“That Reminds Me”

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 460, 15 September 1928, Page 26

“ That Reminds Me”

HUGH J. WARD'S | FORTY fEARS OF OPERA

Laughter and Tears

I

N 1911-1912 I was associated with Madame Melba (as she then was) in a grand opera season in Sydney and Melbourne (writes Mr. Ward

in the “Sunday Sun”). We had a full Australian chorus ballet, and orchestra. We produced for tlie first time in Australia “Samson and Delilah,” and we produced also “Otello,” “Rigoletto,” “La Traviata,” “II Trovatore,” “Faust,” “Aida,” “Carmen,” “Romeo and Juliet,” “Pagliacci,” “Cavalleria Rusticana,” “La Boheme,” “Madame Butterfly,” and “La Tosca.” Besides Melba, the company included John McCormack, Scandlani, Countess de Cisneros, Edmund Burke, Madame Wyada, Ciccolini, Zani, Ranzenberg, and others.

That reminds me of one night at Her Majesty’s, when Zani was singing Sapison. Melba, I, and others quickly went into a box just as Zani was about to take a very high note. When he saw Melba he broke down on this note, and then, with true Latin temperament, he immediately suggested the fact that he had had a physical attack. For the rest of the act he staggered about the stage, but I noticed that he took all the calls at the end.

Knowing full well that I would be sent for by this gentleman, so that he could explain his sudden attack, I told Melba that I would like her to go down and sympathise with him. At the proper time a man came to say that Signor Zani had collapsed, and was lying on the sofa In the green room. I went down, and there saw Samson, with all his pads, his abnormal hair and whiskers, the creature who used to playfully push down buildings, lying on the sofa, and crying like a child with the rickets. I tried to calm him, and finally sent for some doctor friends in the audience. As they passed me I hissed, “Tell him he’s all right; tell him he’s all right!”

I sent for Melba, who came down and sympathised with him. When they had all gone, I told the old electrician to get the hose that was attached to the oxygen plant. We told the signor that we were going to purify the air, and I whispered to the electrician, as he sprayed round the room, “Shove the hose in his mouth, Jack, and look out for his glottis!” Jack suddenly did as he was directed, and Zani blew up like a toad, Realising that anything might happen to him, he sprang to his feet. He staggered through the rest of the performance—with the mentality of a child—and when the performance was over, I went to his room to see this lad.

I heard him gaily singing “La Donne e Mobile.” I knocked on the door. “Entrez,” said a cheery voice. I stepped in. When Zani saw me, I’m damned if he didn’t try to faint again. There is a curious mixture of cunning and hysteria at tim,es associated with some grand opera people. In fact, it almost develops into a slight stage of acute lunacy. The unfortunate playing of kings and queens, and rich barons, and possibly the conditions here, which they never enjoy at home, affect them seriously. I remember, for Instance, a certain famous Irish tenor who was engaged to sing three times a week, with the understanding that if he sang a fourth time he would be paid for the extra performance pro rata. At five o’clock on the afternoon prior to one night’s performance—his fourth that week—-

he demanded a double fee. I was stuck, so I said: “All right, 1 will pay, but tell him that, though this is an Italian opera, he is the only Dago in the crowd.” In order to pay tribute to Madame Melba, who was the backbone of the company—artistically and financially - —and helpful to tlie management in every way, I decided to give a supper before we opened, and invited all the principals. Madame Melba’s health was proposed in nine languages, and she, with her lovely enthusiasm, in replying, said: “My dear brother and sister artists, we are making grand opera history in this country, and if you have any complaints, or if anything happens you in regard to the management which you desire righted, come to me, and I will do all I can for you.” That was on Saturday night. On Tuesday morning there were 40 cabs outside her house. . . .

I had an amusing experience with John McCormack. He could not fence, and in the scene in “Romeo and Juliet,” where he was to kill another tenor, he used his sword at the rehearsal like a shillelagh. I happened to have fenced a bit, so I tried to arrange the fight properly. I fixed McCormack with his face to the audience and with his Italian accomplice facing him, well upstage. They were merely to count the bars by tapping their swords, the Italian coming backwards, with McCormack facing him. Whether John thought he was fighting a rival, or whether any Irishman, with a weapon in his hand means murder, I don’t know, but I do know that by the time John started to attack we all had to rush in, just in time to save the Italian from flinging himself into the orchestra. Here is an incident which illustrates the amazing flexibility of Melba’s voice. One morning I walked In, and Melba was singing the wonderful waltz in “Romeo and Juliet.” She not only, in the midst of her song, said, with a little pause, “Good morning, Hugh,” but she also said “Let’s waltz,” and, without the orchestra stopping, and with the two of us waltzing for a few bars, she kept in perfect time with the music, and sang with the freedom of a bird, laughingly finishing with a ringing top note. In reply once to a remark of mine regarding her amazing steadiness in singing while reclining on her side in the last act of “La Boheme,” she said that singing should be so easy that one could sing in almost any position. I’ll never forget an amusing incident when we were rehearsing “Faiist.” Marghuerite was played by a soprano who had been billed as “The Russian Patti”; both she and the tenor playing Faust, I suddenly discovered, were quite inexperienced in this opera. He, it appeared, was a champion breaststroke swimmer, for he fairly swam through his part. I only wished he could absorb the * Australian crawl or trudgeon, or any other gesture, to relieve the tension ' was feeling. They knew nothing of the “business” of the first act. in a, most important part, and X rushed across the stage, on to a flower bed, which I, in my impetuosity, thought was solid. Alas, it was made of cardboard. I went through, grabbing the Russian lady by the neck. She came through the window, my face on her chest, and I was nearly asphyxiated with all the perfumes of Europe. After we separated I found about two yards of cardboard box and flowers round my feet.