consciousness. So, for instance, the romances of the versatile
physician, Weir Mitchell, are first of all histories of the
Revolutionary period of the whole nation, and, secondarily, histories of
early Pennsylvania. But the story which depends on local colour
flourishes too. Here shows itself strongly that trait which is
distinguishable in American writing through the whole century, from
Irving, Cooper, and Bryant to the present day—the love of nature. Almost
every part of the country has found some writer to celebrate its
landscape and customs, not merely the curious inhabitants of the prairie
and gold-fields, but the outwardly unromantic characters of the New
England village and the Tennessee mountains, of the Southern plantations
and the Western States. And new stories of this sort appear every day.
Especially the new West figures prominently in literature; and the
tireless ambition on which the city of Chicago is founded is often
depicted with much talent. The novels of Fuller, Norris, and others are
all extraordinarily forceful descriptions of Western life and
civilization. The South of to-day, which shows symptoms of awaking to
new life, is described more from the Northern than from the Southern
point of view. It is surprising that the mental life of the American
negro has attracted so little attention, since the short stories of
Chestnut point to unexplored treasures.
The longer efforts are always in prose, and since the time of Evangeline
epic verse has found almost no representative. Verse is almost wholly
lyrical. The history of American lyric is contained in the large and
admirable collections of Stedman, Onderdonk, and others; and it is the
history of, perhaps, the most complete achievement of American
literature. One who knows the American only in the usual caricature, and
does not know what an idealist the Yankee is, would be surprised to
learn that the lyric poem has become his favourite field. The romantic
novel, which appeals to the masses, may have, perhaps, a commercial
motive, while the book of verse is an entirely disinterested production.
The lyric, in its fresh, intense, and finished way, reveals the inner
being of American literature, and surprisingly much lyric verse is being
written to-day. Even political newspapers, like the _Boston Transcript_,
publish every day some lyric poem; and although here as everywhere many
volumes of indifferent verse see the light of day, still the feeling for
form is so general that one finds very seldom anything wholly bad and
very often bits of deep significance and beauty. Here, too, the
best-known things are not the most admirable. We hear too much of
Markham’s “The Man With the Hoe,” and too little of Santayana’s sonnets
or of Josephine Preston Peabody. Here, too, local colour is happily in
evidence—as, for instance, in the well-known verses of Riley. The
Western poet goes a different road from the Eastern. The South has never
again sent a messenger so full of melodies as Sidney Lanier.
There is a strong lyric tendency also in the dramatic compositions of
the day. The true drama has always been more neglected than any other
branch of art, and if it is true that the Americans have preserved the
temperament and point of view of Elizabethan England, it is high time
for some American Shakespeare to step forth. Until now, extremely few
plays of real literary worth have been written between the Atlantic and
the Pacific Oceans. Dramatists there have been always, and the stage is
now more than ever supplied by native talent; but literature is too
little considered here. The rural dramas having the local colour of
Virginia and New England are generally better than the society pieces:
and the very popular dramatizations of novels are stirring, but utterly
cheap. On the other hand, the American has often applied the lyric gift
in dramatic verse, and in dramas of philosophic significance such as
Santayana’s admirable “Lucifer” or Moody’s “Masque of Judgment.” The
stunted growth of American dramatic writing is closely connected with
the history of the American stage, a subject which may lead us from
literature to the sister arts.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
_Art_
The history of the theatre leads us once more back to Puritan New
England. Every one knows that the Puritan regarded the theatre as the
very temple of vice, and the former association of the theatre and the
bar-room—a tradition that came from England—naturally failed to make
public opinion more favourable. In the year 1750 theatrical productions
were entirely forbidden in Boston. One theatre was built in 1794, and a
few others later, but the public feeling against demoralizing influences
of the stage so grew that one theatre after another was turned from its
profane uses and made over into a lecture hall or something of the sort.
