He completely changed the interior of the Opera House, put in a new ceiling, new chandelier, arranged the proper illumination of the boxes, and the most important improvement of all being the discarding of the old-fashioned drop curtain and replacing it with one divided in the centre, making it unnecessary for the popular stars, when answering repeated curtain-calls, to walk all the way across the stage from one side to the other of the proscenium arch. He unsuccessfully fought the demand of the boxholders for the famous horseshoe to be kept illuminated all through the performance, and finally compromised by putting red shades over the lights.
One week-end Mr. and Mrs. Conried spent with us at Elberon. They came heavily laden. Mrs. Conried cautiously carried a circular bundle of discs, and her husband bore what looked like a monster cornucopia, while their son was bending under the weight of a big box. A very few minutes after they had entered the house we were spellbound by “Elisir d’Amore,” sung by the finest tenor voice. We and our children all rushed out to the room from whence the singing came. We waited until it was finished and rivalled each other with our applause. Conried, the impresario, foreseeing in our unlimited applause the success of his future tenor, benignly smiled and explained to us:
“This is the great Caruso—a man that is in Buenos Aires just now. Grau engaged him, and it was these records that induced me to assume the contract.”
Conried startled us once more during that same week-end by confiding to us that he possessed the complete score of “Parsifal.” He said:
“I shall produce it this winter.”
We were amazed at this proposition, particularly my wife, who reminded Conried that when she was at Bayreuth she was informed that both Richard Wagner and his widow had steadfastly withstood all propositions to produce “Parsifal”—the chief attraction of its musical festivals—on any other stage. I feared that many Wagnerians would condemn the production as a sacrilege.
Conried waived aside the objections and said:
“Years ago I told Frau Casimir Wagner that some day I would produce ‘Parsifal’ in America. She ridiculed me. Here’s my chance. I will win the approbation of thousands who have been yearning to hear this opera and who will never get to Bayreuth.”
From that day on, he kept me informed of his progress. We were together in Vienna when he chose the costumes for the “flower-maidens”; I visited with him the studio where the revolving curtain was being painted; in America, my wife and I attended many of the rehearsals.
His real troubles began as he approached the day of production. The composer’s widow tried to enjoin him from making the production; for fear of offending her, Mottl refused to conduct the orchestra; unlimited abuse was showered on the producer through the press; certain clergymen denounced the opera as blasphemous; some singers revolted; and, to cap the climax, there came a warning that the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children would stop the appearance of the boys who were to sing in the choruses.