Chapter 13

"Weia! Waga! Woge, du Welle, Walle zur Wiege! Wagalaweia! Wallala, weiala, weia!"

One need only look at this, without understanding the language, to feel the rhythmic motion of the water, and imagine the song of the merry maidens. Again, in the famous love duo in the "Walküre," note the repetition of the liquid consonants, the l's and m's, which give the sound such a soft and sentimental background. Does it not seem incredible that the Italian operatic composers should have ignored such poetic means of deepening the emotional color of their songs?

But this is by no means all. In the same scene in "Rheingold" to which reference has just been made, the ugly Nibelung _Alberich_ appears presently and tries to catch one of the lovely maidens. But they elude his grasp and he angrily complains that he slips and slides on the slimy soil. Note the slippery character of these sounds:

"Garstig glatter Glitschriger Glimmer! Wie Gleit ich aus! Mit Händen und Füssen Nicht fasse noch halt'ich Das schlecke Geschlüpfer."

_There_ is a real Volapük for you--a world language which all can understand, for it is onomatopoetic realism.

Of course it is not "beautiful;" but is that a reasonable objection? What would you say to an artist who painted dramatic battle-scenes, but made all the soldiers' faces as pretty as he could and adorned with sweet smiles? _That_ is precisely what the Italian opera composers have done in stage music; and it is because Wagner taught the singer to express not only _sweet_ sentiments but _all_ dramatic emotions, whether harsh or agreeable, that his new style marks an epoch in the evolution of the art of singing. At the same time, even these harsher passages in Wagner's vocal music are not really ugly, that is, disagreeable to the ear, _when properly sung_. Just as a homely face becomes attractive when it expresses a vivid emotion, so the harshest vocal measures in the realistic music-drama become a source of enjoyment if they are sung _with expression_.

Unfortunately, there are only a few artists as yet who have sufficiently caught Wagner's intentions to be able to sing in this manner. Carl Hill, who created the part of the magician _Klingsor_ at the Parsifal Festival, in 1882, was one of these exceptions. He reflected the spirit of the gruesome text assigned to him so admirably that Wagner was delighted; but afterward he complained that Hill's fine impersonation was not so widely appreciated as it deserved to be; and why? Apparently, because _Klingsor's_ melodic intervals were not pleasing, nor his sentiments sympathetic.

We must conclude from this that, in regard to dramatic singing, many opera-goers are still a good deal like the honest Scotchman who, on his first visit to a theatre, climbed on the stage and administered the villain of the play a sound thrashing; or, like the Bowery audiences, which applaud the good man in the play, no matter how badly he acts, and hiss the villain, though he be a second Salvini.

Until operatic audiences begin to understand that singing is commendable in proportion as it gives realistic expression, not only to sweet and pleasing moods, but to various kinds of dramatic emotion, the full grandeur and value of Wagner's vocal style cannot be appreciated. A real epicure does not care to eat cakes and candy all the time; he loves olives and caviare too. These may be acquired tastes, but all taste for high art is acquired. And the time is, apparently, not very distant when Wagner's realistic vocal style will no longer be caviare even to the public at large, but will be more enjoyed--even when it gives expression to emotions of anger, jealousy, and revenge--than the cloying, sugar-coated melodies of Bellini and Rossini, or those meaningless embroideries which even some of the best of the older Italians (Tosi, for example) regarded as the most beautiful part of song.

The great enthusiasm frequently shown at performances of Wagner's operas in other countries as well as in Germany, seems to argue that the public at large _has_ already entered into the real spirit and meaning of the Wagnerian style of singing. But numerous experiences lead me to believe the contrary. Allow me to quote, for example, an extract from one of those letters, abusive or censorious, which musical editors receive almost daily. "Is it not undeniable," writes a correspondent, "that as long as the world lasts, one of its greatest delights will consist in listening to the music furnished by the human voice? The more highly cultivated, pure, sweet, and flexible the voice, the more the enjoyment derived. And is it not equally true that Wagner's style of music discourages singing of this sort, or, in fact, singing of any sort? Are not the principal features of Wagner's operas the orchestra, acting, and general _mise-en-scène_, and does not singing, pure and simple, have but little part in it?"