In 1839 it was publicly declared that Boston should never again have a
theatre. Nevertheless by 1870, it had five theatres, and to-day it has
fifteen. Other cities have always been more liberal toward the theatre,
and in the city of New York, since 1733, ninety-five theatres have been
built, of which more than thirty are still standing to-day and in active
operation. Thus the Puritan spirit seems long since to have disappeared,
and the backwardness of the drama seems not to be connected with the
religious past of the country. But this is not the case.
Let us survey the situation. There is certainly no lack of theatres, for
almost every town has its “opera house,” and the large cities have
really too many. Nor is there any lack of histrionic talent; for,
although the great Shakespearian actor, Edwin Booth, has no worthy
successor, we have still actors who are greatly applauded and
loved—Mansfield, Sothern, Jefferson, Drew, and Gillette; Maude Adams,
Mrs. Fiske, Blanche Bates, Henrietta Crosman, Julia Arthur, Julia
Marlowe, Ada Rehan, Nance O’Neill, and many others who are certainly
sincere artists; and the most brilliant actors of Europe, Irving and
Tree, Dusé, Bernhardt, Sorma, and Campbell come almost every year to
play in this country. The American’s natural versatility gives him a
great advantage for the theatrical career; and so it is no accident that
amateur theatricals are nowhere else so popular, especially among
student men and women. The equipments of the stage, moreover, leave very
little to be desired, and the settings sometimes surpass anything which
can be seen in Europe; one often sees marvellous effects and most
convincing illusions. And these, with the American good humour, verve,
and self-assurance, and the beauty of American women, bring many a
graceful comedy and light opera to a really artistic performance. The
great public, too, is quite content, and fills the theatres to
overflowing. It seems almost unjust to criticise unfavourably the
country’s theatres.
But the general public is not the only nor even the most important
factor; the discriminating public is not satisfied. Artistic productions
of the more serious sort are drowned out by a great tide of worthless
entertainments; and however amusing or diverting the comedies, farces,
rural pieces, operettas, melodramas, and dramatized novels may be, they
are thoroughly unworthy of a people that is so ceaselessly striving for
cultivation and self-perfection. Such pieces should not have the
assurance to invade the territory of true art. And, although the lack of
good plays is less noticeable, if one looks at the announcements of what
is to be given in New York on any single evening, it is tremendously
borne home on one by the bad practice of repeating the plays night after
night for many weeks, so that a person who wants to see real art has
soon seen every production which is worth while. In this respect New
York is distinctly behind Paris, Berlin, or Vienna, although about on a
level with London; and in the other large cities of America the
situation is rather worse. Everywhere the stage caters to the vulgar
taste, and for one Hamlet there are ten Geishas.
It cannot be otherwise, since the theatre is entirely a business matter
with the managers. Sometimes there is an artist like the late Daly, who
is ready to conduct a theatre from the truly artistic point of view, and
who offers admirable performances; but this is an expensive luxury, and
there are few who will afford it. It is a question of making money, and
therefore of offering humorous or sentimental pieces which fill the
theatre. There is another fact of which the European hardly knows; it is
cheaper to engage a company to play a single piece for a whole year with
mechanical regularity than to hire actors to give the study necessary to
a diversified repertoire. After many repetitions, even mediocre actors
can attain a certain skill, while in repertoire only good actors are
found at all satisfactory, and the average will not be tolerated by the
pampered public. Then, too, the accessories are much cheaper for a
single piece.
Now, in a town of moderate size, one piece cannot be repeated many
nights, so that the companies have to travel about. The best companies
stay not less than a week, and if the town is large enough, they stay
from four to six weeks. These companies are known by the name of the
piece which they are presenting, or by the name of the leading actor,
the “star.” The theatre in itself is a mere tenantless shell. In early
fall the whole list of companies which are to people its stage through
the next thirty weeks is arranged. In this way, it is true that the
small city is able to see the best actors and the newest pieces. Yet one
sees how sterile this principle is by considering some of the extreme
cases. Jefferson has played his Rip Van Winkle and almost nothing else
for thirty years; and the young people of Chicago, Philadelphia, and
Boston would be very unhappy if he were not to come in this rôle for a
couple of weeks every winter. And he has thus become several times a
millionaire.
