MARIE CELESTE
Almost as necessary as a singing voice to the young woman who would
venture into light opera and musical comedy, are physical attractiveness
and personal magnetism. An unusually good voice, daintiness of face and
figure, and a winsome personality. Marie Celeste has, and she has one
other quality which to me makes her work on the stage especially
enjoyable. That is her total lack of affectation. When one sees her he
is not conscious of that irritating screen of artificiality that so
often darkens and sometimes hides completely the personality on the
stage. An actor, to be effective, must show a personality of some sort.
It may not be his own, but it should appear to be his own. The ability,
under the conditions represented in the theatre, to convince an audience
that the personality represented is a real personality constitutes that
branch of acting known as impersonation.
Actors try to accomplish this deception by various means. They bring to
their aid wonderful skill in make-up and astonishing ingenuity in
pantomime; but these external devices fail, every one of them, to
produce the impression desired, unless the final effect on the mind of
the person to be convinced is one of simplicity and sincerity. To create
this impression of simplicity and sincerity, the actor must project his
character mentally as well as reproduce it physically; he must appeal to
the mind as well as to the eye; he must know human nature; he must study
and experiment, and he must have the dramatic temperament.
Simplicity and sincerity of this kind are none too common on the stage,
and especially is one not apt to find them among the men and women who
interpret any form of opera. There are two simple reasons for this. One
is that the operatic singer who has a chance to study naturally enough
seeks first of all to improve the voice on which he is so dependent.
Acting he regards as something that can be quickly acquired from the
ubiquitous stage manager. The second reason is that, even in the case of
singers who can act, the artificiality of the operatic scheme--drama
united with music--is bound to affect the player's art. The player in
opera acts, not as men and women act, but as operatic tenors or sopranos
or bassos have acted ever since opera came into being. In fact, we have
become so accustomed to strutting tenors and mincing sopranos that we
accept what they have to offer as a matter of course. If only they sing
well and their inherent artificiality be not too ridiculous, we are
satisfied.
Yet when spontaneity and conviction are present, what a change in
conditions they cause! They make opera--even the frivolous opera of the
hardworking Harry B. Smith, who has what William J. Henderson calls the
"operetta libretto habit"--seem real. One does not have to adopt the
intended illusion by a sort of free-will process; it is forced on him.
Marie Celeste is one of the few actresses in opera. She has spontaneity
and conviction, simplicity and sincerity, and in particular refreshing
and unconscious naivete. Her personality is attractive, winsome, and
thoroughly feminine, and her style is vivacious, sparkling, and refined.
Her voice is a high soprano of considerable power, and might easily of
itself have won her a place on the operatic stage. As a matter of fact,
however, her greatest successes have been in parts where singing was
something of a secondary consideration. Both physically and
temperamentally, Miss Celeste is best fitted for soubrette roles, parts
that require appreciative humor, girlish charm, and artistic finish,
ability to dance, and some pretensions as a ballad singer. Miss
Celeste's dancing is dainty and graceful, without physical violence, and
with a hint of the poetry of motion that makes dancing something more
than an athletic feat.
As Winnifred Grey in "A Runaway Girl"--a part in which personal charm
counted for a great deal--Miss Celeste made a splendid impression
largely through her ability as an actress. The music of the part was too
low to show her voice to the best advantage, yet she sang the fetching
"The Boy Guessed Right the Very First Time" song more effectively than
any one I have ever heard. It is, of course, a simple enough ditty,
which, however, demands considerable finesse, suggestive action, and a
strain of humor to make it go as it should. The sentiment that she put
into the second verse of the catchy little duet, "I Think 'twould Break
my Heart," was exquisitely delicate and true. Except for a pretty moment
at the end of the first act, there is little else than these two bits in
the part, aside from an attractive monotony of brightness and happiness;
and brightness and happiness, of course, are directly in the line of
every musical comedy girl.
