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Updated: May 25, 2025
"No; none in particular, only that you must avoid any of the very familiar airs from 'Faust, 'Trovatore, or 'Lohengrin. These great works have been so hackneyed by frequent repetitions at the Metropolitan Opera House and Hammerstein's, and Sunday sacred concerts, that they have been worn threadbare and become as commonplace as 'Mr. Dooley' or 'Harrigan. Now let me think. Ah, yes!
That was Oscar Hammerstein's idea he wouldn't let his actresses even ride in a public car; he said that mystery was a part of their value, and that people wouldn't pay to see them if they were always on the streets. Beside, I am tired all the time; you can't possibly know how hard I work; a hundred times harder than you, for instance." "I've been told that about moving pictures."
Finally, about a week before the opera was produced, a new soprano was engaged to sing another rôle hitherto taken by the prospective Salome. Instantly the dread headlines on all the front pages of the metropolitan press announced that Miss Garden would resign before Madame Cavalieri should sing in any of her rôles. Mr. Hammerstein's "eyes twinkled," as the reporters besieged him.
"I shall make him pass it," he cried, and he brought down his whip on Hammerstein's back with such force that the startled animal gave a great bound forward, and then, finding himself so near the dreaded wreck, he gave a wilder bound, and passed it.
Yvette Guilbert is at Hammerstein's and crowds the new music hall nightly, at two dollars a seat. Irving and Miss Terry have been most friendly to me and to the family. Frohman is going to put "Zenda" on in New York because he has played a failure, which will of course kill it for next year for Eddie, when he comes out as a star. I have never seen such general indignation over a private affair.
We sandwiched comedy, drama, tragedy, and farce, and interlarded the mixture with Victor Herbert and Oscar Hammerstein's opera comique and May Irwin coon songs. Such a presentation of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' was never before presented, and I am free to confess the chances are never will be again. We actually played the town on the other fellow's paper.
Turning in at Hammerstein's for half an hour one evening, whom should I meet but brother Edwin, quite fairly festive, with a fat cigar in his mouth. "Hello, Reggie," he said. "What are you doing here?" I said. "I had to come up to New York to look up a life of Hilary de Craye at the library. I believe Mister Man was a sort of ancestor." "This isn't the library." "I was beginning to guess as much.
"Daly's, the Imperial, Hammerstein's, the Waldorf, up where you bought your outing goods, down to Proctor's, up the Boulevard to the Colonial Club, they piped you off. You see I only got familiar with them after a few nights. But now I have them dead to rights." "And where did they go from there?" growled Clayton.
In New York there is an old, old hotel. You have seen woodcuts of it in the magazines. It was built let's see at a time when there was nothing above Fourteenth Street except the old Indian trail to Boston and Hammerstein's office. Soon the old hostelry will be torn down.
And she, "resting" between two engagements one at Hammerstein's Victoria, N.Y.C., the other at the Folies Bergeres, Paris and having never been in Oxford, had so far let bygones be bygones as to come and gratify the old man's whim. It may be that she still resented his indifference to those early struggles which, even now, she shuddered to recall.
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