Madame Tetrazzini.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 8, 22 February 1908, Page 62

Madame Tetrazzini.

Madame Tetrazzini, the new priina donna, who has been the sensation of the operatic world, contributes the following story of her youth to “M.A.P..”: — I was born in Florence, where my father was a well-known merchant, and 1 was the youngest of four children. Our family consisted of three girls and a boy. The eldest of my sisters is Madame Eva Tetrazzini, now Madame Campananini, who was at one time a great dramatic soprano. From the time I was quite a tiny child I loved singing. That, however, is not wonderful, for in Italy everybody sings. It does not matter whether he has a voice or not, an Italian must sing. If he can’t, he becomes a critic. I began to sing, then, almost as soon as I began to talk. Naturally, I was incited to sing by the fact that my sister Eva used to study at home, and I used to hear her practise. With the child’s natural gift for imitating and for learning unconsciously from the things it hears, I soon began singing the operas she was practising, and 1 knew both the words and the music of a comparatively large repertoire before I was even aware of the fact. I couldn’t have been eight years of age when, I rememlier, my sister was studying Giaconda. In the course of the opera she used a dagger to stab herself. I had seen her rehearse this, and I naturally wanted to do it myself. Unhappily for me, as it seemed then, the dagger had been carefully put away. Still, I had to stab myself with something, and nothing else being available I got hold of a candle out of a candlestick. I sang the suite, and at the proper moment, I thrust the candle against my breast, and fell to the ground, to the great delight of my father, who roared with laughter, and applauded me vociferously. Long before that however, I had been to the theatre. I do not know how young I was when my father took me to my first opera. You see, in Italy, people take their children with them from a very early age. It is no uncommon thing to see a father or mother with a baby less than a year old in their arms in the gallery. There is no law in Italy against children being taken to the theatre, and so they go. Very often when an artist sings a pathetic song you can hear the little children whining in the gallery. It was no doubt hearing my sister sing in public which first incited me to do likewise. It was she, too, who gave me my first lesson in music, for she taught me to play the piano. It was not only the Giaconda I learned from her, for I picked up many other roles, and thanks to a retentive memory I soon got to know a great deal about several operas. Faust and Le Bal Masque I actually knew straight through, not merely the soprano parts, but all the parts with all the music, which I picked up in this way. Later on, I added all the words and music of several operas to this repertoire, and I have found my knowledge stand me in good stead. The constant practice has resulted in my being able to undertake a role in eight days, and I have studied a new part in six hours, working only two hours a day. 1 do not mean that I ever undertook a part at that notice, but after that study 1 was able to go word and music perfect to rehearsal. Between the ages of 10 and 12 my voice was contralto. For a child it was very full and deep, and when I was 15. a well-known composer actually wrote a song for me which went down to G. Everybody thought my voice would get lower, and Madame Biancolini, one of the greatest contraltos in Italy, used to declare that 1 was going to be her successor. Soon after I was 12, however, my voice began to change, and it gradually got higher and higher, until now I sing F in Alt., the note which is demand-

ed of the soprano in “Puritani” and ‘‘The Magic Flute. Coming under the influence of my sister, I naturally wanted to go on the lyric stage. To this, however, my mother was bitterly opposed, for she said that one singer in the family was quite enough. She did not object, however, to my going to the Conservatoire, the Liceo Musicale, in Florence. When I presented myself before the directorate, I had naturally to sing in order to see if my voice was good enough to allow me to be admitted. I sang one song, when Signor Cecherini, who had also taught my sister Eva, turned to the examiners, and said: “Why this is an artist; she is not a little girl at all.” When I heard that I need not say that I was overjoyed, for I knew it meant that I should'be admitted. For three months I went to the Liceo. At the end of my lesson one day, Signor Cecherini turned to me and said: “My child, you don’t need any more lessons. You know everything I can teach you, and you sing like an angel.” As I was not to go to the Liceo any more, however, I determined to work at home, and Signor Cecherini used to come and let me study operas with him. In three months I knew “Crispino et la Comare” (which used at one time to be sung so much by Madame Patti), “La Fille du Regiment,” and “Semiramide,” the last of which, however, I have never sung in public. When my sister Eva had sung at the Theatro Nicolini in Florence, I had often been with her to take her flowers, so that I knew the manager, who also knew the members of my family. One day Meyerbeer’s “L’Africane” was going to be produced. The manager had three artists on his books, but for some reason he was not satisfied with them in the small part of “Inez.” It is a very difficult role, for “Inez” has to take part in a septette, sung without the orchestra, and she has to strike the keynote for the others, as she begins it. The manager was telling us one evening about the failure of the three ladies and, turning to me, said: “Would you sing the part?” “Yes,” I cried delightedly; “but you will have to give me a good dress for it, and you will have to pay me.” He smiled, and asked what I wanted. I shook my head and said: “I don’t know. You see, I’ve never sung in public before, and I don’t know what I’m worth.”. He smiled again, and offered me £2O a month for four months. I jumped at it, and I sang the first two months in Florence, and the succeeding two months in Rome. My salary, however, did not go very far, for I found much of it was taken up by “gratifications” to people who were connected with the theatre. After my four months were up I was engaged by another manager at £4O a month. Still, my voice was not yet definitely formed, though everyone was kind enough to say I had the temperament of a singer. Now and again, too, I sang in concert. On one occasion Queen Margherita was present. On the platform I have sung operatic music which I have no intention of singing on the stage, and I have even sung some of Isolde’s music. The part is, however, too dramatic to suit my voice, though some day I hope to sing Elsa in “Lohengrin.” . After my season in Rome I went to South America, where I remained for four years. In Buenos Ayres I sang Lucia no fewer than 54 times. The fiftieth performance was made the occasion of a great fete, and the President was present. The theatre was decorated. That perhaps was to be expected. What I certainly could not have expected was that the whole route along which I had to go from my hotel to the theatre would be decorated too. From Buenos Ayres I went to Rio, and other towns, and then to Russia, San Francisco, and Cuba. Then I went to Mexico, where the people are devoted levers of music, and they made my life very pleasant for me.