SIGNOR CARUSO.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 16495, 4 August 1921, Page 6

SIGNOR CARUSO.

THE GREAT TENOR’S LIFE. POVERTY TO WEALTH. The death of Caruso means some thing much more to the world thai the passing away of a great artist There may be but very few in New Zoa land who have heard Caruso sing n the fiesh, but, by means of the phono graph, they have become ianmiar v\ iti liis voice. it is not quite tne sank tiling; but is the only possible way b; whic.i mvriads of people can hope t< hear the'great singers of our time there are many such of the past whosi voices died with them; but allbougl Caruso is dead, his voice will live no only hi the memories ( f those who wer< so fortunate as to hear him sing, bain the wax records that are preservec for the delight of posterity. Enrico Caruso was of the people, £ poor Neapolitan boy—and -Naples is a: poor a:s it is populous. But it has pro bably the most rarefied musical atmosphere of any place in the world Yv here, for instance, dees singing sou nr. so sweet as from those in the boats serenading (for halfpence) the passengers on ships moored out in the bay : Caruso began his singing career in tin churches of his native city, and he was ten years of age then. IJis first appearance was made in “ J/Amico Francesco ” at Naples, in 189-1. TeHinc bis own life sto \v in (ibis row some years ago, Carus-o said: -“While I was in my teens- I aspired to become a singer, and, to that end. when I was nineteen. I consulted a. maestro. ‘ Hullo ! SVhai bare we here?’ demanded the signore profess re. ‘One who hopes to become a singer.’ wa.s Tny mod- st reply. £ Hope is for all,’ quoted the master, oi whom, l confess, 1 stood in awe, adding, ‘ Well, then, sing to me.’ Knockla iced and trembling from head to toe, I did my best. The great man frowned. ‘ iSing. louder more fre:lv,’ was the mandate. I obeyed, and was gratified to hear him say, ‘ Meno male.' Well, to cu;t a long story short, he agreed to accept mo ns a pupil. Unfortunately. lie could not decide if Nature had intended me to be a tenor or a baritone. So after taking eleven lessons l determined to take a second opinion, and hade him addio. At this juncture l met a celebrated baritone, who assured r e that I had only to study with a competent teacher to become a tenor lirico. Taking him at his word, I worked with another professor, making, I confess, but slow progress. Indeed, mv voice was so small that the other pupils jeered at me, and. compared mv poor little voice to the wind which passes through a broken window. However, 1 had not to stand their taunts for long. for. military service intervening I left the classroom for the tented ground. While engaged in the performance of my military duties I had no opportunity for continuing my studies, nor did my comrades encourage me to uplift my voice in song. One day, however, I happened to be carolling a merry roundelay at the moment when an officer who took a great interest in music was passing the bar rack-room. Slopping to listen, he asked me if I would like to become an opera singer. Overjoyed at his good-natured condescension, I assured him that the desire of my life was to tread the operatic boards. A month later T was allowed t-o leave the service and to study in real earnest for the stage. But for the kind-hearted, discriminating, musical major I might never have gained the dearest wish of my heart. ” During the- next few years I led a busy life. After I had put in the necessary amount of study 1 found my time pretty well occupied filling engagements—which, by the way, took me almost everywhere. After I had achieved a good deal of success,, the late Tamagno, who, as a singer of robust roles, was at the height of liis fame, gave me some good advice. 1 Ito not,’ he said, 1 sing heavy music. Be content with light parts. Remember that ‘ Chi va piano va sano ed anehe lontnnto-—who goes softly gees surely and then far.’ He also advised me never to add Radamcs, Canio and Monrico to my repertoire. I may add that I have sung these roles for the past few years, and, so 1 am told, to the satisfaction of the public. ” The penalties of making money. What can he mean? Well, there actually are penalties attached to the successful pursuit of wealth, not the least of which is that I am often asked to pay the sort of prices, which ai-e especially made for millionaires. And while I am on the subject I may add that 1 can scarcely be expected to go on singing for over. Why, the moment 1 feel that T am not giving the public mv best 1 shall, like the great Fa lire, retire. Tho public has ■ supported me loyally, and. for my part, I mean to continue serving them well. To again use one of the many expressive phrases which abound in the Fnglisji language. 1 know when to stop.” Caruso- married in August, 1918, Miss Bark, daughter of a New York lawyer. It was towards the end of 1920 that lie broke a blood vessel in the throat. He was then singing in “ Eli re D’ Amore,” in Brooklyn, New York. He sang on. although bleeding profusely. The audience did not at once grasp the seriousness of his accident. It was all unconscious of the scene that had taken i place behind the scenes, when Caruso discovered Ids injury. He was never the same man after that. Only a..s recently as February last be was near to death in New York, the last sacraments of the Church being administered. Pleurisy had followed the breaking of tiie blood vessel ; and last month he left New York for Italy, where he was, it seems, destined to die in liis native city. He should have been a rich man. It is said that his return passage from New York to Naples cost him £7OOO. He and bis partv occupied seven suites nn the steamer. ' He loved the life of an Italian country gentleman on his fine place near Venice, and he bad hoped to spend all Ids days and fortune in peaceful happiness in his beloved Italy. He died, aged forty-eight, a time when most men with a competency know best how to enjoy it, having overcome tho headstrong ideas of youth and forgotten all its illusions.