OF the five internationally famous singers—Melba,
Calvé, Nordica, Eames and Lehmann—none
is a greater favorite than
Madame Lillian Nordica. She has had honors
heaped upon her in every music-loving country,
including her own, America. Milan, St. Petersburg,
Paris, London, and New York in turn accepted her,
and the music-lovers of those cities received her with
a furore of praise. Jewel cases filled with bracelets,
necklaces, tiaras and diadems of gold and precious
stones, attest the unaffected sincerity of her admirers
in all the great music-centers of the world. She
enjoys, in addition, the distinction of being one of
the first two American women to attain to international
fame as a singer in grand opera. When
Madame Nordica was in New York fulfilling her part
in the most brilliant operatic season the city had ever
known, she lived in sumptuous style at the Waldorf-Astoria
Hotel, where I met her by appointment. She
accepted the statement that the public is interested in
the details of her career as most natural, and was
pleased to discuss the philosophy of a singer’s success
from the view-point of its difficulties.
“You would like to know how distinction in the
field of art is earned? Well, it is not thrust upon
anyone. The material for a great voice may be born
in a person—it is, in fact—but the making of it into
a great voice is a work of the most laborious character.”
“Is the matter of nationality of any advantage to an
aspirant?”
“You wish to know——”
“Whether, in some countries, the atmosphere is not
very favorable to a beginner;—the feeling of the public
and the general support given to music not particularly
conducive to the musical development of, we
will say, a young girl with a promising voice.”
“Yes. I should judge almost any of the greater
European nations would be better in this respect than
the United States; not much better, however, because
nearly all depends on strength of character, determination,
and the will to work. If a girl has these,
she will rise as high, in the end, anywhere; perhaps
not so quickly in some places, but no less surely.”
“You had no European advantages?”
“None whatever.”
“Were you born in the West?”
“No. I come of New England stock. You will understand
that more readily when I tell you that my
real name is Norton. I was born at Farmington,
Maine, and was reared in Boston.”
“Were your parents musically talented?”
“Not at all. Their opinion of music was that it is
an airy, inviting art of the devil, used to tempt men’s
feet to stray from the solemn path of right. They believed
music, as a vocation, to be nearly as reprehensible
as a stage career, and for the latter they had
no tolerance whatever. I must be just, though, and
own that they did make an exception in the case of
church music, else I should never have received the
slightest encouragement in my aspirations. They
considered music in churches to be permissible—even
laudable. So, when I displayed some ability as a
singer, I was allowed to use it in behalf of religion,
and I did. I joined the church choir and sang hymns
about the house almost constantly.”
“You had a natural bent for singing.”
“Yes, but I needed a world of training. I had no
conception of what work lies ahead of anyone who
contemplates singing perfectly. All I knew was that
I could sing, and that I would win my way with my
voice if I could.”
“How did you accomplish it?”
“By devoting all my time, all my thought, and all
my energy to that one object. I devoured church
music—all I could get hold of. I practiced new and
difficult compositions all the time I could spare.”
“Naturally, your efforts attracted attention?”
“Yes, I became a very good church singer; so much
so that, when there were church concerts or important
religious ceremonies, I was always in demand.
Then there began to be a social demand for my ability,
and, later, a public demand in the way of concerts.”
“At Farmington?”
“Oh, no. At Boston. I forgot to say that my parents
removed, while I was still quite young, to Boston.”
“Did you give much of your time to public concerts?”
“None at all. I ignored all but church singing. My
ambition ran higher than concert singing, and I knew
my parents would not consent. I persuaded them to
let me have my voice trained. This was not very
difficult, because my church singing, as it had improved,
became a source of considerable profit, and
they saw even greater results for me in the large
churches and in the religious field generally. So I
went to a teacher of vocal culture.”
“Where, if you please?”
“Professor John O’Neill, one of the instructors in
the New England Conservatory of Music, Boston,
was a fine old teacher, a man with the highest ideals
concerning music, and of the sternest and most exacting
method. He made me feel, at first, that the world
was mine if I would work. Hard work was his constant
cry. There must be no play, no training for
lower forms of public entertainment, no anything
but study and practice. I must work and perfect
myself in private, and then suddenly appear unheralded
in the highest class of opera and take the world
by storm. It was a fine fancy.”
“Did you manage to work it out so?”
“No. It wouldn’t have been possible. O’Neill was
a fine musician. In his mind and heart, all his aspiration
was sincere, but it was not to be.”
“Were you ambitious enough?”
“Oh, yes! and most conscientious. Under him I
studied the physiology of the voice, and practiced
singing oratorios. I also took up Italian, familiarizing
myself with the language, with all the songs and
endless arias. In fact, I made myself as perfect in
Italian as possible.”
