Confessions of an Opera Singer Part 6

Several years after, while touring in Holland, in a charming little place where we went to pa.s.s a free afternoon, we saw this same woman.

She had found the strength to shake off her German master, had married a countryman and looked prosperous and happy.

Neither Marjorie nor I ever received an offensive word or look from an officer. They used sometimes to send me postcards after a _Carmen_ or _Amneris_ night, closely scribbled over with signatures and greetings and phrases of admiration, all highly respectful. It always pleased me very much to receive these cards.

The _Genossenschaft_ members of most theatres organize a _fete_ every year for the benefit of their society, and that spring we had a fancy dress ball. A lady is chosen at these b.a.l.l.s by popular vote to be Rose Queen. I was chosen that time and had to parade around the room on the arm of a portly Major, who often sent me flowers and books of his own poems. I wore my _Carmen_ dress of black satin, with gold flowers, and my scarlet Spanish shawl. There was much cheap champagne drunk to the popular toast of "General Quenousamong." This was originally "_Que nous aimons_" (To those we love), and the "general" meant that every one was to join in. The French touch was considered elegant, just as _Couzank_ was the polite word for cousin, and _Satank_ for satin. b.a.l.l.s of this kind are highly popular and a great contrast to the usually simple lives of these small-town people.

One form of simplicity I never adopted was the quite general one of eating their evening supper, consisting usually of a bit of sausage, and black bread and b.u.t.ter, out of bits of paper casually put down amongst the objects on the table in their bedrooms. When you had finished, you simply rolled up and threw away the greasy papers and the thing was over.

Sometimes a meal may be captured free. One of our "comics" in Metz had to fish at the back of the stage in an operetta. He was always furnished with a salt herring by the property man, which he would suspend solemnly out of sight of the audience for a while, then slowly draw up, and proceed to eat. A clean picked spine was all that remained by the end of the act, and he had had his supper.

Often the performances supplied me with welcome comic relief behind the scenes. I learned for instance, that the text of the Anvil chorus sung round me, as I lay on the canvas rock couch of _Azucena_, in "Trovatore," was: "_Ich habe Dir schon laengst gesagt, die Wurst sie schmeckt nach Seife_"--"I told you long ago, the sausage tastes of soap." Also the soldiers in "Faust" made their rollicking return from the wars to the words: "_He--ring und Apfel--Kartoffelnsalat._" "Herring and apple--potato salad." _Siegmund_ grows woefully vulgar, and the opening bars of his love song to his sister always say now to me: "_Winter Struempfe riechen im Monat Mai._"

Once in "Tiefland" the old man in the first act was presented with a large lump of Limburger cheese, which he had to sniff and hold gratefully for a long time, while his rejoicing colleagues slapped their knees with glee in the wings. Sometimes the humour was replaced by other less agreeable emotions. For my _Benefiz_, the last year of my engagement, I was to sing _Carmen_. I wanted a popular guest tenor from a neighbouring _Hoftheater_ to be my _Jose_, and he finally agreed to come. He would not come in time for rehearsal and I did not see him until I turn my head in the first recitative and see him making his sword chain. From then on, he directed me in lordly tones throughout the first act. I had often sung _Carmen_ in Metz and the audience knew most of my business and expected it; also as I had prepared the role in Paris and spent months of study on it I did not see why all of my business should be changed on my own festive night. Therefore in our short talk before the second act, I told him my positions as nicely as I could, he saying to everything, "_Aber warum? Warum?_" (But why, why?). I stood this as long as I could and told him all the warums, till finally I said "Because I want to!" At this he lost his temper and left the stage. I was surprised, but supposed he was nervous. From then on, things went from bad to worse. Everything _Carmen_ said to _Jose_, he thought Howard was saying to him. I tried to whisper that I meant nothing by it--that that was the way I played it, but he grew blacker and blacker. Finally in the last act I struck him with my fan, my usual business to make _Jose_ let _Carmen_ pa.s.s. He rushed at me and caught my wrists and shouted, "_Was faellt Ihnen denn ein_" ("What's the matter with you?") I was frightfully upset and nearly crying by then, but had to go on. At the last as I lay on the floor and he stood over me, he deliberately threw his heavy dagger in my face, and I, a corpse, had to move my head to avoid being hurt. He rushed to his dressing room and cried and shouted for a half hour before his wife dared to go in and calm him. I believe it was all jealousy. He had been most popular in the town, and could not bear to share a performance with any one. The next day I could hardly hobble; all my bones seemed wrenched; but every one was most sympathetic and kind.