If the writer of these questions had asked them in Wagner's presence I believe that Wagner would have jumped up and boxed his ears. Nothing so irritated him as this notion that the singing in his operas is subordinate to the orchestra, or, in other words, that he puts the statue in the orchestra and the pedestal on the stage. As early as 1850, he complained to Liszt about his friend Dingelstedt, who, in his article on the first performance of "Lohengrin," had expressed a similar opinion. And many years later, in writing of Schnorr von Carolsfeld's wonderful impersonation of _Tristan_, he begs the reader to note that the last act of this work contains "an exuberance of orchestral devices, such as no simple instrumental composer has ever had occasion to call into use. Then assure yourself," he continues, "that this complete gigantic orchestra, considered from an operatic point of view, is, after all, only related as _accompaniment_ to the 'solo' part represented by the monologue of the vocalist, who lies on his couch; and infer from this the significance of Schnorr's impersonation, if I call to witness every conscientious spectator at those Munich performances, that, from the first bar to the last, the attention and interest of all was centred on the vocalist actor, was chained to him, and never allowed a single word of the text to escape through a momentary absence of mind; and that the orchestra, as compared with the singer, completely disappeared, or, more correctly speaking, seemed to be a constituent part of his song."

I have never had the privilege of hearing Schnorr, but I heard Scaria repeatedly at Bayreuth and Vienna, and he always impressed on me, in the manner here described by Wagner, the supreme importance of the vocal part in his scores. Not a word of the text was lost, and in the most difficult intervals his voice was always beautifully and smoothly modulated. He enabled me to realize for the first time, the truth of what Wagner said regarding his vocal style, in the following words: "In my operas there is no difference between phrases that are 'declaimed' and 'sung,' but my declamation is at the same time song, and my song declamation." Scaria's method also afforded an eloquent illustration of the wonderful manner in which, in Wagner's vocal style, the melodic accent always falls on the proper rhetorical accent of each word of the text, which is one of the secrets of clear enunciation. He emphasized important syllables by dwelling on them, thus producing that dramatic _rubato_ which Wagner considered of such great importance in his operas that, when he brought out "Tannhäuser" in Dresden, he actually had the words of the text copied into the parts of all the orchestral players, in order that they might be able to follow these poetic licenses in the dramatic phrasing of the singer. This dramatic _rubato_ is, of course, a very different thing from the freedom which Italian singers often allow themselves on favorable high notes, which they prolong, not in order to emphasize an emotion but to show off the beauty and sustaining power of their voices.

Scaria, unfortunately, was never heard in opera in this country. But we have had Materna and Niemann and Brandt and Fischer, and Alvary and Lehmann, who have given us correct ideas of the German vocal style. Surely no one can say, on listening to Lehmann's _Brünnhilde_, or Fischer's _Hans Sachs,_ or Alvary's _Siegfried_, that the vocal part is inferior in beauty or importance to the orchestral. When Alvary sang _Siegfried_ for the first time in New York, he presented a creditable but uneven impersonation, not having sufficiently mastered the details of the acting to feel quite at ease, and not being able to husband his vocal resources for the grand duo at the close. But at the end of the season, at the eleventh performance, he had become a full-fledged _Siegfried_, acting the part as by instinct, while his voice was as fresh at the close of the opera as at the beginning: thus affording a striking proof of Wagner's assertion, that the greatest vocal difficulties of his rôles can be readily mastered if the singer will only take the pains to enter thoroughly into the spirit of the text and the dramatic situations. Alvary spent a whole year in learning this rôle, availing himself of the hints given him by Herr Seidl, who has the Wagnerian traditions by heart; and to-day he might, if he felt so inclined, amass wealth and win honor by travelling about Europe and singing nothing but this one rôle. Vienna and Brussels made strenuous efforts to entice him away from New York after his great success as _Siegfried_.

