OPERATIC FRANCE VERSUS OPERATIC GERMANY
After a few months of strenuous endeavour on my part, I began to be a
little dissatisfied and restless. I saw clearly that in a year's time,
working at such pressure, I should have a sufficient repertoire to begin
my apprenticeship on the stage; but I did not see my way to a _debut_
quite so clearly. I talked with the other pupils, to get their ideas of
progression. They all said, "When I make my _debut_ at the Opera," or
"the Comique." They were all sure of an opening at the top and
apparently would consider nothing less than leading roles in a world
capital. That was not my idea at all. I did not care about a _debut_. I
wanted to learn to act, to do my big parts over and over again before an
audience, to sing them into my voice, to learn to make voice, face, and
my whole body an articulate expression of all that the role had to say.
I tried to find out how the singers of the two operas had made their
careers. Some, I learned, though doing leading work, still paid for
their performances by taking so and so many francs worth of seats every
time they sang. Some had gained a hearing by the influence of their
teachers. Some were there by "protection." The Russian girl's sister was
very beautiful, but she was not very gifted either vocally or
histrionically, and I wondered at her engagement, until I heard that she
was the _protegee_ of a certain rich man. The winners of the first prize
at the Conservatoire had a chance given them, and one or two had made
good to a certain extent, and still sang occasionally. But, I thought,
if the debutantes of the Conservatoire must be given an opportunity,
there can be very little room for other inexperienced singers, and
certainly none for foreigners. The "France for the French" spirit had
impressed me tremendously, as it must all foreigners in Paris. Generous
as the city is to them, she rightly gives her rewards to those of her
own race first.
The opera class was another source of annoyance to me. The one idea was
"copy what I show you"--make a faithful imitation whether it expresses
what you feel or not; it doesn't matter what you feel so long as you
pour everything into the same moulds and turn out neat little shapes,
labelled "love," "hate," "despair," all ready for use, and all "true to
the traditions of the French school." The first lessons of all were in
standing and walking, and there began my sadness. The traditions
demanded that one's feet be set eternally at "ten minutes to two." Mine
would deviate from this rule, and I aided and abetted them in their
mutiny. My instinct was to sit down occasionally with my knees together,
instead of always draping one leg at the side of the chair. I often felt
like singing quite a long phrase with no gestures at all, instead of
keeping up a succession of undulating arm-movements.
Our dramatic coach, a fiery individual, who chewed coffee-berries
persistently, struggled in vain to teach me to lay one hand on my heart
in the traditional manner, two middle fingers together, little one
crooked, thumb in. Sometimes mine looked like a starfish, and sometimes
like a fist, and both were taboo. Gestures had to melt into each other;
there were different ones for different emotions, and woe betide you if
you mixed them! There was a sort of test speech beginning, "_Moi, qui
vous parle._" The hand at "_moi_" had to be laid upon the chest in the
approved manner. I have forgotten the middle, but the end was, "_Et vous
jure, que je le ferai jamais!_" At _jure_ one elevated the right hand,
the first two fingers raised, and at _jamais_ the right arm described a
figure eight across the upper half of the body, with the gesture of
tearing away a long beard. We did this all winter and never reached
perfection, that is, an exact copy of Valdejo, our instructor.
We had to practice the classic walk--slowly advancing, foot dragging,
stomach out, very lordly to see, one arm bent from the elbow with the
forearm and hand resting against the body--a most difficult thing. The
different versions were very comic, but the idea was excellent and I
used it later in "Orfeo." Certainly a pulled back tummy would not be in
character in a Greek tunic.
Later, we had to act scenes from our operas, and there I got on better.
I used to get absorbed in the character to the extent of becoming
perfectly oblivious of my surroundings. I remember once, as _Dalila_,
throwing myself so hard upon the supposed couch of _Dalila_, that I
thumped my head on the marble mantel behind me. My watching class mates
burst into a snicker, and I into real tears of anger, not of pain. I had
entirely forgotten them when their giggles wrenched me back into the
present; but their great pride was never to forget themselves and always
to be ready to imitate the coach in cold blood. He, however, appreciated
that I had something in me, and used to thump me on the back, and call
me "Canaille!" when I did anything that pleased him--a curious
expression of approval.
I am not denouncing the ordinary "opera class." This method of slavish
imitation doubtless has its usefulness for some people. The old order of
opera singer was often trained by such schooling. But Mary Garden had
opened my eyes to the new order of singing actors, and the old method
was no help to me. I longed for a real stage on which to try out my own
ideas, and find by experience whether they were right or wrong. I wanted
to gain that subtle quality, "authority," which is nearly as important
as voice itself, that routine which makes one forget the four long bones
of the body, and blends all its members into an instrument of
expression, homogeneous and harmonious.
