actor the all-important fact on the stage. He saw the realistic
impossibility of the realistic setting, and destructively analyzed the
current modes of lighting and perspective effects. But, unlike the
members of the more conventional modern school, he insisted that the
stage is a three-dimension space and must be handled so as to make its
depth living. He felt a contradiction between the living actor and the
dead setting. He wished to bind them into one whole--the drama. How was
this to be done?
“Appia’s answer to this question is his chief claim to
greatness--genius almost. His answer was--‘By means of the lighting.’
He saw the deadliness of the contemporary methods of lighting, and
previsaged with a sort of inspiration the possibilities of new methods
which have since become common. This was at a time when he had at
his disposal none of the modern lighting systems. His foreseeing of
modern practice by means of rigid Teutonic logic in the service of the
artist’s intuition makes him one of the two or three foremost theorists
of the modern movement.
“The lighting, for Appia, is the spiritual core, the soul of the
drama. The whole action should be contained in it, somewhat as we feel
the physical body of a friend to be contained in his personality.
Appia’s second great principle is closely connected with this. While
the setting is obviously inanimate, the actor must in every way be
emphasized and made living. And this can be accomplished, he says,
only by a wise use of lighting, since it is the lights and shadows
on a human body which reveal to our eyes the fact that the body is
‘plastic’--that is, a flexible body of three dimensions. Appia would
make the setting suggest only the atmosphere, not the reality of the
thing it stands for, and would soften and beautify it with the lights.
The actor he would throw constantly into prominence while keeping him
always a part of the scene. All the elements and all the action of the
drama he would bind together by the lights and shadows.
“With the most minute care each detail of lighting, each position
of each character, in Appia’s productions is studied out so that
the dramatic meaning shall always be evident. Hence any setting of
his contains vastly more thought than is visible at a glance. It is
designed to serve for every exigency of the scene--so that a character
here shall be in full light at a certain point, while talking directly
to a character who must be quite in the dark, or that the light shall
just touch the fringe of one character’s robe as she dies, or that the
action shall all take place unimpeded, and so on. At the same time,
needless to say, Appia’s stage pictures are of the highest artistic
beauty.”[1]
In Appia’s design for the third act of _Die Walküre_, so
enthusiastically praised by Loomis Taylor, the rock of the valkyries
juts like a huge promontory of black across the front of the scene,
silhouetted against a clouded sky. So all the figures of the valkyries
stand high on the rock and are entirely silhouetted, while Sieglinde
below in front of the rock in the blackness, is hidden from the rage
of the approaching Wotan. Any one who has seen this scene as it is
ordinarily staged, without any reference to beauty or reason, will
appreciate even this meagre description of an artist’s intention,
which has not yet been carried out in any theatre with which I have
acquaintance.
Appia’s design for the first scene of _Parsifal_ discloses a group
of boughless, straight-stemmed pines, towering to heaven like the
cathedral group at Vallombrosa. Overhead the dense foliage hides the
forest paths from the sun. Light comes in through the centre at the
back, where there is a vista of plains across to the mountains, on
which one may imagine the castle of the Grail. He places a dynamic and
dramatic value on light which it is highly important to understand in
estimating his work. For example, his lighting of the second act of
_Tristan und Isolde_ culminates in a _pitch-dark_ stage during the
singing of the love-duet. This artist has designed the scenery for all
the _Ring_ and has indicated throughout what the lighting and action
shall be.
I do not know that Gordon Craig has turned his attention to any
particular Wagner drama, although he has made suggestions for several
of them, but he could, if he would, devise a mode of stage decoration
which would make the plays and their action as appealing in their
beauty as the music and the singing often now are. In his book, “On the
Art of the Theatre,” he has been explicit in his descriptions of his
designs for _Macbeth_, and the rugged strength and symbolism of his
settings and ideas for that tragedy proclaim perhaps his best right to
be a leader in the reformation of the Wagner dramas, although, even
then, it must be confessed that Craig is derived in many instances from
Appia, whom Craig himself hails as the foremost stage decorator of
Europe to-day.