“How much time did the training take?”
“Three years.”
“And what was the result?”
“Well, I had greatly improved, but was not perfect.
Mr. O’Neill employed methods of making me
work which discouraged me. He was a man who
would magnify and storm over your slightest error,
and make light of or ignore your sincerest achievements.
If anything, he put his grade of perfection so
high that I began to consider it unattainable, and lost
heart. Finally, I gave it up and rested awhile, uncertain
of everything.”
“And then?”
“After I had thought awhile and regained some
confidence, I came to New York to see Mme. Maretzek.
She was not only a teacher, but also a singer
quite famous in her day and knew the world of music
thoroughly. She considered my voice to be of the
right quality for the highest grade of operatic success,
and gave me hope that, with a little more training,
I could begin my career. She not only did that,
but also set me to studying the great operas, ‘Lucia’
and the others, and introduced me to the American
musical celebrities. Together we heard whatever was
worth hearing in New York. When the renowned
Brignola came to New York she took me to the
Everett House, where he was stopping, and introduced
me. They were good friends, and, after gaining
his opinion of my voice, we went to hear him
sing ‘Faust.’
“That was a wonderful thing for me. To hear the
great Brignola! It fired my ambition. As I listened,
I felt that I could also be great, and that people, some
day, might listen to me as enraptured as I then was by
him. It put new fire into me and caused me to fairly
toil over my studies. I would have given up all my
hours if I had been allowed or requested to.”
“And then what?”
“Well, so it went until, after several years of study,
Madame Maretzek thought I was getting pretty well
along and might venture some important public singing.
We talked about different ways of appearing,
and what I would sing and so on, until finally Gilmore’s
band came to Madison Square Garden. He
was in the heyday of his success then, both popular
and famous, and carried important soloists with him.
Madame Maretzek decided that she would take me to
see him and get his opinion; and so, one day, toward
the very last of his Madison Square engagement, we
went to see him. Madame Maretzek was on good
terms with him also. I remember that she took me
in one morning when he was rehearsing. I saw a
stout, kindly, genial looking man who was engaged
in tapping for attention, calling certain individuals
to notice certain points, and generally fluttering
around over a dozen odds and ends. Madame Maretzek
talked with him a little while and then called
his attention to me. He looked toward me.
“‘Thinks she can sing, eh? Yes, yes. Well, all
right! Let her come right along.’
“Then he called to me:
“‘Come right along, now. Step right up here on
the stage. Yes, yes. Now, what can you sing?’
“I told him I could sing almost anything in oratorio
or opera, if he so wished. He said: ‘Well, well, have
a little from both. Now, what shall it be?’
“I shall never forget his kindly way. He was like
a good father, gentle and reassuring, and seemed
really pleased to have me there and hear me. I went
up on the platform and told him that I would begin
with ‘Let the Bright Seraphim,’ and he called the
orchestra together and had them accompany me.”
“You must have been slightly nervous.”
“I was at first, but I recovered my equanimity and
sang up to my full limit of power. When I was
through, he remarked, ‘Very good! very good!’ and
then, ‘Now, what else?’ I next sang an aria from
‘Somnambula.’ He did not hesitate to express his approval,
which was always, ‘Very good! very good!
Now, what you want to do,’ he said, ‘is to get some
roses in your cheeks and come along and sing for
me.’ After that he continued his conference with Madame
Maretzek, and then we went away together.
“I was traveling on air when I left, I can assure
you. His company was famous. Its engagement
had been most successful. Madame Poppenheim was
singing with it, and there were other famous names.
There were only two more concerts, concluding his
New York engagement, but he had told Madame
Maretzek that if I chose to come and sing on these
occasions, he would be glad to have me. I was more
than glad of the opportunity and agreed to go. We
arranged with him by letter, and, when the evening
came, I sang.
“My work made a distinct impression on the audience
and pleased Mr. Gilmore wonderfully. After the
second night, when all was over, he came to me, and
said: ‘Now, my dear, of course there is no more concert
this summer, but I am going West in the fall.
Now, how would you like to go along?’
“I told him that I would like to go very much, if it
could be arranged; and, after some negotiation, he
agreed to pay the expenses of my mother and myself,
and give me one hundred dollars a week besides.
I accepted, and when the Western tour began, we
went along.”
“How did you succeed on that tour?”
“Very well indeed. I gained thorough control of
my nerves in that time and learned something of audiences
and of what constitutes distinguished ‘stage
presence.’ I studied all the time, and, with the broadening
influence of travel, gained a great deal. At the
end of the tour my voice was more under my control
than ever before, and I was a better singer all
around.”
“You did not begin with grand opera, after all?”
