Feelings of disappointment—Expectations—The language difficulty—Why the story is hard to follow—What we go to the opera to hear—Some suggestions—To grasp the story—To realize the style of the music—Re-hearing necessary—How to begin to study opera—What is necessary for its enjoyment.
In penning such a chapter as this, I have no desire to lay down the law to those older and wiser than myself, nor do I wish to be didactic, or to instruct where no instruction is needed. The musician and the opera-habitué will not need telling how to listen to opera, nor how to enjoy it; nor should I be thanked for attempting the task.
At the same time it must be borne in mind that to the very large majority of young persons their first introduction to opera raises a feeling of disappointment. People vary much, and there are those to whom the charm of music is so great that the most unfamiliar harmonies will convey delight to their ears and satisfaction to their mind. But this is exceptional rather than the rule, and it is to be feared that the neophyte, visiting the opera in a state of glorious ignorance, generally comes away with an inglorious feeling of unrealized ideals and unattained expectations.
To the average school-girl, for example, opera suggests various fascinating details read about in books and papers; such as beautiful singing, the presence of fashionable and brilliant persons, possibly of royalty; tiaras of diamonds and gorgeous costumes, and a thousand and one other trifles which may or may not come up to expectation. Even if they do, the excitement of such extraneous attributes as these soon palls, and the girl is left to reflect on the opera itself, which is perhaps the most fruitful source of disappointment.
For I would here assume what I take to be generally the case, namely, that the boy or girl paying a first visit to the opera has no real idea as to what is in store for them; and the excitement of the first entry into the large and brilliant house, with its crowd of well-dressed people experienced, a series of miniature shocks awaits the novice, whom, for sake of example, we may take to be an averagely intelligent and musical girl of sixteen.
It does not take her long to discover that she can understand the meaning of hardly any word sung on the stage; a word or two here and there may be caught and mentally translated, but hardly sufficient, unless the girl be specially conversant with French, Italian, or German to piece things connectedly together, or to gather enough to follow the sentiments expressed: a little natural irritation at not knowing what it is all about ensues.
The words not being caught, as they would in an ordinary play in the vernacular, it is difficult to follow the story which is being unfolded; an ordinary stage piece may be intelligently followed by a deaf person by means of the eye, but in opera, situations must develop more slowly owing to the musical setting, and there is generally, so far as stage work is concerned, a minimum of action; it is therefore quite possible for our young lady to leave the theatre with the very barest notion as to the plot of the opera she has witnessed. Should the work witnessed be of a very popular character, such as Faust, various numbers in the music will appeal to her ear as being pleasantly familiar; even in such a case as this, however, there will be much that falls strangely, while with the majority of works the music would be so new that only a confused general idea would be carried away. Not following either the language or the story, the music would be but another factor of confusion to our inexperienced girl, and especially would this be the case if the work presented were of a modern nature, or in a style to which she was quite unaccustomed in any phase of the art.
Such, to my knowledge, are some of the feelings experienced by young people taken to the opera for the first time; first impressions are strong, and a feeling of distaste thus inculcated may be hard to eradicate. Before considering how such wrong impressions might be prevented, or at least modified, we must again consider briefly what we go to the opera to hear.
It is not merely beautiful singing, for that can be heard more effectively from the same artists in the concert hall, when they are unhampered by the necessities of stage-action, costume, and make-up. Nevertheless, there are those who are content at the opera with this alone, hence the popularity of certain Italian operas, the success of which depends almost entirely upon pure vocalization and expressive singing with support of little in the way of stagecraft or dramatic truth. Nor is it excellent orchestral playing that is the main objective, for that, too, can be better heard in the symphony of the concert-room. Nor is fine acting the main consideration—for that we must visit some temple of the drama; nor is it the wonderful development of stage appliance, the marvellous scenic displays, or electric lighting devices that call for comment: these can be better seen in some house mainly devoted to spectacular presentation.