The bells in Metz were most numerous and depressing. The cathedral near us chimed all day an out-of-tune singsong, which the natives said was, "_Ich bin todt und komm' nicht wieder!_" ("I am dead and shall not come again!")

The depression of the first year culminated in a smallpox epidemic, which broke out shortly before the theatre closed. Marjorie dreamed of it just before it happened, and that I died of it, which, of course, haunted her all through the outbreak. It was frightfully mismanaged by the authorities. The suspects were called for by policemen and carried from the houses to an open wagon, (this in February and March,) and driven to the hospitals. The _Kaserne_ or barracks where cases occurred, were isolated; but in our daily walks we pa.s.sed them with shudders. We were both so tired and had had so many shocks and eye-openers as to what life really is, that this last nightmare completely obsessed and unnerved us. Our policeman neighbour carried suspects, and of course his uniform was never even fumigated and we knew it.

The dear little daughter of the director's wife was taken away from home one night, in spite of her parents' remonstrances. She was ill of rheumatic fever, and the authorities heard of it, p.r.o.nounced it smallpox, and took her away in the open carriage. She died in a few days, and no one ever knew whether it was smallpox or not. Her mother never quite got over it; the child was so sweet and young.

The wagon used to stand in the street before a suspect house, with children playing around it. The police seemed to run the whole thing, and would carry bedding out of the houses and leave it to be burned in the street. We were told that the very poor used to steal this bedding at night. Of course we were vaccinated, but it did not take. The last performances of the season were abandoned, as every one was afraid of crowded places, and I left for Berlin on business. While there my throat became frightfully sore, and of course I thought, "Aha! I have it!" And of course I didn't have it. I returned worn out to Paris and rested there.

About this time I went first to Jean de Reszke. His beautiful house, near the _Bois_, with its little theatre, was the scene of much nervousness and struggles to become _prime donne_. The master opened my eyes to the beauties of style. His Wagner, better than the best Wagnerian singer I have ever heard, his French style, the wonderfully Italian and yet manly interpretations he gave the Puccini and Verdi roles, were all a marvellous inspiration to me. With a pupil he considered intelligent he would take no end of trouble, and a "_Bien_"

from him was a jewel above price. The tales de Reszke pupils sometimes tell me of the wonderful things he told them and predicted for them have always amused me, because in all the time I have been in his studio I have never heard anything like it.

I was so infatuated by my work with him, and so humbled at the vista of endless effort it opened before me, before his ideas could be carried out in every tone one sang, that I asked him one day if I should not spend the next winter in his studio, and leave the stage for a year. He thought it over seriously, and advised me to go on with the stage work, for the routine I was getting was as valuable a teacher as he was. It would have been a great privilege to have spent an entire year with him, and if I could have afforded it, I should have done so.

