It so happened, that in Monte Carlo, to the great surprise of many people, Lauri-Volpi's wife and I became rather close friends. Our mutual sympathy was based on our similar attitude to the last trends in women's hats, which we both felt some weakness for. In the capital of Monaco there was a magnificent store of women's hats, which, regardering its wide selection, fancy styles and high quality, could easily compete with the most famous Parisian stores of the same profile. Once, being on my way to the theatre, I dropped in there and bought four hats. One of them – decorated with a multitude of flowers and a small beautiful bird, sitting among them – I drew on at once. Meeting me at the door of the hotel, Maria began to ask me about my purchases straight away. One of the hats made so an indelible impression on Maria, that I immediately and with great pleasure gave her a present. Being delirious with delight, she coaxed me to show her that store after dinner and I gave a ready assent. Thus began our friendship. The most humorous thing was the fact that Maria never liked the hats she bought by herself. With the same ability as she led her husband, señora Lauri-Volpi soon managed to bereave me of two hats more. All these stories greatly amused the tenor, who, in his turn, continued ladlling out praises and compliments right and left. Such was his behaviour that María once asked me to be less affable with her husband. According to her words, my courtesy attracted Giacomo's attention, which, in its turn, distracted the singer from his thoughts relative to a performance. A woman's solidarity is a great thing and I agreed to her proposal.

I usually wore a bracelet, bought sometime in Holland. Decorated with imitation jewelry, the bracelet glared so, that there was created an illusion of a marvellous rainbow. A whole week through Maria followed me up, inquiering where and when I had bought this jewel. I took a hint – she adored bijouterie and jewelry. And again I couldn't help making her a present. She was extremely happy, her husband also looked rather content. Maria was jumping for joy, while her Spanish-Gypsy eyes were dancing a real seguidilla. Short and lively, in a dress, made of a colourful flowered fabric, she looked like a child, who had gotten at last a long hoped-for toy. Some time passed and when we met again, Maria, mysteriously closing my eyes with the help of a dense veil and letting me know beforehand not to look, as children usually do, put in my hand something heavy and cold. I looked at my hand and saw a massive gold bracelet. Set with genuine diamonds and rubies, the bracelet glared with magical radiance and shone even in the dark.

– It's for you! – whispered Maria.

I couldn't believe my ears. The temptation was rather strong, because jewelry has always been my weakness. I consented to accept the bracelet, providing that I would wear it only up to the end of the tour and return it on the morrow of our performances. Otherwise, my irreversible decision to accept the present would mean breaking one of the main life principles of mine. I didn't explain to the Lauri-Volpi's what principle it was exactly, but my unqualified refusal spoke for itself. I have never accepted any presents from women and will never accept it. Gifts of this nature make you owe a debt of gratitude, while you hardly feel the same obligation towards men. Delight, that a man looks at the face of the woman he admires, rewarded him for his present. But as for a woman, she will never content herself with a mere sight of aesthetic delight. Such is life!

Meanwhile, the run-throughs of "Il Trovatore" started – due to its unique cast, the forthcoming performance was going to become an outstanding one. A Rumanian baritone, Stefanescu-Goanga, the Italians Lauri-Volpi and Riggiani, as well as I myself, felt how easy our voices filled the house. Neither the stage manager, nor the conductor concealed their delight. To tell the truth, the majority of us didn't show the maximum of their vocal and dramatic mastery, keeping forces for the first night. Lauri-Volpi, the leading "ace" in our quartet of solists, was the only one, who, being absolutely sure of himself, sang in full voice all the time. On rehearsals he acted with great enthusiasm, constantly repeating that in the scene of farewell with the mother he was ready to embrace her two hundred times instead of doing it twice. To a great extent it distracted me to concentrate upon my scenes with Manrico and my role on the whole. Simultaneously with the rehearsals of "Il Trovatore", there were passing rehearsals of "Aida", where practically the same cast of singers were engaged. Here Giacomo's compliments became much more importunate.

Once, during a performance, in the trial scene, he sang in my ear, that he renounced Aida and accepted Amneris's conditions. I just barely coped with my voice and finished a vocal phrase – the frivolity of the tenor had made me rather angry. A short pause allowed me "to take a breath" and the words "the will of Gods" with that ending B sounded with unexpected, even for me, force. This put a wet blanket on the self-confident Lauri-Volpi, who had already got accustomed to carry himself with the dignity of an indisputable master and who rather often presumed bantering his partners.

