Mascagni Wins More Triumphs

Mascagni was just one-half an hour late in beginning the great concert of yesterday afternoon, but the cause of it will not afford the gossipers a tittle of support for the fiddle-faddle stories which have been circulated since his arrival in this country about his eccentricities. During the wait the "croakers" were sure that Mascagni had been good too long, and that now with success assured in this city, he was getting erratic. The fact is that every day this master remains in this city he adds to the conviction that he is a hard-working, cheerful, dependable man and a thorough-going artist.

At 10 o'clock yesterday morning Mascagni met his orchestra at Shiels' Hall, and left it to rehearse the chorus at 12 o'clock in the Alhambra Theater. It was after 1:30 o'clock when he dismissed the singers, and between that time and the hour when he again raised his baton there was not a minute's rest. A maid who managed to mix up the keys and keep Mascagni out of his rooms was responsible for the waste of some of the valuable time. Mascagni came in smiling at 3:30 o'clock. What followed was well worth patient waiting.

Rossini's "Stabat Mater" has never been heard in this city under such auspicious conditions, and, in its entirety, it has not been given within the memory of at least one generation. Its rendition yesterday was after the fashion of its presentation upon special occasions in Italy — something of a festival, a gala time. For the local singers, soloists and the 200 in the chorus yesterday will be a cherished memory: it brought them a pleasant portion of glory.

As the big chorus, supported by one of the greatest orchestras ever heard in this city, rose in splendid ensemble, it was difficult to believe that they were singing and playing together for the first time. Only such a man as Mascagni could have made the blend for the first time before some 2500 people.

Each familiar chorus and solo and quartet seemed more welcome than its predecessor, and while each and all were good, the triumph came in the "Inflammatus." It was tremendous, and had to be repeated. Mrs. Grace Davis Northrup, bit of a creature that she is, sang the solo part against the big orchestra and the chorus with the greatest ease, and improved, if it were possible, on the encore. Her voice, sweet and sympathetic and well handled, showed not the slightest fatigue.

J. F. Veaco did entirely creditable work in the tenor role, as did Mrs. Blanchard, to whom the responsibilities of the contralto part were given. The demands of the basso score needed just such a big voice and fine intelligence as Signor G. Wanrell possesses. His recitative with the chorus without accompaniment was convincing and inspiring. The last quartet, also with orchestra before the tremendous final chorus, was exceedingly well done.

Rossini may have felt that he produced a lyric rather than an ecclesiastical composition and he may have doubted his religious attitude in approaching the story of the "Sorrowing Mother," but he built better than he knew. He wrote a "Stabat Mater" that has lived for the world beyond those by Palestrina and Pergolesi, and one which always inspires reverence for the story of the world sorrow.

The orchestral numbers formed the second part, opening with the introduction to "William Ratcliffe," one of Mascagni's operas, for which he has a particular affection. In a general way, it possesses all the artistic attributes that make Mascagni's compositions ever charming and human. There were phrases which suggested the well-loved Intermezzo and compelled one even at the expense of being facetious to see that the same fine Italian hand was the creator of both.

Mascagni has given yesterday's audience something to remember and be grateful for in his reading of the Chopin "Marche Funèbre." The sobbing and the sighing of the instruments in the majestic chords of sorrow and the sweetness of the haunting melody that seems to speak of hope and peace and something beyond the grief, will always remain with those who heard them.

This afternoon closed with the notable performance of Vorspiel from "Die Meistersinger." It created as great a furor yesterday as when heard on Thursday.

The concert in the evening was advertised to be composed of "popular music" and one of the maestro-conductor's own compositions, but if the programme actually rendered is to be classed as "popular," then the critics can never again sneer at the favorite melodies of the multitude. For two Hungarian dances of Brahms, Mascagni substituted his own intermezzo from "Cavalleria Rusticana," and for the overture to "Nabucco," he led his orchestra through the Vorspiel from "Die Meistersinger" again. The overture to "William Tell," and one movement from Tschaikowsky's symphony pathetique, concluded the first part.

Mascagni's conception of the wondrous overture to "Tannhäuser" is open to comparison with that of Walter Damrosch, and though it may be heresy to say so, nevertheless the Italian master fails to find in it the tremendous elements that the Wagner student brings out. The awful, grim, irrevocable Teutonic sentimentalism that is the very spirit of the overture is Latinized under the sway of Mascagni's baton and becomes poetic, haunting and pathetic instead of tragic and terrible as the German would conceive it. It also may be a freak of fancy, but the opening strains of the prelude to Mascagni's own "William Ratcliffe" certainly seem to show the strong influence of Wagner upon the modern Italian school of music.

Tschaikowsky's symphonic poem "1812" is a powerful epic expressed in harmonic terms, and the orchestra last night rose to its very best in the rendition of it. The finale is so tremendous that one felt impelled to scream under the intense excitement of nerve and sense it produced and the whole audience felt the effect of it. Music more dramatic could hardly be imagined.