Marie Celeste--her full name is Marie Celeste Martin--was born and
brought up in New York City. So far as she knows, she was the first one
of her family to go upon the stage. In fact, from her mother she
inherited a strain of Quaker blood, which certainly would never have
countenanced a theatrical career. Her mother's grandfather, however, was
a Frenchman, and from him probably came her artistic temperament. He was
a bit of an inventor in his way, though apparently not a very practical
one, a man who dreamed of great things, but like Cotta in "The
Schoenberg-Cotta Family" failed to bring them to an issue in time to
reap any material benefit. Of an original turn of mind and a sanguine
temperament, he experimented with many inventions from which he expected
to derive fortune and fame. None of them amounted to anything, however.
Marie's father died when she was a girl studying music in the New York
Conservatory, and she was obliged to look about for a means whereby to
earn her livelihood. For some time she had thought of the stage,--say
rather idly speculated regarding it as a possibility without ever really
believing that she would sometime adopt it as her life-work. Naturally,
therefore, it was to the stage that she turned at this time of
adversity. Her ambition was opera. She knew that she had a voice, but
she also knew that she could not act. With rare foresight in one so
young, she made up her mind that the first thing for her to do was to
learn to act, and she pluckily took an engagement in a stock company at
Halifax, Nova Scotia. That was in 1890, and her first part was Fantile,
the maid in Ben Teal's melodrama, "The Great Metropolis."
"Mr. Teal, whom afterward I came to know very well, and I have often
laughed over that," said Miss Celeste. "But it was hard work in that
stock company. We changed the bill twice a week, and sometimes now I
think how often I have sat with a dress-maker on one side of me and my
part in a chair near my elbow on the other side, memorizing my lines
while I sewed away for dear life on my costumes."
Miss Celeste steadily gained in skill as an actress, and was given
characters of increasing importance. She went with the company to
Portland; and when she announced that she was going to leave the
organization and look for an opening in opera, she was offered the
position of leading woman as an inducement to stay.
After Miss Celeste returned to New York, she studied singing for a time,
and then was engaged for the farce comedy, "Hoss and Hoss," which
exploited Charles Reed, now dead, and Willie Collier, who is at present
emulating the example of Nat Goodwin and trying to make himself over
into a legitimate comedian. The company opened at the Hollis Street
Theatre in Boston, on January 12, 1892, and Miss Celeste's character was
Polly Hoss. It was not really a character though, only a name, and she
was engaged not to act, but to sing. Everybody in the company thought
that she was a beginner, and she did not tell her associates how she had
barely escaped being leading lady of a two-bills-a-week stock-company.
"Hoss and Hoss" was a typical farce comedy of the Charles H. Hoyt
school,--a plotless, formless thing, which was no play, but a vehicle.
The chief object of the person that conceived it was to get every person
in the company on the stage at the same time, toward the end of the
third act. When this remarkable artistic feat was accomplished, a
leading personage in the cast would remark with elaborate casualness:--
"Seeing we're all here and looking so well, suppose we have a little
music."
Forthwith every one on the stage fell into the nearest chair in a
helpless sort of a way, as if life were a veritable snare and delusion,
and the master of ceremonies continued:--
"Miss Jones, will you kindly favor us with that beautiful ballad
entitled 'Way Down upon the Swanee River?'"
And so they began, and thus they continued, until every one on the stage
had his chance to air his talent before a highly entertained assemblage.
It was not exactly a minstrel show, but it approached the minstrel
territory. On the bill it was called the "olio."
Miss Celeste's part in the "olio" was to sing a ballad; and as no one
knew anything about her, she was placed almost at the end of the list of
entertainers. When she came to talk with Frank Palmer, the musical
director of the company, he asked her what song she had chosen. She told
him, and then he wanted to know what she was going to give as an encore.
"You know," said Miss Celeste, in telling me the story, "I wasn't very
old, and I wasn't very big, and I was terribly nervous, and just a
little frightened. I knew what I intended to sing, but it took all the
courage I had to murmur gently, 'I'd like to sing, "Coming Thro' the
Rye."'
