Volume I Part 7 (1/2)
One evening, when the opera of _Rigoletto_ was being performed, with Mongini as the ”Duke,” feeling tired, as I had been working in the theatre throughout the day, I went home just before the termination of the third act. I had been at home about three-quarters of an hour when my servant hurried up in a cab to inform me that the curtain had not yet risen for the final act, and that a dreadful disturbance was going on in consequence of some question with Mongini, who was brandis.h.i.+ng a drawn sword and going to kill everybody. I immediately slipped on my clothes and went down to the theatre.
At the stage door, without her bonnet, I met the tenor's charming wife, the only person, as a rule, who could control him in any way; and she entreated me not to go near him, or there would be bloodshed. I insisted, however, on going to his room without delay, as the curtain was still down and the public was getting tumultuous. I took the precaution of b.u.t.toning my overcoat across my chest, and in I went, my first words being--
”This time, Mongini, I hear you are right (_Questa volta sento che avete ragione_).”
With this preliminary we got into conversation, but he still remained walking up and down the room with nothing but his s.h.i.+rt on and a drawn sword in his hand. I saw that I had to proceed very slowly with him, and began talking on indifferent matters. At last I asked him the details of all the trouble. He thereupon explained to me that the master tailor, who had been requested by him in the morning to widen his overcoat by two inches, had misunderstood, and contracted it by two inches. I wished to have a look at the dress, which, however, was lying on the floor torn to pieces. I a.s.sured Mongini that the man should be cruelly punished, and he and his family put upon the streets to starve early the next morning.
He then got calmer, and I casually observed, ”By-the-bye, is the opera over yet, Mongini?” to which he replied, ”No, it is not.”
”Never mind that,” I continued; ”the public can wait. Everyone, by the way, is talking of the magnificent style in which you have been singing to-night.”
His eyes brightened, and he said he should like to go on with the opera.
”Not at all a bad idea!” I remarked.
”But I have no dress,” said Mongini, rather sadly; ”it is destroyed.”
I suggested that he should wear the dress of the second act, putting on the breastplate and the steel gorget with the hat and feathers, and he would then be all right, and ”La Donna e Mobile” would make amends for the delay. He dressed and followed me to the stage, when I made the sign for the stage manager to ring up the curtain, greatly to the astonishment of Mongini's wife, who was fully expecting to hear that I had been run through the body.
The next day at twelve o'clock, as per appointment, Mongini came to my office to be present at the punishment of the master tailor. I had taken the precaution to inform the tailor, who was a single man, that he had a wife and four children, and that he was to be sure and recollect this.
I called him into my room in the presence of Mongini, and told him gravely that he with his wife and children must now starve. There was no alternative after the treatment Mongini had received the previous evening.
Mongini at once supplicated me not to let the children die in the gutter, as it might injure him with the public, and he ended by promising that if I would retain the tailor in my service he would sing an extra night for nothing.
CHAPTER VIII.
PAYMENT AFTER PERFORMANCE--DISCOVERY OF MADGE ROBERTSON--MARIO AND THE SHERIFF--GENEROSITY OF THE GREAT TENOR--DeBUT OF CHRISTINE NILSSON--DESTRUCTION OF HER MAJESTY'S THEATRE--A GREAT PHILANTHROPIST.
AT the close of the London season of 1866 we went to Ireland for the usual autumn operatic tour, stopping _en route_ at Liverpool to give a morning concert. The rush was so great that all the metal cheques for the half-crown seats were exhausted and we had to use penny pieces.
Numbers of the public found out, therefore, a ready way of getting in without payment. As soon as I observed this, and as there were still many hundreds unable to obtain admission, I conducted them across to another door which led into the orchestra. There being no money-taker, I let some four hundred of them crowd in, impressing upon them that they would have to pay half-a-crown apiece as they came out; and I must add that every one paid up punctually.
We left Liverpool after the concert for Dublin, where we fulfilled a very profitable engagement.
