Article on Letter to the Editor from Maretzek regarding the troubles of an opera manager

Letter to the editor from Max Maretzek, “The Troubles of an Opera Manager. Will you allow me to say a few words apropos of a remark in your musical columns of to-day? In doing so I trust that you will believe I have no intention of reflecting on the ability of the critic, from whose pen it proceeds. His notices on the various performances of the week just passed have been characterized by sound judgment and perfect accuracy of observation, tempered, I may here add, with a kindly interest in Italian music which none can appreciate better than myself. ‘Maretzek,’ says your critic, ‘is doing well, but to do better he must manage so that his tenors and baritones and basses do not have even the excuse of colds and hoarseness for disappointing the public.’

Permit me here to say, as a mere matter of justice, that Signor Massimiliani, although now well, was really sick on Friday night, and that nothing but the cheerful readiness of Signor Bellini to do all that lay in his power justified his going on the stage at a time when he was under medical treatment. I need not refer to Signor Susini. His hoarseness could not have escaped the attention of the audience. The weather, during the last few days, has been extremely trying. On Thursday night, when two of the artists above named took their colds, it was almost impossible to keep the stringed instruments of the orchestra in tune. Extraordinary pizzicati, in the shape of snapping strings, disturbed the ear at every bar. Is it astonishing that so delicate an instrument as the human voice should have felt some of the disturbances of the unusual state of the atmosphere?

For the rest, let me modestly confess that I know not how to act. It has been the study of my life to ‘manage’ in just the way that your critic suggests. I can conceive of no greater triumph for an impresario, than to be able to say that he has abolished all excuses for disappointing the public. To do away with colds, and deny to the throat its too facile hoarseness, would indeed be a meritorious achievement. The squaring of the circle, the transmutation of metals, and the distillation of the waters of eternal life, even the discovery of perpetual motion itself were nothing to it. But, alas, there is a homely proverb which says you may bring a horse to the water, but you cannot make him drink, and—forgive the feeble pun—you may take a hoarse singer to the stage, but you cannot make him sing. I have in my memory at this moment a little illustrative instance. A retractory tenor, during one of my Cuban trips, concluded that it was desirable to be sick. The weather was fine, and the volante presented unusual charms. It was despotic, perhaps, and decidedly ungallant, but the tenor was arrested by the authorities. His name had been announced on the bills and that was their justification. Imagine the supreme relief that this event occasioned me. There was to be no disappointment. I had almost reached the blessed land where colds and hoarseness were ignored. The object of my life was accomplished. I had found the Atlantis of all managerial desire, and was never to be unhappy again. The evening came. Precisely at the appointed hour my tenor was delivered to me, guarded by four armed soldiers. The stage was before him, their bayonets behind. In the dress circle was the dignitary who had caged the unwitting singer. A savage glare was directed to the scene as the culprit made his entry, and then the audience listened. They are listening yet, for that resolute man refused to open his mouth. The stream was there, you perceive, but he would not drink.

 And should your critic know any way by which he can be made to do so, I shall feel under eternal obligations to him if he will impart it to me. The only plan that has worked well with me, so far, is the simple but expensive one of keeping a large company, so that if one singer is sick, or only pretends to be sick, another singer can instantly be put in his place. If, when this is done, the writers of the New York press would kindly say something of the substitute, they may rest assured that it will not only benefit him but punish the absentee. In the absence of an epidemic, involving the throats and noses of my entire company, it is impossible for me to disappoint the public, in the worst sense of the word—namely, by a change of opera. When an artist is really sick his services are superfluous to the audience and the manager. It is best that some one else should take his place. When he only pretends to be sick, you may rest assured that I will not attempt to protect him from the just severity of the press, or lend my name to the smallest excuse for his non appearance. Yours very truly, Max Maretzek. New York, Oct. 8, 1864.”