OPERA COMIQUE
To most persons "opera comique" means simply comic opera. If they make
any distinction at all it is to call it "high-class comic opera." As a
matter of fact, tragedy and comedy are hardly farther apart in spirit
than are the rough and farcical stuff that we look upon as comic opera
nowadays and the charming old pieces that formed the true "opera
comique" some fifty years ago. "Opera bouffe" even is many degrees below
"opera comique." Yet "opera bouffe" is, to my mind, something infinitely
superior and many steps higher than modern comic opera. So we have some
delicate differentiations to make when we go investigating in the fields
of light dramatic music.
In Paris at the Comique they try to keep the older distinction in mind
when selecting their operas for production. There are exceptions to this
rule, as to others, for play-houses that specialise; but for the most
part these Paris managers choose operas that are light. I use the word
advisedly. By _light_ I mean, literally, _not heavy_. Light music, light
drama, does not necessarily mean humorous. It may, on the contrary, be
highly pathetic and charged with sentiment. The only restriction is that
it shall not be expressed in the stentorian orchestration of a
Meyerbeer, nor in the heart-rending tragedy of a Wagner. In theme and
in treatment, in melodies and in text, it must be of delicate fibre,
something easily seized and swiftly assimilated, something intimate,
perfumed, and agreeable, with no more harshness of emotion than of
harmony.
Judged by this standard such operas as _Martha_, _La Boheme_, even
_Carmen_--possibly, even _Werther_--are not entirely foreign to the
requirements of "opera comique." _Le Donne Curiose_ may be considered as
an almost perfect revival and exemplification of the form. A careful
differentiation discovers that humour, a happy ending, and many
rollicking melodies do not at all make an "opera comique." These
qualities all belong abundantly to _Die Meistersinger_ and to Verdi's
_Falstaff_, yet these great operas are no nearer being examples of
genuine "comique" than _Les Huguenots_ is or _Goetterdaemmerung_.
It was my good fortune to sing in the space of a year three delightful
_roles_ in "opera comique," each of which I enjoyed hugely. They were
Zerlina in _Fra Diavolo_; Rosina in _Il Barbiere_; and Annetta in
_Crispino e la Comare_. _Fra Diavolo_ was first produced in Italian in
America during the autumn of 1864, the year after I appeared in
Marguerite, and it remained one of our most popular operas throughout
the season of '65-66. I loved it and always had a good time the nights
it was given. We put it on for my "benefit" at the end of the regular
winter season at the Academy. The season closed with the old year and
the "benefit" took place on the 28th of December. The "benefit" custom
was very general in those days. Everybody had one a year and so I had to
have mine, or, at least, Maretzek thought I had to have it. _Fra
Diavolo_ was his choice for this occasion as I had made one of my best
successes in the part of Zerlina, and the opera had been the most liked
in our whole _repertoire_ with the exception of _Faust_. _Faust_ had
remained from the beginning our most unconditional success, our _cheval
de bataille_, and never failed to pack the house.
I don't know quite why that _Fra Diavolo_ night stands out so happily
and vividly in my memory. I have had other and more spectacular
"benefits"; but that evening there seemed to be the warmest and most
personal of atmospheres in the old Academy. The audience was full of
friends and, what with the glimpses I had of these familiar faces and my
loads of lovely flowers and the kindly, intimate enthusiasm that greeted
my appearance, I felt as if I were at a party and not playing a
performance at all. I had to come out again and again; and finally
became so wrought up that I was nearly in tears.
As a climax I was entirely overcome when I suddenly turned to find
Maretzek standing beside me in the middle of the stage, smiling at me in
a friendly and encouraging manner. I had not the slightest idea what his
presence there at that moment meant. The applause stopped instantly.
Whereupon "Max the Magnificent" made a little speech in the quick hush,
saying charming and overwhelming things about the young girl whose
musical beginning he had watched and who in a few years had reached "a
high pinnacle in the world of art. The young girl"--he went on to
say--"who at twenty-one was the foremost _prima donna_ of America."