“No, I did not. It was not a perfect conclusion of
my dreams, but it was a great deal. My old instructor,
Mr. O’Neill, took it worse than I did. He regarded
my ambitions as having all come to naught. I
remember that he wrote me a letter in which he thus
called me to account:
“After all my training, my advice, that you should come to
this! A whole lifetime of ambition and years of the hardest
study consumed to fit you to go on the road with a brass
band! Poh!
“I pocketed the sarcasm in the best of humor, because
I was sure of my dear old teacher’s unwavering
faith in me, and knew that he wrote only for my own
good. Still, I felt that I was doing wisely in getting
before the public, and so decided to wait quietly and
see if time would not justify me.
“When the season was over Mr. Gilmore came to
me again. He was the most kindly man I ever knew.
His manner was as gentle and his heart as good as
could be.
“‘I am going to Europe,’ he said. ‘I am going to
London and Paris and Vienna and Rome, and all the
other big cities. There will be a fine chance for you to
see all those places and let Europeans hear you. They
appreciate good singers. Now, little girl, do you
want to come? If you do, you can.’
“I talked it over with my mother and Madame
Maretzek, and decided to go; and so, the next season,
we were in Europe.”
“Did it profit you as you anticipated?”
“Very much. We gave seventy-eight concerts in
England and France. We opened the Trocadero at
Paris, and mine was the first voice of any kind to sing
there.
“This European tour of the American band really
was a great and successful venture. American musicians
still recall the furore which it created and the
prestige which it gained at home. Mr. Gilmore was
proud of his leading soloists. In Paris, where the
great audiences went wild over my singing, he came
to praise me personally in unmeasured terms. ‘My
dear,’ he said, ‘you are going to be a great singer.
You are going to be crowned in your own country
yet. Mark my words: they are going to put diamonds
on your brow!’
“At the end of that tour I decided to spend some
of my earnings on further study in Italy. Accordingly,
I went to Milan, to the singing teacher San
Giovanni. On arriving there, I visited the old teacher
and stated my object. I said that I wanted to sing in
grand opera.
“‘All right!’ he answered; ‘let me hear your voice.’
“I sang an aria from ‘Lucia’; and when I was
through, he said dryly: ‘You want to sing in grand
opera?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Well, why don’t you?’
“‘I need training.’
“‘Nonsense!’ he answered. ‘We will attend to that.
You need a few months to practice Italian methods—that
is all.’
“So I spent three months with him. After much
preparation, I made my début as Violetta in Verdi’s
opera, ‘La Traviata,’ at the Teatro Grande, in Brescia.”
The details of Madame Nordica’s Italian appearance
are very interesting. Her success was instantaneous.
Her fame went up and down the land, and
across the water—to her home. She next sang in
Gounod’s “Faust,” at Geneva, and soon afterwards
appeared at Navarro, singing Alice in Meyerbeer’s
“Roberto,” the enthusiastic and delighted subscribers
presenting her with a handsome set of rubies and
pearls. After that she was engaged to sing at the
Russian capital, and accordingly went to St. Petersburg,
where, in October, 1881, she made her début as
La Filma in “Mignon.”
There, also, her success was great. She was the
favorite of the society of the court, and received
pleasant attentions from every quarter. Presents
were made her, and inducements for her continued
presence until two winters had passed. Then she decided
to revisit France and Paris.
“I wanted to sing in grand opera at Paris,” she
said to me. “I wanted to know that I could appear
successfully in that grand place. I counted my
achievements nothing until I could do that.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. In July, 1882, I appeared there.”
This was her greatest triumph. In the part of
Marguerite she took the house by storm, and won
from the composer the highest encomiums. Subsequently,
she appeared with equal success as Ophélie,
having been specially prepared for both these rôles
by the respective composers, Charles Gounod and
Ambroise Thomas.
“You should have been satisfied after that,” I said.
“I was,” she answered. “So thoroughly was I
satisfied that, soon afterwards, I gave up my career
and was married. For two years I remained away
from the public, but, after that time, my husband
having died, I decided to return. I made my first
appearance at the Burton Theater in London, and
was doing well enough when Colonel Mapleson came
to me. He was going to produce grand opera—in
fact, he was going to open Covent Garden, which
had been closed for a long time, with a big company.
He was another interesting character. I found him
to be generous and kind-hearted and happy-spirited
as anyone could be. When he came to me it was in
the most friendly manner. ‘I am going to open Covent
Garden,’ he said. ‘Now, here is your chance to
sing there. All the great singers have appeared
there—Patti, Gerster, Nilsson, Tietjens—now it’s
your turn—come and sing.’
“‘How about terms?’ I asked.
