HUGH & ENRICO IN ITALY
The young man stood in line, hoping to get standing room for that evening’s performance of Rigoletto. It was 1921, and the 20-year-old Hugh Smith, on his first European trip, was in Naples at the San Carlo opera house. Fifty-seven years later, Hugh and I found ourselves in Naples at the same time, dining al fresco after a performance at that same opera house, the place where the young Neapolitan tenor Enrico Caruso had been booed, vowing to never again sing in his native Naples, a promise he kept. He often returned to Naples and in fact died there, but never again sang for the Neapolitans.
Just after I introduced this fact into our conversation, Hugh began to spin his tales about that first Italian trip so long before. “I went to get standing room for Rigoletto and saw a line of people waiting, so I figured it was the standing room line and I joined it. Pretty soon a man came out and said something and the line started to follow him. When we got inside, he said something else and everyone started taking their clothes off! I just stood there until he came to me and indicated a locker, which he opened, showing me some clothes inside. I didn’t know what to do, but I took off my clothes and started putting the other ones on. When I was finished, he came back to me and took my glasses off and put them in the locker. Even then I was half blind without my glasses, but I managed. Before I knew it, I heard music and someone came and handed me a tray with glasses of wine and shoved me out into the middle of a party. I was onstage in the first scene at the Duke’s ball! People nudged me around the stage as they took a glass until the tray was empty and someone shoved me offstage, where a man was waiting with another tray and off I went again.”
“By then it had dawned on me that I had gotten into the line for the extras. When the scene ended, they led me back to the locker room, gave me some money and let me put my clothes and glasses back on. I watched the rest of the performance from standing room, so I ended up there after all.”
I was appropriately amazed and amused by this reminiscence. Jovial Hugh brought the story to life with his infectious laughter and his complete immersion in the tale. Hugh was great company, though I envied him for the things he had seen in his youth: John Barrymore as Hamlet and three performances by Caruso, in particular. Barrymore was the youngest of three siblings (Ethel and Lionel were the other two) who were known as The Royal Family of Broadway. By all accounts, John was the greatest of the three. His 1920 Richard III established him as the United States’ greatest actor. Hugh saw hislegendary Hamlet in New York and on tour in Washington, D.C. But it turned out that Hugh had a theretofore unshared memory which would surpass them all, of an event I had often heard and read about without having any idea that I knew someone who had witnessed it.
“I was in Sorrento, and I knew Caruso was there recuperating from a serious illness. His hotel overlooked the bay and he had a balcony looking down at the sea. I rented a rowboat for several days in a row and just sat in the bay, along with a lot of other people, hoping to see Caruso if he came out on his balcony. Finally, it happened. He came out there and waved at the people in the boats. Then he started to sing and sang a song for us. There was that voice, rolling across the bay. It was one of the greatest thrills of my life. Then he waved again and went back inside.”
I had often heard about this event, but never imagined I would talk to an eyewitness. What Hugh described turned out to be the final public appearance of Caruso, whose illness soon suffered a serious setback, resulting in the tenor’s untimely death at age 48.
As our meal continued, Hugh and I continued to enjoy our conversation, though clearly nothing could top the Caruso memory. I did ask Hugh if he thought Caruso was really that much better than other singers he had heard in a lifetime of opera-going; he replied, “Yes, he was. He was the best I had heard and I’ve never heard anyone since who could touch him.”
So said many, and here was one of them describing wonders to me. I met only one other person who had the opportunity to hear Caruso live; her evaluation of him was the same as Hugh’s. Hugh, a remarkable character, had so many unforgettable experiences. I have always felt fortunate to have been able to hear about them and to try to imagine living them vicariously. We opera lovers all have our personal Golden Age, but Hugh’s may have been more Golden than the others. I will always be grateful that he shared his memories of it with me.