CHAPTER XIV

DISCOURAGEMENTS THAT LEAD TO A COURT THEATRE

The second year of my first engagement was drawing to a close, and I was much exercised over the next step. I wanted to try for one of the _Hoftheaters_, not the very largest and most famous, but a place with a good orchestra and carefully prepared productions. There seemed to be no vacancy in just such a theatre, and my agent offered me a contract for a great _Stadttheater_, probably the first munic.i.p.al opera house in Germany. Their contralto, who was a great favourite, had a contract for a big Royal Opera, and they felt sure she would be engaged. With some misgivings, I signed the _Vertrag_, and then began the long d.i.c.kering to arrange the guest performances which should decide my fate. They finally asked me to sing _Azucena_ at an afternoon performance. It had taken so long to find a date which suited us both, that a good deal of time had elapsed between the signing of the contract and their letter. I, of course, refused to sing an afternoon performance, and it was finally arranged that I should sing _Carmen_ on a certain date. There is a sort of unwritten law that they shall choose one part, and you another, but it is not always observed. This difficulty over the role should have warned me that there was something wrong. Such a disagreement is a pretty good indication that your contract will not be made _perfekt_.

I travelled all night, and arrived to find a rehearsal on the same day as the performance. It was what is called an _Arrangier Probe fuer den Gast_, rehearsal without orchestra, of the scenes in which the "Guest"

takes part. All the colleagues were nice to me, but I saw the contralto watching from the wings, and she gave me a dagger glare; so I thought that there was "something rotten in the state of Denmark," as she was supposed to be leaving voluntarily. I sang well that night, and had a real success with the audience, and with my colleagues. They all said to me, "Oh, you are certainly engaged after a hit like that." But I felt a premonition which increased to a certainty when I heard that the Director had not troubled to watch my performance, but had left the theatre in the middle of the first act.

I left the next morning, and in a day I received a letter from the Director saying that I had not had quite enough experience to sing their repertoire. I learned some time afterwards that their contralto had sung one of her guest-performances before I went there, had failed to make a sufficient impression, and had decided to remain where she was.

This had been settled between her and the Direction before I sang at all; still they had let me sing with no prospect of an engagement, and allowed it to appear to be my fault that I was not engaged. Legally, of course, they were quite within their rights, as I could have sued them if they had not given me a chance to sing the _Gastspiel_ called for in my contract. But any singer, in such circ.u.mstances, would infinitely prefer to be told the facts. Later, I once begged a director to tell me if it were really worth while to _gastieren_ in his opera house. He said, certainly, they were not considering any one else and really wanted to hear me. I sang there with one of the biggest personal successes I have ever made, the _Burgermeister_ and all the Committee (it was a munic.i.p.al theatre managed by a Committee with the Mayor at the head) came on the stage to congratulate me, and I had to take nine curtain calls alone after the last act. I was not engaged, however, and found out that they had already decided to engage a contralto who had sung one _Gastspiel_ before me and the other directly afterwards. This sort of thing happens even to the most experienced native-born singer.

One tenor in D. sang a guest performance _auf Engagement_, and learned that he was the seventh who had tried for that position in the same part, and they kept on their original one after all! Of course, these performances are paid, but the fact that one has sung without being engaged becomes known everywhere through the weekly theatrical paper, which gives the repertoire and singers in each opera, of all the reputable opera houses in Germany. But the fact that the management never intended to engage you is not generally known. If you have bad luck like this three or four times, it injures your standing as an artist. The _Genossenschaft_ or stage society is trying to make each theatre confine itself to issuing only one contract at a time to fill any vacancy they may have, which will largely prevent this evil.

A second disappointment followed right on the heels of the first one. I had a second string to my bow, as there was a vacancy in a very good _Stadttheater_ for which I was anxious to try. I opened negotiations with them through my agent, and after the usual delay arranged the _Gastspiels_. Their contralto was also leaving voluntarily. I was to sing the two _Erdas_ and _Ulrica_ in the "Masked Ball." When I got there, I found this changed to the _Erdas_ and _Fricka_, which I had not sung for a year. Then they demanded _Frau Reich_ in "Merry Wives"

without a rehearsal instead of the "Siegfried" _Erda_. I was very unhappy, for I knew from this that things were going badly, and that they had no intention of engaging me, no matter how or what I sang. The Direction wrote me that, in spite of my great talents, my voice was not quite large enough for their house. The truth was that their contralto, who was a Jewess and therefore of the same religion as most of the committee, had been offered an increase of salary to remain, and had accepted. The Direction themselves felt badly over the way they had treated me, and the _Intendant_ telephoned to a _Hoftheater_, not far off, where he knew there was going to be a vacancy, to recommend me to their Director in the highest terms.

