ENGLISH OPERA
The idea of giving opera in English has always interested me. I never
could understand why there were any more reasons against giving an
English version of _Carmen_ in New York than against giving a French
version of _Die Freischuetz_ in Paris or a German version of _La Belle
Helene_ in Berlin. To be sure, it goes without saying, from a purist
point of view it is a patent truth, that no libretto is ever so fine
after it has been translated. Not only does the quality and spirit of
the original evaporate in the process of translating, but, also, the
syllables come wrong. Who has not suffered from the translations of
foreign songs into which the translator has been obliged to introduce
secondary notes to fit the extra syllables of the clumsily adapted
English words? These are absolute objections to the performance of any
operas or songs in a language other than the one to which the composer
first set his music. Wagner in French is a joke; so is Goethe in
Italian. A musician of my acquaintance once spoke of Strauss's _Salome_
as a case in point, although it is a queerly inverse one. "Oscar Wilde's
French poem or play--whichever you like to call it--" he said, "was
translated into German; and it was this translation, or so it is
generally understood, that Strauss set to music. When the opera--a
French opera in spirit, taken from French text that was most Frenchly
treated--was given with Oscar Wilde's original French words, the music
often seemed to go haltingly, as though it had been adopted to phrases
for which it had not been composed." Several notable singers have
recently entered a protest against giving opera in English. Miss
Garden--admirable and spontaneous artist though she be--once wrote an
article in which she cited _Madame Butterfly_ as an example of the
inartistic effects of English librettos. I do not recall her exact
words, but they referred to the scene in which Dick Pinkerton offers
Sharpless a whiskey and soda. Miss Garden said, If I remember correctly,
that the very words "whiskey and soda" were inartistic and spoiled the
poetry and picturesqueness of the act. Personally, I do not see that it
was the words that were inartistic, but, rather, the introduction of
whiskey and soda at all into a grand opera. My point is that such
objections obtain not more stringently against English translations than
against German, French, or Italian translations. Furthermore, after all
is said that can be said against translations into whatsoever language,
the fact remains that countries and races are not nearly so different as
they pretend to be; and a human sentiment, a dramatic situation, or a
lovely melody will permeate the consciousness of a Frenchman, an
Englishman, or a German in approximately the same manner and in the same
length of time. Adaptations and translations are merely different means,
poorer or better as the case may be, of facilitating such assimilations;
and, so soon as the idea reaches the audience, the audience is going to
receive it joyfully, no matter what nation it comes from or through what
medium:--that is, if it is a good idea to begin with.
Possibly this may be a little beside the point; but, at least, it serves
to introduce the subject of English opera--or, rather, foreign grand
opera given in English--the giving of which was an undertaking on which
I embarked in 1873. I became my own manager and, with C. D. Hess,
organised an English Opera Company that, by its success, brought the
best music to the comprehension of the intelligent masses. I believe
that the enterprise did much for the advancement of musical art in this
country; and it, besides, gave employment to a large number of young
Americans, several of whom began their careers in the chorus of the
company and soon advanced to higher places in the musical world. Joseph
Maas was one of the singers whom this company did much for; and George
Conly was another. The former at first played small parts, but his
chance came to him as Lorenzo in _Fra Diavolo_, when he made a big hit,
and, eventually, he returned to England and became her greatest oratorio
tenor. I myself made the versions of the standard operas used by us
during the first season of English opera, translating them newly and
directly from the Italian and the French and, in some instances,
restoring the text to a better condition than is found in English opera
generally. My enterprise met with a great deal of criticism and
discussion. Usually, public opinion and the opinion of the press were
favourable. One of my staunch supporters was Will Davis, the husband of
Jessie Bartlett Davis. In _The Chicago Tribune_ he wrote:
Unless the public can understand what is sung in opera or oratorio
recital, song or ballad, no more than a passing interest can be
awakened in the music-loving public. I do not agree with those who
claim that language or thought is a secondary consideration to the
enjoyment of vocal music. I believe that a superior writer of
lyrics can fit words to the music of foreign operas that will not
only be sensible but singable. I agree with _The Tribune_ that
opera in the English language has never had a fair show, but I
claim that the reason for this is because of the bad translations
that have been given to the artists to sing.
