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p ^^o.?
f
HARVARD COLLEGE
LIBRARY
THE BEQUEST OF
EVERT JANSEN WENDELL
CLASS <»> iSfti
OF NEW YORK
1918
^
,^ ^. ay^^.^^^^'^
^— . HARVARD OeUltf UBRAKY
THE BEQUEST OF
EVERT JANSEN WENDELL
\9ie
THE LOOKER-ON
OCTOBER, 1895.
PADEREWSKI AND HIS ART.
By Henby T. Finok.
biographic sketch.
'HE question of nationality plays a curious r61e
in the history of the pianoforte. For about a
century and a half almost all the great piano-
forte players and composers — Bach, Mozart, Beethoven,
Weber, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann — were Ger-
mans. But with Schumann and his wife the list of
Germans, supreme in this department, practically came
to an end, unless we except Hans von Bulow, who was
a great teacher rather than an inspired interpreter ;
and Brahms, whose pianoforte works are not idio-
matic. Thus the field was left open for Slavic and
Hungarian competitors. Hungary gave us Liszt,
Heller, and Joseffy ; Russia produced Rubinstein,
Essipoff, and Pachmann ; Scotland, D' Albert. But
the land preeminent for pianists is Poland. Chopin
was a Pole, and so was the brilliant Carl Tausig,
who, had he not died at the age of thirty, would,
in the opinion of his pupil, Joseflfy, and many others,
have surpassed even his master, Liszt. While there
is good reason to believe that Josef Hofmann, who so
delighted two continents as a prodigy, will ultimate-
ly take his place in the first rank. The two Schar-
wenkas, Moszkowski, Leschetitzki, and Slivinski are
among the minor Polish masters. And now, to cap
the climax, we have Paderewski, whom Poland will
some
2 THE LOOKER OK
some day honor as now it honors Chopin ; so that, mnsi-
cally speaking at any rate, it is safe to say, ^'Noch ist
Polen nicht verloren" — Poland is not yet lost.
Modem Poland has less than eight million inhabi-
tants, and is about one-third the size of Califomia.
Why this insignificant comer of Europe should have
produced four of the world's greatest pianists — ^we
might even say five, since Rubinstein's father was a
Polish Jew — is as inexplicable as the problem of
) genius in general. Is it accidental, or a consequence of
the romance, pathos, and tragedy of Polish history!
"" Is it due to the influence of the Polish women, world-
^ famed for their beauty and their gift of inspiring
A^***'* poetic fancies in their admirers? We know not; we
only know that Poland has taken the place of Germany
as the home of great pianists. Oddly enough, many
American journalists seem to imagine that Poles are
Germans, since they are constantly speaking of "Herr
Paderewski." They might as well sx>eak of "Herr
Grover Cleveland" or " Signor Bismarck."
Ignace Jan Paderewski — who, since the death of An-
ton Rubinstein, must be regarded as the greatest of liv-
ing pianists — was bom on November 6, 1860, in Podolia,
a province of Russian Poland, which might be called
the granary and garden of Russia. In our minds the
word ''Russian" is inseparably associated with pic-
tures of snow and ice, but Podolia has a climate similar
to that of South Germany. Its wheat is the heaviest
known, and used to be exported to Italy and Greece as
early as the fifteenth century, while the luxuriant
growth of the grape-vines, mulberries, and melons at-
tests the mildness of its climate. To be a gentleman
farmer in such a country is not the worst fate that
might befall a man ; nor could a musical genius pass
the days of his childhood under more favorable circum-
stances than those which surrounded Ignace on his
father's farm.
Paderewski' s father was an ardent patriot who
aroused the suspicions of the Russian officials, and in
1863
THE L O OKER - ON. %
1863 he was banished to Siberia. After a few years'
exile he was allowed to return, bnt, althongh he lived
till 1894, his spirits were broken, and the only solace of
his laat years was the growing fame of his son, who, he,,
mttst have felt, would, like Chopin, do more to make
known and endear Poland to the world than any of her
kings and politicians had ever done. Politicians are
not usually musicians, and Paderewski's father was no
exception to the rule; it was from his mother that^
Ignace, like Bubinstein and many other musicians, in-
herited his talent — in accordance with Schopenhauer's
doctrine that men of genius derive their intellectual
gifts from the maternal side. Ignace's mother, how-
ever, died when he was still a child, thus throwing
him on his own resources.
It is related of Chopin that he was bo sensitive in his
infancy that he could not hear music without crying,
and of Mozart that he fainted on hearing the sound of
a trampet. Ignace appears to have been similarly
sensitive to sounds. As a boy he used to crawl on the
piano stool, strike the keys, listen to the vibrations
that make np a tone, and modify his touch till he
got the exact q^nality his delicate sense of tonal beauty
craved. He also had the sense of absolute pitch — that
is, he could name every note he heard and tell the com-
ponent parts of every chord without seeing the key-
board. Eager as he was to listen and learn, there was
hardly any food for his musical appetite except the
folk-songs of the peasants, which in Poland are beauti-
f nl and characteristic. Once a liddler tried to give him
a few lessons on the piano, of which he knew bat little
himself. Subsequently an old piano teacher was en-
gaged to visit the isolated farm once a month. He
taught the boy and his sister how to play simple ar-
rangements of operatic tunes for one or two performers;
bnt of systematic instruction there coold be no ques-
tion under such circumstances.
He was twelve years old when he went to Warsaw,
where at last he vras able to hear good music and to take
THE LOOKER-ON.
1»E
lessons, Janotha being his teacher on the piano, and
Boguski in harmony. In the library of the Conserva-
tory he also found opportunities, which he did not
neglect, for studying the works of the classical and
romantic comi>oser8. But for a long time his lack of
early training remained a disadvantage. Even at six-
teen, when he attempted his first concert tour, in Rus-
sia, he was technically far from satisfactory. Miss
Fanny Morris Smith relates that ^^ during this journey
he played his own compositions and those of other
people; but, as he naively confessed, they were all his
own, no matter what he played, for he did not know
the music, and as he had little technic and could not
manage the difficult places, he improvised to fill up the
gaps."
There is reason to think that the Russian amateurs
who heard Paderewski on this tour were not particu-
larly spoiled or critical. St. Petersburg and Moscow
enjoy good concerts and operatic performances, but in
provincial towns musical culture has not reached the
highest possible level. I am indebted to Miss Szumow-
ska, Paderewski' s charming and talented pupil, for an
anecdote relating to this first tour, which he is fond of
telling. He had announced a concert at a certain small
town, but, on arriving, found that no piano was to be
had for love or money. Finally, he ascertained that a
general living some miles away had a piano. The gen-
eral was perfectly willing, on being applied to, to lend
his instrument ; but when the pianist tried it, he found,
to his dismay, that it was so badly out of repair that
some of the hammers would stick to the strings instead
of falling back. However, it was too late to back out.
The audience was assembling, and in this emergency a
bright thought occurred to the pianist. He sent for a
switch, and engaged an attendant to whip down the
refractory hammers whenever necessary. So bang went
the chords, and swish went the whip, and the audience
liked this improvised duo more, perhaps, than it would
have enjoyed the promised piano solo.
After
THE L OKER ■ ON. «
After this maiden tonr, Paderewski resumed his stud-
ies at the Warsaw Conservatory, and two years later he
was considered sufficiently advanced to be appointed to
a professorship. In the following year, aged only nine-
teen, he married a Polish girl. Early marriages are
rarely advisable, especially in the case of penniless
artbts who wish to carve their way to fame. Pade-
rewski' s married life lasted only a year — a year of pri-
vation and poverty — a year in which he probably did
not earn one-tenth of what he can now earn in two
honrs. His wife died, leaving bim an invalid boy,
bright in mind bnt paralyzed in body, who now is taken
care of by Mr. Gorski in Paris, and to whom his father
is devoted.
Grief has ever been a fertilizer of genius. After hia
great loss, Paderewski gave up his whole soul to his
art, in which he now made more rapid progress than
before. He went to Berlin,. where his opportunities for
hearing good music were, of coarse, very much better
than they had been at Warsaw. Hero he took lessons
in composition of Kiel, whose best service to his pupil
was that he fanned his enthusiasm for bis own two
idols. Bach and Beethoven. Professor Urban, of Kul-
lak's Academy, was also his teacher for a time, and at
the age of twenty-three he accepted a position as pro-
fessor at the Conservutory of Strasburg.
Up to this time, apparently, no one had suspected
Paderewski's latent powers. It takes genius to dis-
cover genius. It BO happened that during his Strasburg
days he became intimately acquainted, at a summer
resort, with the famous Polish actress, Mme. Modjeska,
who was perhaps the first to recognize his rare gifts.
She describes him as at ttus time *'a polished and
genial companion ; a man of wide culture ; of witty,
sometimes biting tongue ; brilliant in table-talk ; a man
wide-awake to all matters of popular interest, who
knew and understood the world, but whose intimacy
she and her husband especially prized for the ' eleva-
tion of his character and the refinementof bis mind.' "
Hia
6 TBE LOOKER OK
His familiarity with mtwical literature was already
exhaustive. To amuse these same friends he once ex-
temporized exquisitely upon a theme in the character-
istic style of every great composer from Palestrina to
Chopin. When he had finished, they begged him to
play it once more according to himself, and that time
it was the most beautiful of all.
The suspicion naturally arises that it may have been
doe largely to the sympathetic encouragement of the
famous Polish actress that Paderewski gave up the
drudgery of teaching, and went to Vienna to prepare
himself for the career of a concert pianist under the
guidance of his famous countryman Leschetitzki, who
may be safely asserted to have shown himself, next to
Liazt, the most successful trainer of pianists.
CONQtrEST OF PARIS AND LONDON.
'V^T^HILE the Germans and Austrians are un-
^ V I donbtedly the most musical of all nations,
Qj^N^ they are not very quick in discovering a
new genius, unless they happen to have a
Schumann among their critics. Pade-
rewski's debut in Vienna was a pleasant
enough affair, but did not do much to
establish his fame, and it remained for
Paris to discover his merits and proclaim
them to the world. The Parisian public
and press received him so cordially that
the curiosity of London was aroused, but
when he crossed the Channel and gave bis
first concert there, on May 9, 1890, the result was a
disappointment. The Academy said; '* If this artist
did himself full justice on this occasion, we cannot
understand the fuss that has been made of him. He
is a virtuoso player, but apparently not of the highest
order." The Athencewm, while conceding that he
certainly succeeded in astonishing the small audience,
accused
THE LOOKER -on. t
accused him of sensationalism and exaggeration, snm-
ming np its verdict in these words: "He is certainly
not a model pianist, and his playing gives as mnch
pain as pleasure to listener of refined tastes." Bnt
when he gave his second concert, a week later, the
critics took back everything they had said. The
Academy found his readings "poetical in a high de-
gree," and \\\» Aihencbum-vBA "enabled to agree with
the eulogy bestowed npon the Polish artist by Parisian
critics. It is only fair to add," it continues, "that at
the previous recital M. Paderewski may have been
unfavorably influenced by the sparse attendance and
the inferior pianoforte on which he played."
Sparse, indeed, had been the attendance at that first
London recital; the receipts did not exceed ten pounds.
But with every succeeding recital the audiences grew
in number, and to-day, when Paderewski gives a con-
cert in that city, the receipts rarely fall below $5,000,
which is as mnch as Mme. Fatti received in the most
brilliant period of her operatic career. Nor are the
mnsic-lovers of other English cities less multitudinous
and eager to hear him than the Ix>ndoners. In 1894,
when Ms manager arranged an English provincial tour
embracing twenty-two cities, the seats were in many
of these places all sold as mnch as two months ahead
of the date of the concert I
In Edinburgh the excite-
ment was so great, and the
hall so crowded, that at
least a dozen ladies had to
be carried out in a fainting
condition. On another oc-
casion, in London, it was
noted that a number of ama-
teurs had provided them-
selves with breakfast and
Innch, and waited patiently
^ day long for the doors of „ —
St. James's Hall to open. cSt
Reports ■'•^
THE LOOKER-ON.
FIRST TWO AMERICAN T0UB8.
EPORTS of Paderewski's extraordinary suc-
Vcess in England had, of coarse, preceded
him to America, and when he made his
first appearance in New York, on Novem-
ber 17, 1891, he was greeted at Carnegie Hall by
a large and brilliant audience. It does not at
all follow that because an artist succeeds in
London, Paris, or Vienna he will have the same
jj^^f happy fate in New York. Many musicians —
j especially singers — ^have a tale of woe to tell on
/ that score, and it is an undeniable fact that the
ij / New York musical public is the most critical
H and fastidious in the world. Paderewski, how-
ever, triumphed at once ; he is an artist of too
high a type to be dependent on the lottery of
luck. As he walked across the stage and seated
himself at his Steinway Grand, his appearance
and demeanor at once indicated the keynote of
his whole performance — an honest devotion to
his art which scorns any sort of trifling with
the audience, or posing as a genius, in the old
style, by personal untidiness.
While the public at once recognized Paderewski' s
greatness, the critics, with a few exceptions, lagged
behind. A writer in a musical paper thus summed
up the situation satirically: " Paderewski, the pianist,
came and did not conquer at once. . . . The press
all the week was a study. Praise was given, but
grudgingly, and the fatal comparison of names was in-
stituted. If Paderewski had only had Joseflfy's hair,
Rosenthal's appetite, Rummel's laugh, Rubinstein's
powers of perspiration, Pachmann's grin, why, then
Paderewski would have been a great pianist," etc. But
the public paid no heed to these insinuations, and
when, after two concerts with orchestra (at which he
played concertos by himself, Saint-Saens, and Beetho-
ven),
THE looker-on: g
Ten), he began a serieB of solo recitals at the Kadison
Sqoare Garden concert hall, it was found that this
hall was too small to contain all the enthusiasts, and he
had to return to Carnegie Hall, which has a seating ca-
pacity of twenty-seven hundred, with standing-room for
abont a thousand more ; and this hall was thenceforth
crowded at every recital, although the price of seats
was almost on an operatic scale.
In less than six months, Paderewski gave the enor-
mous number of one hundred and seventeen concerts,
his fame growing all the time like an avalanche. His
last concert in New York was given at the Metropolitan
Opera House, for the benefit of the Washington Arch
Fund. The great pianist volunteered his services for
this occasion, Mr. Higginson generously gave the assist-
ance of the Boston Symphony Orchestra free of charge,
so that the proceeds of the concert, $4,375, could be
turned over to the Fund intact. Mr. Paderewski felt
grateful towards Washington's countrymen for their
cordial recognition of his genius, and he played on
this occasion like one truly inspired, so that after he
had interpreted his own concerto, with the superb
accompaniment of Mr. Nikisch and his orchestra, not
a few of those in the audience felt convinced that they
had just heard the greatest pianist that ever lived.
As Mr. Paderewski had given his services for a patri-
otic purpose, it was proper that patriotic compliments
should be exchanged after the concert. Mr. Parke
Godwin and Mr. Richard Watson Gilder, as members
of the Washington Arch Committee, came on the stage,
and Mr. Godwin made a short address, in which lie
thanked all those who had contributed towards the suc-
cess of the concert, and then spoke of Mr. Paderewski's
home in Poland, expressing the hope that that unlucky
country might some day be released from its oppres-
sors. A smile lighted up Mr. Paderewaki's fine fea-
tures as these words were spoken ; but instead of
responding in words, he shook his head, pat his finger
on his lips, sat down once more at the piano amid
thunders
10 THE LOOKMRON.
thunders of applause and played a Liszt rhapsody as
he alone can play it. It was an historic event, which
those who were lucky enough to be present will never
forget.
After such a brilliant success, it was not surprising
that Paderewski's managers succeeded in persuading
him to return for a second tour, beginning in the au-
tumn of 1892. In New York he again took x>ossession
of Carnegie Hall, and gave there eleven concerts,
including two with orchestra, and every one of them
was crowded to the doors. Stranger things happened
in the West, as the following newspax)er item shows :
"Paderewski played on Monday evening in Cleveland,
and the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern Railroad
Company ran special trains, one from Sandusky and
the other from Norwalk, for the benefit of the resi-
dents of those two cities who wished to hear him."
Of course the receipts varied with the size of the
halls. One Chicago concert yielded over seven thou-
sand dollars ; but if New York did not reach such a
high figure, that was simply because it has no concert
hall as big as the Chicago Auditorium. Here are a few
official figures covering fourteen consecutive concerts :
Binghamton, $1,500; New York, |6,069; Boston,
$2,364 ; New Haven, $1,926 ; New York, $5,060 ; Roch-
ester, $1,S62 ; Albany, $1,360 ; Hartford, $1,916 ; Boston,
$2,996; New York, $6,624; Buffalo, $2,060; Philadel-
phia, $6,324 ; Brooklyn, $3,162 ; Boston, $3,999 ; total,
$43,690, or an average of ^,113.
The total number of concerts given during this sec-
ond tour in twenty-six American cities was sixty-seven,
and the receipts amounted to $180,000 — ^a sum never
before reached by any instrumental performer, and
rarely equalled by a prima donna in the palmiest days
of the hel canto. These financial results show that
those managers who offered Rubinstein $2,600 an even-
ing for an American tour a few years ago were not so
rash as some fancied they were. Paderewski reached
that average, and it is possible that Rubinstein, with
the
THE LOOKER-ON. 11
the prestige of his life-long reputation as pianist and
composer, might have exceeded it. It is interesting to
compare Rnbinsteln's net earnings in 1872 — |£iO,000 for
216 concerts — with Paderewski's gross receipts of i
about $180,000 for sixty-seven concerts, of which, per--*
haps, $150,000 are net. For the nnmber of concerts
given he earned abont nine times as much as Rubin-
stein. This does not prove that he is nine times as
great a pianist as Rubinstein, bnt it does indicate that
masical cnltnre in America had made enormous strides
in twenty years.
PBBSOITAI. TEAIT8 AlTD AITEODOTEB.
C>j^ MERICA, thanks to onr full purses, our ready
t/W enthusiasm for what is best of its kind, and
O/ oir "magnificent distances," is at once the
Eldorado and the terror of European artists.
We came very near ruining the career of little Josef
Hofmann by overwork, and even the leonine Rubin-
stein, at the age of forty-one, found the American
tonr so exhausting that he wrote in his autobiog-
raphy : "May Heaven preserve us from such sla-
very I . . . The receipts and the success were
invariably gratifying, but it was all so tedious that
I began to despise myself and my art." Notiiing —
not even the offer of $2,600 an evening — could induce
Rubinstein to repeat the experiment. Paderewski, al-
though he nearly suffered nervous collapse after his
first
12
THE LOOKSROK
4 ^-s
first tour, luckily was willing to come again, and as
his second tour was more reasonably arranged, he might
have come out of it fresh and smiling but for the
Chicago trouble.
One of his noblest traits is his genuine modesty — a
trait which has not been altered by the fact that he
now receives homage as the greatest living pianist and
one of the most gifted composers. Sir George Grove
praises Schubert as "one of the very few musicians who
did not behave as if he considered himself the greatest
man in the world." In this respect Paderewskl resem-
bles Schubert. " Paderewski," said the pianist De
Pachmann, in one of those quaint little speeches he
loves to address to his audiences, "Paderewski is the
most modest artist that I have ever seen. I myself am
the most unmodest artist, except Hans von Bulow.
He is more unmodest than I am."
To his colleagues and rivals Paderewski is pleasant
and generous. He invites them to dinners and inter-
ests himself in their affairs. He and Mr. Joseflfy are
excellent friends, who thoroughly appreciate each
other's good points.
Paderewski belongs to the modem school of musi-
cians in being a man of general culture and refinement.
He is not one of those numerous musicians who care for
nothing but their own art. He is interested in the
other arts, too, as well as in literature and life. He is
as brilliant in table-talk as at the piano, and is a most
sympathetic and intellectual companion. He has very
decided opinions of other composers, and his taste is
remarkably catholic. He likes Grieg' s songs better than
his pianoforte works, while Brahms' piano pieces, as he
once said to me, hardly exist for him : "they seem all
treble and bass." But he admires the chamber-music
of Brahms. His worship of the romantic Chopin,
Idszt, and Schumann does not interfere with his en-
joyment of the classical Mozart and Beethoven. He
adores Bach and Schubert, and at the same time he is a
thorough Wagnerite. To hear "Parsifal" or "Tris-
tan,"
THE LOOKER-ON. 13
tan," lie says, you ought to go to Bayreuth, for the
" Meistersinger " to Vienna, for "Tannhauser" to
Dresden; while of the "Plying Dutchman," the best
I>erf ormance he ever heard was at a small German city
of thirty thousand inhabitants.
Like most Poles, he has a great talent for acquiring
a knowledge of languages. He speaks Polish, Russian,
French, Gterman, and English fluently, and he is an
excellent letter-writer, as the few who have been
favored by him are aware. In recent years, however,
he has acquired almost a horror of letter- writing, and
seems to have fallen into the bad habit of Chopin, who
would rather get into a cab and deliver a message per-
sonally at the other end of Paris than write a note of
twenty lines.
Genius involves hard work, in a pianist as in a poet.
Ease and finish are the rewards of years of toil. When
we know how persistently Paderewski works to perfect
his playing, we hardly wonder that he shirks the duty
of writing letters. His triumphs were not too easily
won ; he had to practise and study many years to earn
them. To this day he will practise ten or twelve hours
or more a day when preparing for a concert tour, to
keep his fingers supple and his memory reliable. But
the secret of his success lies in this, that he practises
not merely with the fingers, but with the brain too. He
once told me that he often lies awake for hours at night,
going over his next programme mentally, note for note,
trying to get at the very essence of every bar.
This mental practice at night explains the perfection
of his art, but it is not good for his health. Indeed, if
he ever sins, it is against himself and the laws of health.
He smokes too many cigarettes, drinks too much lem-
onade, loses too much sleep, or sleeps too often in the
daytime. For this last habit he is, however, not en-
tirely to blame ; for, whenever he gives a concert, all
his faculties are so completely engaged that he is quite
exhausted at the end, and unable to go to sleep for
hours. His favorite antidote to this artistic insomnia
is
14 TBE LOOKER Oir.
is a game of billiards. Of this game he 10 passionately
fond, and he regards it as a sort of tonic ; for, he says,
" If I walk or ride, or merely rest, I go on thinMog all
the time, and my nerves get no real rest. Bnt when I
play billiardH, I can forget everything, and the result is
mental rest and physical rest combined.'
Like Liszt and Rubinstein, Paderewski has an intense
personal magnetism which especially attracts women.
I have seen an andience compel the poor pianist to add
Ave pieces to the sixteen on the programme, the chief
applanders being women. Often have I seen half the
ladies in the parqnet leave their seats while these extras
were being called for and crowd as near the stage as
possible so as to get a closer view of the magnetic per-
former and his bewitched fingers. After the concert-,
those who were Incky enough would crowd into his
room, while others would wait below to see ^rm
drive off.
To conclude these remarks on Paderewski' s personal-
ity, let me quote a line of Mr. J. G. Hnneker: "His
life has been full of sorrow, of adversity, of vicions-
ness never. His heart is pure, Ms life clean, his ideals
lofty."
HOW PADEB£WSKI PLATS.
,T is often said that a trace of oharlatanism is
essential to the success of even a genias. Pade-
rewski is a living refutation of this assertion.
He never resorts to clap-trap, trickiness, or sen-
sationalism in order to win applause. He makes
no concessions to the popular craving for cheap
tunes, but gives his hearers only the choicest
products of the highest musical genius, &om
£ach to the present day. He never stoops to
conquer, never allows anything trashy or trivial
to mar the artistic harmony of his theme. He
does not need to resort to any such tricks to
succeed. His popularity has been won by his
^
4 personal genius and his sincere devotion to
the
THE LOOKER-ON. 15
the very best mnsic. What prepossesses an audience
at once in his favor is the genuine simplicity of his
bearing, the absence of all desire to pose. He never
indulges in any antics or capers, but comes on the stage
with modest bearing, takes his seat at the piano, prel-
udizes a moment — ^what superb chords I — till all is quiet,
and then plays as only he can play.
Perhaps the first thing that strikes the average spec-
tator on seeing Paderewski at the piano is the entire
absence of effort in his performance. He seems to
shake the notes from his sleeves like a prestidigitateur;
technical difficulties do not exist for him; indeed,
from his playing one might fancy that there was no
such thing as a difficult piece, and that anybody might
do what seems so absurdly easy.
Charlatans draw attention to their skill by an obtru-
sive brilliancy of execution and a parading of difficul-
ties. It cannot be denied that this is a good way to
"astonish the natives," and that it often brings a cer-
tain kind of success. But astonishment is a state of
mind which is soon dulled, and for permanent success
with the public it is necessary to appeal to the deeper
and more aesthetic emotions. The secret of Paderewski' s
permanent success lies in this, that he makes us forget
that there is such a thing as technique by his supreme
mastery of it and by making the musical ideas he inter-
prets so absorbingly interesting to all classes of hear-
ers. Paradoxical as it may seem, it may be said that
the genius of a musician is most unmistakably revealed
in his power over the unmusical. Genius makes ex-
tremes meet ; that is to say, it fascinates not only those
who have the most highly cultivated taste for music,
but also those to whom the art is usually a sealed book
and the playing of ordinary academic pianists "all
Greek." Genius translates this Greek into English, or
any other language you please. It is an emotional
Volapuk which makes aU music intelligible to every-
body.
This is not mere "sentiment," or "fine writing." I
really
k
16 THE LOOKER our.
really know of unmusical individuals who shun piano re-
citals as intolerable bores, but who never miss a Paderew-
ski recital, because, when he plays. Bach and Beethoven
are no longer riddles to them but sources of pleasure.
Vanity is the principal cause of the failure of many
brilliant pianists. They try to show the public not how
beautiful the music of Chopin or Schumann is, but
what clever performers they themselves are. The pub-
lic soon notes their insincerity, and neglects their con-
certs. Paderewski, on the other hand, never plays at
an audience. He hardly seems to play for it, but for
himself. I once asked him if he ever felt nervous in
playing, and he said he often did, but only because he
feared he might not satisfy himself. He is his own
severest critic.
Paderewski almost always begins a concert with Bach,
Handel, Scarlatti or some other very old master, follow-
ing this up with Mozart or Beethoven, then the German
romantic school (Weber, Schubert, Schumann), and
linally the Slavic and Hungarian schools — Rubinstein,
Chopin, Paderewski, Liszt. This historic arrangement
has the obvious advantage that it leads the individual
hearer through the same stages of development that the
musical race went through. Each of the recitals thus
becomes an object-lesson in musical history, adding
instruction to pleasure.
It should be borne in mind that the excessive fatigue
of constant travel has had the natural result of making
some of his recitals less interesting than others. If there
are any who have heard him but once and who were
disappointed, they will herein find the explanation.
Even when he is in the concert mood, it often happens
that he has to play two or three pieces before he is at
his best — a common experience with artists. But it is
not always so, especially when Bach heads the list. On
such an occasion an expert who had never before heard
him play would be apt to say to himself, " This man is
evidently a Bach specialist ; he has played his best card
first." Later on he would feel inclined to pronounce
him
THS LOOKER-ON. Vt
htm a Beethoven specialist ; but not till after the Schn-
mann, Chopin, and Liszt numbers would he discover the
whole truth, namely, that Paderewski is a specialist in
all good music. Like Liszt, he has the mocking-bird
gift of imitating the style of all the great pianists and
composers, often surpassing them in their own song.
That he is preeminent above aU pianists in the matter
of beauty and variety of tone-color is a fact beyond all
dispute. Dr. William Mason, a pupil of Liszt, considers
him in this respect superior even to his master. Having
heard Liszt only once, I feel hardly entitled to an opin-
ion in this matter, but I do not for a moment doubt Dr.
Mason's judgment. The gift of a beautiful tone (touch)
comes by nature, like a beautiful face, but it can be im-
proved by cultivation and exercise. We have seen that
aa a boy Paderewski used to listen to the vibrations
that make up a tone, and modify his touch tiU he got
tb^e vibrations just as his delicate sense of tonal beauty
wanted them. Something similar to this he does to this
day at his recitals. He has no looks, no grimaces, for
the audience. No public smile ever sits on his lips, yet
if you look closely you will observe subtle changes of
expression on his features : he is listening intently to
bis own playing, and if the tone is as beautiful as he
wishes it, an expression of pleasure flits across his fea-
tures. He seems to be far away in dreamland, playing
for himself alone ; and his reward is not the applause of
tlie audience, but the delight in his own playing.
Tone, in a modem piano, is as much a matter of ped-
alling as of finger-touch. By pressing the right pedal,
we lift the dampers from all the strings and allow the
sympathetic overtones to add their voices to the tones
we strike, thus enriching and deepening the colors. No
other pianist, except perhaps Chopin, haa understood
the art of pedalling as Paderewski understands it. In
this respect he is epoch-making; his pedalling is a
source of unending delight and study to connoisseurs.
No expert could mistake his chords and arpeggios for
those of any other pianist. No other has quite such a
limpid
18 THE LOOKER-ON.
limpid yet deep tone, a tone of such marvellons carrying
power that its pianissimo is heard in the remotest x>art8
of the house ; no other can, like him, make yon hear
soft, voluptuous horns, lugubrious bassoons, sui)erbly
sustained organ-pedals, and amorous violoncello tones.
So perfect is his pedalling that he never by any accident
blurs his harmonies and passages, while at the same
time he produces tone-colors never before dreamt of in
a pianoforte. By rapid successive pressures of the i)ed-
al he succeeds in giving the piano a new power, that
of changing the quality of a tone after it has been
struck, as every one must have noticed, for instance,
in his performance of his popular Minuet.
Hans von Bulow, in his edition of Beethoven's piano-
forte works, marks certain passages quasi violoncello —
or some other instrument which the composer evidently
had in mind. Bulow himself was not very successful
in suggesting these orchestral tints, whereas Paderew-
ski constantly does so in the most fascinating manner,
especially in Liszt, whose style is often orchestral in its
suggestiveness, without ceasing to be idiomatically pi-
anistic. If occasion calls for it, Paderewski can convert
the piano into a small stormy orchestra ; but he has a
way of his own for producing orchestral effects which
depends on the skilful use of the pedals instead of on
muscular gradations of forte and piano. For instance,
as the surging sounds of some mighty arpeggios grad-
ually die away over the pedal, you will hear above them
a weird sustained tone, like that of a muted horn from
another world ; another moment you will hear the wail
of an oboe, or the majestic strains of trombones, or the
sonorous boom of a bell ; and in the Chopin Berceuse
he converts the piano into an seolian harp whose har-
monies seem to rise and fall with the gentle breezes.
By the clever use of pedal and arpeggios he produces
that "continuous stream of tone" which was char-
acteristic of Chopin's playing, and which, in its un-
broken succession of multi-colored harmonies, reminds
one of the magic tone-colors and mystic sounds that
coma
THE LOOKER-ON. 19
come up from the invisible Wagnerian orchestra at
Bayreuth.
BACH AS A MODEBN BOMANTICIST.