Read Gordon Craig on _Macbeth_ and you will get an idea of how an
artist would go to work on _Tristan und Isolde_ or _Götterdämmerung_.
“I see two things, I see a lofty and steep rock, and I see the moist
cloud which envelops the head of this rock. That is to say, a place
for fierce and warlike men to inhabit, a place for phantoms to nest
in. Ultimately this moisture will destroy the rock; ultimately these
spirits will destroy the men. Now then, you are quick in your question
as to what actually to create for the eye. I answer as swiftly--place
there a rock! Let it mount high. Swiftly I tell you, convey the idea of
a mist which hangs at the head of this rock. Now, have I departed at
all for one-eighth of an inch from the vision which I saw in the mind’s
eye?
“But you ask me what form this rock shall take and what colour? What
are the lines which are the lofty lines, and which are to be seen in
any lofty cliff? Go to them, glance but a moment at them; now quickly
set them down on your paper; _the lines and their direction_, never
mind the cliff. Do not be afraid to let them go high; they cannot go
high enough; and remember that on a sheet of paper which is but two
inches square you can make a line which seems to tower miles in the
air, and you can do the same on your stage, for it is all a matter of
proportion and has nothing to do with actuality.
“You ask about the colours? What are the colours which Shakespeare has
indicated for us? Do not first look at Nature, but look at the play
of the poet. Two, one for the rock, the man; one for the mist, the
spirit. Now, quickly, take and accept this statement from me. Touch
not a single other colour, but only these two colours through your
whole progress of designing your scenes and your costumes, yet forget
not that each colour contains many variations. If you are timid for a
moment and mistrust yourself or what I tell, when the scene is finished
you will not see with your eye the effect you have seen with your
mind’s eye when looking at the picture which Shakespeare has indicated.”
The producers of the Wagner music dramas do not seem to have heard
of Adolphe Appia. Gordon Craig is a myth to them. Reinhardt does not
exist. Have they ever seen the name of Stanislawsky? Do they know
where his theatre is? Would they consider it sensible to spend three
years in mounting _Hamlet_? Is the name of Fokine known to them? of
Bakst? N. Roerich, Nathalie Gontcharova, Alexandre Benois, Theodore
Federowsky?... One could go on naming the artists of the theatre.
(Recently there have been evidences of an art movement in the theatre
in America. Joseph Urban, first in Boston with the Boston Opera
Company, and later in New York with various theatrical enterprises,
may be mentioned as an important figure in this movement. His settings
for _Monna Vanna_ were particularly beautiful and he really seems to
have revolutionized the staging of _revues_ and similar light musical
pieces. Robert Jones has done some very good work. I think he was
responsible for the imaginative staging [in Gordon Craig’s manner, to
be sure] of the inner scenes in the Shakespeare mask, _Caliban_. But I
would give the Washington Square Players credit for the most successful
experiments which have been made in New York. In every instance they
have attempted to suit the staging to the mood of the drama, and have
usually succeeded admirably, at slight expense. They have developed
a good deal of previously untried talent in this direction. Lee
Simonson, in particular, has achieved distinctive results. I have
seldom seen better work of its kind on the stage than his settings
for _The Magical City_, _Pierre Patelin_, and _The Seagull_. At the
Metropolitan Opera House no account seems to be taken of this art
movement, although during the season of 1915-16 in _The Taming of the
Shrew_ an attempt was made to emulate the very worst that has been done
in modern Germany.)
For several years the Russian Ballet, under the direction of Serge
de Diaghilew, has been presenting operas and ballets in the European
capitals, notably in London and Paris for long seasons each summer
(the Ballet has been seen in America since this article was written).
A number of artists and a number of stage directors have been working
together in staging these works, which, as a whole, may be conceded
to be the most completely satisfying productions which have been made
on the stage during the progress of this new movement in the theatre.