"And now, my dear Miss Kellogg," he wound up with, holding out to me a
velvet case, "I am instructed by the stockholders of the Opera Company
to hand you this, to remind you of their admiration and their pride in
you!"
I took the case; and the house cheered and cheered as I lifted out of it
a wonderful flashing diamond bracelet and diamond ring. Of course I
couldn't speak. I could hardly say "thank you." I just ran off with eyes
and heart overflowing to the wings where my mother was waiting for me.
The bracelet and the ring are among the dearest things I possess. Their
value to me is much greater than any money could be, for they symbolise
my young girl's sudden comprehension of the fact that I had made my
countrymen proud of me! That seemed like the high-water mark; the finest
thing that could happen.
Annetta was my second creation. There could hardly be imagined a greater
contrast than she presented to the part of Marguerite. Gretchen was all
the virtues in spite of her somewhat spectacular career; gentleness and
sweetness itself. Annetta, the ballad singer, was quite the opposite. I
must say that I really enjoyed making myself shrewish, sparkling, and
audacious. Perhaps I thus took out in the lighter _roles_ I sang many of
my own suppressed tendencies. Although I lived such an essentially
ungirlish life, I was, nevertheless, full of youthful feeling and high
spirits, so, when I was Annetta or Zerlina or Rosina, I had a flying
chance to "bubble" just a little bit. Merriment is one of the finest and
most helpful emotions in the world and I dare say we all have the
possibilities of it in us, one way or another. But it is a shy sprite
and does not readily come to one's call. I often think that the art, or
the ability,--on the stage or off it--which makes people truly and
innocently gay, is very high in the scale of human importance.
Personally, I have never been happier than when I was frolicking through
some entirely light-weight opera, full of whims and quirks and laughing
music. I used to feel intimately in touch with the whole audience then,
as though they and I were sharing some exquisite secret or delicious
joke; and I would reach a point of ease and spontaneity which I have
never achieved in more serious work.
_Crispino_ had made a tremendous hit in Paris the year before when
Malibran had sung Annetta with brilliant success. It has been sometimes
said that Grisi created the _role_ of Annetta in America; but I still
cling to the claim of that distinction for myself. The composers of the
opera were the Rice brothers. I do not know of any other case where an
opera has been written fraternally; and it was such a highly successful
little opera that I wish I knew more about the two men who were
responsible for it. All that I remember clearly is that they both of
them knew music thoroughly and that one of them taught it as a
profession.
Our first Cobbler in _Crispino e la Comare_ ("The Cobbler and the
Fairy") was Rovere, a good Italian buffo baritone. He was one of those
extraordinary artists whose art grows and increases with time and, by
some law of compensation, comes more and more to take the place of mere
voice. Rovere was in his prime in 1852 when he sang in America with Mme.
Alboni. Later, when he sang with me, a few of the New York critics
remembered him and knew his work and agreed that he was "as good as
ever." His voice--no. But his art, his method, his delightful
manner--these did not deteriorate. On the contrary, they matured and
ripened. Our second Cobbler, Ronconi, was even more remarkable. He was,
I believe, one of the finest Italian baritones that ever lived, and he
succeeded in getting a degree of genuine high comedy out of the part
that I have never seen surpassed. He used to tell of himself a story of
the time when he was singing in the Royal Opera of Petersburg. The
Czar--father of the one who was murdered--said to him once:
"Ronconi, I understand that you are so versatile that you can express
tragedy with one side of your face when you are singing and comedy with
the other. How do you do it?"
"Your Majesty," rejoined Ronconi, "when I sing _Maria de Rohan_
to-morrow night I will do myself the honour of showing you."
And, accordingly, the next evening he managed to turn one side of his
face, grim as the Tragic Mask, to the audience, while the other, which
could be seen from only the Imperial Box, was excessively humorous and
cheerful. The Czar was greatly amused and delighted with the exhibition.
Once in London, Santley was talking with me about this great baritone
and said:
"Ronconi did something with a phrase in the sextette of _Lucia_ that I
have gone to hear many and many a night. I never could manage to catch
it or comprehend how he gave so much power and expression to
[Illustration: Musical notation; Ah! e mio san-gue, l'ho-tra-di-ta!]