After our success had become assured, one of the press notices read:
Never, in this country, has English opera been so creditably
produced and so energetically managed as by the present
Kellogg-Hess combination. All the business details being supervised
by Mr. Hess, one of the longest-headed and hardest-working men of
business to be found in even this age and nation, are thoroughly,
systematically and promptly attended to; while all the artistic
details, being under the direct personal care of Miss Clara Louise
Kellogg, confessedly the best as well as the most popular singer
America has produced, are brought to and preserved at the highest
attainable musical standard. The performers embraced in the
Hess-Kellogg English Opera Company comprise several artists of the
first rank. The names of Castle, Maas, Peakes, Mrs. Seguin, Mrs.
Van Zandt, and Miss Montague are familiar as household words to the
musical world, while the _repertoire_ embraces not only all the old
established favourites of the public, but many of the most recent
or _recherche_ novelties, such as _Mignon_, and _The Star of the
North_, in addition to such genuine English operas as _The Rose of
Castille_.
During the three seasons of our English Opera Company, we put on a great
number of operas of all schools, from _The Bohemian Girl_ to _The Flying
Dutchman_. The former is pretty poor stuff--cheap and insipid--I never
liked to sing it. But--the houses it drew! People loved it. I believe
there would be a large and sentimental public ready for it to-day. Its
extraneous matter, the two or three popular ballads that had been
introduced, formed a part of its attraction, perhaps. Our Devil's Hoof
in _The Bohemian Girl_ was Ted Seguin who became quite famous in the
part. His wife Zelda Seguin was our contralto and they were among the
earliest people to travel with _The Beggar's Opera_ and other primitive
performances. George A. Conly was our basso and a fine one. He was a
printer by trade and he had his first chance with us at the Globe
Theatre in Boston. He was our Deland, too, in _The Flying Dutchman_.
Eventually, he was drowned; and I gave a benefit for his widow. Maurice
Grau and Hess had gone to London to engage singers for my English Opera
Company and had selected, among others, Wilfred Morgan for first tenor
and Joseph Maas for second tenor. Morgan had been singing secondary
_roles_ for some time at Covent Garden. On our opening night of _Faust_
he gave out with a sore throat, and Maas took his place successfully.
William Carlton once told me that when he was just starting out he
bought the theatrical wardrobe of Alberto Lawrence, a baritone, and was
looking at himself in a mirror, dressed in one of his second costumes,
in the green room of the Academy of Music early during our English
season, when Morgan came up to him and said:
"Are you going on in those old rags?"
Carlton had to go on in them. The critics next day gave him a couple of
columns of praise; but Morgan, whose wardrobe was gorgeous, was a
complete failure in his _debut_. Our manager had finally to tell him
that he could be second tenor or resign. In six weeks he was drawing
seventy dollars less salary than Carlton, who was a baritone and a
beginner. Carlton said that about this time Wilfred Morgan came up to
him exclaiming,
"Well, Bill, I wish I had your voice and you had my clothes!"
William Carlton was a young Englishman, only twenty-three when he joined
us; but he was already married and had two children. When we were
rehearsing _The Bohemian Girl_, in the scene where the stolen daughter
is recognised and Carlton had to take me in his arms, he said:
"I ought to kiss you here."
"Not lower than _this_!" said I, pointing to my forehead. He was much
amused. Indeed, he was always laughing at my mother and me for our
prudish ways; and my not marrying was always a joke between us.
"It's a sin," he declared once, when we were talking on a train, "a
woman who would make such a perfect wife!"
"Louise," interrupted my mother sternly, "don't talk so much! You'll
tire your voice!"
My good mother! She was always ruffling up like an indignant hen about
me. In one scene of another opera, I remember, the villain and I had
been playing rather more strenuously than usual and he caught my arm
with some force. I staggered a little as I came off the stage and my
mother flew at him.
"Don't you dare touch my daughter so roughly," she cried, much annoyed.
Mr. Carlton has paid me a nice tribute when writing of those days and of
me at that time. He has said:
I have the most grateful memory of the sympathetic assistance I
received from the gifted _prima donna_ when I arrived in this
country under the management of Maurice Grau and C. D. Hess, who
were conducting the business details of the Kellogg Grand Opera
Company. Like many Englishmen, I was quite unprepared for the
evidences of perfection which characterised the production of opera
in the United States and, as I had not yet attained my
twenty-fourth year, I was somewhat awed by the importance of the
_roles_ and the position I was imported to fulfil. It was in a
great measure due to the gracious help I received from Miss Kellogg
that, at my _debut_ at the Academy of Music, Philadelphia, as
Valentine in _Faust_ to her Marguerite, I achieved a success which
led up to my renewing the engagement for four consecutive years.
