THE GRANDMOTHERS' BALLET
All this time I was working very hard at the opera. Our repertoire was
very large, including nearly all the Italian operas, from Verdi to
Wolf-Ferrari, and the German operas from the time of Weber and Mozart up
to Humperdinck. Everything was given in German, some of the translations
good and some poor. At first it had seemed terribly difficult to
accustom myself to the German sounds in _Dalila_ or _Carmen,_ after the
sonorous French, but latterly German came to seem quite as natural,
though never so beautiful nor singable. Every one in the audience,
however, understood the text, and surely this is the important thing.
How can they enter into the spirit of an opera when they are guessing
whether that is a love phrase or an insult that the tenor is singing?
The prejudice against translating into the vernacular has had to be
overcome in nearly all European countries and will, I suppose, be only a
question of time with us. In Russia, operatic composers flowered and
reached their world prominence only after the Russian language was used
for the libretto. In Germany Italian was discarded for the language of
the singers only after a long struggle, but the great abundance of
German operas came after it was adopted, not before. In France also
Italian libretti were used for generations, but can any one imagine a
Debussy composing a "Pelleas et Melisande" to an Italian libretto? Each
school must find itself in its own tongue, and I question whether these
matters can be hurried.
I have always thought a good English translation would contribute more
to the general pleasure of the audience than a misunderstood gabble of
words, even though English is perhaps lacking in the subtle charm worked
upon us by foreign speech.
My colleagues by this time accepted me almost as a German, and I did the
routine work as though I were a German. Surely this experience is more
profitable than an occasional appearance on a more famous stage, such as
many of my own country-women aimed at. I often heard of their struggles
against intrigue, and long pauses between roles, while they waited
hoping for a chance. We all worked steadily through the season and
rehearsed every day. The scheme of rehearsals was worked out and given
to us every two weeks on a printed _Spielplan_. This showed us exactly
which operas and plays were scheduled for the next fortnight, and all
the rehearsals we should have to attend, beginning with the room
rehearsals for the soloists alone, then the stage rehearsals without
chorus, the stage rehearsal with chorus and piano, and finally the
_General Probe_, or last orchestra rehearsal on the stage, with
everything as at a performance. At the side of the _Spielplan_ was a
tentative list of works in preparation with their probable dates of
appearance. All this made the work very systematic, and I knew exactly
what time I should have for study and what for myself. If a rare week
passed without my singing at least once I grew restless and unhappy. My
constant aim was to learn and develop, and every role taught me
something. Versatility is a most useful attribute on the operatic stage,
and if you play all the way from _Fides_ to soubrette parts in operetta,
and the audience sticks to you, you may be considered fairly versatile.
I remember one strenuous week in particular. I had to sing _Dalila_ in
Prague on Wednesday evening. "Zauberfloete" was scheduled for Tuesday in
Darmstadt, and by taking a late train I could arrive in Prague in time
to dress for _Dalila_. I had to sing the last bit of the _Third Lady_ in
"Zauberfloete" in travelling dress with a black cloak thrown over me and
then rush straight to the train. We travelled all night, changing at
Dresden in the middle of the night, and waiting at the noisy station
for some time. Arrived at Prague I went straight to the theatre, the old
one with gas lamps for footlights. "Don Giovanni" of Mozart was given
for the first time in this very theatre they told me, and was, I
believe, directed by Mozart himself. I duly sang my _Dalila_ and sped
back to Darmstadt, where I had to sing _Frau Reich_ Thursday night; and
this tiring lady has to have a certain lightness of touch no matter how
much train smoke you have swallowed. My troubles were not over yet as I
had to take the train that night for Edinboro, Scotland, where I was to
appear with the orchestra, and on the following night in Glasgow. The
journey was long and tedious, and the only bright spot I can remember
was while we crossed a bit of Belgium. We had had a lunch basket handed
in with the typical bottle of _vin rouge_, and neither Marjorie nor I
wanted it. The next time our train slowed down we happened to have an
engine beside us, and I handed the wine through the window to the
driver, who received it with true Belgian imperturbability.
I was very tired and very sick crossing the channel. We arrived in
London in a terrible storm, feeling absolutely exhausted. Marjorie said,
"The only thing that hasn't happened is, that we have not yet lost our
baggage." We waited on the cold platform--it was November,--till all the
luggage had been taken out of the vans--no familiar trunks for us. I
went worn out to the hotel, leaving poor Marjorie to struggle. She made
the round of the stations where possible trains from the coast might be
met--all of no avail. The next day was Sunday and we could not possibly
have found a gown for me to use at the concert. We slept that night in
towels and underclothes, and if you've ever done it you know what sort
of an all-night funeral _that_ is. The next morning early the missing
trunks were found and we continued our journey. We were much amused when
we found that no trains left for Scotland during the day on Sunday, and
that they had to wait for the friendly cover of the night before they
dared nefariously to slip out and break the Sabbath calm. Monday night I
almost broke down on the platform during the concert, in one of the
hugest halls in the world. Marjorie comforted me and sent for some
whiskey which I gulped down between songs. Gradually the chilled blood
in me thawed, and my voice with it, my nerve came back and I scored a
success, as I did the following night in Glasgow. We then went back to
Darmstadt the quickest possible way, having been in six countries in as
many days.