"Never shall I forget the expression of disgust on Mr. Palmer's face.
"'I'll rehearse you, anyway,' was all he said.
"But I didn't tell him that I had taken a little advantage of him. As a
matter of fact, I had sung 'Coming Thro' the Rye' in Halifax, in a part
which required a song, and in which the old melody seemed appropriate. I
knew I could make a success of it.
"We went on with the rehearsals,--Mr. Palmer and I,--and he was very
kind and considerate after he heard me sing, transposed the music to a
higher register, so as to show my voice to better advantage, and gave me
any number of little points. When it was all arranged, he said:--
"'Now promise me one thing. Promise that you won't tell any one in the
company what you are going to sing.'
"I promised. I suppose he was afraid that some one of them would make
fun of me.
"'And you won't flunk, will you?' he added.
"'No,' I said, 'I won't flunk.'
"On the first night," continued Miss Celeste, "'Coming Thro' the Rye'
brought me four or five recalls, and consequently after that the stage
manager gave me a much better place in the 'olio.' That is the reason I
call 'Coming Thro' the Rye' my mascot."
After her farce comedy experience, Miss Celeste became a member of
Lillian Russell's opera company, appearing as Paquita in
"Girofle-Girofla," Petita in "The Princess Nicotine," and Wanda in "The
Grand Duchess." During the season of 1894-95 she was with Della Fox in
"The Little Trooper," singing the part of Octavie most charmingly, and
acting as understudy to Miss Fox, whose role she played many times. The
next season she returned to Miss Russell's company, making so effective
as to attract considerable attention the trifling part of Ninetta in
"The Tzigane." She also sang Gaudalena in "La Perichole," and the
Duchess de Paite in "The Little Duke."
Miss Celeste was taken seriously ill in March, 1896, and her work during
the following season was necessarily not very heavy. Under the
management of Klaw and Erlanger she appeared as the Queen in "The
Brownies," in which, by the way, she again sang "Coming Thro' the Rye;"
and the following summer she made a decided hit as Peone Burn in the
lively spectacle, "One Round of Pleasure." Mistress Mary in "Jack and
the Beanstalk" followed, and then she succeeded Christie MacDonald as
Minutezza in "The Bride Elect." Her last part was Winnifred Grey in "A
Runaway Girl."
Miss Celeste has also sung leading parts with the Castle Square Opera
Company, under Henry W. Savage's management, in New York, and for a
brief season in Boston. Her principal part with this organization was
Santuzza in "Cavalleria Rusticana."
"I suppose Mr. Savage thought I looked the part," said Miss Celeste,
"and so he asked me to study it. I was really frightened at the idea. I
told him that I had never tried anything heavy like Santuzza, and that
tragedy was not in my line. He insisted that I attempt it, however, and
so I did the best I could. I got into the part far better than I
believed were possible, and the result surprised me. I don't think I
could do anything with a role that runs the gamut of emotions, as they
say. But Santuzza is all in one key, a perfect whirlwind, and after you
once strike the pace she fairly carries you along with her own
impetuosity.
"What is the most enjoyable part I ever had?" said Miss Celeste,
repeating my question. "That's easily answered: Mataya in 'Wang,' which
I played during a summer engagement, just before DeWolf Hopper went to
England. He's such a dear boy,--Mataya, I mean,--thinks he is so very
sporty when he isn't at all, and then he's so very much in love. I was
very fond of that boy.
"I think there is a fascination about boys' parts, anyway. It is
something of a study to do them just right, to be feminine and still
not to be effeminate. An old stage manager once said to me, 'Be sure you
please the women. That will bring them to the theatre, and they will
bring the men.' The difficulty in playing boys is to please the women,
and at the same time to keep your boy from being a poor, weak, colorless
creature. One must never overstep the line of womanliness in seeking
masculinity, and she must still make the character a real boy and not a
girl disguised as a boy."