Ronconi was deliciously amusing, also, as the Lord in _Fra Diavolo_. He
sang it with me the first time it was ever done here in Italian, when
Theodor Habelmann was our Diavolo. Though he was a round-faced German,
he was so dark of skin and so finely built that he made up excellently
as an Italian; and he had been thoroughly trained in the splendid school
of German light opera. He was really picturesque, especially in a
wonderful fall he made from one precipice to another. We were not
accustomed to falls on the stage over here, and had never seen anything
like it. Ronconi sang with me some years later, as well, when I gave
English opera throughout the country, and I came to know him quite well.
He was a man of great elegance and decorum.
"You know," he said to me once, "I'm a sly dog--a very sly dog indeed!
When I sing off the key on the stage or do anything like that, I always
turn and look in an astounded manner at the person singing with me as if
to say 'what on earth did you do that for?' and the other artist,
perfectly innocent, invariably looks guilty! O, I'm a _very_ sly dog!"
_Don Pasquale_ was another of our "opera comique" ventures, as well as
_La Dame Blanche_ and _Masaniello_. It was a particularly advantageous
choice at the time because it required neither chorus nor orchestra. We
sang it with nothing but a piano by way of accompaniment; which possibly
was a particularly useful arrangement for us when we became short of
cash, for we--editorially, or, rather, managerially speaking--were
rather given in those early seasons to becoming suddenly "hard up,"
especially when to the poor operatic conditions, engendered
spasmodically by the war news, was added the wet blanket of Lent which,
in those days, was observed most rigidly.
Of the three _roles_, Zerlina, Rosina, and Annetta, I always preferred
that of Rosina. It was one of my best _roles_, the music being
excellently placed for me. _Il Barbiere_ had led the school of "opera
comique" for years, but soon, one after the other, the new
operas--notably _Crispino_--were hailed as the legitimate successor of
_Il Barbiere_, and their novelty gave them a drawing power in advance of
their rational value. In addition to my personal liking for the _role_
of Rosina, I always felt that, although the other operas were charming
in every way, they musically were not quite in the class with Rossini's
masterpiece. The light and delicate qualities of this form of operatic
art have never been given so perfectly as by him. I wish _Il Barbiere_
were more frequently heard.
Yet I was fond of _Fra Diavolo_ too. I was forever working at the _role_
of Zerlina or, rather, playing at it, for the old "opera comique" was
never really work to me. It was all infectious and inspiring; the music
full of melody; the story light and pretty. Many of the critics said
that I ought to specialise in comedy, cut out my tragic and romantic
_roles_, and attempt even lighter music and characterisation than
Zerlina. People seemed particularly to enjoy my "going to bed" scene.
They praised my "neatness and daintiness" and found the whole picture
very pretty and attractive. I used to take off my skirt first, shake it
well, hang it on a nail, then discover a spot and carefully rub it out.
That little bit of "business" always got a laugh--I do not quite know
why. Then I would take off my bodice dreamily as I sang:
"To-morrow--yes, to-morrow I am to be married!"
[Illustration: Musical notation; Si, do-ma-ni, Si, do-ma-ni sa-rem
ma-ri-to e moghi,]
One night while I was carrying the candle in that scene a gust of wind
from the wings made the flame gutter badly and a drop of hot grease fell
on my hand. Instinctively I jumped and shook my hand without thinking
what I was doing. There was a perfect gale of laughter from the house.
After that, I always pretended to drop the grease on my hand, always
gave the little jump, and always got my laugh.
As I say, nearly everybody liked that scene. I was myself so girlish
that it never struck anybody as particularly suggestive or immodest
until one night an old couple from the country came to see the opera and
created a mild sensation by getting up and going out in the middle of
it. The old man was heard to say, as he hustled his meek spouse up the
aisle of the opera house:
"Mary, we'd better get out of this! It may be all right for city folks,
but it's no place for us. We may be green; but, by cracky,--we're
_decent_!"