We walked a great deal in the beautiful country round Darmstadt, and I
sometimes rode over the miles of charming bridle paths. We made
expeditions into the beautiful Taunus country, all gold and scarlet in
autumn. The delightful custom of having _Wald Haeuse_ at convenient
distances in every direction round the city, makes these expeditions a
great pleasure. The coffee is usually good, and the cakes always so.
Darmstadt is on the Bergstrasse, almost a highway through that part of
Germany, and we were pestered one year with a constant stream of
beggars. They were usually ex-theatre people they said, and I found they
only came to me and not to my colleagues, so word must have been passed
round that an "easy" and extremely rich American lived in the town, who
was good for at least a mark.
The strangest stories circulated about us, and why we should choose
Germany to live in. One was that I was the illegitimate daughter of King
Edward, therefore a cousin of the Grand Duke, which explained a likeness
to him which I could see myself. They said my sister and mother were
really no relation to me, but simply paid to take care of me.
As I have said we had several picturesque privileges because I was a
_Grossherzogliche Beamtin_--an employee of the Royal house. I used to go
on certain days to the old Schloss near the theatre, no longer the
residence of the reigning family as it was too old to be comfortable. I
passed under shadowy arches and through cobblestone courts, surrounded
by aged windows, till I came to where the _Schloss Kellermann_ lived. I
went down a steep old stone stair into the bowels of the earth, where I
was greeted by the Head Cellarman, who wore a white apron and took
orders at a candle-lit table. I told him just how much Rotwein I wanted,
or perhaps a bottle of champagne for a treat, and paid a ridiculously
small sum for it all. The Grand Duke got it duty free and at special
rates, and we, as his employes were entitled to this rate too. For a
small fee two large flunkies in _Grossherzogliche_ uniforms would
deliver it to my apartment later in the day. I believe the cellars were
very wonderful, but I never was asked to investigate.
I think only the principals had this privilege, neither the chorus nor
the ballet sharing it, but I may be mistaken.
Our ballet was rather pitiful. Kind-hearted directors hesitated to
dismiss faithful servants of years' standing, and the result was a
phalanx of grandmothers at the back of the stage. I used to give my old
clothes to the chorus and ballet women, and one family in particular I
almost adopted. The poor mother was a handsome creature of about
forty-five. Her eldest son was twenty-four and a carpenter, and two
babies were born while I was in Darmstadt. Children of all ages came in
between. The father drank and used to ill-treat the mother, who had to
dance gaily as a peasant boy or gypsy, and then go home to all that
misery. Little by little I told the officers' wives I knew about these
things and they were very kind about sending their worn clothing to me
to distribute amongst the women. I believe it amused them very much to
see their old evening gowns washed, always washed, and refurbished,
doing duty as "Empire" gowns, or as the latest thing in Paris creations
on the backs of the walk-on ladies in the French comedies. Eighty marks
a month is not much, even if it is paid all the year round, and somebody
has got to help.
We had a school of forestry in the town, largely attended by American
boys. It was in the period when our Western boys padded their shoulders
tremendously and wore hump-toed boots. These boys were all husky
specimens, who dressed in the most foresty of forest clothes, boots
laced to the knee, wide western hats and flannel shirts. The woods round
Darmstadt are all most tame and well looked after, but the boys seemed
to think they were dressing the part correctly. When left to themselves
these boys were quite well behaved, but the German students tried to
bully them. The beer-drinking type of student, with his ridiculous
little coloured cap stuck on one side of his head, thinks he owns his
own particular cafe where his _Stamm-Tisch_ may happen to be. They
objected to various mannerisms of the American boys who visited these
cafes, and the American boys replied in their own western way by
knocking the Germans down. This method of fist fighting was quite
unknown to the Germans, who replied by sending a challenge to duel
according to their custom. The American boys in turn knew nothing of
duelling and refused to fight except with fists. I think a good many fat
Germans bit the dust and got up swearing vengeance. Finally, we heard,
the American boys wired to their fellow countrymen who were students in
Frankfort, "Come over tonight and clean up." Exactly what happened we
never heard, but as both sides grew to understand and respect each other
more, the trouble gradually subsided. The Russian element, usually
rather undesirable in Darmstadt, contributed largely to the
disturbances.
There were several duelling corps in town, and an American friend of
ours, a student at the technical college, told us of witnessing their
extremely bloody combats. Part of the glory is to have yourself sewed up
without an anesthetic, and go on fighting, and we heard sickening
details. It is supposed to make your nerve tremendously steady, and the
ones who go through the stated number of duels, fighting their way
slowly through a regular course of progression, always the winner, must
indeed be shock and disgust proof. The authorities frowned on the
practice but it existed in force nevertheless. One boy killed another
while we were there; he was imprisoned, but on his return was treated as
a conquering hero by the members of his corps. That surely belongs to
Hun training.