VINCENT SELIGMAN
D'ANNUNZIO, 'CONCHITA' AND OTHERS (June 1906-January 1907)

EARLY in May Puccini paid a flying visit to London; the following letter, written after his return, is typical of dozens of others written upon leaving England. Although, of course, it was my mother's company that he missed most, there was something, I think, in the tranquil atmosphere of our home and of our surroundings which he missed too--something which he could not always find in his own home; for there never was a happier family than ours, nor one more completely devoted to each other. It would perhaps be not altogether fanciful to see, too, in these regrets a reflection of his admiration for certain qualities which he discerned in England and the English nation. "You have so much poise", he writes elsewhere, "and something essentially English about you, too." [1] It was precisely this attribute of 'poise', so alien to the Latin temperament, which he admired and envied all the more because he found his fellow-countrymen--and himself-lacking in it.

MILAN June 7th, 1906

"I had your nice card this morning. Thanks for the stick, and a million thanks for all the kind attentions which you and your husband showered upon me during my stay in London--a look back on with a heart full of gladness and of gratitude.

Elvira thanks you for the magnificent cushion and apologises for not having written; she's still with Fosca [2] and the children from morning till night. How I hated having to leave you, when the moment came for getting on to the boat at Folkestone! It made me absolutely miserable to think of all I was going to miss--your charming and delightful company--and all your friends--and your dear sister--I felt as though my heart were being torn asunder. But we shall soon be seeing each other again at Abetone, and if there is anything you want me to do or to arrange, please command me--nothing could give me greater pleasure than to attend to your wishes.

There is no news here; D'Annunzio is ill, but I don't believe he has anything ready for me. I haven't seen Tito yet; he is President of the Congress of Publishers, and all his time is taken up. . . ."

MILAN June 14th, 1906

"To think that there is a World Exhibition in Milan. . . .! But there's absolutely nothing to do and one doesn't know how to pass the evenings--and even if there were any entertainments on, they wouldn't be of any use to me--I amuse myself in my own way, I do--Oh God! I'd quite forgotten! I've had the luncheon-basket; it's beautiful and most commodious--we'll give it its first outing together in the cool shady woods at Abetone.

Good-bye, dearest friend--I must stop because they're calling to me."

TORRE DEL LAGO June 22nd, 1906

"I have signed an agreement for La Femme [3] --and D'Annunzio has telegraphed that he has recovered, and that he is coming to a villa quite close here, in order to get to work with me and for me until such time as his labours shall have been crowned with glory. We'll see.

I'm as lazy as a bear--Elvira and I are both well--the only thing I want is to see you soon again.

Yours very affectionately, THE SUCCESSOR (Naughty!)"

This unusual signature, and the playful reproach which accompanies it, need a word of explanation. For some reason (most certainly not that of vanity) Puccini never very much relished being called "The Successor of Verdi"--a designation which, in view of his growing popularity, came tripping only too readily from the pen of every journalist who was acquainted with the names of both composers-and little else about them. I question indeed whether a great musician, however many imitators he may have, can ever be said to have a legitimate successor; genius is no old-clothes store from which second-hand garments may be obtained; the mantle of the dead is buried with them, and those who follow after must fashion their own. One thing only Puccini owed to the elder man, and that was his choice of a career; it was, as we have seen, that performance of Aïda at Pisa, which had first filled him with a humble yet determined spirit of emulation.

Comparisons, when they are not odious, are merely silly; and nothing could well be sillier than a comparison between Verdi and Puccini. Except for their nationality and their inveterate shyness, the two men had absolutely nothing in common; Verdi was born an Italian peasant and throughout his long life retained the essential characteristics, both good and bad, of his class--simplicity, directness, fecundity, and that grand, elemental quality which, together with a certain coarseness inseparable from such glorious profusion, he succeeded in communicating to his music. Puccini, despite the poverty of his parents, was of gentle birth, and every line of his music, so utterly removed from the broad, passionate notes of the elder man, reveals the fastidious delicacy of the patrician. From Le Villi until his death forty years later, despite the fact that he was never for one moment deliberately idle, he composed in all only seven more or less full-length operas, one operetta, and four one-act works, whereas Verdi, in the first sixteen years of his career, had already written nineteen full-length operas (two of them twice over) and had, moreover, indignantly rejected a very lucrative contract because it would have confined him to writing only one opera a year. One might as sensibly compare the writings of Dickens and Mr. Max Beerbohm.

