Singers were often among Henry Irving’s guests in the Beefsteak Room—­Patti, Melba, Calve, Albani, Sims Reeves, Tamagno, Victor Maurel, and many others.

Calve!  The New York newspapers wrote “Salve Calve!” and I would echo them.  She is the best singer-actress that I know.  They tell me that Grisi and Mario were fine dramatically.  When I saw them, they were on the point of retiring, and I was a child.  I remember that Madame Grisi was very stout, but Mario certainly acted well.  Trebelli was a noble actress; Maria Gay is splendid, and oh!  Miss Mary Garden!  Never shall I forget her acting in “Griselidis.”  Yet for all the talent of these singers whom I have named, and among whom I should surely have placed the incomparable Maurel, whose Iago was superb, I think that the arts of singing and acting can seldom be happily married.  They quarrel all the while!  A few operas seem to have been written with a knowledge of the difficulty of the conventions which intervene to prevent the expression of dramatic emotion; and these operas are contrived with amazing cleverness so that the acting shall have free play.  Verdi in “Othello,” and Bizet in “Carmen” came nearest solving the problem.

To go back to Calve.  She has always seemed to me a darling, as well as a great artist.  She was entirely generous and charming to me when we were living for some weeks together in the same New York hotel.  One wonderful Sunday evening I remember dining with her, and she sang and sang for me, as if she could never grow tired.  One thing she said she had never sung so well before, and she laughed in her delicious rapturous way and sang it all over again.

Her enthusiasm for acting, music, and her fellow-artists was magnificent.  Oh, what a lovable creature!  Such soft dark eyes and entreating ways, such a beautiful mixture of nobility and “calinerie”!  She would laugh and cry all in a moment like a child.  That year in New York she was raved about, but all the excitement and enthusiasm that she created only seemed to please and amuse her.  She was not in the least spoiled by the fuss.

I once watched Patti sing from behind scenes at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York.  My impression from that point of view was that she was actually a bird!  She could not help singing!  Her head, flattened on top, her nose tilted downwards like a lovely little beak, her throat swelling and swelling as it poured out that extraordinary volume of sound, all made me think that she must have been a nightingale before she was transmigrated into a human being!  Near, I was amazed by the loudness of her song.  I imagine that Tetrazzini, whom I have not yet heard, must have this bird-like quality.

The dear kind-hearted Melba has always been a good friend of mine.  The first time I met her was in New York at a supper party, and she had a bad cold, and therefore a frightful speaking voice for the moment!  I shall never forget the shock that it gave me.  Thank goodness I very soon afterwards heard her again when she hadn’t a cold!