One or two of the German productions, or Gordon Craig’s _Hamlet_
in Stanislawsky’s theatre, may have surpassed them in the sterner
qualities of beauty, the serious truth of their art, but none has
surpassed them in brilliancy, in barbaric splendour, or in their almost
complete solution of the problems of mingling people with painted
scenery. The Russians have solved these problems by a skilful (and
passionately liberal) use of colour and light. The painted surfaces
are mostly flat, to be sure, and crudely painted, but the tones of
the canvas are so divinely contrived to mingle with the tones of the
costumes that the effect of an animated picture is arrived at with
seemingly very little pother. This method of staging is not, in most
instances, it must be admitted, adapted to the requirements of the
Wagner dramas. Bakst, I imagine, would find it difficult to cramp
his talents in the field of Wagnerism, though he should turn out a
very pretty edition of _Das Rheingold_. Roerich, on the other hand,
who designed the scenery and costumes for _Prince Igor_ as it was
presented in Paris and London in the summer of 1914, would find no
difficulty in staging _Götterdämmerung_. The problem is the same: to
convey an impression of barbarism and strength. One scene I remember in
Borodine’s opera in which an open window, exposing only a clear stretch
of sky--the rectangular opening occupied half of the wall at the back
of the room--was made to act the drama. A few red lights skilfully
played on the curtain representing the sky made it seem as if in truth
a city were burning and I thought how a similar simple contrivance
might make a more imaginative final scene for _Götterdämmerung_.
It is, however, in their handling of mechanical problems that the
Russians could assist the new producer of the Wagner dramas to his
greatest advantage. In Rimsky-Korsakow’s opera, _The Golden Cock_,
for instance, the bird of the title has several appearances to make.
Now there was no attempt made, in the Russians’ stage version of this
work, to have this bird jiggle along a supposedly invisible wire, in
reality quite visible, flapping his artificial wings and wiggling his
insecure feet, as in the usual productions of _Siegfried_. Instead the
bird was built solid like a bronze cock for a drawing-room table; he
did not flap his wings; his feet were motionless; when the action of
the drama demanded his presence he was let down on a wire; there was
no pretence of a lack of machinery. The effect, however, was vastly
more imaginative and diverting than that in _Siegfried_, because it was
more simple. In like manner King Dodon, in the same opera, mounted a
wooden horse on wheels to go to the wars, and the animals he captured
were also made of wood, studded with brilliant beads. In Richard
Strauss’s ballet, _The Legend of Joseph_, the figure of the guardian
angel was not let down on a wire from the flies as he might have been
in a Drury Lane pantomime; the naïve nature of the work was preserved
by his nonchalant entrance across the _loggia_ and down a flight of
steps, exactly the entrance of all the human characters of the ballet.
I do not mean to suggest that these particular expedients would fit
into the Wagner dramas so well as they do into works of a widely
different nature. They should, however, indicate to stage directors the
possibility of finding a method to suit the case in each instance. And
I do assert, without hope or fear of contradiction, that Brünnhilde
with a wooden horse would challenge less laughter than she does with
the sorry nags which are put at her disposal and which Siegfried later
takes down the river with him. It is only down the river that one
can sell such horses. As for the bird, there are bird trainers whose
business it is to teach pigeons to fly from pillar to post in the music
halls; their services might be contracted for to make that passage
in _Siegfried_ a little less distracting. The difficulties connected
with this particular mechanical episode (and a hundred others) might
be avoided by a different lighting of the scene. If the tree-tops of
the forest were submerged in the deepest shadows, as well they might
be, the flight of the bird on a wire might be accomplished with some
sort of illusion. But why should one see the bird at all? One hears it
constantly as it warbles advice to the hero.
