THE MAKINGS OF A SMALL MUNICIPAL OPERA HOUSE
Early the next morning, before we were up, our English friend kindly
came to see us, and with her help we soon discovered just what we were
looking for, in an eminently respectable house, where the _Hausfrau_ was
the wife of a policeman, so that we were under the shadow of the majesty
of the law.
A young doctor had the rooms, but she assured us that he was moving
immediately, and that we might send our trunks the following day. We
duly arrived the next afternoon with an avalanche of baggage and found
that the poor young man had had no intention of leaving before the end
of the month and had even invited guests for that very evening! Floods
of German ensued between him and the _Hausfrau_, while we sat
philosophically on our trunks in the hall and waited. Presently she
emerged, rather heated of countenance, to say that it was all arranged,
and to begin moving our things into the bedroom. The doctor called us
into the sitting-room, waived aside our explanations and thanks for his
gallantry, and shutting all the doors mysteriously, proceeded to the
only revenge in his power--to defame the character and impugn the
honesty of our future hostess.
"Keep things locked, I warn you, keep them locked!" he repeated
earnestly, all the while cramming books, bottles and garments
promiscuously into a trunk.
We made allowances for his need of reprisal, and took his warning with a
grain of salt; and as a matter of fact our landlady never touched
anything of ours except what she doubtless considered her proper
"commission" levied upon our coal and kerosene. She was quite
satisfactory on the whole, except that she _would_ quarrel very noisily
with her policeman from time to time, or rather he with her. When we
remonstrated and said that we could not stand it and that she shouldn't,
she answered that she would be only too glad to get out of her bargain,
but that she had put her money into this marriage and therefore had to
stay in it!
Her small boy was named Karl, but she always called him "Schweinsche'."
She had a few wisps of greyish drab hair wound round a sort of
steering-wheel of celluloid in the back. On Christmas my sister hunted
for hours for a present for her, and finally returned with a
magnificent set of rhinestone-set haircombs. I have always wondered what
the poor woman did with them, as her hair could not have covered an
eighth of their prongs.
The reason for the summary dismissal of her former tenant was, of
course, the extra money that she made out of our being foreigners who
did not know the tariff, and the fact that there were two of us to be
served. We paid sixty marks, fifteen dollars, a month for the rooms,
service and breakfast of coffee and rolls, and little as this seems, I
don't suppose the doctor had paid a penny over forty. Our colleagues
thought us spendthrifts and gullible foreigners, as they paid about
thirty marks and got their own breakfast.
My sister had two chafing dishes on which she cooked our supper, but the
two o'clock dinner was a problem. I was too tired after the strenuous
morning rehearsals beginning at ten o'clock, and the strain of trying to
follow all the directions I received in German, to go to the Hotels or
restaurants for dinner, as most of my colleagues did. Our landlady
suggested that she should have it fetched from the officers' mess of the
crack cavalry regiment, whose barracks were near by. She said this was a
usual arrangement. We bought a sort of tier of enamelled dishes, fitting
into each other and carried in a kind of wickerwork handle. One
contained soup, the next meat, the third vegetable, while bread or
dessert reposed in the top. We can testify that even crack regiments are
not unduly pampered in the Fatherland, for anything plainer, or more
unappetizing than these dinners, I have never tried to eat. Perhaps they
gained something when served hot in the officers' _Casino_, but we found
it almost impossible to down them, eaten out of our enamel-ware dishes.
After a time, when the newness of everything in the theatre had worn off
a little, and I began "to feel my feet," we arranged to dine at the
hotel where many of the colleagues met daily. This was a far better
plan, as, in addition to a really hot meal, we had a splendid
opportunity to improve our German. I was naturally making rapid progress
in it, but my sister still had to confine herself to the shops where
they understood French. One day when I came home from rehearsal, she
told me that our _Hausfrau_ had repeated to her a long piece of gossip
in German. Seeing by my sister's face that she had not understood, the
woman said, "Oh, you don't understand, Fraeulein. Well, I'll say it all
over again in French." Then she proceeded to repeat it again, very
loudly and slowly--in German!