O^'^ji^HEN Mozart once came across a composition
^% ^y *^® neglected Bach he exclaimed,
z'*^*'^^ ' ' Thank heaven, here at last is a piece from
^•-^ which I can learn something.'' Beethoven
said of this same composer that his
^ name should not be "Bach" (brook),
but "Ocean." It is well known with
what enthusiasm Mendelssohn revived
Bach, and how the Philistines ridiculed
him for it; well known how Schumann
^ and Wagner worshipped Bach, and de-
^\ clared him the master of masters. At
^^^ first hearing, nothing could seem less sim-
ilar than Chopin and Bach, yet the influence of Bach
becomes more and more obvious in the latest and most
mature works of Chopin ; and through his life, when-
ever Chopin prepared for a concert, he, to use his own
words, " shut hinself ujp for a fortnight to play Bach."
Yet the public persists in considering Bach a mere
bundle of dry counterpoint. Why? Because he is
seldom interpreted as he ought to be in the modem
romantic spirit. It remained for Liszt to show to the
world what there is in Bach. Bead what Wagner
wrote when Liszt played for him the fourth prelude
and fugue from the " Well-Tempered Clavichord " : " I
knew indeed very well what I was to expect of Liszt at
the piano ; but what I now learned to know I had not
exi)ected of Bach himself, well as I had studied him.
It showed me how little study aTnounts to compared
with reveJMion.^^
Let the young ladies who are studying music bear
that last sentence in mind. They will learn more by
hearing Paderewski play once than by taking a hun-
dred ordinary lessons. For Paderewski is the Liszt
of to-day. He plays Bach as Liszt played him. He
makes
20 THE LOOKER our.
makes a chromatic fantasia and fugue sound like a
modem improvisation. He scorns the ^^ angular &sh-
ion" of playing Bach which was in vogue among the
older pianists, but treats him as a modem romanticist.
He convinces you of the fact that Bach, though he was
bom in 1686, is really one of the most modem com-
I)osers; a comi>oser, in truth, of whose works most
are still "music of the future." They would not re-
main so long were there more Liszts and Paderewskis
to reveal their wealth of tone, their organ-like sonor-
ity, and above all their marvellous j)olyphonic web of
melodies. Paderewski plays these interwoven simul-
taneous melodies with such clearness that the ear can
follow each as easily as if it were played on a sei)arate
instrument of the orchestra. When you hear him play
Bach, you realize that they who say there is no mel-
ody or emotion in him, simply do not see the forest on
account of the trees.
THE IDEAL BEETHOVEN PLATEB.
<^^1 N amusing episode in Paderewski' s American ex-
/•v»V periences was brought about by the question
^ whether he could play Beethoven. We all
know that D' Albert is (as Bulow was) less satis-
factory in Chopin and Liszt than in Beethoven
and Brahms, and as a rule it is also true that pian-
ists of the Chopin-Idszt school are not equally in-
teresting in Beethoven and the so-called German
"classical" school in general. As Paderewski be-
longs to the Chopin-Liszt school, it was natural to
suppose that he was not a great Beethoven player ; and
the first year the critics, with very few exceptions, said
so. It cannot be denied that he did not always make
so deep an impression with Beethoven as with composers
of the romantic school ; but this, I insisted, was quite
as much the fault of Beethoven as of Paderewski, since
Beethoven, with all his wealth of ideas, is not an idio-
matic writer for the pianoforte, and his works for that
instrument are, therefore, in the matter of style and
fascination,
THE LOOKER-ON. 21
fascination, inferior to those of Bach, Chopin and Scnu-
mann, and do not stir a modem audience so deeply as
compositions of the romantic, idiomatic school. On
this point most professionals and amatenrs are agreed;
yet, thanks to a strange kind of conservative terrorism,
very few have the courage to express their convictions.
Beethoven is exi)ected to arouse as much applause as
Chopin, and if he fails to do so, the pianist is blamed !
On this subject the eminent pianist and teacher. Dr.
William Mason, contributed some articles, at the crit-
ical moment, to the Century and Evening Posty which
threw much light on the matter and brought out the
comic side of the discussion. Dr. Mason frankly con-
fessed that, in his opinion, Beethoven's pianoforte
works are not idiomatic; adding: "Forty years ago
my teachers, Moscheles, afterwards Dreyschock, and
finally liszt, used to say that Beethoven's piano com-
I>ositions were not KlamerTndssig . . . not written in
conformity with the nature of the instrument." He
also pointed out that "whenever a pianist makes his
first appearance in public as a Beethoven player, he is
at once subjected to strictures on all sides by numerous
critics who seem to have been lying in wait for this
particular occasion, and there immediately arise two
parties, each holding positive opinions, of which the
one in the negative is usually the more numerous. This
is by no means a new fad, but quite an old fashion,
dating back, at least as far as the writer's experience
goes, something over forty years and probably much
further." No pianist was spared in this process, not
even Liszt, of whom many of the critics said that he
could not play Beethoven, whereas, according to
Wagner, he was the first who revealed the inner spirit
of Beethoven's music.
Following out Dr. Mason's suggestions, I made some
researches and found that, according to the great com-
poser's contemporaries, Beethoven himself could not
play Beethoven! C. Pleyel, for instance, wrote that
he had no "school," that his playing was "not pure,"
that
IHE LOOKBRON.
i^m
^f^'
that he "pounc
too much," a
created difficolt
which he conld not
overcome. After
this reductio ad
absuTduin little
more was heard
about PaderewBki's
inability to play Beethoven. Br. Mason summed up his
verdict on Paderewski by saying that, on the whole,
^' he stands more nearly on a plane with Liszt than any
other virtuoso since Tausig. His conception of Bee-
thoven combines the emotional with the intellectual in
admirable poise and proportion ; thus he plays with
a big, warm heart, as well as with a clear, calm, and
discriminative head, hence a thoroughly satisfactory
result. Those who prefer a cold, arbitrary, and rigidly
rhythmical and ex-cathedra style will not be pleased."
THE L O OKER -ON. 23
THE BOARDS WHICH SHAKESPEARE
TROD.
By Wm. H. Fleming.
Pbeyiotjs to Shakespeare's day permanent theatres
did not exist in England. Plays were acted by stroll-
ing bands of actors. These actors wandered from town
to town, stopping at any place where they conld gather
an andience. They erected a raised platform which
they used as a stage. This platform might be placed
in an inn yard, or on the common in the centre of the
town. Abont the time of Shakespeare the Elizabethan
drama began to find a home in permanent theatres.
With two of these, the Blackfriars and the Globe on the
Bankside, Shakespeare' s name and fame are forever asso-
ciated. For the companies acting in them his plays were
written, and on their boards his plays were first acted.
Both of these theatres were built toward the close
of the sixteenth centnry. The Blackfriars was on the
north side of the Thames, and was nsed as a winter
theatre. The Globe was on the south or Surrey side of
the Thames, and was occupied in summer.
The building used as the Blackfriars Theatre was
originally a dwelling-house. This house was purchased
in 1596 by James Burbage and converted into a theatre.
The Globe was completed in 1599 and opened in 1600.
Of it, Halliwell-Phillipps, an authority on this subject,
gives the following account: "The exact position of
the Globe Theatre will be gathered from the annexed
view of London, which was published a few years after
its erection, and contains by far the most interesting
representation we have of the building. A person
entering Southwark from London Bridge, after pass-
ing the last gateway, its poles and its traitors' heads,
would proceed a short distance along the High Street.
Turning
THE LOOKER-ON.
THE LOOKER - ON. 25
Taming then to the right, threading the streets and
alleys that lay on the south of the church and Win-
chester House, he would arrive at the Globe, the circu-
lar building which is seen amidst the trees in the open
space below the thickly populated fringe of houses
known as the Bankside, the theatre itself being only
about two hundred yards from the margin of the river.
A little farther on is the Bear Garden, the flags indicat-
ing that the doors of both establishments were open to
the public. It would appear from this engraving that
there was in the original Globe Theatre a circular sub-
structure of considerable size, perhaps constructed of
brick or masonry, which probably included a corridor
with a passage to the pit or yard and staircases leading
to other parts of the house. XJx>on this substructure the
two wooden stories, in portions of which were included
the galleries and boxes, were erected. The building
waa constructed mainly of wood and was partially
roofed with thatch, but the larger portion of the inte-
rior was open to the sky. This latter circumstance,
however, did not exclude winter performances, for,
amongst the very few records in which the exact dates
are mentioned, is a notice of one that took place in the
month of February."
In this theatre the following Shakespearian plays
were acted: " Romeo and Juliet," "King Richard II.,"
"King Lear," "Troilus and Cressida," "Pericles,"
" Othello," " Macbeth," " The Winter's Tale." It was
destroyed by fire in 1613 during the performance of
"King Henry VIII." This event is described by Sir
Henry Wotton : "King Henry, making a mask at the
Cardinal Wolsey's house, and certain cannons being
shot oflE at his entry, some of the paper or stuflE where-
with one of them was stopped did light on the thatch,
where, being thought at first but an idle smoke, and
their eyes more attentive to the show, it kindled in-
wardly and ran round like a train, consuming, within
less than an hour, the whole house to the very grounds.
This was the fatal period to that virtuous fabric, where-
in
TBE LOOKER-ON.
in yet nothing did perisL bat wood, straw, and a few
forsaken cloaka; only one man had his breeches set on
fire, that perhaps had broiled him if he had not, by
the benefit of a ready wit, put it out with bottled ale."
The Globe Theatre was rebuilt and opened in 1614.
The illustration on page 80 gives an accurate idea of the
exterior of the New Globe. Both these theatres were
octagonal. In the prologue to "King Henry V."
Shakespeare describeB them as "this wooden O."
The
THE LOOKER ON. 27
The interior of the Elizabethan theatres was very
cTtide. In 1596 John De Witt, Canon of St. Mary's
Chnrch, Ulrecht, visited London. He attended a per-
formance at the Swan Theatre. This was built in 1695,
and, like the Globe, was sitoated on the Bankside. He
made a i)en-and-ink sketch of the interior, the original
of which is now in the Royal Library at Berlin, of
which the following is a copy.
It will be noted that De Witt gives only a view of
the stage and rear part of the theatre. When making
his drawing he evidently stood in the pit, looking
toward the stage. Hence that part of the interior of
the theatre facing the stage does not appear in the
picture. Accompanying the sketch is a description by
De Witt of the Swan Theatre: "This theatre will seat
three thousand spectators. It is built of flint-stone, a
material which abounds in Great Britain, and is orna-
mented with wooden columns, so cleverly stained to
imitate marble as to deceive any but a very close ob-
server. As its shape seems to be modelled upon the
ordinary Roman work, I herewith send you a drawing
of it." From this I infer that, like the Coliseum at
Rome and other Roman amphitheatres, it was oval.
The stage was entirely disconnected from the walls of
the building. The sx)ectators could walk all around.
The front was uncovered. About half-way back were
two columns, and extending back from the tops of them
was a roof. It joined a two-story building. In the
first story some of the audience sat. The second story
was used by employees of the theatre. One of them is
seen in the illustration coming from a door on the right,
and waving a flag, which was the signal to the outside
public that the i)erf ormance was about to begin. The
two doors, which are just back of the columns, were
used by the actors for entrance and exit. Their wait-
ing-room was underneath the stage. In this room, hung
on the wall, was a placard called a "plot" or "plat."
On it all the stage directions were written in large let-
ters. This the actors were supposed to consult and to
plaj
28 THE LOOKER-ON.
play their parts accordingly. It also gave directions to
the musicians. The orchestra, which plays so impor-
tant a part in the Shakesi)earian dramas, particularly
those which are historical, was seated on the stage.
There was no drop-curtain in the Shakesi)earian thea-
tres. Nor was there any scenery. The importance of
the latter fact cannot be overestimated. It explains
the frequent appeals which Shakespeare makes to the
imagination of his audiences. In ^^ Eling Henry Y." the
scene of the action changes many times. There was,
however, no scenery to make this visible to the eye of
the spectator. Hence, before each act is a prologue. In
this Shakespeare appeals to the imagination. Before
Act L Chorus says :
''But pardon gentles all,
The flat unraised spirit that hath dar*d
On this unworthy scaflFold to bring forth
So great an object: can this cockpit hold
The vasty fields of France? or may we cram
Within Uiis wooden O the very casques
That did affright the air at Agincourt?
O, pardon ! since a crooked figure may
Attest in little place a million;
And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,
On your imaginary forces work.
Suppose within the girdle of these walls
Are now confined two mighty monarchies,
Whose high-upreared and abutting fronts
The perilous, narrow ocean parts asunder.
Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts;
Into a thousand parts divide one man.
And make imaginary puissance:
Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them
Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth;
For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,
Carry them here and there, jumping o'er times,
Turning the accomplishment of many years
Into an hour glass: for the which supply.
Admit me Chorus to this history;
Who prologue-like your humble patience pray.
Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play."
Before Act 11. Chorus describes the preparations for
the invasion of France, and concludes :
*' . • . and
THE L OKER' ON. 29
'' • • • and the scene
Is now transported, gentles, to Southampton;
There is the playhouse now, there must you sit:
And thence to IVance shall we convey you safe,
And briDg you back, charming the narrow seas
To give you gentle pass."
During Act III. King Harry and his army sail for
France, which Chorus describes. In Act IV. the Battle
of Agincourt is represented. Chorus in the Prologue
describes the preparations for the battle, and adds :
" And so our scene must to the battle fly;
Whereto for pity I — we shaU^much disgrace
With four or five most vile and ragged foils.
Right ill-dispos'd in brawl ridiculous.
The name of Agincourt."
In the last act, the action of the drama takes place in
Calais, in London, and again in France, all of which is
described by Chorus in a prologue. At the present
time the dramatist would have trusted to scenery to
produce these effects, but Shakespeare, having no sce-
nery, had to appeal, by word of mouth, to the imagina-
tion of the audience.
The i)eople who frequented the Elizabethan theatres
were far from reputable. The Lords of the Council in
a letter to the Lord Mayor of London, 31 December,
1631, wrote :
"Wee have receaved a lettre from yow renewing a
complaint of the great abuse and disorder within and
about the cittie of London by reason of the multitude
of playhowses, and the inordinate resort and concourse
of dissolute and idle people dailie unto publique stage-
plaies."
The audience was composed mostly of the fast young
noblemen and of the lower classes; e. ^., tradespeople,
apprentices, idlers. The former, by paying an extra
price, obtained seats on the stage, where chairs or stools
were placed. Here they smoked, ate, guyed the actors,
and the audience in the pit. The latter were called
"groundlings." They occupied the ground or pit of
the theatre just in front of the stage. They were un-
ruly
THE LOOKES-OK.
THE LOOKER-ON. 31
ruly and misbehaved. The Porter in *'King Henry
Vlll.," describing the crowd in the Palace Yard, says :
" These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse, and fight for
bitten apples ; that no audience but the Tribulation of Tower Hill,
or the limbs of Lime-house, their dear brothers, are able to endure.*'
These audiences often contained criminals. Hence a
pair of stocks was kept npon the stage, so that any thief
canght stealing could be immediately confined in them.
The si)ectators, both those on the stage and those in
the pit, guyed the actors; and the latter retorted in
kind. And yet this audience was perceptive and recep-
tive. The time was one of great activity. Life, both
national and individual, was full of zest. With the
Shakespearian dramas, the people who thronged the
theatres were sympathetic and enthusiastic.
The actors were men, no women being allowed to ap-
pear on the stage until after the Restoration. They
did not by any means restrict themselves to the author's
words. Great liberty, even license, was allowed them.
One of the stage-directions in Polio I. is : " Speak and
rayle what they list," which means that the actors
could indulge in any by-play, or make any reference
to current events or to i)ersons they wished. It is to
this Shakespeare refers when Hamlet says to Polo-
nius:
"€k>od my lord, will you see the players weU bestowed f Do you
hear, let them be weU used ; for they are the abstract and brief chroni-
cles of the tune : after your death you were better have a bad epitaph
than their iU report while you live.**
Shakespeare, like most of the dramatists of that time,
acted in his own plays. Amongst other parts, he took
that of the Ghost in "Hamlet," Adam in "As You
like It."
It is not strange, then, that the Elizabethan theatre
and all connected with it were under a social ban. Both
actors and audiences were considered disreputable.
They had no social position. Shakespeare felt this
keenly. In two sonnets he expresses this feeling :
"Alas t 'tis true I have gone here and there
And made myself a motley to the view,
Qor'd
32 THE LOOKER-ON.
Gor'd my own thoughts, sold cheap what ia most dear»
Made old offences of affections new.
Most true it is that I have look'd on truth
Askance and strangely. • • •
O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide
Than public means which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand.
And almost thence my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand.**
Under the circninstances existing in the Shakeex>eft-
rian theatres, real acting, in Mr. Irving' s opinion, was
impossible. In an address delivered at Oxford he said :
*'Pignre to yourself a crowd of fops, chattering like
a flock of daws, carrying their stools in their hands,
and settling around and sometimes on the stage itself,
with as much noise as possible. To vindicate their im-
portance in their own eyes, they kept up a constant
jangling of petty, carping criticism on the actors and
the play. In the interval of repose which they allowed
their tongues they ogled the ladies in the boxes, and
madei a point of vindicating the dignity of their intel-
lects by being always most inattentive during the most
pathetic i)ortions of the play. In front of the house
matters were little better; the orange girls going to and
fro among the audience, interchanging jokes — ^not of
the most delicate character — with the young sparks
and apprentices, the latter cracking nuts and howling
down some unfortunate actor who had offended their
worships; sometimes pipes or tobacco were being
smoked. Picture all this confusion, and add the fact
that the female characters of the play were represented
by shrill- voiced lads or half -shaven men. Imagine an
actor having to invest such representatives with all the
girlish passion of a Juliet, the womanly tenderness of
a Desdemona, or the pitiable anguish of a distraught
Ophelia, and you realize how difficult under such cir-
cumstances great acting must have been. In fact,
while we are awe-struck by the wonderful intellectu-
ality
„ 3l l>MJff" * 11^ ■ ~ 1 """^T*""
THE LOOKER-ON. 33
ality of the best dramas of the Elizabethan period, we
cannot help feeling that certain subtleties of acting,
elaborate by-play, for instance, and the finer lights
and shades of intonation, must have been impossible.
Recitation, rather than impersonation, would be gen-
erally aimed at by the actor."
Such were some of the conditions under which ''Ham-
let," "King Lear," "As You Like It," "Cymbeline,"
and the other great traged ies and charming comedies of
Shakespeare were acted. It is for this reason that
these theatres possess more than an antiquarian inter-
est. The student of the Shakespearian drama must
constantly bear in mind the circumstances surrounding
the presentation of those dramas. Shakespeare was
the stage manager of the Globe Theatre Company. He
knew perfectly the resources and the limits of the
stage. He wrote his plays to be acted. When one re-
members the crude condition of the stage at that time,
his success as a dramatist becomes more remarkable.
Without scenery or appropriate costumes, with the
crudest stage properties, with an audience to a great
degree uncultured, coarse, he yet produced his dramas.
It is another, added to many, triumphs of mind over
matter, and bears testimony to Shakespeare's genius as
a dramatist.
Oabkw, Couht di Qu.vtz. . . . M" «'ft«™«' "/ "^ VWTW
CiJTAIH FOUOHK M" **J''^ •" "^ """y "/ **■
HONBUUB Buius Hit highnen' man of biufoen.
Phiuppe. ... t ^n attached ond(ru»(edmq/or.
C^SAS. . j Btionging (o (fc« reHntu o/ (he
* * ' * J grtat Ameriean AmreM.
MiBBViEOnnAFAiaFAi S Of Fa^axCwiiitji, Virginia.
t betnrfhed to fheprteoe.
UBS. Faiefai J Mooter of the gnat Ameriean
MaOAMB la DDOHKSSB DI VtRDAH.
; Bi^r of the Prinee de Mont-
! braiaon.
qbi^^ 5 An aiBterent of the htmte of
I Fairfax.
r During Napoleon'i escile to El-
ba and the benefleent reign
"^oa, of hit matt graeiout mt^ea-
tg, LmtU XVnt. King of
I France.
TWE LOOKER ON. 36
ACT I.
ScoENS.— The ahaXtau of the Prince de Montbraiaout near Paris.
A terraced garden^ the terraces of which rise one above the
other to the drop^ which shows the wooded vista of the park.
At Centre broad steps lead from the upper terrace to the
level garden. At Left is seen the mng of a stately chateau^
to which t?^e terraces lead. Statues and urns adorn the
terrace balustrades^ from which vines and flowers trail to
the earth. There is a garden seat at right, by it a little
table upon which is a large vase ; the vase is empty.
Afternoon. Light fanciful music.
Duchess de V. (cdUing off Right). Philippe t Philippe ! Have jou
the flowers? Make haste, Philippe I
(Enter the Duchess on first terrace from right, a small garden
sprinkler in her hands. She is a white-haired woman of
sixty, richly dressed in old brocade, worn in the fashion of
Louis XVI. time. She crosses the terrace slowly to the steps
at Centre. Pausing, she turns and glances right as she calls)
Are you coming, Philippe?
Philippe {answering off Right). I am coming, madame. I have
an armful of the fleur-de-lis.
Duchess (descending the steps and crossing to table at Right as
the music dies). I have flUed all the chateau with the flowers. What
■hall I do with these?
(Enter Philippe on terrace from Right, his arms full of the
fteur-delis.)
Philippe. Tou see, madame t
Duchess. Ah, you have plucked too many. We pull our rarest
flowers so carelessly.
PhUippe. No I no I Madame, they are quite common, the heds
are full of them.
Duchess. The commonest things are those that we should value
most.
Philippe. Madame is sad?
Duchess. Give me the flowers. I will put them in this empty vase.
We may well be profuse on such a day. Ah —
(Arranging flowers in vase on table at Right, and pouring
water about and upon them ; then, as she puts the sprinkler
down)
they are indeed superb t Lilies of France I Why, Philippe, if my
brother must pluck flowers to hold within his withered hand, why does
he not choose those of his own land rather than this wild flower from
across the seas?
PhUippe. His fancy—
Duchess. Fancy ! 'Tis indeed the word— caprice; ah yes, caprice I
Tou were with the prince in Paris, you have seen Mademoiselle Fair-
fax.
36 THE LOOKER-ON.
faz« Is she so beautiful, so beautiful that she can make an old man
forget his years, a pri&oe his royal blood?
PKUippe, Madame remembers that his highness* former marriage
was as this will be.
Dtiehest. But that was years ago, and he was young, and loved as
young men love. He is an old man now.
Philippe. Madame I
Dwhen. No, no, Philippe ! I wiU not say that I approve. The
prinoe is old enough to have outgrown such a folly I
Philippe. Folly is never outgrown, it lasts, madame. Mon Dieu !
how long it lasts I
DuehesB. My brother will be absurd with a young wife.
Philippe. Pardon, madame, not absurd! The Prinoe de Mont-
braison has lived seventy years and I have never heard him called ab-
surd. Such a man as your brother, madame, cannot be absurd.
Dueheee. But this engagement has set the court and Paris langph-
ing!
Philippe. Madame, madame t Not laughing! Not laughing at
the Prince de Montbraison ! Not laughing at the king's own cousin I
Duchess. I fear it is so.
PhUippe. They dare not ! He is the first and finest gentleman in
France I He had no model, and there will never be a copy.
Duchess. I trust this marriage may not bring him sorrow. And
you Philippe, you think
Philippe. His highness the Prinoe de Montbraison is to entertain
Mademoiselle the American. Madame la Duchess will know, when
she sees mademoiselle, that mademoiseUe is an angeL
Duchess (moving Left). If he would only leave love-making to his
grandson. Gtaston could better play the lover*s part.
Philippe. Madame ! If the prince should hear you ! I dare not
speak his name. He wishes to forget that the young count ever
lived.
Duchess. Does my brother ever hear from (Gaston?
PhUippe {deprecalingly). Madame I
Duchess. Has Gkuaton ever written since his flight ?
Philippe. Madame !
Duchess. Does my brother know where he has fled?
Philippe. Madame !
Duchess. Tell me, Philippe, tell me all that you know of my
nephew !
PhUippe. Has not his highness given orders that his grandson's
name shall not be mentioned?
Duchess. My brother cannot presume to dictate my course I
(Looking anxiously over her shoulder as she speaks^ then in a
lower voice)
TeU me, PhUippe !
PhUippe. Madame knows of Monsieur Gaston's disgraceful afTec-
tlon for the usurper Napoleon.
Duchess^
TSE LOOKER -Oir. 37
l>Heh«M. It has caused me many tears.
PkiU^ie. When the usurper was exiled to E3ba, Hoosieur OaBton,
fcAriiig arrest for plotting hu return, fled here. HJs grandtather, the
prince, saw hint— and such a scene I The son of kings to share in a
usurper's plots I Therojal blood of France disgraced by such a Mend-
ship I The young count flushed and answered that his blood was not
It
to let the young count pass, for I knew that the govermnent had or
dered his arrest and that the prince alone could save him. Then Uon-
■ieur Oaston fled the coanb?.
Duehett. 'Twas the next day that I returned from Lisbon, and I
have never heard my brother speak poor Qaston's name. I wonder it
be knows his hiding-place?
PhQipft (deprteatingly). Madame I
DuchtM. He may be poor. I too have known what 'twas to be an
exOe. He may even have need of bread I
I^Uippe. Oh no, madame.
Dtteheaa (turning to him). Uy brother does not knowT
mtippe. Uoniienr Oaatos is In America.
DwAeta.
38 THE LOOKER our.
Ducheu. He may starve there t
FhUippe. It is impossible ! His bighneos sends him gold by every
ship that leaves Calais I
Dueheu, And Gaston? Gaston knows?
PhiUppe. No, madame. His highness says that *tiB not his affair.
DuehesM^ In whose name does he send the gold ?
PhUippe {bowing law). Madame la duchesse, his highness has in-
structed me to send it in your name.
DuehesB. In mine !— will my brother ever forgive him, Philippe?
Philippe. The man may, the prinoe — never !
(Enter Captain Fauehe followed by eoldiere. Rights 9d Ent.)
Duehees (turning). Captain Fouche.
Fouehe (bowing low), Madame la duchesse.
Duche$8, You oome from Paris, captain ?
Captain, Direct from Paris, madame.
Duc^st. And the news ?
Captain, None worth the telling since madame la duchesse (botr-
ing) has dimmed the lustre of the court and made life only beautiful at
Montbraison.
Dueheee, Does not Mademoiselle Fairfax console you for my ab-
sence?
Captain, She too is fled the capital. Paris is dull indeed. I paswod
her carriage on the highway. All that is most beautiful and best
(bowing) comes to the chateau Montbraison.
Ducheee. Followed by that which is most gallant and most gay.
(Courte^ifing to Captain FotLche,)
Captain, Alas, madame, I come on business.
Ducheae, From the court ?
Captain, Alas, madame, not from the court. May I ask if the
Prince de Montbraison is at leisure ?
Duchees, Gk>, Philippe !
Philippe, Madame, the prinoe is at his toilet. I dare not inter-
rupt him. If monsieur
Ducheae (as Philippe heeitatee). Can find amusement in the
chateau until my brother leaves his apartment.
Captain, Most willingly, were I not charged to act without
delay. Madame, it is with deep regret I am compelled to inform you
that I am sent to search the chateau for a proscribed adherent of the
usurper who has returned to France.
Duchese, Captain Fouche I
(Sweeping to the steps at Centre, then turning.)
Sir t You address the Duchess de Virdam ! You forget that this is the
home of the Prince de Montbraison !
Captain (bowing low). Madame, my seeming want of respect is
more pardonable than a neglect of the duty that I owe my king !
Duchess, This indignity comes not from the king !
Captain. My orders come through his majesty's government t
Duchess (ascending the steps). Whom do we harbor? What
traitor ? I go to tell his highness of this outrage I
Captain^
^
THE LOOKER' OK 39
Captaibu I am sent to
{Olandng aipaperg in his hand,)
DiiefteM. Monsiear !
Captain (gtancing up), Gaston, Count de Galvez. His description
— Madame!
J)uehe88. Qaston I
(She reels. The ooptotn eprings up the etepa and eupporte
her to the garden.)
My nephew I
Philippe. Monsieur Gaston I
Captain, Madame, explain !
Philippe, Hush I Hush I Monsieur, the prince's grandson I^Mon
Dieu ! The prince I
(Light, graceful music. Enter the Prince de McntbraiMon on
upper terrace from chateau, crossing slowly to the steps at
Centre, He is dressed in the fashion in vogue during the reign
of Louis XV, His coat is of superb brocade trimmed with
gold lace, his knee-breeches are of white satin, his stockings
of white silk, his high-heeled shoes have diamond buckles.
He wears a powdered wig, a sword hangs at his side. He
carries a ^ight cane, a lace handkerchief, a gold snuff-box.
His long lace ruffles almost hide his hands. Though very
old he is erect and stately, and leans but slightly on his cane
cu he crosses the terrace and comes slowly down the long
flight of steps, raising his hat and bowing,)
Duchess ((Mside), Captain Fouche, on your honor as a gentleman,
no word of this till I have spoken with you I
Captain (aside), I obey, madame.
Philippe (moving to meet the prince, extending his hand). Tour
highness must be careful of the last step I
iVinos (motioning him away petulantly). Now I now I Philippe I
I have known how to walk for some years, and I have been going up
steps and coming down steps all my life. I was near to walking up the
steps of the guillotine with my poor cousin Louis to oblige my friends
the revolutionists.
PhUippe, I thought
Prince, Oh, Philippe, have I not for the last fifty years been trying
to break yon of that bad habit of thinking ? And yet you will persist?
Captain (bowing). Your highness——
Prince (graciously). My dear Fouche— »-
Duchess (quickly). Captain Fouche has done us the honor to stop
at the chateau for an hour*s refreshment.
Prince, Nay, nay, not for an hour. We shall not let him go upon
his way before to-morrow, and your attendants (seeing soldiers)— you
travel as a gentleman should travel, captain— Philippe will see that
they lack nothing.
Captain, I thank your highness. My men will look to their
horses. (Soldiers exit to Right.)
Duchess,
40 THE LOOKBR'Oir.
Dueh€$$* Goine« Oaptain Fouche, I wait your arm. (2b prince) We
will rejoin your highness presently.
(Th$ ducheiB and Captain Fauehe pass off the lower terrace
into chateau Left,)
Prince (to Philippe as he takes snuff)* '^^ captain comes from
Paris?
Philippe. From Paris.
Prince. He did not say he passed a coach upon the highway?
Philippe. He passed the coach of Mademoiselle Fairfax.
Prince. O mon Dieu I mon Dieu I (Listening.) I do not yet hear
wheels. Tou can see no carriage approaching, Philippe ?
Philippe (looking off Right). I can see as far as the park gates, hut
there is no carriage in sight.
Prince. Philippe.
Philippe. Your highness?
Prince. How do I appear, Philippe ?
Philippe. Like a prince, your highness.
Prince. But there is selection even among princes.
Philippe. like the Prince de Montbraison. (HeeiioHng.) Your
highness
Prince. Well, Philippe?
Philippe (hesitating). Your highness will not be angry?
Prince. How can I say till I have heard you?
Philippe, Monsieur Qaston
Prince (turning quickly away, his hand trembling upon his cane).
I will not hear his name, I will not hear his name I He has di^g^raced
the royal blood of France I I will not hear his name !
(His hand stUl trembling.)