It is none of these in particular for which we go to the opera, but rather for the combination of them all, which forms the characteristic feature of that complex aggregation of various arts of which opera is constituted. And seeing how many-sided and complex an art-growth it is with which we have to deal, small wonder is it that real appreciation for its numerous points comes but slowly, and only subsequent to experience, perhaps to study.
Now experience and study are just the things of which our imaginary young friend is quite unable to boast, hence the confused and mystified mental condition in which she, in all probability, leaves the opera house. Although easy to diagnose, the remedy for this state of things is more difficult to seek, but perhaps the following suggestions may be made:—
First of all, I would advise, make some attempt before going to the opera to master the details of the plot or story; there are many means of doing this: in all the operas published in Boosey’s Royal Edition the plot is plainly set out at the beginning, and any work not published there may almost certainly be found with its story simply set forth in a book entitled The Opera, by Streatfield.
This done, some idea of what is taking place upon the stage can be grasped, and even perhaps some sentences of the libretto followed. Without such help, plots with so much movement and incident as even Lohengrin or Siegfried may be hard to grasp; but do not make the mistake of taking a copy of the music or libretto into the house with you; the auditorium is generally too dark to admit of their use, and even if this be not impossible, frequent cuts make following a difficult matter.
Having realized the plot, try to get some idea of the style of the music, that is, whether it is an opera of the older classical school (Mozart, Cherubini, Weber, etc.), in which case it will split up into airs, duets, finales, etc., with music somewhat in the manner of the familiar sonata; or if perhaps it be an Italian work (Rossini, Donizetti, Verdi), with the same sub-divisions, but of a more tuneful and simple nature; or if a work of the “Grand Opera” school (Spontini, Meyerbeer), with massive stage effects and pompous musical utterances; or again, perhaps a modern work in the Wagner manner, with continuous non-divided music, and without definite tunes (melos and not rhythmic air); in this latter case, one or two of the chief leit-motiven might be memorized, but I would not advise this class of opera for a first experience; it is too advanced. In any case, do not go without some clear idea as to the manner and style of the music to be listened to; if any of the work can be played through and made at all familiar beforehand, so much the better.
With some sort of nodding acquaintance with the plot and the music, enjoyment may be attained if the work be not too complex; but even then I would say that it is not very easy to appreciate an opera at a first hearing; so that if opportunity arises for a second visit to the opera house to be paid, choose the same work that you have already heard. A first visit does little more than create an impression; a second visit will renew old impressions and convey further ones; a third visit would enable one to be on the look-out for special parts which have made special appeal; a fourth visit would, as a rule, constitute thorough enjoyment, provided the work be well performed.
Of course there are some operas which can be easily appreciated at a first or second hearing, but these are the great minority, and I would suggest four visits before any judgment is passed; for an ordinary amateur to hear a new work and either praise or condemn extravagantly is nothing more or less than presumption; the more experienced and capable the critic, the more reserved is his judgment. Undoubtedly, for the more complex operas, four visits, unaccompanied by private study or by rehearing of the music, would be insufficient.
Begin with simple operas: such works as Faust and Carmen, the tunes of which are already known to a large extent, at once suggest themselves; and perhaps in the same category, although in a very different class, may be placed Lohengrin and Cavalleria Rusticana; after a course of easily grasped works, more exalted creations, such as Don Giovanni, Fidelio, and Die Meistersinger, may be approached; and finally we come to the serious works of Wagner’s Ring, such operas as Tristan and Isolde, the beauties of which are a sealed book to the inexperienced and the unmusical. As is the case with every phase of every art, real appreciation can only spring from real comprehension; that which is not understood cannot be fully beloved. There must be a beginning and a gradual growth; love for opera is hardly an inborn gift; rather is it a cumulative force, fed by an ever-increasing knowledge, and by ever-widening critical faculties. To love music, singing, or an orchestral performance does not also necessarily imply an ability to care in the very least for so polymorphous a work as opera, which must be a thing of separate study, the more difficult in that it demands attention from so many points of view.
