New lustre pervaded the gilded interior of the Scala Theatre, in Milan, last week, reminiscent. It was the occasion of the premiere of Turandot, posthumous opera of Giacomo Puccini, presented as he left it 17 months ago, unfinished. Critics, managers, connoisseurs the world over took the pilgrimage to Milan, hopefully, fearfully. Would Turandot be of the stuff of which La Boheme was made, La Tosca, Madame Butterfly—melodious, lovely, appealing, human above all operatic ingredients, or would it savor more of The Girl of the Golden West, of...
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