CHIATRI July 1st, 1906

"I haven't had any letters from you; you know how much we like to get them! This place is cool with a beautiful view and comfortable to live in--it's the famous villa in which I've never, or hardly ever, lived; it's about four hundred metres up, overlooking the sea and the lake. There's a splendid view; I'll bring you here in September to see it, and if you like to stay here with the boys you can be its mistress. All the same there are no amusements here; it's a really wild spot, and it can also be boring--and for me it is a bit boring--the more so as I have no work to do! No news yet from D'Annunzio!"

CHIATRI July 4th, 1906

"It's some time since I've heard from you--what has happened? Has your time been so much taken up lately that you have almost forgotten those who are so fond of you? We're still exiled in this villa, but I've got to go back, because letters here are only received after a long delay, and then telegrams aren't delivered at all; and just at present I'm continually exchanging letters with Tito first in Paris and now in Berlin on the subject of Butterfly. It's going to be given at the Opéra Comique in November, but Carré 1 wants me to make certain alterations, to which Giulio Ricordi thinks it would be against my dignity to consent. I don't yet know what it's all about, and what changes or cuts are being proposed; but Tito keeps urging me on to leave for Paris so as to get down to work. I'm completely undecided--and, as I said, it's difficult to communicate from here.

Vaucaire [3] is enthusiastic over La Femme et le pantin; he writes to me that in a week or so he will send me a draft of the first two acts."

We spent the month of August at Abetone, where the Puccinis were already comfortably installed in their villa, and early in September my mother and I spent a few days with them at Chiatri, and afterwards at Torre del Lago. I have many happy recollections of that holiday, which, at the time, I imagined to be a holiday for Puccini too. I remember motoring with him in the mountains, and watching him shoot beccafici, [4] and I remember several enchanting picnics in the lovely woods of Boscolungo; what, however, I was too young to appreciate was that it was also a very busy month for him, with many comings and goings.

Most important of all, there was the arrival, and subsequent departure, of D'Annunzio, true--at any rate in the earlier stages--to his promise to work with and for the Maestro, "until such time as his labours should have been crowned with glory". My mother had already met him in Rome; in addition to the photograph that appears in this book, I found numerous others of him, generally on horseback and engaged in surmounting improbable obstacles, together with a number of letters addressed to the "Sybil of the North" (Sibilla Nordica) lauding her singing to the skies--although he is not, I believe, particularly musical. But this was the first--indeed, I believe the only--occasion on which I set eyes on him. It is disappointing to have to admit that I have only the dimmest recollections of the great poet; I suspect that at the time I was more interested in the tame bears and the wild strawberries for which Abetone was famous.

No writer alive can have been more gifted with imagination than D'Annunzio. He would unfold his ideas to Puccini, and the latter would listen, spell-bound; at last-at last his patience was rewarded, and he had found that for which he had been waiting so long! But the trouble always seems to have been that directly the poet put his ideas on paper they had an unaccountable way of changing shape, and what eventually emerged was something utterly different from the original conception.

So it was now with The Rose of Cyprus. The poet had declaimed, and the musician had listened, enraptured; what a poet--and what a poem! Decidedly everything in the garden was lovely--and not least lovely the Cypriot rose. My mother's pen, so long unemployed, was taken out of its case and filled expectantly . . . and then D'Annunzio arrived at Abetone with the manuscript. The original blend of legend and fairy-tale which had so captivated the composer had completely vanished; in its place had sprung another rose, which might conceivably smell as sweet, but was most emphatically not the bloom which had originally commended itself to Puccini.

There was really nothing to be done about it. D'Annunzio had not been inured in the hard school through which Illica and Giacosa had (somewhat reluctantly, it is true) passed; besides, the future Prince of Monte Nevoso could scarcely be expected to chop and change, to write and rewrite, as though he were still in a classroom. He had written his libretto; his labours--in his own eyes, at least--had been duly crowned with glory, and it was for the composer to take it or leave it. Puccini left it. To be precise, he voiced his 'doubts', to which the poet responded with his 'regrets'--and so, with these and other mutual expressions of good-will and of esteem, the two men parted, promising to resume their work of collaboration at some future date. Six years later they were to do so, but, as we shall see in due course, with equally negative results. In the meanwhile the famous contract, the signing of which had brought so much joy to Tosti's heart, had, in Puccini's own words, "petered out". 1

However, there are always compensations. In the words of a later creation of Puccini, that profound philosopher-and rogue--Gianni Schicchi: "In this world, if you lose one thing, you may find another". 2 Shortly after D'Annunzio had left, Maurice Vaucaire, the French writer (sometimes referred to in Puccini's letters as "The Vicar") arrived, bringing with him the libretto of La Femme et le pantin.