This was Darmstadt, the capital of a small princ.i.p.ality, famous for its opera house, which had existed for a hundred years. It is a town of about 100,000 inhabitants, and the residence of the reigning Grand Duke, Ernst Ludwig. His mother had been the Princess Alice of England, daughter of Queen Victoria. He and his second wife, Eleanore, lived with their two little sons at the palace Princess Alice's money had built for them. It was really not a palace at all, but a large, roomy, comfortable house. His beautiful sister, Alexandra, married the Czar of Russia; another sister married the Kaiser's brother, Prince Henry of Prussia.

The opera house, called _Hoftheater_, stood high in the second cla.s.s. In the first cla.s.s are Berlin, Vienna, Dresden and Munich, with possibly Hamburg. Then come Cologne, Frankfurt and Leipsic, and the _Hoftheaters_ Hanover, Stuttgart, Mannheim, Wiesbaden, Darmstadt, etc. In the third cla.s.s are the smaller _Hoftheaters_ like Coburg, and the _Stadttheaters_ like Mainz. In the fourth, are the smallest _Stadttheaters_, and last of all come the little towns which have _Monatsoper_, or a one month season of opera in the year, after the seven month theatres are closed. The first cla.s.s houses are open all the year, with a four or six weeks'

vacation for the singers at different times, so that they shall not all be away together. The next cla.s.s has a nine months' season, but in the _Hoftheaters_ the salary is paid in monthly instalments for twelve months in the year.

I took the train for the town, not caring much whether they wanted me or not. Perhaps that was the right att.i.tude, for after hearing one song with piano accompaniment, the _Intendant_ offered me a five-year contract. I asked them to make it three; the town seemed so small and quiet that I did not like the sound of five years in it. The salary was the highest they had ever paid a contralto. The Director said at once, "How much did they offer you in----?" and agreed to pay me only 500 marks a year less. I arranged to _gastieren_ very soon in _Carmen_, with _Nancy_ and one other part to follow. I sang only the _Carmen_ on trial, however, as the Grand Duke, who had come in especially from his country place to hear me, engaged me personally after the first act. I had a wonderful and rare chance to "be grand" when the Director told me this. He asked me if I would be willing to sing my other _Gastspiel_ of _Nancy_. I replied loftily that I really could not do so, as I must return to Paris.

Six days before the opening of the season, according to contract, I arrived with my sister in the town which was to be my home for the next three years. It is surrounded by forests and looked very pretty; but oh!

so quiet! The _Hoftheater_ stands in a park, and is a cla.s.sic-looking structure seating 1,400 persons. It has been there for a hundred years, and runs by clockwork. A building behind it, more than half as large as the theatre itself, contains the ballet school and scene-painting lofts and a complete dressmaking and tailoring establishment, with the wardrobe mistress and master at the head, where all costumes are made.

They are also kept here, and the collection is a very complete one, with endless sets of uniforms, armour and historical costumes of all kinds.

Men's dress is supplied; women who have a salary of more than 3600 marks ($900) are supposed to supply their own, but if you are nice to the wardrobe mistress she will usually contrive to find what you want, though you must get permission from the Direction to wear it. Excellent dressers are provided for the princ.i.p.als, and a hair-dresser to put on your wig. There is a small charge if it requires dressing. The theatre pays these people, but you are supposed to tip them on New Year's Day, also the stage doorkeeper, the man who brings you the scores of your parts, and any one else you like, though only the first four expect it; and 10 marks ($2.50) is a liberal tip. You are expected to keep your costumes at home, and send them over in a basket-trunk on the morning of the performance for your dresser to unpack, press and hang up. You pay a man $1.00 a month to do this, though many singers send their servant.

