"It is entirely through the mind that I keep both. I know so exactly
how to produce tone qualities, that if I recall those sensations which
accompany tone production, I can induce them at will. How do we make
tones, sing an aria, impersonate a rôle? Is not all done with the mind,
with thought? I must think the tone before I produce it--before I sing
it; I must mentally visualize the character and determine how I will
represent it, before I attempt it. I must identify myself with the
character I am to portray before I can make it _live_. Does not then all
come from thinking--from thought?
"Again: I can think out the character and make a mental picture of it
for myself, but how shall I project it for others to see? I have to
convince myself first that I am that character--I must identify myself
with it; then I must convince those who hear me that I am really that
character." Maurel rose and moved to the center of the room.
"I am to represent some character--Amonasro, let us say. I must present
the captive King, bound with chains and brought before his captors. I
must feel with him, if I am really going to represent him. I must
believe myself bound and a prisoner; then I must, through pose and
action, through expression of face, gesture, voice, everything--I must
make this character real to the audience."
And as we looked, he assumed the pose of the man in chains, his hands
seemed tied, his body bent, his expression one in which anger and
revenge mingled; in effect, he was for the moment Amonasro.
"I have only made you see my mental concept of Amonasro. If I have once
thoroughly worked out a conception, made it my own, then it is mine. I
can create it at any moment. If I feel well and strong I can sing the
part now in the same way as I have always sung it, because my thought is
the same and thought produces. Whether I have a little more voice, or
less voice, what does it matter? I can never lose my conception of a
character, for it is in my mind, and mind projects it. So there is no
reason to lose the voice, for that also is in mind and can be thought
out at will.
"Suppose I have an opposite character to portray,--the elegant Don
Giovanni, for example"; and drawing himself up and wrapping an imaginary
cloak about him, with the old well-remembered courtly gesture, his face
and manner were instantly transformed at the thought of his favorite
character. He turned and smiled on us, his strong features lighted, and
his whole appearance expressed the embodiment of Mozart's hero.
"You see I must have lived, so to say, in these characters and made them
my own, or I could not recall them at a moment's notice. All
impersonation, to be artistic, to be vital, must be a part of one's
self; one must get into the character. When I sing Iago I am no longer
myself--I am another person altogether; self is quite forgotten; I am
Iago, for the time being.
"In Paris, at the Sorbonne, I gave a series of lectures; the first was
on this very subject, the identification of one's self with the
character to be portrayed. The large audience of about fifteen hundred,
contained some of the most famous among artists and men of letters"; and
Maurel, with hands clasped about his knee, gazed before him into space,
and we knew he was picturing in mental vision, the scene at the
Sorbonne, which he had just recalled.
After a moment, he resumed. "The singer, though trying to act out the
character he assumes, must not forget to _sing_. The combination of fine
singing and fine acting is rare. Nowadays people think if they can act,
that atones for inartistic singing; then they yield to the temptation
to shout, to make harsh tones, simply for effect." And the famous
baritone caricatured some of the sounds he had recently heard at an
operatic performance with such gusto, that a member of the household
came running in from an adjoining room, thinking there must have been an
accident and the master of the house was calling for help. He hastily
assured her all was well--no one was hurt; then we all had a hearty
laugh over the little incident.
And now we begged to be allowed to visit the atelier, where the
versatile artist worked out his pictures. He protested that it was in
disorder, that he would not dare to take us up, and so on. After a
little he yielded to persuasion, saying, however, he would go up first
and arrange the room a little. As soon as he had left us my friend
turned to me:
"What a remarkable man! So strong and vigorous, in spite of his advanced
age. No doubt he travels those stairs twenty times a day. He is as alert
as a young man; doubtless he still has his voice, as he says. And what a
career he has had. You know he was a friend of Edward the Seventh; they
once lived together. Then he and Verdi were close friends; he helped
coach singers for Verdi's operas. He says it was a wonderful
experience, when the composer sat down at the piano, put his hands on
the keys and showed the singers how he wanted his music sung!
"Early in his career Maurel sang in Verdi's opera, _Simone Boccanegra_,
which one never hears now, but it has a fine baritone part, and a couple
of very dramatic scenes, especially the final scene at the close. This
is the death scene. Maurel had sung and acted so wonderfully on a
certain occasion that all the singers about him were in tears. Verdi was
present at this performance and was deeply moved by Maurel's singing and
acting. He came upon the stage when all was over, and exclaimed, in a
voice trembling with emotion: 'You have created the rôle just as I would
have it; I shall write an opera especially _for you_!' This he did; it
was _Othello_, and the Iago was composed for Maurel. In his later years,
when he seldom left his home, the aged composer several times expressed
the wish that he might go to Paris, just to hear Maurel sing once more.
"It is very interesting that he was led to speak to us as he did just
now, about mental control, and the part played by mind in the singer's
study, equipment and career. It is a side of the question which every
young singer must seriously consider, first, last and always. But here
he comes."
Again protesting about the appearance of his simple studio, the master
led the way up the stairways till we reached the top of the house, where
a north-lighted room had been turned into a painter's atelier. With
mingled feelings we stepped within this modest den of a great artist,
which held his treasures. These were never shown to the casual observer,
nor to the merely curious; they were reserved for the trusted few.
The walls were lined with sketches; heads, still life, landscapes, all
subjects alike interested the painter. A rugged bust of Verdi, over life
size, modeled in plaster, stood in one corner. On an easel rested a
spirited portrait of Maurel, done by himself.
"My friends tell me I should have a larger studio, with better light;
but I am content with this, for here is quiet and here I can be alone,
free to commune with myself. Here I can study my art undisturbed,--for
Art is my religion. If people ask if I go to church, I say No, but I
worship the immortality which is within, which I feel in my soul, the
reflection of the Almighty!"
In quiet mood a little later we descended the white stairway and passed
along the corridors of this house, which looks so foreign to American
eyes, and has the atmosphere of a Paris home.
The artist accompanied us to the street door and bade us farewell, in
his kindly dignified manner.
As the door closed and we were in the street, my friend said:
"A wonderful man and a rare artist. Where shall we find his like
to-day?"