Guest
During the month of February, Dead Tenors’ Society pays tribute to the greatest tenor in recorded history, Enrico Caruso (1873-1921). This week explores Caruso’s final years. In August 1918, Caruso surprised the world by marrying Dorothy Park Benjamin, a New York socialite some 20 years his junior. Despite the shock and disapproval of many around them, the newlyweds set up house in Caruso’s penthouse at New York’s Knickerbocker Hotel. The happy couple welcomed the birth of their only child, Gloria, in December of 1919 and seemed destined for many happy years together. It is a pity that their blissful union was fated to be a brief one. By the time of his marriage, Caruso was 45 years old and in questionable health. Hypertension and acute migraines plagued him, due to his chain smoking and the extra weight he carried on his portly frame. There was also the overwork. Caruso was considered the greatest tenor in the world, and he was determined to maintain that reputation at any cost. The emotional and physical strain he endured was almost unbearable. Soprano Edith Mason recalled finding Caruso trembling in the wings as he awaited his entrance. Mason incredulously asked, “Are YOU nervous?” “Mason”, Caruso replied, “you go on the stage and give a hundred percent and that’s fine. I must give a hundred and fifty.” He was now the world’s highest paid singer, getting $3,000 a night for his Met performances and an astounding $15,000 a night for his appearances in Mexico City and Havana. He continued driving himself relentlessly, giving three performances a week during the first month of the 1918/19 Met season. The glowing reviews only added to Caruso’s stress, including this one in the NY Times. “There is one word with which to characterize Caruso's singing; glorious... A sold-out house went wild...” Caruso began to wonder how much longer he could live up to this reputation. A bright spot during this period was the Met’s Silver Anniversary Gala celebrating Caruso’s 25 years in opera. The tenor sang one act each of Elisir d’Amore, Pagliacci and Le Prophète to a packed theater. Speeches were given by his friends and colleagues and the tenor was presented with an array of expensive mementoes, which were eventually housed in Caruso’s 50th St. gallery. Although seven nations had bestowed eleven decorations on him over the years, he insisted that his proudest honor was the captain’s badge given to him by the NYPD. He was truly a man of the people. Caruso did NOT die on stage as we see in the Mario Lanza biopic. A series of unfortunate mishaps did befall him in December 1920, however. As he pulled down the temple (constructed of 20 lbs. wicker baskets) at the end of Samson et Dalila, one of the baskets hit him forcefully in the left side, knocking him unconscious. Caruso also severely wrenched this same area during a Pagliacci a few days later. Then there was the horrific blood spitting incident during an Elisir in Brooklyn on the 11th. He sang three times after that, giving his final performance as Eléazar in La Juive on Christmas Eve. The following day, he collapsed at his home and spent the next two months hovering between life and death. Acute pleurisy was the culprit and, sadly, Caruso never made a complete recovery. He sailed for Italy in May and although he appeared to rally, his condition rapidly deteriorated in late July. The Great Caruso passed away at the Vesuvio Hotel in Naples on August 2, 1921. He was just 48 years old. Enrico Caruso came along at a time when opera was in transition. Although the verismo school was coming into its own, bel canto was still very much in evidence. Caruso’s bel canto training combined with an understanding of the new verismo approach allowed him, more than just about any other artist, to legitimize the new school while keeping the old school alive. Caruso also legitimized the phonograph in its early days, with a voice that recorded amazingly well. Caruso’s singing also possessed a very human quality, something in the heart that was sensed by all those who listened. It is difficult to not feel a bit emotionally overwhelmed when hearing a Caruso record. In the century since his passing, he has never been equaled. I doubt he ever will. Caruso continued his mutually lucrative arrangement with Victor studios, making his final records less than a year before his death. Victor continued issuing new Caruso records until at least 1923 and continued re-releasing old recordings (as RCA) for decades after that. From a session on September 9, 1919, Caruso sings the old Italian art song “Nina”. This mournful classic, long associated with Pergolesi, is now believed to have been written by the 18th century composer, Vincenzo Legrenzo Ciampi. Regardless of the song’s true origin, Caruso gives a tragic reading of this classic. Although the approach is more 19th than 18th century, the voice is appropriately dark for this moody piece, and Caruso sings with great intensity.
