Ravelli, however, for some minutes still hesitated. In his difficulty he determined to consult Niagara. Appealing to an animal whose superior intelligence he recognized, Ravelli said in the French language—
"Est ce que ton mâitre doit chanter?"
The dog growled, and Ravelli interpreted this oracular response as an order not to sing. He tore his clothes off, sprang hurriedly into bed, and left me to my own resources.
In London I had raised poor Volpini almost from the dead to make him sing the part of Faust, when but for his services I should have had to close my theatre. I had induced George Bolton (of whom I knew nothing at the time, except that he had a tenor voice, and that I had nearly run over him in a cab) to undertake literally at a moment's notice the part of "Lionel" in Martha, of which he knew nothing until I coached him, except one air. But neither a Bolton nor a Volpini was now to be found, and thanks to my lazy, superstitious, dog-ridden tenor, I had to close my theatre and send away one of the most brilliant audiences that New York could produce.
I wrote a hurried notice which was put up in manuscript just as I had scribbled it down, to the effect that in consequence of Ravelli's refusing without explanation to sing, the theatre was closed for that morning.
The excitement outside was prodigious. Everyone, of course, said that it was through my fault the doors were shut.
"It is all that Mapleson," one charming lady was heard to exclaim. "Wouldn't I scratch his face if I had him here!"
Worst of all, the "scalpers" went off with the money they had received for tickets sold outside the theatre.
Let me here explain what "scalper" means. I am afraid that in America our excellent librarians who do so much for the support of the Opera would be called "scalpers;" a scalper meaning simply one who buys tickets at the theatre to sell them at an advance elsewhere. The ferocious name bestowed upon these gentry shows, however, that their dealings are not quite so honourable as those of our "booksellers." For when they had disposed of their tickets, and the performance changed, or the theatre by some accident closed, they would walk off without any thought of restoring the money they had received for tickets now unavailable. At times, too, I have caught them exhibiting a gallery diagram, and selling gallery places as orchestra stalls. They are now obliged, by a just law, to take out licenses, and register their places of abode. Nor do managers allow any one of them to buy more than four tickets for each representation.
Meanwhile the New York fall season of 1882 finished up grandly with Semiramide, the receipts reaching 14,000 dollars, and the public mad with enthusiasm.