Philippe. I ventured, as your highness sends him gold
Prince (turning upon Philippe). How dare you taunt me with
my weakness I If you refer to it again I shall withhold the gold,
and then, mon Dieu I then he will starve! How shall you feel
then?
Philippe. I only ventured to think
Prince. I am amar.ed at your presumption I
Philippe. Your highness
Prince. I shall not object to your thinking for yourself, if such a
course seems right to you, but to presume to think for me !
Philippe. Your highness will pardon— »
Prince (relenting), I do not wish to be severe, but a prince thinks
differently from his major^omo. He would not be a prince if it were
otherwise.
Philippe. But your highness differs from every one.
Prince. So much the worse for them t There need never arise any
difference of opinion between us, Piiilippe, if you will only agree with
me.
(Sound of wheels off Right.)
Prince. My guests I
Chloe.
TBE LOOKEHOir.
Chioe (^>eaking off Right). Lord I Lord I HIm ViiglDla, chUd,
l«t Colonel Alexander aoBlat yo' down, do, honey I
JXrm (moving lUgM). Philippe, you will mention bi madam* la
dnchesoe th« fact that my gtwsta are arriving.
{Exit Philippe L^.)
Catar (tpeaktng off Btghf). Colonel Alexander, «ab, ycf bare
fo'got your cane, sah.
Mn. Fairfax {aptakfng off Bight), Huah, Chloe 1 Cieear, be
silent. Toor band, Colonel Alexander.
(EnierVirginia Fairfax, Right, dreued tuperbly in thefathion
of the day, foUowed by Chloe and Ccetar oarrying band-
boat* and parcel*. Ccetar wear* a colonial livery and pow-
dered wig. Mr*. Fairfax foQowt, leaning upon Colonet
AUxand^iaryn.)
Prince (advaneing and kitting Virginia't hand a* he bowt above it).
Ah, mademoiaelle, this ia a great honor that you confer upon me.
(To Mr*. Fairfax) Uadame, I have much to thank you for.
Virginia, And tbia layoarcbateauT It is not strange that Frenoh-
men love thedr homes, they are so beaatUul.
Prinee. Nay, mademoiselle. It is not my chateau, 'tis yours, and I
tha most devoted of your slaves. (To Cotonel Alexander) Colonel
Alexander,
42 THE LOOKER ON.
Alexander, it ie with the linoerest pleasure that I welcome a friend of
my old and dear oomrade, your oountfyman, ICr. Franklin, to Mcmt-
braiflon.
CMiomA. A'most eminent man, sir, in oonyem^on both witty and
instnictiye*
Prim/ot* Ah, very witty, very witty. We crowned him with roses
at the oourt of my poor cousin, the late Idng. I very well remember
the occasion. A most charming man.
{JBnUr tke ditcAess and Captain Fauche on flr$t terrace from
chateau,)
Dttchsst (aside to Captain Fouehe), You will not use Gaston's
nameP Tou will be considerate 7
Captain (aeide to dueheca). Madame, I have pledged my word.
Duckeac (aeide), I cannot thank you now. (On et^ps) Will your
highness present your friends ?
Prince, Madame la Duchesse de Virdam, Madame Fairfax, Made-
moiselle FairfaiE, Colonel Chichester Alexander, of Virginia.
Ducheea (oourteeying), Madame, we have had the pleasure of meet-
ing Captain Fouobe in Paris.
Captain (bowing. It has been my greatest fortune.
Ducken May I lead the way to the chateau?
Prince, By all means, let us go in.
(Mra. Fairfax and the ducheee^ f Mowed by Couar and Chloe
with boaDcSt ascend the etepe and pass along the terrace^ Left^
Colonel Alexander following etowly. The prince extende hie
hand with elaborate courtesy to Virginia*)
Prince, Mademoiselle, may I conduct you ?
Virginia (glancing hack as they mount the steps). The terrace is
so lovely, and the fleur-de-lia— —
Prince (as they numnt the stsps). Ah, you must see my gardens.
Captain (turning suddenly from Bight), One moment, Prinoe de
MontbralBon.
Virginia. The captain calls you back.
Prince, Tou will pardon me }
Virginia. Unwillingly.
iYtnce. You are so gracious t
(He bends abone her hand. She turns from Attn, taking Colonel
Alexander's arm, and passes slowly off at Left, The prince
turns and comes down the steps.)
Prince, Captain Fouche?
Captain, Can your highness grant me a moment ?
Prince, I am quite at your service, my dear friend.
Captain, I desire to explain my presence.
Prince, Nay, nay, it needs no explanation. We are but too
charmed to have you here.
Captain, Your highness* kindness is but another reason that I
state my business instantly.
Prince, Business?
Captain,
THE LOOKER-ON. 43
Captain. I must inform your highness that I am sent to watch
these grounds— if neoessary, to searoh the chateau I
iVtnce. Search the chateau?
Cajgiain, A proscribed adherent of the usurper Napoleon has re-
turned to France and lies concealed in this yicinity I
iVtfioe. Search the chateau 1 Search this chateau I Search the
chateau of Henri Louis Francois de St. Honore D'Orleans, Prince de
Montbraison, for a proscribed traitor I Sir, you are mad I
Csptotn {fiWDiag). Such are my orders.
iVinoe. Pardon, pardon I It is impossible I Captain, you are
mad!
(Stopping Mm as he would tpedk,)
Pardon ! I will not brook a contradiction ! Tou are mad !
Captain. I must inform your highness that I bring the written
order.
Prinee, From whom does such an order emanate?— Hon Dieu!
mon Dieu I I under surveillance I Oh, mon Dieu t
Captain. Tour highness is at perfect liberty. I am ordered to
watch the chateau.
Prince. Pardon, I can see no difference— *tis the same thing. Who
has dared to order such an outrage ?
Captain. The prefect of police—
Prinee. The prefect of police I Gonni ! Were it the king, I might
submit. The prefect of police ! It is beyond belief I Mon Dieu t mon
Dieu I These are the days of sans culotte ! The king shall know of
this!
Captain. My duty is most painful— your highness' annoyance
Prinee. Pray do not be distressed, my friend. It is your duty to
obey. But the prefect of police ! Mon Dieu ! He shall be shot I By
St. Denis, he shall be shot! He shall learn that Henri Louis
Francois de St. Honore D^Orleans, Prince de Montbraison, rejects his
insolence and can revenge an outrage I
Captain, 1 regret
I^^inee. There ! there ! My dear Fouche, take it not so to heart.
I have been too much moved. I have forgot myself, I fear I have
forgot myself. Tou will pardon my hasty utterance and accept my
apology. If aught that I have said reflected upon you, I much regret,
I very much regret its utterance.
Captain. 1 assure your highness that you have been most
courteous.
PHnee, 1 am much relieved. I feared—-
Captain. And may I beg that you will seclude yourself within the
chateau till after sunset. Tou will thus avoid all danger of an en-
counter with the traitor whom we seek.
Prinee (MsUing). Does the prefect of police advise
Coptoin (bowing). Not so, 'tis I who ventured to recommend it.
Prinee {moUifled). I will act upon your suggestion. I thank you
for it.
Captain^
44 THS LOOKMR'OK
Captain. I may continue to execute my orders feeling that I still
retain your highnees' good opinion f
PHnee (ffraciouBlpy Nay, nay, my esteem* my dear Fouche, my
high esteeoL
Captain* I thank yoor highness. I will instruct my men.
Prince. Tou are my guest. Remember we shall dine at &▼«. I
myself shall make the salad.
Captain. Your highness overwhelms me.
{ExU Captain Fouehet Right Upper Entrance.)
Pritice (glancing (rfter him). An admirable man. I really fear that
I was hasty in my anger. As my j^oot cousin, the late king, so often
told me, I should control my temper. I really think it has gone tnr
enough; I will begin to-morrow. But, mon Dieu I the prefect of the
police I What would Le Grand Monarque have said if the prefect of
police sent a captain of guards to search Versailles for traitors t Tis
without precedent— unhf^ard of 1
{Standing by table. Right. Be sees the Jtowere.)
La fleur-de-lis, my favorite flower. If there is danger I cannot chow
mademoiselle the beauties of my gardens till to-morrow, so I will
take her these.
{Slowly taking the ftowere from the fHue.)
Virginia— I like the name— Virginia, PrincessedeMoatbraison. Tea,!
like the name.
{Arranging the ftowere thoughtfuUy in hie hande.)
"A proscribed adherent of the usurper Napoleon has returned to
France, and lies concealed in this vicinity " — ^those were his words, and
yet
{Suddenly hie hande tremble and the ftowere faU one by one
upon the table,)
Gaston— if it were Gaston I— I— I— will go in.
( TSiming to the terrace.)
IwiUgoin. Philippe I Philippe I
(Enter Oaeton at Left Sd EnJtrance. He ie a ditiinQuiehed
and handeom^ young man. He weare a long cloak over hie
riding-dreee and carriee a riding^whip in hie hand. Am the
prince calle he etarte forward.)
Oaeton. Let me assist your highness ?
Prince (tuming—etarte back). Gaston I
Oaeton (bowing). At your highness' service.
Prince. Sir t How dare you present yourself before me t Are
you returned to France to share in the usurpers* plots against your
blood?
Oaeton. Not so, nor to bear again the reproaches that I do not
merit I
Prince. S[now you that your arrest is ordered by the govern-
ment?
Oaeton, I know it, sir.
Prince. Know you that gendarmes watch the chateau, thinking
that I harbor traitors ?
Oaeton,
TBE LOOKER Oir. 46
OatUM. Sir, I know it.
(fMvr dueheta on terrace,
Uft.)
Prine». Then know that the
Prince de Hontbraison harbors no
traitors against the crown I
(Moving quickly Right.)
Captain Fouche 1 1
Ducheaifnoe^ng forward on the
terrace). Henri D'Orleana I
iYmcs (turning aghatt). Bien
meroi t Hj sister I
DtuJicMt (nuking down steps).
Oaatonl
Oa$ton (embracing Iter). Dear
Prince (ahmgging hie shouidere
ae he brutheeatear lightly from hie
eyee). Women and sentiment were
ever my tyrants I Hon Dieul what
ia right and what is wrong T
Captain (aneu>ering off Right).
Who calls T
iYmce. Quick I to the chateau I
Tib the capt^u's voice I
Oaeton. Slr.Ioarenot. Let him
Hnd me here 1
Prinee{b)oking Righ^. HaoomesI
Go I go I Parbleau I will you defy
me too ? Oo 1 go I
Dueheet. Oaston 1 Oaston t the
chateau I "'
(Oa^on and the dueheta ascend the rfepa to terrace and paee
quickly off at Left).
Captain (entering mght). Who calls f
Prince (turning caimly to the captain aa he takea a pinch of tnuff),
Hy dear Fouche I
Captain. Who called my name T
Prince. Pray give me your opinion ot this snnff. Twss brought to
me by Colonel Alexander. He reoommends it hi^y.
Coptaut. Tour highness
Prinee. Tou like the quality ?
Captafn (compefisd to try the tnvff). Exceedingly, but prince—
Prince. Tis really incomparable.
Caiptain. Your highness called my name f
Prfnee. I, sir? I never call, it cracks the voloe,
Ca^ptain. A^gentleman but now entered the chateau. I saw him od
the terrace I
Prinee. Twas Colonel Aleuuider.
Captain,
46 THE LOOKER'OK
Captain. His ooat was blue I
JVtfMSi 0ir, he may have changed his ooat. Tou do not say he has
but one. Pray take another pinch of snuff.
Caplain. No more. I must rejoio my men.
JMnos. I will make inquiry and learn who called.
(3^ coptaim bom and exiiM Bight.)
Prince {eUming hi$ Bnuff'box), A stubborn and persistent man, but
manageable.
(EnterVirginiacn terrace. Chroeeing to Right eke gaMeeoJfinio
the dietance. The prince paueee a moment watching her.)
Prince (aeldCt gently). 80 fair— bo young. I somi'times think so
sad. (To her) Mademoiselle admires the view 7
Virginia (eighing). Tour highness spoke ?
PHnce. The ▼iew«— it pleases you f
Virginia (peneivelg). I know not why, but it recalls to me the
▼lew from my own home across the broad Potomac to the blue May's'-
land sho' b^ond.
Prince (genUgt (U ehe comee down the etepe to him). This is your
home, my child.
{Then lightlg, ae Virginia tume away her head)
How often have I heard my friend, the Marquis de Lafayette, speak
of the broad Potomac and of the home of that estimable man, Mr.
Washington. Mademoiselle seems sad. May I speak to madem<Mselle?
Virginia. I hoped to find you here alone that I might speak to
you.
Prince. Permit me to lead you to a seat.
{He leade Virginia to the eeai at Bight.)
Virginia (taking up the eoattered fiear-deMe). These ilowers—
let me restore them to the yasep Will you, prince?
Prince. MademoiseUe, to-night the marriage contracts are to be
signed. Tou are quite sure that you shall not regret, quite sure that
you are willing to link your young life with the fewer years of an old
man? Tou will not let my deep regard weigh in this matter.
Virginia (toying with the flmoere). Prince de Montbraison, my
hand is pledged to you; it shall never be withdrawn by me.
Prince (powing low). Mademoiselle I
Virginia. But before the signing of the contracts it is my duty, my
hard duty
(Her voice lyreake.)
Prince. Nay, nay, be not distressed-— another time.
Virginia. It must be now.
Prince. I listen, mademoiselle.
Virginia. I— I was beloved— I loved——
(The prince bowe tow.)
I knew that it would hurt yon, but 'twas but honorable, but just, that
I should tell you. Believe me, I would not wound your heart, or give
you pain that might be spared. Tou know I would not, prince?
Mademoiselle, I know it.
Virginia.
THE LOOKER-ON. 47
VirginicL, Twas in America, at my own home. Twas a young
Frenchman whom I loved— a refugee, proscribed, unhappy, friendless.
How well I loved him he will never know.
iVtnce. And he?
Virginia. He had no lands— a refugee — no name— was far too
proud to share with me my wealth, and so we parted.
IVifiee. And you, you have forgotten him?
Virginia (aadly), Tes, I have forgotten him.
(She weeps,)
Prince (a little brokenly). Mademoiselle, I value your confidence
and trust so highly that I can forget in their enjoyment the sorrow
that I feel.
Virginia. And you are satisfied ?
Prince (kiaeing t?ie hand tJuxt she extends to him), I am the
happiest of men.
Virginia, Surely the most chivalrous !
Prince. Mademoiselle, it is the duty of every prince to be a gentle-
man I I will leave you alone till you are more composed, and then,
with your permission, I will rejoin you here.
( Virginia bows. Exit the prince slowly. Right, )
Virginia {stiU seated). Ah, Gfaston I Qaston t I have turned the
last page of the romance of my life, and the last sweet hopes have
faded as the fragrance fades from the withered immortelle when the
snow falls in far-away Virginia. If you and I ever meet again, Qaston,
it can be but in sadness, it can be but as strangers, to part as though
you had never loved me, as though I had never trusted my hand to
your hand, nor listened to fond words from your lips.
{Enter Oaston on terrace from chateau, HepauseSf not seeing
Virginians face, )
Oaston. A lady (She moves,) Virginia t
Virginia (rising). Gaston I GhistonI Your voice I Oaston I
(Turning away she covers her face with her hands.)
Oaston (at her side). Virginia ! I will not ask what happy chance
has brought us here together. I dared not hope to see your face for
months. I thought the sea between us yet.
Virginia. And I— I thought that we had parted forever.
Oastcn* Tou will forgive my pride? I could not offer you a beg-
gar's hand, I could not ask you for a pledge, I could not bind you by a
word. But I— -I hoped, I trusted. I returned to France to gather up
the scattered remnant of what once was mine, meaning to lay it at
your feet.
Virginia, And you
Oaston. My lands are seised, my moneys scattered by those whom
I most trusted, and I am himted litre a criminal !
Virginia. Oh, Oaston t Gaston I
Ckuton. But it is naught, I can forget it alL Tour eyes draw all
the sting of failure from my heart, their witchery steals from me
every fear I
Virginia.
48 THE LOOKER OK
Virginia, Nay I Why are yoa here, here at the chateau of the
Prince de Mostbraiaon?
QiuUm. It was my last reiort I am his daughtar's son.
Virginia {breaking from him), Tou I Oaston de OalvaJL
GajtoA. I, Qaston, CkHmt de QalTea. This is the only home that
I have ever known.
Virginia (HnJHng upon a teat at hefi^ ooverliHy harfaee vriih her
handt). What have I done? What is it I have done ?
OcuUm. Uj love, look up. Weep not, look up and bid me hope !
Virginia. I dare not raise my face to yours, I dare not meet your
eyes. Tou must not hope.
Oa$ton. Not hope ?
Virginia. Tou must not hope, nor I. I— am betrothed 1
Chuton {gtarting hack). No t no I
Virginia (riHng). I am the betrothed of the Prince de Montbrai-
son I
Oatton, No I no !
Virginia, TIs true I Tis true !
CkMtion {90omfuUy), Mademoiselle, I wish you Joy.
Virginia, Tou think that I am heartless, proud, ambitious, vain I
Ocuion (seom/u/Jfr). Are you not these, and fickle too ?
Virginia (proudly), I am not, sir, nor shall you lay the burden at
my door I I loved you, sir 1 Nor shame to say I loved you well^! Tou
jilted me— left me without a word I Tour pride foi^t my heart !
How could I guess your purpose? My blood's as proud as^ours and
will as little brook a slight as yours will brook humility. Tou left me,
and I took a woman's way to wreck my life I
Cfaston (hia head beni). Then I alone must bear the blame.
Virginia (gently). Nay, Gaston, if you will bear the blame, I will
not let you bear it all. Fll share it too.
{At nh€ apeake, enter the prince omlsi terrace from Bight. He
paueee^ eeeing them,)
Oaelon, Nay—I will bear all the blame t I love you as I loved you
then, I love you more deeply since absence teaches me how dose your
heart is knit to mine t Virginia I
(Am Gaston epeake the prince caichee hie meaning, pute hie
flngere over hie eare and movee hurriedly aeroee the etage
towards the chateau, Ae he reachee the eUpe, Oaeton catehee
Virginia in hie arme. It ie too much,)
Mnce. Sir! Rel e ase her from your arms ! Begone I
Oaeton (releaeing Virginia), Tour highness
Prince, Silence I I wiU hear nothing.
(Enter the ducheee^ Mre, Fairfax, CoUmei Alexander, ond
Philippe on terrace from chateau,)
Philippe, Monsieur Qaston I
Ifrs. Fairfax, Monsieur de GMves I
Virginia, Prince 1 Tou will not hear me I
Prince, Tour pardon I He must begone I Hence, sir! Begone!
Philippe.
THE L OSBR • OUT. i%
Phaippt (fooking Right). The gendumeB 1
(Enter Captain Foucke and soldiera.)
Captain. Honaieur de Qalvez, foUovr me I Mad&me, your pardon.
Toar highoem, I but execute my orders I
Virginia {dinging to him). OastoQ t Oastou I
Dweh£m. Captain Fouche 1
Captain. Hadame, it is ray duty 1 Sir, you will follow mef
Ooiion, I follow you. Farewell, Tirgioia.
Virginia (to thepriwx). Oh, speak I Speak in hiflbehaU I
Prince, Hademoisalle coniinande 7
Virginia. Nay, I entreat I
Captain (to rnddien). Forward I
Prince iadvaneing). Hold, Captain Fouohe I Release yourprisonerl
Captain. Uy orders from the prefect of police I
Prinee. Sir I Henri Loafs Francis de St. Honore D'Orleans,
Prince de lifontbraison, yields not his grandson to the prefect of
police I
Captain. Tour highness leaves me no choice I I must enforce my
orders. Forward I
iVinoe. Hold, sir I I recognize no order from Qie prefect of
police!
(Thruating Qaaton up thefirtt $tepg, where he is seized by Col-
onel Alexander and the dnehe$». The prince Haride with
drawn tword before him, holding the way.)
Let him who dares lay hands upon my guest I Back, sir, or draw
jour sword Upon the cousin of the king I
{The attain hesitatee, bowtlow, j/idding the point at the cur-
tain falls ilowly at the prince atande with hie award
trembling in hie hand.)
50 TSE LOOKBB-OK
ITALIAN OPERA.
By William Fosteb Apthoep.
Few forms of art have had harder things said of
them than Italian oi)era. Perhaps, as Madame Neigeon
said of herself and kind, it has done all that was need-
ful for that; but it has had a long and rather glorious
career in the world, it has exerted no little influence
upon musical thought and doings wherever it has estab-
lished itself; x>erhai)S its sins, such as they are, have
been as much owing to its very prosperity as to any-
thing else.
The bane of all Opera has been that it has so long
been regarded as an article of elegant luxury. It was
probably predestined to this; for, unlike the folk-song
and dance, which sprang from the very heart of the
people, or the manifold forms of counterpoint, which
were slowly developed in the Church and the austere
seclusion of monasteries, opera may truly be said to
have sprung from the noblesse^ from elegant society.
It was the first important outcome of the so-called
Florentine Music Reform of the seventeenth century,
which movement was mooted by a coterie of art-loving
nobles in Medicean Florence; and, after going through
a brief apprenticeship as the choice entertainment of
courts and private palaces, it was first publicly estab-
lished in .Venice, the most luxurious city in southern
Europe. It was, so to sx)eak, bom in the purple, and
has almost always preserved a certain scent of musk;
among other art-forms which have to do with music, it
has been, from the beginning, principally noteworthy
for the amount of money it has cost and for the splendor
of its trappings.
For some time, Italian opera was the only form of
opera. It was, after a while, imitated in France — with
considerable
THE LOOKER 'OK 51
considerable freedom, to be sure — ^and servilely copied
in Germany and England. But, side by side with these
imitations, the original form flourished brilliantly as an
imported exotic. No matter what Prance, Germany,
and England may have done toward developing ope-
ratic forms and styles of their own, they had imported
Italian opera, too, and it soon became as firmly estab-
lished an institution in those countries as the native
forms themselves. And, by Italian oi)era, I mean it in
the fullest sense of the term: oi)eras written to Italian
texts by Italian composers, and sung in the Italian
language (not in translation) by Italian, or Italian-
taught, singers. And, like most costly exotics, it
appealed principally to the leisured, affluent, and lux-
urious classes wherever it was thus transplanted. It
was the "fashionable" entertainment par excellence ,
for some time, decidedly more so than native opera.
In Italy itself it was for a while equally and almost
exclusively "fashionable"; but, after awhile, a split
came about in the form: the opera huffa^ which began
in the shape of short comic or burlesque interludes,
given between the acts of longer serious operas, gradu-
ally established itself as an independent form, and was
more especially cultivated by the bourgeois middle
class and "the people," while the opera seria continued
the pet darling of the aristocracy. It is to be noted
that, perhaps for this very reason, the opera huffa
became the particular form in which Italian genius
expressed itself with the greatest frankness and origi-
nality; it became the form most sharply and distinc-
tively characteristic of Italy. It is also worth noting
that the lighter comic forms of opera had a similar fate
in Prance, Germany, and England; they cannot strictly
be said to have copied much from the Italian model —
probably more because the latter was so characteristi-
cally Italian, through and through, as to be essentially
inimitable, than because no attempts were made at imi-
tation,— whereas serious opera in Prance, Germany, and
England was distinctly based upon the Italian opera
seria^
« T'HZ L -yKEZ'OJi
Bi3 I3e F»b:a ««r«-A>«i^ifc; the Ger-
T1A.1 S. v//;*^ loii 1^ Fji.^'-.aA baZad <^Ka fdUowed
^.c>£seft cf ier-ii^ti^iHiss:: cf izesr ovm. viihont much re-
zarf f :r luliia ^j^fr* i-i/jL Afti like nifMra 6i(#*a
iji I'^ J. irese T-r^-:.^ f jTBs arq:iired. mud kmg main-
i^i::*^!. a c<:r» s^l&tiIt difcfsirnre and origiBal '^na-
il :&il '* fiaTcr a thrrir Rs;<«niT^ coantcieB diaB aeiioiu
op^ra diri. Tb^j belciLz^ wjk espedaUy to ''the
j^: .« tr.^a to iii.e e? i^re cat^o^e
ai«d th^ir zr^izstL d-rTrl:jgK&t ns Mate amenable to
the inSa^Bce of <jie*!i5c cadTe coiiditio]i&
It 9eem3 alzD-:««t like a I z-zial ccToUarj to thisi as it
eertainl T is a £art« that Iialiaa opera h^^a has seldom,
if ever, floorish^ed so thiiTinglT aa aa exotic in foreign
soil as Italian op^ra s^ria, Upoa the whole, comic
f ofms seem never to have borne transplanting as well as
serious ones. We find abondant exemplification of
this in our own coontrv. With bat few exceptions,
the Italian, French, axMi German operas which have
fonnd greatest and most lasting faror with the Amm.-
can public have been of the seiiooa, or tragic, rather
than of the condc type. French aperc^^Mufft (that is,
when given in French) had but an ephemeral ix>palarit7
in the United States; of French opira-comique and the
Oerman 8ing$piel we know next to nothing here; and
the few Italian apere huffe which have been really
popular in this country— like Rossini's Barhiere^ or
the Biccis' Crispino e la comare — can weigh but little
in the balance against the popular serious Italian
operas. Mozart's Don Giovanni has always been
token quite seriously by our public, not as an opera
huff a; and it is highly probable that Wagner's Meister-
einger appeals to the majority of audiences here more
by its serious than by its humorous side.
But Italian opera seria long maintained its ix)sition
as the pet darling of the more luxurious i)art of musical
society all over the world. To be sure, it did bettor
than
THE LOOirMBOir. U
than this, too; but this is the phase in which we most
instinctively think of it. Its influence was, in a way,
nnqnestionably debilitating; in an article of luxury
this was natural enough. It counted among its sworn
admirers a host of cultivated, but only half -musical,
I)eople; its praises have been sung by more musical
ignoramuses, by more enthusiasts entirely devoid of
musical education, than any form of music known to
history— with the x>ossible exception of the Wagnerian
Music-Drama, which has of late years been particu-
larly favored in this way. And the irresjwnsible
dithyrambics of such rabid Italophiles have done incal-
culable injury to i)opular musical thought. When a
Stendhal or Balzac signs an opinion, the average reader
takes it for granted that Stendhal or Balzac knows
what he is talking about. The reader does not trouble
himself to think that a man may be a great literary
genius without being the least bit of a musician. What
French and English musical Italophiles have done in
this way to promulgate the belief that, as Berlioz said,
"Music is an art about which everybody knows," con-
stitutes one of the most deplorable pages in the history
of culture.
I think the time when Italian opera most exerted its
debilitating influence upon popular musical thought —
that is, upon that musical thought which takes its cue
from high places — was during one of its most glorious
periods: the famous period (ranging, roughly si)eak-
ing, from about 1830 to 1850) of the The&tre-Italien in
Paris. Pew forms of art have ever had so astoundingly
brilliant an avatar. Italian opera had gone somewhat
Into eclii)se in Prance, after its defeat (under Piccinni)
by Prench grand op&ra (under Gluck) in the seventeen-
seventies. But, as Saint-Saens has said, ^^ the school of
Melody'' (meaning the Italian opera) " would not own
up b^ten, and was secretly preparing for the revenge
which Rossini was so resoundingly to take, aided by
the most brilliant phalanx of singers that ever ex-
isted." To Rossini's name add those of Bellini and
Donizetti,
U THE LOOKER-OX.
Donizetti and yoa have the three di majareM of the
Th^tre- Italian in this, iiA most funoos period.
Such sinzinz ad was d<:«ne at that farored hoase has
prrA«ably n-jt b*rt?n heard since; arcoimtB are quite
tni'^twortLy, and, although in a somewhat diff^^nt
style, it pliiinly was fully up to the finest Tocal feats of
the days of HandeU Ha><e, aiid Porpora. Vocal art
ran never have ri'y^n higher than it rose then. The
dingers who, successively or together, graced the boards
of the Theatre-Italien in those great days were, among
others, Persiani and Grisi, for soprani ; Malibran and
Allx)ni, for contralti ; Bnbini and Mario, for tenors ;
and Tamburini, Ronconi and Lablache, for basses.
Such a galaxy has never been brought together since.
Remember that it is literaUy true that these tenors,
baritones, and basses sang the most taxing and difficult
roulades and JU/riture with all the ease, flexibility,
grace, and purity of tone of the soprani and contralti
The composers then wrote for the singers, and yon may
be sure they wrote nothing that they conld not sing to
I>erfection, I particularly mention this supremacy of
vocal technique, not only because it is an historical
fact, but also because it implies something artistically
higher than mere flexibility of voice ; it implies that
complete and absolute command over the whole vocal
technique which is necessary for all the highest flights
of the art of singing: perfectly true intonation, the
production of an entirely beautiful vocal tone, grace
and distinction of phrasing, and that ^^ coloring the
voice " which is one of the finest elements of emotional
expression. These great singers did not merely astonish
you with pyrotechnic difficulties, they made them sound
musically and well, and drew tears from their hearers
at will. And their singing was dramatic, too ; it struck
fire from hearts and sent thrills through audiences.
Some of them, especially Lablache, Tamburini, Ronconi,
and Grisi, were most admirable actors ; people are too
I)rone to forget this nowadays, remembering only the
tradition that Rubini was no sort of an actor, and sel-
dom, if ever, even tried to act.
^ If
THE LOOKER-ON. 65
If anything is thoroughly to be regretted in the de- ^
cline of Italian opera of this school, it is the parallel
decline in the art of singing. Indeed it is only by
figuring to ourselves what this singing was like that we
of to-day can form any exact notion of the character of
the music itself. One might just as well try to form an
idea of the true character of Chopin by hearing him
played, say, by the late Ignaz Moscheles or Johann
Baptist Cramer, as to appreciate the true nature of
Rossini, Bellini, or Donizetti by hearing them sung by
any but a very, very few of the singers of our own day.
It took that superfine delicacy of art by which, as the
late Julius Eichberg (no great friend of the school, by
the way) once said of Alboni, she *^ could turn a phraae
which was absolutely dripping with idiocy into a
divine x>oem I " And, if it could be turned into a divine
poem, the phrase was probably not so very ** dripping
with idiocy" in itself. You cannot make a silk purse
out of a sow's ear.
The real weakness of the music lay in its stunted,
stencil-plate forms, and also in its sui)er-elegance. As
regards the forms, it is curious to note that the com-
posers, when young men, had run away from their re-
spective conservatories before their musical education
was completed. They began their public careers when
but half fledged ; in this they have since been imitated
by many Italian singers, much to the detriment of the
art of Italian singing. And, for their super-elegance,
that was but part and parcel of Italian opera in general
being so largely an article of aristocratic luxury.
This side of the business, however, received a rude
shock when Giuseppe Verdi came above the horizon.
Verdi's apx>earance was epoch-making, esi)ecially in
one particular : he brought into Italian opera seria a
spirit which had nothing to do with the court or elegant
drawing-room, but was essentially what the French call
populdcier; he represents the violent irruption of the
''musical peasant" into opera seria. He could be
vocally elegant, at a pinch, too— as in ^^Ilbalen^^ in
~ lYavcUore
5« THE LOOKER - OK.
