MELBA'S MEMOIRS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXII, Issue 19141, 6 October 1925, Page 13

MELBA'S MEMOIRS.

THE OPERA IN ITALY. STRANGE THREATS IN MILAN. (Copyright). CHAPTER IX.—(Continued). Writing of the frozen North has made mo feel a 'caging to return, in memory H t least, to the sunlight, and though after Russia, seasons at Paris and London intervened, there was nothing very eventful a bout them. I cannot resist shifting the scene, with a writer's privilege, to Sicily, where, during she spring of 1892, I appeared in " Traviata " at the Opera House at Palermo. As a matter of fact, now I come to ret-all that time in detail, the crossing from Naples to Sicily had been anything hut i sunny and springlike. It had been one | of the worst crossings conceivable, and when I arrived at * Palermo in the early morning, I went straight to my room and told niy maid that on no account was I to be disturbed. And had it not been for a strange coincidence I suppose that I should have slept for many hours. 1 had just fallen into a sound sleep ■ ■when suddenly I woke up. For a moment j I could not recall where I was, and lay . in a sort of doze, wondering what had j disturbed me. And then I realised that id the next room somebody was playing j with exquisite feeling the Serenata of ! Braga on a violoncello, whose tones echoed clearly through the thin wooden walls. The situation was so unreal and so delici* cusly fantastic that I sat up and joined in, as I happened to know it, ' The music stopped suddenly. " Ch> e la ?" The voice was that of an old nun, but there was a catch in it as though he were laughing. 1 lan ghed back. " Ch: e la?" I repeated " Sono Braga." " Io sono Mdfaa." There was a sound of the violoncello being rapidly precipitated to the floor, and then: , " I must see you. Let me come in quickly." "Not possible! lam in bed!" There was a sound of something suspiciously like a curse. " What time may I come?" I thought over the situation, and then said, trying to speak with an air of propriety which the situation not seem to warrant; " At two o'clock." And at two o'clock, through the dazzling sunshine, bearing a bouquet of flowers in his arms, Braga came to see me. How delightful he was! We talked and talked. He played and I sang. that is all I remember, but I do know that those hours in Sicily were indeed golden. From Sicily I went back to Paris, en route, as I thought, for America. But when I returned to Paris, it was to be greeted with the news that the Metropo- > litan Opera House had been burnt down. Mr. Abbev and Mr. Oran came to me and told me that as there had been no clause in mv contract concerning the question of delay, I should be legally justified m demanding the whole of my salary I told them that as I hadn't sung I didn t expect to be paid. They looked relieved. And then, I suddenly realised that I •was in a quandary. * I had £2OO in the bank, no prospect of an Immediate encacement: nothing. So I said to myself. * I'li gammon. Nobody I m hard up. I shall go to Nice." I went to Nice. I went with tw maids instead of one, and took the best possible rooms in the best possible hotel. What would have happened but for a stroke of luck Ido not know. Probably I should have languished in a debtor s orison. But it happened that Mr. Oran, who was one of the directors of the Nice Opera Housa, was in Nice, ana said to me: "Would you like to sing here this C WHh assumed indifference I replied that I should not mind, but that I imagined all artists would already have been en-ga-P()h I'm sure they'll be delighted," he said', " and I can get you 4000 francs a night. " I waved him ■ away. J wag 1 # it dream of singing tor less than 5000, Well, I was given my 5000. And I often think that it was 5000 francs worth of bluff. %■ CHAPTER X. Now I come to a time of terror; a time when ior days I went about m fear of my life- . , , ~ The place was Milan; the date, the early spring of 1893. I had arrived at Milan trembling with excitement at the thought of singing in the great Op er » House of La Scala, which was (as I well knew) one of the most critical audiences in the world. But very soon I was trembling with another sort of excitement, tor immediately I entered my hotel I was handed a batch of letters in a strange, spidery handwriting, which, as soon as I opened them, proved to be fr-om anonvmous enemies, all threatening me with "various sorts of disaster unless I left Milan immediately. I went up to my room and called my secretary, my beloved Louie Mason, whose 'ske I have never since found in the whole world. I said to her ' f these!" and picking out a few at ram dom, I pressed them into her hands She read them carefully, and I warned to tho window to look out on the bustling streets while I awaited her verdict. It seemed so horrible that in this brilliant sunchine, in this city of music and oi art, there should lurk such poisonous people as the writers of these otters. The sunshine seemed tarnished: there ■ was a shadow over the bright roofs, and even the fares of the people whom I could see below seemed to be distorted and susP "°Well," I said, turning to her, "what do vou think of them?" She tossed them impetuously on the ta «' l of course, they are horrible," she said " But take DO notice. I nodded. "We will wait and see, 1 The next day there were more anonymous letters, not only sent by post bat delivered by hand. All my « to the senders led nowhere, and even the hail-porter seemed to have no recollection of the kind of man or woman who had delivered the notes. Ihey were even worse than the day be ore I was told in one that poison would be put n my food unless I gave op the idea of singing at La Scala. In another I was warned that if I attempted to enter the lift, it vou Id break, and I should crash to pieces <n the floor below. In another I was told 'hat were I to go out at night there would be a stiletto waiting for me m more than one dark corner of the streets. Perhaps I was foolish to read these letters but when ono is young and inexperienced. and when in addition one is Lred With an ordeal so nerve-racking as a first appearance at La Scala in an Opera like Lucia which has been the testing ground of every prima donna for years before mv time, it is hardly to be wondered at that I was in a ff*/> acute anxiety. Every mouthful of food I took seemed likely to poison roe. I would not even go downstairs, let alone out of d< tors. , The day before the performance, after still more threats of an even deadlier nature, I called my secretary, and I said f " "cannot stand it any longer. I think T had better go. Even if I were to come through alive, the ordeal would be so terrible that, I should not give my best. She stood in front of me and put her hands in mine. , .. " You can't go, Madame, she said. "It would not be you. You have got to si-ay and face the music.**