Of course it is rather dreadful to be called just "Fraeulein" by your
landlady in Germany, but the social standing of the singers and players
in a provincial theatre is usually not high enough to warrant anything
else. A position in an opera house in a capital city, or in a
Hoftheater, confers social importance enough upon its holder to entitle
her to the prefix _gnaediges_ (gracious) before the ignominious
_Fraeulein_, which in society is properly used to designate only a
governess, a companion, or a saleswoman in a shop.
Titles and forms of address are a ticklish subject in the Fatherland, at
any time. It is hard to comprehend the mazes of male progression from
the simple "Rat," through the subsequent variations of Hofrat (court
councillor), Geheimer Hofrat (privy court councillor), Geheimrat (privy
councillor), Wirklicher Geheimrat (really truly privy councillor), to
the lofty dignity of Excellenz.
Old-fashioned ladies used to employ the feminized version of their
husband's titles, and I once knew an old dame who insisted upon being
addressed as "_Frau Oberlandgerichtsraethin_." The bourgeoisie used to
copy the aristocracy in this respect, and at the afternoon
Kaffeeklatsch, Frau Hofcondittor Meyer would inquire about the health of
Herr Strassenbahnsinspektor Braun, from his wife the Frau
Strassenbahnsinspektorin (street car inspectoress). Modern life is too
crowded perhaps for such lengthy addresses, but Frau Meyer and Herr
Braun are certainly less picturesque cognomens. Among the artistocracy
the proper titles and forms of address have many pitfalls for the
foreigner, though I used to dodge them fairly successfully by addressing
every woman older than myself as "_Gnaedige Frau_" irrespective of her
"handle," and the men by no title at all, except in the case of a prince
not of royal blood, who has to be called by the mouth-filling courtesy
title of _Durchlaucht_.
Of course in letter-writing this way round is not always possible, and
here the complications are simply terrifying. The salutation of a lady
without any title at all ranges all the way from "Wertes Fraeulein"
(Worthy Miss), almost an insult to a person of any gentility, to the
punctilious "Hochvereherte und gnaedige Frau" (Highly honoured and
gracious lady) of high society. Even the envelope provides a subtle form
of insult or of flattery. In Germany one is simply born, well-born,
highly well-born, or high born as the case may be. If you are rightly
entitled to the third, how irritating to be publicly branded on the
outside of a letter as only well-born. On the other hand, if you really
belong among the merely born, what a delicate attention to be
acknowledged "_Hochwohlgeborene_" for all the world, including the
_Portier's Frau_ to see! Shops in writing to you (as long as your credit
is good) love to employ the latter on the envelope, repeat it in the
body of the letter which always begins "Highly honoured and gracious
Miss" and sign themselves "Mit Vorzueglicher Hochachtung"--"with
magnificent respect." Friends, of course, call you just Fraeulein
So-and-so, as we should say "Miss Brown," except if they are young men,
when they usually stick to the "gracious Miss." You must never inquire
for the members of a person's family without the Mr., Mrs., or Miss
being added: "How is your Frau Mother, Herr Father, or Fraeulein Sister?"
There is a curious phrase for parents--"How are your _Herren_ Parents?"
being the strictly correct form of question.
Yes! Etiquette is very complicated in Germany and requires a great deal
of study from the "Out-lander."
To return to the theatre--we expected that my sister would have the run
of my dressing-room, and that she might be present at the rehearsals. We
found on the contrary that the most rigorous rules were enforced to
forbid entrance to the theatre to any one not a regular member of the
staff. No one else was allowed to pass the porter's lodge. There were
regular dressers provided by the theatre, and my sister was present only
once or twice at rehearsals during my two seasons in Metz and then only
by special request.
The rehearsals for the next day were posted at the stage door. They were
not printed or typed, but written in German script, with chalk on the
blackboard. They would be placed there at six o'clock every evening, and
my sister used to go over to find out for me what they were. She could
not read German script at all, neither could I, very well; so she used
to take paper and pencil and laboriously draw everything on the board,
chorus calls and all, for fear of missing something. Then, letter by
letter, we would puzzle it out, and find out the hours of my rehearsals,
as if they had been written in cipher. She was always present at my
performances.
