a private letter written by Liszt at Milan. Speaking of the famous
Scala Opera House, he says: "In this blessed land putting a serious
opera on the stage is not at all a serious thing. A fortnight is
generally time enough. The musicians of the orchestra, and the
singers, who are generally strangers to each other and get no
encouragement from the audience (the latter are generally either
chatting or sleeping--in the fifth box they either sup or play cards),
assemble inattentive, insensible, and troubled with catarrh, not as
artists, but as people who are paid for the music they make. There is
nothing more icy than these Italian representations. No trace of
_nuances_, in spite of the exaggeration of accent and gesture dictated
by Italian taste, much less any effect _d'ensemble_. Each artist
thinks only of himself, without troubling his thoughts about his
neighbor. Why worry one's self for a public that does not even
listen?"
In German opera, on the other hand, the orchestral part and the
choruses and declamatory sections are just as important as the lyric
numbers, and many of the most exquisite passages in the operas of
Weber and Wagner are a kind of superior pantomime music during which
no voice at all is heard on the stage. Now I am convinced that much of
the talking in opera-boxes is simply due to ignorance of this fact.
Vocal music is much more readily appreciated than instrumental music,
and those who have no ear for orchestral measures do not realize that
others are enraptured by them. Hence they talk as soon as the singing
ceases, unconscious of the fact that they are greatly annoying those
who wish to listen to the orchestra.
To a large extent the stupid custom of having music between the acts
at theatres is responsible for the talking at the opera. For between
the acts everybody, of course, wants to talk; and since at the theatre
the orchestra merely furnishes a sort of background or support for the
conversation, people naturally come to look upon the overtures and
interludes and introductions to the second and third acts of an opera
in similar light. Even if _entr'acte_ music in theatres were much
better than it is commonly, this consideration alone ought to suffice
to banish it from the theatres. It degrades the art and spoils the
public.
Those of the stockholders of the Metropolitan Opera House who indulge
in loud conversation while the music goes on, or who rent their boxes
to irresponsible parties, should remember that it is their _pecuniary_
interest to preserve quiet. For not a few amateurs, as already stated,
are driven to the cheaper parts of the house, or discouraged from
going at all, by the annoying conversation; and the losses thus
resulting are of course added to their annual assessments.
Again, it ought to be clear to any one who has the most elementary
knowledge of the laws of etiquette that to disturb others needlessly
in the enjoyment of a dearly purchased pleasure is evidence of very
bad manners. Musical people suffer more from such interruptions than
persons whose ears are not similarly refined can imagine; for the
tone colors of a Wagnerian score are as exquisitely delicate and
refined as the evanescent films and colors of a soap-bubble, so that
the mere rustling of a fan or a programme mars them.
Everybody has heard the story of Handel, who used to get very angry if
any one talked in the room, even when he was only giving lessons to
the Prince and Princess of Wales. At such times, as Barney relates,
the Princess of Wales, with her accustomed mildness and benignity,
used to say: "Hush! hush! Handel is in a passion." And Liszt never
gave a finer exhibition of his wit and artistic courage than when, at
an imperial soirée in the Russian capital, he suddenly ceased playing
in the midst of a piece, because the Czar was talking loudly with an
officer. The Czar sent an attendant to inquire of Liszt why he
stopped; whereupon Liszt retorted that it was the first rule of court
etiquette that when the Czar was speaking others must be silent. The
Czar never forgave him this well-merited rebuke.
This anecdote has a moral for those who talk loudly at the opera; for
it calls attention to the fact that they not only annoy those of the
audience who wish to hear the music, but also insult the artists on
the stage.
The establishment of habitual silence during operatic performances is
only one of the beneficial changes introduced into operatic etiquette
through German opera. The method of applauding has been revolutionized
too. It is no longer customary to interrupt the flow of the orchestral
music by applauding a singer. All the applause is now reserved for the
end of the acts. I remember a performance of "Lohengrin," at the
Academy of Music, at which the music was thrice interrupted by some
ill-bred admirers of Campanini, who applauded him when he first
appeared in sight on the swan-boat; again, when he stepped on shore,
and a third time when he came to the front of the stage. Now here was
one of the most poetic scenes on the whole operatic stage utterly
marred for all refined listeners, merely for the sake of showing
admiration for a singer which might as well have been expressed later
on when the curtain was down. Campanini recognized all these
interruptions, and bowed his thanks to the audience.
