The opera differs from the symphony concert, or piano recital, in
the same way that the army drill command of “At Ease!” differs
from “Rest!” When one of these orders (I never could remember
which is given to a battalion in formation), it signifies that
talking is permitted; opera, of course, corresponds to that
command.
Before the invention of the phonograph it was often necessary for
the opera goer to pay some attention to the performance—at least
while certain favorite arias were being sung; this handicap to
the enjoyment of opera has now fortunately been overcome and one
can devote one’s entire attention to other more important things,
safe in one’s knowledge that one has Galli-Curci at home on the
Vic.
In order really to get the most out of an opera a great deal of
study and preparation is required in advance; I have not space at
this time to cover these preliminaries thoroughly, but would
recommend to the earnest student such supplemental information as
can be obtained from Lady Duff-Gordon, or Messrs. Tiffany, Técla
and Pinaud.
Upon entering one’s box the true opera lover at once assumes a
musical attitude; this should be practised at home, by my lady,
before a mirror until she is absolutely sure that the shoulders
and back can be seen from any part of the house. Then, with the
aid of a pair of strong opera glasses, she may proceed to
scrutinize carefully the occupants of the boxes—noting carefully
any irregular features. Technical phraseology, useful in this
connection, includes “unearthly creature,” “stray leopard” or,
simply, “that person.”
Your two magical formulas—the Russian “w” and the sad story about
Rachmaninoff’s daughter—may, of course, be held in reserve—but
the chances are that you will be unable to use them, for during
an evening at the opera there will probably be no mention of
music.