I do not know precisely how, or under what circumstances, the idea of putting Pierre Louys' novel to music first occurred to Puccini; it is certain, however, that he had already signed the contract in June.1 The book, which was first published in 1898, had enjoyed an enormous vogue (though I think that its success was, at least in part, a succès de scandale) and it had already been dramatized in French and in German; but it certainly does not appear, at first sight, a subject which would lend itself naturally to Puccini's music. It may be described as a story of low life in Seville, and the central figure--for it would be giving the word an unusual connotation to describe Conchita as 'the heroine'--works in a cigar factory; in her leisure hours she proves to be one of those singularly unpleasant women, known vulgarly as 'teasers' (though no doubt Mr. Freud has a word for it) who delight to lure men on deliberately, only to disappoint them, but through no motives of chastity, at, or just before, the crucial moment. It is not until the man whose death she has endeavoured to bring about, firstly by the weapon of ridicule (Act 3) and subsequently by the more direct method of the knife (Act 4), has beaten her to within an inch of her life that she recognizes that true love has at last come into her life, and, regardless of bruises, throws herself with the happy sigh of a tired child into his arms (Curtain). At the time it was all regarded as very devilish; to-day we should merely call it Dell-ish.

Obviously the torture-chamber had no horrors for the composer of Tosca--though, having on that occasion supped full with them, he might have been pardoned for hesitating to return to the same dish. Nor did he shrink from that particular form of mental torture which underlies Pierre Louys' theme; on the contrary we find many years later in Turandot a curious echo of this queer, sadistic hate which eventually turns into love--though the motives of the Chinese Princess were infinitely purer (if scarcely more intelligible) than those of the Spanish slut. Where, however, the story seems definitely unsuited to his particular genre is in the complete absence of any moderately agreeable, or even human, traits in the leading characters. His heroines in particular, although they were not required to be spotless--for did he not delight to be known by the villagers of Torre del Lago as the Maestro cuccumeggiante? 1 --had at least to be lovable--or whatever word approximates nearest to the untranslatable Italian simpatico. And this Conchita was certainly not.

He realized the truth of this himself--but it was already too late. In the meanwhile Vaucaire's French libretto had been passed on to a Giacosa-less Illica (whose version, incidentally, satisfied neither Puccini, nor Vaucaire, nor Pierre Louys) and the Press were full of accounts of the forthcoming Puccini opera, Conchita. Worse still, Signor Giulio Ricordi developed a violent enthusiasm for the libretto, and used all his powerful influence to persuade a now disillusioned composer to reconsider his decision. It took Puccini, as we shall see, the best part of a year to disentangle himself from the knot into which he had unwittingly tied himself. But the curious thing about the whole business is the apparent absence of any initial enthusiasm on his part. There had been in the past, just as there were to be again in the future, other subjects which momentarily attracted his fancy only to be discarded later; but, however short the love-affair, it had always at least begun in raptures. Only in the case of Conchita do we get a curt announcement that the contract has been signed--and nothing more. His later references to the lady in question are uniformly unenthusiastic, until she finally becomes "the cursed Spanish slut".

TORRE DEL LAGO Sept. 19th, 1906

"You have left a big void in our hearts! The days come and go as God wills, and I go and lose myself in the woods.

I have heard from Tito, who is in Paris; I've got to be there towards the end of next week--oh! if only I could find my dear Sybil still there! But you're sure to be in Folkestone; however, I hope you'll come for the Première-you promised me you would!

And the tragic story of your luggage! It's strange, because you certainly registered it to Paris, and it's impossible that it could have got lost. So Sybil is left with one solitary dress--what a shame! It really is a misfortune; and now you certainly won't say, 'Who cares a fig'! 1

I send a thousand sincere and affectionate thoughts to you who are so kind, so wise, so sympathetic and--let's say it openly--so beautiful."

TORRE DEL LAGO September 25th, 1906

I'm rather preoccupied about Conchita--or rather, I am feeling weaker on the subject!--What frightens me is her character, and the plot of the play--and then all the characters seem to me unlovable, and that is a very bad thing on the stage.

At this very moment Savoia is being rocked in the cradle of the deep; he wrote me too a most loving letter. 2 Thanks for the really charming present which you sent to Elvira-we are for ever thinking of our dear Sybil--I'll write again."

