ENRICO CARUSO

Enrico Caruso is dead. The enormous displacement caused by this lamentable happening is not alone confined to the artistic sphere but literally to the entire civilized world. We doubt if there are more than a half dozen public men on the globe to-day whose demise would so stir the universal imagination as has the passing of the incomparable tenor, for it must not be forgotten that the voice of Caruso has been heard, still is, and always will be listened to, from the equator to both poles, thanks to his vocal records, meagre, mechanical things, if you will, yet at least the simulacrum of his golden organ. It is a curious commentary on Théophile Gautier’s famous poetic dictum that empires perish but art endures; that many of the great names contemporary with Caruso’s wall surely be forgotten, but the memory of his achievements not. Mankind always recalls with satisfaction the artists who have given pleasure to the senses. Kings are embalmed in deathless verse or live on the canvas of poet and painter. Yet where to-day are the monarchs who patronized Shakespeare, or Velasquez, or Molière? Their very titles would be forgotten were it not for art.

But actor and singer have not the luck of creative artists; they do but interpret, therefore, with their disappearance from the painted scene, for the majority there is naught but oblivion. The happy few who seem as of yesterday are, in the musical world: Patti, Rubinstein, Liszt, Rubini, Chopin—as pianist—Paganini, Malibran, and Lilli Lehmann. Great exemplars. To this brief list is now added Caruso. And he has one tremendous advantage over his celebrated predecessors—his voice is a living reality, after a fashion. That same voice has given profound satisfaction in hundreds of thousands of homes scattered over the world; that voice cheered the boys in the trenches during the World War. After all, it is a sort of immortality, this record, about as vital as we may hope for in a universe of changeless change.

Enrico Caruso is dead. There have been and will be other tenors, yet for this generation his memory is something sacred and apart. It is doubtful if the Metropolitan Opera House will again echo such golden music as made by his throat—that is, doubtful in our time. When he first came here, not two decades ago, there was a rich fruitiness to his tones that evoked such disparate images as the sound of a French horn and a golden autumnal sunset. Always the word golden comes to the lips. Golden, with a thrilling human fibre. Not the finished vocal artist that he developed into, nevertheless there was something indescribably fresh, luminous and youthful in the singing of the early Caruso. I had heard him in London before he sang here, which, alas! was to be his last home. Veteran as I was I could hardly trust my ears when he poured forth a golden stream of music, and with effortless art. It needed no critical clairvoyancy to predict that a star of the first magnitude had arisen in the firmament of art. That was in 1902, and since then this star grew in lustre and beauty till the day of his death. Caruso had not even then achieved his grand artistic climax. He was ever a prodigious student.

There will not be any critical dispute as to Caruso’s place in the history of his art. Even in the brief span of life accorded the present writer Caruso looms formidably. Originally a lyric, he ended as a heroic tenor. His vocal range was extraordinary. In his repertory he demonstrated his catholicity. From Meyerbeer’s Les Huguenots to Flotow’s Marta, from Rigoletto to Pagliacci, there are few lyric works that he missed. La Forza del Destino was revived for him by Mr. Gatti-Casazza, and he could squander his extraordinary art on such a trifle as Mascagni’s Lodoletta. But to all his undertakings he brought a refreshing sincerity and tonal beauty. It is not to be denied that he was happier in Italian than French music; his Rhadamès outshone his Faust. Nevertheless, he overcame the seemingly insuperable difficulties of a foreign style and diction, and his John of Leyden in Le Prophète and Eléazer in La Juive rank among his greatest achievements, not to mention his Samson. There was the note of the grand manner in the assumption of John and incomparable pathos in the delineation of Halévy’s persecuted and vengeful old Hebrew. As an actor he grew amazingly the last decade of his artistic career. Compare his lighthearted, frivolous Duke in Rigoletto with the venerable Jew in La Juive. Then we realize how far intense study intelligently directed may carry a singer. It has often been a cause of critical wonderment why Caruso never sang the music of Richard Wagner. What a Lohengrin he would have been, what a Parsifal, yes, even a Tristan! He knew every note of these rôles. Once for my delectation he hummed the plaintive measures of the dying Tristan. Tears came to my eyes, so penetratingly sweet was his tone, so pathetic his phrasing.

I have heard tenors from Brignoli, so fat that he waddled, to the Spaniard Gayarré; from Italo Campanini to Masini, Nicolini and the stentorian Tamagno; no one of these boasted the luscious voice of Caruso. Some have outpointed him in finesse, Bonci; Tamagno outroared him; Jean de Reszke had more personal charm and artistic subtlety; there have been fierier Turridùs and more sympathetic Don Josés, but Caruso’s natural voice was paved with lyric magic, it was positively torrential in its golden mellowness. When in his prime, full of verve and unaffected gaiety—think of L’Elisir d’Amore and Marta—he was unapproachable. There were many of us who would rather have been Caruso than ruler of these United States.

The social man in him was irresistible. Generous, overflowing with the joy of life, his sense of humor found one outlet in his caricatures—his pencil was clever as well as witty—and in the company of his friends. He was a good friend. No need here to speak of his ready response to those in trouble. He was exploited, of course, yet his belief in humanity was never shaken. An Italian patriot, he was also a lover of his adopted land. He was always a boy. He really never grew up. The eternal boy in him, mischievous, mirthful, coupled with his gift of mimicry, endeared him to every one. He fairly bubbled with kindly humor, and not the least among his many admirable traits was his conscientious attitude toward his audiences. Not to disappoint an expectant audience often cost him much personal suffering. He has sung when he should have been in bed with doctors and nurses. In Brooklyn he persisted in singing until a ruptured vein filled his throat with blood. The same desire, and not a craving for more fame or money, impelled him to make long and fatiguing trips in order that remote audiences might enjoy his matchless voice.

Like the majority of his countrymen, he was frugal in his habits, eating little and drinking less. He abused the use of tobacco, and because of his nervousness cigarettes were a sedative. However, they did not fatally hurt his throat as has been asserted. And considering his exalted position and his innumerable temptations, Caruso was hardly a rake. Scandal clustered about his name. Cruel persecution pursued him, but at the close of his life he was happily married and the father of a passionately loved daughter. A democratic man, he at no time bore himself with the arrogant airs of the traditional tenor. Beloved by his associates, especially beloved by the chorus, he was accessible to all and sundry. Truly a refreshing contrast to the proverbially haughty signore with a high C in his chest.

Born of humble parentage, Caruso suffered a severe apprenticeship to his art. In Naples we have met people who remember him singing in the streets, around various cafes, in company with a strummer on the guitar. Pasquale Amato, a fellow-townsman as well as a colleague at the Metropolitan Opera House, has told me of the far-away days when Enrico sang in two operas every Sunday at the Teatro Mercadante, at Naples, and of the summers at Salerno when, during entr’actes he would drop a string from his dressing-room window and draw up a fond prize—sardine and cream cheese sandwiches. He was thin then and his appetite was that of a growing youth. The local manager knew that the only way to be sure of him for the two Sunday performances was to lock him in the theatre till the last curtain had been rung down. He confessed to me that once as a boy his mother had chastised him not gently because he let the household bread bake till it burned. But enough. Books might be crowded with interesting stories of the great man. A good comrade, a loving husband and father, the giant tenor of his generation, Enrico Caruso is dead. But to his admirers he remains the dearest memory in this drab, prosaic age.