I had to write, "I beg in the most polite manner for a seat for my
sister for this evening's performance," and drop it into a special box
before half past eleven in the morning. Then in the evening, if there
were a vacant place in the orchestra chairs, she would have it. On
Sundays the house was often _ausverkauft_, sold out, so we generally
bought a seat if I were singing on that night, so as to be on the safe
side. The prices ranged from four marks for box seats, to five cents in
the gallery. The orchestra chairs cost three marks (75 cents), but
nearly every one had an _Abonnement_, or sort of season ticket, which
made them much cheaper. The rates for officers were very low indeed. The
chief cavalry regiments had the boxes between them, and the less
important lieutenants of the infantry or the despised engineers had
seats in the first balcony. Years ago, in the old unregenerate days,
these boxes full of young cavalrymen furnished almost more entertainment
than the stage. The boxes had curtains to be drawn at will, and the
young rascals would order champagne served to them there, and drink
toasts loudly to their favourite singers in the midst of their
performances. Some of the frail fair ones of the town would visit them
behind the drawn curtains, and there were high times generally. This has
all come to an end, gone the road of other equally charming old customs,
and I saw very little misbehaviour among the lieutenants, except
sometimes when the provocation was really too strong for them. One
evening a very solemn young White Dragoon, over six feet tall, coming in
in the half darkness after the curtain was up, missed his chair and
plumped down, sabre and all, on the floor of the box instead, to the joy
of his comrades; and once in a Christmas pantomime, they all forgot
their military dignity at the spectacle of a very fat young chorus girl,
whom bad judgment on the part of the ballet mistress had costumed most
realistically for the part of a white rabbit.
Sunday is usually chosen for the first night, as a larger proportion of
the inhabitants is at liberty on that day. At our theatre, performances
of opera were given on Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday nights, with
plays or _Possen mit Gesang_ (farces with singing) on alternate nights.
The bill changed every night, but each standard opera was repeated three
or four times in the season. New operettas like the "Merry Widow" were
also produced, and, if successful, ran eight or ten times during the
seven months of the season. There was a company of singers consisting of
a "high dramatic" soprano, a "young dramatic," a coloratura, and an
"opera soubrette," all sopranos. There was a leading contralto, a second
contralto to do the very small parts, who was usually a volunteer
without pay, and a "comic old woman," who also took part in the plays.
There was sometimes another volunteer soprano to do pages and the like.
Then there was the "heroic tenor," who is a sort of King and is treated
by the management with some of the ceremony used toward royalty, and the
lyric tenor, quite humble in comparison, and a tenor-buffo for "funny
parts," with sometimes a special operetta tenor when the theatre was
prospering. There were two baritones, "heroic" and "lyric," a "serious"
and a "comic" bass, and one or two other men of more or less anomalous
position who "fill in" and act in the plays. The only singers who never
did anything but sing, were the two "dramatic" sopranos, the first
contralto, and the heroic tenor and baritone. There was a company of
actors besides and all of these, no matter what their standing, were
expected to appear in such operas as "Tannhaeuser" in the singing
contest, in the church scene of "Lohengrin," and as _Flora's_ guests in
"Traviata," to help "dress the stage."
It is not the least of one's troubles as a beginner to stand on the
stage as _Ortrud_, perhaps, and see these supercilious real actresses
come filing out dressed as court beauties, cynically watching your
attempt at acting.
Actors have their proper range of parts, called _Fach_ in Germany, and
special designations like the singers. The chief of them are the
_Jugendlicher Held_ or Young Hero, corresponding to the Heroic Tenor,
and his partner the _Erste Heldin_. Nearly as important, however, are
the _Erster Liebhaber_, or Young Lover, and the _Jugendliche Liebhaberin
und Erste Salondame_--Young Lovehaveress and First Drawingroom Lady.