In my researches into the life-stories of French singers, I heard much
of "the French provinces" as a training school, and turned my attention
to accumulating all the information on that subject that I could gather.
I heard tales of southern audiences who cheered their singers to the
echo, waited in a mob to tear the horses from their carriages after a
performance, pelted them with flowers and expressed their approval in
other picturesque fashions. The reverse side of these tales is of
directly opposite character, when benches are torn up and flung over the
gallery by the "gods," disappointed at not hearing a favourite singer,
and the head of the unlucky substitute is the target for their missiles
till he makes good with a high note loud enough to pierce the din of
their protestation. If a wretched singer clears his throat loud enough
to be heard, he will be greeted at each entrance by a chorus of
throat-clearing from the gallery. If his acting of a part strikes them
as being pretentious or over-solemn, groans and cries of
"Shakespear-r-r-e" reward his efforts. To crack on a high note is the
certain signal for a riot of yelling and jeers, but the unhappy singer
must stick it out at any cost, for if he leaves the stage, they wait for
him outside and set upon him bodily.
"If you've made the round of the Provinces," as Harry Weldon, who has
done so, once said to me, "you can sing in Hell!"
Of course, not all provincial audiences are so "temperamental" as the
southerners, but, as far as I could learn, paid performances and
protection seemed to exist everywhere in greater or less degree. The
repertoire was limited and old-fashioned--the standard French operas,
"Faust," "Mignon," "Carmen," "Hamlet," were performed, with "Traviata,"
"Trovatore," "Aida," "The Barber," some Meyerbeer, and many of the
lighter works, like "La Fille du Regiment." Among the more modern works
were "Werther" and "Manon" of Massenet, with "Boheme" and "Butterfly"
and perhaps "Louise." "Lohengrin" and "Tannhaeuser" were sometimes given,
but the big Wagner dramas, the classics of Mozart, Weber and Gluck, and
the moderns like Debussy, Dukas, Strauss, Humperdinck, seemed
neglected. Over all there hung a general lack of method, musical
thoroughness and discipline. I must confess that I judge largely by
hear-say, as the only provincial French opera house of which I have any
personal knowledge is that of Nancy. So it may be that I do "The
Provinces" an injustice. Of course, both Monte Carlo and Nice offer many
novelties. But then Monte Carlo is not a provincial French opera at all.
On the other hand, the stories I heard of the great operatic machinery
of Germany began to attract me irresistibly. The organized system of
opera, the great chain of opera houses, the discipline of their rigid
schooling, the concentration and deep musical sincerity of their
musicians, the simplicity of German life, all seemed to offer what I was
looking for. The dramatic quality of my voice would have more scope in
their more varied repertoire, while surely in their hundred-odd opera
houses I might find a place to work out my ideas in peace.
Every one thought me crazy. My teachers tried their hardest to dissuade
me, promising me a great career in France. But I felt a call to Germany
where I hoped to find the right conditions for my own development which
seemed lacking in France. The great barrier was the language--the
difficulty of singing in it, to say nothing of learning it, for I did
not know one word. Jean de Reszke said to me later, speaking of German
as a language for singing: "_Avec cette langue, vous n'arriverez
jamais._" (With that language, you will never succeed.) However, I have
said that I had a good deal of courage in those days, and I determined
to go to Berlin to try my luck.
Not that I was tired of Paris. It is still my favourite city offering a
wonderful opportunity for broadening culture to those who can get into
touch with its art life. I owe it a great debt for deepening my artistic
perception, and developing that sense of true proportion which keeps one
from exaggeration on the one hand and pedantry on the other. But I
should not recommend Paris as the best school for the ordinary American
student of singing, who has no opportunity to penetrate into real French
life. There is no lack of sincerity in the real French institutions, the
Conservatoire, the schools of art, the Sorbonne--there are found
concentration, competition, and keenness enough. But the foreign student
of singing does not ordinarily come into contact with these
institutions. In the Paris vocal studios, as I know them, there is a
dissipation instead of a conservation of energy. The students expect to
win the crown without running the race, and money and influence play too
great a role. They (vocal students, I mean) tend to exaggerate their
little emotions into _grandes passions_, and hold the most
disproportionate views of their own importance. I do not mean to say
that I agree with a certain singer who brought back harrowing tales of
immorality among American students in Europe. Amongst all the hundreds
of vocal students I have known, I never met one case of flagrant
misbehaviour. In general the girls live quietly and strive according to
their lights, though there is not one in twenty with resolution enough
to concentrate on the hard work necessary for a great career. The
temptation is to fritter away both time and money on the things that
don't matter.