and eternal rest" pervade even the music. The orchestral introduction is
saintly, with its religious harmonies and classic purity. It is simple,
but yet so interesting that we can imagine the immortal spirits hearing
forever and never weary, for classical music is always new and always
beautiful. The flute and stringed instruments perform the great part of
this Elysian music. White-robed spirits glide about, and one soprano
voice starts up a happy, flowing melody that inspires a chorus of
others. It is Eurydice who leads this singing of the blest.
There is dancing as well as singing, and during this divertisement the
instruments weave out a new musical fabric. The steady accompaniment and
firm legato theme are the woof and warp through which, around which,
and over which a little five-note appoggiatura sports like a weaver's
shuttle. It appears four times in every measure, but never twice in the
same place.
With wonder and admiration comes Orpheus upon the scene. The orchestra
continues its blithe harmonies while Orpheus sings of the beauteous
sight. But not even such surroundings can quell his longing for
Eurydice. Unlike the Furies, who only granted his prayer because
compelled by his wondrous music, the spirits of the blest can not see
any one suffer. With one voice and immediately they tell him to take
Eurydice. To the strains of softest music Orpheus approaches the various
spirits. He harkens to their heart-beats, and finally recognizes his
loved one without seeing her.
The scene changes to another part of the nether world, a forest through
which Orpheus is leading Eurydice back to earth. A nervous, anxious
instrumental passage precedes the opening recitative dialogue. Eurydice
at first rejoices over her new-found life, but then forgets all else in
surprise and grief because Orpheus will not look at her. She questions
him, entreats him, fears she is no longer beautiful, or that his heart
has changed. Orpheus explains that he dare not look at her, but Eurydice
is not satisfied. She refuses to go farther, for if he can not look at
her she does not wish to live. The ensuing duet is intense and full of
climacteric effects. The voices chase each other like clouds before a
storm, low down and hovering near that sea of sound, the orchestra, over
which the conductor rules with his wand like Neptune with his trident.
Orpheus firmly resists the pleadings of Eurydice until she declares that
his coldness will break her heart,--she will die of grief if he does not
look at her. Little wonder that he flings prudence to the winds and
impulsively turns to embrace her.
But no sooner has he looked upon Eurydice than she droops and sinks from
his arms like a blighted flower. Death has again come between them.
Orpheus cries aloud his grief, and there springs from his heart a song
of lamentation surpassing any other as a geyser does a fountain. "Ach,
ich habe sie verloren!" is the German and "Che in faro" the Italian name
of this great song that is the standard classical contralto program
piece. It is full of sobbing cadenzas and sighing intervals that express
more than words or deeds.
Grief at last gives place to desperation: He is on the point of killing
himself when Amor reappears. The gods are again moved to pity by his
enduring love, and Amor with a touch of her wand revives Eurydice.
The opera closes with a trio between Amor and the reunited pair, an ode
to the power of love. It is a sort of musical apotheosis. The orchestral
accompaniment has a steady, revolving movement that might suggest the
wheel of time tuned and turned in harmony with the voice of love.
The Genius
of
Geraldine Farrar
[Illustration: Copyright by Aime Dupont.
Geraldine Farrar.]
THE GENIUS OF GERALDINE FARRAR
Some half-dozen years ago rumors, vague as perfume from an unfolding
flower, began to reach America about a new prima-donna; a Boston girl,
very young and very beautiful; singing at the Berlin Royal Opera-house.
No American before had ever held such a position--life-member of the
opera company which Kaiser Wilhelm supervises, and the Great Frederick
founded.
Years went by and still the name of Geraldine Farrar was wafted across
the waters--and still she was spoken of as "very young."
American critics grew somewhat incredulous; Germany, of course, is
musical and deep-rooted in the science of the art, but New York holds a
record of her own in matters operatic, and is not disposed to accept
unchallenged a verdict from the land of beer and thorough-bass.
At last the hour came when Geraldine Farrar appeared as a star in her
native land. It was a momentous occasion--the opening of the season; a
brilliant audience, diamond-glinting and decollete; an audience familiar
with the value of Tiffany tiaras, but inclined to be dubious about
Berlin laurels.
The curtain arose upon the first act of Romeo and Juliet; a blaze of
color and a whirl of gay music. Soon the dancers dispersed, and a
slender figure in saphire satin sauntered down the Capulet stairs, came
forward with quiet confidence, and commenced the famous Waltz
Song--slowly--dreamily.