There are four Kapellmeisters, the first one who rejoiced in the t.i.tle of _Hofrat_ (Court councillor), the second, and third, and a fourth for the chorus. Felix Weingartner is now first conductor there. The orchestra consists of sixty musicians, and is really good. They have played together so long, that they can play almost anything, and they excel in Mozart, whom, with Wagner, they adore, while they look with condescension upon the works of Puccini. The scenery of this particular opera house used to be famous. They were the first to have moons which really rose about as slowly as the real one, and they are still unique in possessing a wonderful clock-work sun, which contracts as it rises.

The _Ring_ dramas, with their complicated settings, are given without a single hitch; the "Magic Flute" is presented with some nineteen scenes, all dark changes; and this is one of the four theatres in the world where Goethe's "Faust" is given entire, on four consecutive evenings.

The artist, Kempin, who is responsible for all new scenery, is a man of considerable reputation, outside the town as well as in it, as a painter. He does excellent things when he is allowed a free hand, as he inclines very strongly toward modern _styliziert_ (conventionalized) scenery _a la Reinhardt_. His production of "La Belle Helene" was worth seeing, and his "_Gretchen's_ room" in "Faust" is one of the most charming stage settings I have ever seen.

There is a large, thoroughly trained chorus, each with a repertoire of over fifty operas, whose members are paid, as a rule, about 125 marks a month ($26), everything but modern dress supplied. None receives more, except those who fill small "speaking parts." In a ballet of forty the dancers receive from 75 to 80 marks apiece with all costumes furnished.

Knowing these figures, as I do, it is hard for me to credit those I once saw quoted in a music journal from a German book on the subject. The author stated that the ballet girls in Hanover receive only 10 marks ($2.50) a month. Hanover, being a larger city and affiliated with Berlin pays better salaries than this opera house of which I am writing. He also said that the "leading lady" in Eisenach had only 15 marks a month!

As I, as a beginner and foreigner, in Metz, received $35 a month, I cannot but think that he had forgotten to add the cipher and meant 150 marks! The costume expenses that he spoke of, are certainly a great tax upon the German _actresses_ in smaller theatres; but I think I have shown how greatly the wardrobe of a _singer_ in such a theatre may be simplified, especially by a thrifty German woman, up to all the dodges of different pairs of sleeves for the same gown. After all, costume expenses are as high or as low as one makes them. None of our American girls thinks of becoming an actress on the European stage, so these costume expenses need not trouble her personally, and the majority of German actresses manage to live on their earnings. The princ.i.p.als in my theatre received from $900 to $3500 a year, which last named sum is paid to the _Heldentenor_, and on which he is rich. The rent of a good flat is 700-800 marks a year ($180-$200). I paid 1100 marks ($275) for mine because it was situated on the best street, near the palace. It contained four rooms, with kitchen, bath, maid's room and two balconies.

A good general servant receives 25 marks a month ($6.24). Her wages and everything about her are regulated by police inspection. The _Polizei_, in fact, regulates the whole town, even the closing of the theatre, which can only be shut in case of destruction by fire, serious epidemic or martial law.

The same system of alternating plays with opera obtains in all but the very largest German cities. We had some splendid actors in our cast, some of whom are now in leading positions in the greatest theatres. The repertoire, for a town of 100,000 people, is extraordinary. The German cla.s.sics, Goethe and Schiller, alternate with Shakespeare; the modern poetic dramas, the plays of Hebbel, Grillpartzer, the sparkling comedies of Schnitzler are interchanged with translations of Ibsen, Bernard Shaw, Pinero, etc. Sudermann and Hauptmann may follow the latest French salon comedy, or a new farce; and the good old ones that everybody knows like "Kyritz Pyritz," and "Charley's Aunt" are not allowed to die. Then there are peasant plays in dialect and fairy plays for the children at Christmas.

