Nordica: What it Costs to Become a Queen of Song

OF the internationally famous singers, none is a greater favorite than Madame Lillian Nordica. She has had honors heaped upon her by every music-loving country. Milan, St. Petersburg, Paris, London and New York, in turn accepted her. 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.

Madame Nordica I met on appointment at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, where she kindly detailed for me

she encountered at the outset:—“Distinction in the field of art is earned: 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.

“In some countries the atmosphere is not very favorable to beginners. Almost any of the greater European nations is probably better in this respect than the United States: not much better, however, because nearly all depends upon strength of character, determination, and the will to work. If a girl has these, she will rise as high, in the end, anywhere.”

Madame Nordica came of New England stock, being born at Farmington, Maine, and reared in Boston. Her parents, bearing the name Norton, possessed no musical talent. “Their opinion of music,” said Madame, “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.

“But I needed a world of training. I had no conception of what work lay ahead of anyone who contemplates singing perfectly. I had no idea of how high I might go myself. 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 practised new and difficult compositions all the time I could spare.

“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 first, 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. So I went to a teacher of vocal culture, Professor John O’Neill, one of the instructors in the New England Conservatory of Music, Boston. He 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, but it would not have been possible. O’Neill was a fine musician. 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. In three years I had been greatly improved. Mr. O’Neill, however, employed methods of making me work which discouraged me. He was a man who would magnify and storm over the slightest error, and make light of or ignore the sincerest achievements. 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.

“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 she thoroughly knew the world of music. 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 on the character of my voice, she had him play ‘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 only I had been allowed or requested.

“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, 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 to 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 to order and had them accompany me.”

“I was slightly nervous at first, but recovered my equanimity and sang up to my full limit of power. When I was through, he remarked, ‘Very good! very good!’ and ‘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 to conclude 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.

“I gained thorough control of my nerves upon that tour, 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

“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 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!’ [Madame Nordica had good occasion to recall this, in 1898, many years after, when her enthusiastic New York admirers crowned her with a diamond tiara as a tribute of their admiration and appreciation.]

“It was at the time when Gilmore was at the height of his Paris engagement that his agent ran off with his funds and left the old bandmaster almost stranded. Despite his sincere trouble, he retained his imperturbable good nature, and came out of it successfully. He came to me, one morning, smiling good-naturedly, as usual. After greeting me and inquiring after my health, he said: ‘My dear child, you have saved some little money on this tour?’ I told him I had.

“‘Now, I would like to borrow that little from you.’

“I was very much surprised at the request, for he said nothing whatever of his loss. Still, he had been so uniformly kind and generous, and had won our confidence and regard so wholly, that I could not hesitate. I turned over nearly all I had, and he gathered it up and went away, simply thanking me. Of course, I heard of the defalcation later. It became generally known. Our salaries went right on, however, and in a few months the whole thing had been quite forgotten, when he came to me one morning with money ready in his hand.

“‘To pay you what I owe you, my dear,’ he said.

“‘Oh, yes!’ I said; ‘so and so much,’—naming the amount.

“‘Here it is,’ he said; and, handing me a roll of bills, he went away. Of course, I did not count it until a little later; but, when I did, I found just double the amount I had named, and no persuasion would ever induce him to accept a penny of it back.”

“When did you part with Gilmore?”

“At the end of that tour. He determined to return to America, and I had 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.”

“‘WHY DON’T YOU SING IN GRAND OPERA?’

“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 Filina 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.

THIS WAS HER CROWNING TRIUMPH

“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 Theatre 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.

“Yet, 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 pleasant 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. I nearly froze, but it was Covent Garden and a great London audience, and so I bore up under it.

“Things went on this way very successfully until Sir Augustus Harris took Drury Lane and decided to produce grand opera. He started in opposition to Colonel Mapleson, and so Covent Garden had to be given up. Mr. Harris had more money, more prestige with society, and Colonel Mapleson could not live under the division of patronage. When I saw the situation, I called on the new manager and talked with him concerning the next season. He was very proud and very condescending, and made sure to show his indifference to me. He told me all about the brilliant season he was planning, gave me a list of the great names he intended to charm with, and wound up by saying he would call on me, in case of need, but thought he had all the celebrities he could use, but would let me know.

“Of course, I did not like that; but I knew I could rest awhile, and so was not much disturbed. The time for the opening of the season arrived. The papers were full of accounts of the occasion, and there were plenty of remarks concerning my non-appearance. Then ‘Aida’ was produced, and I read the criticisms of it with interest.

SHE WAS INDISPENSABLE IN “AIDA”

“The same afternoon a message came for me: ‘Would I come?’ and ‘Would I do so and so?’ I would, and did. I sang ‘Aida’ and then other parts, and gradually all the parts but one, which I had longed to try, but had not yet had the opportunity given to me. I was very successful, and Sir Augustus was very friendly.

“The summer after that season, I visited Ems, where the De Reszkes were. One day they said: ‘We are going to Beirut, 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 it out.”

“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 Beirut and saw Madame Wagner.”

THE KINDNESS OF FRAU 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.

“Meanwhile I came to New York to fulfill 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.”

Madame Nordica has found her work very exacting. For it she has needed a good physique; her manner of study sometimes calling for an extraordinary mental strain:—

“I remember once, during my season under Augustus Harris, that 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.’

“The De Reszkes, Jean and Edouard, were near at the time, and offered to assist me. ‘Try it,’ they said, and so I agreed. We began rehearsals, almost without study, the very next day, both the De Reszkes prompting me, and by Friday they had me letter-perfect and ready to go on. Since the time seemed so peculiarly short, they feared for me, and, during the performance, stationed themselves, one in either wing, to reassure me. Whenever I approached near to either side of the stage, it was always to hear their repeated ‘Be calm!’ whispered so loud that the audience could almost hear it. Yet I sang easily, never thinking of failure.”

“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 American women who can do good work of a high order?”

“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. I have noticed that young women 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.”

THE PRICE OF 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.

“Many young people have genius; but they need training for 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.”