I cannot conceive anything so fascinating in an operatic composer's
life as the rehearsals of a new work of his. When he first hears in
reality the tunes, the harmonies, the combinations of sounds which
he had up to that moment heard only in his fancy, a profound terror
overcomes him. The positive, actual achievements of the singers and
the orchestra are so far from the ideal abstractions his fancy had
supposed. Can it be possible that this shapeless noise should represent
his score? The melodies are hardly recognizable, erroneous intentions
of the singers deteriorate the musical sense, wrong notes hurt the
poor composer's ears. But by and by the whole thing improves. Mistakes
are corrected, the meanings of musical phrases are explained and the
distress of the unhappy man vanishes.
I will not tell you the alarm, the consternation of Patrick Cooper
when, at the beginning of the rehearsals, his masterpiece--for
secretly, in the inmost recess of his heart, he considered _Lady
Macbeth_ as a masterpiece--appeared to him to be not only disorganized,
but thoroughly rotten.
"Oh!" cried he silently, and his sufferings were all the more
formidable as his vociferations were so very silent, "oh, why did I
disobey my good mother? Why did I not follow the ideal career of an
insurance broker? Why did I not foresee these shocking experiences? It
is all horrible, appalling, awful!"
But later, when the aspect began to change, when the figures I had
created took form, when the howlings, the shrieks, the screams became
music, when I ceased shuddering and quaking as the hours of rehearsal
approached--my confidence came back. I even surprised myself listening
with pleasure to my music, and distinctly remember having thought at
least at three occasions:
"Patrick, my dear, you are a splendid fellow after all. You ought not
to have been so much impressed by the first seemingly helpless trials
of all these good people. How all has improved! There are few living
composers, if any, able to conceive and to write such a score. And to
think that the crowds will come and listen and applaud. But will they
understand? Is the crowd sufficiently educated to appreciate my work?
Do I not stain the beautiful conception of my fancy by submitting it
to the crude judgment of the crowd? Still, a crowd it will be; they
will come and listen and applaud. The theatre contains room for fifteen
hundred people. There are about one hundred and fifty seats so bad that
nobody will take them, but the remaining thirteen hundred and fifty
will be occupied at every performance. Now, how many people will come
and listen and applaud? Be modest, Patrick, old boy. Say twenty-five
performances at an audience each of thirteen hundred and fifty.
Makes?... makes?..."