CHAPTER XV

SALARIES AND A TENOR'S GENIUS

If you make a hit with the audience your residence in the town is made very pleasant. Even the conductors and motormen of the street cars used to greet me as they pa.s.sed and all the policemen were my friends. I had letters to some of the people in the town through relations, and took as much part as I had time for in the really charming, if slightly narrow, social life of the place. The centre of everything was, of course, the Court. The Grand Duke took a great interest in the theatre, and used to watch the productions notebook in hand. Any detail which did not please him was immediately noted and sent then and there to the stage manager to be changed. We had some special privileges as we were cla.s.sed as _Beamten_ or official servants of the government. One was the right to wine from the ducal cellars at cost price, or duty free. Another was a 10 per cent. discount at all the shops.

Extra money is often to be picked up by a _Gastspiel aushilfsweise_, that is, an emergency call from a neighbouring theatre. Our opera soubrette once received a hurry call to another _Hofoper_ one hour's journey away. The train would have made her too late, so she took an automobile and her costume with her, and drove at breakneck speed through the woods to the town. She was to sing _Cherubino_ in "Figaro"

and, as she dressed in the auto to save time, the surprise of the chauffeur may be imagined when, instead of a brunette girl, a blond boy emerged from his car!

I made my first appearance as a regular member of the company as _Dalila_. The only comment afterwards of the first Kapellmeister, who directed the performance, was, "Why did you make the eighth note in such and such a phrase a sixteenth?" I repeat this, in order to give an idea of the standard of thoroughness with which the musical part of the opera was prepared. When we were rehearsing _Dalila_ on the stage, I, having studied the role in Paris and being imbued with the spirit of the French performers, occasionally gave that swing from the hips on a particularly luscious phrase, using as faithfully as I could remember it de Reszke's masterly interpretation and flow of line. The _Hofrat_ rapped on his desk, and half patronizingly, half contemptuously, with a pitying smile, bade me not indulge in _franzoesische Manniere_--French mannerisms. As many room rehearsals were held as were necessary before the singers could sing their parts, giving every note its exact value. A singer might make mistakes during the performance, but the _Hofrat_ always mentioned it afterwards. My _Samson_ was, of course, the _Heldentenor_, and he was a character; a tall, good-looking man, with an immense, ill-used voice, but a wonderful actor. He had a great success with the ladies, and his adventures, matrimonial and otherwise, were the princ.i.p.al source of gossip of the town. His lady-love at this time was a certain Baroness, whom he afterwards married. Their great amus.e.m.e.nt was rushing about the country together in a white automobile filled with flowers. She used to hang fascinated over the edge of her box, high above the stage, watching his every look and gesture, her large bust on the edge of the box. When he left the stage she would sink back in her chair, really exhausted, and rub her eyes with her hand. He was the only person who was allowed to disturb the orderly rehearsals. Every one was afraid of him when he lost his temper and raged up and down the stage, shouting what he would do to his enemy when he caught him. One day, I remember, he was furious with the _Intendant_ because birthday honours had been distributed by the Grand Duke, in the form of decorations, and he had received none. He made sure that it was the _Intendant's_ spite against him, but it was in reality, of course, his notorious way of living that prevented his being decorated. He shouted that he would "buy himself two cents' worth of soft soap and grease his back with it and make the _Intendant_ climb up it!" Then that he would get him in the woods and run his auto over him, and run it back and forth, and back and forth, until there was nothing left but apple sauce! Finally the Direction could stand him no longer, great actor as he was, and his contract was broken on the pretext of his having been absent from the town without leave. You are supposed not to go further than a certain stated distance from the theatre without due notification and permission. He left the place with his Baroness, and his return to it was characteristic. The first time that Zeppelin's airship pa.s.sed over the town, he was in it, hanging out of the car, shouting and throwing down postcards!

As _Siegfried_ in "Goetterdaemmerung," he left an ineffaceable impression on me. I have never seen it equalled by any tenor. When he gazes at _Brunnhilde's_ ring, and his memory fails to recall just what it means to him, his puzzled look of baffled memory, the ray of understanding that almost pierced his forgetfulness, all were suggested in so tremendous a way that one saw inside his brain,--and all this utterly without exaggerated mannerisms.

