The Story of My Life.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIX, Issue 8, 24 August 1907, Page 28

The Story of My Life.

(By

ENRICO CARUSO.)

Tne story of my life! Ah, what a title! What man would really tell tha story of his life? No matter who he is, no matter how low his station, no matter how uneventful, if one would actually tell the story of his life, with all of his am. bitions, his thoughts, the little deeds that only he knows of, it would be the most wonderful and the most interesting book ever printed. But I warn you now, Enrico is going to make no such literary sensation. When I look back to the dear springtime period of my life in Naples, back to the little black-haired boy that was I, just like so many other little blackhaired boys, I wonder why I should write the story of my life. Then I think of this gift, my voice; this thing that was bestowed upon me that I might entertain people; that people might be happier—-and I feel that possibly it is rig.it that I should tell who I am, where I came from, and what I have done. If I am anybody, the public has made me what I am; therefore, the public should know who they made. I was bom in Naples thirty-three years ago. My parents were what vou might call good, every-day people. They were not peasants, and they were not nobility, but what they call in England middle class. My father was a sort of superintendent of the warehouses of a large banking and importing concern, I used to frequent the Water-front where the warehouses were, and at an earfpi

age could swim and dive like a porpoise. Of course, my grand ambition was to be a sailor. Every boy that lives near a harbour has that ambition at some period in his life. I had arrived at the age of ten before any thought was taken of my education. Of course, 1 knew the little things that my mother had taught me —my alphabet, and how to read the stories in a big red and blue picture book that had been presented to me on an eventful birthday. ARRANGING THE BOY’S FUTURE. I remember one night as though it were but yesterday that I was sent to bed early. My father had given me a task to do, and, like many other bad little boys in the world, I failed to do it. I know that my father thought me the worst boy in the world, and the greatest trial that fond parents ever had (all fathers think that). As I lay there serving my well-earned punishment, I heard my parents talking about me. My father was for apprenticing me to a mechanical engineer that he knew; but my mother insisted that I was too young to apprentice and that it was wrong that I should have no education. The discussion terminated with me condemned to the Bronzetti Institute. I say condemned, as my father seemed to think that it was a fitting punishment for so bad a boy; but my mother was very much pleased. Teh school was very similar to lots of other private day schools, and I soon accepted the restraint and discipline as being a matter of course.

There was one boy in the school that I shall never forget. His name was Peter. Peter and I seemed to be antagonistic spirits from the start. He greatly incensed me the first day by making grimaces and mule ears at me. They soon discovered .-at I had a good boy soprano voice. In this I became an immediate rival of Peter’s; for, to the time of my arrival, he was the best singer of the school. The head-master of the school was a very shrewd man, as I look back to it now. He used to tell us that if we were good children and behaved properly he would take us to sing at such and such a wedding, and we would be given cake and sweets, and be able to see the bride, and all sorts of nice things. So we, poor little fools! would work hard, and rehearse after school hours, and sure enough, we would be taken to the wedding, and sure enough, we would receive cake and sweets and see the bride. But the clever old man never shared the money he received. Oh, we were taken to lots of nice places—■ concerts, entertainments, religious fetes and the like! Tn fact, the twelve little boys were in great demand; but all we ever received was candy. PUNISHING A RIVAL. At the end of the second year I was presented a gold medal as being the best singer in the school. This so enraged my rival, Peter, that he attacked me viciously with his fists. I returned his blows, and gave him better than he sent, and before we could be separated chianti flowed from Peter’s nose. It must have been a humorous scene, to see two little boys fighting viciously for the doubtful honour, each in his Sunday clothes, before the assembled parents and faculty. However, sympathy seemed to be with Peter, for the head-master, or Presidente, as we called him, reprimanded me severely before everybody. I became greatly enraged then, and tore off my gold medal and threw it on the floor at his feet. Then my fauier eame up and said he would take care of me. On arrival at home be gave me a spanking, and I vowed then and there I would sing bo more in the institute. And I never did.

About a year after that event I was apprenticed to the mechanical engineer. I took little interest in my new work, but showed some aptitude in mechanical drafting and caligraphy. Tn fact, it was in this position that 1 first became interested in sketching. For a time I thought that I would attend the art schools, and visions of becoming a great artist arose within me. But the voice triumphed, and all mv spare time was put in at singing. When I was fifteen my mother died. I had stayed at the mechanical desk only because of her pleadings, so I left immediately, determined to devote myself permanently to music. My father was so Incensed at this action that a great •nene ensued, in which he told me that he was done with me and my music, and

