LOVE SONG

Star (Christchurch), Volume LXIV, Issue 884, 4 October 1933, Page 12

LOVE SONG

By

ARTHUR HARDY

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS PAUL TELMAK. a young British tenor, lladaines in •‘Aida” at Covent Garden. His triumph is the more popular because, while .at Cambridge, lie gained considerable distinction as an athlete. To the many indications of general delight which greet his final curtaiu, MARIA JOXITZ, the beautiful, if somewhat to” 1 his’ liarnl" 0 ?! magnificent basket of orchids, a tribute to her own performance. Among those who hasten to congratulate Paul in his dressing room is one AUGUSTUS FALDEIi, a writer of popular songs. Paul, Maria and Falder then set out for a restaurant for a supper lo celebrate his triumph. On the way Paul sings a fragment of a song which delights his two friends. Maria, whose ambition is to make Paul her fourth husband, is fulsome in her flattery: but oven Falder agrees that, the song is catchy. Outside the restaurant they find an old, broken man playing n fiddle. He is about to be “moved on” by the restaurant doorkeeper when Paul intervenes and discovers that the beggar is ENRICO CAMAGNO, onee a celebrated operatic singer, thought to he dead. Paul, who once studied under Camagno, takes his place on the kerbstone and sings to the people entering the restaurant. The song he sings is the “catchy” air of which lie rendered a few lines in the car. The song and the magnificent voice of Paul cause fhe crowd to gather. Mostly they are the wealthy patrons of the opera. Paul tells them who, the beggar is: he takes round the hat. secures a generous collection, and bands the money to tlie bewildered Camagno.

CHAPTER V. The Story of Camagno. “I say, Paul. I’ve heard all sorts of stories. as to how Camagno came t.o lose his voice. Since you knew him so well when you were a boy, perhaps you’ll tell us all about it.” It was Falder who spoke. “Oh, everybody knows about that,” interrupted Pegler. “Camagno lost his head. After all. he was only the son of a cheap restaurant proprietor in Naples. He couldn't stand success; it just bowled “No.” Paul answered with a shake of his head. “But my dear Paul —everybody knows it. That last season in Milan—Camagno drank too much, ate too much, loved too much. That was why, when the crash came. Adelina was only too glad to get rid of him.” “No,” said Paul again. “Then perhaps you will tell us the true story ?” “Ye«! Tell them, Telmar,” begged Cascanini, the conductor, indignantly. “Camagno was magnificent. T knew him well. Tell them the truth.” Paul Telmar pushed aside his glass, leant upon the table. “Camagno was singing at La Scala.” he said, looking across at Jonitz. “His Othello was marvellous. In the Pearl Fishers, Ballo En Maschera, and Les Huguenots, which they revived that season, he was almost equally fine. Milan went mad over him. I heard him sing every role until that fatal night when he appeared on the opera stage for the last time in Tristan.” Peglar sat still, toying witli the base of his wine glass. Fabler caught Cora Schumann’s arm. The others sat motionless. Taul's intensity demanded attention. “Camagno was in grand voice that night, singing if possible with greater ease than ever. His climaxes were tremendous. He completely outsang Machinetti, who was playing Isolde. And when the curtain fell the audience stood on their feet shouting for minutes on end. Flowers were showered on the stage. Enrico Camagno’s last appearance did not prepare the audience for the shock that followed. “It was very cold that night. Milan was white with frost, and a keen cold wind swept the streets. To-night reminded me of it, for the weather was similar, though to-night is not so cold. In Milan the time is still referred to as the great frost. “My father took me to the opera that night and after the performance we went behind to find Camagno surrounded by a crowd of hero-worshippers. I thought he had never looked so well. My father spoke to him for a. little while and then arranged for him to bring Adelina over to us for dinner on Sunday. Camagno charmingly accepted.” Paul turned liis blue eyes on Pegler. “Enrico Camagno was not swollen headed,” he admonished a little sadly. “His father was a reetaurnant proprietor, true, but a man of artistic tastes and a fine musician into the bargain. Neither at Milan nor elsewhere, at any time, did Enrico Camagno suffer from swelled head. He was keen after money, but then that was a purely business instinct, although he was a poor business Paul sipped from his glass and continued his story. “Camagno patted me on the shoulder, said he would bring me some sweets on Sunday and then we left while he rejoined his friends.” Telmar turned his wine glass by the 6tem and frowned thoughtfully. “Such is my pen onal experience of the last time Enric- Camagno sang in public. Many versions of what happened afterwards have been spread abroad, most of them untrue. For instance, it is commonly believed that he drank very heavily after leaving I>a Scala; but as a matter of fact Camagno was at that time almost a teetotaller. I went with my father to see him many times when he was so ill nobody believed he would live, and he told us himself what really happened. “As soon as he could get away Camagno left the Opera House by a side door to escape the crowds which were waiting in the street in spite of the bitter cold. “He was wearing only a light overcoat and it Avas his intention to hurry home as quickly as possible. He lived in a charming villa —it was almost*a palace—facing the gardens of the New Park and the way led him past the Piazza Gastello. And it was while he was hurrying along that he saw a big crowd surrounding some street musicians who were singing and playing, hoping to earn good money from the audience returning from the opera. Camagno stopped to listen.” Paul’s blue eyes lit up as he leant upon the table. “You must understand that Camagno was the most unselfish of men. He had a big heart. He did not understand the value of money. Money was just someto make use of. It came easily and went like melting snow in warm sunshine. To his surprise Camagno found three or four once well-known singers and musicians among that broken-down “They sang well, the music echoing loudly on the cold, still air. But when they came to the end of the aria and one of them went round with a little velvet bag the crowd began to hurry away. •‘Camagno was filled with disgust.

