In order to patronize this enthusiastic amateur several of our principal artists went in and ordered luncheon. Coffee John was very polite, promising to applaud them on hearing them sing, and allowing many of them to go into the kitchen to prepare their own macaroni. The price of the luncheon was very moderate, so everyone decided to go and dine at Coffee John's later on.
When dinner was over they asked the waiter how much they had to pay.
"Six dollars a head," said the waiter.
"Corpo di Bacco!" exclaimed one of the artists; "dat is too dear. Where is Coffee John, our friend, our friend?"
"He has gone to dress for the opera," replied the head waiter, "and I dare not disturb him."
As there were twelve diners the bill came to 72 dollars, so that Coffee John, who had paid 40 dollars for his box, occupied it for nothing that evening, and profited, moreover, largely by the transaction. The waiter told the astonished artists that his governor had paid 40 dollars to hear them sing without kicking, and that he expected liberal treatment in return; finally, he thought the best plan for them would be to pay their six dollars each and clear out; which they eventually had to do.
Mdlle. Nevada had taken cold at Cheyenne, and contracted what turned out to be a severe illness; and I lost her services for no less than four weeks afterwards.
The night before we reached Salt Lake City Mdme. Scalchi's parrot died, which caused the excellent contralto to go into hysterics and take to a bed of sickness. I had announced Il Trovatore, in which the now despondent vocalist was to have taken the part of the vindictive gipsy. This I considered would amply compensate for the absence of Nevada. Only half an hour before starting for the theatre I was notified by Mdme. Scalchi's husband that she would be unable to appear that evening. I insisted, however, upon her going at all events to the theatre, as I considered the death of a parrot not sufficient reason for disappointing a numerous public. I threatened at the same time to fine her very heavily if she refused.
About an hour afterwards the call-boy came down, up to his waist in snow, to the door of my car—some little distance from the station—stating that Mdme. Scalchi had again gone into hysterics, and was lamenting loudly the loss of her beloved bird.
On my arriving at the theatre with another "Azucena," taken suddenly from the cars (this one was lamenting only that she had not dined), I found that it wanted but five minutes to the commencement of the overture. There was Mdme. Scalchi dressed as "Azucena," and it was impossible even to obtain possession of her clothing, for she was almost in a fainting condition. At last, however, she divested herself of her gipsy garments; and she was replaced by my new "Azucena," Mdlle. Steinbach.