I seemed to find favour in his sight, and during the _Dalila_ rehearsals he made hot love to me. In the performance, when _Dalila_ sinks into his arms on the couch, he nearly upset me by saying fervently out loud: "_Ach! endlich weiss man was est ist ein schoenes Weib im Arm zu haben?_" ("Ah! at last one knows what it is to have a beautiful woman in one's arms.") I considered this a distinct reflection on his adoring Baroness, and withheld the signs of delight he no doubt expected. He told me once, one only wish he had,--just to see my _Spinne_, or _lingerie_ closet. One day, as we were all in the greenroom, during a rehearsal, waiting our turn to be called to the stage, I saw S----'s eyes transfixed with horror. Looking in the direction he pointed I saw the opera soubrette Z----, putting on her rubbers and crossing her legs in doing so. This action revealed to our delighted gaze trouserettes of red striped canton flannel, shirred into a band half way between calf and ankle, and there adorned with a blanket-st.i.tched frill of the same material. S---- was too sickened by the sight to do more than helplessly gasp, "Typical!" to me. A curious person; fastidious, sensual, unquestionably endowed with genius, he just couldn't behave.

He was asked to sing _Siegfried_ once, at a neighbouring opera house, on very short notice. He had to dress in the train in order to be there on time when the curtain went up. Fellow travellers, who saw him enter the train dressed in the ordinary way, were rather horrified to see a half-naked savage emerge at the journey's end; but S---- was quite impervious to the sensation he created. He never wore the hideous tights most _Siegfrieds_ try to make you think are skin, but his splendid shoulders rose naked from his bearskin, and his bare legs were bound with furry thongs.

The _Heldenbariton_ was of another type. He had been twenty-five years on the stage, and twenty in this theatre. Opera singing for him was like going to his office. He had his house with a charming garden, his family, and a circle of friends and acquaintances, which included nearly the whole population. There are many cases like his in this cla.s.s of theatre, and a pleasant life they lead. After eight years in the same _Hoftheater_ they are eligible for a pension, a certain proportion of their salary, which increases with their years of service, up to a fixed point. Only certain _Hoftheaters_ have this pension fund; it is very nice for some singers, but a great hardship for others. If you leave that theatre before your eight years are up, you lose all that you have paid during your engagement. Contribution to the pension fund is compulsory for all singers and actors in that theatre. One singer whom I knew had spent sixteen years in different theatres, always paying a pension tax, and never receiving the benefit of one penny from the money, as her engagement in each place came to an end before the stipulated eight years. Unscrupulous directors take advantage of this to fail to renew a singer's contract when it gets near the eighth year. The invaluable _Genossenschaft_ is also trying to remedy this abuse.

Some of the regular members of a _Hoftheater_ have enviable concert reputations as well, though in Germany the two professions are quite separate, and concert singing is generally looked upon as the higher branch of art. The critics are suspicious of the opera singer in concert, to such an extent that I was advised, at my first Berlin recital, to keep my real standing in the profession dark and present myself without my t.i.tle of _Hofopernsangerin_. I suggested to my agent that, as I was quite unknown in Berlin, it might be well to spend a little money in extra advertising. "Advertising?" said he, "they will think you are a soap!" So I sang unheralded except by the usual half-inch in the daily papers. In contrast to the publicity campaigns and press-agents of this country, let me give another instance of how they did things in Germany before the war. On being engaged at this _Hoftheater_, I thought I ought to let the public know it. I wrote my agent, Herr Harder, asking him to spend 1000 marks ($250) for me in judicious advertising of my engagement. He answered that there was no way in which he could place the money to further my interests, and returned it! The first contract which was offered me for a concert tour in America, provided for $2,000 to be paid down for advertising before the tour began.

CHAPTER XVI