In putting on grand opera in English I had, in each case, the tradition
of two countries to contend with; but I endeavoured to secure some
uniformity of style and usually rehearsed them all myself, sitting at
the piano. The singers were, of course, hide-bound to the awful
translations that were institutional and to them inevitable. None of
them would have ever considered changing a word, even for the better.
The translation of _Mignon_ was probably the most completely
revolutionary of the many translations and adaptations I indulged in. I
shall never forget one fearfully clumsy passage in _Trovatore_.
"To the handle,
To the handle,
To the handle
Strike the dagger!"
There were two modifications possible, either of which was vastly
preferable, and without actually changing a word.
"Strike the dagger,
Strike the dagger,
Strike the dagger
To the handle!"
or, which I think was the better way,
"Strike the dagger
To the handle,
Strike the dagger
To the handle!"
a simple and legitimate repetition of a phrase. This is a case in
illustration of the meaningless absurdity and unintelligibility of the
average libretto.
Those were the days in which I devoutly appreciated my general sound
musical training. The old stand-bys, _Fra Diavolo_, _Trovatore_, and
_Martha_ were all very well. Most singers had been reared on them from
their artistic infancy. But, for example, _The Marriage of Figaro_ was
an innovation. To it I had to bring my best experience and judgment as
cultivated in our London productions; and we finally gave a very
creditable English performance of it. Then there were, besides, the new
operas that had to be incepted and created and toiled over:--_The
Talisman_ and _Lily o'Killarney_ among others. _The Talisman_ by Balfe,
an opera of the Meyerbeerian school, was first produced at the Drury
Lane in London, with Nilsson, Campanini, Marie Roze, Rota, and others.
Our presentation of it was less pretentious, naturally, but we had an
excellent cast, with Joseph Maas as Sir Kenneth, William Carlton as
Coeur de Lion, Mme. Loveday as Queen Berengaria, and Charles Turner as
De Vaux. I was Edith Plantaganet. When the opera was first put on in
London, under the direction of Sir Jules Benedict, it was called _The
Knight of the Leopard_. Later, it was translated into Italian under the
title of _Il Talismano_, and from that finally re-translated by us and
given the name of Sir Walter Scott's work on which it was based. It was
not only Balfe's one real grand opera, but was also his last important
work. _Lily o'Killarney_, by Sir Jules Benedict, was not a striking
novelty. It had a graceful duet for the basso and tenor, and one pretty
solo for the _prima donna_--"I'm Alone"--but, otherwise, it did not
amount to much. But we scored in it because of our good artistry. Our
company was a good one. Parepa Rosa did tremendous things with her
English opera _tournees_; but I honestly think our work was more
artistic as well as more painstaking. There were not many of us; but we
did our best and pulled together; and I was very happy in the whole
venture. Benedict's _Lily o'Killarney_ was written particularly for me,
and was inspired by _Colleen Bawn_, Dion Boucicault's big London
success. I have always understood that Oxenford wrote the libretto of
that--a fine one as librettos go--but Grove's Dictionary says that
Boucicault helped him.
Perhaps this is as good a place as any in which to mention Sir George
Grove and his dictionary. When I was in London I was told that young
Grove--he was not "Sir" then--was compiling a dictionary; and, not
having a very exalted idea of his ability, I am free to confess that, in
a measure, I snubbed him. In his copiously filled and padded dictionary,
he punished me by giving me less than half a column; considerably less
space than is devoted in the corresponding column to one Michael Kelly
"composer of wines and importer of music!" It is an accurate paragraph,
however, and he heaped coals of fire on my head by one passage that is
particularly suitable to quote in a chapter on English opera:
She organised an English troupe, herself superintending the
translation of the words, the _mise en scene_, the training of the
singers and the rehearsals of the chorus. Such was her devotion to
the project that, in the winter of '74-'75, she sang no fewer than
one hundred and twenty-five nights. It is satisfactory to hear that
the scheme was successful. Miss Kellogg's musical gifts are
great.... She has a remarkable talent for business and is never so
happy as when she is doing a good or benevolent action.
