And then Iago:  “In the Maurel conception, Othello’s Ancient was not painted black in black—­the heart of darkness, but with many nuances, many gradations.  He was economical of gesture, playing on the jealous Moor as plays a skillfully handled bow upon a finely attuned violin.  His was truly an objective characterization.  His Don Giovanni was broadly designed.  He was the aristocrat to the life, courtly, brave, amorous, intriguing, cruel, superstitious and quick to take offense.  In his best estate, the drinking song was sheer virtuosity.  Suffice to add that Verdi intrusted to him the task of “originating” two such widely sundered roles as Iago and Falstaff.  An extraordinary artist!”

One evening we were discussing the merits of various famous singers of the past and present.  My friend is an authority whose opinion I greatly respect.  He is not only a singer himself but is rapidly becoming a singing master of renown.

After we had conferred for a long time, my friend summed it all up with the remark: 

“You know who, in my opinion, is the greatest, the dean of them all, a past master of the art of song—­Victor Maurel.”

Did I not know!  In times gone by had we not discussed by the hour every phase of Maurel’s mastery of voice and action?  Did we not together listen to that voice and watch with breathless interest his investiture of Don Giovanni, in the golden days when Lilli Lehmann and the De Reszkes took the other parts.  Was there ever a more elegant courtly Don, a greater Falstaff, a more intriguing Iago?

In those youthful days, my friend’s greatest ambition was to be able to sing and act like Maurel.  To this end he labored unceasingly.  Second only to this aim was another—­to know the great baritone personally, to become his friend, to discuss the finest issues of art with him, to consult him and have the benefit of his experience.  The consummation of this desire has been delayed for years, but it is one of the “all things” which will surely come to him who waits.  Maurel is now once more on American soil, and doubtless intends remaining for a considerable period.  My friend is also established in the metropolis.  The two have met, not only once but many times—­indeed they have become fast friends.

“I will take you to him,” promised friend Jacque,—­knowing my desire to meet the “grand old man”; “but don’t ask for too many of his opinions about singers, as he does not care to be quoted.”

Late one afternoon we arrived at his residence.  At the moment he was in his music room, where, for the last hour he had been singing Falstaff!  If we could only have been hidden away in some quiet corner to listen!  He came running down the stairway with almost the agility of a boy, coming to meet us with simple dignity and courtesy.  After the first greetings were over we begged permission to examine the many paintings which met the eye everywhere.  There was a large panel facing us, representing a tall transparent vase, holding a careless bunch of summer flowers, very artistically handled.  Near it hung an out-of-door sketch, a garden path leading into the green.  Other bits of landscape still-life and portraits made up the collection.  They had all been painted by the same artist—­none other than Maurel himself.  As we examined the flower panel, he came and stood by us.