Th'ovdtore — ^bnt this was not his most congenial vein,
and even in ^^Ilbalen^^ he is elegant in somewhat
sombre and uncourtly colors. Where he was most
characteristic was in the fierce glow of his passion and
the from-the-shoulder directness and coarseness of his
expression. Where Bellini sang like a petit maitre
demigod, Verdi yelled like a brigand ; for years he
may be said to have given mnsical expression to the
^^ dangerous classes." And Italian opera society was
just effeto enough to be ready for him : they found a
tartness of flavor to his musical sansculottism that was
exactly to their taste. He overran Europe and the
musical world. It was the beginning of the end ; ele-
gant musical society was joining hands with the pro-
letariat in a sufficiently decadent way. If Verdi had
not been the man he was, it might have gone ill with
Italian opera — ^worse even than it has 1
But Verdi, beside unquestionable genius, had also a
power of mental growth well-nigh uni)aralleled in the
history of art. He seems to have seen clearly enough
whither Italian opera had been tending for generations,
and also perhaps that he himself was the man of all
others to accelerate Nature — unless he were careful.
But he was careful, and his genius grew apace. Verdi's
gradual change of base as an opera composer belongs,
not to past, but to contemporary musical history. I
will say nothing of it here, save that for years he
has sturdily upheld nearly the whole glory of Italian
music on his own shoulders, and that if there is a
saviour of Italian opera, he is that man. He has at
once prevented the Rossini-Bellini-Donizetti x>eriod
from being Italy's operatic swan-song, and contributed
more than any one else to its being now virtually a
closed period, belonging to the historic past.
THE LOOKBB-ON. 61
SINGERS, THEN AND NOW.
By H. E. Kbehbisl.
I SPENT my Bammer vacation, some years ago, among
the Iroquois Indians of the Six Nations Reserve in
Canada, investigating the rites of their Condoling
Council. These rites are celebrated on the '^raising
up " of the chief to take the place of a Senator or Coun-
cillor who has died. They consist, in part, of chants,
expressive of their sorrow at his death, and of com-
memoration of the founders of the League. These
chants were sung for me by Chief John Buck, Head
Fire Keeper of the Onondagas and Chief Councillor of
the confederated nations — a good, sweet, simple soul,
albeit a pagan. He was universally admired and loved
among the farmer Indians of the Reserve because of
his manly virtues and his eloquence. He became my
friend, and when, a year later, I received by mail the
three purple wampum beads which notified me of his
death, I was more than anything else desirous to be
present at the Condoling Council which would follow.
But I did not receive a reply to my telegrams and
letters in time to reach the Reservation. So I decided
that, as I had been made an Indian, I would hold a
Council myself. Bringing out the phonographic record
I had collected on the Reserve I spent a half -hour
listening to Chief John Buck, chanting the same hymn
which at the Onondaga Long House his friends were
chanting for him.
The incident occurs to me now in connection with
some reflections touching the comparative merits of
the singers of the present and those of past generations.
Are we poorer in the possession of Melba, Sembrich and
Calve, the De Reszke brothers and thelbr associates at
the Metropolitan Oi)eift House, than our fiithers and
grandfathers
58 THE LOOKER - ON.
grandfathers were in the favorites of their day t It is
a troublesome question, but how its difficulties would
vanish, did we but possess the ability to conjure up
their voices as I, by the aid of science, can bid the
Onondaga Chief sing to me from his grave I As it is we
must rely upon written and oral traditions, that differ
in kind if not in degree. We shall probably never
meet a man who, having heard Jenny lind, will admit
that she had an equal in the forty odd years that have
passed since he heard her sing. But how are we to
know that his judgment is correct! Will he tell us
how old he was when he heard the nightingale t How
susceptible his soul! How much was his enjoyment
influenced by the extravagant price he paid for it % or
by "The fair, the chaste, the nnexpressive she," who
shared the pleasure with him! Yet we must know
these things if we are correctly to estimate the value of
his judgment. Do we not know that the older x>eople
of his younger days thought the star he worshipped a
pale and lifeless orb, compared with the luminaries of
their youth ! Nor is the case bettered when we turn to
the written record. Analysis can determine, the record
can preserve the range of a singer's voice and give a
hint of its flexibility or of other mechanical and tech-
nical attributes, but all that is vital in the singer's art
eludes analysis and defies record. I oi)en Volume D
of Bumey's "Present State of Music in Germany"
(printed a quarter of a century ago) and find this trans-
lation of Nuantz's characterization of the great Sene-
sino: '^Francesco Bamardi, called Senesino, had a
powerful, clear, equal, and sweet controMo voice"
(Nuantz really wrote, ^^Toezzo soprarw^^ but Bumey
changed it because he fancied that inasmuch as ELan-
del wrote only contralto parts for Senesino, his voice
must have lost some of its high tones in later years),
'^ with a perfect intonation and an excellent shake ; his
manner of singing was masterly, and his elocution un-
rivalled; though he never loaded adagios with too
many ornaments, yet he delivered the original notes with
the
THE LOOKER-ON, 59
the utmost refinement. He sang allegros with great
fire, and marked rapid divisions," (runs or rondolade),
^^from the chest, in an articulate and pleasing manner ;
his countenance was well cialculated for the stage, and
his action was natural and noble : to these he joined a
figure that was truly majestic, but more suited to the
part of a hero than of a lover." Now how did Senesino
sing ? He was " suited to the part of a hero " ; was he
a precursor of Albert Niemann, or Jean de Reszke?
Such a comparison is impossible; there is no basis
upon which it can be made. Senesino was one of the
ornaments of the period when singing was the be-aU
and the end-all of operatic representation. When he
and Parinelli, Sassarelli, Ferri, and their tribe domi-
nated the stage, it strutted with sexless Agamemnons
and Gsesars. Telemachus, Darius, Nero, Cato, Alex-
ander, Scipio, and Hannibal ran around on the boards
as languishing lovers, singing woful ballads to their
mistresses' eyebrows, ballads full of trills and scales
and florid ornaments. They represented the art that
came from the great Roman schools, and we know what
marvels of vocal feats they could perform. We know
that Sassarelli sang cadences of fifty seconds' duration ;
that Ferri with a single breath could trill upon each
note of two octaves, ascending and descending; and
that Farinelli once sang so beautifully in the part of a
hero brought in chains before a tyrant that Senesino,
who was playing the part of tyrant, burst into tears
and threw himself into Farinelli' s arms. But how much
does a knowledge of all this help us in making a com-
parison of them with the heroic singers of to-day % It
only emphasizes an obvious truism ; other times, other
manners, in music as in everything else. The great
ringers of to-day are those who appeal to the taste of
to-day, and that taste differs as do the clothes we wear
from the style in vogue a century and a half ago.
Thanks to German influences the world over, the
opera is returning to its original purposes. Greatly as
his art differs from the tentative efforts of the Floren-
tine
60 THE LOOKER OK
tine reformers, who invented the lyric drama while
trying to recreate Oreek tragedy, Bichard Wagner
rounds out a cycle with Peri, Cuccini, Monteverde, and
their immediate successors. Music is again become a
means of dramatic exjpression, and the singers who ap-
peal to us most powerfully are those who are best able
to make song subserve that purpose, and who, to that
end, give to dramatic truthfulness, to effective elocu-
tion, and to action the attention which mere voice and
beautiful utterance received in the i)eriod which is
called the Golden Age of Singing, but which was the
Leaden Age of the Lyric Drama. ^
The people of New York City enjoy a unique i)osition
among the communities of the world, so far as oi)eratic
singers are concerned. For seventy years they have
heard all the great singers of Europe. I do not attempt
to mention all, but only those of the highest rank whose
names occur to me.
Madame Malibran was one of the first Italian opera
company that ever sang here. Before that time there
had been a i>eriod of seventy-five years during which
English op^ra was scarcely absent a year from our
theatres; a i)eriod, moreover, in which some of the best
of the English singers, such as Madame Caradori- Allan,
Mrs. Leesugg (who married the Canadian Hackett), Mrs.
Holman (the sister of Michael Kelly), Mrs. Oldman,
Incledon the bass, and Phillips the tenor, api)eared in
the ballad ox)eras. However foolish these ox>eras may
have been otherwise, they still surpassed the Italian
ox)era8 of the period in developing singing actors in-
stead of mere costume- wearing singers.
Madame Cuiti-Dainorean came in 1844, Bosio in 1849,
Jennie lind in 1850, Sontag in 1863, Grisi and Mario in
1864, La Orange in 1866, Frezzolini in 1867, Piccolomini
in 1868, Nilsson in 1870, Lucca in 1872, Tietjens in 1876,
Gerster in 1878, and Sembrich in 1878. I omit the sing-
ers of the GFerman opera as belonging to a different
category. Adelina Patti was always with us until she
went to Europe, in 1861, and remained twenty years.
Of
Of tbe Bifin who were the qxtistic ^asooiates of these
prime donne, mention may be made of Mario, Benedeth,
Corsi, Salvi, Bonconi, Formes, Brignoli, Amadio, Co-
letti, Campanini, and many more, none of which, ex-
cepting Mario, were of much importance compared with
the women singers. In this former generation the popu-
lar admiration for men was in inverse ratio to the admi-
ration for women. Is it because this is woman's era
that the men are the ^^ stars" nowadays! Or is this
also explained to some extent by the prevalent liking
for that which is dramatic t
The great majority of these singers, even those still
living and remembered by the younger generation of
to-day, exploited their gifts in the operas of Rossini,
Bellini, Donizetti, the early Verdi, and Meyerbeer.
The last seemed to them a radical in his modernity.
Grisi was acclaimed a great dramatic singer, and it is
told of her that once in "Norma" she frightened the
tenor who sang the part of PolliOj by the fury of her
acting. But it is to be found that, measured by the
standards of to-day, say by Calve' s Carmen or Miss
Brema's Ortrvdj that it must have been a simple age
that could be impressed by the tragic power of any one
acting the part of Bellini' s Druidical priestess. The sur-
mise is strengthened by the circumstance that Madame
Grisi created a sensation in **I1 Trovatore" by showing
signs of agitation in the tower scene, walking about the
stage during Manrico^s "AA, cAe la morte ognora^^ as
if she would fain discover the part of the castle where
her lover was imprisoned. The chief charm of Jenny
lind, in the memory of the older generation of Ameri-
can men and women, is the pathos with which she sang
simple songs. Madame Nilsson also won her first suc-
cess here in concerts by the way in which she sang
''The Old Folks at Home." In the case of musicians
and critics, it was her brilliant execution that placed
her on the eminence she occupied.
Mendelssohn esteemed her greatly as a woman and
artist, but he is quoted as once remarking to Chorley : ' ' I
cannot
62 THB LOOKSBrOK.
cannot think why she always prefers to be in a bad the-
atre." MoscheleSy recording his impressions of her in
Meyerbeer's "Camp of Silesia" (now "L'EtoUe du
Nord "), reached the climax of his praise in the words :
"Her song with the two concertante Antes is, perhaps,
the most incredible feat in the way of bravura singing
that can i)ossibly be heard." She was credited with
fine powers as an actress, bnt we are comx)elled to ques-
tion her dramatic sincerity when we read that she com-
pelled her managers to cut out the parts of Isabella^ in
"Robert Le Diable," in order that no rival should ap-
pear in an opera with her. Compare this with the mod-
em spirit as exemplified by Madame Lehmann, who was
not only willing to sing second parts that had "blood
in them," but whom I have known to go into the scene-
room of the Metropolitan Opera House and hunt mimic
stumps and rocks with which to fit out a scene in Sieg-
fried, in which she was not even to appear. That, like
her superhuman work at rehearsals, was "for the good
cause," as she herself expressed it.
Most amiable are the memories that cluster around
the name of Sontag, which include at least one of the
notable concerts given by Beethoven in the closing years
of his life. Her career was wof ully ended by her sudden
death in Mexico in 1854. She was a German, and the
early part of her artistic life was influenced by German
ideals, but it is said that only in the music of Mozart
and Weber, which revived in her strong national emo-
tion, did she sing dramatically. For the rest she used
her light voice, which had an extraordinary range,
brilliancy, and flexibility, very much like Patti and
Melba use theirs to-day in mere unfeeling vocal dis-
play. " She had an extensive soprano voice," says Ho-
garth, " not remarkable for power, but clear, brilliant,
and regularly flexible ; a quality which seems to have
led her (unlike most GFerman singers in general) to cul-
tivate the most florid style, and even to follow the bad
example set by Catalani, of seeking to convert her voice
into an instrument, and to astonish the public by exe-
cuting
THE LOOKER-ON. 63
cuting the violin variations of Rhode's air, and other
things of that stamp. Madame La Grange had a voice
of extraordinary compass, which enabled her to sing
contralto roles as well as soprano, but I have never heard
her dramatic powers praised. As for Piccolomini, read
of her where you will, you will find that she was
"charming." She was lovely to look upon and her
action in soubrette parts was fascinating. Besides, she
was announced when she came here as a lineal descend-
ant of the hero of Schiller's "Wallenstein," and like
Mario, had a pope in her family. Mario's pope was
Alexander IV., Piccolomini' s was Pius II. Mario was a
lineal descendant, through a brother, of Lucrezia Borgia,
so that it has been remarked that when he sang '^ Scmo
un Borgia^'* in Donizetti's opera, it had more meaning
than might have been supposed. But this did not
make Mario the great singer he was, and is a digression
induced by the bewitching little Piccolomini. Until
Melba came Patti was for more than thirty years peer-
less as a mere vocalist. She belongs, as do Piccolo-
mini and Sontag, in an artistic sense, to the comic
genre ; so did Sembrich and Gerster, who never knew
it. I well remember how indignant Gerster became
during her first American season at a criticism which
I wrote of her Amina in *'La Sonnambula," a perform-
ance which is still among my loveliest and most fra-
grant recollections. Contrasting her Lucia with her
AmtTia, I made use of Catalani's remark concerning
Sontag : " Son genre est petity mats elle unique dans
san genre.^^ She almost flew into a passion. ^^ Mon
genre est grand ! " said she, over and over again, while
Dr. Gardini, her husband, tried in vain to pacify her :
"Come to see my Marguerite next year." Now Mar-
guerite does not quite belong to the heroic rdles,
though we can all remember how Lucca thrilled us by
her intensity of action as well as of song, and how
Madame Nilsson sent the blood out of our cheeks,
though she did stride through the opera like a combi-
nation of the grande dame and Ary Scheflfer's spirituelle
pictures.
64 TMB ZOOJCJOt-Ojr.
piatoree. But suck aa ii is, ULadame Geister acUeyed a
aucoeas of iaterest only, and that because of her efforts
at originality. Sembricli and Gerster, when they were
first heard, had as much execution as Melba or Nils-
son, but their voices had smaller emotional power than
those of the former, and less beauty than those of the
latter— beauty of the kind that might be called classic,
since it is in no way dependent on feeling. Its highest
exemplar is still the voice of Patti, in its middle reg-
ister.
I find that I am in danger of doing for Patti and
Nilsson, Lucca and Gterster that which I faulted the
memory-mongers for doing in the case of Jenny Idnd.
But it cannot be helped. These singers sang in the
operas In which Melba and Eames are singing to-day,
and though the standard of judgment has been changed
in the last twenty-five years by the growth of German
ideals, I can find no growth of potency in the perform-
ance of the representative women of the Italian opera,
save in the case of Calve, supremely great since she
came before us in the rdles of Carmen and SarUmzcL.
For the development of dramatic ideals we must look
to the singers of German affiliations, Madame Johansen,
a worthy pioneer, Madame Matema, and another, Lillie
Lehmann, whose artistic stature and achievements we
thought we appreciated while she was with us, but
who, now that she is gone, looms up before us as a
veritable Teutonic goddess of the world of art. As for
the men of yesterday and to-day, no lover of the lyric
drama would give the declamatory warmth, graceful-
ness, strength of pose, and action which mark the per-
formance of Jean de Reszk6 for one of the high notes of
Mario (for which we are told he would reserve himself
all the evening), were it ever so lovely. Neither does
the fine, resonant, equable voice of Edouard de Beszke,
or the finished manner of Plancon, leave us with curious
longings touching the voices of Lablache and Formes.
New York may well be content, and fair-minded critics,
who are neither eaten up with false conceptions of
Wagnerism.
TnE LOOKER-ON. 65
WagDerism, nor devotees of "linked sweetness long
drawn out," will find particnlar gratification in the
knowledge that the plans of Messrs. Abbey, Schoeffel &
GtraxL for next season contemplate a company and a
repertory which will keep alive the traditions of good
singing, encourage appreciation of correct intonation
and phrasing and the proper emission of tones, and
alao satisfy the existing taste for operas that are Bome-
thing more than concerts in stage furnishings and cos-
tame.
66 THE LOOKER-ON.
THE BEGINNINGS OF MUSIC.
By Louis C. Elson.
Collins, in his ''Ode to the Passions," nses the fol-
lowing lines :
" When Muflio, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung',
The Paaaions oft to hear her shell
Thronged around her magic oeU."
Spite of this poetic dictum the historian finds that
when Music sang in early Greece she was by no means
young, but was already quite an antiquated maiden.
Herbert Spencer, the lamented Huxley, and many others
who have studied into the beginnings of things acknowl-
edge that primitive man i)ossessed music of some sort,
and even go so far as to suggest that it might have come
to mankind through imitation of certain sounds of
nature, possibly of bird carols.
There is so much of musical tone in nature — ^the drip-
ping of water, the sighing of the wind among the trees,
etc. — that one need not be at all imaginative to believe
that the earliest music was the result of imitation if it
was not ah ovo inherent in the human race. It is also
probable that nature gave to man some indication of the
manner in which to fashion musical instruments. Some
of the earliest legends echo this view. The invention of
the lyre, for example, is attributed by the Egyptians
to the god Hermes (the Roman Mercury), in a legend
which palpably demonstrates the possibility of natural
origin for at least one instrument. Hermes was wander-
ing on the banks of the Nile after one of the great inun-
dations. A tortoise had been left high and dry by the
receding waters. It had died, and the heat of the son
had desiccated its flesh so that only a few tendons
remained attached to its shell. The ancient god struck
his
THE LOOKER ON. 67
his foot against the shell, the tendons resounded, and
the lyre was born.
One can in similar manner account for the origin of
the flute. The wind whistling through the tube of a
twig of bamboo might readily lead the observant savage
to construct either flute or Pan's pipes. The horn came
to prehistoric man directly from nature, and its name
still remains indicative of its origin. That the drum
should be a prominent instrument among forest-dwellers
was a foregone conclusion, since every hollow tree-trunk
was a natural drum.
The oldest instruments that can be verifled are of the
flute family. Naturally enough these began with the
whistle. Many whistles of bone and of horn have been
found among the relics of the cave-men, the dwellers
upon the earth in Paleolithic times. Some geologists
assign to these an age approximating 200,000 years !
Among these relics there has also been discovered a
primitive flute with three finger-holes and a blow-hole,
on which the skilful performer could bring forth at
least six tones.
The harp was probably early upon the scene, possibly
as soon as primitive man had learned to twist sinews
into a bowstring. Every bow was a one-stringed harp,
and if its owner tested the soundness of its string before
going ui>on the hunt or into the battle, a musical sound
must have resulted. There are tribes at present in
Africa who sometimes string their bows with two strings
for musical purposes, giving a clear demonstration of
the line of development of the ancient harp.
One inherent proof of the tremendous antiquity of
our art is found in the fact that almost all ancient peo-
ples ascribe the beginning of their music to the gods.
Ancient mythology is full of legends describing the
origin of music, and the fact that this is always celes-
tial goes far to show that the beginning was even then
lost in remote antiquity. Osiris, that ancient Egyptian
god who blends within himself the attributes of Bac-
chus and Apollo, is pictured as attended in his wander-
ings
68 THE LOOKER-ON.
ings by an entire train of musicians, and Horos, his
brother, was considered by the old Egyptians as the God
of Harmony, by which they meant, not the modem
blending of tones in chord-formations (for of this the
ancients knew nothing), but the melodic progressions
and intervals of music. We have already seen how
the god Hermes (the ancient Egyptians called him
**Thoth") invented the lyre; he would not have been
an Egyptian deity if he had not intertwined it with
plenty of symbolic meanings. Egypt has three seasons,
and therefore the lyre, which originated from the
defunct tortoise, had three strings; the deepest string
was representative of the wet season, the middle string
of the growing season, and the highest indicated the
harvest time. At a later time, when Egypt became the
home of ancient science, the tones of the scale, seven in
number as with us, were symbolical of the planets and
were even called by their names. In his evident search
for a natural origin for music the Egyptian priest (the
scientist of the ancient world) held that music was
derived from the sounds made by the planets in their
courses, a practical harmony of the spheres. At a later
epoch (about 600 years B.C.), Pythagoras, who had
studied in Egypt, brought this theory to Greece as his
own, and even pretended that he was the only mortal
who had ever heard this celestial harmony.
One of the most celebrated of the ancient Egyptian
songs is connected with mythological legend. Maneros
(who corresi)onds to the Greek Idnos, son of Apollo)
was one of the sons of the gods; he died in his youth,
and a song arose in memory of his untimely demise.
This song represented the fleeting character of human
existence. It was sung at all Egyptian banquets.
When the mirth was at its highest (and the old Egyp-
tian was emphatically an epicurean) an image of a
corpse was handed around the table, and the guests
chanted the song of Maneros, which contained the fol-
lowing lines:
* Cast your eyes upon this corpse,
You will be like this after death,
Therefore drink and be merry now.'*
THE LOOKER-ON. ^ 69
Oddly enough, according to Plutarch, the song be-
came a very lively and joyous one.
Almost contemporaneous with some of these old
Egyptian legends must have been the stories which the
ancient Hindoos have scattered along their mythology
to prove that their gods were also good musicians and
helped mankind to the knowledge of tone which it pos-
sesses.
Mention of the art is made in the earliest sacred boo
of India. The Gandharbas (Genii of Music) and Apsa-
rasas (Genii of the Dance) appear in this mythology
very soon after Brahma and the beginning of things.
Sarisvati, wife of Brahma and Goddess of Speech and
Oratory, at Brahma's command brought the art of
music to man and also gave him his best instrument
(according to Hindoo taste), the Vina. There is a host of
musical deities in the ancient Hindoo mythology:
Nared, one of the demigods, became protector of the art
in its first days on earth; Maheda Chrishna allowed five
modes or scales to spring from his head in true Minerva-
like style, his wife, Parbuti, added another, and Brahma
added thirty more. All of these various scales were
represented by nymphs, and there were also seven chief
tones in the scale which were personified by seven heav-
enly sisters. The ancient system must have been very
complex, for one of the sacred books narrates that when
Chrishna was on the earth as a shepherd, sixteen thou-
sand young shepherdesses, or nymphs, fell in love with
him, and they all tried to win him by music; they sang
to him, and each one sang in a different key, and thus
were established the sixteen thousand keys which once
upon a time existed in India. From such a celestial
parentage sprang the music of the Hindoos. Naturally
there were songs coming from such a source which had
supernatural powers; songs which could call down rain
in periods of drought, or cause fire to descend from heav-
en as Elijah did. The musical legends of the ancient
Greeks were less complex, but fully as poetic. It is
probable that the deeds of actual musicians who existed
at
70 THE LOOKER-ON.
at the dawn of history were told in an exaggerated and
mythical manner in the stories of Orphens and Arion.
NaturaUy the Pythian games, which were dedicated to
Ax)ollo, presented plenty of mnsic and were a recognition
of the belief that mnsic originally sprang from him.
With ancient Greece we obtain the first insight into that
poetic fancy which wreathed mnsical legend around the
voice of the waters. Dozens of such legends can easily
be collected, and they all bear a striking similarity.
The oldest of them all, however, is the tale of the Sirens
in the Straits of Messina, who sang so beantifolly that
the passing sailor steered straight to the reef on which
they were seated and perished miserably. The story is
almost identical with that of the Lorelei, who was suj)-
posed to sit npon the dangerous rocks near St. Goar on
the Rhine, luring the GFerman sailors to destruction,
and giving rise to one of Heine's best-known x>o^nis.
In almost the same fashion the Scandinavian deity,
Wannemoinen, sits in the caves of the sea, playing on
a harp which he has made of dead men' s bones, and mak-
ing such sweet music that he entices the seamen down
to him. Here then we have southern, central, and north-
em Europe telling tales in ancient, mediseval, and
modem times, and all coinciding in many details. The
ethnologist or philologist finding stories so similar
among different races would argue migrations or com-
mon descent, but in this case the coincidence teaches a
different lesson ; it proves that in all climes and in all
ages mankind was peculiarly moved by the rippling
sound of the waters, and was also impressed with the
dangers that lurked under the pleasing tones. In each
case the same circumstances brought forth the same
train of reasoning and the same legends.
The mermaids of the north are less dangerous per-
sonages, because they generally preside over springs,
brooks, and less perilous divisions of water. There has
seldom been a stranger transformation of a word than
that which has changed *^ Nixie " (the sweet and pure
spirit which guarded the waters of the Norwegian
springs)
THE LOOKER-ON. 71
springs) into * ' Old Nick, ' ' the embodiment of eviL The
water-lily has appropriately been chosen by the northern
people as the emblem of these pure and innocent fair-
ies. They are pictured as extremely fond of music, and
almost all their disasters, in the Scandinavian fairy tales,
come from their tarrying too long at the peasant
merry-makings, where music plays an important part.
Per contra, they are often ready to teach their art to
mortals. In Sweden there is a musical family named
Necker, all the members of which are reputed by the
peasantry to have derived their music, and their name
also, from the Nixies. The Swedes have a special Neck
called Stromkerl, who dwells in the cascades and in the
plash of water-mills, and the Norwegians have one named
Fossegrim, who dwells in placid rivers, and both of these
seem to have taken up the music-teaching profession.
The Norwegian one can be engaged (for an indefinite
number of terms) by throwing a white ram, on a Thurs-
day night, into a stream which flows northward ; the
other can be hired by a present of a lamb ; both seem
to have the motto, " Terms invariably in advance."
We have examined the celestial origin of our art in
Egypt, Greece, and India. Let us close with a glance at
the musical legends of that quaintest of all the nations
of antiquity, China. The ancient Chinaman invented
printing, and gave the world no benefit ; powder, and
no general evil resulted ; the compass, and no mariner
was helped ; and he also first discovered the laws of
acoustics, and a principle of notation, and yet the world
waited a couple of thousand years before building upon
the good foundation. Their musical deity was Fo-Hi,
who had some adventures suspiciously like those of
Noah. The Chinese employ a pentatonic scale like
our own diatonic scale with the fourth and seventh
notes omitted. Such a five-noted scale is not without its
beauty, as *'Auld Lang Syne," "Bonnie Doon," or
* * There is a Happy Land ' ' sufficiently prove. Of course
its origin was celestial. Fo-Hi went out into the bam-
boo forest and fell asleep. While he lay in slumber the
mystical
72 THE LOOKER-ON.
mystical bird of China (first cousin to the phcenix), the
Foang-hoang, perched ni>on a bongh above his liead«
It sang its scale, which was onr own diatonic scale.
Fo-Hi noted it down, but, alas, it was the female bird
which >5ang, and in China everything female is held in
some contempt (although they have no "shrieking
Sisterhood'' there), and the scale was therefore useless.
At this moment the male bird came and perched be-
side its mate. He sang the five-noted scale as employed
in China to-day, and Fo-Hi at once adopted it for his
musical works. In this legend, possibly over 4000
years old, the invention of the diatonic scale, the pen-
tatonic scale, and the chromatic (which can be formed
by combining the two) are indicated. It is probable
that China achieved these scales as early as Egypt did,
and this old legend remains as a record of it.
Let no investigator despise the legends of music —
they are inferential history, they show us the beliefs of
ancient times in connection with our art, and they
prove that even at the dawn of history music was so old
that no man could give its origin. No race exists upon
the earth but has its music, and even the most debased
peoples have generally their musical legends. It would
be a task not unworthy of the scientific researcher to
gather all the available musical legends of the world into
a single work. Such a work would give clues for further
investigation and might lead to discoveries in a field
which is rather obscure at present, and it would present
to the psychologist the many ways in which music has
impressed the human mind — it would give the poetry of
musical history.
Let u8 begin our Friendly Observations with onr-
selveB, my dear Looker-On; for there is no other subject
in regard to which it is so difficult, and so necessary, to
be at once observant and friendly. For the most part
self-criticism vibrates between the two extremes of blind
partiality and impatient disgust. It is not often that a
man sees his own faults and foUies; but when he does
he is far less apt to make due allowance for them than
for those of other men. The reason is plain. His own
faults, besides woonding his vanity, nsnally have to be
paid for, which is very annoying. It is therefore per-
fectly natural that he should either ignore or exaggerate
them.
And yet there is no knowledge better entitled to be
called useful than the knowledge of our own capacity
and outfit and position. It is easy enough for a man to
be his own worst enemy; bat in order to be his own best
friend he must be patient, and honest, and careful, in
taking stock of himself and in estimating the demands
and dangers of the work in which he is engaged. If
any one needs to do this it Is the critic. But such is
the perversity of human nature that he is the very man
who most frequently leaves it undone.
It is a mighty perilous affair to set up in business as
a Looker-On.
Wh«a
74 THE LOOKER'OK
When I first visited the Hot Springs of Arkansas,
twenty years ago, the philosophic citizen of that ebullient
town who undertook my education, advised me, as a
measure of safety, to leave my gun in the trunk, and
added the sage counsel: ^^ Whatever you do, don't
make remarks on a game, or look on at a fight; more
people die of that disease out here than of any other."
But in a less vivacious state of society the outward
perils of criticism are few and slight, compared with its
inward and personal dangers. There is something in
the very occupation which exposes the mind engaged in
it to peculiar risks. He who is continually busied in
correcting others often succeeds only in spoiling himself.
Every one can see that the critic is likely to be
tempted to the folly of superciliousness and a carping,
censorious habit of mind. The fact that he is occupied
in passing judgment ui)on the work of his fellow-men
has a tendency to obscure his remembrance of the truth
that he is of the same flesh and blood with them. The
easiness of detecting mistakes— for example, in playing
the piano, or in writing good English — ^makes him for-
get the difficulty of avoiding them. But the critic who
is a mere fault-finder is a futile personage. In his over-
drawn picture of the ^' Degeneration" of the age he
proves himself degenerate. It is the business of the
Looker-On to take a symi)athetic view of things, and to
reckon obstacles in estimating i)erf ormances. He should
be ready to credit men with the virtues of their defects,
as well as to notice the defects of their virtues. He
should have as keen an eye for merits as for faults, and
remember that his own discernment may be as truly
shown in praise as in blame.
After all, the most immaculate art is not always the
most precious. There is many a prim, self-satisfied
prig who has never done anything in the world who
would be very much less missed than the man who,
in spite of his errors, has succeeded in doing some-
thing good. The best rose tree is not that with the few-
est thorns, but that which b^rs the finest roses.
Another
THE LOOKER- OK 75
Another temptation of the Looker-On is to lay un-
due weight upon his critical authority, and to imagine
that his opinion, when printed, becomes a verdict. Crit-
icism undoubtedly has its functions and powers, but it
is well to remember that they are not absolute. It can-
not create great art ; although it has often succeeded in
exj)osing the pretensions of false art, and thus awakened
the desire for something better. It cannot call genius
into existence, but it can make the way plainer and more
easy for talent. It cannot really write a bad thing up
and keep it up, any more than it can write a good thing
down and keep it down; but when bad things have been
unblushingly lauded, and good things stupidly neglect-
ed, an honest criticism can do much to clear the atmos-
phere and let both api)ear in their true light.