The new Wagner producer must possess many qualities if he wishes to
place these works on a plane where they may continue to challenge the
admiration of the world. Wagner himself was more concerned with his
ideals than he was with their practical solution. Besides, it must be
admitted that taste in stage art and improvements in stage mechanism
have made great strides in the last decade. The plaster wall, for
instance, which has replaced in many foreign theatres the flapping,
swaying, wrinkled, painted canvas sky cyclorama (still in use at the
Metropolitan Opera House; a vast sum was paid for it a few years ago)
is a new invention and one which, when appropriately lighted, perfectly
counterfeits the appearance of the sky in its different moods. (So
far as I know the only theatre in New York with this apparatus is
the Neighborhood Playhouse on Grand Street.) In Houston Stewart
Chamberlain’s “Richard Wagner,” published in 1897, I find the following:
“Wagner foresaw that in the new drama the whole principle of the stage
scenery must undergo a complete alteration but did not particularize in
detail. The _Meister_ says that ‘music resolves the rigid immovable
groundwork of the scenery into a liquid, yielding, ethereal surface,
capable of receiving impressions’; but to prevent a painful conflict
between what is seen and what is heard, the stage picture, too, must
be relieved from the curse of rigidity which now rests upon it. The
only way of doing this is by managing the light in a manner which
its importance deserves, that its office may no longer be confined
to illuminating painted walls.... I am convinced that the next great
advance in the drama will be of this nature, in the art of the eye,
and not in music.” (The passage quoted further refers to Appia’s first
book, published in French. Chamberlain was a close friend of Appia and
“Die Musik und die Inscenierung” is dedicated to him.)
It must also be understood that Wagner in some instances, when the
right medium of his expression was clear to him, made concessions to
what he considered the unintelligence of the public. Wotan’s waving of
the sword is a case in point. The _motiv_ without the object he did
not think would carry out the effect he intended to convey, although
the absurdity of Wotan’s founding his new humanity on the power of the
degenerate giants must have been apparent to him. Sometimes the Master
changed his mind. Paris would have none of _Tannhäuser_ without a
ballet and so Wagner rewrote the first act and now the Paris version
of the opera is the accepted one. In any case it must be apparent that
what Wagner wanted was a fusion of the arts, and a completely artistic
one. So that if any one can think of a better way of presenting his
dramas than one based on the very halting staging which he himself
devised (with the limited means at his command) as perhaps the best
possible to exploit his ideals, that person should be hailed as
Wagner’s friend. It must be seen, at any current presentation of his
dramas, that his way, or Cosima’s, is not the best way. The single
performances which have made the deepest impression on the public have
deviated the farthest from tradition. Olive Fremstad’s Isolde was far
from traditional. Her very costume of deep green was a flaunt in the
face of Wagner’s conventionally white robed heroine. In the first
act, after taking the love potion, she did not indulge in any of the
swimming movements usually employed by sopranos to pass the time away
until the occasion came to sing again. She stood as a woman dazed,
passing her hands futilely before her eyes, and it was to be noted
that in some instances her action had its supplement in the action of
the tenor who was singing with her, although, in other instances, he
would continue to swim in the most highly approved Bayreuth fashion.
But Olive Fremstad, artist that she was, could not completely divorce
herself from tradition; in some cases she held to it against her
judgment. The stage directions for the second act of _Parsifal_, for
example, require Kundry to lie on her couch, tempting the hero, for
a very long time. Great as Fremstad’s Kundry was, it might have been
improved if she had allowed herself to move more freely along the
lines that her artistic conscience dictated. Her Elsa was a beautiful
example of the moulding of the traditional playing of a rôle into a
picturesque, imaginative figure, a feat similar to that which Mary
Garden accomplished in her delineation of Marguerite in _Faust_. Mme.
Fremstad always sang Brünnhilde in _Götterdämmerung_ throughout with
the fire of genius. This was surely some wild creature, a figure of
Greek tragedy, a Norse Elektra. The superb effect she wrought, at her
first performance in the rôle, with the scene of the spear, was never
tarnished in subsequent performances. The thrill was always there.