I will never forget the first night of "Il Trovatore" in Monte Carlo. The gilt house of the Opera Theatre glared. The performance began like a real gala night. Manrico sang his serenade from the first act with incredible easiness, as if it was a plain canzonetta. Leonora – a highly professional and musically precise (precise to pedantry) singer – gripped the attention of the audience straight away. The voice of the Count di Luna sounded with such inimitable and doughty force, that I could hear it even from my tiring-room. Sooth to say, I became a trifle frightened, having just heard my colleagues. Mobilizing all my attention and keeping self-possession I began to control every movement, every gesture of my heroine. Time was ripe for my entry. I was rather sure of myself and preserved an equal mind. The first aria "Stride la vampa" I sang well, but the audience, still taking my measure, didn't hurry to show their favour, so to say, "in advance". But when the time came for the story about the mother's execution, I forgot everything – about the stage, about Lauri-Volpi, sitting next to me, about the audience… Some new and incomprehensible feeling – not artistic vanity, but an irresistible and sudden creative inspiration - made me a Gypsy; move, go, in horrow dismiss a terrible vision with a wave of my hands, in the depth of despair tear my silver fell of hair. My voice also unrecognizably changed. I came to myself only by the end of the aria. It was the audience ovation that brought me back to reality, when in paroxysms of true weeping I was repeating the last Azucena's words: "Sul capo mio le chiome sento drizzarsi ancor!". The recognition from the public was won. This success inspired me and in the duet with Manrico I felt already newly and certain – I became offensive, active, masterful. I had warmed to the role of the poor Gypsy in so much, that, as eye-witnesses would say later on, even taking a bow I kept the same Azucena's impulsiveness and temperament. The performance was going over with a bang and its final promised to make super impressions. Meanwhile the sixth scene with Manrico's aria and that famous stretta began, at the end of which Lauri-Volpi, instead of a usual C, would sing Es of the third octave. This moment was of special interest for everybody, including me. I approached closer to the stage and, standing behind the scenes, listened to Giacomo's singing. The aria sounded so, as it could have been performed only by Caruso or Lauri-Volpi – with amorous passion and heroic pathos of a soldier, a troubadour, a husband. The stretta began remarkably – his clear voice with some metal sounded spiritually and vividly, but … The Es in the finale didn't sound – Lauri-Volpi suddenly lost his breath. The excited public, being petrified by this failure, kept silent. Not a single cry followed from the audience, inexpressible horrow was written on their faces. Giacomo, keeping moveless countenance and not losing his nerve, spoke to the conductor: "Aspetta!" The maestro gave a sign and the orchestra again started playing the stretta. All the singers were in great tense and anxiety and all of a dither. The finale sounded like a shot, like an explosion. It was an excellent note – beautiful, clear, soniferous, deep and strong, ending with a marvellous long fermata! At the top of their voice all the house cried "Bravo!" and sprang to their feet to enthusiastically applaud this outstanding singer. I remember very well what I was thinking of at that moment, standing on the stage – so seldom in our life we manage to hear such beautiful notes. "Supernal loveliness!" were the only words, that floated in my mind. And I haven't still found the other, more precise definition, that could better describe his singing, singing at the moments of creative enlightenment.

After the premiere we got lots of flowers, gifts and congratulations. At night we all gathered at a friendly table to solemnize our success. The representatives of two small Balkan countries – Stefanescu-Goanga and I – were especially glad and proud of the prestige of our national art. Lauri-Volpi personally, and very eloquently, congratulated me with the triumph.

The tenor, though he didn't have a reputation of a misanthrope, produced, however, an impression of a man, believing exceptionally in his own voice, his own Es and nothing more. To all appearances, the state of his vocal cords was the only thing he constantly thought and worried about. He almost didn't imbibe strong drinks – if there appeared a wineglass in his hand, he might be trusted to drink white dry wine. Lauri-Volpi preferred to eat tinned food or high-calorie concentrates – exactly suchlike meal, probably, allowed him to keep such an ideal figure. Sport, tourism and strolls hadn't found favour in the eyes of the singer. His hobby was the profession of a vocalist. Thus, he substituted vocal exercises and super sophisticated arias from a classical repertoire for daily physical jerks, so honoured among sportsmen. Those vocal exercises toned up and enforced vocal muscles and, consequently, turned out much more effective and preferable, than physical jerks, playing tennis or excursions. The tenor had a nervous and fussy manner of walking, so well corresponding to his hot and sharp temper. I remember, that first I didn't like his habit to look at himself in the mirrow. Only by the end of the tour I realized that it wasn't a sign of self-adoration and vanity, but a testimony of his constant work on himself. In such a way – before the looking-glass, Lauri-Volpi worked through all the plastic movements, gesticulation and facial expression of his personages. Probably, exactly according to this custom of his he had never tolerated on the stage any exaggerations, theatricality, grotesque… The famous tenor ably dealt with his financial affairs with his impresario and, as it was known, had been one of the most well-paid singers of that time (in the first place it concerned his records). Giacomo wasn't a venturesome man and even when he was in Monte Carlo he kept absolute indifference to roulette. He didn't risk to waste his money and liked repeating: "My roulette is my voice! It always guarantees me winnings and the most faithful stake is my Es!"

