XVIII
Grand Opera in English
To Editor N. Y. Newsprint who can be considerable comical without music,
Dearest Sir:—Cousin Nogi report to me recently with Oscar Hammerstein eyebrows.
“Togo,” he say so, “cannot grand opera be equally grand when pronounced in English?”
“Frequent theaters is now doing so with help of talented soprano,” I say it.
“So glad to hear!” contuse my cousin. “Nextly they will be singing Salome in Japanese, which will be nice education for Japan who wish to be educated so quickly possible, yet like to know what they are talking about while doing so. Now they can’t do, thank you. Of recently famous sing-song play ‘Carmen’ were introduced in Yeddo. Considerable confusion enjoyed. When Hon. Bullfighter emerge forth from slaughterhouse yalling ‘Tor-ee-a-do-da!’ in elevator voice, all Japanese thinkers present imagine it was New York scenery describing Tammany Hall after election while Hon. Jno. P. Mitchel were congratulating himself on cruelty to tigers.”
“While grand opera is in English all persons can understand merely by ear,” I nudge gladly.
“Will not German language lose its health if translated?” require Cousin Nogi.
“Perhapsly,” I collapse. “American language have no beautiful words like ‘lustspiel’ and ‘Sauerbraten.’ Yet maybe they could use some baseball language so all could seem natural.”
“At any rates,” say Nogi, “it must be entirely enjoyous sensation to set in opera and know what they are talking.”
“Let us go and try one,” I snuggest with happy hat.
So we sonter forthly until we observe theater what say “Grand Opera—English Spoken here.” We encroach to door where bull-board pronounce, “Opera Longrin by Hans Wagner, Famus Cyclist.”
Annexed to door-entrance stood one stylish bell-boy who hold slight program in his thumbs.
“All words to opera 25c!” he pronounce distinctually.
“Why must we spent this ¼$ for words, please?” I ask to know.
“So understand what stage-singers say,” report boy containing buttons.
“Do they not say it in English?” I negotiate peevly.
“Not sure,” say Hon. Boy. “I have only been here a week.”
We step inwards and observe opera going ahead amid considerable crashes. I heard “Ouch!” while I set down, but was not sure whether it was orchestra or merely lady I stepped on.
Hon. Stage was filled with scenery, people & tragedy. I could not tell what that picture represent, but it were easy to see who was there. King Leopold of Belgium in antique bathrobe were surrounded by German Samurai on bright banks of Erie Canal where they go for fresh air while being cruel in music. Hon. King grumble some dishagreeable barytones to goldly-hair daughter who step forthly in rich nightgown & holla,
“O wat di spa!”
I turn to eye-glass gentleman next by me who were reading Book of Opera with piano-tuner expression.
“What she mean when she say, ‘O wat di spa!” I requesh.
“She say, ‘O what despair!” he pronounce distinctually.
“What language was that, please?” This from me.
“English,” he whisper peevly.
“I am glad to make its acquaintance,” I argue slightly.
Pretty soonly, after considerable choir-noise, Hon. Orchestra get into dispute with brass horners. And look, see! Down wet transportation of Erie Canal come flotting one enormalously swollen duck and on him stands riding one hansum circus man in tin clothes. Excitements. Hon. Tin Gentleman get off from that trained white chicken and throw hitching-rope around his stretched neck. Hon. Poultry bobb chin with peck-peck expression and steam away with promptness peculiar to commutation. Hon. Tin Hero wave muscles of fingers.
“Feh-wa! Feh-wa! Ma fayvu swa!” he warbule with sweet lung.
I turn to Hon. Eye-Glass next by me who still read Opera Book.
“What was he said it?” I require chivalrously.
“He say, ‘Farewell, farewell, my faithful swan!’” he snub maddishly.
“Are he still talking English?” I narrate.
“Hush it!” he snarrel. “Between your noise and the orchestra I cannot hear the opera.”
“If my absence will make this art easier for your mentality I shall cease to blockade,” are sharp report I make while withdrawing Cousin Nogi outside the theater.
Although Nagasaki by birth, I am Glasgow in my soul, Mr. Editor. It pangs me to spend money without some come-back for what I pay.
So I enrush up to box-office with money-back expression.
“I require get at leastly 35c return rebate on these stubbed tickets,” I say so to merely financial gentleman who was there.
“Why for?” dib Box Officer hashly.
“Because is!” I reject scornly. “I pay large wealth to hear English. What they sung was otherwise.”
“That were English!” say Money Box.
“I could not understand it.” Say me.
“Nobody expect understood Grand Opera in any language,” he snagger. “Be reasonable like Sherman Law.”
“What are grand opera for, if not?” I ask to know.
“Several things. To give folks wrong impression of history and confuse them about love while admiring Smart Setters in diamond horseshoe,” he define. “This has satisfied Art for 311 years—why should you require something else all of a sudden?”
“Then why would it not be just as good for Americans if sung in Chinese, Swedish or German?” I negotiate.
“Because of patriotism,” he define. “Every man prefer to be puzzled in his own language.”
Hoping you are the same,
Yours truly,
Hashimura Togo.