Part 9 (1/2)
Yet read what the critics said about it. The musicians picked it to pieces, of course, and so did the critics, much as the German reviewers did Wagner's music dramas. The public came, however, packing the houses to more than their capacity. People paid seven and eight dollars a seat to hear that opera, an unheard-of thing in those days when two and three dollars were considered a very fair price for any entertainment.
Furthermore, only the women occupied the seats on the _Faust_ nights. I speak in a general way, for there were exceptions. As a rule, however, this was so, while the men stood up in regiments at the back of the house. We gave twenty-seven performances of _Faust_ in one season; seven performances in Boston in four weeks; and I could not help the welcome knowledge that, in addition to the success of the opera itself, I had scored a big, personal triumph.
[Ill.u.s.tration: =Clara Louise Kellogg as Marguerite, 1864=
From a silhouette by Ida Waugh]
As I have mentioned, we took wicked liberties with the operas, such as introducing the _Star Spangled Banner_ and similar patriotic songs into the middle of Italian scores. I have even seen a highly tragic act of _Poliuto_ put in between the light and cheery scenes of _Martha_; and I have myself sung the _Venzano_ waltz at the end of this same _Martha_, although the real quartette that is supposed to close the opera is much more beautiful, and the _Clara Louise Polka_ as a finish for _Linda di Chamounix_! The _Clara Louise Polka_ was written for me by my old master, Muzio, and I never thought much of it. Nothing could give anyone so clear an idea of the universal acceptance of this custom of interpolation as the following criticism, printed during our second season:
”The production of _Faust_ last evening by the Maretzek troupe was excellent indeed. But why, O why, the eternal _Soldiers' Chorus_? Why this everlasting, tedious march, _when there are so many excellent band pieces on the market that would fit the occasion better_?”
As a rule the public were quite satisfied with this chorus. It was whistled and sung all over the country and never failed to get eager applause. But no part of the opera ever went so well as the _Salve dimora_ and the love scene. All the latter part of the garden act went splendidly although nearly everyone was, or professed to be, shocked by the frankness of the window episode that closes it. It is a pity those simple-souled audiences could not have lived to see Miss Geraldine Farrar draw Faust with her into the house at the fall of the curtain!
There is, indeed, a place for all things. _Faust_ is not the place for that sort of suggestiveness. It is a question, incidentally, whether any stage production is; but the argument of that is outside our present point.
Dear Longfellow came to see the first performance of _Faust_; and the next day he wrote a charming letter about it to Mr. James T. Fields of Boston. Said he:
”The Margaret was beautiful. She reminded me of Dryden's lines:
”'So pois'd, so gently she descends from high, It seems a soft dismission from the sky.'”
CHAPTER IX
OPeRA COMIQUE
To most persons ”opera comique” means simply comic opera. If they make any distinction at all it is to call it ”high-cla.s.s 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 a.s.similated, 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 _Gotterdammerung_.
It was my good fortune to sing in the s.p.a.ce 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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. .h.i.t 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.