With these very first notes Geraldine Farrar revealed originality; she
sang them as tho thinking aloud; the words fell from her lips like a
tender caress--
"I would linger in this dream that enthralls me."
She closed the aria with brilliant tones, a high note--and a smile.
Geraldine Farrar's smile is something to drive a poet to sonnets--and a
prince to sighs!
One paper the next morning declared: "From that moment she could have
wrapped the whole audience around her little finger."
There followed a "Farrar furor," tho cautious critics were careful to
point out that her performance as yet evinced nothing more than "a
lovely voice, a peculiarly gifted dramatic temperament, youth, beauty,
and considerable experience!" That's all!
"She is not yet a finished artist," these critics say, but at
four-and-twenty what would you? Her voice is "golden," and no one denies
that her histrionic gifts are phenomenal.
It is strange--this quality of native _greatness_. In the case of these
famous singers, one almost feels that the _greatness_ makes the voice.
The _mind_ is what counts, after all. Geraldine Farrar impresses one
forcibly with this fact. Her mind is alert, keen, observant, thoughtful,
quick at reaching conclusions, widely interested, eager to learn, but at
the same time self-contained and firmly poised.
When talking about music her face lights up. She has much to say; she
has thought and studied deeply; she is intense, enthusiastic, full of
her subject, aglow with earnestness and vitality.
From early childhood she was always singing, always acting, and always
_intending to be a prima-donna_.
"I began voice-study when I was twelve, but before that had sung all of
Faust in Italian, and acted it according to my own imagination."
When asked if she had not run some risk of harming the vocal cords by
beginning so young, she explained that her voice at this age was
remarkably mature and full. She was possessed, besides, with an
irresistible desire to sing, so it seemed both prudent and wise to
commence serious study thus early.
"A born singer is _instinctive_, and selects, almost instinctively, her
individual means of expression, avoiding, in the main, what is
distinctly harmful. But practice and study are continuously and always
necessary. I work faithfully every day with scales and trills and
intervals. Before a performance I go over my part, mentally, from
beginning to end."
In reply to a question about her ambition, she answered promptly and
impressively:
"Yes, I have one very decided ambition: I wish to develop my powers to
the fullest extent and most complete beauty, and then--I wish to have
the _courage_, when physical strength no longer responds to the creative
demands, to _abdicate in favor of Youth_! Youth must be recognized,
enjoyed, encouraged! We should have more of this God-given fragrance in
our mimic world, and less of hard-earned, middle-aged experience."
Miss Farrar's favorite recreation is "_sleep_--and much of it!"
As for books, she likes "everything."
"I read a great deal," she commented. "When I was studying 'Madame
Butterfly,' I read everything I could find about the Japanese. I tried
to imbue myself with their spirit. I bought up old prints, and pictures,
and costumes; I learned how they eat, and sleep, and walk, and talk, and
think, and feel. I read books on the subject in French and German, as
well as in English."
Incidentally it came out that she memorized this most difficult of
operas in fifteen days.
"No, I am never afraid of forgetting my lines." Then, tapping her
forehead lightly, she added: "When a thing is once learned, it seems to
stick in a certain corner of your brain and stay there."
There was youth and girlishness in her off-hand manner of making this
remark. In fact, the artist and girl are constantly alternating in the
play of her features, and it is fascinating to watch this hide-and-seek
of youth and maturity.
The girl-spirit was uppermost now, as she sank back comfortably in her
big arm-chair, drew her Frenchy peignoire more snugly about her, and
related some of the droll _contretemps_ that occur on the opera-house
stage.
"The audience never seems to see them, but the most ridiculous things
happen, and then it is terrible when you want to laugh, but dare not."
A mention of Lilli Lehmann suddenly sobered the conversation. Lilli
Lehmann is Geraldine Farrar's teacher--"and a very severe one"--her
pupil asserts.
"But she--and all Germans--appreciate _personality_. That is why I have
been allowed to develop my own ideas--to be individual. That is, to me,
the most interesting part of the art. I am keenly interested in
observing life--the expression of people's faces, their way of saying
and doing things. Wherever I am, whatever I see, I am always finding
something to use in my art.
"I once saw a death--it sounds unfeeling to say it, but I now use the
very expression I saw then in the finale of 'Boheme.'"
Geraldine Farrar's realism is a well-known phase of her art. A striking
instance is her performance in the last act of Romeo and Juliet: she
sings almost the entire scene _lying down_! An amazing innovation.