The first duty of the Looker-On, then, is to avoid the
scornful disdain of the high and mighty, and the super-
ficial enthusiasm of the light and flighty, and to try to
see things as they are. This seems like a humble task.
But if we will attempt it conscientiously, we shall find
that it is difficult enough to satisfy our ambition, and
useful enough to be well rewarded. There is still a very
promising ox)ening in literature for writers who can ob-
serve accurately and describe truthfully. People are
quite ready to read the criticisms of men like Sainte-
Beuve, and Arnold, and Dowden, and Saintsbury, and
Birrell, and Lowell, and Curtis, and Stedman, because
they are clarifying and illuminative. Their permanent
value dei)ends upon the closeness of their correspondence
with the facts. Critics themselves are judged, in the
long run, by the lucidity with which they have perceived,
and the sincerity with which they have expressed, the
real relations of life and art.
It cannot be denied that the Looker-On, virtuously
resolving to tread this plain path of accurate observa-
tion, truthful interpretation, and fair judgment of people
and things, will meet with many temptations to turn
aside into other ways, less arduous and more alluring.
There are at least three schools of current criticism
which
76 720? LOOKER'OK
which demand small effort and make large promise of
immediate remuneration. The first of these may be
called the thnd-and-blonder school. The easiest way in
the world to attract ix>pnlar notice is to set out npon a
career of indiscriminate abuse. It is said that the late
Lord Randolph Churchill first gained the public ear by
the Tivacity and violence with which he boxed it. The
old comedian's recipe for keeping the attention of the
audience was very simple: *^ When you are at a loss what
to do, smash the china ! " Preachers, even, do not dis-
dain the path to fame by way of vitui)eration. And crit-
ics, from Jeffreys down, have been prone to follow it.
Those who adopt this method delight in nothing else so
much as in flaying a new poet, or beating down a new
musician, or in driving a new actor off the stage with
verbal cabbage-stalks and the stale eggs of ridicule, or,
best of all, in drawing a fierce indictment of imbecility
and immorality against the present generation of man-
kind. There is a twist in unregenerate human nature
toward this kind of work, at least in certain moods.
I suppose the mildest-mannered of men has moments in
which he would like to cut a throat, or scuttle a ship.
The ability to inilict pain gives a sense of power. But
then, I am quite sure, no one will maintain that this is
a h^thy state of mind, or calculated to foster clear
perceptions and sound judgment.
At the other extreme is the puff-and-plunder school
of criticism. This also has an easy method and some
attractions. It deals in unqualified praise for cer-
tain qualified performers. It revels in the discovery
and announcement of new Shakesi)eares, Thackerays,
Gtarricks, Titians, Beethovens, and Jenny Linds — but
always within the boundaries of the family circle or
stock company to which the critics belong. Their point-
of -view is, that appreciation, like charity, begins at
home — ^and ends there. Verily they have their reward.
They usually make a contract for it. They resemble
the hero of Lowell's " Fable for Critics " :
** Not a deed wotdd he do, nor a word would he utter,
TQl he*d weighed its relation to plain bread and butter.**
THE LOOKER-ON. 77
I wonld be nnderstood as si)6akiiig now only of those
who profess to be impaxtial and unbiassed observers.
For the writers who are openly employed in the service
of publishing houses, or art firms, or dramatic enter-
prises, to draw favorable attention to their produc-
tions, we should have nothing but respect. Theirs
is an honorable business, and one that offers oppor-
tunity for the exercise of a very fine skill. There is
no branch of commerce which has been more im-
proved in modern times. I know an advance agent
whose conversation is as brilliant and engaging as that
of Sydney Smith, and a book-announcer who writes his
notices in the purest English, sparkling with wit and
full of apt illustrations. The advertising pages in the
backs of the magazines are as entertaining to me as the
earlier columns of reading-matter — which are treated
with more consideration and cost less money. But
then, I like to know, and to remember, the difference
between the two kinds of pages ; and I cannot help
thinking that critics are sometimes tempted, by various
considerations, to forget or to obscure it.
The Looker-On, in these days of universal advertise-
ment, must be on his guard against the peril of being
transformed into a sandwich man or a bill-poster.
There is another school of criticism, midway between
the thud-and-blunder and the puff-and-plunder, which
may be called the gush-and-wonder school. It is the
literary representative of those familiar people who
say, " I don't know anything about music, or painting,
or books, hut IJcnow whai Ilike^'^ and then they pro-
ceed to tell you at great length and with much enthusi-
asm the story of their confessedly unreasonable likings.
In private life they are often amusing and sometimes
profitable. It is pleasant to observe the transparent
revelations of character in their unstudied admirations.
I have seldom spent a more diverting half -hour than at
a New England tea-party where the dear old ladies of
the sewing circle were raving over "Trilby," and de-
claring that they would all be perfectly delighted to go
and live in the Latin Quarter of Paris !
But
78 IHE LOOKER-ON.
But it is worth remembering that a taste which is
not based npon knowledge, and backed np by good
reasons, is better adapted to private enjoyment than to
public expression. The critic who is forever telling
the world what he likes, without taking pains to ex-
plain and justify his liking on good and sufficient
grounds, is not much of a critic after all. He is only
an exclamation point.
Real criticism — criticism that is worth the amount
of human labor that is needed to produce a page of
print, and of human patience that is required to read it
— is something more than the expression of personal
prejudices and prepossessions. It is the discovery of
principles, and the illustration of laws, and the conse-
quent illumination of life and art.
The art of music, and painting, and sculpture, and
poetry, and fiction, and acting are not affairs of chance ;
they are products of skill; and skill always has an idea
behind it and an aim in front of it. The critic's busi-
ness is to apprehend the idea, and to appreciate the
aim, and measure the means, which have been used to
bring them together. Take, for example, the art of
story-telling. The short stories of Miss Wilkins, and
Miss Jewett, and Mrs. Slosson are better than the
tedious tales which are printed in the Weekly Wrap-
ping-Paper^ not merely because you and I like them
better — the sentence must be reversed — ^we like them
better because they are better. And the question that
the Looker-On has to answer is. Why ? Their excellence
is very different. Miss Wilkins is dramatic; her stories
always have a situation and an epigram. Miss Jewett
is idyllic; she makes a little picture, and the figures
and the landscape belong together. Mrs. Slosson is sym-
pathetic; she has the faculty of putting herself in the
place of the quaintest, remotest characters, and making
you feel the pathos and the humor of their point-of-
view. In all of these writers there is a quality of dis-
tinction, a choice of method, and an artistic perfection
of result, which the critic ought to consider, if he in-
tends
THE LOOKER-ON. 79
tends to write about them, and of which he must be
able to give some intelligent account, if he wishes
thoughtful readers to have any respect for his observa-
tions.
I do not mean by this that the Looker-On should
divest himself of all personal likings in regard to art or
literature, and look on at the passing show as coldly as
at the progress of an experiment in chemistry. To do
that would be to yield to one of his perils — ^and not the
least of them. The gusto of criticism comes from emotion
and enthusiasm, even as its nutritive quality comes from
intelligence and reason. I would not choose to live
ux)on spicy salads, nor upon unsalted porridge, but
ui)on wholesome dishes well flavored. How admirable
in this resi)ect is the book which Mr. W. D. Howells
has lately given us with the title "My Literary Pas-
sions" I It is full of generous admirations, expressed
with piquancy and vigor ; but they are by no means
blind. He never forgets, nor fears, to give a reason for
the faith that is in him ; and the story of his love for
books, interwoven with the story of his life, is an in-
struction in living, as well as a guide to reading.
But the danger of indulging too strong predilections
in the matter of art is that they have a tendency to
become exclusive and narrow. Because Abana and
Pharpar are beautiful rivers, it does not follow that
the Jordan is a mere mud-puddle. Miranda sings the
part of Marguerite to perfection ; and Bubio plays the
nocturnes of Chopin magically ; and Antonius is a
wonderful interpreter of Wagner's music ; but shall we
therefore refuse to listen to all other musicians ? Let us
avoid provincialism, and keep an open mind. It takes
all sorts to make a world, and there are varieties of
excellence. The object of culture is to create a high
standard and a catholic taste.
The honest Looker-On desires to do something, in a
humble way, to promote this object. He is not a parti-
san of any school in art. He is an admirer of all good
work, by whomsoever it may be done ; and he wants to
understand
80 THE LOOKER-ON.
understand the secret of ita performance and the sonice
of its i>ower. He tries not to forget his own limitations,
nor to ignore the perils of his occupation. If he fails
to appreciate things that are well done, if he falls into
a state of mind where ^' man pleases him not nor woman
either," he suspects that it may be due to some imper-
fection in his own vision — some cloud of conceit, or
spleen, or prejudice— more than to the degeneracy of
mankind in general and artists in particular. He knows
that he cannot see things as they are, unless he keeps
his eyes clear and his glasses clean. He feels and con-
fesses that in order to play the Looker-On decently and
profitably he must take frequent and careful looks
within.
It is a very lock; state of affairs for operatic singers and managers
tJiat tlie London and New York seasons do not coincide, but that the
English season begins a tew weeks after the American ends. Were it
not for tbis tact Messrs. Abbe; and Oran and Sir Augustas Harris
would soon coroe to grief. The sio^rs would put themselves up at
auction and demand even more exorbitant rates than at present, whQe
the managers would Iiave to tel^raph for reserved rooms in a poor-
house. I saw a statement in a London paper the other da; to the
effect that Harris's payroll for his London Company amounts to about
t2G,000 a week, and I fancy ttiat Abbey and Qrau expend a much big-
ger sum than that. Were these managers to bid against one another
Helba and Jean de Beezkg would probably demand 96,000 a ni^t, like
Patti and Paderewski
Owing to the fact that the London season lasts far into July, I had
an opportunity to attend some of the closing performances of the past
summer. A glance at the repertory, however, cured me of all desire
to go, for it consisted chiefly of the oldest barrel-organ operas, which
seem to have enjoyed a sort of revival, thanks to the popularity of —
Patti and Tamagno I If any further comment were needed on the
present state of operatic taste in London it would be provided by this
list of the operas given, and the number of times : Fautt, 8 ; Carmen
and Cavallerui, ; Borneo, Otello, Pagliaad, S ; Trovatttre, i ; Harold,
Lucia, Bigoletto, Traviata, Lohengrin, Fra Diavolo, 8 ; Orfeo, Pht'Ie-
Mon and BawHe, Le Prophite, Don Juan, Figaro, Barbier, Falttaff,
Tan»hAiiaef, 3; Mefigtofele, Navarraiae, Hugvenots, Petrvceio, 1,
Was the refusal of Jean de BeszkS to sing in London a consequenoa
of such a repertory, or was the repertory a consequence of his refusal
to sing? Perhaps chiefly the former, lor it is well known that be fi
heartily tired of the barrel-organ operas and now finds his chief d»
I^^t in singing the Wsgner operas. He will certainly be heard In
New York Uiis winter In a much finer repertory than that which
Harris provided for Uie Londoners. Harris had, indeed, promised the
great tenor a chance to make his ddbut in London as Tristan ; but the
refusal of Mottl to conduct Triatan and Isolde except after a number
of rehearsals such as Harris thought he could not grant, caused the
project to fall to the frround, London's loss will be New York's gain ;
for
82 THE LOOKER-ON.
for now 106 shall be the fl»t to hear Jean de Beesk^ as Triataii, and
under a oondnctor greater even than Mottl^Anton SeidL
•
WmLB in London I had a welcome opportanity, at a dinner-party,
of hearing a soprano formerly well known to Americans as Miss Amy
Sherwin« who is now the wife of Hr, Hugo GKhrlits, the genial and swy
oessful manager of the Paderewski concerts. Mrs. GOrlitz is an Aus-
tralian, and I was particularly interested in finding that her voice has
the same purity, sweetness, and spontaneous charm as that of her
countrywoman, lime. Helba. It nxade me wonder whether we are to
have, in the near future, a distinct and unmistakable school of Aus-
tralian singers. I hope so ; there is plenty of room for one.
Mrs. Sherwio-G^^rlitz has not only a beautiful voice but a charming
style, and her enunciation is a model of clearness. I tried to persuade
her to visit America again, but she has so many engagements in Eng-
land that she does not care to cross the ocean again, even althoqgh
Mr. (}5rlitz will, as usual, accompany Mr. Paderewski on bis coming
American tour. He is convinced that it will be a bigger success even
than his first two tours ; one of the best reasons for believing so being
the fact that his last recital in London drew a larger audience (over
15,000) than any previous concert.
At the same dinner-party I had the pleasure of meeting Bignor
Randegger and several other London musicians and critics, one of
whom told me he had expected to find Mr. Joseph Bennett am<mg the
guests ; adding that my onslaughts on that eminent critic, especially
in niy Wagner biography, had won me many friends in London ; for
Mr. Bennett has an unpleasant way of showing his daws in the T>aiii§
T^legfrapK^ which has the largest circulation of all London papers. I
hope it was not my presence that prevented Mr. Bennett from enjoy-
ing the excellent dinner provided, for I can assure him that in spite of
all critical tilts I do not bear him the slightest personal ill-will, and
should have been d«;lighted to make his acquaintance.
Musical critics ought to follow the example of the lawyers who
are often intimate friends in private no matter how much they may
abuse each other in court. If Mr. Bennett has enjoyed my oomments
on him half as much as I have his frequent intimations, during the
last ten or twelve years, that he *' believed ** I was "a musical critic
in New York,** there is no reason why we should not be the best of
friends. I am not so sensitive as my instructor in philosophy, the
late Professor Bowen, of Harvard, who during the last twenty years
of his life delivered a violent annual course of lectures against John
Stuart Mill, chiefly, I believe, because that philosopher once referred
in a book to " one Bowen, an obscure North American metaphysician.*'
Aftkr leaving London I spent a few days in Paris, where I could
not resist the temptation to attend a performance of the " WalkQre."
I wanted to see whether it was the charm of Wagner's art alone that
had given this work such extraordinary popularity in Paris (where it
bad more performances in two years than it ever had in any (German
city).
THE LOOKER-ON. 83
city), or whether the performance itself contributed to this success.
I came to the conclusion that to Wagner alone, and to the scene-
painters, belonged the credit. A more mediocre lot of singers I never
heard anywhere. Not that they were bad, for most of them had an
ag^reeable quality of voice and sang in time, but their voices were too
weak for this music, and they had no conception of the true Wag-
nerian style of song. Consequently they missed many of the finest
points— almost as many as the conductor, who had absolutely no con-
ception of the dramatic fire and passion inherent in Wagner's score.
The orchestra in itself was admirable— but the best-drilled army will
lose a battle if it has no good general. The scenic effects, on the
other band, especially the colored clouds, were admirable, and the
ride of the Valkyries is nowhere so realistically done as iu Paris.
The Grand Op^ra is a superb building, without and within, but in
the matter of comfort and acoustic properties it leaves a good deal to
desire. Most of the seats, even in the boxe<«, are inconveniently
placed, and unless you are in the parquet the huge central chandelier
is a luminous obstacle to enjoyment of what goes on on the stage.
In the matter of illumination and side-lights the Paris Op^ra is far be-
hind the times. The audience, too, is not quite up to date. While
there was no loud talking — at any rate near my seat — a number of
spectators had a most offensive habit of interrupting the fiow of the
musio by applauding the vocalists. Possibly this applause was paid
for ; it should be hissed down by those who are not paid. Upon the
whole I was disappointed with the Grand Opera, and came to the con-
clusion that it is not what it was even twenty years ago when I first
heard a performance in it. It is a noteworthy fact that for first nights
and spedal occasions the Paris Op6ra now usually imports the leading
sneers from Germany. « «
At Vevey I had the pleasure of spending a few days with Mr. E.
A* MacDowell, whom Mr. Seidl is not alone in regarding as a more
original composer than Brahms. Like all great composers Mr.
MacDowell is a lover of nature, and the view of the upper end of Lake
Geneva from his windows was fine enough to inspire any number of
masterpieces of American music. I say American music, for although
many of Mr. MacDowelPs pieces were inspired and penned abroad there
is a distinct national as well as individual flavor to them, which will
mark the beginning of a new American school of music. Mr. MacDow-
ell is not only an original thinker, he is also a conscientious artist.
When he has a happy thought he does not, like too many of our com-
posers, write it off hastily and carelessly, as if it were intended for
the columns of an ephemeral newspaper, but keep^ on rewriting
and filing till his innate sense of form and style is satisfied. Every
connoisseur feels this at once in playing his music ; there is not a re-
dundant bar, hardly a detail that could be improved.
Mr. MacDowell is fortunate in having a wife who is not only a
charming companion but a most excellent musician and critic, to
whose judgment he can always refer in case of doubt when he is re-
vising
84 THE LOOKER-ON.
▼ifling bis oompontions. At Vevey he was not writing a naw work,
but revising one several years old. He seemed to be more or leas dis»
oouraged about it, and was not quite sure whether he ought not to
destroy it altogether. It will probably prove one of his best works.
I say this only " on general principles,** for I did not see the score and
the hotel piano was so badly out of tune that he could not play for me.
I was sorry I did not have an opportunity to meet another eminent
American composer who Is spending the summer near the Lake of
Geneva — ^Hr. Templeton Strong. He has his own villa near Vevey
and had placed his music-room at Mr. MacDowell*s disposal, but be
himself had gone up into the high Alps, in an almost inaooessible
place where clouds abound. The two composers are intimate friends,
and Mr. MacDowell has an aggravating habit of sending postal-cards to
his friend in the gray clouds, telling him how bright the sunshine is
down at Yevey and how brilliant the colors on the lake.
V
After leaving Vevey I had no more opportunity to meet musicians
or hear music — excepting cowbells and the yodling of guides and peas-
ants. But in the large Alpine hotels one has abundant opportunity to
keep informed on musical topics, as on all ethers, since the reading-
rooms are always supplied with the leading newspapers in various
languages. In good weather no one in his senses would waste a mo-
ment on newspapers when he might be climbing and enjoying Alpine
scenery ; but on a rainy day, when fresh midsummer snow is falling
on the mountain-sides that encircle your hotel, a warm reading-room
and a newspaper are not to be sneezed at. Thus it happened the
other day that I picked up a copy of a Paris paper and found therein
an article by Frandsque Saroey on conservatories, embodying some
sensible reflections.
The charge is not infrequently made in American newspapers that
our conservatories turn out few pupils who beoome distinguished as
performers or composers. But I do not think that Europe is any bet-
ter off in this respect. England, France, Italy, Germany have scores of
conservatories, with thousands of pupils, but are not good singers and
players extremely scarce in those countries — not to speak of good com-
posers ? It is true that in France most of the eminent composers were
in their day students at the Paris Ck>nservatoire, and frequently win-
ners of the Prix de Rome, yet in the article I have referred to M. Sarcey
thinks it necessary to combat the idea that we ought to expect music
schools to supply the world w ith musical geniuses. He rightly contends
that if the Paris Conservatory does not launch many original musicians
into the world the reason is that originality in any art is a very rare
thing, and one that cannot be taught by the best schools and teachers
in the world. The duty of professors is to teach their pupils musical
grammar ; the rest they must have in themselves ; and if a genius is
so seldom found in the conservatories that is not their fault but their
misfortune ; which, however, does not diminish their general utility.
After all, schools are not built for geniuses but for ordinary pupils. A
genius cannot learn from an ordinary proteBsor but only from another
^nius^as Tausig from Liszt, Josef Hofmann from Rubinstein*
DRAMATIC
NOTES
By Wm. H. Fleming.
Thkbb is a prevalent opinion that the drama in this country at the
present time is in a decadent condition. There is some reason for this.
Many of the plays which are presented on the hoards of our theatres,
when judged either from the moral or intellectual standpoint, are of a
low character. They are deficient in thought. Scenery, instead of
beings an accessory, has too often become the primary factor in the
representation. The frame has become more important than the
picture, the setting than the jewel. " The play " has ceased to be
" the thing,** and has become secondary to the scenery and the cos-
tumes. The moral tone also of many of the plays is objectionable.
Vice is made amusing, sometimes alluring.
This condition of the drama is, I am inclined to think, but tempo-
rary. There is enough of the standard drama still presented at our
theatres to lead me to this conclusion. First in importance is Mr.
Irving's work. The effect of that in elevating the drama is almost
incalculable. The fact that he has been knighted by Queen Victoria
is profonndly significant. The statute of Elizabeth, by which players
were classed with vagabonds, and their profession made unlawful, is,
I believe, still on the statute-books of England. And yet, solely on
account of his work as a player, has he been honored. And justly so,
for the plays which he puts upon the stage are works of art and are in
the highest degree educative. In the tour which he has just begun in
America he will present the following dramas: " Faust,*' * 'King Arthur,**
"Waterloo,** "Don Quixote," "Louis XI.,'* "The Bells,*' "The Lyons
MaU.** " Much Ado About Nothing,'* " Macbeth,** " Merchant of Venice."
"CJharlesL,** "The Ck)rsican Brothers,** "NanceOldfield,**" Olivia, or.
The Vicar of Wakefield,** and "Journeys End in Lovers Meeting.** Of
these the following have never been previously presented in this
country: "King Arthur,** "Waterloo,** "Dox Quixote,'* " Macbeth,**
** The Corsican Brothers,'* " Journeys End in Lovers Meeting.** These
productions will be, in every detail, dramatically correct, and produced
exactly as they were at the Lyceum Theatre. Some idea of the scru-
pulous care exercised can be gained from the fact that the company
which Mr. Irving has brought with him consists of one hundred and
twenty-five persons. Not only the acters, but also the managers, the
Qboms, machinists, electricians, leader of orchestra, are all brought
frcm
86 THE LOOKER ON.
from London and are part of the Lyceum Theatre Company. All the
8Cf uery, which weighs some seven hundred tons, is brought with him.
The result of all this care ia that Mr. Irving presents each of the plays
as a work of art. His season in New York City begins October 28th
and lasts for eight weeks. There is a supplementary season b^in-
ning May 4th next, and lasting for two weeks.
•
Mb. Richard Mansfixld is also an exponent of the beat diama.
During the coming season he expects to present at the Qarrick Thea-
tre ** Bicheiieu,** "The Fool*s Revenge," "The House of the Wolf," a
dramatisation of Stanley Weyman*s story of that name, and ''Bodlan.**
In addition to these, which Mr. Mansfield has not previously acted,
will be plays from his regular repertoire. He expects to occopy his
stage in November.
Previous to that, beginning October 7th, Madame Modjeaka will
act for two weeks. She will open her engagement with '* Measure
for Measure," and will present among other plays " Much Ado About
Nothing," '* Macbeth," <* Magda." She, like the two great actors
mentioned, is an honor to her profession, and, like them, ia a great
artist. « »
Mr. Daly's Shakespearian revival the coming season will be
" Henry lY." He has arranged the two parts as one play. FaMag
will be played by Mr. Lewis, and Prinot Hai by Miss Rehan.
THE PRISONER OF ZENDA.
Mr. AivTHOmr Hopb'b novel with the above title has been dramatjaed
by Mr. Edward Rose. The play was put on the stage at the Lyoeum
Theatre last month and acted by Mr. Sothem and his company. It is
a romantic play, and as such is a refreshing variation from the mor^
bid, sensational society plays which to a great extent occupy the
boards of our theatres.
The plot of the play is described in the following passage taku
from the book : '* It is perhaps as strange a thing as has ever been in
the history of a country, that the king's brother and the king's per-
sonator, in a time of profound peace, near a placid, undisturbed coun-
try town, under semblance of amity, should wage a desperate war for
the person and life of the king."
The play is divided into a prologue and four acts. In the former
Prince Rudolph, the heir apparent to the throne of Ruritania» is ac-
cused by Gilbert, Earl of Rassendyll, of undue intimacy with his
Countess. The consequence is a duel, which is fought in the house of
the Earl, whither the Prince has escorted the Countess. It is fought
in the night. The Prince is wounded. On the conclusion of the duel,
Duke Wolfgang, the Black Elphberg, cousin to the Prince, and heir to
the throne of Ruritania in case the Prince dies, says, " It is morning,
and my day has dawned." In the four acts which follow, the struggle
between
THE LOOKER-ON. W
between these two for the possession of the throne is faithfully por-
trayed.
The dramatization has heen well done. The dialogue is good. It
is terse, at times humorous and pathetic. The action is regular.
Mr. Sothern assumes the dual oharacter of Rudolph the Fifth, the
King, and of Rudolph Rassendyll, a young Englishman. It is a finished
piece of acting, oscillating between the comic and the serious. The
former is especially noticeable in the coronation scene. Mr. Sothem's
humor in this scene has a coolness and audacity which are very effect-
ive. In the serious passages, e. gr., the love-affair with the Princess
Flavia, he is not IxMsterous or violent. lake the elder Salvini, he gives
one the impression of being stirred profoundly, of feeling intensely,
but also of having control over his emotions. I observed that in pro-
nouncing the word " exquisite " he put the accent on the second in-
stead of the first qrllable. In such a finished actor as Mr. Sothern this
Is a defect.
The other characters are well acted, notably (}olonel Sapt, Mr.
Buckstone; the Princess Flavia, Miss Kimball; and Antoinette De
Mauban, Miss Shotwell.
The play as a whole is remarkably well presented. It is refined ;
at times thriUing, though never powerful ; and there is an intei^
mingling of pathos and humor. It bids fair, and justly so, to be pop-
ular.
MCrSICIANS AND MUSIC-LOYERa
Br WnxiAX Fanrnt Afthobp.
IfB. Apthobp's book * conBisto of a series of essays, the first one of
which giTes the title to the volume. They have been published in the
reviews. Two of them, those on Bach and Jfusieions and Jfitne-
LoverBf were originally deUvered as lectures before the Lowell Insti-
tute in Boston. In the latter essay he refers to the lack of ** the crit-
ical habit" in the average music-lover, and that, in Mr. Apthorp^b
opinion, is " the fundamental obstacle to intelligent conversation on
music ** between professionals and music-loving laymen. " When,** he
says, " people are talking about music they are not talking about the
music itself at all, but about how it makes them feel.**
''Few people really talk about a symphony, a song, or an opera ;
what they do talk about is the impression the work has made upon
them. . • . Most people speak of music merely subjectively, speak of
how they like it or do not like it ; only the few either speak or think
of it objectively, of what it really is or is not."
In the case of trained musicians it is the reverse. What interests
them is the music itself. With one of them Mr. Apthorp listened to
a fine performance of Schumann's overture to Manfred, The only
oomment the musician made was: " How much more effect Schumann
has drawn from his horns here, by using the open notes, than he often
does by writing chromatic passages for them." Aoother fact illus-
trating the same truth is that Berlioz, in liis essays on Beethoven*s
symphonies, " seldom rises above the consideration of technical details."
In specifying the different requisites of musical appreciation, the
author mentions ** the distinct recognition of a melody of the melodic
phrase " ; and ** the perception of the relation borne by one part of a
composition to another, that is, the perception of the organic char-
acter of its structure." These two are the essential elements in an
intelligent appreciation of music.
The effect of music on the emotions is, in the case of the artist,
very minor. ** He looks upon music as music ; the most perfect
orchestral thunder-storm in the world leaves him cold and indifferent
if it is not at the same time a fine piece of composition."
Such is the critical standard by which Mr. Apthorp judges music
and mus i cians. In the following essays he apphes it to Bac^ Handel^
Meyerbeer^ Offenbach, Bahert Frants, and Otto Drese^-the last two of
whom he describes as <'Two Modem Olassidsts*'— and John SuUivan
* ** MMtd am amd Uutto^Lomn,^ OhM. SorlbiMr'tBoos.
DwighL
THE LOOKER'OJSr. 89
Dwight. The last essay is on Musie and Sdente. The result is a book
which, while written in a popular vein, possesses real critical value
and will amply repay stadious perusal.
LETTERS OF A BARITONE.*
By Franoib Walker.
DUBING late years there has been no lack of books descriptive of
such places of general interest as Paris or Italy. I take it that the
demand for this class of book indicates a desire on the part of the read-
ing public not so much for general information as for the point of
view of many and various-minded men about places with which they
(the public) are more or less familiar. It also goes to prove that the
public realize that books of travel differ not only as two portraits of
the same man would differ, but also as the details of the simplest oc-
currence would differ if written by two men.
If the public cares for the point of view of the author the interest-
ing question arises as to the kind of eyes through which the public
likes best to see its foreign countries. On this point there can be little
doubt. The sales prove that an author like Mr. H. T. Finck, who can
look at nature with the eyes of a poet and at peoples with the intelli-
gence of a philosopher, and who can moreover convey by the medium
of a happy style his ideas to others, is by far the most popular. V ig^r
of style, directness of observation, sympathy, and humor are the qual-
ities that we find in Mr. Walker's Letten of a Baritone. Italy is in
these pages clearly and ideally presented before us. The softness of
the air and the blue of the Italian sky we feel and see. The palaces
of Venice and Florence gain a new beauty and splendor in our imagi-
nation by Mr. Walker's descriptions. The few lines descriptive of the
people whom the author met are sufficient to bring them before us and
to make us feel that we know them.
The book consists of a series of letters written by the author to his
sister. They consist, in the main, of descriptions of the author's ex-
perience while pursuing the study of art in Italy. The reflections on
the various methods of voice-culture are of more than passing interest
and should be read by every student of vocalism who is not confident
of his ability to discover charlatanism, or to justly estimate the quali-
ties that go to make up the great or successful teacher. Knowledge
may be power; but not always is the knowledge of technique joined to
the ability to apply principles to many and variously endowed pupils.
We quote from the preface to Mr. Walker's book :
** The bulky packet of my old letters which you gave me last year—
those sent you from Florence when I was studying singing in that
charming city — now returns to you in this form. They are published
with the sincere desire to make easier for others the way which for me
was fraught with difficulties. Those difficulties were not merely the
ordinary ones that beset the stranger in a strange land. Truly, they
are always many for the student who, not overburdened with money,
* GQuM, Scrilmer*! Sons.
and
00 THE LOOKER-ON,
and therefore anxioui to aoooinpliBb much in a short time, goee to a
foreign country provided with but meagre instruction aa to how be
may live there eafely and economically.
" Before such a ventun it is well.to know what preparation to make
for it, and especially how to avoid the pitfalls of charlatanism. Ite
unscrupulous, plausible wrecker of voices is found everywliere, but the
thoughtful student may learn how to avoid him at home and abroad.
" It is my earnest hope that these letters may be of interest and use
to many in our profession and to those desirous of entering it. To
some they may afford help to clarify things and theories about which
doubts have arisen. For others there is practical information about
the cost of living and studying in Italy ; and perhaps some will find
herein sympathy and encouragement, if they too work against great
disadvantages and grow weary and despondent upon that long, steep
path which must be travelled by whoever would arrive at any excel-
lence in vocal art.
