Kerrigan, probably the best and most versatile character actor the Abbey Theatre ever produced.

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like justice . It catches to perfection the look of ahnost

childish melancholy that so often shadows John’s face . Itshows a vulnerable figure, sensitive, one who has been hurtand expects to be hurt again . In its insight into character,and the lyric flow of its colour and line, it is one of Orpen

’

s

most revealing portraits.The sittings were a joy, for Orpen was a liyely companion

,with a fund of anecdote which could match John’s.

It is extremely hard to tell John a story he does not know.

Those who go‘

ou the road’ hear all the stories there are .The only way to surprise themis with a first-hand true one.

There is one drawing which Johnmight have had, butmissed through his own fault. John Sargent offered oneday to do a black and white drawing of him. John wasoverawed by Sargent, and never went to give hima sittinE1 coincidence, or a pair of coincidences, gave John areputation for acumen with at least one great painter.Talking one day to Augustus John, he asked himwhich ofhis early drawings the painter would recommend himtopossess .Augustus John considered, then recommended, first ofall, a self-portrait.

‘I have that,’ the singer told him.

The painter looked surprised, and went on to recommend a landscape .

‘I have that too,’ John told him.

They were the only two Augustus Johns that he possessed .

John has always been verymuch the familyman. Thissounds a contradiction in terms when spoken of a singer

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who perforce had to travel somuch . But the quartet—John,Lily, Cyril, Gwen—remained compact, and close in spiriteven though they were separated . For a direct affectionatenature such as John’s, the ties of home can be stretchedindefinitely, but never broken.

Both the children inh erited a love formu sic and a singing voice . Cyril’s was a light baritone of really excellentquality. He sang with sympathy and finish , and Johnseriously believes that, if he could only have been persuaded to take singing seriously, he could have won wealthand fame.Cyril had other Views . Fromchildhood he burned witha passion formechanics of all kinds.

‘

I’mnot going to be a singer,’ he pronounced scornfully.

‘

I’mgoing to work formy living.

’

John’s eyes Opened to the widest at this blunt pronouncement . He alrriost choked—then he laughed till hewas helpless .To Cyril it was no laughingmatter. He stuck to his determination, andmechanics have been his true love always.Several attempts were made to persuade himto sing professionally. Hemade records, and very good records theywere ; and twice he broadcast. Each time he was so nervousthat everyone in the studio was affected, and they did notknow what to do with him.

That John’s opinion of his voice was influenced by nofond parental pride is shown by the following letter‘MY DEAR CYRIL,I cannot tell you howmuch pleasure your record of Tip

perary”hasgiven uslAlmost asmuch as your father

’s records.If he were not such a strong man, I would saymore, but Ibelieve in preparedness ! Please give both your parents mygreetings, tell themI hope to see themsoon, and with loveto Gwen and yourself andmany thanks please think ofme as

Your admirer,ALMA GLUCK ZIMBALIST.

’

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some boys to look after, with the older one the worse of_thetwo. Hismind is quite simple and unspoilt, butmarvellouslyactive. He is extremely easy to amuse, and has what I mightahnost call a wicked sense of humour,which not unfrequentlygets the upper hand of him. He has amost infectious laugh .

All through h is lifemy father has been guided by the principlethat what is worth doingis worth doing well, whether it bework

,study, or play. He has never to this day stopped work

ingto improve himself as a singer and amusician. In the courseof his travels, he h as taught himself German and French, andhas kept his Italian perfect. He is a voracious reader, with themost retentivememory I have ever known. Owing to his greatinterest in everythingthat is goingon around him, he usuallyreads through at least three newspapers everymorning, and at

dinner that evening, hewill discuss anyarticle orparagraph youmightmention, rememberingit almost word forword. This israther unfortunate for his adversarywhen he starts an argument,which hewill do if he gets the slightest opportunity. He lovesit, and he does not reallymind on which side of a subject heargues, or what the subject is. I remember himmakingmevery exasperated one evening. At considerable expense to him,

I had just got a First Class inmy Final Engineering Examination, and was feeling very pleased with myself. Imagine myannoyance when my father started an argument and set out

to prove that I was wrongover a question in which I hadgained a first a few days earlier. However, his idea is, as he sayshimself, that the only way tomake aman tell you what heknows is to tell himhe is wrong. During all his travels, he hasalways kept to the forefront the fact that he is an Irish Catholic,and h as always beenwillingtowork for other Irish Catholics.It was this that led u to h is being created Count of the HolyRoman Empire by t e Holy Father, and it is interestingto

recount that on his first takingup duty as a Papal Chamberlain,

the Holy Father was immensely pleased because my fatherspoke Italian in his own dialect, Milanese.

‘

In his recreation he,is just as keen as in h is other interests.

He is almost as good as an almanac when discussing cricket,tennis, or boxing, and he puts up a very creditable performanceon a tennis court, himself, being full of the will to win, eventhough it may only be me he is beating. In fact, into everything, he does, my father brings an unbounded enthusiasm

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which sometimes lands himinto trouble. He cannot do anything gently but must go like a bull at a gate, frequentlysweepingsome other member of the familywith himin h isenthusiasm.

‘

But above all th is, he 15 generous to a degree, as I ought toknow. He 15 sometimes quick-tempered, but he seldommeansit, and it is always over in a fewmoments, and it is impossibleto remain annoyed with himfor long, because if he sees onetrying to do so, he alwaysmanages to spoil it all bymakingone laugh.

‘

In conclusion, I think Imay say that he has shown himselfto be a great student, a great artist, and a great man, and Ibrook no contradiction when I say that he 15 certainly a great

In 1 93 3 Gwen wasmarried to Mr. Edward Pyke,and on

the 2 3rd November 1 935 John became a devoted andadoring grandfather. Patricia is now the j oy of his life,and, as she herself has remarked, ‘Johnny spoils me, buthe does loveme.

’

All this time John’s parents had lived tranquilly at home,secure 1n the success of their famous son . In the summerof 1925 John gave a special concert in Dublin which theyattended

,so to speak, in their official capacity. The old

couple sat in the dress circle, Andrew the picture of health,with his rugged, ruddy face and shock of grey hair, andthe old lady beside him, her face alive with happiness .The Governor-General and his party sat in one box, thePresidential party in another. Opposite to the GovernorGeneral’s box were Lily, Cyril, and Gwen .

The concert went its usual enthusiastic way, until suddenly there came one of those inspirations, those chargesofmagic which struck singer and audience alike .

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It happened that John was singing Crouch’s ‘KathleenMavourneen.

’ The drawing- roomballad of the last century had become so hackneyed that even on themusic hallsno one dared smg11 without risking cat- calls fromthe audience . In some halls it was barred altogether.But John has always been able to sing a song as if forthe first time, and, as he reached the refrain, the miraclehappened . In the ballad, a young lover addresses his beloved on the last night before he sails fromIreland . Thedawn is breaking, and she lies asleep . He asks if she has forgotten that in a few hours theymust part.

‘

Itmay be for years, and itmay be for ever.’

Suddenly, for singer and audience, the song became theexpression of a personal and national tragedy. All that theythemselves had suffered of parting and loss, all they couldimagine

,all that Ireland had suffered when the emigrants

left her shores, was caught up in one timelessmoment withthe words andmusic of the old song.

When the last note died away, there was a long pause .Then the audience went mad . People rose in their seatsand cheered in frenzy . The old couple in the circle weptopenly. The three in the box, who had caught their eyewhen the song began, now couldmeet no one

’s eye . Theysat with bowed heads. And the singer himself had gonewhite as his shirt—front, and stood shaken with a feelingthat came fromthe depths.Fromthatmoment ou,

though themagic tension was relieved , he sang as if inspired . The negro spiritual

‘WereYou There? ’ held the audience in a trance, and Franck

’sover—ripe ‘

Pdm'

s Angelicas,’ which normally could not

stand up to the spiritual for amoment, was ennobled andmade the utterance of an individual and a shared belief.The concert ended with a pair of personal tributes. Johnsang ‘When You Are Old and Gray’ to his father, and‘Mother Machree’ to his mother. This was on an easier

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level,and it was just as well, since the warmfeelings of

human kindness are easier for an audience to take out intothe street with themthan are exaltation andmagic .

In 1 928 a life- time of faith and zeal in the cause of thatfaith was fittingly rewarded . The Universe announcedthat:

‘

The Holy Father has been graciously pleased to confer uponMr. John Mccormack the signal honour of elevation to thePapal Peerage, with the title and dignity of a Count.

‘

This latest and highest honour—M1 . McCormack IS alreadya Knight Commander of the Orders both of St .

. Gregory theGreat and of St . Sylvester—has been conferred, it i s understood,in recognition of th e great singer’s eminent position in theworld of art, together with his lifelong, ardent devotion to h isFaith and to the Holy See, and hismunificent generosity toCatholic causes both in the Old and in theNew W orld .

’

The other outstanding event of 1928 for John was aconcert which he gave at the Albert Hall in June on behalfof Queen Charlotte

’s Hospital National Campa1gn for savingmothers . The occasion wasmore like a gala performance at Covent Garden than an ordinary concert, and everyseat in the huge hall was occupied . Lady Howard deWalden, presiding over the committee which organizedthe concert, received Princess Beatrice and the Duchess ofYork . The audience was of the kind described as ‘distin

guished ,’ and the concert brought in two thousand five

hundred pounds .

247

As soon as the shadow of talkies fell upon a dismayedHollywood, producers began to cast speculative eyes atsingers . Short items were made, in which stars of theMetropolitan, such as Martinelli, sang

‘

Vestz'

la giubba,’or

some similar excerpt,which was relayed cavernously to the

astonished ears of cinema audiences.A few producers saw further. If a singer could be foundwhose popular appeal was already great, who spoke English recognizably, and who could act suflicentlywell to bemade a character in a film, instead of appearingmerely asamusical interlude, there were box office possibilities on avery considerable scale.For such a film, John was anobvious choice . He was nolonger young enough nor slimenough to play the chiefromantic part, but obviously a vehicle could be found forhis voice, his popularity, and his portly frame .

‘

If ever the talkies come, John,’ said W infield Sheehan ofFox Pictures,

‘

1 will engage you .