And when knowledge and experience are to some extent gained, become not too critical, for that mars enjoyment; those whose love is freshest for opera are not those unhappy critics who must perforce write a long analytical account of a new work ere the final curtain has fallen upon it, but rather those who have grown to cherish the musical phrases for their own sake and for their inherent beauty, irrespective of who may be singing them, provided the singing be good and correct. Love for opera, although not lightly gained, is also not lightly lost; it is a taste that endures and strengthens as time goes on and knowledge deepens.
Covent Garden—La Scala—San Carlo— enice—Rome—Paris and the Grand Opera—Vienna—Budapest—Prague—Berlin —Dresden—Munich—Bayreuth—Russia—Other European countries—Egypt—America.
Architecturally speaking, our English opera house is not one of the sights of London. Hidden away somewhat ignominiously in a side street, it has little appearance, in spite of its size, and by no means forms so conspicuous a feature in the way of public building as do the majority of the houses in foreign capitals. Of the performances devoted to opera given within its walls we have already said something, and may therefore pass on to a consideration of the ways and doings of some of the Continental opera houses.
Turning, at first, to the sunny land where opera was born, the name of the most famous “La Scala” Theatre at Milan at once comes to the mind. This house has the enormous seating capacity for 3,600 persons. Apart from its size, there is the musical and artistic interest which this house derives from the production of many works here for the first time. Since its opening date, August 3rd, 1778, hundreds of operas have been staged, and the triumphs of Rossini, Meyerbeer, Bellini, Donizetti, and Verdi have been witnessed. It is enough to state that such works as Rossini’s La Gazza Ladra, Bellini’s Norma, Donizetti’s Lucretia Borgia, Verdi’s I Lombardi, Boito’s Mefistofele, and Ponchielli’s La Gioconda first saw the light of day in “La Scala” to establish for it a claim to notice on the part of opera-goers. Sometime ago the municipal grant towards the expenses of the establishment was close upon £10,000, but a five years’ contract dating from 1902 allows only an annual subsidy of £3,900 for 50 performances, and at reduced prices.
Even older than La Scala, as it dates originally from 1737, is its Neapolitan rival “San Carlo.” The new house, built after a fire in 1816, is of great size, and at one time vied with its Milanese brother in the importance of new works produced; but less financial support has been forthcoming from Naples than is the case at Milan, and although an annual grant of £3,200 is given by the municipality, the San Carlo productions, although of very high rank, are perhaps hardly on a level with those at La Scala. But San Carlo has had its triumphs, and has seen the first production of Rossini’s Mosĕ in Egitto, Zelmira, and other works, and of Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor, besides numbers of other operas of less fame.
Although Venice looms large in the history of music, and its doings in opera have been very considerable, there appears to be no theatre solely devoted to this class of work, nor is there any regular grant. It is interesting to remember that Rossini’s Semiramide and Tancredi are both Venetian productions.
Rome in older days had pride of place amongst opera houses, and Mr. Hadow speaks of it as being at one time the highest school in which a musician could graduate. Here was produced Rossini’s Il Barbiere and many another famous work. To-day opera at Rome, if indeed it is on an equal level, hardly seems to be of higher importance than that in other Italian cities. It has no subsidy at the present time, and has to depend on its own resources for its upkeep.
The French opera house is, as most people know, one of the most imposing sights of Paris; well situated and finely conceived, it is a worthy home for that art product for which it is intended. The history of French opera from the earliest recorded performances of the sixteenth century is, of course, a very extensive one. So long ago as 1672 the name of Lully made Parisian opera famous, and although for a time its home was transferred to the Palace Royal, the site has borne testimony to many a fine building, the present one, inscribed Académie Nationale de Musique, dating from 1874 (commenced in 1861). Although its seating capacity of 2,156 is much less than that of La Scala, it is the largest house in the world, and covers almost three acres of ground, the cost of its erection being nearly a million and a half.