' ' I have aimed to be fkir in my description of Italy as a land toward
which students of singing should continue to direct their steps. I am
always grateful for what the song-dowered country has given to me,
and the deep sense of my indebtedness to her has made it a pleasant
task to send back thus to your keeping the letters which recount the
experiences of my student-days in Florence. Written as they were to
you — ^the choicest of comrades— they may be helpful to some who,
like yourself, cannot turn from the nearer duties to travel afar. Such
may, perhaps, by some things in these pages, be at least aroused to
fresh enthusiasm for the greatness and beauty of the art of song.
'*Tou will remember that those old letters contained some things
which might possibly have been allowed to keep plaoe herein, had it
been my design to make a book acceptable to the widest conceivable
circle of readers. They.have been cut out to make room for whatever
was likely to be of more direct use to singers, to students of singing,
and to lovers of music generally. Still, with the belief firmly fixed in
my mind that every serious student needs to keep himself in touch
with all the arts and with all beauty, I have ventured to retain in my
pages some of the necessarily sketchy descriptions of things and scenes
which were to me valuable or beautiful. Many such details, which at
a first glance may seem extraneous to the main purpose of the book,
will perhaps ultimately be found confiuent with that purpose, and of
interest as having belonged to the daily life of a student who was in
great earnest to make all sources feed him in his growth into an
artist.
<* Florence was very beautiful to me, and all the Tuscan country
about had even more than the old charm in its hi^ways and byways.
Never before had the towers of the lovely city seemed to spring so
lightly into air so delicately asure, and never before had the valleys
and hills beyond her battlemented walls been so alluring. Around all
lay Italy— bright Italy, which has given me so much that now I cannot
do less than try in this poor fashion to win for her the affection and
interest of those who should surely love her for the sake of the art she
has ever cherished with true devotion.*'
By F. Towmskmd Sodtbwiok.
TBI ever-changiDg needa of & ILving language oecesailate not odIj
th« birth ot new word* for new !deM, but the impoeition of unac-
ouatomed burdens upon tha already overworked elder brothers in the
▼ocabulary.
The word Elocution stood, and yet ttands, for vocal culture for
speech purpoaea, and for the arts of reading and reciting in public Of
lata, the study of Pantomime— that is, expression by bodily action
alone — which is sacjondaiy to elocutionary expression, has come to
have, with many artists, greater prominence even than the voice.
Statue posing and exhibitions of pure pantomime have grown out of
the earlier rudimentary studies in posture and gesture. The influence
ot French art, in which pantoiniine has ever held an honorable place,
haa been felt in America, chiefly through the prominence given to
actiiHi by the disciples of Delsarte, until the word elocution, which is
aasociated in the minds of many with this as well as allied forms of
entertainment, is In danger of losing its apedflc and useful meaning of
vocal expression <u»i»ted by bodily action. Again, out of the needs
of training the body for ease, grace, repose, and precision in expression,
there has come into prominence a system of gymnastic exercises which,
originally designed tor artistic bodily development, have been fotmd
to be of great hygienic value, while answering to a greater degree
than others to the requirements ot thousands who, without ambition
to appear In public, wish to acquire a oertain degree of ease of manner
and grace of action in society.
This system differs fundamentally from others, not because of the
fwomioenoe given to any particular set of movements, but from the
fact that it is based upon and continually associates movement with
expfeMton. Originally, as bos been said, taught in conjunction with
IMntomimic expression, the Delsarte system of eeathetio physical cult-
ute to atill associated In the minds of Ute majority with elocution, and
no school of elocution pretends to ignore it.
Apart from the training of the reader and reciter, each ot the
braachea of study we have mentioned is equally useful in the prepara-
tion tor two other arts which, widely dissimilar in some respects, have
yet
92 THE LOOKER-ON.
yet much in oommon. These are Actiog and Oratory. Eloeotion and
Oratory are by no means synonymous ; the latter term includes much
that is not in the province of the former. Rhetoric, for example, and
the practice of extemporaneous speaking and debate, belong to
oratory exclusively. Again* the stage makes notably dilTerant r^-
qui rements from the platform, and these must be met by dilTerent
methods, or, perhaps one should say, by different applications of the
same methods.
Oratory and Acting are at the opposite poles of ezpressiTe art
Recitation, which partakes of characteristics peculiar to each, oocnpies
a somewhat undeflned position between them. In neither sphere are
the conditions of artistic success identical. The actor is rarely a good
speech-maker, nor always successful as a reader, while the clever
speaker, or even the best-equipped elocutionist, may fail utterly upon
the stage.
Nevertheless, these arts. Pantomime, Elocution, Oratory, Acting,
with all their diversity, have much more of unity. Whatever may be
their relative importance artistically or socially, they are all phases of
human expression, bodily and vocal, and the single word Expression,
in spite of objections that may be made to its use, seems destined to
hold its place as the inclusive designation of all arts of manifesting, by
the living body, the various activities of the mind or soul within.
It has been objected that the word includes too much ; that music,
painting, and literature are also expression. The musician says, '* I
teach musical expression, and so long as you are unable to do that you
have no right to the exclusive use of our common property in the
word.** One may answer that although the teacher of expression
may not be able to translate the laws of his art into the language of
musical theory, the laws are identical, and a precedent for the mo-
nopoly might be found in the tendency of painters and sculptors to
dignify their Art with a capital letter ; but it should be remembered
that our use of the word in a technical and restricted sense by no
means prohibits its use in the broadest possible application. So long
as there is no possibility of misunderstanding, no harm is done. If
the musician will permit us still to speak of a melodious voice, or a
musical tone, and the painter will allow musicians and elocutionists to
dabble in " color," as they have hitherto done, we will grant to all the
privilege of using our special designation, Expression, in any sense for
which the dictionary may be authority.
As a last resort, the teacher of " {esthetic physical culture, elocution,
pantomime, oratory, and dramatic art," may plead nature*s first law
of self-preservation in defence of his appropriation of a single word to
which no art seems to have a prior claim, and which will enable him
to convey to the casual inquirer the nature of his occupation in a
manner commensurate with the brevity of life.
ENOELBERT HUMPERDINCK.
THE LOOKER-ON
NOVEMBER, 1896.
HUMPERDINCK AND HIS OPERA.
By H. E. Keehbiel.
^^r^HEBE are few things in contemporaneous musical
^y history which invite the interest and irritate the
curiosity of the studious observer so much as a really
striking success in operatic composition. In the United
States, where opera exists only as an exotic, and where,
consequently, only one or two novelties are added to the
current list every year, and they such as already bear
the stamp of popular approval, public thought is not
directed to the wherefore of the additions. The case
is different in Germany, Italy, and Prance, where
every year hundreds of new operas are written, scores
are read and a few are chosen. There has been a
mighty revolution in the province of musical creation
since the beginning of the romantic era ; symphonies
are no longer composed in a day, or operas to order in a
month or less ; but it does not follow that the output, to
use an industrial phrase, is smaller now than it was in
pre-Beethovenian days. In fact it is probably greater
because of the much greater number of professional
musicans. Music is become a popular, a democratic
art- It is no longer the exclusive property of the Church,
as in its artistic manifestation it was prior to the seven-
teenth century ; or the pretty plaything of royalty and
nobility, as it became when secular interests acquired a
foothold in it, and as it remained until almost the begin-
ning of the nineteenth century ; and there are probably
ten musicians now to one in the time of Haydn. So,
although the difficulties of composition have grown since
contents became more important than form, the numer-
ical
106 THE LOOKER-Oir.
ical increase in practitioners, the enhancement of the
prizes to be won financially and socially, the extension
of institutions devoted to the cultivation of the art, and
other causes have combined to stimulate the productive
faculty as it never was stimulated before. There is
much talk of sterility, yet the a^ is not sterile ; but it
is extremely hard to please, and the tides of taste
change rapidly. Only geniuses of the first rank can
pursue their courses indifferent to the restlessness which
consumes the multitude around them. And such
geniuses were always few and must perforce become
fewer with the decadence of that ingenuousness of
appreciation and enjoyment which goes hand in hand
with the growth of technical mastery and the spirit of
criticism. It is a comforting reflection, however, that
in spite of the turbulence of the artistic sea, which lifts
mediocrity to the skies one moment only to engulf it
the next, something appears on the waves periodically
to prove that old principles still preserve their validity
and old impulses their force.
Of all recent operatic phenomena Engelbert Humi>er-
dinck' s ' ' Hansel and Gretel ' ' is the most interesting and
instructive. In several respects the work is unique,
the most remarkable, perhaps, being that while it treats
of a subject which comes from the nursery, and hereto-
fore might have been thought of for the stage, if at all,
only in connection with the old-fashioned Christmas
pantomime, its musical investment lifts it to a lofty
artistic plane, and consorts it with the lyric drama of
Richard Wagner. Ever since the death of the great
Oerman poet-composer the minds of critics and musi-
cal historians have been occupied with the question
whether or not progress in operatic composition was
possible in the direction pointed out by him. Of his
influence upon the style of composition throughout
the Occidental world there has been no doubt for several
decades ; but for the greater part it manifested itself in
the modification of old methods rather than the adop-
tion of new. In Gfermany , it is true, attempts have been
made
THE LOOKER-ON. 107
made to follow Ms Bystem, but though there have been
occasional proclamations of success (as in the case of
Cyril Kistler's " Kunihild,'' and Max Schilling's " Ing-
welde," for instance) in the end it has been found that
the experiments have all ended in failure. Naturally
enough the fact provoked discussion. If no one could
write in Wagner's manner, was there a future for the
lyric drama outside of a return to the style which he
had striven to overthrow ? If there could be no such
future did not the circumstance afford indubitable
proof of the failure of the Wagnerian movement as a
creative force? These questions were frequently an-
swered in a spirit antagonistic to Wagner, but the
answers were both over-hasty and short-sighted. It
needed only that one should come who had thoroughly
assimilated Wagner's methods, and who had the genius
to apply them in a spirit of individuality, to demonstrate
that it is possible to continue the production of lyric
dramas without returning to the hackneyed manner of
the opposing school. The composer who did this was
Humperdinck, and it is peculiarly noteworthy that his
demonstration acquires its most convincing force from
the circumstance that instead of seeking his material in
the myths of antiquity, as Wagner did, he found them
in the nursery.
While emphasizing this fact, however, it is well not
to forget that in turning to the literature of folk-lore
for an operatic subject Humperdinck was only Carrying
out one of the principles for which Wagner always con-
tended. The Mdrchen of a people are quite as much a
reflex of their intellectual, moral, and emotional life as
their heroic legends and myths. In fact they are fre-
quently only the fragments of stories which when they
were created were the embodiments of the most profound
and impressive religious conceptions of which the people
were capable. The degeneration of the Sun-god of our
Teutonic forefathers into the Hans of Grimm's tale who
could not learn to shiver and shake, through the Sin-
fiotle of the VoUunga Saga and the Siegfried of the
Nihelungerilied
108 THE LOOKER-ON.
NiheluTigerdiedy is so obvious that it needs no commen-
tary. Neither does the translation of Brynhild into
Domroschen, who is onr Sleeping Beauty. The progiess
illustrated here is that from myth to MdrcheUj and
Humperdinck, in writing his fairy opera, or nursery
opera if you will, paid tribute to German nationalism
in the same coin that Wagner did when he created his
'^ Ring of the Nibelung." The difference is not of kind
but of degree.
Everything about ** Hansel and Oretel" is charming
to those who can feel their hearts warm toward the
family life and folk-lore of Germany, of which we are,
or ought to be, inheritors. The opera originated like
Thackeray's delightful ^^ fireside pantomime for great
and small children^" ''The Rose and the Ring." The
composer has a sister who is Frau Adelheid Wette,
wife of a physician in Cologne. She, without any
particular thought of literary activity, has been in the
habit of writing little plays for production within the
family circle. For these plays Herr Humperdinck pro-
vided the music. In this way grew the first dramatic
version of the story of "Hansel and Gretel," which
everybody who has had a German nurse or has read
Grimm's Fairy Tales knows tells the adventures of a
brother and sister who, driven into the woods, lost
themselves there and fell into the toils of the Knusper-
hexe, that is the Crust Witch, who enticed little boys
and girls into her house of gingerbread and sweetmeats
and there ate them up. The original i)erformers of the
titular parts in the little play were the daughters of
Frau Wette. Charmed with the effect of the fanciful
little comedy, Herr Humperdinck suggested its expan-
sion into a piece with scope enough for theatrical pro-
duction ; and the opera was the result. It was brought
forward for the first time in public on December 23,
1893, in Weimar, and created so profound an impression
that it speedily took possession of all the principal
theatres of Germany, crossed the Channel to England,
made its way into Belgium and Holland, and is now
preparing
7 HE L OKER - OJST. 109
preparing at the Op6ra Comiqne in Paris. For this
surprising saccess, comparable only with that achieved
in recent years by "Cavalleria Rusticana," the credit
is chiefly dne to the mnsic, but the sweet simplicity of
the old nursery tale is so well preserved in the dramatic
version and the succession of scenes so artfully con-
trived that it would be unfair to undervalue Prau
Wette's collaboration.
"Hansel and Gretel " is not only Wagnerian in being
a draught from the well of German nationalism, but also
in its musical structure. Herr Humx)erdinck was person-
ally associated with Wagner during the last two years of
his life, and has ever since been identified with the festi-
val representations at Bayreuth. He was bom at Siegberg
on the Rhine, on September 1, 1854, the son of a teacher
at the local Gymnasium. After concluding his gymna-
sia! studies he spent four years at the Conservatory
directed by Ferdinand HiUer, in Cologne, and won
a free scholarship in the Conservatory at Munich.
Thither he went, and there spent two more years of
music study. A composition for chorus and orchestra,
" Die Wallfarth nach Kevlaar," won the first prize of-
fered by the Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy Institute, of
Berlin, which carried with it the means to travel in Italy.
At the Villa d' Angri near Naples, in the spring of 1880,
he met Wagner, who invited him [^to go with him to
Bayreuth and make a copy of the score of *' Parsifal,"
and to help prepare that drama for performance in 1882.
It was just such work as some of the best known of the
younger musicians of to-day had done under the super-
vision of the great regenerator of the lyric drama; notably
Anton Seidl, who acted as Wagner's artistic secretary
while the first Bayreuth festival was preparing. It has
fallen to the lot of Mr. Seidl to direct the musical portion
of ** Hansel and Gretel " in New York, and the fact has
a pretty significance in view of the similarity of the rela-
tionship which he and Herr Humperdinck bore toward
Wagner in the closing days of his life. As Seidl ma-
nipulated one of the machines which carried the Rhine
nixies
no THE LOOKER-ON.
nixies in the festival of 1876, so Hnmperdinck, I believe,
rang the bells of the Temple of the Grail in 1882. After
the " Parsifal " festival Wagner sought rest in Venice.
There, as a feature of the Christmas festivities which he
was planning, he intended to arrange a performance of
his youthful symphony in C which, while a member of
his household, Seidl had written out in score from the
individual parts found in the attic of Tichatschek^s
house in Dresden. Seidl was conducting the perform-
ances of the Richard Wagner Theatre in Berlin when
he received a letter asking him to come to Venice and
conduct the rehearsals of the orchestra of the laceo
Benedetto Marcello that had undertaken to play the
symphony on Prau Cosima Wagner's birthday. Seidl
accepted the invitation, but Angelo Neumann, the
director of the opera company, refused to grant him
the requisite leave of absence, and Seidl never saw his
master alive again. In his stead Hnmperdinck went to
Venice, where Wagner tried to secure for him the
directorship of the Idceo, but failed because of a change
in the political feeling between Italy and Germany.
Hnmperdinck then went to Barcelona to assume the
leadership of the Conservatory concerts there, afterward
to Cologne as professor of theory at the Conservatory,
and finally to Frankfort, where he is professor at the
present time; but meanwhile he has been active at all
the Bayreuth festivals, and Siegfried Wagner, whom
Seidl vainly tried to teach the pianoforte when he was
a lad, is Herr Hnmperdinck' s pupil in comi)08ition.
Fran Wagner is so interested in him and his opera that
she has herself undertaken at one of the German the-
atres to solve the scenic crux of the third act — ^the ride
of the witch on her broom-stick.
Hnmperdinck has built up his musical structure in
^^ Hansel and Gretel " in the Wagnerian manner, and he
has done so with such fluency and deftness that a musi-
cal layman might listen to it from beginning to end with-
out suspecting the fact, save from the occasional employ-
ment of what may be called Wagnerian idioms. The
little
THE LOOKER-ON. Ill
little work is replete with melodies nearly all of which
derive their physiognomy from two little songs which
the children sing at the beginning of the first and second
acts, and which are frankly borrowed from the folk-
song literature of Germany. These ditties, however,
and each of the lyrics which are united in the work,
contribute characteristic themes out of which the or-
chestral part is constructed; and these themes are
developed in accordance with an inter-related scheme
every bit as logical and consistent as the scheme at the
bottom of "Tristan and Isolde.'' As in that stupen-
dous musical tragedy and " The King of the Nibelung "
the orchestra takes the part played by the chorus in
Greek tragedy, so in "Hansel and Gretel" it unfolds
the thoughts, motives, and purposes of the personages of
the play and lays bare the simple mysteries of the plot
and counterplot. The careless joy of the children, their
freedom from fear in the presence of danger, the ap-
prehension of the parents, promise and fulfilment,
enchantment and disenchantment — ^all these things are
expounded by the orchestra in a fine flood of music —
highly ingenious in its contrapuntal texture, rich in its
instrumental color, full of rhythmical life — on the sur-
face of which the idyllic play floats buoyantly like a
water-lily which
" starts and slides
Upon the level in little puffs of wind,
Tho' anchored to the bottom."
It is a most engaging work, a refreshment to the mind
scorched and wearied with the fevered passions of
the one-act operas which came into vogue with it— a bit
of gentle fancy which, in this age of restless striving,
reflects the enduring childhood of art.
1 12 THE L O OKER - ON.
THE PRESERVATION OF OPERETTA.
By W. J. Hekbebson.
The present state of comic opera in America is some-
thing that must bring grave anxiety to lovers of that
delightful form of art. I use the expression comic
opera out of deference to popular si)eechy which ignores
the fact that Mozart's ^'Nozze di Figaro" and Verdi^s
'^ Falstaff " are comic operas and elects to dignify by that
title such notable works of art as "Wang" and "The
Princess Bonnie." Let us for the time, then, drop the
proper appellation, " operetta," and call it comic opera;
for Heaven knows it is comic enough, with that comedy
which runs so close to pathos. Operetta ought to be one
of the most artistic kinds of amusement placed before
the public. It is capable of the highest achievements
in literary and musical refinement, beauty and humor.
It is a form of amusement which, when at its best^
appeals to the most cultivated ladies and gentlemen and
equally to the workingmen and women. Yet, as a matter
of fact, nine-tenths of the operettas, or comic operas,
produced in this country at the present time are insults
to the average intelligence of any large community.
Of course every city is made up of a good many sorts
of human beings. It is undeniable that there is a public
for such stuff as "Wang" or "The Princess Bonnie,"
and the fact that such "works" draw money into the-
atres may be pleaded as a justification of their produc-
tion. But do they pay in the long run ? Do they draw
upon the taste of so laxge a part of the public ? Do they
establish reputation for the theatre or the manager!
The answer to these questions is found in the history of
the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas and the Savoy Theatre.
Would Mr. D'Oyly Carte's handsome London theatre
ever have gained the world-wide reputation it now
enjoys except by the constant production of the best
operettas!
THE LOOKER-ON. 113
operettas ? It is true that Mr. Carte has had failures
and that at times he has lost large sums of money. But
he has never lost his dignity; he has never blotted the
fair fame of his theatre; and he is to-day a rich man.
But Mr. Carte is a man of considerable cidture. He is
an educated musician, who, when he desires to hear an
applicant sing, can sit down at the piano and play the
accompaniment at sight. He is not merely an adventu-
rous speculator. He is a manager who knows the nature
of the materials in which he deals.
The history of the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas in
this country ought to be highly instructive to our mana-
gers ; but it is not. The first of these works to be pro-
duced here was "H. M. S. Pinafore," which James C.
Duff unsuccessfully laid before every manager in New
York before he went to my father and rented from him
the Standard Theatre. " Pinafore " ran five months at
the Standard, and its career was stopped only by the hot
weather. Most of that time it was running at four
other theatres in New York, while the country was
scoured with it by travelling companies. The result of
its success led to the production of other operettas at
the Standard. ^ ^ Patience ' ' ran six months, and against
the advice of my father, who was then D'Oyly Carte's
partner, it was taken off to make way for '^ Claude
Duval." I was business manager of the Standard at the
time, and I know what I am talking about when I say
that the last week's receipts of " Patience " were $6,300.
The operetta would have run a year if Mr. Charles
Harris had not carried his point with Mr. Carte.
I am quoting these facts for what purpose % Simply
to show that refined comic opera pays better than the
coarse and stupid vulgarity of the contemporaneous
kind. To appeal to the intelligence of a community is
to get a substantial response. It is an undeniable fact
that there are more persons in New York ready to go
to see such works as "Patience," "Olivette," "The
Mascot," '-'Die Fledermaus," and "Erminie," than
there are to enjoy such concoctions as " Wang," "Cas-
tles
U4 TBE LOOKER-ON.
ties in the Air," " The Ogallallas," or " Kismet." The
snccess of Smith and Be Koyen's ^^ Robin Hood " ought
to have taught onr managers a lesson ; but it did not.
It ought to have shown them that refinement, pictu-
resqueness, and pure melody were better qualities than
horse-play, cheap *^gags," exhibitions of the female
form, and music-hall ditties. But it did not.
What started oi)eretta down hill in this country! I
have no desire to speak evil of the dead ; but a r^ard
for truth compels me to say that in my opinion the
later methods of John A. McCauU are to be blamed.
One or two newspapers in this town are extremely fond
of referring to Mr. McCaull as *^the father of comic
opera" in this country. Mr. McCaull' s career b^an
with " Olivette," which was his first production. The
father of comic opera here was James C. Duff. Mr. Mc-
Caull did a great deal toward popularizing comic oi)era
in this city and throughout the country when he was
associated with Mr. Aronson in the first years of the
Casino. Mr. McCaull then had a good stock company,
and his productions were notable for general excellence.
But in his later days he x)ermitted the leading comedi-
ans of his comx)any to introduce all kinds of ^^gags,"
and De Wolf Hopper and Digby Bell, laboring under the
delusion that the general public was as much excited
about baseball as they were, accustomed their audiences
to hearing references to strikes and sliding to bases at
any period from the fall of man to the present, and at
any place from Moscow to the tombs of the Pharaohs*
It must be patent to any person who has carefully
watched the development of comic ox)era in this country
that the cause of its descent from the high plane on
which it started has been the increase of the influence
of the personal element. In the early days it was the
oi)eretta itself that the manager counted upon as his at-
traction, and he expended his efforts on securing a good
company and a high level of general excellence in the
performance. To-day the ^^star" system rules in the
field of operetta, and we are expected to enjoy in place
of
THt; LOO^Elt'Olr. 115
of the old artistic ensemble the personal methods of
some acrobatic comedian or the exposed charms and
eqnally exposed vocal antics of some would-be prima
donna. Men like Smith and De Koven are set to work
to build an operetta around the doll face and explosive
vocalization of Miss Russell, and the result is ^^The
Tzigane," an indescribable production of which the
libretto is a complete model of what a libretto ought
not to be, and the music, while at times forcible and
eloquent, is far away from the suave melody and charm
of " Robin Hood."
^^The Mikado" came as a note of warning about the
time that this star system was getting a firm hold on
the operetta stage ; but it does not seem to have warned
any one. It was an enormous success, and it was con-
ceded to be one of the most artistic comic operas ever
produced. But our managers failed to read its lesson.
The only effect its success had was to make them eager
to secure anything by Gilbert and Sullivan, even their
confessed failures. Mr. French, for instance, produced
"Utopia," a work utterly unsuited to America and in-
trinsically far below the standard of its authors. It failed
and Mr. French forthwith retired permanently from
the field of comic opera. To this day he does not know
why " Utopia" failed. He says that it was by Gilbert
and Sullivan, and therefore it must have been good !
It seems to me highly probable that if the productions
of oi)eretta in the next two years continue to be of the
same kind as they have been in recent times, this form
of entertainment will cease to have any attractiveness.
" Rob Roy" stands alone as the commendable product
of the last two years. Almost everything else has been
-pooTj especially in literary merit. It is a great pity
that so enjoyable a form of entertainment should be
I)ermitted to go to the dogs. What can be done for its
preservation!
In the first place let the newspaper writers do their
duty. Let them condemn all cheap rubbish, and let
them repeat again and again the assertion that this sort
of
116 THE LOOKER-On.
of thing is not good enough for the public. The man-
agers — ^and some of the librettists and composers, too—
have a theory that it is possible to write works that aie
too good for the public, and that it is necessary to write
down to the comprehension of amusement-lovers. What
utter nonsense 1 As if it were possible to produce any-
thing too good for a public that enjoys the comedies of
Bronson Howard, Pinero, Labiche, and Carleton, and
the music of Suppe, Strauss, Offenbach, and Audian!
The trouble is that the managers are not able to meas-
ure public taste. I am thoroughly convinced from their
labors and from conversations with them that there are
not three managers in the comic opera business in this
country to-day whose intelligence and taste are up to
the level of those of the general public.
It was the public which made the success of the
Offenbach works, of Audran's two good ox)erettas, of
the Strauss productions, and of the Gilbert and Sullivan
works. If any man, or combination of men, will pro-
duce to-day as good an operetta libretto as that of
"Die Fledermaus" it will meet vdth a high and satis-
factory measure of success. For after all is said and
done, the libretto is the more imi)ortant part of a comic
opera. The public will not sit through two hours and a
half of dreary inanity for the sake of hearing a dozen
bright and agreeable musical numbers. On the other
hand very ordinary music vnll satisfy the public demand,
if there is a good, sparkling comedy to refresh the mind.
It was the dull and uninteresting libretti that killed
"Ruddigore" and "The Yeomen of the Guard."
Yet there are managers who still quote the failure of
these works as evidence that the public does not appre-
ciate good comic opera, but would rather go to see Mr.
De Angelis in one of his numerous styles of falling down,
or Miss Fox in her lifelike impersonations of herself.
" Ruddigore" and "The Yeomen of the Guard" failed
not because they were good, but because their books
were stupid and not amusing, and Sir Arthur Sullivan's
music could not save them any more than Mr. De
Koven's
THE L OKER - ON. 117
Koven's music could save "The Kuickerbockers " or
" The Tzigane."
Unfortunately good music is easier to get than good
books. We have three or four composers who can
write good operetta music, and several more whose
work would always be accepted if accompanied by
good books. De Koven, Herbert, Englander, Chadwick,
Kerker, Puemer, and Edwards are names that will
readily occur to the lover of operetta as those of men
whose music pleases. But where are the librettists !
Even Sydney Rosenfeld, by far the cleveri?st of the lot,
has quite fallen out of sight lately. It is my belief
that he finds it more profitable to write plays. I know
that operetta managers have been offering absurd prices
for books, and at the same time asking the librettists to
sacrifice all their ideas to the stage-carpenter, the ballet-
master, and the star. These low prices are offered be-
cause the making of an operetta book in the present
condition of the comic opera stage in America is a pure
piece of hack-work. Books have to be written for Mr.
Wilson, Mr. Hopper, Mr. Seabrook, Miss Russell, Miss
Fox, Miss D' Arville, Miss Hall ; and all artistic ideas
have to be sacrificed in most cases to the star's personal
I>eculiarities and demand for the centre of the stage.
Mr. Wilson in producing "The Chieftain" has shown
a commendable desire to rise above the ordinary level.
It is a pity that he did not get a better libretto, for he
will probably blame good operetta in general for un-
favorable comment drawn forth by one weak book.
The preservation of operetta depends upon the estab-
lishment of a comic opera theatre with a good stock
company. There will then be a field for the best libret-
tists. At present there is none. The stock company
system is what has kept operetta up to a high level in
Germany, and it is what preserves it in England. In
Prance it has been going down hill ever since the stars
began to be in the ascendant. The best operetta that
has been produced in New York in some two or three
years is "Rob Roy," which was written for a stock
company.
118 THE LOOKER -ON.
comi)any. Perhaps the time ia not so far distant yfbm
some one of our managers will see what a good field
there is for a comic opera theatre condncted on princi-
ples similar to those of the Savoy Theatre, London.
But I do not know jnst now where we are to find an
American B'Oyly Carte.
Qtmos, Oomn db Gauvk.
)An adherent of the umrper
JVopoIom.
Ou-uiK RrocHB M" "■"'^ *" *^ """* "-^ **■
4 miyeaty, Louie XVUL
MimwiTOB Bmue. £ifa htpAness' man of buHnett,
) An attaehed and trvited major-
domo.
SBdonging to the rettnve tf the
great American heireea.
UaaVaaaoATimtAX i Qf Fairfaa> CoufUjf, Virgmia,
I betrothed to the prince.
M,^ F4IEF4X. i Mother </ the gr^ii, ^meriemi
( A«ireas.
M*nAiiii ^ DdCBBBSE DB ViBDAll. j
(>^^g^ An, <idft«rent q< fAs AoKW </
i>Hrin(r JVogxiieon's esriZe fo £S-
6a ond tA« bene^Ioent re^
"■* efhie moat groofama OM^ies-
^, Lowia XVUL, King of
*SMOe(cib«rl[iinibereC iBBLowa-OKfOr AotL
120 THE LOOKER-ON.
ACrn.
S0B3IS.— Solon of iht Chateau.
A large and etately apartment in t?ke &tifle of I/mU XIV,
At Centre a great window opening upon a mooniU terrau;
beyond the terras i$ men a dim vista of the garden. At
Bights between the doore^ it a great mirror. At Left a tabk.
At Right are eard»tabU$. There are doore at Ltft. Vn-
lighted eandiee are all about the room. The only light foBi
through the great window. Centre, from the moonlit garden.
The curtain rieee elowly to the tune, faintly played,
** Carry Me Back to Old Virginia.** Ae the curtain rim
Chloe ie seen standing in the great window. Centre, her tur-
bitned head thrown b<iek, eoftly winging to hermif.
Chloe. ** Carry me back, carry me back, carry me back to Old
Virginia ebo*,** etc
{A$ $he singe Virginia enters elowly, Left, pausing a» she heart
Chloe singing, and Hands listening tUl the song is ended.)
Virginia {as the song ends). Oh, Chloe t Chloe I you will break
my heart with that old aong. I am so homesick !
Chloe (taking Virginia in her arms and bending above her). Dare,
honey, dare ain't no country like it fo' to cure the homesidE heart
Doan* cry, honey, Chloe 11 take yo* home, Chloe *11 take yo' home.
(Then crooning softly as she soothes Virginia) :
** I aeea the blue Potomac a stretching far away,
I sees the blue Potomac a shining all the day,
I sees Virginia's wooded hUls,
I sees the May Viand sho',
I wants to go home to Viiginia to stay fo'ever mo'."
(As she sings C<zsar has entered and stands at Left, skakmg
his hand slowly, in time, as Virginia sobs on Chlot^s bread.)
Chloe (singing softly) :
*' Oh, honey, let me take yo', let Chloe take yo' home I
Where the laurel am a bloomin'.
And the swamp flowers soon will blow ;
Oh, honey, let me take yo' home ! Home to Virginia she' 1 "
Coisar (rubbing the tears from his eyes). Dare ain't no place like
home, sho' 'nuf.
