The Diva’s Relic: When a Sacred Charm Held Up a Seattle Opera
A superstitious cantatrice once refused to perform because she’d lost a piece of the True Cross—forcing her manager to hunt through trunks until the curtain rose.
The story, cleaned up
A cleaned-up reading of the newspaper page: spelling and layout repaired, one story lifted off a crowded page. It follows the original closely but it is not a transcription. The original page is below; read it if a detail matters.
The coming of Emma Juch to this city next week makes the following weird incident in the life of the great cantatrice of more than ordinary interest.
On one occasion, while the diva was singing the role of Elsa in "Lohengrin" in Brooklyn, an incident occurred which afterwards led to a curious condition of affairs. During the first act a tall, fine-looking old gentleman, wearing the unmistakable garb of the priesthood, entered the Academy of Music, passed well down in front and occupied a seat in the orchestra.
After the curtain had descended on the last net the reverend father sought the director of the company and requested the favor of being presented to the fair Elsa, stating that he had an important communication to make that might possibly affect her whole future life. The manager acceded to his singular request, and conducted the old gentleman behind the scenes to a little parlor adjoining the dressing room of the fair singer.
The good man looked at her attentively for some moments before speaking, then held out his hand and said: "My child, I am fully satisfied that no one but a truly good woman could enact the role that I have witnessed you in this evening in such a feeling and sympathetic manner... Now, since childhood's happy days I have been the possessor of this little bag containing a small piece of the true cross. I have had it about my person, waking or sleeping, for nearly seventy years... This precious relic is yours on one condition, and that is a promise that whenever you appear as Elsa you will wear it."
The promise was given and the little keepsake changed owners. Manager Locke, who had been a silent witness to the transaction, escorted his clerical visitor to the door.
Later, at the Boston theater, manager Locke discovered that Miss Juch had lost this valuable keepsake and refused to go on stage until it was found. In vain did Locke expostulate, persuade, storm and command. The songstress flatly refused, stamped her little foot and declared she would never sing the part of Elsa again if the treasure could not be found.
Just as the director began to consider the possibility of substituting another opera for "Lohengrin," Miss Juch's maid, who had been diving to the bottom of numerous trunks and cases in search of the missent trinket, came to the front with the shout of 'Here it is! Here it is!' Eagerly seizing the little relic and pressing it to her lips, the songstress dashed aside her tears... and was ready to appear before an audience that little dreamed how near they came to missing the opera they were assembled to hear.
In an era where celebrity culture was just beginning to take shape, the line between professional obligation and personal superstition was drawn sharply. Today, we might view Emma Juch’s refusal as a quirky anecdote about performance anxiety or ritual; back then, it was reported as a dramatic 'weird incident' that nearly derailed a major production, highlighting how deeply intertwined faith, fame, and fear were for touring artists in the late 19th century.
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