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1 The original is a somewhat stronger expression. It was the refrain of a good many of those poems, not always marked by great delicacy, which Puccini and Tosti loved to exchange with each other.
2 Tito Ricordi was on his way to America for the tour of Butterfly, of which more will be heard later.
The next letter is of special interest since it contains the first reference to Oscar Wilde's plays. Through the courtesy of Mr. Robert Ross, his literary executor, my mother had had access to two of Wilde's hitherto unpublished plays-The Duchess of Padua (which Puccini here mistakenly calls 'Mantua') and the unfinished Florentine Tragedy. My mother appears to have read them to him earlier--probably during the summer at Abetone--and now that his 'fears' for Conchita had begun to take concrete shape, it was only natural that he should revert in his mind to Oscar Wilde. It should also be borne in mind that in the previous year Richard Strauss had created an immense sensation with his Salome, which was based on Wilde's play. Who knew but what it might not be worth while to take another dip into the same lucky bag?

MILAN October 1st, 1906

"Just arrived, and I'm still black from the smoke of the tunnel--but I'm writing to you at once. Do try to get hold of Wilde Plays--Conchita is still weak, but she may recover her strength in Paris. All the same it's a good thing that I should read 'Mantua'; thank you for taking the trouble.

I'm going to see Papa Savoia 1 to-day about the Conchita contract--I shan't tell him about my doubts!"

TORRE DEL LAGO October 5th, 1906

" Conchita is coming back to life; I've come to terms with Illica as the other poet made a bad job of it. I don't know what to think of the delay in putting on Butterfy in Paris; I wonder if it is some intrigue of Messager? 2
Meanwhile I have returned to Torre del Lago where the weather is magnificent--I spend my time wandering through the woods--how I miss your delightful companionship! But I hope to see you again in Paris.

We are well; Elvira sends you all sorts of messages. And what is Tosti doing; is he all right? Give him my love. And now in London the Autumn Season will be starting at Covent Garden; I advise you to put wax in your ears for the executions! Poor Butterfly! Please tell me how she went to her death!"

TORRE DEL LAGO October 12th, 1906

"Have you still got Wilde Florentine Tragedy? Oh, how I should like to read it again! I would have it translated and discuss it with Illica--will you send it back to me? I give my oath not to publish it, nor to give it to anybody to read except Illica--send it to me, send it to me!

Just this moment had a telegram from Paris not to be there before the 22nd! What a long time to wait! Oh, how I should like to come to London! You don't know what joy it would give me to see you again--and I can't! Dear Sybil, if you knew how often I think of you!"

Puccini had intended to pay only a brief visit to Paris in order to superintend the rehearsals of Butterfly; but a series of unfortunate delays ensued after his arrival, and the première did not finally take place until the very end of the year.

Throughout these two months he was compelled to remain on in Paris, kicking his heels and protesting more or less vigorously against his fate. These continual postponements were all the more vexatious to him since, in a weak moment which he afterwards bitterly regretted, he had accepted an offer of Heinrich Conried, the Impresario of the Metropolitan, to assist at the productions of Butterfly and of Manon Lescaut, the latter now receiving the distinctly belated honour of a première at New York's leading opera house.

The impatience which he expresses in the following letters is therefore easy to understand; what, at first sight, appears less comprehensible is the importance which he attached to securing an unqualified success in Paris. Butterfly, it might be argued, had already 'arrived'; in every important city in Italy, with the exception of Milan, its triumph had been complete; it had found its way as far as Budapest, and it had been one of the greatest successes ever known at Covent Garden. It must be borne in mind, however, that he was still haunted by the memory of that terrible fiasco in Milan, and was therefore all the more determined that his latest--and, as he believed it to be, his best--opera should be given every possible chance elsewhere. Also the Opéra Comique was, in his eyes, the most important Opera house in the world after La Scala, since it had been largely owing to M. Carré's initiative and enthusiasm that Bohème had attained its prodigious success on the Continent. Yet another reason for his great attention to detail in the production was the highly critical attitude of the French Press (quite possibly inspired, as he hints, by some of the less successful native composers) towards any foreign musician whose works were in danger of occupying too much space on the national boards. As the composer of Manon Lescaut, Bohème, Tosca and now Butterfy, he had become a marked man; from the French nationalist point of view, there was altogether too much of him. It behoved him, therefore, to cut the ground, as far as possible, from under his watchful critics' feet, and to allow them no occasion for complaint other than his success. Lest, however, we should complacently contrast English tolerance with French chauvinism, it is as well to add that a similar slogan of "English Opera Houses for English Composers!" would not have evoked a responsive echo in the heart of the most sturdy British patriot--not even a contemporary Colonel Blimp could have been prevailed upon to stir from the vapours of his Turkish bath in order to join in the hue and cry.