’

The talkies came, and in 1 929 Fox sent an ambassador tointerview DenisMcSweeney and John. Singer andmanagerput their heads together, and suggested five hundred thousand dollars as the figure. Fox pulled a long face, andoffered instead four hundred thousand, with the option ofa second picture at six hundred thousand, the option to betaken up before the first picture was completed. John andDenis insisted on the five hundred thousand—making, as

they afterwards admitted, a mistake ; for no second offercame along.

Payment was arranged at a hundred thousand on signingthe contract, and fifty thousand a week for eight weeks.

‘Mary Pickford’s comments, when she heard of this contract,

’ said John reminiscently, ‘would have to be printedon asbestos . ’

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had never been realized, but who remained unshakenlyconstant to the object of his youthful choice . The choice,conveniently named Mary, in order that shemight be addressed through themediumof

‘

The Rose of Tralee,’ died

towards the end of the film, dreaming wistfully of whatmight have been, to the accompaniment of John’s voicecalling softly to her

,as in the past, 011; and falling rose

petals of a strange solidity, ou . The recording of the voicehere was extremely beautiful and carried off a scene whichotherwise was undistinguished by imagination or taste .To get the quality

,John turned his back upon themi

c10phone . The recording experts set up a howl .‘You’re wasting our time and yours. Not a note willcome through.

’

‘

Let me alone . I understand my own voice . ’

And he did, as the result showed.

John— Sean, in the film—found his happiness vicariously,in bringing together a pair of young lovers . The part ofEileen was taken by Maureen O ’

sullivan. It was her introduction to the screen, and her career has gone straightahead fromthis pleasant start . Her acting revealed charm,

personality, and above all sincerity, qualities which haveearned for her the position she now holds in the affectionof the public .

Ou the character side,the filmwas greatly strengt hened

by the inclusion of J . M. Kerrigan as an old car driver.Kerrigan had put on weight since the days when I used tosee himat the Abbey Theatre, but his playing was asmucha joy as ever, and he was well supported by Farrell MacDonald . Andreas de Segurola, the famous bass, made abrief and brilliant appearance in a comic part

,but did not

sing. He has since achieved a new fame as the teacher ofDeanna Durbin . Edwin Schneider, called Vincent, doubtless out of compliment to Vincent O ’

Brien, strolled benignly through the filmas his excellent self. I suggest in

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passing that some student of psychology should enquireinto the fact thatmusicians often do so well on the screen .

In Moonlight Sonata Paderewski’

s tremendous personalityeclipsed all the professional players . Stokowski in A H2mdred Men and a Girl gave a similar impression of reality.

And, in Song 0 My Haart Edwin Schneider was completely authentic as himself.

John’s own performance dominated the film,as it was

meant to . He showed himself an excellent natural actor.His personality came across fromthe ‘

first moment,and

one scene in particular,where he stood laughing and talk

ing beside a clipped hedge, could not have been better.True, he looked a little larger than human, but then he isa good size anyway. The performance as a whole left amost pleasant impression on the mind . Personality wasexploited in the best sense of the word, and writer anddirector took care that each scene should allow it to express itself naturally and with conviction. The note waspitched a trifle high now and then, as in the scene whenhe sang Oscar Merikanto

’

s‘A Fairy Store by the Fire’ to

a group of children underneath a tree, but the singer’s

sinceritymade the scene real and swept away the taste ofsaccharine .The filmdid John an immense amount of good, andbrought his voice to a public which it had not yet reached .

The press was enthusiastic, except in some sophisticatedquarters

, and even they had to concede to John’s per

formance themerits of naturalness and sincerity. One criticsaid that he became tired of the tenor’s ‘adipose gambols’

but that was nobody’s fault. The camera is not kind tocorpulence ; and so, when. a few years later, John expressedhis willingness to appear in a filmbased on the life of TomMoore

,despite his obvious aptitude for the part, there were

no takers .One of the most interesting cr1tic1sms came fromthe

251

playwright, Robert Sherwood. After praising John’s singing, he went on:

‘I doubt verymuch if it would have succeeded sowell in amore laboured setting. It was Mr. Mccormack himself whorealized th is

,and who steadfastly refused to involve himself

in anythingremotely resemblingan extravagantmusical show.

He would not consent to be converted by the phony alchemyof Hollywood into a romantic love1 . He rejected every standard plot that was submitted to him. W ith the result that Song0’ My H6

‘t is practically plotless and , therefore, simple andthoroughly charming.

J. ohn Mccormack has considerablymore than a beautlful voice: h e possesses an absolutely superhuman amount ofgood sense. That which he put into Song0

" My Heart is no

more important than 13 that which he kept out of it. Al.

though he sings a dozen ti1nes in the picture, he imposes nostrain on the audience’5 ear—drums. His songs are introducedcasually. . . He does not singwith a mechanically brokenheart; he sings only with the sincerity of an artist.

’

The cast of Song0’ MyHeart was

Eileen

FergmPeter

Aunt Elzzabetb

Guido

Vincent

Fulle'rton

Sean

The filmwas directed by Frank Borzage .John appeared in one other film, towards the end of hiscareer. His part in this was merely incidental. He was

brought in as a celebrity who lived near—by to sing to anumber of distinguished guests. While he was singing

,the

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Maureen O ’

Sullivan

John GarrickJ . M. KerriganTommy CliffordAlice JoyceFarrell MacDonald

Efii e EllslerEmily FitzroyAndreas de SegurolaEdwin SchneiderEdward MartindelJohn Mccormack

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host and the guest of honour walked out of the roomon toa balcony.

‘

It was the only time,’ said John, ‘thatmy audience haswalked out onme in the course of a long career.’

Mention of talkies naturally brings up the kindred subjcet of broadcasting. John has had great experience of themicrophone, but has never liked it. Once in America hesang on a regular contract for forty- two weeks . Even thisexperience has not reconciled himto broadcasting as amedium. He is always frightened in the studio, and cannever relax. The idea that his voice is at themercy of ‘somefella with a gadget in his hand’ is horrible to him, andnever leaves hismind.

He recalls always G. K. Chesterton’s remark aboutbroadcasting, made to himwhen they were together inDublin in 193 2 .

‘I depend,’ said G. K.

,

‘

for whatever spontaneous jokecomes to me, upon the chuckle fromthe one before . Inthe broadcasting studio I feel as if I were speaking into anunfathomable hole without an echo .

’

Since his retirement John has broadcast several times forthe once joining his old friend Freddie Grisewoodin a kind of cross- talk act, interspersed with songs, andbroadcast to the forces. His character and personality camethrough strongly, but those who knew himbest could tell,fromhis breathing when he was speaking, that he was notperfectly at ease .His real trouble is that he feels that themicrophone is anenemy to good singing, and that in the studio he is at hisenemy’smercy.

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CHAPTER 16

11 IS DIFF ICULT, looking back upon a career crowded withincidents and encounters

,to remember 1n their proper place

anecdotes which arise rather fromthe personalities concerned than fromany special incident. For that reason Ihave gathered into one chapter, with the help ofmy volatile subject, _a few personal impressions and remembrancesof the people he remembers best.With some friends the lives of the McCormacks are soclosely bound up that it is impossible to pick the threadout of the pattern and place impressions andmemories inchronological order. Fromthe day they firstmet, Kreislerhas been one of the family’s dearest and closest friends.They remember not so much incidents about himas hispresence in their lives .Of the pictures which arise, themost familiar is of Kreisler, on warmevenings, taking off his coat after dinner andwandering fromroomto roomof the house, playing tohimself and anyone who would listen . John would sing, andthe twowouldmakemusic for the sheer joy of it, breakingoff to talk, to have a drink, to wander out in the garden,in a harmony of which themusic was a symbol .Kreisler was devoted to Gwen and Cyril, who adored

him,and to this day call himUncle Fritz. When Cyril

reached his seventh birthday, Kreisler gave hima goldwatch

,which, alas, was ultimately stolen by a hotel cham

bermaid .

The joy of Kreisler’

s life was to catch a fish . Unlike

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John ran into himone day during the last war, whenhe was working hard on political propaganda.

‘Do you play now, Maestro?’ John asked him.

Paderewski sadly shook his head .

‘For one hundred and thirty- six days,’ he said,

‘I havenot put a hand to a piano .

’

The exact figure wasmore eloquent than any protestation or complaint.A few years later, in 192 2 , Paderewskimade a remarkto John which showed his power of prophetic intuition.

John had just been to Ireland. Heedless of the rest ofthe company

,Paderewski took himaway to a corner of the

roomand questioned himclosely and carefully aboutwhattheIrish Free State hoped to do, and what were its chances.When John had finished, Paderewski considered for amoment, nodding hismagnificent head. He leaned forward,took John’s kneesbetween his own, and said

‘I can see a great future for your country; but formine,none . None—between the sickle of Russia and the hammerof Germany.

’

One day the twomen were dining together at the houseof a very wealthy man. John had been playing golf thatafternoon, and, during the game, had heard a bird whichsang repeatedly amusical phrase .Paderewski looked up.

‘What was the phrase? ’ he asked.

For reply, John whistled it . Paderewskimade himwhistleit several ti1nes.

‘I would like to be able to whistle,’ he said sadly.

Fromthat first occasion when he signed his photograph‘Very friendly,

’ Caruso moved in and out of the McCor

macks’ lives until his death . Caruso was that rarity—a singer

256

without a spark of j ealousy. More, he never spoke unkindlyof a colleague . Even though no one could challenge his preeminence in his own field, Caruso, had he been a lesserman,might well have been jealous of the young Irish tenor’ssuccess and his hold upon the American public. Instead,Caruso rejoiced in this success, and John

’s admiration forhis singing was unbounded, the tribute of one great artistto another: Caruso would affectionately curse ]ohn f01 the

pimz'

ssimz’ which, for all his surpassing technique, he couldnot emulate, and John would stand in awe before the trumpet tones and the flawless power that were beyond his owncompass .Onemoming,when the twomet, John hailed himcheer

fully in Italian.

‘And how is the King of Tenors to- day? ’ he asked.

Caruso’s reply came like lightning.

‘Since when have you become a bass? ’One the evening when John made his début as guestartist at the Metropolitan in 19 14, to sing Madame Butterfly with Geraldine Farrar, Caruso presented himself in hisdressing—roomin hat and cloak.

John grinned at him.

‘What are you doing here, Rico, on your day off?’

Caruso drew himself up.