"Perhaps it is unusual," she commented, "but the simple repose seems to
me more fully to accentuate the sublime and lyric climax of the
tragedy."
This is a little rift into the prima-donna's viewpoint. She believes
that "vocal intensity and dramatic value should so merge one into the
other that they produce equalized sincerity of expression and constant
changing of color, movement, and sentiment."
"Give your best always; take _Sincerity_ for your guide, and _Work_,
never-ending, for your master."
This is Geraldine Farrar's creed.
"Madame Butterfly"
MADAME BUTTERFLY
Beauty of plot and great music are to an opera what fair features and a
noble soul are to woman. "Madame Butterfly" possesses these attributes,
and has consequently won that instant success which only true beauty, in
either art or nature, calls forth.
Very seldom is the story of an opera so intensely thrilling that the
original author is borne in mind; but it may be stated as a fact that no
one applauds Giacomo Puccini's splendid music without also thinking "All
Hail!" to John Luther Long, who wrote this strangely tender tragedy.
Distinctly unique as a grand opera setting is the Land of
Cherry-blossoms. Never before have the higher harmonies been blended in
with embroidered kimonas and chrysanthemum screens. The innovation is
delightful, however; refreshing, uplifting, enlarging. By means of great
music we are enabled to understand great emotion in the Little Land.
In this opera the hero is the villain, if one may so express it. He is
also an American; a lieutenant in the U. S. Navy, and from first to last
he seems blandly unconscious of his villainy. This is distressing
morally, but musically one could wish it no different. As the
rainbow-mist rises out of the whirlpool, so the beautiful in art is most
often evolved from a maelstrom of sin and tragedy.
A flowered veranda to a tiny house, a lilac-garden that overlooks a far,
fair view of Nagasaki, the bright blue bay and azure sky--this is the
opening scene of Puccini's opera.
The brief orchestral prelude is a pretty piece of fugue work,
four-voiced and accurately constructed. A fugue is unusual in grand
opera, but Puccini has a purpose in everything, and his music is
essentially descriptive. The opening conversation in this opera concerns
the construction of the tiny villa, and as a fugue is the one music-form
suggestive of rules and measurements--a secure foundation and precise
superstructure--it is clear that this bit of musical masonry, with its
themes overlapping but carefully joined, is intended to represent the
house.
On the stage the dainty dwelling is glowingly described by Goro, a
Japanese marriage-broker; very obsequious in manners, but characterized
in the orchestra by a most energetic, business-like theme that follows
him around like a shadow.
A wedding of his arranging is soon to take place, and this house has
been rented for the honeymoon. The bridegroom, Lieutenant Pinkerton, of
the U. S. Navy, is viewing the abode for the first time. He wears a
handsome uniform, and serves the opera as tenor, hero, lover,
villain--all in one.
Goro makes him acquainted also with the house-servant, Susuki, a
solemn-faced, saffron-colored maiden, whose name means
"Gentle-breeze-of-the-morning." Pinkerton prefers to call her
"Scare-crow."
The first invited guest to arrive is the U. S. Consul. A sympathetic and
genuinely tender theme announces this character's approach. Always
listen to the orchestra if you would know the real nature of these
people of the play. In grand opera, as in real life, _words_ very often
conceal thought; but by the power of music the listener is endowed with
a temporary sense of omniscience; he can read the hearts and motives of
the creatures he observes.
It being still early, Pinkerton and the Consul seat themselves while the
hero explains this marriage he is entering upon. But first he orders a
"whisky and soda."
There is apparently no translation for this barroom barbarism, so the
English words are used, and their effect is noticeably jarring. No
critic has failed to remark this surprising debut of fire-water on the
lyric stage! There is charm and poetry in the Italian wine-glass, and we
have grown accustomed to see that mingled with melody--but the American
whisky-bottle stands remote from music as a pig from Paradise. Puccini
seems to realize this, for he accompanies the obnoxious word with a
discord!
There is nothing discordant, however, in Pinkerton's description of his
bride--the lovely lady Butterfly--"dainty in stature--quaint little
figure--seems to have stepped down, straight from a screen."
The music here is delicate and frail, like an exquisite tracery of gold
lacquer.
[Illustration: Copyright by Aime Dupont.
Miss Farrar as "Madame Butterfly"]
He intends to marry this Japanese bride in Japanese fashion, thereby
making the tie unbinding in America--a slip-knot adjustment that she,
poor thing, is unaware of.