“‘Terms!’ he exclaimed; ‘terms! Don’t let such little
details stand in your way. What is money compared
to this? Ignore money. Think of the honor, of
the memories of the place, of what people think of it;’
and then he waved his arms dramatically.
“Well, we came to terms, not wholly sacrificial on
my part, and the season began. Covent Garden had
not been open for a long time. It was in the spring
of the year, cold and damp. There was a crowded
house, though, because fashion accompanied the
Prince of Wales there. He came, night after night,
and heard the opera through with an overcoat on.
“It was no blessed task for me, or healthy, either,
but the Lord has blessed me with a sound constitution.
I sang my parts, as they should be sung, some
in bare arms and shoulders, with too little clothing
for such a temperature. But it was Covent Garden,
and so I bore up under it.”
“What was the next venture?”
“Nothing much more interesting. The summer after
that season I visited Ems, where the De Reszkes
were. One day they said: ‘We are going to Bayreuth
to hear the music, don’t you want to go along?’
“I thought it over, and decided that I did. My
mother and I packed up and departed. When I got
there and saw those splendid performances I was entranced.
It was perfectly beautiful. Everything was
arranged after an ideal fashion. I had a great desire
to sing there, and boasted to my mother that I
would. When I came away I was fully determined to
carry out that boast.”
“Could you speak German?”
“Not at all. I began, though, at once, to study it;
and when I could talk it sufficiently I went to Bayreuth
and saw Madame Wagner.”
“Did you find her the imperious old lady she is said
to be?”
“Not at all. She welcomed me most heartily; and
when I told her that I had come to see if I could not
sing there she seemed much pleased. She treated me
like a daughter, explained all that she was trying to do,
and gave me a world of encouragement. Finally I
arranged to sing and create ‘Elsa’ after my own idea
of it during the season following the one then approaching.”
“What did you do meanwhile?”
“I came to New York to fulfil my contract for the
season of 1894-1895. While doing that I made a
study of Wagner’s, and, indeed, of all German music;
and when the season was over went back and sang
it.”
“To Frau Wagner’s satisfaction?”
“Yes.”
“Have you found your work very exacting?”
“Decidedly so. It leaves little time for anything
else.”
“To do what you have done requires a powerful
physique, to begin with?”
“Yes, I should judge so.”
“Are you ever put under extraordinary mental
strain?”
“Occasionally.”
“In what manner?”
“Why, in my manner of study. I remember once,
during my season under Augustus Harris, of an incident
of this order. He gave a garden party one
Sunday to which several of his company were invited,
myself included. When the afternoon was well along
he came to me and said: ‘Did you ever sing “Valencia”
in “The Huguenots”?’ I told him I had not.
“‘Do you think you could learn the music and sing
it by next Saturday night?’
“I felt a little appalled at the question, but ventured
to say that I could. I knew that hard work would
do it.
“‘Then do,’ he replied; ‘for I must have you sing it.’
“Let me ask you one thing,” I said. “Has America
good musical material?”
“As much as any other country, and more, I should
think. The higher average of intelligence here should
yield a greater percentage of musical intelligence.”
“Then there ought to be a number of great American
women singers in the future?”
“There ought to be, but it is a question whether
there will be. They are not cut out for the work
which it requires to develop a good voice.”
“You think there is good material for great voices
in American women, but not sufficient energy?”
“That is my fear, not my belief. I have noticed
that young women here seem to underestimate the
cost of distinction. It means more than most of them
are prepared to give; and when they face the exactions
of art they falter and drop out. Hence we have
many middle-class singers, but few really powerful
ones.”
“What are these exactions you speak of?”
“Time, money, and loss of friends, of pleasure. To
be a great singer means, first, to be a great student.
To be a great student means that you have no time
for balls and parties, very little for friends, and less
for carriage rides and pleasant strolls. All that is
really left is a shortened allowance of sleep, of time
for meals and time for exercise.”
“Did you ever imagine that people leaped into permanent
fame when still young and without much effort
on their part?”
“I did. But I discovered that real fame—permanent
recognition which cannot be taken away from
you—is acquired only by a lifetime of most earnest
labor. People are never internationally recognized
until they have reached middle life. Many persons
gain notoriety young, but that goes as quickly as it
comes. All true success is founded on real accomplishment,
acquired with difficulty; and so, when you
see some one accounted great, you will usually find
him to be in the prime of life or past it.”
“You grant that many young people have genius?”
“Certainly I do. Many of them have it. They will
have waited long, however, before it has been trained
into valuable service. The world gives very little
recognition for a great deal of labor paid in; and
when I earn a thousand dollars for a half hour’s singing
sometimes it does not nearly average up for all
the years and for the labor much more difficult, which
I contributed without recompense.”