In the intervals of rehearsing, Puccini found himself increasingly preoccupied over Conchita. By coming to Paris he had, as it were, put his head into the lion's mouth, and his presence was seized upon by all those who were interested in strengthening him in his half-hearted resolve. Firstly there was, of course, 'the Vicar', whom he liked very much--though I fancy that he preferred inspecting motorcars in his company to discussing the merits (and demerits) of the libretto. Then there was the author of the novel itself, Pierre Louys--generally referred to as Inoui, either from rhythmic analogy, or possibly because it was a favourite adjective of the novelist. Finally there was the 'terrible' and mysterious Mr. Spiridon, whom I have been unable to identify; from his continued 'insistence', however, I suspect that he too was in some way interested in Conchita.

PARIS
[Undated]

Wednesday morning--I'm writing to you in bed; I feel so wretched--for the past two or three days my spirits have been black, black. I'm not feeling too well and I'm depressed; what an impossible character I have--nothing is able to make me cheerful, and I see everything through darkcoloured spectacles. I'm tired to death of everything-including Opera.

Rehearsals have started, but they go slowly enough to drive one to despair. They're cutting the opera too much;
Madame Carré 1 will do fairly well, but she wants too many cuts--the reason being that she feels that the strain would otherwise be too much for her strength. But there's no other way out; because if she doesn't sing the part, they're sure to put the opera on one side, and that will be the end of it--and that's another reason for my low spirits. Oh! how I would like you to be by my side--you always inspire me with so much courage!

I've had a letter from Conried asking me to leave on December 15th! This is another source of annoyance--I don't want to go! Tell me--have you got, or do you know of, some medicine that raises the moral and is good for someone who, like myself, is rather run down? Such a medicine must exist in London, and you who know everything will find it for me--for your faithful friend who cares for you so much--you will, won't you? The thought of seeing you again for a few days in Paris cheers me up--and why doesn't Tosti make this sacrifice for me ?--I should so love to see him here!"

GRAND HOTEL DE LONDRES
Friday

I had a telegram from Tosti yesterday in Czech. 2 Thank him very much for it, and tell him that when I feel in the mood I will write him a secular song in leaping verse.

It appears that Butterfy will only be coming on at the end of the month! As for Madame Carré . . . as an artiste, she's not up to very much, but I hope she'll end up by doing it well. She certainly doesn't move one, except by those insincere mannerisms which, as they are never tired

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1 Marguerite Girod. She made her début at the Opéra Comique in 1901 as Mimi.
2 It is scarcely necessary to add that Tosti who, after living nearly all his life in England, could not speak English, was no less ignorant of Czech. The language in which he and Puccini corresponded was a language of their own.
of telling you, are characteristic of a Parisienne.

Excuse all these outbursts of mine, dear Sybil; but I have such absolute confidence in you--you are so good and so devoted to me, as I am to you. I shall be so happy when I see you again--are you coming here soon? I hoped to give you a surprise by coming to London, but I see that it can't be done. I have to be there every day to try to prevent them from straying from the path which I have laid down.

This morning at eleven I am going out with Vaucaire to look at a voiturette--the thought of this cheers me up and distracts me. He's nice, Vaucaire, and we talk about you a lot together."

PARIS
[Undated]

The rehearsals went better to-day--but Madame pomme de terre is not up to it. The mise-en-scène is lovely, and the orchestra is beginning to warm up. Overjoyed at the thought of seeing you again."

PARIS
October 31st, 1906

Thank you for your letter--I'm ever so much better. Since yesterday I've been taking the elixir which you sent me, and for which ever so many thanks. Would you very kindly get them to send me the book on moi-même. 1

You can't imagine how much pleasure it will give me if you come here soon; certainly this hotel hasn't got that chic to which you are accustomed, but we shall have the pleasure of having you near us. For the last two or three days there have been no rehearsals--perhaps that's why I feel better!

Let's hope for the best, but I'm afraid for Madame Carré; she's weak and has little intelligence, but I've got to put up with her if I want Butterfy to be given, and I can't

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1 Giacomo Puccini, by Wakeling Dry, which had just been published.
make a change in the cast--so I have to make a terrific effort to pay her compliments and see if I can get some good out of her by dint of encouraging her."

PARIS
November 8th, 1906

"I have had Wilde's Plays.

I saw De Lara, 1 who was most awfully nice, with Giordano 2 at a dress rehearsal at the Opéra Comique, and he told me how poor the performances had been at Covent Garden. What a pity! But with such an orchestra, etc., etc., it was only to be expected--but this entre nous.

