II

At the general rehearsal, the night before the opening, which was

attended by the musical elite of Europe (whatever that may mean),

poets, critics, managers, composers, princely folk, musical parasites,

and other east winds, as Nietzsche has it, the performance went on

leaden feet. The acting of Victor Arnold (Berlin) as prosy old

Jourdain just bordered on the burlesque; Camilla Eibenschuetz, not

unknown to New York, cleared the air with her unaffected merriment.

Strauss, after a delightful overture in the rococo manner of Gretry,

contributes some fascinating dance measures, a minuetto, a polonaise,

a gavotte, and a march. The table-music is wholly delightful. A

brilliant episode is that of the fencing-master, who is musically

pictured by a trumpet and pianoforte (with Max von Pauer at the

keyboard). Nothing could be more dazzling. You hear the snapping

of the foil in the hand of the truculent bully. The music

that accompanies the tailor is capital, as are also the two

dances--parodies of the dances in Salome and Elektra--for the kitchen

boy, who leaps out of a huge omelette (like the pie-girl years ago in

naughty New York), and for a tailor's apprentice. These were both

danced with seductive charm by the youthful Grete Wiessenthal

(Vienna), and were the bright particular spot of the play.

After a transition, not particularly well done, the curtains part and

disclose a stage upon a stage, a problematic question under the most

favourable conditions. Herr Jourdain makes by-remarks and interrupts

the mimic opera. It is all as antique as the clown at the circus.

Finally the opera gets under way and Ariadne publishes her views. Von

Hofmannsthal's figure of the deserted lady is not a particularly

moving one. Naturally, much must be allowed for the obviously

artificial character of the piece. Max Reinhardt, maker of stagecraft

and contriver of "atmosphere," has caught the exact shades. In the

dinner scene of the play his stage was chastely beautiful. In the

gaudy foliage of the exotic island, with the three chandeliers of a

bygone epoch, the sharp dissonance of styles is indicated. Aubrey

Beardsley would have rejoiced at this mingling of genres; at the

figures of Harlequin, Scaramuccio; at the quaint and gorgeous

costuming; at the Dryad, Naiad, Echo, and all the rest of

seventeenth-century burlesque appanage. And yet things didn't go as

they should have gone. The music is sparkling for the minor

characters, and for Zerbinetta Strauss has planned an aria, the

coloratura of which was to have made Mozart's famous aria for the

Queen of Night seem like thirty cents. (I quote the exact phrase of an

over-seas admirer.) Well, if Mozart's music is worth thirty cents,

then the Zerbinetta aria is worth five; that is the proportion. The

fact is the composer burlesques the old-fashioned scene and air with

trills and other vocal pyrotechnics, but overdoes the thing. Frieda

Hempel was to have sung the part and did not. Margarethe Siems

(Dresden) could not. She was as spiritless as corked champagne. To

give you an idea of the clumsy humour of the aria it is only necessary

to relate that in the middle of the music the singer comes down to the

footlights, points to her throat, tells the conductor that she is out

of breath, that she must have breathing time if she is to go on. At

the general rehearsal this vaudeville act found no favour and the

singer was without doubt vocally distressed. An ominous noise from the

direction of the conductor's desk (Strauss himself) caused her some

embarrassment. She eventually got under way, leaving the audience in

doubt as to the success of the experiment--the score shows that it is

all in deadly earnest. But the foot-stamping of Strauss and his

remarks reminded me of Gumprecht's description of Liszt's B-minor

Sonata as the Invitation to Hissing and Stamping. Zerbinetta's vocal

flower-garden must be shorn of many roses and lilies before it will be

shapely.

Mizzi Jeritza (what ingratiating names they have in Vienna!) was the

first Ariadne. In addition to being heartbroken over the perfidy of

Theseus she was scared to death. It took some time before her voice

grew warm, her acting less stiff. Her new wooer, Hermann Jadlowker

(Vienna), was the Bacchus. As you have seen and heard him in New York,

I need hardly add that he didn't "look" the part, though he sang with

warmth. The three Rhine maidens on dry land were shrill and out of

tune. But for the life of me I couldn't become interested in the

sorrow and ecstasy, chiefly metaphysical, of this pair. The scheme is

too remote from our days and ways. These young persons were

make-believe, after all, and while they sonorously declaimed their

passion--hers for a speedy death, his for the new life--under a canopy

with mother-of-pearl lining (Reinhardt, too, can be very Teutonic), I

didn't believe in them, and, I fear, neither did Strauss. He has

written sparkling music, Offenbachian music, rainbow music and music

sheerly humouristic, yet the entire production reminded one of a

machine that wouldn't work at every point.

There were three performances besides the general rehearsal given at

the low price of fifty marks (twelve dollars and fifty cents) a

performance. One of the jokes of Strauss is to make music-critics pay

for their seats. Screams of agony were heard all over the Continent as

far north as Berlin, as far south as Vienna. A music-critic dearly

hates to pay for a ticket. Hence the Till Eulenspiegel humour of R.

Strauss. Hence the numerous "roasts" all his new works receive. He is

the most unpopular composer alive with the critical confraternity. No

wonder. I simply glory in him. Talk about blood from a stone! Strauss

always makes money, even when his operas do not. Stuttgart, most

charming of residency cities (it holds over two hundred and fifty

thousand souls), was so crowded when I arrived that I was glad I had

taken the hint of a friend and engaged a room in advance. The place

simply overflowed with strangers. Certainly, I thought, they order

these things better in Germany, and was elated because of the

enthusiasm openly displayed over Strauss and the two noble

opera-houses. All for Strauss? Alas! no. The Gordon Bennet balloon

contest had attracted the majority, and until it was fought and done

for there was no comfort to be had in cafe, restaurant, or hotel.