‘Do you think,’ he enquired, in offended tones,

‘I wouldbe capable of letting you go on without coming to wishyou well? ’

Caruso was a favourite with the Mccormack children,and Gwen possesses one snapshot whichmust have turnedher school friends sick with jealousy. Taken on board ship,it shows her sitting on the rail, with Caruso kissing her onone cheek and Scotti on the other.And John, when he went to the Carusos, was greeted inthe same way by their little daughter, Gloria. She wouldalways insist on sitting up on nights when the McCor

macks came to dinner, and her question always was,‘What

will I sing for Johnnie to-night? ’

Only once, during his last illness, did John ever hearCaruso speak bitterly. Caruso’s successor at the Metropolitan

,chosen with his full approval, was a young Italian

of immense promise, Beniamino Gigli . Caruso had instantlyrealized the quality of his voice, and prophesied that hewould have a great future : a prophecy which time hasmade good .

Caruso was to have sung Andrea Cbe’m'

er,an opera in

which he excelled,and had made his own. When he was

ill, the Metropolitan put on Gigli in his place .‘He might have waited till I was dead,

’ said Carusoquietly.

Of Gigli, John confirms Caruso’s View,and can say

more, having seen his career come tomaturity.

‘

It is,’ he said,

‘themost beautiful tenor voice I have everheard, excepting only Caruso

’s .’

He went on to say that Gigli’s first performance in Puccini’s Manon Lescaut was one of the greatest occasions theMetropolitan has ever known.

Of another famous tenor, Martinelli, John tells the following pleasing anecdote .

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‘I can sing Kathleen Mavourneen, not quite as well as

you, John; but, darn it, I can sing it prettygood .

Having watched himat a political reception, John cameup to himwith a question.

‘Governor, why do you stand with your back to the.wall when you talk to these politicians? ’

‘Because then I know there is nobody behindmy back.

’

General Pershingmakes a brief and rather negative appearance. John sang before himonce and included a newsong which was the rage in America at the moment. Itstitle was ‘When Pershing’5 Men Go Marching into Picardy. The general listened unmoved to this stirring ditty,and did not applaud at the end.

Sir Basil Zaharoff, about whomso much has been saidand written, was anything but a sinister figure to the McCormacks. At Monte Carlo he used to ask John to dinnerto meet all sorts of illustrious Frenchmen, so that theycould hear himtalk. The phenomenon of a singer with amind and a knowledge of the world outside his own profession never ceased to astound Zaharofi .

When John thanked himfor coming to the opera tohear himsing, Zaharoff waved the thanks aside .

‘I would not have come,’ he said grun ,

‘

if I hadn’twanted to hear you .

’

260

The Marchese Marconi, whomJohn hadmet first of allin 1908 at the Irish Club in Charing Cross Road, mademany appearances.

‘I amj ealous of Giovanni,’ he sai-d to Lily at their firstmeeting.

‘He speaks better Italian than I do,~a11d Iwas bornin Italy.

’

The tribute delighted John, for Marconi was anythingbut an uncritical admirer. He was a conn01sseur of Opera,and, when John was singing, he would always go round toLily in the interval and tell her just how he thought herman was doing.

The last time John saw himwas in the ante—chamber atthe Vatican

,when he was on duty as Chamberlain there

in May 1935. Marconi came, with the Marchesa and theirchild, for an audience with the Holy Father.They chatted together for fifteen or twenty minutes,while the baby kept up a string of questions as to why theywore swords ‘nella camdel Papa,’ and why the Colonel ofthe Noble Guard carried a little stick as well as a bigsword

‘The stick,’ said Marconi gently,

‘is to keep little gii'Is

good, and prevent themfromasking toomany questions.’The child remained very quiet after that, and stoodholding tightly to hermother’s hand ; but every now andthen, when Marconi was not looking, she would whispera question into hermother’s ear.

Needless to say, John knew all the noted Irishmen of histime . There are somany that it would be invidious tomake

26 1

selections, but place must be given to TimHealy, whoserich character and wit have made himimmortal in Irishhistory. John’smemories of himare long. He was first in

troduced to himat the House of Commons in 1908, andlater on the politician was often a guest at Moore Abbey.

Healy had a tremendous memory and a great taste insongs, particularly in the vernacular. He knew ‘Come-allye

’

s’—that is, ballads beginning w ith an invitation to come

and listen—with asmany as forty 01 fifty verses, and neverfaltered or hesitated when he sang them.

His ear was very acute : so acute that, although he wasunfamiliar with the German language, he was able to detectdiscrepancies in John’s pronunciation and twit himwiththemafterwards.Unhappily, the samples John has of his wit are too pungent and personal for public repetition.

No Irishman prominent inmusic could help sooner orlater meeting George Bernard Shaw. The McCormacksfirstmet Shaw at Lady Lavery’s. Lily was put next to himat dinner. She was scared and very shy. Shaw leaned overto her.

‘You know,

’ he said.

‘I do not think I amgoing to likethat husband of yours as well as I thought I would.

’

‘Oh, Mr. Shaw ! ’ cried Lily.

‘Why don’t you like myJohn? ’

‘Becausemy wife is always out buying his records, andI don’t get anymoney.

’

And fromthatmoment Lily was his devoted and faithful admirer.

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No one could wind up this chaptermore fittingly thanthat prince of tenors, Jean de Reszke . In his later days,when the McCormacks came to know himpersonally, deReszke had to be careful of his health, andwas not allowedout at night. Accordingly he asked Lily to tell himwhenJohn was singing at a matifnée. One afternoon John was

to sing in The Barber of Seville, so Lily got tickets and letde Reszke know.

Lily has never forgotten that Visit to the opera house .The staff almost went down on their knees to the greattenor. During the performance, every time John sang anything of which de Reszke particularly approved, he wouldturn and smileat Lily and humthe phrase over to himself.Another ti1ne, hemade John come and sing for his pupils.‘There,

’ he said, when it was over,‘that is the way I

want you to

263

CHAPTER 17

THE QUESTION OF John’s retirement was one which hadoften come up in the McCormack family, and which wasoccasionally put to himby newspapermen withmore appetite than tact. John took a common- sense View of thematter.

‘I shall retire in good time,’ he sa1d, ‘

so that they willask “W hy do you?

”—not “Why don’t you? ”

No one hitherto had asked ‘Why don’t you? ’ and therewas no sign of a W eakening hold upon audiences intheUS A . or in England. A Mccormack recital in the bigtowns could be relied upon to fill any hall . In London, Johnwas one of the small handful of artists who could fill theAlbert Hall. According to one of the best known Londonconcert agents, there were only three others .But John was in his

'

fifties, and the strain of‘the road’

was beginning to tell even on a frame as robust as his. Hebegan to think longingly of being able to travel and seeplaces in his own time, not according to themerciless timetable of his bookings. While he still had health and vigour,he wanted to get about and enjoy himself. Andmore thananything, he wanted to leave behind a reputation nu

dimmed by the usual antics of singers past their prime. Hedid not want to strain the affection which the public hadso generously given him, to depend on their loyalty ratherthan their impulse .Accordingly, hemade his farewell tour in America dur

ingthe winter of 19 36—7, his last American concert being

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old and new, who could possibly come . Miss Mary Scottsat in one of the boxes, and Cyril was here, there, andeverywhere

,replying to anxious queries that his father was

in excellent form. John’s adopted country was representedby its very popular ambassador, Mr. Joseph Kennedy,whomI noticed at the end, standing up and applauding ohstinately (in common with “thousands of other people)when John, having given several encores, disappeared behind the curtains and showed no signs of coming out.Cyril was right: John was in excellent form. Not havingheard himfor two years, I noticed that he sang carefullyat first, and kept well within his powers until the last group,when once he let himself go upon a fortissimo high note.Taking the recital as a whole, I have never heard himsingbetter. It was an astonishing performance. The encoresalone would have ex haustedmost singers. At no point wasthe least indulgence called for; at no point did one think,‘He used to be able to do that better.’

At the end, the audience simply would not go away.

When at last John came on oncemore—I have lost countof the times—and sang Moore’s ‘Believe Me if All’ we wentaway, well content that that graceful song should be thelast we heard himsing. By so leaving, we missed a finalencore and the speech with which he wound up a mostmemorable afternoon.

The press tributes to the concert were cordial and enthusiastic .

Apart fromthe more sensational papers,which made

great play with the romance of his career, the presence ofhis family and of Miss Mary Scott, and othermatters notstrictly connected with the art of song, there weremanynotices which were summed up 111 the one word ‘Why? ’ 1

Edwin Evans in the DailyMail began his notice

1W hen ‘W hy?’was shouted at himby an audience in his farewell

tour in Ireland, John replied simply,‘It’s hard work for a grandfather.

’

266

‘

Listening to John Mccormack at the Albert Hall, it wasdifiicult to discern any reason why he should think of re

tirin‘Hgis voice is as sound and as firmly controlled as ever. His

enunciation is still an example tomost singers, and a reproofto themany whose words are unintelligible.

‘He is not free frommannerisms, but these have long beenfamiliar and have not grownmore pronounced. They are, infact, part of his characteristic style. W hy should he retire?

Richard Capell, in the Telegraph, said

‘

Time, indeed, has only begun to touch his art. True, he canno longer sustain a classicalmelod as he did thirty years ago,when he was Covent Garden’s per ect Don Ottavio, and yesterday he sometimes resorted to a quasi—falsetto tone.

‘

But in two aspects, the one represented by his singing ofexquisite little songs by Hugo W olf, the other, of course, byhis fetching Irish ditties, he still remains not far fromhis prime.Towards the end of the afternoon, in one of themore sentimental effusions which the occasion probably demanded

,he

asserted that “W hen I have sungmy songs to you I shall singnomore but if Mr. Mccormack is right to have closed hisaccount with the Albert Hall, his performance of “Herr

,

tra'

gt,” fromW olf’s Spam

'

sb Book,was so beautifully done as

to leave a desire that inmore intimate circles the lastmay stillnot have been heard of him.

’

And there were many others to the same effect. Allunited in paying tribute to the beautiful accompanying ofGerald Moore, who became John’s accompanist afterSchneider had retired .

As amatter of fact John did sing again in public, onlya few days later. This was at a special concert at the D01chester Hotel

,attended by the Queen. At the end of it,

267

be distinguished himself, quite unselfconsciously, by hisViolent enthusiasmand fervour in cheering the Queenwhen she left. People laughed, and one remarked that atheart he was still a schoolboy. John did not notice : he wasfar too much taken up with his delight in the occasion.