Besides Lully, the names of Rameau, Gluck, Cherubini, Spontini, Hérold, Auber, Meyerbeer, and Berlioz are all indissolubly connected with the opera of Paris: of that special class of work, the Parisian “Grand Opera,” we have already spoken. There is no house in all musical history that can claim so great a measure of variety and incident, nor make such interesting reading, as that of the “Académie de Musique.” Its fortunes have fluctuated, but it has done wonderful work, and a mere recapitulation of names of fine operas which gained their original production here would be far too long for quotation. The glory of Parisian Grand Opera has always held a spell over the nations, and has been a thing apart from all else in music; we know something of its hold upon Wagner, and if there is to-day somewhat less of a glamour cast by it than in the days when Lully held despotic sway, or Spontini or Meyerbeer dominated all, there is still a charm and delight to be found within its walls, which are difficult to equal in houses where the traditional uses are less sacredly adhered to.
The French are very jealous of its traditions, and although modern times have not allowed the direction to fall behind in their efforts to keep pace with the strides operatic music has made under Wagner’s influence, it is only quite recently that the works of the composer have been welcomed in Paris. Popular feeling, partly on patriotic grounds, for long kept his operas in the background: Parisians would have none of them. The result has been, perhaps, even more rigidly to preserve those customs of Grand Opera, such as the inclusion of a ballet, which are amongst its most distinctive features.
Touching upon the question of finance, we find that the French Government allows the very large subsidy of £32,000 per annum towards the expenses of Grand Opera; in return, however, opera is supposed to be staged three or four times during the week, and the prices of admission, as compared with London, are not high (ranging from 17 fr. to 2 fr.). France loves its opera, and does not hesitate to lay out good round sums for its support; nor are its people behind-hand in their attendance; a crowded house is the rule rather than the exception, appreciation, while critical, being still keen.
Comparing not unfavourably in dignity of conception and splendour of adornment with the French house is the Opera House of Vienna, an ornament in that encircling ring of fine buildings which is so distinctive a feature of the Austrian capital. Vienna has been the home of so many of the giants of music that it is not surprising that it should have witnessed the production of many a work now world famous: Gluck’s Orfeo (1762), Mozart’s Figaro (1786), Cosi fan Tutte (1790), and Zauberflöte (1791), Beethoven’s Fidelio (1805); these alone would suffice to cause Vienna to stand high in musical fame, for it was at Vienna that these works first came to light. Not that the present Opera House witnessed their production, for the building which to-day stands as an abode of opera dates from a more recent time; the cost of its erection was £509,795. Belonging to the State, its affairs are administered by the Lord Chamberlain’s department, any deficit being made good from the Emperor’s Civil List.
The Hungarian Opera House at Budapest also receives from the State a subsidy of £24,208, and in addition a sum of £250 for salaries; the Emperor supplementing this by a grant of £13,334.
Reference must also be made to Prague, famous for the production of Mozart’s Don Giovanni in 1787. More recently Prague has been the home of works of the Bohemian school, as exemplified by Smetana, Dvŏrák, Fibich, and others. Smetana’s Bartered Bride was staged at Prague in 1866, and from that date to the time of the appearance of Dvŏrák’s last opera, Armida, in 1904, the National Theatre has witnessed a constant succession of works of a characteristically national tone which make an unfailing appeal to the Czechs. The Czech theatre has a State grant of £3,750.
The Berlin Opera House also has claims to notice, for was not Weber’s Der Freischütz mounted here for the first time? Moreover, Berlin being the capital of Germany, the house is the scene of many fine State performances much patronized by the Royal House. The building itself, although standing well in the fine “Linden” promenade, will not compare with Paris or Vienna from an architectural point of view; the Opera House and Play House of Berlin together receive £54,000 towards their working expenses.
Leipzig and Dresden have also fine theatres, the Dresden Opera House being specially famous for its associations with Weber and Wagner. Moreover, it is a fine building, magnificently situated in an imposing position, and having considerable architectural pretensions. The King of Saxony pays £31,000 for the opera, theatre, and orchestra, and also makes good any deficit that arises. At this theatre Richard Strauss has produced his two latest operas, Salome and Elektra.