But the business spirit has not stopped with this. The hundreds of
companies compete with one another, so that very naturally a theatrical
trust has been formed. The syndicate of Klaw, Erlanger & Frohman was
organized in 1896 with thirty-seven leading theatres in large cities,
all pledged to present none but companies belonging to the syndicate,
while, in return, the syndicate agreed to keep the theatres busy every
week in the season. The favourite actors and the favourite companies
were secured, and the independent actors who resisted the tyranny found
that in most of the large cities only second-rate theatres were open to
them. One after another had to give in, and now the great trust under
the command of Frohman has virtually the whole theatrical business of
the country in its hands. The trust operates shrewdly and squarely; it
knows its public, offers variety, follows the fashions, gives the great
mimes their favourite rôles, pays them and the theatre owners well,
relieves the actors from the struggle for promotion, and vastly amuses
the public. It is impossible to resist this situation, which is so
adverse to art.
All are agreed that there is only one way to better matters. Permanent
companies must be organized, in the large cities at first, to play in
repertoire. And these must be subsidized, so as not to be dependent for
their support on the taste of the general public. Then and then only
will the dramatic art be able to thrive, or the theatre become an
educational institution, and so slowly cultivate a better demand, which
in the end will come to make even the most eclectic theatre
self-supporting. So it has always been on the European Continent;
princes and municipalities have rivalled with one another to raise the
level of dramatic art above what it would have to be if financially
dependent solely on the box-office. In the United States there is
certainly no lack of means or good will to encourage such an educational
institution. Untold millions go to libraries, museums, and universities,
and we may well ask why the slightest attempt has not been made to
provide, by gift or from the public treasury, for a temple to the drama.
It is just here that the old Puritan prejudice is still felt to-day. The
theatre is no longer under the ban of the law, but no step can be taken
toward a subvention of the theatre. Most taxpayers in America would look
with disfavour on any project to support a theatre from public funds.
Why a theatre more than a hotel or restaurant? The theatre remains a
place of frivolous amusement, and for that reason no millionaires have
so far endowed a theatre. Men like Carnegie know too well that the
general mass of people would blame them if they were to give their
millions to the theatre, as long as a single town was still wishing for
its library or its college.
The history of music in America has shown what can be attained by
endowment—how the public demand can be educated so that even the very
best art will finally be self-supporting. The development of the Boston
Symphony Orchestra, which is still the best musical organization in the
country, is thoroughly typical. It was realized that symphony concerts,
like the best given in Germany, would not be self-supporting, in view of
the deficient musical education of the country. In 1880 Boston had two
symphony orchestras, but both were of little account. They were composed
of over-busied musicians, who could not spare the time needed for study
and rehearsals. Then one of the most liberal and appreciative men of the
country, Henry Lee Higginson, came forward and engaged the best
musicians whom he could find, to give all their time and energy to an
orchestra; and he himself guaranteed the expenses. During the first few
years he paid out a fortune annually, but year by year the sum grew
less, and to-day Boston so thoroughly enjoys its twenty-four symphony
concerts, which are not surpassed by those of any European orchestra,
that the large music-hall is too small to hold those who wish to attend.
This example has been imitated, and now New York, Chicago, Philadelphia,
and other cities have excellent and permanent orchestras.
Likewise various cities, but especially New York, enjoy a few weeks of
German, French, and Italian opera which is equal to the best opera in
Europe, by a company that brings together the best singers of Europe and
America. In the case of opera the love of music has prevailed over the
prejudice against the theatre. Extraordinarily high subscriptions for
the boxes, and a reduced rental of the Metropolitan Opera House, which
was erected by patrons of art, have given brilliant support to the
undertaking. Without going into questions of principle, an impartial
friend of music must admit that even the performances of Parsifal were
artistically not inferior to those of Bayreuth, and the audience was
quite as much in sympathy with the great masterpiece as are the
assemblages of tourists at Bayreuth. The artistic education proceeding
from these larger centres is felt through the entire country, and there
is a growing desire for less ambitious but permanent opera companies.