in the future I could shift for myself. Whether the poor old man thought to drive me back to my apprenticeship, or really gave me up as a disgrace to him, I have never been able to determine; but with the stubbornness of his own son I left the house. And now began my wanderings. In the course of time they have taken me to remote corners of the earth; they have taken me before great personages; they have given Caruso a host of friends—not acquaintances, but friends. Let me tell you the odd way I began my career as a professional vocalist. I had lodgings in a house close to the church of Sant’ Anna alia Paludi, where the organist himself was a singer. Just to amuse myself, I used to sing in my room, and the organist heard me. One day, having contracted a serious throat trouble, he sent for me and asked me to sing in his place. To say 1 consented is inside the mark. I jumped at the cbanee. I jumped with my best energy and enthusiasm, afraid it might get away. HIS FIRST PAY FOR SINGING. The organist taught me the Litany; and for a long while after that 1 sang at the Tuesday services; for Tuesday is the day dedicated to Saint Ann, and her church is then thronged with worshippers. It was really a tremendous job I had undertaken, since the services lasted practically all day; but I was paid—paid in real money. How much, do you imagine? I’ll tell you, without exagerating. With my hand on my heart, I do solemnly declare that for every day’s work faithfully performed in the church at Sant’ Anna alia Paludi, Enrico Caruso received the dazzling sum of one lira—twenty cents! Yes, actually! I kept my lodgings unchanged; they were convenient to the church and sufficiently suited to my needs as a student of mechanical engineering, for I hadn’t as yet abandoned my first occupation. Just across the street lived an apothecary named Schinardi, whose son was studying the piano. Mischievous rogue that I was, I couldn’t help plaguing him; whenever Schinardi began practising, I would begin singing. Bursting with rage, he would dash to the window and shout to me across the street, ‘‘Quit that singing! For heaven’s sake, quit it!” I saw that I was making a hit.

But it seems that even a tenor voice has “charms to soothe the savage breast.” Early one morning there came a knock at my door. Opening to the visitor, whom should I behold but the young pianist I had so long been tormenting! At the ,rst glimpse of him, I was sure a storm was brewing. But, no, I next perceived he was ail smiles and good nature. In the kindest way in the world he explained that he had had a great idea: I to come to his house during his hours of piano practice, he to teach me some charming romanzas. I agreed, w-ith a glad heart. Thus I got my first knowledge of romantic music, and it was fey young Schinardi that I was introduced to society. There’s a story that once I was hired to serenade a Juliet by a Neaopolitan Romeo who had the guitar but lacked the romantic voice. I hate to spoil that jolly yarn. The thing might well enough have Happened in those days; but. unfortunately for legend, the story isn’t true. The reporter wno set it going had no doubt heard about my taking part in serenades, but failed to understand what we Italians mean by that word. In Italy, when distinguished visitors conic to town —deputations, Cabinet Ministers, or other celebrities—we treat them to a serenade; and it’s a gorgeous affair, with a big orchestra to furnish the accompaniments. Though 1 still got lots of calls to sing in churches, where the maestro would sometimes compose pieces expressly for my voice, I enjoyed the serenades far better. So I was as happy as a lark when I received an invitation to sing at the centenary of the Virgin of Cotrone. The festival lasted fifteen days, and my success was most gratifying. One of the serenades was in honour of the Prince of Wales, now King Edward VII., who had come to Cotrone on board the Royal yaent. This gave me my first opportunity to appear before Royalty. Sometimes reporters come to me and beg for anecdotes connected with what they are kind enough to call my “days of triumph.” They urge me to tell of my acquaintance with the “crowned heads of Europe.” They forget that even a grand opera star may retain some remnants of modesty. And if you, good reader, or you, indulgent editor, have looked for such tales in this story of iny