Munich has of late come to the front in operatic matters; the Court Theatre, administered from the Civil List, has for long devoted much attention to opera, but interest is now centred somewhat on the new “Prince Regent” Theatre, where an attempt is being made to outvie Bayreuth itself in the Wagner productions; fine performances have taken place during the last few summers; the best singers available have been engaged, and no expense spared in mounting and general details. Nor have the performances been confined to Wagner, for representations of Mozart’s operas have been interspersed with these. It is as yet too early to say what influence, if any, the new Munich house will have on the fortunes of Bayreuth, but it seems probable that a theatre even better fitted up than Bayreuth itself for Wagnerian performances, and in so much more central and easily reached a position, may in the near future very prejudicially affect the fortunes of the older house.
Almost every German town of any size has its Opera House, and detailed description of these is manifestly impossible, although very much interest attaches to some of them; we must therefore conclude our account of the German theatres with a short description of the theatre built by Wagner at Bayreuth according to his own ideas of what such a house should be.
There is little doubt that at the present time the Bayreuth Opera House is the most famous in the world; worship of Wagner is still wide-spread, and the halo surrounding his name and his home casts a glow upon the little town which he selected as the scene of his final labours; and, therefore, from all parts of the world, when the Bayreuth theatre opens its doors, pilgrimages are made, and devotees flock with an intense enthusiasm which has no parallel in the case of any other house. Moreover, until the Americans boldly pirated Parsifal, contrary to Wagner’s wishes, it was here only that his last great work could be heard; hence, to the true Wagnerian, Bayreuth is a spot sacred and hallowed, inspiring a reverence quite distinct from that felt for any other.
BAYREUTH THEATRE.
It was in May 1872 that the foundation-stone was laid, and celebrated with a performance of Beethoven’s Choral Symphony, and the completion of the building, delayed by lack of funds, took place in 1876, when the Ring was performed; since then performances have taken place on a grand scale at intervals of a year or two years in the summer. Seats, which are the same price all over the house, cost £1 for each performance; a feature in the construction was that an equally good view should be obtained from every point of view (hence the equality of prices); this was done by raising every seat a little above the one immediately in front of it, and by putting each spectator where he could see between the heads of the two persons before him. Another feature was the submerged orchestra—i.e., below the level of the floor of the house; even the conductor, although he has the stage in view, cannot be seen by the audience, and part of the orchestra (the brass) is actually under the stage—an experiment which seemed doubtful at first, but which has on the whole proved successful. The machinery and scenery were as good as could possibly be obtained, and the management still keeps up to date in this respect. Although open to competition both from New York and from Munich, Bayreuth seems likely to hold its own for some years to come, whenever it may choose to open its doors.
In Russia, and more especially at Petersburg and Moscow, theatrical attendance is looked upon as an educational matter, and therefore it is possible to see opera for fivepence! (Happy people—in that respect!) Of course this means very large Imperial help, information as to the exact amount of which is not forthcoming; but the two capitals have fine houses, with interest for us in that they have witnessed the production of most of the operas of the young Russian school; the ballet is much beloved in Russia, and forms one of the regular objects of representation.
Space forbids us to go into detail as to the opera houses of Sweden (Royal Theatre of Stockholm), Norway (National Theatre, Christiania), Spain, Holland, Belgium (Brussels, Théâtre de la Monnaie), Denmark (Copenhagen, Royal Theatre), or Portugal (Lisbon, San Carlos). The latter is, however, of special interest in being one of the oldest houses of its kind, having been erected in 1793. Information as to the subsidies received by these and other theatres will be found in Appendix B.
Of opera houses outside Europe it will be perhaps sufficient to mention those of Cairo and Alexandria (the former of which saw the production of Verdi’s Aïda in 1871), and the American houses (New York, Boston, Philadelphia). The New York, the Metropolitan, and the Manhattan opera houses witness very magnificent performances, and command the best and most expensive talent in the world.