The symphony and the opera are not the only evidences of the serious
love of music in America. Every large city has its conservatory and its
surplus of trained music teachers, and almost every city has societies
which give oratorios, and innumerable singing clubs, chamber concerts,
and regular musical festivals. Even the concerts by other soloists than
that fashionable favourite of American ladies, Paderewski, are well
attended. And these are not new movements; opera was given in New York
as early as 1750, and the English opera of the eighteenth century was
followed in 1825 by Italian opera. Also Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New
Orleans early developed a love for music.
Boston has been the great centre for oratorio. The Händel and Haydn
Society dates from 1810, and in 1820 a great many concerts were given
all through the East, even in small towns. And the influence of the
musical Germans was strongly felt by the middle of the century. The
Germania Orchestra of Boston was founded in 1848, and now all the
Western cities where German influences are strong, such as Milwaukee,
Cincinnati, Chicago, and St. Louis, are centres of music, with many male
choruses and much private cultivation of music in the home.
The churches, moreover, are a considerable support to music. The Puritan
spirit disliked secular music no less than the theatre; but the popular
hymns were always associated with the service of God, and so the love
for music grew and its cultivation spread. Progress was made from the
simplest melodies to fugue arrangements; organs and stringed instruments
were introduced; the youth was educated in music, and finally in the
last century church worship was made more attractive by having the best
music obtainable. And thus, through the whole country, chorus and solo
singing and instrumental skill have been everywhere favoured by the
popular religious instinct.
So much for the performance of music. Musical composition has not
reached nearly such a high point. It is sufficient to look over the
programmes of recent years. Wagner leads among operatic composers, then
follow Verdi, Gounod, and Mozart; Beethoven is the sovereign of the
concert-hall, and The Messiah and The Creation are the most popular
oratorios. Sometimes a suspicion has been expressed that American
composers must have been systematically suppressed by the leading German
conductors like Damrosch, Seidl, Gericke, Thomas, and Paur. But this is
not remotely true. The American public is much more to be blamed; for,
although so patriotic in every other matter, it looks on every native
musical composition with distrust, and will hardly accept even the
American singer or player until he has first won his laurels in Europe.
Still, there has been some composition in America. There were religious
composers in the eighteenth century, and when everything English was put
away at the time of the Revolution, the colonists replaced the
psalm-tunes which they had brought over with original airs. Billings and
his school were especially popular, although there was an early reaction
against what he was pleased to call fugues. The nineteenth century
brought forth little more than band-master music, with no sign of
inspiration in real orchestral or operatic music. Only lately there have
stepped into the field such eminent composers as MacDowell, Paine,
Chadwick, Strong, Beech, Buck, Parker, and Foot. Paine’s opera of
“Azara,” Chadwick’s overtures, and MacDowell’s interesting compositions
show how American music will develop.
More popular was a modest branch of musical composition, the song in the
style of folk-songs. America has no actual folk-songs. The average
European imagines “Yankee Doodle” to be the real American song,
anonymous and dreadful as it is, and in diplomatic circles the
antiquated and bombastic “Hail Columbia” is conceived to be the official
hymn of America. The Americans themselves recognize neither of these
airs. The “Star Spangled Banner” is the only song which can be called
national; it was written in 1814 to an old and probably English melody.
The Civil War left certain other songs which stir the breast of every
patriotic American.
On the other hand, folk-songs have developed in only one part of the
country—on the Southern plantations—and with a very local colouring. The
negro slaves sang these songs first, although it is unlikely that they
are really African songs. They seem to be Irish and Scotch ballads,
which the negroes heard on the Mississippi steamboats. Baptist and
Methodist psalm-tunes and French melodies were also caught up by the
musical negroes and modified to their peculiar melody and rhythm. A
remarkable sadness pervades all these Southern airs.