There is a postscript to John’s public career, but as it isonly a postscript, little need be said of it . When the warbegan, he came out of his retirement and oncemore offeredhis services to the Red Cross. Since then he has toured the“country as of old, and swears he will go on doing so aslong as there are half a dozen people left who will pay tohear him.

The receipts of the Red Cross suggest that it will be along time before he has to depend on that half- dozen.

The John Mccormack of to-day remains verymuch theboy who came to London tomake his fortune . The ‘Irishenthusiasm’

of which Boosey complained—in other words,

the blurting out of Vigorous comment—is there still. Iwould give a lot for leave to transcribe some of his comments onmymanuscript. I dine out on theminstead.

Not long ago he was taking over a house froma ladywho had decorated it in rather opulent style . John lookedwith baleful eye at the hangings and the fal- lals. His glance

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he said.

‘That is vulgar. You will have nothing but the best.’

Later ou, when there wasmoney, the promise wasmadegood. John had an instinct for the best in jewels as in pictures. He would pore over a tray of rings, or pendants,and, refusing all help fromthe salesman, would finallypoint to one stone and say,

‘Now that’s the one I fancy.

’

And, invariably, it was of the first quality.

But the occasion I have inmind happened in New York.

After the signing of a particularly brilliant contract, Johnrushed off to the j ewellers and bought on approval anenormous and very valuable emerald. Lily, when she heardits price, cried out that nothing would induce her to wear it.

‘I amnot going to havemy neck wrung for the sake ofany old stone,

’

she protested ; and when John saw that shewould be unhappy and afraid to wear it, lest she shouldbe attacked by jewel thieves, he took it back to the shop.

There he had an unpleasant shock. The jewellers did notwish to take the stone back. They said he had kept it overthe specified period, and charged hima percentage of thepurchase price, with the result that his brief guardianshipof the emerald cost himnine hundred pounds.Another enthusiasmwas for yachts and boats of allkinds. In this he was aided and abetted by Cyril, whosepassion formechanics centred upon the engines . The boatwould be bought, money spent on her, trips begun—andthen John would return for weeks on end to his old love,tennis, and Lily would have to take her friends for tripsto keep the boat in use.But it was no good being angry with John. Once, veryearly in theirmarried life, when Lily was about to givehima well- deserved scolding, he made a pathetic face ather, put his head on one side, and said

‘Oh—aren’t you going to let me be happy, thoughmarried? ’And the scolding was never given.

This defence did not always work, and there weremanyscoldings, but most of themwere givenmore fromdutythan conviction. They are often necessary still. John, whowasmeticulous in his dress on the platform, will take notrouble about it in private. He will wear an old hat foryears, and Lily has tomake herself unbearable before shecan drive himto look after himself or have hismeals atthe proper times.In fact,WilliamLudwig had the right of 1t. John neededsomeone to look after him, and he always will .

When I was writing about the first Harrison tour in1908, I said that the artists in the company got on happilytogether and learned to know and like one another. Thisdrew fromJohn a vehement protest which tellsmore abouthimthanmany paragraphs.

‘Come, come,’ he wrote in themargin,

‘

you can do better than this. I know you, but God ! how I should hate tohear you say you liked me.

’

Everything in his life is painted in strong colours . Thereis nothing indeterminate, nothing grey. A training whichaccustoms one to superlatives has accorded perfectly witha nature which thinks and feels in superlatives. The tributes which singers pay each other are, to say the least ofit, warmly worded, and an ex pansive nature can flow out

in complete sincerity with the words . If any picture oftheman is drawn in these pages, it should above all conveya sincerity which is b0th impulsive and deep, a spontaneous warmth of life, an ebullient, even a Violent energy,and an imagination accessible to all emotion, and swiftly

27 1

kindled. The singer whose story is told here is aman withhosts of friends and not a few enemies : but any one of theenemies could turn himself into a friend at a moment’snotice by frankly approaching the object of his dislike andproposing that bygones should be bygones.The reasons why John and Caruso got '

ou so Iwell arespeedily found. The Irishman had all the Italian’s warmthof

“heart andmuch of his generosity. It would not be trueto say that, like Caruso, he never spoke ill of a colleague.He is too witty, he has too much of the natural Irishmanin him, to refrain.

‘What are you doing here? ’ he said to the wife of abrother tenor, who came round to see himat his farewell .‘Come to count the house? ’But it is all talk. He will exchange hard knocks in fair

fight, but he is incapable of personalmalice, and would dono man an injury.

He has the merits and defects of a simple, straightforward nature . There is much of the child in him, and

will be till he dies. He is as shrewd as they aremade, perceptive on his own wave- length as any woman, vulnerablealways

,enormously happy, Violently dejected .

‘May God keep you in the palmof His Hand,’ he will

say to a friend at parting, andmean each word .

The faith expressed in that blessing sustains himdayand night, and is as real to himas the bed he sleeps in.

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Sulfil d’zmsofi‘io. No subsequent recordingof this aria ap

proached Mme Alda’

s.

PASQUALE AMATO . Recorded for the Fonotipia and

H.M.V .-Victor Companies. Especially fine were his

H.M.V . 2 -052051 ll Barbiere dz‘ ‘

Largo al factotm’

and H.M.V . 2—052079 I Due F030117 7?‘0 veccbio cor

che batti.*

Some ten titles are still available,including

H.M.V . DK1 10 Puritam'

:‘Suom’

la tromba" (with J OURNET)and Otello: ‘

Brind z'

sz"

(with ENSEMBLE) .H.M.V . DM106 FormdelDestinn: ‘

lnfvano,Alvaro

’

(withCARUSO) and F0124 del Destino:

‘Le minaccz’e’ (with

CARUSO) .DALTON BAKER recorded for the Odeon Company, andlater for Columbia. Typical of his work 1s

Odeon 0254‘

She Is far fromthe Land’ (Lambert) .

AMEDEO BASSI recorded for the Fonotipia Company in1906. His recordings are admired by collectors largely because the selections are usually of little-known airs. Theyinclude tenor arias‘ fromGiordano’s Siberia and d

’

Erlanger’

s

Tess.

MATTIA BATTISTINI, ‘la glam! recorded over a

period of nearly twentyyears as an exclusive GramophoneCo. artist. Few copies exist of h is first series,made at W ar

saw in 1903, but the followingdiscs are still available :H.M.V . DB 198 Ballo

' in Masobem: ‘Alla vita che t

’mz'

de’

and Emmi: ‘Vz

'

em' meco'

,sol d x

'

7 0se’

(with EMILIACORSI) .

H.M.V . DBzoo Ballo in Mascbem: ‘Erz

’

tu chemaocbiavi’and Ermm’

:‘Lo vedremo

, o veglia audace.

’

H.M.V . DE207 Lucia di Lammermoor: ‘Gw da, funesta,

mania’and D072 Sebastmo'

:‘O Lisbom! ’

Of the records no longer to be purchased, the finest which Ihave h eard is H.M.V . DB 209 Marta.

‘

Il 77710 Lionel. The

original H.M. .V recordingof‘Erz

'

tu’must be distinguished

fromone which replaced it in the catalogue, and which was

made towards the end of his career.DAVID BISPHAM ( 1 857—192 1 ) began h is recording careerin 1902 with a handful of recordings for the Gramophone 81Typewriter Co. Copies of these recordings, which included

2—2682 ‘Sapphische Ode

’

(Brahms) and2 74

2—2686 Falstafl:‘

Quand’empaggio’

are very seldomfound, and most historic record collectionsrepresent himwith examples fromthe series that he madefrom1906 to 19 1 1 for the American Columbia Co. Thisseries includes favourite items fromopera, oratorio, and theconcert repertoire. Representative items are300 16

‘

Danny Deever’ (Damrosch) .30019

‘D-

er Erlleb'm'

g’

(Schubert) .

A5O99 Semele: ‘

W here E’

er You W alk .

’

A5100 Elijah :‘

It is Enough.

’

A51 37 Tramiare: ‘Il balen.

’

Of the eight discs inmy collection, the best vocally is8

‘

Oft in the Stilly Night’ (Moore) .

3 4 ‘

The Arrow and the Song’ (Balfe) .

ALESSANDRO BONCI ( 1 872—1940) was the star artist ofthe Italian Fonotipia Company, and the series of recordingsthat hemade for themin 1904 includes some fine examplesof his art. Items such as39084 Puritam

'

:‘A te

,a cam,

’

39240 Carmen: ‘Romtmza delfiO're,’

393 38 Favorite:‘Spir

’to gentil,

’ etc .,

are regarded bymany judges as standard versions, by whichall subsequent versionsmust be judged.

Bonci continued to record for the Fonotipia Companyuntil 1909 . After that date he recorded exclusively for Columbia. Themajority of the Columbia items were re-recordings of titles alreadymade for the Fonotipia concern. Two

of Boncia’

s early Fonotipia records have been reissued bythe Parlophone Company onPX08 1 Faust:

‘Salve d imow’ and La Bobe‘me: ‘

Cbe gelida

manimt.’ 1“Of the Columbia recordings, the pick are

DSOS5 Tosca:‘Recond imarmom'

a’

(especially) and‘E

lucewmle stelle.

’

D 1 7533 La Bob'e‘me: ‘

Cbe gelz'

da mmim’ and Elisir

d’Amore: ‘Hwt furtifva

A pupil of Jean de Reszke told me that the master usedBonci’s Columbia The gelidamantimz’ as a lesson in tenorproduction.

CELESTINA BONINSEGNA recorded for the Gramophone,275

Columbia, and Pathé Companies. She had a fine recordingtechnique and most of her discs are regarded as

‘Collectors’

pieces.’ Such discs asColumbia A5194 Trovatm'e: ‘

D’

amor sull’ah“rosee

’and

‘Tacea la notte

,

’

Columbia A5197 N07mm: ‘Casta Dim.

’

(both withdrawn) are considered by some Judges to be thefinest versions evermade.

H.M.V . DE49 3 Fafrza del Destino:

‘Madre pietosa’and

‘Pace

,mia Dio

,

’

still available, is a worthy specimen of her art .