I'm in the worst of tempers to-day--and you write that you will be coming on the 24th--you keep on putting it off! And when is Butterfly coming on--I haven't the vaguest idea! We're starting rehearsals again to-morrow; I'm tired to death of Paris--I should like to be in London or Torre del Lago--or in a wood where the foliage is thick."

The impression created on Puccini's mind on re-reading Wilde Florentine Tragedy was evidently a favourable one; for a few days later he wrote to Signor Giulio: " Oscar Wilde's manuscript, A Florentine Tragedy, which pleases me very much, has arrived. . . . It is only one act, but beautiful, inspired, strong and tragic: three principal char-

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1 Isidore De Lara, the composer of Messaline, Les Trois Mousquetaires, Nail, etc., who died quite recently. Although he was an Englishman and lived for the greater part of his life at Claridge's Hotel, his work was more appreciated in Monaco and elsewhere on the Continent than in his native land, where his untiring efforts to found a National Opera House met with little response. He was a man of considerable personal charm and had a wide circle of friends; what endeared him especially to Puccini was that, unlike most composers of the second rank, he never grudged others their success.
2 Umberto Giordano, the composer of Andrea Chenier, Fedora, etc.
acters, three first-class rôles". 1 But the wily Signor Giulio had already set his heart on Conchita, and he was not going to allow her to be ousted by any Florentine rival. We do not possess his reply, but it must have served its purpose most effectively in damping Puccini's enthusiasm; for, less than a month later, he confesses sadly to my mother that Wilde's play is not 'suitable'. The idea was in consequence shelved --though several years later it was to be taken up again.

Meanwhile the rehearsals dragged on with maddening deliberation. On November 14th he writes despondently: "Butterfly won't come on till the beginning of December"! He is, however, to some extent consoled by a cable from New York reporting that Butterfly's triumphant progress through America continues unchecked: "After Washington, Baltimore, and Boston, now New York--good". The tour, organized by the American impresario, Mr. Savage, and superintended in its earlier stages by the enterprising Savoia, was an event quite unprecedented in operatic history; for six months an enormous company--for not only understudies for all the principal rôles, but understudies to the understudies had to be brought along in case of accident, illness or fatigue--visited all the important cities of the United States in turn, giving eight performances a week-not from a selected repertoire, but of one opera only: Butterfly, in an English version. More than two hundred performances in all had been given when the tour concluded. It was a truly remarkable feat of organization and fully deserved the success with which it met; it was, too, an amazing tribute to the popularity of Puccini's music. terrible state of panic about Mme. Carré; I'm afraid she hasn't the force necessary to go through with the opera. But that's enough--we must hope for the best. All the same I'm very anxious--and I'm so tired of being in Paris I'm leading such a dull, silly existence.

Did you read in the papers about Caruso? It's my belief that the whole thing was a put-up job by some hostile impresario. 1

Your rooms are reserved for Friday; I'm waiting for you with the greatest eagerness--you will bring, with your smile, a little joy into my life. My health has been better these last two or three days; I feel less run down--but I find this country so oppressive. In spite of the fog and in spite of the climate London never tires me--oh, I adore London!

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1 On November 14th a terrific sensation had been caused in New York by the arrest of Caruso in the monkey-house in Central Park on the charge of annoying a certain. Mrs. Hannah Stanhope. Although the lady in question did not appear in court, the complaint of the arresting officer was accepted as sufficient testimony, and he was convicted. Caruso at the time staunchly maintained that he had been victimized, and I believe that I am right in saying that his innocence was subsequently established. In the meanwhile, however, he was an easy prey for every dull-witted buffoon unable otherwise to raise a laugh; for many years to come, 'monkey-house' jokes vied in popularity with mothers-in-law, kippers, landladies and the rest of the stock-in-trade of the music-hall comedian.
The audience of the Metropolitan, at any race, were not slow to give their verdict, as the following rather pathetic little note of Caruso, written to my mother two days after the opening of his season, clearly shows:

HOTEL SAVOY
NEW YORK

"DEAR FRIEND, November 3oth, 1906

"You can't imagine how welcome your letter was to me. It did me so much good, and I needed it--because with all that has happened, my spirits were very depressed.

I've already made my début with Bohème, and I received a demonstration of sympathy the like of which has never been seen."

I saw in the Figaro that Melba and Zenatello have been singing some of my music at Court 1 --thank Tosti so much, and give my love to Berthe.

Au revolt soon."

My mother's eagerly awaited visit to Paris was abruptly terminated a couple of days after her arrival by a telegram from my father, informing her that I had had a serious accident at my preparatory school. I had somehow managed to fall off the horizontal bar in the gymnasium clear of the mattresses, and it was thought at first that I was suffering from internal injuries and that an operation would be necessary. It proved to be a false alarm; but my mother stayed by my bedside day and night until I had quite recovered.

