"My time will come yet. I labour under many difficulties now; but when New Yorkers are tired of backing German and American Opera, and will only subsidize me with one per cent. of the millions they are going to lose, I will return and give them Italian Opera."
I remember an interesting and, I must admit, not altogether inexact account of my production of the Ring des Nibelungen being given in the Musical Journal of New York.
"The series," wrote the American journalist, "was given under the special patronage of the Prince of Wales, who loyally remained in his box from the rising to the going down of the curtain, although he confessed afterwards that it was the toughest work he had ever done in his life. When Wotan came on the darkened stage and commenced his little recitative to an accompaniment of discords the Prince took a doze, but was awakened half-an-hour later by a double forte crash of the orchestra, and, having fallen asleep again, was startled by another climax fifteen minutes afterwards, when he found Wotan still at it, singing against time. At the end of five weeks Mapleson's share of the losses was 30,000 dollars; and the Prince told him confidentially that if Wotan appeared in any more operas he should withdraw his patronage."
By dint of perseverance, together with the aid of various managers, I succeeded in producing Wallace's Maritana. I first performed it over in Brooklyn, where it met with the most unqualified success, nearly every piece of music being encored, while Ravelli roused the audience to frantic enthusiasm by a finely-delivered high C from the chest at the conclusion of "Let me like a soldier fall." On a third encore he sang it in English. I then returned to the New York Academy with this opera, thus fulfilling the second of my promises in the prospectus.
It wanted now but nine days to the conclusion of my season, and as I had given to the public, despite the grumbling and cavilling, all the singers announced in my prospectus, I strained every nerve to produce the last of my promised operas, which caused more difficulty than all the others put together. This was Manon, which I succeeded in placing on the stage with entirely new scenery and dresses, and with a magnificent cast.
Glad indeed was I to shake the dust off my feet on leaving the Academy, where during a course of some eight or nine years I had given the New York public every available singer of eminence, including Adelina Patti, Etelka Gerster, Albani, Fursch-Madi, Scalchi, Campanini, Aramburo, Mierzwinski, Galassi, De Anna, Del Puente, Foli, and other celebrities. I confess I was not chagrined when I gradually saw after a couple of seasons had passed the downfall of the Anglo-German-American Opera Company, which from the very beginning had failed to benefit musical art in any way. Not a single work by an American composer was given, the repertory being entirely made up of translations of German operas. I also read without any deep regret of the total break-up of the Academy with all its belongings. It is now the home of a "variety show."
This New York season of 1885 was a most disastrous one financially, as it necessitated my closing for nearly a fortnight in order that the promised productions should all be given. It was with great difficulty that I could start the tour, as every combination seemed to be against me.
However, I opened at Boston with Carmen early in January, 1886, to a crowded house; the other performances of that week being Fra Diavolo, Manon, Maritana, Traviata, and Carmen for a matinée, the receipts of which exceeded even those of its performance on the previous Monday.
During the second week Faust, Don Giovanni, Rigoletto, Martha, etc., were performed. We left the next day for Philadelphia, where we remained until the middle of the following week. From there we went on to Baltimore, Washington, Pittsburg, Chicago, opening in the last-named city very successfully with a performance of Carmen; when a violent scene occurred during the third act from which may be said to date the disastrous consequences which followed throughout the whole of the route; one paper copying from another, with occasional exaggerations, so that in every town we visited the public expected a similar disturbance. Hence a general falling off in the receipts.
It was in the middle of the third act, when "Don José," the tenor (Ravelli), was about to introduce an effective high note which generally brought down the house, that "Carmen" rushed forward and embraced him—why I could never understand. Being interrupted at the moment of his effect, he was greatly enraged, and by his movements showed that he had resolved to throw Madame Hauk into the orchestra. But she held firmly on to his red waistcoat, he shouting all the time, "Laissez moi, Laissez moi!" until all the buttons came off one by one, when she retired hastily to another part of the stage. Ravelli rushed forward and exclaimed, "Regardez, elle a déchiré mon gilet!" and with such rage that he brought down thunders of applause, the people believing this genuine expression of anger to be part of the play.