Quite different was Herr Niemann's behavior when he made his _début_
at the Metropolitan Opera House. Here was the greatest living dramatic
tenor, an artist identified with the cause and the triumphs of Wagner,
appearing on a new continent, in the same rôle that he had created at
the historic Bayreuth festival of 1876. The house, of course, was
packed, and included many old admirers who had heard him abroad, and
who, of course, received him with a volley of applause when he
staggered into _Hunding's_ hut. But Niemann did not acknowledge this
applause with a bow or even a smile. He appeared before the public as
_Siegmund_, and not as Herr Niemann. But when the curtain was down he
promptly responded to the enthusiastic recalls, and was quite willing,
and more than willing, to come forward as often as the audience
desired and acknowledge their kindness with bowed thanks.
Now, it is to be noted in this case that Herr Niemann did not lose
anything by refusing to recognize the applause that greeted him when
he first appeared on the stage; on the contrary, it raised him in the
estimation of all whose esteem was worth having; and these applauded
him all the more vigorously for his self-denial when the curtain was
down. Singers of the old school should take this lesson to heart and
ponder it. They imagine success is measured by the number of times
they are applauded, and consequently introduce loud, high notes and
other clap-trap at the end of every solo, if possible. They forget
that while they thus secure the applause of the uncultured, real
connoisseurs are disgusted, and put them down in their mental
note-books as second-rate artists or charlatans.
Those artists who have followed Wagner's precepts, and merged their
individuality and personal vanity in their rôles, have never had
occasion to regret their apparent self-sacrifice. They are the only
kind of singers now eagerly sought for by managers; and an educated
public that does not tolerate applause while the orchestra plays,
never fails to vent its pent-up enthusiasm at the end of the act, as
has been abundantly proved at the Metropolitan Opera House. A curious
episode may be noted sometimes. As soon as the singing has ceased and
the curtain begins to descend, a number of people begin to applaud.
But the full-blooded Wagnerites wait until the last chord of the
orchestra has died away before they join in. The volume of applause is
then suddenly multiplied three or four times, to the bewilderment of
novices, who do not understand what it all means. It simply means that
the concluding strains of Wagner's acts, are usually among the most
beautiful measures in the whole opera, which it is a pity and a shame
to mar by premature applause.
I have often wondered why people, who put on their overcoats during
the final measures, are not ashamed thus to advertise their utter lack
of artistic sensibility and indifference to other people's feelings.
Nor can one wonder, in view of such facts, that the late King of
Bavaria preferred to have opera given when no other spectator was in
the house, or that the present Emperor of Germany is beginning to
follow his example.
Wagner does not merely ask his interpreters to scorn the usual methods
of securing cheap applause, but he himself avoids them in his
compositions with a heroic conscientiousness. There is a story of a
well-known English conductor who objected to produce a piece by a
noted German composer because it ended _pianissimo_. He was afraid
that it would not be applauded if it did not end loudly. Now the
finales of Italian operas are habitually constructed on this method.
The chorus is brought in at the end, whether the situation calls for
it or not, and made to sing as loudly as possible. This stirs up the
audience to equally loud applause, and all ends well.
How differently Wagner goes to work! In "Siegfried," for instance,
there is no chorus at all. The first act ends with _Siegfried's_
cleaving of the anvil with the sword which he has just forged before
the eyes of the audience; and the third ends with the love duo. In
these cases there are only two persons on the stage; and at the end of
the second act _Siegfried_ is _entirely alone_, and the curtain falls
as he mutely follows the bird to the fire-girdled rock on which
_Brünnhilde_ lies asleep, amid the intoxicating and promising strains
of the orchestra. The ending of "Die Walküre" is equally quiet and
poetic. _Wotan_ has placed poor _Brünnhilde_ on a mound of moss, for
disobeying his orders, and covered her with her helmet, after plunging
her into a magnetic sleep which is to last until a hero shall come to
wake her. He strikes the rock with his spear, whereupon a flame breaks
out that quickly becomes a sea of fire encircling the rock. Then he
disappears in the fire toward the background, and for several minutes
there is no one on the stage but the sleeping Valkyrie, and nothing to
be heard but the crackling and roaring of the flames, re-echoed in the
orchestra; and this is the end of the opera.