“According to liis lights all musicians and singers were sacred. He used to argue that they should be supported by the .State when they came to tlie end of their careers. The air was still and clear. Frost whitened the roof tops and lay in a carpet of crystals upon the roads. The hour was late and these men were starving—so one of them told hitn. And so Camagno did a fatal thing. He called out to the vanishing crowd, telling them who he was, and as they began eagerly to cluster round once more he told the players to accompany him in ‘Celeste Aida’ from the first scene of Verdi’s masterpiece. “It is said,” Paul continued, speaking slowly so that every word sank home, “that Camagno never sang more splendidly than he did in that frost-bound street that night. He was in magnificent voice and the ringing notes caused people to run to hear, house dwellers to open their windows and look out and marvel. When he had finished Camagno dropped all the money he had on him into the little velvet bag and carried it round himself, begging for money from the onlookers. “More people came hurrying to the scene. Some police arrived. But they did not scatter the crowd when they heard what had happened. And since more money was to be earned for the down and out singers from the newly encore with as much fire and enthusiasm as if he were singing in tlie wellwanned theatre.” Paul gazed soberly round at his guests, who sat spellbound by his manner of telling the story. “That was Camagno’s swan * song. The aria was Vesti La Giubba, from ‘I Pagliacci,” and when he had finished the great crowd burst into a hurricane of applause. Cainpagno went round again with the little red velvet bag and filled it to overflowing. When he gave it to the singers they kissed his hand. One of them broke down and wept on Camagno’s shoulder, blessing him. And when at last he was able to get away the great singer hastened home proud of what he had done. He had himself contributed over 1000 lire to the velvet bag; the crowd hail added several thousand lire more, and Camagno had arranged for one of the men to meet him iri the morning so that he might see what could be done in the way of obtaining for them some sort of pension or annuity. “While he was eating his supper Camagno was seized with a violent shivering. He slept badly that night. In the morning the throat was badly inflamed. He sent at onee for Dr. MoLini, who always attended him, and tlie doctor found Camagno’s pulse racing and his temperature soaring high. The next day the lungs were ullacked, and for seven weeks he lay in bed slowly recovering from a desperate fight for life. The pneumonia was conquered, but even after several months of convalescence Camagno’s throat remained inflamed. He became subject to a chronic cough. The voice was husky, rough and, when he attempted to sing, the sound of his own voice shocked him. “It was the end of Enrico Cainagno, the greatest tenor I have ever heard. His wife, who had always been jealous of him, gave him little sympathy. He had asked for what he got, she said, singing in the frozen streets to help a lot of professional beggars. Camagno was so ill that he began to drink. A sea voyage did not help him. He returned to Milan to break from Adelina, and sell his home. Then he met Cora Canova again. They had first met at La Scala. Cora had always admired Enrico. She gave him the sympathy lie craved for, and tlie next few years were spent in touring Europe. Camagno quickly got rid of all tlie money he had managed to save. He was no business man, but a singing genius, and when he could not sing he was lost. Cora died, and after that nobody heard any more of Camagno. He did not write, just disappeared, and all who knew him well believed him lo lie dead. And yet we meet him to-night outside this restauPaul Telinar drained his glass and called for more wine. “Camagno's failure was a tragedy,” he concluded; “the outcome of his bighearted generosity and not the result of a swollen head.” “Poor beggar,” sighed the baritone Pegler. “Paul, I am sorry for what I said, and since he was so fine an artist I regret very much that I never heard him sing.” “Sing!” It was M ar i a Jonitz who broke in, her shapely lips curled in scorn. “I heard him when I was a girl. He had a glorious voice, but in my opinion Paul’s is as fine.” Paul coloured uneasily. Such open praise embarrassed him. “And what does he do?” the prima donna went on, shaking a lightly' clenched fist at Paul the better to display the flashing brilliants in her rings, maybe. “Sings in the street, in the cold, for a beggar, just as Camagno did. And if it were not his birthday I’d wish that lie might catch a dreadful cold just to teach him to take care of that magnificent voice of his.”

Cascanini sighed and shook his shock of oiled, coal black hair.

“Poor Camagno! What an end ?- “Strumming on a violin in the gutter, and singing a snatch of the old song in a cracked voice that might be the ruins of a corn crake’s. Life i<s hard for us professionals. Paul, may you never regret what you did for him "to-night.” Paul smiled happily. “No matter what happens I shall never regret,” he said. “I shall see Camagno to-morrow and before a week is out he will be on his way to sunny Naples, where he was born. My father will rouse all Italian music-lovers, to his aid, and from the fund we shall provide Enrico will be able to live in comfort to the end of his days.” “Here’s hoping how, Paul.” said Falder, raising high liis bubbling glass. (To be Continued daily.)