LUCREZIA BORI (b. 1 888 ) has been formany years a favourite artist of the Victor RecordingCompany (issued inEngland on W ith John Mccormack she recordedH.M.V . 7

—54003 La Ba

rbe‘me: ‘

O satwe fanciulla’ and

H.M.V . 2—054055m '

am: o 0474’

(this latteris still available on DM 104 coupled with the RigolettoQuartet, with MC CORMACK, J ACOBY ,

and W ERRENRATH) ,Her solo recordings include excerpts fromMascagni

’

s

Iris,a role that W as one of her greatest triumphs at the

Metropolitan, New York; and a number of Spanish songs.A few of her later recordings are still available in the cur

rent H.M.V . catalogue. Mr. Phillips advises the discriminatingcollector to getDM 104 (above) andDK 102 D072 Pasquale:

‘Norinia-Malatesta Duet’ (withGIUSEPPE DE LUCA) .

BORGHILD BRYHN recorded for the ScandinaV1an branchof the Gramophone Co. in 1908 . Her initial effort consistedof some half a dozenNorwegian songs, includingthe charmingbut little known83670

‘Ragnbz

'

ld’

(Grieg) .ROSINA BUCKMAN was the star artist in the first H.M.V .

venture into complete opera recording, Madame Butterfly.

Other H.M.V . recordings include excerpts fromDameEthel Smyth’s opera, The Boatswain’s Mate. A prolific t e

cordingartist, Miss Buckman alsomademany discs for thePathe and Columbia Companies.

TOM BURKE recorded for Columbia, and later for the

Crystalate Companies. A representative Columbia disc stillin the current catalogue is

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give the Caruso recordings the benefit ofmodern orchestralaccompamments.

LINA CAVAL IERI (b. whose remarkable beauty con

tradicted the traditional idea of prima donnas,made severalrecords for the Columbia Company. The best of these,A5178 Tosca:

‘Vz

’

ssz'

d’

a'

rte’and Manon Lescaut:

‘177 quelle

t7'7'

77e'

is no longer available, but the followingdisc is still listed inthe current Columbia catalogue :A51 79 Carmen: ‘Habafiem’ and ‘Maria,Mari.” (Capua) .

FEODOR CHALIAPIN recorded for the Moscow branch ofG. 81 T . in 190 1 , before h is name had any significance outside Russia, and it is unlikely that the discs were distributedoutside that country. They revealed h is quality, and the interpretations were of a more orthodox character than h issubsequent issues. All of the (5) titles were recorded againlater on. Many of his later recordings are still available andthe following typical examples are recommended by M1 .

H.M.V . DB 9 321

‘

Songof the Flea’ 1"(Moussorgsky) and

Bm'biere (Rossini) :‘La 071177777777 3

H.M.V . DE 1525‘

Ele’

gie’

(Massenet) and‘Gold Rolls Here

Below Me’

(Rubinstein) .H.M.V . DB 3464

‘

Prayer and Death of Boris Godounofi "

(Moussorgsky) (recorded duringactualCovent Gardenperformance)

The earlier record of the Boris scenes, made in 19 1 3,shows a different interpretation and far greater volume ofvoice

GUIDO CICCOLINI first recorded in Milan in 1908 . Hemade two records, arias fromCarmen and Mignon, neitherof which displaced the existingversions made by de Luciafor the same company. Of subsequent recordings, h is Thegelz

'

da manim’

(Boh 'éme) is typical. ( 2—05 Another,‘A77707' ti w

'

eta’

(Fedom) , shows a very pleasant quality, buthis penultimate note suggests that he was still anxious abouthis brothers (see p. [7

EDMOND CLEMENT, one of the finest lyric tenors thatFrance has produced, began his recording career with theOdeon Company in 1906 . Later he became a celebrity artistfor the Victor Company, forwhomhemademany

278

delightful discs, includingexcerpts frommany of the lesserknown operas. Mr. Phillips recommendsVictrola 6062 R07 d ’Ys: ‘

Aubade’ and Manon:

‘Le réve.

’

The following discs are still available, and do full justice tothe artist:H.M.V . DAz 1 1 Dante (Godard) :

‘Nous 17110775 partir tousdeux

’

(with FARRAR) and Segreto dz'

Susanna: Solo byFARRAR.

H.M.V . DB 1 72 Romeo et Juliette:‘Ange

‘

adomble’XwithFARRAR) and Mefistofele:

‘

L077m770,1077 771770

’

(with FAR

RAR) .

ARMAND CRABBE (b. 1 88 3) began his recording careerwith the French branch of the H.M.V . Company. After theexpiry of his H.M.V . contract, he made a series for theDecca Company. Typical of h is art is

Decca Tzoz‘

La Jota’

(Falla) and‘Rubia

’

(Armand

The former is excellent, while the reverse side gives the listener an opportunity of assessing hismerits as a composer.

ADA CROSSLEY (b. 1 874) was a star artist in the first Victorcelebrity list. Her discs are now extremely rare, especiallyth e fine 8 1 00 1

‘Caro 77770 ben’

(Giordani) .FRANCESCO DADDI recorded for many companies. Hismost interesting disc was

Columbia 1 0 1 7 3 Pagliacci:‘

O colombz’nd ’since he created the part of Beppe at the world prem1ere inMilan in 1 892 .

CHARLES DALMORES ( 1 87 1—1939) shared with Clement,the French tenor, honours on the early Victor lists.He specialized in themore robust operatic arias and his03 206 3 Romeo et j uliette:

‘Caw tine

’

ismuch prized. Only one record is still available,namely

H.M.V . DB638 Camen:‘Ld—bas damlamontagne’ (with

CALV1'

1) .

but onemay still find two solos fromthe Tales ofH017777 777777on H.M.V . DA 1 and I have heard a fine record of ‘

Ah

si be77 coll’essere

’fromHTrow tm'

e.

BEN DAVIES was the first British singer of note tomakerecords. Hemade his first series in London in 190 1 . It consisted of the following (G. 81 T.)2—2500

‘

Serenade’ (Schubert) .

2 79

2—250 1‘

Songs of Araby’

(Clay) .

2—2502‘MyPretty Jane

’

(Bishop) .

2 2503 Bohemian G771: ‘

W hen Other Lips’

—2504‘

TomBowling’

(Dibdin) .

And , in 1902 ,

52 3 29 F7 7717:‘Strlve d imow ’

attracted great attention and converted many oth er singers.His 190 3 group includes

2—2 78 1 Dow'

s:‘

So Fare Thee W ell.The best record still available is H.M.V . 02514

‘

To Mary’

(M. V . W h ite) , and the Columbia Company have a numberof titlesmade late in h is career.

EDW ARD DAVIESmade a few titles inW elsh for the Zonophone Company. They have been off the list formany years.

HARRY DEARTH, the late (b. one of England’s fa

vourite bass- baritones,recorded in turn formost companies.

Of the five discs remainingin the Columbia list, typical areDE299

‘

Bulls W on’t Bellow’

and‘Old Barty.

’

DX300‘

The Sergeant of the Line’

and‘

The Drum-major.’He possessed an-

enormous repertoire, and formore than adecade hardly amonth passed without a record fromhim.

Opera, oratorio, art song, and drawing-roomballad, all camealike to h im.

EMMY DESTINN (ne'

e Kittl) ( 1 878—1930) made three discsin 1904 for the Columbia Company. In the followingyearshe transferred her allegiance to the Odeon Company inBerlin. In the years 1906- 7 and 1908 she made a series forth e Berlin studios of the Gramophone Company, and thesediscs are considered to be her best. They included recordings fromStrauss

’

s Salome,and records of her greatest ré le,

Butterfly. Later,many of her early titles were re- recordedin the London and New York studios

, and the earlier issuesvanished fromthe catalogues. Of her recordings still in thecurrent catalogues, Mr. Phillips recommendsParlophone PX084 FlyingDutchman: ‘

Senta’s ballad

’ andTristan 777771 Isolde:

‘Liebestod .

’

H.M.V . DB 2 3 3 Gio'

conda: and Tosca:‘Vissi

d’

arte.

’

My choice is H.M.V . DB647 Madame Butterfly: ‘U77 bel d i

vedremo’ and Columbia A5399, two duets (with ZENA

TELLO) .

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Company, but copies of these discs are Virtually unknown.

She then recorded for the Swedish includingthe

fine

H.M.V . X‘

Saerjenten’

s Sunday’ (Bull) and2975

‘

Solveig’

s Song’

(Peer Gym) .W h en sh e ach ieved international status, she began a series ofH.M.V . International Celebrity recordings. Selected ex

amples are:H.M.V . DB 2746 Tristan z7ud Isolde:

H.M.V . DA 1505‘Ich liebe d ich

’

and‘B 777 T7a77777

’

(Grieg) .H.M.V . DA 151 2

‘

Lullaby’

(Scott) and‘

0 Lovely Night’

(Ronald ) .

EVANGELINE FLORENCE recorded for the GramophoneTypewriter Company in 1902 ,makingfour titles. Allwere

high ly successful,but she did not repeat her experience.

3443 Pearl of Brazil:‘

Thou CharmingBird’

is regarded as her finest effort.

JOHN FORSELL, the baritone, was for years the ‘trumpcard’ of the Swedish branch of the Gramophone Company.

His popularity in the Scandinavian countries was akin to

that of Peter Dawson w ith the British and Australian publics. After a lengthy and successful career, he turned histalents to the management of the StockholmOpera. He

recordedmost of the best known arias fromthe opera baritone repertoire, but his records were nevermade generallyavailable outside Scandinavia.

IVOR FOSTER recorded for the Odeon Company. His records included:T777777hd771e7 :

‘0 Star ofEve.

’F77773 7:

‘Even Bravest Heart.’‘

Bedouin Love Song.

’ ‘

Rolling Down toRio.

’

‘

1 Fear no Foe.

’ ‘

Drake Goes W est.’

Later hemade a series for Columbia.PAUL FRANZ made themajority of his recordings for thePath é Company, but as these discs are not readily playableonmodernmachines, chief interest is centred round the fewrecords that he made for H.M.V . His robust quality wasideally suited toW agnerian opera,which he sangin French.

Of his other records,4—3 2 274 Samson et Dalila:

‘A7 ré tez

,0mes fre

‘

res’ 1“

and

03 2 227 Romeo et Iulz'

ette:‘

Salut.’ Tombeau ’

are typical.03 2 2 38 Aida:

‘O celeste A'

z’

da’ 1“is interesting both vocally

and for the unorthodoxmanner inwhich the singer ends thearm.