Many song composers have imitated this most unique musical product of
the country. In the middle of the century Stephen Foster rose to rapid
popularity with his “Old Folks at Home,” which became the popular song,
rivalled only by “Home Sweet Home,” which was taken from the text of an
American opera, but of which the melody is said to have originated in
Sicily. There are to-day all sorts of composers, some in the sentimental
style and others in the light opera vein, whose street tunes are
instantly sung, whistled and played on hurdy-gurdies from the Atlantic
to the Pacific, and, worst of all, stridently rendered by the
graphophones, with megaphone attachments, on verandahs in summer. There
are composers of church hymns, of marches _à la_ Sousa, and writers of
piano pieces by the wholesale. All serious musicians agree that the
American, unlike the Englishman, is decidedly musically inclined, but he
is the incontestable master of only a very modest musical art—he can
whistle as nobody else.
Unlike American music, American paintings are no longer strange to
Europe. In the art division of the last Paris Exposition Americans took
their share of the honours, and they are highly appreciated at most of
the Berlin and Munich picture shows. Sargent and Whistler are the best
known. Sargent, as the painter of elegant ladies, prosperous men, and
interesting children, has undoubtedly the surest and most refined gift
with his brush of any son of the New World. When, a few years ago, a
large exhibition of his works was brought together in Boston, one felt
on standing before that gathering of ultra-polite and almost living
humanity, that in him the elegant world has found its most brilliant,
though perhaps not its most flattering, transcriber. Whistler is
doubtless the greater, the real sovereign. This most nervous of all
artists has reproduced his human victims with positively uncanny
perspicacity. Like Henry James, the novelist, he fathoms each human
riddle, and expresses it intangibly, mysteriously. Everything is mood
and suggestion, the dull and heavy is volatilized, the whole is a
sceptical rendering in rich twilight tones.
America is proud of both artists, and still one may doubt whether the
art of the New World would be justly represented if it sent across the
ocean only these two pampered and somewhat whimsical artists. Firstly,
in spite of much brilliant other work, they are both best known as
portraitists, while it becomes plainer every day that landscape painting
is the most typical American means of expression. The profound feeling
for nature, which pervades American poetry and reflects the national
life and struggle therewith, brings the American to study landscape.
Many persons think even that if American artists were to send ever so
many easel pictures across the ocean, the artistic public of Europe
would still have no adequate judgment of American painting, because the
best talent is busied with the larger pieces intended for wall
decoration. The great number of monumental buildings, with their large
wall surfaces and the desire for ambitious creations, attract the
American to-day to wall-painting. And they try to strengthen the
national character of this tendency by a democratic argument. The easel
picture, it is said, is a luxury designed for the house of the wealthy
and is, therefore, decadent, while the art of a nation which is working
out a democracy must pertain to the people; and therefore just as early
art adorned the temples and churches, this art must adorn the walls of
public buildings, libraries, judicial chambers, legislatures, theatres,
railway stations and city halls. And the more this comes to be the case,
the less correct it is to judge the pinctile efforts of the time by the
framed pictures that come into the exhibitions. Moreover, many of the
more successful painters do not take the trouble to send any of their
works across the ocean.
Sargent and Whistler also—and this is more important—speak a language
which is not American, while the country has now developed its own
grammar of painting, and the most representative artists are seldom seen
in Europe. In painting, as in so many other branches, the United States
has developed from the provincial to the cosmopolitan and from the
cosmopolitan to the national, and is just now taking this last step. It
is very characteristic that the untutored provincial has grown into the
national only by passing through a cosmopolitan stage. The faltering
powers of the beginner do not achieve a self-conscious expression of
national individuality until they have first industriously and
systematically imitated foreign methods, and so attained a complete
mastery of the medium of expression.