PARIS
[Undated]

"We are in a state of continuous anxiety; yesterday evening's telegram made us very unhappy, but to-day we live again--how glad I am of the improvement! Poor Vini --and poor mother of his! You can't imagine how wretched we felt during your sad journey. I think of how much you suffered and of the promised telegrams which you--didn't receive--did you get one of mine at Dover? Anyhow, let's hope that everything turns out all right--and soon too. You know, boys recover very quickly--give him all sorts of fond messages from me and lots of kisses--don't forget to go on giving me news of him. I received the medicine

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1 Both King Edward the Seventh and Queen Alexandra were very fond of opera, and during the Season Tosti would often be called upon to arrange a private concert at Buckingham Palace or elsewhere, when operatic excerpts would be given by the leading singers, accompanied by Tosti. I have no doubt that the music to which Puccini refers must have been that of Bohème, which was King Edward's favourite opera--a predilection which, curiously enough, was inherited by his son, George V.and the letter from Carignani 1 --fancy your thinking of that too! Oh, you really are wonderful--all my thanks.

That Spiridon is coming to see me now! Alas! It's half past ten and it's raining--the weather is miserable, just as I am miserable now that you have gone. Elvira sends you a host of messages, and I more still than she."

PARIS
December 4th, 1906
[9.30 A.M.]

"I'm just getting up--had your letter this very moment. Oh, how glad I am at the good news of Vini!

I'm not at all well--since the moment you left I've had nothing but days of discouragement, filled with the usual unhappiness. All I ask is to be allowed to retire into my shell--if only I could get out of going to America, or put it off! Heaven only knows when I shall see you again-that too adds to my unhappiness, because when I see your smile I feel myself revived, as though I were born again.

I'll write a line to dear Vini--give him lots of kisses from us. Tonio 2 is coming here in a few days' time; Vaucaire has left for Nice--but the terrible Spiridon is still here! The second séance takes place to-morrow!"

PARIS
December 10th, 1906

As I wrote to you, the rehearsals are going ever so much better. . . . It appears that the [Florentine] Tragedy is no good; all things considered, there isn't very much

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1 One of Puccini's very oldest friends, and a member of the famous 'Bohème Club' at Torre del Lago, which met almost nightly whilst the opera was being composed. Nearly all the pianoforte scores of Puccini's operas were arranged by Carignani.
2 This is the first mention of his dearly loved son, on whom he was to rely more and more in after years. Although Tonio was some years older than I, he was at this time still at school.
to it, and besides it's only in one act, which isn't suitable. Conchita too is growing weaker in my mind! I am as usual --with no work to look forward to! It's a sad state of affairs--but I feel better to-day--my face is less black! Spiridon is ill!

I'm so glad about Vini--let us thank God that everything has turned out all right."

The end--or rather, the beginning--now seemed in sight, and Puccini wrote to my father the letter which I have quoted in the Introduction, asking that the Signora Sybil might be allowed to come over for the première. The permission was of course readily granted--but in the meantime Mme. Carré had been taken ill.

PARIS
December 14th, 1906

How simply maddening--I'm absolutely furious! I got David's telegram this morning and I was counting on seeing you again--and now Mme. Carrè has a sore throat and fever, and Butterfly has been put off till after Christmas-and I expect it will be later still before it comes on! So as I have to go to New York soon I've decided to quitter la place and go to Milan to refurnish my wardrobe and then on to Torre for a few days to recover--I'm absolutely fed up with Paris! I shall come back for the premiere and then I shall sail for New York. I haven't even decided when I shall sail; there's a boat on the 5th and another on the 9th--but I think the 9th may be too late as they are in a hurry to put on Manon and Butterfly. Savoia says the tour is a huge triumph and that they're going to give two hundred performances.

Does David's permission hold good for after Christmas too? Like that I could see you before I sail. Please thank him for his great kindness."

There were to be no further delays. At long last, on December 28th, Butterfly made her first appearance in Paris, and the composer's untiring and--on the whole-patient efforts were rewarded with a brilliant success. My mother paid a flying visit to Paris and had the satisfaction of witnessing his triumph.

PARIS January 2nd, 1907

"Just had your telegram--how was the crossing? I still see the drapeau in the Place Vendôme fluttering, and I have thought of you so much; now that I know you to be at rest in your own home, received with all the honours and fêted, I'm glad.