Virginia. Oh, take me home, Chloe, take me home I
Chloe. Doan' cry, honey, doan' cry, child, we knows what's hesTj
on yo' heart and we knows that the good Lord won't forget his Miss
Virginia and Massa (Gaston.
Coesar. He won't forget Miss Virginia, 'cause He's seed her on her
own plantations, and He knows how good she is. He won't forget her.
Virginia. Hush, hush, Caosar, They are bringing lights. Chloe,
take me to my rooms,
Chloe,
'T/i
THE L OOKER - ON. 121
Chtoe. Yes, child, yes, honey. Dry yo* eyes ; lean on old Chloe*ii
Ccemir {oB he exiU singing gently) :
" I sees the blue Potomac a shining all the day," etc
(Exit Virginia and Chloe, Left, foUofwed by Ccuar. The muaie
dies. Enter Philippe, Right, toith lighted candle. He goes
silently about, lighting the candies one by one tiU the room
blazes with them. As he lights the last candle, enter Oaston
from Right.)
Cfaston (pausing). Philippe I
PhUippe (turning). Monsieur Oaston I
Chuton (advancing). What says the Prince, Philippe ?
PhUippe. Monsieur Gaston, he says nothing.
0€uton (turning away). And Mademoiselle— Mademoiselle Fairfax?
Philippe. I have not seen Mademoiselle Fairfax since she left the
terrace.
Qiuton (pacing the floor). I cannot bear the solitude of my own
rooms. Philippe, can I not see the prince ?
PhUippe. Monsieur le Ck>unt, his highness is engaged with his
Oaston (pausing). And Captain Fouche ?
PhUippe. Captflkin Fouche is engaged in watching the movements
of Monsieur le Count (bowing) at a respectful distance.
Oaston. I should have preferred arrest to this humiliation and em-
barrassment. Oh that I had never set my foot in France again, or
that I had never left my country to find such happiness, such sorrow
in America I
Philippe (gently). Monsieur Oaston I
Oaston. Ah, Philippe, it is not easy to resign one's hope, to recon-
cile one's heart to such a fate 1
PhUippe. 1 know, monsieur. (Looking Centre.) Captain Fouche I
(Enter Captain Fouche through the great window, Centre, from
terrace.)
Oaxton (bowing as he turns). Monsieur le Capitain.
Captain (bowing). Monsieur le Count. Philippe !
PhUippe. Has monsieur commands?
Captain. Bring writing materials.
(PhUippe bows and exits. Left,)
Fkmche (after a pause). Monsieur le Count is conscious that my
position is most difficult.
Oaston. Sir, I am aware of it.
Foticlie. 1 will inform Monsieur le Count that I am about to write
to Paris for further and more positive instructions.
Oaston (shrugging his shoulders). Your confidence does me honor.
Fouche. 1 am powerless to act in this matter without further in-
structions from the prefect of police. I dare not take upon myself
the responsibility of openly opposing the Prince de Montbraison, He
recognises me only as his guest.
Oastoun
US THE looker-on:
Qadon* How tooBy monsiflur, will jou reoeiye th« narimry in-
■tractions?
{EnUr FMtlppe^ Left, with wriiitig materiaUt which Ju plaea
Ofi table. Left.)
Fhilippe* Bmb monsieur further commands ?
t\imehe» Summon one of my guards, Qo out by the window, Toa
will find them near the chateau.
(Exit PhUippe, Centre,)
nuehe {turning to Oaaion a$ he eeate himedf towHte), Pardon me,
Monsieur le Count, I shall receive the neoCTwnry instructions upon the
return of the messenger who bears this note to Paris.
(He vfHtet,)
Oaeton, Should I escape meanwhile 7
Foudie (paueing). No one should more heartily congratulate yoa
than Captain Fouche.
(To eoidier who eqppeare in the window^ Centre,)
Order the guard doubled* Place sentinels upon the terraces I
Soldier* Should the prisoner attempt to pass the line?
F^m^he. Fire on him I
(The eoidier mdutee and exite,)
Fouehe (to Oaeton). Monsieur le Count, I am compelled to do my
duty.
Oiuton* Sir, were I an officer in his majesty's army I could pursue
no other course.
(The eoldier reappeare at Centre,)
Soldier (ealuHntf). The guard is doubled !
Fouehe (to oMier)* One moment 1
Qaaton (botving ae he tvme away). Monsieur le Capitain, I leave
you to your correspondence.
(Exit Gaston, Sight. The Captain writee on in eHenee, then
folding the letter, eeale it, addreeaee it. Then to the aoldier)
Foudie. You will deliver this letter to the prefect of police t
(Aehe epeake Virginia i» Been at the door at Left. Shepaueee
there, listening.)
You will say that I cannot act without imperative orders; you will say
what measures I have'taken to prevent the escape of the prisoner; yoa
will make all haste to Paris and deliver this letter to the prefect of
police in person I You will return ?
Soldier (ealuting). Within the hour !
Fouehe. So then I
(Exit eoldier. Centre,)
Virginia (aa ehepausee in the door, Left). May I speak with yoa,
Captain Fouehe?
Fottehe (rising hastUg a$ he sees her). Your pardon, mademoiseUe.
Virginia (entering). I— I have an interest in Monsieur de (halves-
may I ask what will befall him should he suffer this arrest?
Fouehe. Imprisonment, I fear, mademoiselle.
Virginia^ A long imprisonment ?
Fouehe.
TEE LOOKER'Oir. 123
FowHie (shrugging hU sTundders), Who knows ?
Virginia, It could not be imprisonment for life?
Fauehe (shrugging his shoulders). Again, mademoiselle, who
knows?
Virginia, la there no hope, no chance of his escape?
Faueh€, Mademoiselle must judge I
{As he speaks he puints to window^ Centre. A sentry passes
sUjfwly before it in the moordight.)
Virginia (sweeping up stage). They dare not fire on him !
Fouche. Such are their orders I
Virginia (turning hack). Whogires such orders? Who has dared?
Fouehe (povnng). Mademoiselle, Monsieur le Prefect of Police I
(The prince stands in the frtndoto. Centre, euperbly dressed. He
leans upon his cane, a fleur-de-lis held lightly in his hand.)
Frinee. My dear Fouche— still harping on that vulgar person.
(As he slowly advances)
Tut I tut I my dear Fouche, tut I tut I
(Fouche and Virginia how low.)
In my time such persons were not talked of in good society.
(Ae he takee snuff.)
F^ouehe. Tour highness will pardon me
Prince. I pray you do not mention it.
^Ottc^. I must instruct the guard— mademoiselle.
(Virginia courtesies to him.)
Prince (detaining him). My good Fouche, you are my guest. If it
amuses you to place guards about the chateau by all means place them.
Enjoy yourself in your own way. My guests are unrestricted I
Fouche. Sir, it is my duty.
Prince. Tut I tut t my dear Fouche, tut ! tut ! Duty is a word
much misapplied, a tissue strong through inclination only.
(Fouche bows low and exits. Right. For a moment there is a
pause; both are at a loss.)
Prince (seeing the flower in his hand). Mademoiselle, will you ac*
oept this fleur-de-lis ? I plucked it as I crossed the terraces, plucked it
with my own hands for you.
Virginia (Jiesitates). I thank your highness.
iVffiee. You will accept the flower?
Virginia (taking it). It has no perfume, prince, but it is beautif uL
(She toysufith the flower andstands embarrassed for amoment^
then looking up)
What can I say to your highness ? Shall I tell you again
Prince (gently). Mademoiselle, believe me, you cannot tell me any*
thing I do not know, nothing that I do not imderstand. Let me en-
treat you to say nothing on this most painful subject.
Virginia (forgetfully plucking at the flower in her hand). Captain
Fouche but now despatched a messenger to Paris to the prefect of
police!
Prince (who winces as Virginia tears theflowsr). May I implore,
mademoiselle?
124 THE LOOKER'Oir.
mademobelle? Lei m admire the moonlit terrace— the patk by
moonlight hat been much commended.
{A»he9peak9hetumBtothewindow, TkemntrjfaUM^pacu
bjf* The prince etarte back,)
Hon Dieu 1 How cold the night air grows I
{Taking enuff.)
I must atk Foiiche if tlie prefect of police is a man of family. Hon
Dieu I It ie said that Heaven protects the fatherless, bat I fear there
are exceptions to all rules.
Virginia (etiU plucking at the flower). Your highness does not
know that the guard is ordered to fire upon Monsieur de Ckdves shouid
he attempt to leave the chateau I
.^"iiioe. Mademoiselle 1 Your lips alone could tell me such a thing !
Fire on the Count de Qalvez I Fire on my guest I My grandson I
Virginia (the Bhattered flower falling to the floor). It is the order
of the prefect of police I
Prinee, The prefect of police t Canaille t Does he think these are
the days of the Conunune? By St. Denis I By my royal blood !
{He cheeke himeeift one hand trembling on hie eane^ hi* ward
half drawn.)
Virginia, Your highness I
Prince. Your pardon^ mademoiselle^ a gentleman should never
lose his temper. Bat the provocation I Mon Dieu I The provoca-
tion!
Virginian May I tell your highness that I loved (Gaston de Galvezf
May I entreat your highness to save him ?
Prince. And you, mademoiselle?
Virginia. I— I shall confide my future, my life to him who could
do this for me with perfect faith, with absolute trust* knowing that
my Father in heaven
{The Prince bowe low,)
would not be more just to me, or kind to me than my husband.
{She movee elowly^ Left,)
Prince {offering hie hand). Mademoiselle, permit me to lead yon
to the door.
{Slowly and with great ceremony he leade her to the door at
Left; bowe low above her hand. Exit Virginia^ Left,)
Prince (as hepaueee, glancing after her, then elowly tume into the
Salon). She loves him, she has not foigotten— she never will forget
( Hepaueee again, eeeing the flower upon the carpet.)
My fleur-de-lis I My gift. The flower I plucked with my own hands,
broken, shattered, tossed aside,
{He tume it with hie cane.)
forgotten.
{He tume away.)
I— I feel the heat— the air oppresses me— *tis stifling— Philippe— nay—
I will not call— the fresh air will revive me.
{He leane againet the window, breathing unevenly.)
Twas
THE LOOKER-ON. 126
but the heat. I need not call Philippe.
(He stands silently a moment^ tJien elowly eta though thinking)
How fair the garden is, and yet she could not wander with me down
those moonlit paths, breathing the heavy fragrance of the flowers,
her thoughts all poems and those poems all of love, for I— I am not
young, and youth alone knows such delights. I was a hero once, I
once was yoimg, and I remember,
(Turning elowly into the ealon,)
I remember.
(Seeing the fleur-de'lia.)
Poor flower, if younger hands had plucked, you would not lie neglected
there.
(He stoops and taking up the flower places it in hie breast.)
I had hoped that her love might make me young again. If it were
mine I know I should grow young. It will be mine. Did she not say
" I shall, with perfect faith, confide my future, my life, to him who
could do this for me " ?
(Pausing t half startled, he repeats)
"With perfect faith— with perfect faith I "--Mon Dieu! I— I blush to
think that Henri Louis Fran9ois de St. Honore D*Qrleans, Prince de
Montbraison, could for one moment hesitate to answer faith with
faith I Mademoiselle I
(Calling as he moves quickly Left,)
Nay ! (pausing) I will not play the hero I I— I will be the man I Fouche
has sent a messenger to Paris to the prefect of police ! I too will
write I I will write to my cousin the king !
(He sits at table. Left, and writes rapidly in sUenoe, The soldier
paces beyond the window in the moonlight. The Prince
pauses, strikes a bell on the tcU}le, writes on. Enter Philippe.
Bight.)
JPkQippe. Your highness?
Prince. A letter I It needs but my signature.
(WrUing.)
Henri Louis £ran9oiB de St. Honore D^Orleans, Prince de Montbraison.
(Scrateh, scratch, scratch, all flourishes made boldly across
the paper,)
The waxt
(Rising, he folds the letter and seals it, Philippe holding the
wax as the princess fingers tremble.)
Instantly I Without delay t In my name I To the king t
Philippe (bounng to the earth), I will despatch the swiftest courier I
Prince (as Philippe reaches the door). Philippe !
Philippe. Your highness?
Prince. The courier I Then bid my guests assemble here.
Philippe. Monsieur Gaston (hesitating).
Prince. Must I repeat bid all my guests ?
Philippe (bounng). Instantly t
(ExU Philippe, Bight.)
Prince
ii6 tSB tOOJ^R'Olf.
FHmm {after a MoaMiif « paiite). It is the lint favor I have evvr
Mkedtheldiigtognuitme. He cannot refnta. MonaieorlePrefactof
Ftoliceahall know with whom ha deala. Bat ahotdd his majeaty refuse?
MonDieal I wiU not think of it I
(A 9igk» at h$ adlfugU hi» r%ffUM and er t mma to the mimrt
Bightf amd aianding htfctt U arr an ffe $ hi» toilet ^ humming
o 01^ UitU Jf)reneh mmg in a eraeked voice. SuddaUjf he
jMNcaet, the twne diet from hit lipt.)
Ayl What? MonDieal Awrinklel It ia mpoeaible I Tie deariy
marked. Is it that I have amfled too mach? One moat be gradons.
(9§tMtg.) Nay. That I have frowned too much? (JVoi0fitN{^.) Naj,
nay, *tis aome bad cometio— I will change the make.
{HaiftadJtf)
And yet one cannot always remain yoong. I moat learn how to grow
old gracefully. But *tia a strange sensation when one disooTers one's
first wrinkle. Tis a sad revelation.
(Alter the dwohett^ Ltft.)
Duehttt {impaHuUl^t at the erottt% the takm). Henri I
Frinet{tvfniimgaffdblif\, Marie— mon Diea I How charming. F^
mit me to compliment your toUet, and yoar beaaty I Twas never
more distinguished than to-night.
Duehett. A trace to compliments I
{Atwimdow^ Cbitre.)
You see these guards? Yoor ch a t eaa is sorroanded I Yoar guests
hamiliatedl Gaston cannot esci^ I (Mi» Henri, what shall you do?
Primee (taMig tnuff). Madame, my doty.
Dudhett. Yoa shall not put me oflfl Answer mel What shall
you do?
Prinot. Madame, I have answered you I I— Henri Louis FranfiNS
de St. Honore D*Orleans, Prince de Montbraison, will do— my duty I
(Ailsr PhUippt, Left.)
JXros. My guesto, Philippe?
FhOippe. 1 am come to announce them.
{Openi$tg wide the door at Left.)
Mnee. Let there be music on the terrace, we may dance to-nighi
(Ai he tpeolet enter Mrt, Fairfax and Virginia^ Ixft^ Oatton
and Captain Fouehe^ Eight.)
Duehett (ofide taiih turprite). Gaston I
Prinee. Madame 1 Mademoiselle I Will not Colonel Alexsnder
join us?
Jfrt. Fairfax. Colonel Alexander joins us soon. He is engaged
with Monsieur Burns in drawing up the marriage contracts.
iVInce. His task needs no excuse. Madame, will yon indulge me
with a game of cards? We play each evening.
Jfrt. Fairfax {turning). Yirginia, you will play with his highness?
Virginia {turning tlowly). You called me, mother?
Prince. Nay, nay, Madame Fairfax, I shall lose to you. Captain
Fodche, Madame la Duchess shall be your antagonist
{FhQippe arranget ehairt at tabtet^ Right.)
Prince
THE LOOKER'Oir. 127
IVIfiM. Let U8 sit.
(Ab Philippe moves Bight to exit)
Philippe, let there be music on the terrace; it will complete the beauty
of the night.
(Exit PhUippe, Bight.)
Prince (dealing earde aa he eite at tahU^ Bight, He eita in such a
poeition thai it ia possible for hvn to obaerve Oaaton and Virginia,
who stand at Left), What is the latest gossip of the court ?
Jfrs. Fairfax (glancing at her carda). Tis said the king suffers
from a slight indisposition.
Prince. Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu I It is not possible I I wager
twenty francs I
Ducheaa (to Fouche). You did not tell me that his majesty com-
plains. Who has attended him?
Fouehe. Doctor Radieu.
Ifra. Fairfax. Doctor Badleu? An excellent practitioner. I my-
self gave him Lady Washington's fkyorite prescription for the ague.
Prince* Tou win, madame.
Ifrt. Fairfax (ahuffling and dealing). Tour highness may now
have revenge. Ah, hark ! how sweet the music is I
(Jftiste sounds without.)
Oaston (aa he atanda with Virginia by the great window listening
to the music^the prince watching them as he plays^^cuide). And this
— this then shall end our dreams, Virginia?
Virginia (aside to him as she stands in the window). My word is
pledged. Tes, this is the end— all dreams end so.
(Half turning.)
Chsston (aside to her). You remember that evening when the
moonlight lay like gold upon the silver of the river, and the swamp
magnolias scented all the air, and one white bud that I had plucked
for you lay on your breast.
Virginia (dreamily). I have it still, but *tis all yellow now.
Ckuton. You loved me once ?
Virginia. Gaston, I need not tell you that again— I must not now.
Qation. The prince knows this ? Knows of our love ?
VirginicL. He knows of it.
(She stands, plucking at the leaves of a vine that trails by the
window.)
Prince (as he plays). Captain Fouche I
Captain (dealing). Your highness !
Prince. I trust I do not interrupt your play. Who sings in the
new opera?
Fouche. It is postponed. Mademoiselle Felice has a cold and can-
not sing.
Prince. A national calamity t My poor Felice I Mon Dieu I A
most charming creature. I must send to inquire after her health.
Mon Dieu I I really must. Marie, I charge you not to let it slip my
mind I
Dudhess
i
U8 THE LOOKSR-ON:
DrntkemiwUk aaperU^ What cam jowt hlghiwm for singenat
iBMOflifot
I hav* DO UnM of life I
Jfrt. Fiairfax. Tour highiw— kM6s onoa again.
iViaoB. ^Agaiii I And how fkraa G^taia Fooehe ? He wins?
/badbe. Naj» he loav* f oUowiag your highneaa's had eanmple !
iViaee. The ladiea are Tietoriocis in everything; their amilei be-
guile and blind na I
Jfra. JVxtr/ttB. Flattervl
Gatiom (ofide to FiryMa). And yon ahall not regret this step?
VirgMa {atide). My word is pledged.
OoaUm* But does your heart oonaent? Tell me« Virginia I
Virginia {tumimg from tk€ window and cro§9img to Ltft om tft<
speoJks). Ton hare no right to question me I will not answer yoo.
Mrt^Faiirfaat. When does your highneas entertain the king 7
lV«ioe(wJbo kastsoldbscllAe aoene Mioeen Qiu^Um ftmd Vtrgtaia).
Ah, pardon. His majesty will be my guest for n few days while he
hunts.
Jfri. Fairfax. Tou will show him the splendors of the Chatisaii de
iVtaoe. Splendor, madame, perished from the earth with Le Grand
Monarqoe. "Tie but a fragment that Is left to us.
Jfrs. Fairfax. A great king, but I fear not a good man.
PrimcB. Depend upon it, madame, God will think twice before
damning a man of his <iuality I
Gaston (aside, /oOoi9lny Virginia^ ^^^\ Ton will delay, you will
not sign the contract?
FtryMa (aside). I haTe pledged my word !
Gaston. At least I will not be a witness to the act t Adieu I
{At he speaJkf As funis. Centre,)
ynrginiaiaM/Bquiiciklg). Tou cannot pass the guards I
ChuUm. They shall not keep me !
Virginia. They will fire I
Gaston. Let them I I care not I
FIryinia. Gaston I
OaaUm. Adieu.
(Breaking from her he turns to Centre and panmB a» hsstandt
oomfronUd hg the prinee. Foiuche and the ladiee have
risen.
Fouche (half advancing). Monsieur !
Prinee (waving Oaeton gracefully hack). Tut I tut I my deer
Fouche, tut I tut I Calm yourselves 1 The figure at the window
was but one of Fouche's guards. Oaptain, you must make your peace
with the ladies for this fright.
(Stepping out upon the terrace—iomuekiane)
The minuet.
Duchese* Your highness does not mean to dance.
iVinoe
TSE LOOKEM'Oir. 189
jPrinMiJbowing OBhe standain tcindoWf Centre, against theshadows^
his shauldera shrugged). Madame la Duchesse, if I am not already old
eiLOug:h to know my own mind I despair of ever attaining to years of
discretion.
{Advaneling aa the music sounds without.)
Madame Fairfax, your hand I Qaston, mademoiselle will honor you.
F\mche {to duehess). Madame will dance ?
(The duchess lays her hand in his.)
Oasion (aside to Virginia). How often we have danced together I
This is the last time I may ever take your hand in mine.
Prinee. Madame I
(Slowly and graeefuUy they dance the minuetf the sentinel
crossing and recrossing the window. Centre, as the music dies
and the dance ends. Enter from Left Colonel Alexander and
Monsieur Buras. They carry papers in their hands, which
they place upon the table. Left.)
CdUmeL Your highness, it is my pleasure to inform you that the
marriage contracts await your signatures. As Miss Fairfax's g^uardian
and representative, I am content.
MoneieuT Buras (adSusting his gkuses). All proper forms have
been compiled with. The signatures aJone are necessary.
CdUmel (to Virginia). Mademoiselle ?
Ckuton (aside to Virginia). It is the end I
Virginia (aside as she moves slowly Left). Forgive me, and— and
forget.
(She hesitates, leaning for support upon a chair.)
Duchess (starting forward). Mademoiselle Fairfax is pale I
(Enter soldier right. Unnoticed he gives letter to Fouche.)
Fou^ (aside). From Paris?
Soldier (saluting). From the prefect of police.
Fouche (aside as he reads). Quard all the doors I
(Sfkdier salutes and exits Right.)
Prince (advancing and taking Virginians hand, he leads her slowly
to the table. Left). Mademoiselle Faii^ax is not paie I-nnt here— a pen
—where does mademoiselle place her signature?
Maneieur Buras (pointing with his finger as he smooths the parch-
ment). Mademoiselle signs here.
(Soldiers appear at doors and at the window. Centre. Philippe
enters at Right unobserved and crosses to the prince.)
Fouche (advancing). Your pardon I I am ordered instantly to
I arrest Oaston, Count de GhJvez, and to convey him with all speed to
I Paris!
Prince (aside). 'HLj messenger t
(Philippe bows low as he presents the letter. The princess hand
trembles as he takes it from the salver.)
Prince (to Virginia). Sign, mademoiselle I
(Virginia signs.)
Fowiie (erouing to Ocuion, lie lays his hand on his shoulder, as the
prince
ISO THS LOOKEROir.
pHmM wtf* t n m b U»g jhgw opena the UtUr. Uonrienr le Ooont, jen
" IT I Caoam, air I
wtoOtuton.)
Primoi (fmrmbtQ gr^mdlfy, Yaar p«rdon t Wbftt mema» ttu> out
ngat TbMtioldiMiI Let them withdnw I
FomtAt. It ta impoilbto I A meMBnggr bnt now brings wtei
from tb» prafact ol police I Tour highnww must appeal to him I
PHmee. J^pe«l I Henri Looia Praafvia de Bt. Hooore D'Orleao^
Prinea da MoBtbniaoB. sniaal to the iKvfect of police? Sirl Too
will aK7to Mcoaiear la Prafact of FoUoe that myooaBin tba iangit
pleaaed to inwinlwiiiaiKl hia order*, and that be grants free azul entirr
pardon to Oaaton, Coont da Galves I While mf cousin the Hug n-
maina upon tba tbrona of Prsaoa it is naoeoessary for the Piiaee
de MoatbralsoB to appeal to tha clemency of Honaieur le Prefect of
Polieal
(He hands fks laHer proudly to the attain, who botos totk
earth tn tUemee, tumbtg owcv-)
TlMpenll
Jfoasinir B. Yoor hlghaeaa ahoold sign here.
PHnee (doaUifr Mt pea acpoai the paper and writing n^ldlf). I
see tba placet
JfoMimrS. Kot there r
Oosfoa (wftt/aeliiv). I thank your bigfaiteaa. I— X will go siaee
I am free.
JVtees. Stay, tir I Your signature 1
Oaettm (ttartitg). Ky slgnatareT
PriH«e, Your name is wi this contract I
Virginia, Oh, prince t
Prince (<u Oatton heeOatet). It but awalta your signature 1 Toar
gallantry 1 DoyondelayT
(Bit geat^ forvee Oatton info the teat, and jtloeea thepeit hi
kiikoad.)
Place your name there by hers.
Oostoii. AndyouT
Frtnee. Hon Diea I Hare I not pleased the ladie* ? What more
oaa any gentleman desire r
{A» Virginia attt Ooston teane above the contract, pen is
Aoad, hit head near her», the prince mavee hie handkerehi^
grae^fvUg above their head* ae a bteeaing, and takee eitmf
at
CUBTAIN.
TaJE LOOKER-ON. 131
A DRAMA AS A WORK OF ART.
By Wm. H. Fleming.
Abt is founded upon Nature, of which it is the imi-
tation, OP, to speak with greater precision, the represen-
tation, re-presentation. Conformity to Nature, there-
fore, is the primary test of perfection in Art. Nature
is the criterion by which all works of Art must be
judged.
There can, I think, be no dissent from the proposition
tliat Art is founded upon Nature. Albert Diirer " was
X>erhaps the first European artist who studied Nature
carefully for its own sake, and with a view to making
it a subject of Art." The result of that study is ex-
pressed in these words : " Depart not from Nature,
neither imagine of thyself to invent aught better, for
Art standeth firmly fixed in Nature, and whoso can
thence rend her forth, he only possesseth her." Near-
ly three centuries later Sir Joshua Reynolds wrote:
** We can no more form any idea of Beauty superior to
Nature than we can form an idea of a sixth sense, or of
any other excellence, out of the limits of the human
mind. Nothing can be so unphilosophical as a suppo-
sition that we can form any idea of Beauty or excellence
out of or beyond Nature, which is, and must be, the
fountain-head from whence aU our ideas must be de-
rived." This truth forms the sum and substance of
"Modem Painters." Ruskin, speaking of that work,
says : "Prom its first syllable to its last, it declares
the perf ectness and beauty of the work of God, and tests
all work of man by concurrence with, and subjection to,
that."
While it is true that Art is based on and must be
true to Nature, the inference does not follow that there-
fore
182 THE LOOKER-ON.
fore Alt is only a representation of Nature. It must be
like Nature, but that likeness is only relative. Nature
is continually changing ; is in flux, is protean. Forms
and colors are in process of evolution. Even those arts
which have motion — c.gr., Poetry, Music — cannot repre-
sent Nature more than approximately. Art, therefore^
cannot imitate Nature absolutely. Nor should it. The
function of Art is not imitation but idealization. The
appeal is to the imagination. Of the work of Art we
can say, as Theseus did of the acting of the Athenian
mechanicals : '^ The best in this kind are but shadows :
and the worst are no worse, if iifuiginalion amend
them.^^ "Art," says Hegel, "is no mere imitation or
mirroring of Nature. It is a transcendence of Nature,
i.e. J of the actual. Every great artistic work must
have Nature for its basis and its starting-i)oint ; but in
proportion to its greatness it rises from this foundation.
It lives and moves, as it were amphibiously, in the two
worlds of the actual and the ideal."
The material world is but a mirror which reflects
something that transcends itself. It is the expression
of the mind and feeling of the Creator. It is " The
Gkurment of Life which the Deity wears." God mani-
fests Himself in Nature. Similarly the artist expresses
himself in his work. He, like Gk>d, is a creator. His
creative work, i.e.j the art-product, be it a building, a
statue, a picture, a symphony, a poem, is the medium
through which he reveals his innermost thoughts and
feelings. In it he expresses those ideas, moods, visions,
which the aspects of Nature awaken in him. " A work
of Art is not made up of, or exhausted in, a series of
lines, curves, surface-forms, colors, sounds. It is noth-
ing if it does not disclose feeling and thought (mind)."
As before said, not imitation but idealization is the
supreme function of the artist. "Art," says Bacon,
"is man added to Nature." The artist, if great, por-
trays Nature truthfully, with a subtle, indefinable
ideality which is his own. The work of art is
like
'« ... the
THE LOOKER'Oir. 133
'* . • . the pools that li«
Under the forest bough
In which the lovely forests grew,
As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any spreading there."
The analogy between Nature and Art is not limited
to appearances, snperfices. It extends much deeper
and further — ^viz., to growth in Nature, composition in
Art. In each case the source is not external but inter-
nal. In a plant, a bird, it is the life within which finds
expression in growth ; in an art-product the source of
composition is what Schiller has described as "der
SpteUrieb, ' ' the play-impulse. The animal works when
a privation is the motor of its activity, and it plays
when the plenitude of force is this motor, when an ex-
uberant life is excited by action. When not hungry
the insect flits about in the sunlight, the bird sings,*
the lion roars. A man when well fed and vigorous is in
a plus condition. This superabundance of vitality
expresses itself among savages in a crude attempt at
decoration, among the highly civilized in Art. In the
former it is sensuous, in the latter it is sesthetic play.
The source in each is the same.
This activity is independent of any pressure of ma-
terial need. It is indulged in for its own sake. It is
sx)ontaneous. As Herbert Spencer expresses it : " The
higher but less essential powers, as well as the lower
but more essential powers, thus come to have activities
that are carried on for the sake of the immediate grati-
fication derived, without reference to ulterior benefits ;
and to such higher powers, aesthetic products yield
those substituted activities as games yield them to vari-
ous lower powers." In this respect the activity which
manifests itself in the play of the higher animal, a
primitive man, a savage is similar in essence to that
^ Socrates wmju those who think BwaiiB sln^ as death approachea beeanae they
bewail death are In error, ** and do not reflect that no bird ainga whan it is hungtjt or
cold, or afmotad with an^ other patai,'* m<|. Fhado, 85.
exercised
1S4 THS looker-on:
exercised by the nuui of cultore in the production of
the greatest work of Art. The difference is not one of
essence, but of degree. The play-impulse has develoj^ed
into the art-impulse.
Further, the play-impulse and the art-impulse are
similar in that both are imitative.* The play-impulse
finds expression among animals in such gambols as
simulate its serious activities — e.g.j search for prey;
among savages, in games which imitate those activities
which are necessitated by the struggle for existence, or
by warfare — e.g.y the mimic chase or mimic fighting.
*' All simple, active games," says James, ^^ are attempts
to gain the excitement yielded by certain primitive in-
stincts, through feigning that tiie occasions for their
exercise are there." The art-impulse manifests itself
in an imitative delineation of the beautiful in Nature.
Between the two, however, there is one well-defined
difference. Play does not manifest itself in Art until
there is in it an element of order. Hence there is no
Art among animals. The caper of the savage becomes
a dance only when there is rhythm, the shout a song only
when there is melody. ^^ The beautiful cannot have its
origin in tumult, in the simultaneous reverberation of a
crowd of sounds in which the ear can distinguish no
measure or harmony, nor can the plastic arts discover
it in the mere wanton medley of colors and of lines."
Order is an essential, in fact the primal quality, of
the work of Art. It is the presence ol this quality which
distinguishes the expression of the play-impulse of the
man of culture from that of the animal or the savage.