This success is the more gratifying and encouraging because, previously, he had been only a second-rate singer. It was his conscientious and prolonged study of the German vocal style that enabled him to win his present lucrative and honorable position. If there were a few more young singers like him the operatic problem might be considered solved, for it is the rarity of well-trained singers that causes all the financial embarrassment in our opera-houses. They are so scarce, that as soon as one is discovered he is hurried on the stage, after a year's hasty preparation, and if his untrained voice soon gives out--as it must under the circumstances--the blame is laid on Wagner's shoulders. But, as Mme. Lucca remarks, "neither Wagner nor any other composer spoils the voice of any one who knows how to sing." She thinks that at least six years of faithful study are necessary to develop the voice in accordance with artistic principles. Herr Hey is somewhat more lenient, three years of thorough training sufficing, in his opinion, as a preparation for the stage. Much, of course, depends on individuals, and the number of hours given to study every day. In the old Italian vocal schools, two centuries ago, the pupils were kept busy six or eight hours a day, devoting one hour to difficult passages, another to trills and to accuracy of intonation, others to expression, to counterpoint, composition and accompaniment, etc. They often practised before a mirror in order to study the position of the soft parts in the mouth, and to avoid grimaces; and sometimes they sang at places where there was a good echo, so as to hear their own faults, as if some one else were singing. Yet, as we have seen, the main stress was laid on agility of technical execution, whereas the modern German method, without in the least neglecting technique, calls upon pupils to devote more attention to the principles of soulful expression and dramatic accentuation. A singer who wishes to appear to advantage as _Euryanthe_ or _Lohengrin_ or _Tristan_ must not only be entirely familiar with his own vocal parts but he ought to be as familiar with the orchestral score as the conductor himself: for, only then, can he acquire that ease which is necessary for producing a deep impression. As he has not the conductor's advantage of looking on the printed score while singing, he must therefore have an excellent memory. As Dr. Hanslick remarks, "the artists who sing 'Tristan and Isolde' by heart, if they do nothing more than sing the notes correctly, deserve our most sincere admiration. That they can do to-day what seemed almost impossible twenty years ago is indeed Wagner's achievement, an achievement which has hardly been noted hitherto." Let me add that in modern German music, _everything_ is difficult to the singer--the consonants of the language, the unusual intervals and accents, the necessity of being actor and singer at the same time, etc. Hence we ought to be charitable and condone an occasional slip. But the average opera-goer in this country is anything but charitable. If one of these dramatic singers, thus hampered by difficulties, makes the slightest lapse from tonal beauty (which may be even called for) he is judged as unmercifully as if he were a representative of the _bel canto_, whose art consists in a mere voice without emotion--_vox et præterea nihil_. This is as unfair as it is to judge Wagner's dramas by the music alone, and is, indeed a consequence of this attitude.

It has been too much the habit in America and in England to sneer at German singers; and it is customary if a German singer has a good mellow voice to attribute that to his Italian method, while his shortcomings are ascribed to the German method. This, again, is as absurd as it is unjust; for, as I have endeavored to show, the real German method, by insisting on an equal treatment of all the vowels, develops a richer and more sonorous voice than the Italian method; and, indeed, the reason why powerful dramatic voices are so rare among Italians, is because of their one-sided preference, in their exercises, for the easiest vowels.

When Mendelssohn travelled in Italy he noted that there were very few good singers at the opera-houses, and that one had to go to London and Paris to find them. To-day few of them can be found even in London and Paris; and, indeed, I could easily show, by giving lists of the famous singers of the past and present, that the Italians constitute a small minority as compared with the German, French, and Scandinavian singers of the first rank. The custom so long followed by singers of all nationalities of adopting Italian stage names has confused the public on the subject. And, finally, I could name a dozen German singers who have won first-class honors in Italian opera; but where is there an Italian _Tannhäuser_ or _Brünnhilde_ or _Wotan_? All honor, therefore, to the versatility of German singers, who, like Lilli Lehmann, for instance, can sing _Norma_ and _Isolde_ equally well.

And still more honor to the German composers who have restored the true function of song. Everybody knows that in the popular songs, or folk songs, of _all_ nations, including the Italian, the words are quite as important as the melody. It was only in the artificial songs of the Netherland school and the Italian opera composers that the voice was degraded to the function of a mere inarticulate instrument; and it remained for Wagner, following the precedence of Gluck, to restore it to its rank as the inseparable companion of poetry. And what led him to do this was not abstract reflection but artistic instinct and experience. He does not even claim the honor of having originated the true vocal style, but confesses with pride that it was a _woman_, Frau Schroeder-Devrient, who first revealed to him the highest possibilities of dramatic singing, and he boasts that he was the only one that learned this lesson of the great German singer, and developed the hints regarding the correct vocal style unconsciously given by her.

It must not be forgotten, however, that side by side with the music-drama and partly preceding it, another form of vocal music grew up in Germany, which in a very similar manner restored the voice to its true sphere as the wedded wife of poetry. I refer, of course, to the _Lied_, or parlor song, to which, indeed, I might have devoted this whole essay, quite as well as to the music-drama, if there were anything in Italian music that might have been compared to the songs of Schubert, Schumann, Franz, Brahms, Liszt, Rubinstein, etc.

As Sir George Grove poetically puts it, in Schubert's songs "the music changes with the words as a landscape does when the sun and clouds pass over it. And in this Schubert has anticipated Wagner, since the words in which he writes are as much the absolute basis of his songs as Wagner's librettos are of his operas." Liszt, too, notes somewhere that Schubert doubtless exerted an indirect influence on the development of the opera by means of the dramatic realism which characterizes the melody and accompaniment of his parlor songs (such as the "Erl King," the "Doppelgänger," etc.)--a realism which becomes still more pronounced in Schumann, Franz, and Liszt, in whose songs every word of the poem colors its bar of music with its special emotional tint, instead of merely serving, as in the old _bel canto_, as an artificial and meaningless scaffolding for the construction and execution of a melody.