EDOARDO GARBIN created many roles in modern Italianopera, and recorded for the Fonotipia Company. On Parlophone P0 1 25, in association with h is wife, Adelina _

Stehle,he recorded the duet ‘

E dunque vero?’fromAdfima Le

couvreur. Apart fromthe Fonotipia recordings, he recordedfor the Gramophone 81 Typewriter Company—these discsare almost impossible to find—and for the Columbia Company. These last are less worth finding, as they were madelong after Garbin

’

s prime, and do not do himjustice.MARY GARDENmade a number of really important discs,including a series of Debussy songs, accompanied by thecomposer, and an excerpt fromAlfano’

s neglected Opera,Resurrecti077 .

Some of the Debussy records have been reissued by theInternational Record Collectors’ Club .

EVA GAUTHIER’

S recordings were never issued in thiscountry, but the International Record Collectors

’ Clubissued an unusual coupling by this artist:

1 27‘N7

'

7777 B0b0lh’

(Malay and Javanese slumber song) ,sung in Malay, and ‘

Le 7 etou7 des p7 07777'

s’

(Dessauer) .

MARIA GAY, famous for her Carmen, was the wife of Zenatello and discoverer of Lily Pons. Shemade a humble gram0phone début in 1903 with two recordings for the FrenchGramophone 8cTypewriter Company. Few copies circulated,and she next appeared on discs for the Favorite Company.

These, too, quickly disappeared . Ou her Covent Gardendébut in 1908, the Gramophone Company issued a series ofexcerpts fromhermost famous roles—Ca'

rmefl , 8 777771077, andOrfeo. Later sh e recorded for Columbia andmade some finediscs

, including duets with her husband . One record of thisseries

,A52 79 Carmen: ‘Habafiem’

and‘Card Song’ is still

available.BENIAMINO GIGLI was given special leave fromactiveservice during the last war in order to appear at La Scala,Milan. H.M.V . took advantage of the opportunity tomakeh is first recordings.

283

After the war he went to the Metropolitan Opera Housein New York, and was chosen by Caruso to deputise forhim. Since then h is fame has increased steadily. A largenumber of h is records are in the current catalogue. Of h is

original series, H.M.V . 7—52 2 20

‘Serenata

’ 1‘

(Toselli) showswhat he could do.

CHARLES GILIBERT ( 1 867- 19 10) recorded for the Columbia and Victor Companies. Copies of his first ( 1903 ) Columbia records are seldomfound nowadays, but four of h is Victor titles are still available in the current H.M.V . catalogueDE274 Se7 se:

‘Largo

’

(in French ) and F7777 Maid of Perth‘

G77el77d la fiamme.

’

DM 1 1 7 W ith MELBA:‘U77 ct77ge est venu

’

(Bemberg) and‘Pe7 vallz

’

, per

DINH GILLY died early in 1940 . He called in all his records,but can still be heard on H.M.V . DJ 1O 1 singingtwo Czechfolk- songs with Emmy Destinn,

‘My Homeland’

and‘

The

W edding.

’

Of the cancelled records, the following are well worthpickingup. Though

'

imperfect, they show a noble voice :H.M.V . 2—054062

‘D0b7077 7700

’77777 777712

’

(withH.M.V . DE743 Madame Butterfly: ‘

A77707 e 0 grillo’and

‘Dovun'

que al 777077d0’

(withDA559 llTabarro: fiume’ and La Boheme: ‘Vecchz

'

a

2 7777777 7 77. A record of the Pagliacci Prologue in English(DB849) , has its own interest. 1“

ALMA GLUCK ( 1 884—1938 ) turned much of her talent tosongs of a popular character, and enjoyed huge sales in con

sequence. Most of her records have been w ithdrawn, but

the followingrepresentative example is still in the currentH.M.V . catalogue:DE574

‘

Angel’s Serenade’ (Braga) and

‘

Ave Maria’

(Gounod) .Each has an obbligato by her husband, Zimbalist.Her voice was of exquisite quality. I recommendH.M.V . DB 278

‘

0 Sleep, why dost Thou Leave Me’

and‘

Angels Ever Bright and Fair’

H.M.V . DA240‘L’he777 e ex quise

’

Victor 642 1 3‘

Bohemian Cradle Song’

HARRY PLUNKET—GREENE made seven records for the

Gramophone and Typewriter Company in 1904, six Irish

2 84

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where she created many major roles. She first recorded _in1903, when shemade some eight titles for the Paris branchof the Gramophone 82Typewriter Company. Cortot accompanied her. This series reveals adequately the variety of her

repertoire, includingexcerpts fromLe Cid , S7 7771' 077 et Dalila,T7 7

'

sta77, W alkiire, Sappho, F777717, and songs by Rubinsteinand Schumann. For the Fonotipia Company in 1905 she

added arias fromCavalleria Rusticm,L0he77g7 7

'

77,

andHer last series was for Odeon in 1907, the only

new title was‘

0 777077 Femmd ’ None of h erdiscs is now to be had , and specimens in the possession ofprivate collectors are prized too highly to change hands.

FERNANDO DE LUCIAmade a series of operatic numbersfor the Gramophone and Typewriter Co. 1n 1903

—4—5. He

also specialized in the singingof folksongs. Many examplesof his art are still available in the current H.M.V . catalogue.

Of the others,his

‘Il 77770 te107 0" suffers by comparison with

McCormack ’s, as de Lucia handicaps h imself with a 10-inchdisc.

I suggest the followingH.M .V . DA3 35

‘Lzma Lu .

H.M.V . DA3 3 3‘Oz

'

li oild.

’ 1“H.M.V . 2—52667 llBa7b7

’

e7 e di Sivz'

glia:‘Se 71 77770 name.

W ILLIAM LUDW IG. This great baritone is riimoured to

havemade records, but we cannot trace them. His real namewas Ledwidge. SirHenry W ood has said of himthat he was

the greatest Elijah he ever heard: and he was tremendous inW agnerian opera.

LOUISE KIRKBY LUNN recorded in 190 1 for the Gramophone 8: Typewriter Company, and for the Columbia con

cern in 1903 . It was not untilnearly a decade later,however,

that she began her long series of operatic and art songrecordings for the Gramophone Company. They included:

2—03 303 2 8 77777 1077 et Dalila:‘A7770777 viem.

’

2—03 3030 Carmen: ‘Card Song.

’

2—053075 Rinaldo:‘Lascia oh7

'

0 pianga.

’

2—03 303 3 8 777771077 et Dalila:‘Mo77 otear s

’ouvre 72ta voix .

’

2- 053068 Clemenza dz’

Tito:‘N077 piu.

’

2—053000 D077 0 77 101 :‘0 d077 fatale.

’

2—03303 1 8777771077 et Dalila:‘P7 7

'

777e777ps qui commence.

’

2—03 3028 Came”:

286

2—053067 T7 007 707 e:‘St7 7

'

de 17 07 77712773

2—053074 Giol

conda:‘Vo'

ce dz’

D0777777.’

03 257 F‘

W h en All was Young.

’

2—0 54040 Gioz'

ellz'

della Madonna:‘T

’e7 7

'

7777 g7'

07 770’

(this last with MC CORMACK) .

Apart fromthe last, all are withdrawn.

I recommend :H.M.V . DE505 O7fe0:

‘Che fw

'

a senza E777yd7'

ce.

’

H.M.V . DB735‘

The Land 0’ the Leal’ (the reverse side

is very poor) .Particularly fine is

‘Entreat Me not to Leave Thee’

(Gounod) . I cannot, unfortunately, give the serial number.BARTON MCGUCKIN, stalwart of English opera over half acentury ago, 1 ecorded for the Zonophone Company. Onetitle has been traced :42 279

‘

Avenging and Bright.’

BLANCHE MARCHESI, daughter of MATHILDE, thefamous singing teacher, recorded for the Gramophone Company in 1906, but the records were not issued 1n this country. AA few years ago Mme Marchesi sponsored the privateissue of these and new 1 ecordings. Despite the age of therecordings in the one case

,and the age of the voice in the

other,these discs aremost interesting.

Mme MATHILDE MARCHESI did not record, but manyof her pupils are mentioned in this Appendix, includingAlma Gluck, Blanche Marchesi, Melba, and Nordica.

EMILIO DE MARCHI, creator of Cavaradossi in Puccini ’sTosca

,is rumoured to have recorded for the early Zono

phone Company, but no discs or titles can be traced.

RICCARDO MARTIN recorded for the Victor Company.

Outstanding titles are T0107 : Elucewmle stelle, Puccini, andA15 dze altemutte7

,DV01 ak .

GIOVANNI MARTINELLI has recorded for H.M.V . al

most a hundred titles. A year ago, news filtered throughfromArnerica that, with Jepson and Tibbett, he had re

corded selected passages fromhis greatest triumph, Otello.

Any of h is titles in the current H.M.V . catalogue can bebought with confidence.

NELLIE MELBA unconsciouslymade her first records at theturn of the century, when Col. Mapleson, the impresario,

2 87

installed a recordingphonograph in th e Metropolitan OperaHouse

, New York,and recordedmany of the famous artists

of the‘Golden Age

’ during actual performances. Aftermany sessions the phonograph fell fromits perch , high abovethe stage, and narrowly missed Melba’s head. In 1904 she

made a series of recordings for the Gramophone Companywhich were not originally intended for commercial distribution. Outstandingin this group are

03020 Lucia d i Lamme7 777007 : ‘Mad Scene.’

03025 Rigoletto'

:‘Ca7o 770777e.

’

03028 Nozze d 7°

F7g777 0:‘P07g7

'

Until th e day of her farewell performance at Covent Garden

, Melba continued to record,makingsomany titles thatchoicemust essentially be left to the taste of the indiViW ith Mccormack and Sammarco, she recorded the triofinale to F and the quartet fromRigo'letto (the latter isstill available) . Of themany titles in the current catalogue,her excerpts fromLa Boheme have perhaps the greatest appeal. I recommend also

2—05302 1 Otellot‘Afue M7 7 77 .

LAURITZ MELCHIOR, the Danish heroic tenor, made hisfirst recordings for the Polydor Company of Germany, andlater for Parlophone, for whomhe recorded the BridalChamber scene fromL0he77g7 7

'

77,with Emmy Bettendorf.

After a brief session with the American Brunswick Company, he began recording for for whomhe hasrecordedmuch of the essential W agner tenormusic.

CARMEN MELIS recorded in the early days for both the

Gramophone 81 Typewriter Company and the FonotipiaCompany, but her greatest work is the recording of Tosca(complete) in the current H.M.V . catalogue.

