Part 24 (1/2)
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 rehea.r.s.ed them all myself, sitting at the piano. The singers were, of course, hide-bound to the awful translations that were inst.i.tutional 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 pa.s.sage 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 repet.i.tion of a phrase. This is a case in ill.u.s.tration 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 t.i.tle 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 ba.s.so 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 s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sage 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 rea.s.sured.
”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 s.h.i.+p, 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, s.h.i.+ning chains, and a wonderful little ap.r.o.n, 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 Hollander_ now! There is just one artist, and only one, whom I would have play the Dutchman--and that is Renaud, for the reason, princ.i.p.ally, 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!
CHAPTER XXV
ENGLISH OPERA (_Continued_)
No account of our English Opera would be complete without mention of Mike. He was an Irish lad with all the wit of his race, and his head was of a particularly cla.s.sic type. He was only sixteen when he joined us, but he became an inst.i.tution, and I kept track of him for years afterwards. His duties were somewhat arbitrary, and chiefly consisted of calling at the dressing-room of the chorus each night after the opera with a basket to collect the costumes. Beyond this, his princ.i.p.al occupation was watching my scenes and generally pervading the performances with genuine interest. He particularly favoured the third act of _Faust_, I remember; and absolutely considered himself a part of my career, constantly making use of the phrase ”Me and Miss Kellogg.”
One of the operas we gave in English was my old friend _The Star of the North_. It was quite as much a success in English as it had been in the original. We chose it for our _gala_ performance in Was.h.i.+ngton when the Centennial was celebrated, and my good friends, President and Mrs.
Grant, were in the audience. The King of Hawaii was also present, with his suite, and came behind the scenes and paid me extravagant compliments. His Hawaiian Majesty sent me lovely heliotropes, I remember,--my favourite flower and my favourite perfume. At one performance of _The Star of the North_ at a matinee in Booth's Theatre, New York, there occurred an incident that was reminiscent of my London experience with Sir Michael Costa's orchestra. It was in the third act, the camp scene. There is a quartette by Peter, Danilowitz and two _vivandieres_ almost without accompaniment in the tent on the stage, and I, as Catherine, had to take up the note they left and begin a solo at its close. The orchestra was supposed to chime in with me, a simple enough matter to do if they had not fallen from the key. It is surprising how relative one's pitch is when suddenly appealed to. Even a very trained ear will often go astray when some one gives it a wrong keynote. Music more than almost any other art is dependent; every tone hangs on other tones. That particular quartette was built on a musical phrase begun by one of the sopranos and repeated by each. She started on the key. The mezzo took it up a shade flat. The tenor, taking the phrase from the mezzo, dropped a little more, and when the ba.s.so got through with it, they were a full semitone lower. Had I taken my _attaque_ from their pitch, imagine the situation when the orchestra came in! My heart sank as I saw ahead of us the inevitable discord. It came to the last note. I allowed a half-second of silence to obliterate their false pitch. Then I _concentrated_--and took up my solo in the _original and correct key_. That ”absolute pitch” again! Behrens expressed his amazement after the curtain fell.