One more illustration: The greater part of the second act of "Die
Meistersinger" is taken up with _Beckmesser's_ serenade, comically
interrupted by the songs and the hammering of _Hans Sachs_ the
cobbler. Toward the end the apprentice _David_ sees _Beckmesser_, and
imagining he is serenading _his_ sweetheart, assaults and beats him
most unmercifully. The noise attracts the neighbors, who all take part
in the affray, and the scene culminates in a perfect pandemonium of
noise. Now there is hardly an operatic composer who would not have
closed the act with this exciting and tumultuous chorus. Not so
Wagner. The sound of the watchman's horn suddenly clears the street,
and no one is left but the watchman himself, who timorously toddles up
the street with his lantern, while the moon rises above the roofs of
the houses, and the muted strings of the orchestra softly and dreamily
recall a few of the motives of the preceding scenes. I was sitting
next to Professor Paine, of Harvard, at a performance of this opera at
the Metropolitan, one evening. He had not seen it before, and I shall
never forget the expression of surprise on his face when he saw the
curtain descending on this dreamy moonlight scene, with _a deserted
stage_. He considered it a bold deviation from established operatic
customs, and yet he could not for a moment deny that it was infinitely
more poetic than the traditional final chorus, with its meaningless
noise and pomp.
Not that Wagner despised the chorus, as is sometimes said. He showed
in the third act of this same opera, in the scene of the
folk-festival, that when a chorus is called for by the situation no
one can supply a more inspired and inspiring volume of concerted sound
than he. With the possible exception of the last number in Bach's
Passion music, I regard the choral music of this act as the most
sublime ever written. Here, at any rate, the _vox populi_ is divine.
The magnificent quintet in this act of "Die Meistersinger" also
affords proof that if Wagner banished concerted music from his later
works, it was not because he lacked inspiration for that kind of work.
Although extremely Wagnerian in its harmonies, it is one of those
numbers which even Wagner's enemies admire. Some years ago I witnessed
a curious scene in the Berlin Opera House. According to Wagner's
directions, the curtain goes down after this quintet, but the music
continues until the scene is changed. Now, on the occasion in
question, the quintet evoked so much enthusiasm that a storm of
applause arose. The extreme Wagnerites resented this interruption of
the music, and began to hiss; whereupon the others redoubled their
applause and their calls for an "encore," which finally had to be
granted, as the only way of appeasing this paradoxical disturbance in
which Wagnerites hissed while the others applauded!
At the Metropolitan Opera House the stage arrangements are so clumsy
that it is necessary to have an intermission of over a quarter of an
hour, in order to change this scene. Consequently the last and most
popular part of this master-work is never seen till after midnight;
and many leave the house annoyed by the long intermission.
And this brings us to the weakest part of modern opera. It lasts too
long. Wagner is not the only guilty composer. Gounod's "Faust,"
Weber's "Euryanthe," and most of Meyerbeer's operas, if given without
cuts, would last over four hours. But in these cases no irreparable
harm is done by a few cuts, whereas in Wagner's operas there are very
few bars that can be spared, both on account of their intrinsic beauty
and because they are required to keep up the dramatic continuity of
the story. Nevertheless, Wagner's operas must be cut, in some cases
most unmercifully, as in "Die Götterdämmerung," in which Herr Seidl
was obliged to omit the whole of the first prelude--the weirdly grand
scene of the three Fates, and the scene between the two
Valkyries--merely to prevent the opera from lasting till one o'clock.