As for me, games of chances afforded me great pleasure, though more often than not they brought me loss. Once, on a Saturday evening, I squandered in a casino a rather pretty sum of money and returned to the hotel in the worst mood. My colleagues laboured so that the news about my failure became common property. Lauri-Volpi listened to their story with a smile and then mysteriously said: "Listen, sometimes, during a performance, happy ideas come to my mind. Tomorrow I will call you the figures, that will ensure your winnings!" And really, in the sixth scene of "Aida" (the scene of the trial) Giacomo whispered in my ear several figures. I bet on them and, like it was in "Pique Dame" ("The Queen of Spades"), won more than I had lost earlier. This story greatly surprised me, because such an act was rather in the spirit of Fedor Ivanovich Chaliapin, than in the spirit of Lauri-Volpi… In token of gratitude for the triumph in the casino, I gave a festive supper in honour of Lauri-Volpi and invited all our stage friends.

Our impresario had a marvelous touch in dealing with the excitable and restive tenor, unmistakably foreseeing his mood and intentions. Before and after each performance he knew who he should better speak to and what about, how to achieve the best creative atmosphere and eliminate probable difficulties in work. We were all delighted with his strategic mastery, given by nature and carefully cultivated as it was. In strict confidence from others he asked the "stars" if they were content with their partners, if he should annul or prolong this or that agreement and so on – suchlike things very often depended upon "leading singers" (as a rule, not prima donnas were such "star actors", but tenors). Probably, exactly from that time I became prejudiced against leading tenors. I could never face up to their daffy perversity. Long years experience gave me an opportunity to more than once see at first hand, that many persons, possessing big names, overwhelmingly turned out capricious and selfish people. As for those conditions, concerning their partners, they were based not on necessary artistic demands, but upon empty vanity and eagerness to say once more about themselves and create a stir around their names. It can be easily demonstrated by the fact that almost each out of ten tenors I used to sing together with, regarded himself as the very pretender, worthy of Beniamino Gigli or Aureliano Pertile.

Now I'd like to share with you my impressions, concerning Lauri-Volpi's voice. I used to performed with him only in Verdi's repertoire. Giacomo was said to be a phenomenon, and, indeed, the tenor possessed a wonderful voice. But from my point of view, his greatest achievements as a vocalist, were his parts in operas by V. Bellini, G. Donizetti, G. Rossini and G. Meyerbeer. I believe, that exactly in the roles of this repertoire he was and has still remained an unapproachable singer, without rivals. Giacomo was able to satiate his singing with vivid dramatism, tender amorous languor and poetic melancholy. Moreover, at the same time his voice, like a rapier, could easily transpierce the thick of the loudest orchestral sounding. And this is only a small part among other outstanding qualities, characterizing Lauri-Volpi's singing.

Once in the morning, entering a hotel luxury suite, where Giacomo had stayed, I heard several arias by V. Bellini and G. Donizetti, sung by the tenor. It seemed, that there stood before me a possessor of an absolutely different voice, a different timbre, too different from what I had heard the day before in "Aida". Besides rare vocal makings, Lauri-Volpi also operated with a masterly vocal technique, especially concerning his manner of breathing (he himself called this type of breathing "diaphragm-rib-abdomen" breathing). He faultlessly sang the most difficult cadences and graces, moreover, he did it in the highest register, not straining at all and keeping at the same time that true kingly self-possession. He looked spiritually tender and romantically sad. Such was his Arthur in the aria from "I Puritani" by V. Bellini. But when he began singing Arnold's aria from "Guglielmo Tell" by G. Rossini and off-hand sang the upper D of the third octave, even the pianist would stop playing, delighted with the beauty of that amazing note. As for me, already long ago had I stood up from my armchair and unconsciously – being under the impression from his singing – approached the piano. Lauri-Volpi's notes from B of the second octave to E of the third octave influenced listeners magically. These notes made people delight and drive themselves crazy. The same notes provoked hundred letters a day from admirers of his outstanding talent. But being pressed for time, Giacomo had no opportunity to even look at this correspondence, a lot less answering. It's worth mentioning, that the phenomenal vocal mastery achievements of Lauri-Volpi in the aforecited parts (to which two more roles – in "La Sonnambula" by V. Bellini and in "Les Huguenots" by G. Meyerbeer – can be added) were explained not only by his talent and a classic vocal school, but also by his exceptional exactingness towards himself and his work on professional self-perfection. When the question concerned his voice and care of it, Giacomo was a resolute and strong-willed personality.

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