CLAUDIA MUZIO spentmuch of her gramophone career inrecording for companies whose roducts are not readilyplayable on the gramophones o to-day. The exceptionswere a fine ‘

S7'

, 7777'

ch7'

77777 77770 fromLa Bo'h 'éme,which

had a short life in the H.M.V . catalogues, and a few Ac

tuelle recordings wh ich were really transcriptions fromherdiscs. During th e few years before her death, she

made amagnificent series of recordings for the Italian Columbia Company. A selection of these is available in the current Columbia catalogue, and Mr. Phillips recommends:

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ADELINA PATTI for some time fought shy of the gram0phone, thereby wasting valuable years. W hen at last sh esuccumbed, in December 1905, her voice had deterioratedbadly. The records are interesting, however, and evidentlypleased Patti, as shemade others in the followingyear. Byan irony of Fate, her finest recording, L7 Calesem,

was far

too brilliant for the gramophones of h er time, and was,therefore,withdrawn. Of the titles still available, 03052

‘P777

dicesti’

(Lotti) can be recommended.

POL PLANQON was one of the first world celebrities tosingfor the gramophone. Hemade in 190 1 a series for theZonophone Company, and these fabulously rare discs did justice to his voice, although they were very lightly recorded.

In 1902 he began a series for the Gramophone 81 TypewriterCompany and continued to record for themuntil his death .

W hile they vary in quality, the titles in th e current H.M.V .

catalogue can all be recommended, especially the arias fromDie Z aube7fl0

’

te. Highly priz ed amongcollectors is his longwithdrawn ‘A77 b7777

'

t des l0777 des’ fromPhile’ 777077 et Baucz's.

The ease of h is singing in‘Le Veau d

’o7 ’ fromF777717(Gounod) is amazing. I recommend alsoDA340

‘Dewmt 177 M771077

’fromBerlioz’s F777717

,and

03 2027 Gounod’s N772 777 6 2517 .

ROBERT RADFORD was a prolificmaker of records. Pagesof titles were for years the feature of H.M.V . and Zonophone catalogues. Although most of themare now withdrawn, many may be obtained fromshops with secondhand record departments, as they enjoyed huge sales andcopies are still plentiful.Any one anxious to secure a record should look for these

fromthe part of Sarastro in The Magic Flute.

‘O Isis andOsiris’ (Zonophone GO 1 7) is still to be bought, and compares well with the many other records of this aria.

MAURICE RENAUD made records for both the H.M.V .

and Pathe Companies. Many considered his finest role was

that of the Jester in Rigo'letto,but no examples of himin

this role were recorded. There are a few titles by himin thecurrent H.M.V . catalogue.

Perhaps the best is D851 He’

7 0-d 7’

77de:‘Visz

'

on fugitive.

’

The aria fromD077 6 7007777777 on the reverse side is taken290

rath er slowly. A very early Gramophone 81 Typewriterrecord, GC2—2705, of the

‘

Toreador Song’ fromCarmen,with piano accompaniment, is sung with incredible ease andgracef

’“

JEAN DE RESZKE made recordings for both the H.M.V .

and Fonotipia Companies, but in neither case would be permit their public release. Of the Fonotipia records, two titlesare known69000 Romeo et Juliette:

‘Sce

‘

77e 7177 T0777be7777.’

6900 1 Le Cid :‘

O S0770e7 7 7'

77! 0‘

Inge.’ 6 Pe

‘

7 e.

”

were recorded in 1905.

His voice can be heard only on the Mapleson cylinders(details under Melba) in excerpts fromL

’Af7 7

'

0777'

77e andSiegf7 7

'

ed . These cylinders are primitive and of littlemusicalvalue. On the better of themone can hear faintly the closingbars of

‘O P777 7 d 7'

so.

’These cylinders were rescued from

oblivion and transcribed on discs by the International Record Collectors’ Club of America. Inadequate as theymaybe,they must serve as souvenirs of de Reszke until such timeas a trial pressing of h is records for the commercial companies emerges.

ELISABETH RETHBERG first recorded for Brunswick.

W h en she turned to the benefits of the later methods ofrecording by H.M.V . shemade a number of discs.Th e excerpts fromAida

,3 77110 777 Maschem, and Otello in

the current catalogue are typical of her singing.

KENNERLEY RUMFORD began recording about 19 10, hisfirst disc being ‘

Thou’

rt Passing Hence’

There are recordings of himsinging with h is wife, DameClara Butt, in the current H.M.V . and Columbia catalogues.

MAR IO SAMMARCO is represented in the current catalogues byParlophone PXO90 Rigoletto

'

:‘P777 7

’

simo.

’

This is a relic of his recording days with the Fonotipia Company. His series for H.M.V . has now entirely disappeared.

This group, apart frommany fine solo numbers, includedthe following duets with McCormack :Il B777b7

'

e7 e:‘All

’idea 717 quelmetallo.

’ ‘1‘

La‘O Mimi 777 17777 77077 707 777.

La 6 707 0777777:‘0 g7 7

°

d0 d 7'

quest’

7777777777?

29 1

SIR CHARLES SANTLEY recorded for the Gramophone 81Typewriter Company in 1903 . The titles were

2—2862 ‘Simon the Cellarer.’

2—2 863‘

The Vicar of Bray.

’

2—2 864‘

To Anthea.

’

020 15‘

Thou Art PassingHence.

’

052000 Figaro:‘N077 pin andrai.

’

Maud Santley recorded for the PatheCompany.

The first three titles are still available in the H.M.V . catalogue.

‘N077 11777 7 77117 7 7"is now one of the greatest rarities on

discs. At about the age of eighty Santley decided to recordagain: this time for Columbia. The records are still availablein the Columbia catalogue.

ERNESTINE SCHUMANN—HEINK recorded 1903 for the

Columbia Company. These discs soon disappeared. In 1905she began her longassociation with the Victor Company,and by 1907 had included all her Columbia titles in her Victor group. She continued to record for a quarter of a century. The followinggive some idea of her versatilityVictor 85093

‘

St. Paul’ (Mendelssohn) :‘

But the Lord.

’

Victor 85096‘Lucrezia Borgia

’

(Donizetti) : Brindisi.Victor 870 1 3

‘Tod 77nd dds Miidcben’ (Schubert) .

Victor 88092 Rh-

eingold :‘W eiche W otan

’

(with WITHERSPOON) .

Victor 88 1 39 YodellingAir:‘l and 77767 Bua

’

(Millocker) .H.M.V . DA525

‘Sapphische Ode

’and

‘W iegenlied

’

The only example left in the English catalogue is‘Ai nost'ri

777077t7"

(Trow tore) , sung with Caruso on H.M.V . DK1 19 .

=ll=

ANTONIO SCOTTI, the incomparable Scarpia, starred inthe very first H.M.V . (Gramophone 81 Typewriter Company) celebrity list. During a decade of recording he didnotmake one poor disc. As with Sammarco, his solos havenow entirely disappeared. These included excerpts fromTosca, D077 Giovanni, and Falstafi,

his greatest parts. Theduets with Caruso in the current H.M.V . catalogue give afair idea of his art . Of the solos, Faust: ‘Mo'

rt de Valemin’(2—0 3200 1 ) is a fine record.

ANDREAS DE SEGUROLA recorded for the Barcelonabranch of the Gramophone 8: Typewriter Company in

1903 , and in 1907 started a longseries for the Milan branch

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Of the earlier records, th e W interreise cycle stands outand a record of Marta:

‘Solo profugo

’

(with BENNO Z IEGLER) where Tauber

’

s phrasingis an astonishment. I recommendParlophone R20063

‘AmMeer

’

MARION TELVAmade no solo recordings, but can be heardon

H.M.V . DB 1 276 Norma: ‘Mz'm

,o No7 777a ! ’ (with PON

SELLE) .

LUISA TETRAZZINI recorded five titles in 1903 for the

Zonofono Company, allwith pianoforte accompaniment byher brother- in—law, Cleofonte Campanini. Thismake of discdid not enjoy a wide circulation, and copies are few .

After her début at Covent Garden,in 1908, she made a

number of recordings for H.M.V . Many are still available.Mr. Ph illips recommends the arias fromBellini’s La Son

MAGGIE TEYTE first recorded for the Gramophone andTypewriter Co. Next she recorded for Columbia. Some yearslater shemade a few records for Decca, but apart fromone

disc of lesser known Offenbach, these toowere of littlemusical interest. In recent years she has recorded two importantalbums: one of Debussy songs (accompanied by CORTOT) ,and an albumof French songs by various composers.

JOHN CHARLES THOMAS made his first recordings forthe Brunswick Company. He subsequently signed a con

tract with the Victor Company, for whomhe re-recordedmost of h is Brunsw ick titles and addedmany new numbers.None of his discs have been issued in this country, but inAmerica his ‘

Dz'

Prove‘

77za’

(v z'

ata) has enjoyed hugesales.

EDNA THORNTON recorded for the H.M.V . and Zonophone Companies. Collectors of oratorio and opera in English can, without difliculty, pick up specimens of her work.

LAW RENCE TIBBETT has always been an exclusive Victorand H.M.V . artist. Fromthe current catalogue the followingare recommended by Mr. PhillipsDB 1478 Barbiere:

‘Lm‘go'

al factotum’ and 3 77110 in Mas

obem: ‘E7 7

'

tu .

’

DE 1684‘Edward’ (Loewe) and

‘

De Glory Road’ (W olfe) .

294

EMMA TRENTINImade her first recordings for the NicoleCompany, and subsequently for the Gramophone 81 Typewriter Company, and for Columbia. All have been longwithdrawn. Her Columbia 30087 Bobe

‘me: ‘Musetta’s valse,

’

is very pleasing.

VANNI—MARCOUX succeeded the late Marcel Journet asFrance’s leading bass, and hasmany titles to his credit in theFrench H.M.V . catalogue, but none of his discs isa vailablein England.

GIANNINA W AYDA recorded for the Nicole Company.

One title is known, an excerpt fromLohengrin, sung inItalian. Unfortunately, the Nicole Company’s discs were ofa somewhat flimsy construction, and few specimens havesurvived the years.