Herr Seidl is perhaps the greatest living interpreter of Wagner. He
brings to his works the enthusiasm without which they can neither be
interpreted nor fully understood; and his enthusiasm proves contagious
to the orchestra and the singers. He not only rehearses every bar of
the orchestral score with minute care, but each of the vocalists has
to come to his room and go through his or her part until he is
satisfied. Although he is invariably civil, his men obey him as they
would the sternest general, and admiration of his superior knowledge
makes them more attentive to their duty than fear ever would. I do not
believe German opera would have won its present popularity under any
other conductor excepting Hans Richter. One of the traits to which he
owes his great success as a Wagner conductor is his instinctive
perception of what parts can be omitted with the minimum of injury to
the work he is interpreting. Except at Bayreuth, Wagner's later works
did not especially prosper at first, because they were either too long
or injudiciously cut. Herr Seidl, however, succeeded with them
everywhere. One time Wagner wrote to him complaining that he made so
many cuts in his operas. But Herr Seidl wrote back, giving his
reasons, and explaining the situation; whereupon he received the
laconic telegram from Wagner, "_Schiessen Sie los!_" (Fire away!).
Eduard von Hartmann, in his recent work, "Die Philosophie des
Schönen," has some just remarks on Wagner's mistake in making his
operas so long that conductors are _obliged_ to use the red pencil,
which is not always done intelligently; whereas if he himself had
undertaken the task of condensing his works their organic unity might
have been preserved. True, Wagner did not intend his later works to be
incorporated in the regular operatic repertory, but desired them to be
sung only on certain festal occasions, as at Bayreuth, where people
went with the sole object of hearing music, and with no other business
oppressing them for the moment. But at a time when the struggle for
existence is so severe as now it was chimerical on Wagner's part to
hope that such a plan could be permanently realized. Few musical
people can afford to journey to Bayreuth merely to gratify their taste
for opera. Hence the Bayreuth festivals, although most delightful from
an artistic point of view, would have never been financially
successful, had not the vocalists given their services _gratis_; and
it is doubtful if they will be continued after the death of Wagner's
widow. Moreover, it would have been a musical calamity to have the
treasures of melody and harmony that are stored away in the Nibelung
scores reserved for the lucky few who are able to go to Bayreuth.
Wagner himself must have felt this when, contrary to his original
intention, he gave Neumann permission to perform the Tetralogy (under
Seidl's direction) in Germany, Italy, and Belgium; and since that time
it has been successfully incorporated into the repertory of all the
leading German cities, and many smaller ones, such as Weimar,
Mannheim, and Carlsruhe.
In Germany the length of Wagner's and Meyerbeer's operas is not so
objectionable as here, because there the opera commences at seven, or
even at six thirty, and six, if it is a very long one; hence it is all
over shortly after ten, and everybody has time to take supper before
going to bed. But in New York, where it is not customary to sup, and
where the dinner hour is between six and seven, it would hardly be
advisable to commence the opera before eight. Nor is the interest in
the opera sufficiently general to inspire the hope that for its sake
any change will be made in the hour of dining. The danger rather lies
the other way: that the custom of delaying dinner till eight, which is
coming into vogue among the English (who care neither for music nor
the theatre), will be followed in this city.
Now consider the inevitable consequences of having excessively long
operas. America has plenty of poor loafers, but few wealthy _rentiers_
who spend their days in bed or in idleness, and are therefore
insatiable in their appetite for entertainment in the evening. The
typical American works hard all day long, whether he is rich or poor,
and in the evening his brain is too tired to follow for four hours the
complicated orchestral score of a music-drama. If he listens
attentively, he will be exhausted by eleven o'clock, and the last act,
which he might have enjoyed hugely if not so "played out," will weary
him so much that he will probably resolve to avoid the opera in the
future. Thus opera suffers in the same way that society suffers: the
late hour at which all entertainments begin prevents the "desirable"
men who have worked all day, and must be at their work bright and
early the next day, from attending parties, balls, and operas.
It must be said, on the other hand, in defence of long German operas,
that it is only while they are novelties to the hearer that they
fatigue his brain beyond endurance. After they have been heard a few
times they cease to be a study that calls for a laborious
concentration of the attention, and become a source of pure delight
and recreation. The difficulty lies in convincing people of this
fact. There are in New York hundreds of persons, who, having read of
the rare beauties of "Tristan" or "Siegfried," went to the opera to
hear and judge for themselves. Of course, as everything was new to
them, they found it hard work to follow all the intricacies of the
plot and the music at the same time; hence, their verdict next day was
that German opera was "too heavy" for them. These persons cannot be
made to believe that if they would only repeat their visits, the labor
of listening would be reduced to a minimum and the pleasure increased
to enthusiasm. I know a man, one of the cleverest writers for the New
York press, a man who can afford to go to the opera every evening, and
who _does_ go when Meyerbeer's operas are given, but who absolutely
and stubbornly refuses to attend a Wagner performance at the
Metropolitan. Why? Because a number of years ago he attended a
wretched performance in Italian of "Lohengrin" which bored him! I
believe there are many like him in New York.