I have never been able to determine to my own satisfaction whether the
"remarkable talent for business" was intended as a compliment or not!
The one hundred and twenty-five record is quite correct, a number of
performances that tried my endurance to the utmost; but I loved all the
work. This particular venture seemed more completely my own than
anything on which I had yet embarked.
We put on _The Flying Dutchman_, at the Academy of Music (New York), and
it was a tremendous undertaking. It was another case of not having any
traditions nor impressions to help us. No one knew anything about the
opera and the part of Senta was as unexplored a territory for me as that
of Marguerite had been. One thing I had particular difficulty in
learning how to handle and that was Wagner's trick of long pauses. There
is a passage almost immediately after the spinning song in _The Flying
Dutchman_ during which Senta stands at the door and thinks about the
Flying Dutchman, preceding his appearance. Then he comes, and they stand
still and look at each other while a spell grows between them. She
recognises Vanderdecken as the original of the mysterious portrait; and
he is wondering whether she is the woman fated to save him by
self-sacrifice. The music, so far as Siegfried Behrens, my director at
the time, and I could see, had no meaning whatever. It was just a long,
intermittent mumble, continuing for eighteen bars with one slight
interruption of thirds. I had not yet been entirely converted to
innovations such as this and did not fully appreciate the value of so
extreme a pause. I knew, of course, that repose added dignity; but this
seemed too much.
"For heaven's sake, Behrens," said I, "what's the public going to do
while we stand there? Can we hold their interest for so long while
nothing is happening?"
Behrens thought there might be someone at the German Theatre who had
heard the opera in Germany and who could, therefore, give us
suggestions; but no one could be found. Finally Behrens looked up
Wagner's own brochure on the subject of his operas and came to me, still
doubtful, but somewhat reassured.
"Wagner says," he explained, "not to be disturbed by long intervals. If
both singers could stand absolutely still, this pause would hold the
public double the length of time."
We tried to stand "absolutely still." It was an exceedingly difficult
thing to do. In _roles_ that have tense moments the whole body has to
hold the tension rigidly until the proper psychological instant for
emotional and physical relaxation. The public is very keen to feel this,
without knowing how or why. A drooping shoulder or a relaxed hand will
"let up" an entire situation. The first time I sang Senta it seemed
impossible to hold the pause until those eighteen bars were over. "I
have _got_ to hold it! I have _got_ to hold it!" I kept saying to
myself, tightening every muscle as if I were actually pulling on a wire
stretched between myself and the audience. I almost auto-hypnotized
myself; which probably helped me to understand the Norwegian girl's own
condition of auto-hypnotism! An inspiration led me to grasp the back of
a tall Dutch chair on the stage. That chair helped me greatly and, as
affairs turned out, I held the audience quite as firmly as I held the
chair!
Afterwards I learned the wonderful telling-power of these "waits" and
the great dignity that they lend to a scene. There is no hurry in
Wagner. His work is full of pauses and he has done much to give leisure
to the stage. When I was at Bayreuth--that most beautiful monument to
genius--I met many actors from the Theatre Francais who had journeyed
there, as to a Mecca, to study this leisurely stage effect among others.
Our production was a fair one but not elaborate. We had, I remember, a
very good ship, but there were many shortcomings. There is supposed to
be a transfiguration scene at the end in which Senta is taken up to
heaven; but this was beyond us and _I_ was never thus rewarded for my
devotion to an ideal! I liked Senta's clothes and make-up. I used to
wear a dark green skirt, shining chains, and a wonderful little apron,
long and of white woollen. For hair, I wore Marguerite's wig arranged
differently. I should like to be able to put on a production of _Die
Fliegende Hollaender_ now! There is just one artist, and only one, whom I
would have play the Dutchman--and that is Renaud, for the reason,
principally, that he would have the necessary repose for the part. I had
understudies as a matter of course. One of them was wall-eyed; and, on
an occasion when I was ill, she essayed Senta. William Carlton, was, as
usual, our Dutchman, and he had not been previously warned of Senta's
infirmity. He came upon it so unexpectedly, indeed, and it was so
startling to him, that he sang the whole opera without looking at her
for fear that he would break down!