There are the _Helden Vater_ and _Heldin Mutter_, the _Intrigant_ or
Villain, and the _Bon Vivant_ (pronounced Bong Vivong) who is a sort of
general good fellow and occasional hero. The _Erster Komiker_ is always
a popular figure with the public and has his subordinate funnyman,
usually much younger. There is a soubrette to do the saucy maid parts,
a _Naive_, what we should call Ingenue, and a _Komische Alte_, or funny
old woman; several "drawingroom ladies" and "gentlemen" and minor
"_Chargen Spieler_" or character actors. The small parts are usually
filled by chorus men and women, and the opera soubrette or the operetta
tenor, have to double and do the cheeky maids or giggly school girls and
giddy young officers in the plays. Many of the minor actors were, or
were assumed to be, sufficiently musical to take small parts in operas
requiring a large cast, appearing as _Telramund's_ four nobles, and as
_Meister_ in the first act of "Meistersingers" or as competitors in the
_Preissingen_ in "Tannhaeuser." The opera gains very much by having these
experienced actors in the small roles.
Our chorus was composed of about thirty members, and the orchestra of
from forty to fifty, reinforced in the brass and wind instruments from
the local military bands. Three Kapellmeisters held sway over them: the
First Kapellmeister an autocrat with arbitrary power who directed the
important operas, the second who lead the old stagers like "Martha" and
"Trovatore" and the operettas, and the third who was usually a volunteer
learning his profession, and who acted as repetiteur for the soloists
and directed pantomimes, the songs in the farces, and "Haensel und
Gretel" once a year if he was good. He was always on duty during
performances to direct any music behind the scenes. In good theatres
there are several of these young men, as in "Rheingold" for example each
Rhine daughter ought to have one to herself, and there is a special
repetiteur for the chorus or chorus master besides.
Our ballet was composed of a solo dancer and about sixteen coryphees,
directed by a _Balletmeisterin_ who also shared the leading parts with
the solo dancer. One of the girls,--Irene, was a big handsome creature
who usually danced the boy's parts. She had a little girl of about six,
who had apparently no father. During the second year I was told one day:
"This is Irene's wedding day; will you say something to her?" It
appeared she and her clown husband had been devoted to each other for
years, but had neglected the ceremony as they neither of them could earn
enough alone to support the two. The clown ("August," of course) could
not find an engagement in the theatre and so they had just waited. He
had just returned from a long world tour and now they were to be
married. Every one was delighted.
Last but not least, came the supers, called in Germany _Statisten_, who
held spears in "Aida" and returned victorious in "Faust." They were
drawn from the infantry regiments and received thirty pfennigs (7-1/2c)
a night. They arrived with their _Unteroffizier_ an hour before they
were wanted and were turned into a big room to be made into warriors,
captives, or happy peasantry. The result was sometimes amusing. In
"Aida" they used to put on their pink cotton tights over their
underwear, so that one saw the dark outline of socks and the garters
gleaming through, and they all kept on their elastic-sided military
boots, with the tabs to pull them on by, sticking out before and behind.
Fortunately the audience had but a brief glimpse of them before they
were ranked in a conglomerate mass at the back of the stage. Sometimes
on our walks we would meet these men on sentry duty, or in batches with
their _Unteroffizier_, who would call out, "_Au-gen rechts!"_ (Eyes
right!) and give us the officers' salute with mighty grins of
recognition.
The principals of the opera are usually talented young singers on the
way up, or older singers of some reputation on the way down, with
perhaps a sprinkling of those who have obtained their engagements by
influence. The contracts are usually for from two to three years, and
are not very often renewed. The talented ones go on to better
engagements, and it is "better business" for the theatre to have a
change of principals. Great favourites remain longer unless they get
something better. Many of those who were engaged with me in Metz have
made careers. Two were at the Charlottenburg Opera House in Berlin at
the outbreak of the war, and one in Hamburg, both in leading positions.
One was a stage-manager at the Volksoper in Vienna, and one teacher in a
conservatory.