Mr. Carl Rosa, in an article which appeared in _Murray's Magazine_ a
year ago, remarks on this topic: "An Englishman, once bored [at the
opera] will with difficulty be made to return; and this is the reason
why light opera, opera bouffe, and burlesque have their advantage in
this country. They are so easy to digest after dinner." And again:
"There is no doubt that opera is, to some extent, an acquired taste;
but the taste, once imparted, grows rapidly. From personal experience
I know that _some of my best supporters had to be dragged to the opera
at first_, and induced to sit it through."
In these remarks lies a valuable hint to the lovers of German opera.
The most important thing to do, if opera is to be permanently
retained, is to _enlarge the operatic public_. This can only be done
by means of a concerted action of all admirers of the opera. Let them
keep on, with "damnable iteration," to drum into their friends' heads
the fact that if they will only make up their minds to attend one good
opera _three or four times in succession_ they will become devoted
admirers of it the rest of their lives. The friends will finally
consent, in pure self-defence, to try the experiment; and in three
cases out of four they will become converted and admit that German
operatic music is indeed a thing of beauty and a joy forever.
There is at present in New York a considerable number of musical
Mugwumps, persons who formerly doted on Italian opera, but who now
find it tiresome after hearing German opera. The distinguished English
psychologist, Mr. James Sully, incidentally speaks of his experiences
in regard to Wagner's operas, in his work on "Sensation and
Intuition." "Although," he says, "I went to the first performance
decidedly prejudiced against the noisy _Zukunftsmusik_, I found that
after patient study of these operas I became so susceptible of their
high dramatic beauties that I lost much of my relish for the older
Italian opera, which began to appear highly unnatural. I heard from
other cultivated Germans--among others from Professor Helmholtz--that
they had undergone quite a similar change of opinion with respect to
these operas."
Who, on the other hand, has ever heard of a renegade Wagnerite? Such
an animal does not exist, and if a specimen could be found, it would
pay to exhibit him in a dime museum. The very expression seems a
contradiction in terms. Wagner frequently asserted that no one could
_understand_ his music unless he admired it; and there is truth in
this, for only enthusiasm can sharpen the mental faculties
sufficiently to enable us to perceive the countless subtle beauties in
Wagner's and Weber's scores. M. Saint-Saëns, who is considered the
best living score-reader, compares Wagner's scores to those
master-works of mediæval architecture which are adorned with
sculptured reliefs that must have required infinite care and labor in
the chiselling. Now, just as a careless observer of such architectural
works hardly notices the lovely figures sculptured on them, so the
average opera-goer does not hear the exquisite harmonic and melodic
miniature-work in Wagner's music-dramas. But if he has once taken the
trouble to study them, he becomes an enthusiast for life; for he
constantly discovers new and beautiful details which had previously
escaped his notice.
The eighth performance of "Siegfried" in New York was one of those
events that will always live in the memory of those who were so
fortunate as to be present. Everyone on the stage and in the orchestra
seemed to be inspired, and the audience in consequence was
electrified. For my part, although I had heard this music-drama at
least a dozen times previously, and knew every bar by heart, it seemed
as if I had never heard it before, so vividly were all its beauties
revealed in the white heat of Conductor Seidl's enthusiasm. All the
evening I sat trembling with excitement, and could not sleep for hours
afterward. I have for twelve years made a special study of the
emotions, but I could not conceive any pleasure more intense and more
prolonged than that of listening to such a music-drama. Is not such a
pleasure worth cultivating, even if it involves some toil at first?
And have not musical people reason to regard with profound pity those
poor mortals who can enjoy beauty only through the medium of their
eyes, their ears being deaf to the charms of artistically combined
sounds?