for rehearsal. One day as I
was up in my dressing room, preparing for a matinee, I heard a golden
droning below me, rising and falling on half breath--Caruso at a room
rehearsal. Words cannot describe the beauty of it, but it gave me
exquisite pleasure. A day or two later I was at the Opera House on some
errand and chanced to hear the rehearsal of "Pagliacci." Caruso was
strolling about the stage, beautifully dressed as usual, with a pale
grey Derby hat, gloves of wash-leather and light-coloured cane. The time
came for his famous solo. He stood near the footlights with his eyes on
the conductor, as we usually do when running over a familiar role with
an unfamiliar conductor. He began softly with his wonderful effortless
stream of tone, so characteristic, and so impossible of imitation. As
the music worked on his emotions, always just below the surface with
this great artist, his voice thrilled stronger and stronger in spite of
him, till suddenly in full flood it poured out its luscious stream--and
one thanked God anew for such a voice.

Covent Garden on the night of a Court ball holds the most brilliant
audience I have ever seen. The English woman is at her best in evening
dress, the jewels are fabulous and the whole affair most dazzling. I
remember one evening seeing King Manoel of Portugal in a box. It was
shortly after his hasty flight from his own country, and by an odd
chance his box was just under a very large "Exit" sign, the pertinence
of which was striking.

Destinn was our _Senta_ in "Hollaender." She was just back from America,
and at rehearsal she had to cut out several portamenti which, she said,
she had contracted from the Italians, but which infuriated the German
conductor. At the stage rehearsals she directed everything in accordance
with Bayreuth tradition, which attaches the utmost importance to every
slightest stage position; and the other singers followed her directions
with an almost reverent devotion. At the performance she was wonderful,
as usual. She wore a real Norwegian bridal headdress, a sort of basket
of flowers. A Cockney super, on his way out, remarked in passing me, "I
s'y, wot price Destinn's hat?"

It was strange, coming from Germany, where every word almost is
understood by the audience, to sing to people whose facial expression
did not respond to the text; one feels that the inner meaning of the
words is lost, is going for nothing, and this leads to a vague sense of
irritation, if