In face of acting and singing like that one can afford to ignore
Wagner’s theory about the wedding of the arts. A Fremstad or a Lehmann
can carry a Wagner drama to a triumphant conclusion with few, if
any, accessories, but great singing artists are rare; nor does a
performance of this kind meet the requirements of the Wagner ideal, in
which the picture, the word, and the tone shall all be a part of the
drama (_Wort-Tondrama_). Wagner invented a new form of stage art but
only in a small measure did he succeed in perfecting a method for its
successful presentation. The artist-producer must arise to repair this
deficiency, to become the dominating force in future performances, to
see that the scenes are painted in accordance with the principles of
beauty and dramatic fitness, to see that they are lighted to express
the secrets of the drama, as Appia says they should be, to see that
the action is sympathetic with the decoration, and that the decoration
never encumbers the action, that the lighting assists both. There never
has been a production of the _Ring_ which has in any sense realized its
true possibilities, the ideal of Wagner.
_June 24, 1915._
FOOTNOTES:
[1] For a further discussion of Appia’s work and its probable influence
on Gordon Craig, see an article “Adolphe Appia and Gordon Craig” in my
book “Music After the Great War.”
The Bridge Burners
“_Zieh’hin! ich kann dich nicht halten!_”
Der Wanderer.
The Bridge Burners
I
It is from the enemy that one learns. Richelieu and other great men
have found it folly to listen to the advice of friends when rancour,
hatred, and jealousy inspired much more helpful suggestions. And it
occurred to me recently that the friends of modern music were doing
nothing by way of describing it. They are content to like it. I must
confess that I have been one of these. I have heard first performances
of works by Richard Strauss and Claude Debussy on occasions when
the programme notes gave one cause for dread. At these times I have
often been pleasurably excited and I have never lacked for at least a
measured form of enjoyment except when I found those gods growing a bit
old. The English critics were right when they labelled _The Legend of
Joseph_ Handelian. The latest recital of Leo Ornstein’s which I heard
made me realize that even the extreme modern music evidently protrudes
no great perplexities into my ears. They accept it all, a good deal of
it with avidity, some with the real tribute of astonishment which goes
only to genius.
On the whole, I think, I should have found it impossible to write
this article which, with a new light shining on my paper, is dancing
from under my darting typewriter keys, if I had not stumbled by
good luck into the camp of the enemy. For I find misunderstanding,
lack of sympathy, and enmity towards the new music to a certain
degree inspirational. These qualities, projected, have crystallized
impressions in my mind, which might, under other circumstances, have
remained vague and, in a sense, I think I may make bold to say, they
have made it possible for me to synthesize to a greater degree than has
hitherto been attempted, the various stimuli and progressive gestures
of modern music. I can more clearly say now _why_ I like it. (If I were
to tell others how to like it I should be forced to resort to a single
sentence: “Open your ears”.)
A good deal of this new insight has come to me through assiduous
perusal of Mr. Richard Aldrich’s comment on musical doings in the
columns of the “New York Times.” Mr. Aldrich, like many another,
has been bewildered and annoyed by a good deal of the modern music
played (Heaven knows that there is little enough modern music played
in New York. Up to date [April 16, 1916] there has been nothing of
Arnold Schoenberg performed this season later than his _Pelléas
und Mélisande_ and his _Kammersymphonie_; of Strawinsky--aside
from the three slight pieces for string quartet--nothing later than
_Petrouchka_. Such new works as John Alden Carpenter’s _Adventures in
a Perambulator_ and Enrique Granados’s _Goyescas_--as an opera--do not
seriously overtax the critical ear) but he has done more than some
others by way of expressing the causes of this bewilderment and this
annoyance. Some critics neglect the subject altogether but Mr. Aldrich
at least attempts to be explanatory. My first excerpt from his writings
is clipped from an article in the “New York Times” of December 5, 1915,
devoted to the string quartet music of Strawinsky, performed by the
Flonzaleys at Æolian Hall in New York on the evening of November 30:
“So far as this particular type of ‘futurist’ music is concerned it
seems to be conditioned on an accompaniment of something else to
explain it from beginning to end.”