Mr. James Huneker, in one of his series of articles entitled "With the
Immortals," in the New York _World_, thus, in his inimitable way
characterizes Victor Maurel:
"I don't suppose there is to be found in musical annals such diversity
of aptitudes as that displayed by this French baritone. Is there an
actor on any stage to-day who can portray both the grossness of Falstaff
and the subtlety of Iago? Making allowance for the different art medium
that the singing actor must work in, and despite the larger curves of
operatic pose and gesture, Maurel kept astonishingly near to the
characters he assumed. He was Shakespearian; his Falstaff was the most
wonderful I ever saw."
[Illustration: VICTOR MAUREL]
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 rôles 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.
"Painting is a great art," he said; "an art which requires profound
study. I have been a close student of this art for many years and love
it more and more."
"M. Maurel aims now to express himself through the art of color and
form, as he has always done through voice and gesture," remarked my
friend.
"Art is the highest means of expression," went on the master, "whether
through music, painting, sculpture, architecture or the theater. The
effort to express myself through another art-medium, painting, has long
been a joy to me. I have studied with no teacher but myself, but I have
learned from all the great masters; they have taught me everything."
He then led the way to his music room on the floor above. Here were more
paintings, many rare pieces of furniture and his piano. A fine portrait
of Verdi, with an affectionate autograph, stood on a table; one of
Ambroise Thomas, likewise inscribed, hung near. "A serious man, almost
austere," said Maurel, regarding the portrait of Verdi thoughtfully,
"but one of the greatest masters of all time."
Praying us to be seated, he placed himself on an ottoman before us. The
talk easily drifted into the subject of the modern operatic stage, and
modern operas of the Italian school, in which one is so often tempted to
shout rather than sing. The hero of Mozart's Don Giovanni, who could
sing his music as perhaps no one else has ever done, would not be likely
to have much patience with the modern style of explosive vocal
utterance.
"How do you preserve your voice and your repertoire?" I questioned.