We are like lost people without you--we are always talking about dear Sybil, and in the morning we thought we heard you coming in to pay us a little visit, but the room was all too quiet--without you. Last night, like wandering beggars, we went and dined at an Italian inn, and afterwards we went for a walk in the mud through the little streets of Paris, and then, worn out, we were in bed by eleven. To-day a boring lunch (for the libretto ! ! !) at Mme. X--we're counting the hours until we leave--if it were only to-morrow: Paris bores me as much now as it does you; as for Mme. Carré, with all her vain attempts she seems to me like a woman who wants to be sick and can't--poor Butterfly!

I don't feel I want to see anybody; give my love to David, the boys, Tosti, Berthe and Angeli 1 --but you are the most 'angelic' of them all. Elvira and Tonio send you all sorts of affectionate messages--and I all the nicest things I can think of."

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1 The late Signor Alfredo Angeli, one of his greatest friends in London.PARIS [Undated]

"It's half-past seven; I've stayed indoors all day in pyjamas--I'm getting up to go to the third night (of Butterfly) this evening. I wasn't able to get a box as they are all taken. At ten o'clock I've got to go to that horrible Madame X--she is going to make me listen to a tenor who will sing some of my music ! ! ! ! How jolly ! ! ! Elvira is going to bed at eight; she's lucky. We're dining in our sitting-room; Inouï called this evening, very épatant; he returned to the subject of Conchita for a change; he won't let me alone--not a bit of it! He's a sticker, that fellow!

I've secured accommodation on the boat--a cabin amidships and a vomitorium for Elvira. What is that pig of a Tosti doing--has he ceased to compose poetry? Give Berthe all sorts of affectionate messages and say that I'll write to her before I leave. I went to the Duchess of Camastra last night and dined before with Capriello--they talked about you such a lot and with the greatest affection. We are always remembering you and saying how much we miss our dear Sybil ! !

Midnight. Tonio has returned from the opera, I from Madame X--the house was so full that Tonio couldn't find a seat! It's a magnificent success; Mme Carré is toujours faible and disagreeable--she scarcely bows to me! And who cares a--fig!"

PARIS [Saturday]

"I'm longing to be at sea; in my present state of mind I look on the prospect as a relief--there's a pessimist for you! But I've got nothing more to do here and it seems a waste of time remaining on--I'm already thinking with joy of the pleasure of coming home, when I hope to see again my dear Sybil who is such a consolation to me--

when you were in Paris, it was quite another story! I'm bored to tears with épatant, inouï, Opéra Comique, Ritz, Rue de la Paix, Faubourg St. Honoré, Champs Élysés--c'est assais [sic].

Good-bye, dear Sybil of Cumae."

PARIS January 8th, 1907

"We're on the move--the greatest confusion reigns in our room. The waiter whose button you pulled off is unhappy. Poor buttonless boy--he's really to be pitied! I wrote a beautiful letter to Carré--I'm wearing a pair of shoes that hurt me--It's raining--Everything is sold out for to-morrow's performance at the Opéra Comique. Yesterday's New York Herald had another article attacking Butterfly! Thank you for L'Art et la mode.

By the time you get this letter, I shall be on my way to Caruso. The painter took me to see my portrait--very gobinghi; 1 so much so that you have to hold your nose in order to look at it! I look exactly like a Lord Mayor of London."

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1 I'm afraid that I am responsible for this word; it was part of my brother's and my 'nursery' vocabulary and was used to describe an ordinary, everyday action. It was an exceedingly popular word with Puccini, and figures rather more prominently in these letters than I have acknowledged. It was also a favourite of Tosti's; on one occasion, when he was invited to a rather solemn dinner-party, he looked round as he sat down and remarked across the table to my mother (in Italian) that there was a very large quantity of 'gobinghi' present. "You naughty man!" protested his hostess, coyly tapping him with her fan, "you forget that I know Italian and understand every word you're saying."
"Not every word," replied Tosti.

PARIS
[ November 20th, 1906]

Six o'clock--just back from the rehearsals. I'm in a

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1 Letters, p. 236.
-96-

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1 Giulio Ricordi.
2 André Messager--composer of Véronique, etc.

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1 "The composer of harlots' music".

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1 See Letters, pp. 232-3, in which Puccini imparts the "by no means joyful" news to Signor Giulio.
2
"In questo mondo
una cosa si perde . . .
una si trova".

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1 Albert Carré, Director of the Opéra Comigue from 1898 until 1914, and again from 1918 until 1925.
2 Maurice Vaucaire, the French writer.
3 A form of diminutive snipe.

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-80- delightful visit which I shall always