The Consul remonstrates with Pinkerton over his "easy-going gospel" of
free love, but this light-hearted villain will not listen. He holds up
his glass instead, and to a buried accompaniment of the "Star-spangled
Banner," he proposes a toast to America--and also to the day on which he
shall wed in _real_ marriage a _real_ wife of his own nationality.
With this atrocious toast scarcely uttered, poor little trusting
Butterfly is heard in the distance with her bridesmaids, singing as they
approach. A delirium of joy breathes through this song, which is a weird
succession of Oriental intervals, strange as an opium dream. As the
harmonies grow firmer, Butterfly's voice rings out above the others,
while in the orchestra the conductor with his baton slowly unearths,
like a buried diamond, the great love-theme of the opera. It beams forth
in sultry splendor, a cluster of chords with imprisoned tones that flash
forth unlooked-for harmonies.
At last she enters--this Japanese heroine, her brilliant draperies as
bright as her name. Her maidens all carry huge paper parasols and
fluttering fans--a merry group of girls, filled with varied emotions of
timidity, envy, curiosity, and fun. They courtesy, and smile, and sing,
and sigh, and lower their eyes with knowing charm.
Throughout this scene it is interesting to note the different themes and
their consistent use. A phrase of the opening fugue invariably appears
whenever the _house_ is mentioned; still another architectural motif
protrudes into prominence every time the town Nagasaki is referred to.
Susuki has a theme of her own; so has the Consul. When the relations of
the bride troop in, we recognize the fact that they, too, have a theme;
we learned it when Goro, some time back, was enumerating the expected
guests.
This theme now asserts itself in the orchestra as the grotesque company
assembles. There is nothing great about this melody: it is a mincing,
thin-bodied affair, but disports itself with much confidence during its
little hour of importance; it shoves out every other theme from the
orchestra and demands undivided attention. But at last the director's
stick chases it out of the enclosure.
The guests in the meantime have been gossiping among themselves,
disparaging the bride, criticizing the groom--and partaking of his
refreshments.
All flats and sharps and accidentals are suddenly dropt from the score
when the official registrar reads in monotone voice, and plain C major,
the simple marriage form.
The ceremony is soon over, but the guests linger on. Pinkerton plies
them with wine, but makes little headway in hurrying the festivities to
an end. He has grown heartily tired of these new relations, and longs to
see them go, but, instead of any one leaving, another one suddenly
arrives, an absent uncle, who plunges amongst them in a frenzy of wrath
and excitement. He has learned at the American Mission that Butterfly,
without telling her family, has changed her religion and cast off the
faith of her fathers.
Cries of horror, moans, and execrations follow this announcement.
Butterfly is denounced by her family--abjured and disowned. She cowers
before them, distressed, but not utterly crushed, for love remains to
console her.
The tragic theme of the opera; a gruesome sequence of minor thirds,
takes this opportunity to stalk into the orchestra and reconnoiter, like
an undertaker looking over the premises before he is really needed. This
theme has active work to do later on, but as yet does not seem very
terrifying.
When the relations and guests are gone, Butterfly is soon persuaded to
forget the "stupid tribe."
Evening has come; there is a twilight tinge to the music; it is
"_dolce_," "_expressione_," and "_rallentando_."
Puccini is a master of modulations. He employs large, full harmonies,
soul-asserting, all-engulfing chords, that feel their way from one key
to another, and burst forth in new glory with every transition. This
persistent progress through varying keys has an effect of leading the
listener through different rooms in some palatial edifice. In the hands
of a great composer, each key of the scale unlocks a new vista in the
enchanted palace of music.
Behind a screen on the veranda, Butterfly changes her chromatic kimona
to one of white silk. She emerges with garments all soft and fluttering,
like the trembling white wings of a night-moth.
Pinkerton leads her into the garden, and there, under the spell of the
silent stars, they sing of love and of the glorious mystic night, with
its gentle breeze that passes like a benediction over the bending
lilacs. Fire-flies (cleverly imitated) hover in the air and flicker
faintly, like candles in a distant chancel. The conductor waving his
wand, like a priest the swinging censor, evokes a wreathing mist of
music that enwraps the lovers in a drapery of dreams.
Melodies and harmonies rise into being and pass away like phantoms
floating by, until at last the great love-theme of the opera once again
is flashed upon us. The _diamond_, scarce revealed before, is now in its
proper setting. It is displayed in solemn glory by the dignitary at the
desk, who, with upraised, swaying hands, holds aloft this precious
theme, as a priest does the sacred emblem.