This parallel evolution of the parlor song and the music-drama cannot be too strongly emphasized: for the same tendency being followed by so many of the greatest geniuses (some of whom are not Germans) affords cumulative evidence of the fact that the German style (which, as I have explained, includes all that is valuable in the Italian method) is the true vocal style, the style of the future, the style which cosmopolitan American art will have to adopt. I have been told that since the revival of German opera in New York, the Italian teachers in the city have lost many of their pupils. Obviously, if they wish to regain them they will have to adopt the best features of the German method, just as the Germans have adopted all that is good in the Italian method. It cannot be denied that the pupils turned out by the average vocal teachers are quite unable to sing a Franz or even a Schubert song correctly and with proper emotional expression. Now, it is evident, as Ehlert says, that "that art of singing which abides with the _bel canto_ and is unable to sing Bach, Beethoven, and Schumann, has not attained to the height of their period. It becomes its task to adapt itself to these new circumstances, to renounce the comfortable solfeggios and acquire the poetic expression that they accept."

The famous tenor Vogl, a contemporary of Schubert, wrote in his diary the following significant words: "Nothing shows so plainly the want of a good school of singing as Schubert's songs. Otherwise, what an enormous and universal effect must have been produced throughout the world, wherever the German language is understood, by these truly divine inspirations, these utterances of a musical clairvoyance! How many would have comprehended, probably for the first time, the meaning of such expressions as 'Speech and Poetry in Music,' 'Words in Harmony,' 'ideas clothed in music,' etc., and would have learned that the finest poems of our greatest poets may be enhanced and even transcended when translated into musical language." It is humiliating to be obliged to confess that good schools of singing, the absence of which Vogl deplored, are still lamentably rare, although he himself, by his example, did much to develop the correct method. We have just seen how Wagner obtained valuable hints from Schroeder-Devrient. Similarly, we find that Schubert learned from his friend Vogl, who alone at first could sing his songs properly, and by showing that they _could_ be sung encouraged Schubert in developing his original style.

It seems to me that these facts ought to be extremely gratifying and encouraging to students of vocal music, because they refute the notion that vocalists can only be interpretative and not creative, and their fame and influence, therefore, merely ephemeral. On the contrary, they can, like Vogl and Schroeder-Devrient, even aspire to guide composers and help to mark out new paths in art: which surely, ought to be more gratifying to their pride than the cheap applause which the sopranists and prima donnas of the _bel canto_ period used to receive for the meaningless colorature arias which they compelled the enslaved composers to write, or manufactured for themselves. And there is another way in which singers of the new style can become creative. Chopin speaks in one of his letters of a violoncellist who played a certain poor piece so remarkably well that it actually appeared to be good music. Similarly, a good vocalist (like Fräulein Brandt, for instance, who is very clever in this respect) can put so much art and feeling into the weaker parts and episodes of songs and operas as to make them entertaining where they are naturally tiresome. When we bear in mind these high possibilities of singing, we must admit that there is no nobler profession than that of a conscientious vocalist--a profession without which some of the deepest feelings that stir the human soul would remain unknown to the world.

VI

GERMAN OPERA IN NEW YORK

Perhaps it is not generally known that Mr. Theodore Thomas some years ago entertained the project of reviving German opera in New York, in a manner that should eclipse all previous operatic enterprises in this country. It was his intention to give in the leading American cities a series of performances of Wagner's Nibelung Tetralogy, and he looked forward to this as the crowning achievement of his busy life. For years he never gave a concert without having at least one Wagner selection on the programme, no matter how much some of the critics and patrons protested. In 1884 he considered the public sufficiently weaned of Italian sweets to stand a strong dose of Wagner; so he imported the three leading singers of the Bayreuth festivals--Materna, Winkelmann, and Scaria--for a number of festival concerts. The extraordinary success of these concerts seemed to indicate that the time was ripe for a complete theatrical production of Wagner's later music-dramas, and Mr. Thomas was already elaborating his plans when an accident frustrated them and took the whole matter out of his hands.

This accident was the signal failure of Italian opera at the Metropolitan Opera House during the first season of its existence. As Mr. Abbey lost over a quarter of a million dollars by this disaster, no other manager could be found willing to take his place and risk another fortune. Since Mr. Abbey's company included several of the most popular artists--Nilsson, Sembrich, Scalchi, Campanini, Del Puente, etc., and his repertory embraced the usual popular operas, the conclusion seemed inevitable that the public wanted a complete change. Dr. Damrosch was accordingly appealed to at the eleventh hour, and he hastened to Germany and brought over a company that scored an immediate success, surprising even to those who had long advocated the establishment of a German opera in New York. And this success became still more pronounced in the following seasons, when a better company was secured, with Herr Seidl as conductor.