REINALD W ERRENRATH recorded for the Victor Company for whomhemade, apart fromexcellent solo recordings,many duet and ensemble titles with McCormack, Garrison

,etc. He sings the part of Rigoletto in the quartet from

that opera on H.M.V . DM 104. W ith Mccormack he sings‘The Lily of Killarney,

’ ‘

Th e Moon Hath Raised,

’ andFauré :

‘The Crucifix .

’ DA 1 7 2 ) . W ith LambertMurphy, Marta:

‘

Solo profugo’

(VictorCAROLINA W HITEmade a short- lived series of records forColumbia. They seemed to attract little attention at the timeof issue, butAmerican collectors now prize themvery highly.

PERCY W HITEHEAD . This polished baritone made a fewrecords for H.M.V . The best of themis an excellent ‘

El

dorado’ (W althew ) , coupled with‘

Th e Gentle Maiden’

(777 7 . Somervell) , B 32 3 .

* Also worth getting are B 351‘

LastYear’ (M. V . W hite)* and B352

‘

Back to Ireland’ (Stan

CLARENCE W HITEHILL made his first recordings forZonophone just after the turn of the century. It was not

until 1908, after his first Bayreuth experiences, that he beganhis career with the H.M.V .

-Victor Companies. His verymoving version of W otan’s farewell (‘Dz

'

e W alkure’

) is stillavailable,H.M.V . DB440.

EVANW ILLIAMSmade a greatmany records for the Gramophone 87 Typewriter Company and for H.M.V . Many titlesare still available, including :DB450 Messiah:

‘Comfort Ye’ and ‘Every Valley.

’

295

DB453 Elix ir of Love:‘

A Furtive Tear’ and Marta‘

Like a Dream.

’

I recommend, of the Gramophone 81Typewriter Companyrecords:GC4

—2008‘

Sigh No More, Ladies’

(Stevens) .of the H.M.V

02 1 83 La Bobéme: ‘Your Tiny Hand is Frozen.

5—2038

‘

Y B eryu pur’

(W elsh folkDE447 Die Meistersinger:

‘

Prize Song.

GIOVANNI ZENATELLO, duringhis lengthy career, t ecorded formost of the leadingcompanies, beginningwiththe Italian Gramophone 8: Typewriter Company in 1903 .

Examples of h is fine interpretation of the role of Otelloare available 1n the Parlophone Historical seriesOthers worth acquiringare:

Fonotipia G2 204 Mefistofele:‘Gizmto sul! passe estremo’

and‘B 777

'

077777177, 71777Columbia A5359 O tello: ‘Morte d ’Otello’ and La Tosca:

‘E 1777 6 727777 le stelle.

’

H.M.V . DB 1007' ‘Una Vela.

’

H.M.V . DB 1006, the duet fromAct I (with SPANI) , findshimfar past his best, but the singing is clean and vigorous.

NIGOLA ZEROLAmade a few celebrity recordings for Victor in 1909. His discs are now scarce. Mr. Phillipsrecommends the following:H.M.V . 7

—52008 3 77110 777Maschem: ‘Di 777 se fedele.

’

H.M.V . 7-

52006 3 77110 777 Maschem: ‘La rivedmnell’

I add GC7- 52006 Otello:‘T77! Indietro.

’

2—0520 19 Otello:‘Mo'

rte d’Otello.

’

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‘

The Boys of W exford‘

The Croppy Boy.

’

‘

God Save Ireland.

’

‘

The Dear Little Shamrock.

’

‘Eileen Aroon.

’

H.M.V . RECORDS: OPERADA 297 M7777077 (Massenet) :

‘Chz

’

udo glz'

0001773

DA 307 Bohemian Girl (Balfe) : ‘

Then You’llRememberMe.

’

DA 3 36 Maritama (W allace) :‘There is a Flower.’

DA 379 Lakmé (Delibes) :‘Vz

'

em'

dl 0077707770’and La

B‘oh 'e’me (Puccini) : ‘

Sozwe fanciulla’

(with BORI) .DA 498 Mefistofele (Boito) :

‘Daz

’

077777177, 77777 197 7777" “

and

Rigo'letto' (Verdi) :‘

Questa 0 quella.

’

DA 502 Pescatori 777190710 (Bizet) :‘Mi 11777 d

’udir 7 77007 773

DA 946 F07 7777770 (Messager) :‘La 7777773077 grise.

’

DB 3 24 D077 (370777777777 (Mozart) :‘Il 77770 tesoro

’ andElis77 d ’7777707'e ‘U7777 furtiw lag7

'777777.’

DB 3 29 Mastem'ngw (W agner) :‘

Prize Song.

’

DE 343 La Bob'e‘me (Puccini) : ‘

Cb'

e gelida 777717777777’and

0777777077 (Bizet) :‘Ilfi07 che 770007 77me.

’

DB 345 Lucia di Lamme7’777007‘ (Donizetti) : ‘Fm{7000 a

7770 77007 07 0" and ‘T77, che a D70 spiegasti

DE 579 W ith MARSH. Aida:‘0 term77777770" and Game”:

‘Parle-mm’

de 7777 me‘re.

’

DB 608 W ith SAMMARCO. B’arbiere:‘All’ idea

’ and Gio7‘

077d77:‘Grido dz

'

quest’

DB 630 W ith SAMMARCO. La Bobe‘me: ‘

Ah Mimi, 777 piz7 .’DB 63 1 Traviata (Verdi) :

‘De

’777707 1701107777 spirit

?and

F7glia delReggimento'

:‘Pe'r 0707 7 07077703

DB 634 I0701717 (Mehul) :‘C’bamps paternels’ and Faust

(Gounod) :‘Salve 77777707 773

DB 2 867 Semele (Handel) :‘

W here’er you W alk.

’

DK 1 2 3 W ith LUNN. Gioiellz'

della Madonna:‘T

’eri 7777

g707'

770.

’

DM 104 Rigoletto: quartet 707717 3 0m, J ACOBY, andW ERRENRATH, and Traviata:

‘P777 7g7, 0 0777 77

’

(with laom)DM 1 18 Rigoletto: quartet with M ELBA, SAMM ARCO, andTHORNTON.

298

VICTOR RECORDS: OPERA

74295 N7 707777 (Herbert) :‘Paul’s Address.’

87553 P057 7 707 7 777 P07 10 (with SAMMARCO) :‘Del 7077717703

749 Semele (Handel) : ‘

0 Sleep, why dost Thou LeaveMe?

’

92 3 Mefistofele (Boito) :‘Gi777770 sul passo 0177077703

VICTOR PRESSINGS for the INTERNATIONAL ' REC

ORD COLLECTORS’ CLUB

7 F7 7 77: Final trio (707717 M ELBA and SAMMARCO) .60 A7717 7777 (Handel) :

‘Come, Beloved.

’

96 II B77b707e d i S707g177 :‘N7777707 0 7 777777 70? (707717 SAM

MARCO) .

H.M.V . RECORDS: SONGS in GermanDA 628 Brahms : ‘

177 W 7 ld0s0777s7777k077’ and ‘

D70 M77

777 01773

DA 635 Brahms: ‘K0777777 177 777

’ and ‘F01707m7mk077.’

DE 766 Schubert:‘D77 bist 7170Rub

’ andW olf : ‘W o find

’7017 T70st.

’

DA 932 R. Strauss: ‘D77 777077707 H0720777 K7 077010777

’ and‘A1107 70010773

DA 93 3 Schubert:‘D70 Liebe 177 7 gelo-

g077 .’

DA 1 170 W olf:‘A777 k7 0077s Gwh ’ and ‘

Schlafendes ]0S77skind .

’

DA 144 1 W olf: 2477017 13107770 B i7lge 1307777077’ and ‘HM ,

was 777gt 7707 3 071077DE 1S3O W olf:

‘G7777y7770d

’ andDB2868 W agner:

‘T7 7

'

77777’and

W olf: ‘Scb'l7f077d0s Iemskind .

’

VICTOR RECORDS: SONG in German1 27 2 M7777701707i (traditional) .

H.M.V . RECORDS: SONGS in ItalianDA 297 Bimboni : ‘

S0sp777 777707, 7 77777 7770 000 7777 7777777103

DK 1 2 3 Rossini :‘M77 7 17 1777 7707 177777 ’ (707717 DESTINN) .

DA 627 Donaudy:‘Luogh7 3070777 0 07 7 7

’and

‘0 del 77770

7 7777 70

DB2867 Handel :‘C7 7 0

VICTOR RECORDS : SONGS in Italian87078 Rossini:

‘L7 M7 77777 7 7’ (with SAMMARCO) .

108 1 Lotti: ‘

P777’ 7177 037 73

1 288 Donaudy:‘Luogbz

’

se70777'

0

VICTOR PRESSING for the INTERNATIONAL REC

ORD COLLECTORS’ CLUB60 Mozart: ‘

R7'

d07770 17

H.M.V . RECORDS: SONG in LatinDB 1095 Franck:

‘P7 777s Angelicas.

’

H.M.V . RECORDS: SONGS in EnglishDA 456 Rachmaninov: ‘

O, Cease Thy Singing’

and‘W h en Night Descends

’

(0701777 o'bbligati byKREISLER) .

DA 458 Schubert:‘

Serenade’ (72701777 obbligato by KREIS

DA 680 Rachmaninov: ‘

To the Children’ and ‘How Fairthis Spot.’

DA 93 3 Schubert:‘

W ho is Sylvia.’

DA1 1 1 1 Quilter: ‘Now Sleeps th e Crimson Petal.’DA 1 1 1 2 Tschaikowsky: ‘None but theW eary Heart’ andDA 1 286 Elgar:

‘Is she not passingFair.

’

DB 1 297 Schubert:‘Ave M7 777

’and

‘

Serenade.’

H.V .M. RECORDS: SONGS in FrenchDA 1 2 86 Fauré : 2477707777703

DB 984 Fauré :‘Les 7 7 77707777 3

VICTOR RECORDS: SONG in French2—052 1 1 1 Leroux:

‘Le 7771

’

(obbligato by KREISLER) .

IRISH TRADITIONAL SONGS. (Omitting the first seriesmade inDA 306

‘

BelieveMe if allthose Endearing Young Charms’and

‘

The Harp that Once through Tara’sHalls’ (Moore) .

DA 295‘The Minstrel Boy

’

(Moore) and‘

The FoggyDew

’

(7 7 7 . Fox ) .03206

‘Has SorrowThyYoung Days Shaded’

(Moore) .02 286

‘Molly Bawn’ (Lover) .

300

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