After leaving Dublin we went, early in October, to Leeds, and afterwards to Hull, at which latter place I recollect well that a full rehearsal of _Les Huguenots_ was necessary in consequence of a new ”Queen” having joined the company. Both Mario and t.i.tiens complained of the incident and wondered how they were to finish the rehearsal in time to dine by a quarter past three, it being a general rule with artists not to eat later than that hour when they have to sing the same evening. We began the rehearsal early; and it was not until after two that it was concluded. The dinner being nearly ready at the hotel, I went in a carriage to fetch Mario and t.i.tiens back from the theatre without loss of time. At a quarter past three I found them both seated in the stalls, witnessing a morning performance, at which a Miss Madge Robertson was playing in a piece called _A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing_. So rivetted to the spot were t.i.tiens and Mario--both exclaiming ”Do not disturb us, let us wait a little longer”--that it was nearly five o'clock before I got them home, when it was, of course, too late to dine. Not that they regretted this. They both told me that I ought to write to every London manager telling them what a charming actress they had discovered. I need hardly say that the Miss Robertson of those days is now Mrs. Kendal, more perfect in her art than ever.
I again started my concert tour in the early part of January, 1867, with t.i.tiens, Trebelli, and others; and was as usual pre-eminently successful all along the line. Mario joined us about the 7th March in Scotland.
About this time he experienced considerable worry through being served with various writs for bills of exchange, for which he had received no consideration whatever, and which had been acc.u.mulating for many years.
In more prosperous times preceding the period in question he had frequently a.s.sisted young artists, painters, sculptors, and Italians generally, who had come to this country with recommendations to him, and who had nearly all proved most ungrateful. It was computed that over 40,000 had been distributed by the great tenor on various occasions amongst his compatriots and others seeking aid.
I recollect meeting at Fulham one Sunday at dinner a young sculptor who had arrived with a letter of recommendation to Mario, and who on presenting himself exclaimed that he had not come to borrow money, hearing how much victimized Mario had been by others. All he wanted was to bring a piece of sculpture from Rome to London, for which he already had a purchaser in view; and if Mario would but accept a bill at two months, which he then had with him, he would within a month have sold his work and the money could be put to Mario's credit, so that the bill would be punctually met. In fact, every possible device was resorted to by persons well acquainted with his generous nature--which brings me to the case in point.
We had gone through a most arduous tour, and Mario had been singing four times a week throughout the whole time, and with most brilliant voice.
As he had sung four nights running during the week I am speaking of, and was to be replaced the following evening (Sat.u.r.day) by Signor Tasca in the _Huguenots_, he devoted his last day to the packing of his luggage, intending to leave by an early train for York, whence, after a night's rest, he would go on to London, presenting himself on the Monday for rehearsal at the Royal Italian Opera, Covent Garden, where the season was to commence on Tuesday.
In the hall at the Edinburgh Hotel, where Mario had put up, a Sheriff's officer was waiting for him with a writ or an attachment for 100; and I thought to help him out of the dilemma by the following device, knowing how delicate and sensitive he was. I called to bid him good-bye, taking with me a closed envelope containing a 100 note. I by degrees gave him to understand that I had been looking about the city for some little souvenir, but without success, and as his taste was so superior to mine, if he would select one in memory of the pleasant time we had spent together, I should feel obliged. I at the same time handed him the envelope. I was on the point of leaving the room when a note was brought to me, requesting me to come to the theatre at once, as Tasca, the new tenor, had been taken ill at the rehearsal, and was obliged to go home. Mario, noticing signs of displeasure across my brow, insisted upon knowing the reason; and after some pressure I informed him that the new tenor, who was to replace him, had fallen sick, and that I must be off to see how the matter could be remedied.
My dear friend patted me on the shoulder, and said he knew of a way. The opera to be performed being _Les Huguenots_, for the benefit of Mdlle.