life, I shall have to answer you as 1 answer the reporters. Put yourself in my place, and ask yourself if you would not do the same. 1 say to the reporters, “Niente,” which is Italian for ‘‘Nothing.” Then I shake hands with them as amiably as I can after their absurd request, and walk away. Wouldn’t you, under the circumstances? The life was fascinating, however; I was free, and my work placed me in contact with all sorts of people, and took me into unexpected places. In the course of time 1 became a favourite of society, and my fees rose accordingly. One dear lady, impressed with my voice and with every confidence in my future, arranged for me to go to singing teacher, so that I would get proper training in the use of the voiceI had taken possibly ten lessons, when to my consternation something happened to my voice. At first I contemplated suicide, then I thought of the mechanical table, and all the while I carefully avoided my lonely patroness and her friend',. One day I was going up a back street—l must have been at the very bottom of my well of despair—when a hand fell upon my shoulder, and a merry voice chided me for having avoided those that had taken such an interest in me. It was the baritone Messiani. To him I was compelled to confide my misery and its origin. Ah, how sympathetic he was! “Poor little shatter! .You used your voice too mucn for so young a pipe. Come with me to my studio; you must have some place to go,” he said. When we got there he asked me to sing, that he might judge if I had indeed ruined my voice. And sing I did. As I sang Messiani at first looked surprised, then burst into a great laugh—-a merry, aggravating laugh. If ever in my life I have been near to committing murder, it was that afternoon. All that saved me was lack of a weapon. As it wars, I hurled a brass candlestick at him, and was hysterically searching the apartment for a suitable weapon. Seeing my anger, he addressed me. “Cease, my boy! It is cruel of me not to explain. Your voiee is grand. It has changed. I will give you a card to Vergine, and he will make you.” So I w-ent to Verginc. He tried my voiee, and said that while it was of good opera quality it was not of sufficient volume for opera. He with much reluctance prophesied that I could not earn more than four hundred francs a month but on account of his great regard for Messiani he would take me for four years if I would sign a contract, as he couldn’t be bothered unless I would stay the whole term. I gladly agreed. The contract read that I was to pay twenty-live per cent, of my earnings for five years of engagements; but little did I appreciate that I was binding myself to another Shylock. Truth to tell, he taught me much regarding the use of the voice, but he never encouraged, never disclosed, Ahe fact that I had a voiee worthy of serious consideration. Upon the termination of my contract to study, he gave me much advice, then reminded me that I owed him twenty-five per cent, of all my receipts. Even then I <-id not appreciate what I had signed. I soon obtained an engagement in ths opera house at Naples, and achieved some success. On all pay days my Shylock was on hand to receive his percentage. The interest of the manager was eventually aroused, and I showed him my contract. “Why,” he said, “you will have to work for this skinflint the rest of your life. Your contract reads that you will have to ting for him five years of actual singing. Days that you earn nothing do not count.” My indignant manager figured that this would occupy me until the age of fifty. Finally I decided to see a lawyer. He advised me to stop payment, which I did. Shylock took the case to court, and luckily for me the courts were as wise as Portia. I was instructed to pay twenty thousand francs besides what I uad paid, and that finished him. Now, if he had not been so avaricious, ho

might have had as his share two hundred thousand francs in the following live years; but he was too greedy, and so killed the goose that laid the golden ‘‘KU* In Italy, every man has to serve his time in the army, and snortly after this incident 1 was called upon. Happily for me, my military duties were shortlived, for 1 drew the attention of the commander of the regiment. He had heard me sing in tne liarraeks, where 1 practised in my leisure. The Major questioned mo closely one day, and, having great regard for unvoice, made my duties for the period of active service very light. He also advised me ri to how I might be entirely exempted from active service if I had friends of influence to take up my cause. Bo I started to unroll tire red tape that should free me. singing all tne while in the barracks, to the great delight of the soldiers and officers. My position became such in the course of time that when a popular soldier was imprisoned for some slight offence, 1 could obtain his freedom by volnnteering to sing any song the officer on tiut.y would care to hea r. I well remember one lovely Easter day when the officers gave a luncheon to the soldiers of the regiment. At one end of the table sat the commander. Major Nagliate; at the other end, facing him, sat Caruso. After the luncheon, it was proposed and universally seconded that I should sing the “Wine Song" of “Cavalleria Rusticana” in honour of the Major. My song was greeted with most enthusiastic applause, and cries of encore. The Major silenced everyone by raising his hand, and presently rose to make a speech. What was our surprise and chagrin when he delivered a very sharp lecture directed against the regiment in general and myself in particular, saying that it was unpardonable to compel me to sing at each beck and whim, and criminal to request it after a meal, and that 1 was a fool and didn't deserve the gift I held so lightly, and that if in the future there was a repetition he would not only put in irons the person, regardless of rank, who compelled me to sing, but he would punish me too. I was in the barracks for two months altogether, and released when my brother volunteered to serve out the time in my stead. On release I was engaged for a season of opera at Caserta, and from this time on my operatic career has simply been a case of being lifted from one round of the .udder to the next. After singing in one Italian city after another, I went to Egypt; from there back to Faris; and then to Berlin; thence to the Argentine. From there 1 went to Rio Janeiro, where I was honoured by President Campos-Galles for singing at a gala performance given in honour of the President of Argentina, who was on an official visit to tne city. From Jxio I went to sing in London; and now I have just, finished sing ing a second season in New York, the greatest opera city in the world. Ami such, dear reader, is the opera story of Caruso. There is another Caruso, a plain, every day fellow, with a dear wife and affectionate friends, who still wishes he were an artist, who loves to draw and model in clay, who collects rare coins, has a .arge library of picture books, and a home he is proud of near Florence. But this Enrico is, as I say, just a plain, every-day' Italian fellow, and i know' you don’t want to know anything about him.