I draw away from her and began to pace the room. " I don't mind the music," 1 said. "It is these terrible letters." She argued, she entreated. And so helpful was she, so utterly unflinching in her determination, that' I should go through with the ordeal, that I took her advice and I stayed. I honestly believe that had it not been for Louie Mason I should never have sung at, the Scala, and I think I may say that if I had not done so, I should have missed one of the greatest triumphs of my life. Yoy will remember that in the opera of Lucia siOTe twenty minutes of action takes place before the first .notes echo behind the scenes telling of Lucia's arrival on the stage. How well I remember standing behind the wings listening to #ie harp playing Lucia's solo, my heart j throbbing, my hand clutching Louie j Mason's and wondering if when 1 had : sung these notes they should prove to j s be my last. And then when I walked on j to the stage, unlike my usual custom, I j allowed my eyes to wander anxiously in j the direction of tne audience. And im- j mediately I had done so I noted a curious j phenomenon; it seemed to me that the j whole of the vast audience were turned j away from me, so that I cos.id only see [ their backs! So startling was this that j I almost forgot the phrase I was singing. And then the beauty of the music caught me by the heart and I sang the opening melody as I had rarely sung it before. And as I was singing I saw the audience turning, turning gradually in my direction, which my quickened imagination distorted into something ominous. As you may be aware, the boxes at the Scala are so built that many of the seats of the occupants are actually turned away from the stage. I had forgotten this fact. And when I remarked it from the stage, it seemed to me that the audience, or at any rate the box holders, had turned away from me simply because they were determined not to listen to my singing! How I ever sung my initial recitatif I do not know to this day. It was a terrible ordeal. But it was also a very brief one. For before 1 had finished, an immense " Brava! Brava!" echoed all over s the theatre. The rest of the performance, though I say it myself, was a crescendo of triumph, and I am told that after the Mad Scene the applause went on for ten minutes. And when, finally, the curtain fell and I stepped back, worn out, to my dressing j room, I thanked God and Louie Mason that I had stayed to face the music. (To-morrow: Meeting Sweden's King).