To recapitulate: man i)08sesse8 a life which is sensual
and is conditioned by material needs. Coexisting
therewith he possesses a life which is emotional, spirit-
ual. Each manifests itself at times in action. This
action possesses the two qualities, spontaneouaness,
imitativeness. In the less evolved, the sensuous, this
action is play. In the highly evolved, the intellectual
and spiritual, this action is Art.
#**^imtUkt6,tlMii, toinstincUTelniiuui. By this he to dtaHngniriied ftvm ocbier
^^\^m.\m that he to, of All, the most ImitatlTe, and throoffh thto inrthiet raoslvvs hto
earUMtedooatioiL*' Artototle,**Poettos,**|Matl.,ieoUoiiT.
Art,
THE LOOKER-ON. 136
Art, then, being based npon Natare, its sonrce being
an impulse common to animals and men, and the work
of the artist being in essence or character similar to that
of the Creator, each being the expression of thought,
feeling through a material medium which appeals either
to the eye or ear, it necessarily follows that the methods
followed by the artist must be similar to those followed
by God in creation. The laws which regulate the pro-
duction of a work of Art are similar, absolutely similar,
to those which govern the growth of a flower, a tree, a
bird, an animal, a man. The artist's model, therefore, is
Nature and her processes. Nature must be the pattern
for all his forms of hue, or tone, or curve. The architect
for his shapes and forms, his outUnes and exquisite
grace of curve, imitates, with more or less modification,
those which are everywhere visible in the material
world. The painter for his colors and the way they
should be combined imitates those found in the flowers,
the opal, the morning and evening clouds before or after
rain. The musician in his quest of beauty bom of sound,
for his melody and harmony, imitates the soxmds of
wind and ocean, the singing of birds, the human voice.
The highest product of creation is man. He, both
physically, intellectually, spiritually, is the ideal Art
form. " The human form,'' said Goethe, " is the Alpha
and Omega of all known things." There are certain
latent affinities between the aspects of nature and human
thought and emotion. In fact, the analogy between the
mind and feelings of man and the objects in the exter-
nal world is so close that the latter are beautiful only to
the degree that they express qualities that are human.
"It is," says Jou&oy," "in proportion as objects rec-
ognized as beautiful resemble man, or in so far as they
mirror our humanity, that they are to that extent
deemed more beautiful by us. It is the grace of the lily,
the tenderness of the color of the rose, the peace of the
sky at sunset, that are the source of their charm ; but
grace, tenderness, and peace are human characteristics."
Every great work of Art, therefore, must conform in all
particulars
is< TEE looker-on:
particulars to man. Only to the degree that it exjnresses
qualities which are peculiarly human, which are intel-
lectual, emotional, spiritual, does it manifest the high-
est beauty.
Of all men who have lived probably no one possessed
a more artistic sense, united with a more perfect artistic
technique, than William Shakespeare. Describing the
function of his own art, he say s : ^^Thepmposeof play-
ing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is,
to hold as 'twere the mirror up to nature"; and to do
so ''with this si)ecial observance, that you o'erstep
not the modesty of nature." To essay that, to endeavor
to improve on Nature, is ''a wasteful and ridiculous
excess." It is simply attempting
" to paint the my.
To throw a perfume on the violet.
To smooth Uie ioe, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light
To eeek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish.^
Nature, both in its appearances and processes, is the
model of Art. Nothing unnatural is beautiful. Only to
the degree in which Art conforms to Nature is it endur-
ing, X)erf ect.
In studying Art, therefore, the best method is one
simOar to that pursued by scientists in the investigation
of Nature— viz.. Classification. This is literally the
making of classes. Its basis is the recognition of the
Unity underlying Variety in Nature. Its method is
the grouping of various species under the proper genera,
families, orders, classes. Herbert Si)encer, in the essay
on the *^ Classification of the Sciences," defines it as fol-
lows: ^'A true classification includes in each class those
objects which have more characteristics in common with
one another than any of them have in common with
any object excluded from the class. Further, the char-
acteristics possessed in common by the colligated
objects, and not possessed by other objects, are more
radical than any characteristics possessed in common
with other objects— involve more numerous dependent
characteristics. ' '
THE LOOKER-ON. 137
characteristics." In other words, characteristics which
objects in the same class have in common mnst be greater
in number and in degree than those which they have in
common outside this class. Classification is simply a
recognition of the likeness or unlikeness of certain
objects. It xmderlies not only Nature but also Language,
Reasoning, Art. In studying the latter, as the former,
therefore, the first step is to classify. The scientist
classifies or puts together certain kinds of rocks, plants,
animals, men. This is the method pursued by the
Creator in His works. Bocks that are alike are grouped
in the same mountain ranges, or at the bottom of the
same streams ; leaves that are alike grow on the same
tree or similar kinds of trees ; feathers or hair that are
alike grow on the same birds or beasts ; men that are
alike are placed in the same climate, country, family,
race. The Creator's method is in strict accord with
Classification, putting like with like, and men haye
progressed in knowledge of Nature only to the degree
to which they have pursued a similar method, and have
classified. This truth applies with equal force to the
study of Art.
The recognition of this fact is neither universal nor
forcefol. Hence this plea for its application to the
8X)ecial form of Art which is the subject of this pai)er —
viz., the drama, and particularly the Shakespearian
drama. While, this is not the only method by which a
play can be studied properly, it is facile princeps^ in
fact it is the one which is absolutely necessary in order
to appreciate a play as a work of art. It is the only
one by means of which the study of the Shakespearian
drama can be taken out of the domain of chaos where it
now is, and be made scientific. It reveals the laws of
dramatic construction, and thereby does for a play
what the laws discovered by Kepler and Newton did for
the study of astroAomy. The methods usually pursued
are necessary and yield rich fruit. No one can make
any pretensions to Shakespearian scholarship unless he
is thoroughly familiar with them. I therefore do not
disparage
188 THB LOOKER^Oir.
dispaasge them* At the same time tliey are inoomplete
and defective, both in method and resnlt. They canse
too minute attention to details. This b^ets a mental
short-dghtednees which is always fatal to the apprecia-
tion of any artistic masterpiece as a whole. In order to
apprehend the play as an organic work of art, to per-
ceive the Unity which underlies the Variety, it must be
studied according to the methods of Classification. This
method is simply resolving the play into its constituent
parts, separating like from unlike and joining like witii
like. To descend to particulars the play must first be
divided into the five parts of which a i)erf ect drama is
comx>08ed — ^viz., Introduction, Growth, Climax, Fall^
Catastrophe. This analysis must be further applied to
the Action of the drama. The Main Action must be
clearly defined from the Sub- Action. All the factors
forming the Main Action must be Classified ; so also
must those forming one or other of the different Sub-
Actions. Then the plot which binds these divisions,
actions together, and makes the play an organic whole,
must be traced. The result is, the x>arts of the play
which are various and numerous are reduced to Order.
Out of Variety — ^Variety of Character, of Passion, of
Action — ^there is develoi)ed Unity. The multifarious
details are seen to be, not heterogeneous but homo-
geneous ; not unrelated but correlated. The connection
and harmony of all parts of the play become api>arent
The result is, the play becomes ffistheticaUy intelligible.
As an ultimate result of this method of study, one will
have a comprehensive and clear conception of the play
as a complete, perfect^ organic Art-product. To be
more si>ecific, the following will be some of the most
imix)rtant results of this method of study :
1st. The law of art-comx>osition will become manifest.
The evolution of a drama, like movement, growth in
Nature is in strict accordance with laws. The move-
ment of the heavenly bodies is not more x>erfecfly
harmonious with the laws of gravitation, or the growth
of an organism is not more in accord with its structure
and
THE LOOKER'OK 139
and environment than is the evolution of a drama in
harmony with the laws of art-composition. This fact
is made apparent by the application of the scientific
method to the study of the drama. This method is
both analytic and synthetic. It is unbuilding and
also rebuilding. It is both deductive and inductive.
After the play has been reduced to its component
factors and they are classified, then they are again
united and the play is reconstructed. In the latter
operation the laws of composition become manifest.
As a result of this the following qualities, which are
inherent in products of Nature, and therefore must of
necessity be inherent in every work of Art, become
manifest:* Unity, Variety, Complexity, Order, Con-
fusion, Counteraction, Comparison, Contrast, Comple-
ment, Principality, Subordination, Balance. Derived
from these are: Grouping, Organic Form, Symmetry.
This statement of attributes of a work of art is not
exhaustive. It, however, mentions the principal ones.
The study of a drama after the method of classification
will, as it progresses, reveal the existence therein of
these properties ; and also the underlying laws of com-
position in accordance with which the artist has con-
structed his play.
2d. It makes apparent the fact that the primary ele-
ment in a Shakespearian drama is not Characterization
but Plot. As to the perfection of Shakespeare's charac-
ters there can be no uncertainty. All competent to
form an opinion will agree with Dr. Johnson: " They are
the genuine progeny of common humanity." But while
true to Nature they are, as Gervinus says : " Not Nature
only without the assistance of Art. They are neither
mere abstractions and ideals, nor common chance per-
sonifications, such as life brings indifferently before us,
but they stand in the free, true, real artistic medium
between both." But the opinion expressed by Gervi-
nus, which is so common as to be almost universal,
•For ibis summary I am indebted to ProfesaMr Baymond*8 scliolarljr and original
work, ^^Qeneflii of Art-Fbrm,** p. 131.
"that
140 THE LOOKER'OHr.
^'that Shikespeare's characters have always been hifi
greatest glory/' is erroneous. Scholars have been led
into making this error by two canses : One, the fact that
8hakesi>eare's great advance beyond the Greek drama
is the perfection of his character-drawing. The other
and princiiHil one, that the plays are studied almost
wholly from the testhetic standx>oint. In both cases
the attention is directed primarily to the characters,
and, secondarily, to the plot. The great poets of the
world have been before all else artists. In their work
it is not the intellectual, the sesthetical which is supreme.
It is the art. When the construction of the dramas is
criticaiUy studied the fiict becomes evident that the
transcendent greatness of the plays is the Plot. Plot
in a drama is simply design. It is the modns operandi
by which the artist out of a chaos of characters, actions,
passions, evolves order. This order is not that of
mechanical regularity. It is far deeper and more vital
It is that of a living organism. It is, as previously re-
marked, absent in the play of the savage. It is present
in the lesthetic play of the artist. It is the primal
element in all art-work. After enumerating the ele-
ments of Tragedy, Aristotle says : *^ The most important
of these elements is the composition of the incidents
(the plot or fable). For Tragedy is a representation
(imitation) not of men and women, but of action and
life. " " Art, ' ' says Ruskin, * * is human labor r^gulat^d
by human design, and this design, or evidence of actiTe
intellect in choice and arrangement, is the essential
part of the work." The word Art is derived from the
Latin arSj which means, ^^ skill in joining together,
combining." That in turn is derived from the Greek
aroj the definition of which is "to join, pin together,
fit, fasten." The main object in art composition is to
reduce the factors which may be numerous and various
to unity and order for the purpose of making them
ffisthetically intelligible. This is the function of Plot.
It is only when a play is studied critically from the
standpoint of its construction that the design or
plot
THE LOOKER-ON. 141
plot is recognized as the primary and essential qnality
of the drama. It is unreasonable to suppose that
Shakespeare was ignorant of the supreme imi)ortance
of Plot. LoweU writes, ^'It is singular that the
man whose works show him to have meditated deeply
on whatever interests human thought should have
been supposed never to have given his mind to the
processes of his own craft.** The converse is true.
It is reasonable to believe that Shakespeare did rec-
ognize the fact that Plot is the primal element in
a drama. The perfection of his own plots prove this.
His plays, with the exception of some written in his
tentative, his playwright period, are the i)erf ection of
symmetry — they balance around a common centre.
"The key to every man is his thought." The key to
every drama is the plot, which is simply the poet's
originating, constructing thought. The recognition of
this fact is one fruit of the study of the plays according
to the method here advocated.
3d. The study of a drama after this manner is similar
in every stage to Shakespeare's method of constructing
it. The student is thereby brought into intellectual
and imaginative sympathy with the dramatist. As a
consequence he is able to judge accurately, to appreciate
fully the x)erf ection and beauty of the drama. Shake-
sx)eare's method was first analytic, then synthetic. He
analyzed a romance or history, selecting some, rejecting
other incidents. Then using those selected and adding
to them others of his own invention, out of them, as
raw material, he created a drama. This operation is
followed, step by step, by the student. The details are
seen to be perfect in themselves. Further, that each one
is essential, for in a i)erf ect drama there is no lay figure,
not a needless word or action. Then passing from
specials to generals, the growth of each division of the
drama is traced. Finally the drama is perceived to be
organic. Each and every part is seen to be vital and to
be in living connection with every other part, and that
all
142 THE LOOKER.Oir.
all together conBtitute a perfect work ot dramatic
art.
By thia method of study the scholar follows the
natural order of intellectoal growth, which is from the
concrete to the abstract. He rises, like Shakespeare
himself, to the region of the imagination, and
*' • • . apprehends
More than oool reason ever comprehends."
While there is, as Coleridge has stated, an antithesis
between Science and Poetry, this antithesis is not great
in degree or inherent in Nature. Essentially, Science
and Poetry are alike, both being expressions of truth.
As in Nature, so in method are they similar. ''The
highest reach of science," says Matthew Arnold, "is,
we may say, an inventiye power, a faculty of divination
akin to the highest x>ower exercised in poetry." And
again, ''without poetry our science will appear incom-
plete. . . . For finely and truly does Wordsworfli
call poetry 'the imprisoned expression which is in
the countenance of all Science.' " The critical study,
therefore, of Poetry as of Science is the joint work of
reason and of imagination ; of the imaginative reason.
This is true of Science. " Bounded and conditioned by
co-operant reason, imagination becomes the mightiest
instrument of the physical discoverer," says Tyndall.
The scientific method of studying the Shakespearian
drama equally demands the use both of reason and im-
agination. It is by means of both that " the still and
mental parts" of the drama, the hidden but vital con-
nection of all the factors in the play, and the artistic
result of that connection, are perceived. By means of
both the student apprehends not only what is really in
the play, but also what is potentially there. The pro-
duction of that beauty, both that which is real and that
which is potential, and the perception of it as well, is
the result of the concurrent action of the highly trained
intellect and a most refined and disciplined imagina-
tion. The method of study advocated in this paper
necessitates
THE LOOKES-Oif.
14S
necessitates the exercise of both. Hence it is in accord
"with Shakespeare's method of construction, and better
tlian any other will enable the student to appreciate the
Sliakespeare plays.
[Mr.
mlBX wlU contribDta a •erica of artiolM ob
ths metbod of itodf advooatod iboTa. Tim* It will ra
144
THE LOOKER'Om
PADEREWSKI AND HIS ART.
By Hxnbt T. FnrcK.
ryX ADEREWSKI plays Mozart with the simplicity of a
jjiPju; happy boy, and Schubert with all the i)oetry per-
^^ tinent to that master of melody and exquisite modu-
lation. *'Onr pianists," wrote liszt in one of his let-
ters, ^^have scarcely an inkling of the glorious treasures
hidden among Schubert's pianoforte compositions.''
While Schubert is, in his sonatas, distinctly inferior to
Beethoven, in his short pieces he is more original and
idiomatic than Beethoven, and luckily these pieces are
coming more and more into vogue at recitals. H'o other
pianist plays Schubert more frequently than Pade-
rewski ; certainly no one plays him more lovingly, or
with such ravishing tone-color and depth of emotion.
What could be more bewitching than the dainty way
in which, in the ^^ Soirees de Yienne," he sets off Schu-
bert's exquisite melody amid laszf s inimitable jew-
eller's work I
One of the pieces which he is usually compelled to
repeat is the song *'Hark, Hark, the Lark." He plays
tUs with a rubato which is simply enchanting, arubato
concerning which more wiU be said presently. Pade-
rewski proves that a free, elastic temx>o is as great a
charm in Schubert as in Chopin or Liszt. And how his
fingers do sing the melody on the keyboard 1 Young
pianists are usually advised to go and hear great vocal-
ists, so as to get a ^'singing " style on their instrument
But in this case matters must be reversed. There are
few operatic vocalists of the day who could not learn
from Paderewski how to sing.
A critic once foolishly said that Paderewski had all
the great qualities except passion. Surely this critic
had never heard him play the Schumann or Rubinstein
concerto, a Chopin polonaise, or, especially, the Schu-
bert-Lisst
THE LOOKER-ON. 146
bert-Iiszt ^^Erl-Eing," Ms interpretation of whicli
stamps him as the most dramatic and impassioned of
living pianists. Gk)ethe's weird ballad-— the galloping
of the horse, the fears and entreaties of the child, the
father's consoling words, the Barking's blandishments,
and the tragic end — ^are related by him on the piano
with a thrilling vividness to which the words could add
hardly anything. On hearing him play the Impromptu
in B flat one realizes why Rubinstein should have
exclaimed, ^^ Once more, and a thousand times more,
Bach, Beethoven, and Schubert are the highest summits
in music."
^^I am sorry to find Mendelssohn's pianoforte works
neglected in this country," Paderewski once said to a
London critic. ^^ Play them yourself, master, and bring
them into vogue once more," was the answer. He did
so, and he turned them, like everything he touches,
into gold. He makes people feel ashamed of their
prejudices against this or that composer, or certain
forms of music. Many an amateur considers Mendels-
sohn mawkish and antiquated, but let him hear this
Polish pianist play the ^^ Yariations S6rieuses," and he
will cry peccavi ! and confess that Mendelssohn was a
great genius after aU. Even the ^' Songs Without
Words" seem to lose their ultra-sentimentality under
his hands.
At one of his New York concerts Paderewski made a
genuine sensation by his performance of Liszt's fantasia
on Mendelssohn's ^^ Midsummer Night's Dream," one
of the best of Liszt's arrangements. It is one of his
attempts to convert the piano into an orchestra, and
with Paderewski at the piano the success is surprising.
Those rapid, rippling violin passages were not only as
good as in the orchestra, they were better ; no group of
violinists I have ever heard has succeeded in producing
such an airy, graceful effect with them. Another per-
formance by him of this piece was remarkable for the
fact that he actually struck a few wrong notes — ^a fact
which, to some of his admirers, was a positive relief,
for
Ii6 THE LOOKBR-OK.
for it proved that he had not sold his soul to the deyfl,
after all, in return for the gift of flawless pianism, as
there had been reason to 8a8i>ect before.
Dr. Riemann has truly said that Mendelssohn would
have made five or ten pieces oat of one of Schnmaim's.
This pithy conciseness is what makes Schumann so
very difficult to interpret. Unless every note is
brought out in its proper perspective, the poetic effect
is lost. Two other characteristic traits of Schumann's
music are rhythmic energy and harmonic subtlety,
one calling for masculine vigor, the other for f emimne
refinement of feeling. Paderewski is preeminent as a
Schumann interpreter because he unites these traits in
his style. Under his hands, too, Schumann's compli-
cate rhythms become as clear as a simple waltz move-
ment, and when he plays a *^ NachtstQck," how he does
make every part of the harmony sing in turn or in com-
bination I He has, too, the very rare gift of revealing
the Jean-Paulesque humor in Schumann's works, and
nothing could be more amusing than the droll yet
stately manner in which, when he plays tiie ^'Papil-
lons," he reels off that quaint old dance, the CHross-
vatertam.
Schumann's Concerto is now generally regarded as
the best work of its class in existence. How does
Paderewski play it ? Lest I surfeit the reader with my
own opinions, let me quote, in answer to this question,
what a German critic, F. R. Pfau, wrote on the occa-
sion of what he calls Paderewski' s *^ colossal success"
in Dresden, on February 16, 1896: *'No one who has
heard him play the Schumann Concerto will ever for-
get the impression. Strange that he, a Pole, living in
France, should have been able to penetrate to the inner
spirit of this thoroughly (German music, and interpret
it in a manner that is above all praise. The tender
melodies as he plays them float in a fragrant atmos-
phere that brings before the mind's eye all the &iry
world of Gferman romanticism, while on fhe other hand
the grand climaxes in the first movement are played by
him
TBE LOOKER-ON. 147
him with an overwhelmiiig effect that snggesta the pas-
sion of a Soutiiem artis^."
THB BBAL OHOPIIC
"TTJ NTONE who will examine a few of Mr. Pade-
(3^ rewski's programmes will see at a glance that
Chopin is hia favorite ; nor is it strange that he should
prefer his countryman, whose national Polish melan-
choly, Slavic rubato and ravishing tone-colors he brings
out as only a Slavic pianist can. Before he came into
the concert world Chopin's music had been played by
so many great pianists that it seemed as if it would be
as impossible to throw new light on it as on the charac-
ter of Hamlet ; yet he revealed beauties previously un-
suspected. Before hia arrival Pachmann had made a
repntation as a Chopin specialist, and it must be ad-
mitted that as an interpreter of the delicate, dainty,
brilliant side of Chopin he sometimes
equalled Paderewski. But he failed to do
justice to the masculine, dramatic, ener-
getic side of Chopin's genius, thus help-
ing to perpetuate the absurd notion that
Chopin was always a "feminine" com-
poser. This misconception has been cor-
rected for all time by Paderewski' s per-
formance of the xtolonaises, sonatas, and
scherzos. He brings out the muscular,
dramatic side, not by pounding — his
sense of tonal beauty is too keen to per-
mit him ever to pound, even in moments
of the greatest excitement — but by ner-
vous powers of expression ; Ai« rArility
is •mental rather than muscular, and the
brain ia mightier than the arm. He re-
veals to us all the masculine force, all
the stirring scenes, that are embodied ia .^sp-,, - -
the Ar'"
148 THE LOOKER-ON.
the dwarf pieces of the giant Chopin. When he plays
the B minor sonata it is like a mnsio drama^ erery
moment of absorbing interest.
Paderewski does not play a Chopin ballad ; he recites
it just as an actor would recite the story which it tells,
with dramatic mbato, dwelling on emphatic words and
hurrying over others, according to the movement of the
story. This is what is meant by tempo rabaJto. Some
of Chopin's pupils have said that he advised them to
confine the slight changes in i)ace to the melody, mean-
while preserving strict time with the accompaniment
He may have said that to his pupils, but I decline to
believe that he played that way himself. I am con-
vinced that his rubato was more like Wagner's dra-
matic '^modification of tempo," which affects the jiace
of all the parts. Certainly that is the rubato as liszt
understood it, and as Paderewski uses it in playing
liszt, Chopin, Schubert, and to a less extent, the mas-
ters of the classical school. He lingers over bars which
have pathos in their melody or harmony, and slightly
accelerates his pace in rapid, agitated moments ; but he
does all this so naturally, so unobtrusively, tihat one
does not consciously notice any change in the pace— it
seems the natural movement of the piece.
One of the lessons taught by the great Polish pianist
is that there is no such thing as a cast-iron tempo for
any piece, or a single, invariable correct way of play-
ing it. During his second American season, for in-
stance, he played Chopin's G major nocturne three
times, giving those who heard it each time a chance to
marvel at the sx>ontaneity and recreativeness of his
playing. It was quite a different piece each time, vary-
ing with his moods. The first time it was somewhat prim
and '* classical" in spirit, the second time romantic
and dreamy, the third time languid and melancholy-
This is what distinguishes music from mechanism.
What
^■^,.
THE ZOOKER-Oir.
LISZT AND HIS BHAPeODIBS.
"JJKHAT Liszt said in regard to the " glorious treas-
O^ nres ' * Mdden among Schnbert' s neglected piano-
forte compoaitionB may be jnBtly applied
to Mb own worka. TTie Liszt niiasiinary
has a large field ; few, even among profes-
I sionals, know how Tery large it is. The
number of Liszt's compositions exceeds
I twelve hundred. Among them are one hun-
dred and fifty-five original pieces for piano
(two hands), and three hundred and fifty-
one transcriptions for the piano of pieces
by other composers. Only a small proportion of these
are known to the public ; but they are gaining ground
every year, in spite of the amazingly persistent opposi-
tion of the critics, one of whom wrote not long ago that
" to play Liszt well requires little more than the neces-
sary amount of physical force 1 " When I read one of
these criticisms I am always reminded of what Saint-
Saans wrote in regard to Wagner's " Walkure" : "A
thousand critics writing each a thousand lines a day for ^^g^^r-.^
ten years would injure this work about aa much aa a ^^>^^'i
child's breath would do towards overthrowing the pyra- ^^-^^^^^C^
mida of Egypt." The vast majority of music-lovers are ^T^ ^'^^p,'..-
enthusiastic over Liszt's works, and they know that they
are in very good company : pianists like Joseffy, B' Al-
bert, Fachmann, Tansig, BUlow ; conductors like Hans
Richter, Anton Seidl, Theodore Thomas, Arthur Nikisch,
Felix Mottl ; composers like Saint-Saens, Tchaikovsky,
Dror&k, Wagner, who once declared Liszt "the great-
est musician that ever lived."
Faderewski, too, is a most devoted admirer and cham-
pion of Liszt, and I shall never forget the amiably sar-
castic smile on his lips when a certain critic begged him
not to play any more of the rhapsodies. He played two
at hia next recital I If questioned on the subject, his
answer leaves nothing to be desired in point of decision
and
190 TSE LOOKER-OK.
and •nthnilagm ; bnt It Is In his performancet that he
most eloquently reveals hi> lore of Liszt. Schnmann
once said of Thalberg that he had the gift of dressing
up commonplace Ideas In anch a way as to make th«m
interesting. Liszt had the higher gift
of taking the ideas of the greatest com-
posers and transcribing them for the
piano in snch a way as to make them
' even superior to the original. Thnsfae
sDcceeded in doing with mnsic what
no poet has ever succeeded in doing
with Terse — translate it successfully
into another idiom. These Liszt trans-
criptions include almost everything
that is best in all branches of the art,
and in making them accessible to all who p<»8e8a &
piano he did an inestimable service to music. But to
realize the full charm of these transcriptions one mnst
hear Paderewski play them ; he can even take the taint
of sensationalism out of the earlier ones, which Liszt
himself in later years disliked.
To realize what is meant by a " tornado of applause,"
one must hear Padeiewski play one of liszt's Hungarian
Rhapsodies. Why does the public applaud these so
frantically? Because they are "sensational," as the
the critics say ? They are nothing of the sort. Bungling
pianists may make one think so, for they give obtrusive
prominence to their difficult passages, while ignoring
their poetic spirit. When Paderewski plays a Liszt
rhapsody no one thinks of runs or sensationalism; it is
all melody, poetry, rubato, local color, exotic charm;
the ornamentations being used to give the gypsy national
coloring, and no more sensational or inartistic in them-
selves than the six harps which Wagner uses to give the
prismatic tints to the rainbow scene in " Rheingold."
Hear what the greatest of living French composers has
to say of Uszt' s rhapsodies : ' ' Although built ujwn bor-
rowed themes, they are genuine artistic creations, where
the author manifests a most subtle talent. ... It is
entirely
THE ZOOKEn-OS: 161
entirely wrong to conaider them merely brilliant. In
them we find a reconstmction and, if we may say so,
a civilizing of national mnsic of the highest interest.
The composer did not aim at difficulties (which did not
exist, for him), bnt at a picturesque effect and a vivid
reproduction of the outlandish orchestra of the gyp-
sies."
To speak of Idszt's rhapsodies as merely "brilliant"
or "sensational" is to display a woful ignorance;
for they contain the quintessence of the melodies,
rhythms, and ornaments of two of the most musical of
all nations, the Hungarians and the Gypsies. They are
coUections of musical odes, ballads, idyls, songs of
war, of sorrow, love, and conviviality, all welded into
organic works of art by Liszt's rare genius and techni-
cal mastery. In Liszt's rhapsodies these gypsy orchids
are arranged in a spontaneous disorder, which is in-
finitely more natural and artistic than the academic
artificiality of a symphony in four geometrical move-
ments. They will ever form the delight of those whose
musical enjoyment does not consist in _^
the pedantic analyzing of sonatas, bat j^ V-^
who lake pleasure in the spontaneous /*
melodies in which the naive populace,
in its moments of poetic emotion, has
embodied its joys and sorrows.
Liszt himself has, in his book on the
Hungarian Gypsies, told us how their ,
performances excite and almost craze /
their hearers. In the golden age of /
Gypsy bands the collector used to carry
a golden plate to collect contributions,
and gold was freely sprinkled among
the bank-notes lavishly bestowed by
the cavaliers in return for the pleasure given them by
the music, while many wept for joy. We are more dig-
nified in the expresssion of our pleasure, but hardly
more reserved, as the "tornadoes of applause" evoked
by Paderewski show. Mr. Joseffy, himself a Hungarian
and
us THB ZOOKER-OW.
and one of the gnatesfe of pianicrts, has jnstlj pointed
out that Paderowski surpasses Liszt's own pupils in his
inteipretation of these rhapsodies, which might be said
to form the transition between European and Asiatic
music. Note what loving attention he gives to their
lavishing folk melodies, erquisite harmonies, and or-
chestral variety of tone-colors. Even these astonishing
glissandos in the tenth rhapsody, which under the hands
of ordinary pianists sound like cheap tricks, are trans-
formed by his dainty touch and exquisite shading into
effects of caressing beauty and genuine artistic value.
But it is in his modifications of temjK), his inimitable
rubato, that lies the chief witchery of Paderewski^s
lisrt playing. Liszt carries the rubato even farther
than Chopin; there are movements where hardly a dozen
successive bars have the same x>ace. Paderewski plays
the rhapsodies like improvisationA— inspirations of the
moment. It \& the negation of the mechanical in music,
the assassination of the metronome. When ordinary
pianists play a Liszt rhapsody there is nothing in their
performance that a musical stenographer could not
note down just as it is played. But what Paderewski
plays could not be put down on pax>er by any system of
notation ever invented. For such subtle nuances of
temxK) and expression there are no signs in our musical
alphabet. But it is precisely these unwritten and un-
writable things that constitute the soul of music and
the instinctive command of which distinguishes a genius
from a mere musician.
PABXBSWSKI AS A 00KP08XB.
^n FTER all, the greatest pleasure a great pianist
^ can give is when he plays his own comx>ositions.
Even when they are not of the highest order they
gain a charm from their authoritative and sympathetic
interpretation, and when they are of the highest order
the combination is irresistible. Creative genius betrays
itself infallibly in interpretation as well as in compo-
sition, and when the pianist plays his own piece he
can
i. PADERWE5KI.
THE L OKER - OJV. 158
can give it the oliarm of an improvisation. All the
greatest pianiata — Chopin, Liszt, Enbinstein, etc. —
were composers &a well as yirtnosi,
and all were at their best in playing
their own pieces. Of Paderewski it
must be said, as of Chopin, Liszt, and
Rabinstein, that great as is his shill as
pianist, his creative power is even more
remarkable.
Althongh he is a Pole and Chopin
his idol, yet his music is not an echo of
Chopin's. To a London jonrnaUst he
once remarked on the subject of Polish
mnsio: "It is almost impossible to
write any nowadays. The moment yon
try to be national, every one cries out
that yon are imitating Chopin, whereas
the truth is that Chopin adopted all
the most marked characteristics of
our national music so completely that it is impossible
not to resemble him in externals, though your methods
and ideas may be absolutely your own." His musio
has Chopin's thoroughly idiomatic piano style, but in
invention and development it is bis own, and it has an
individuality as striking as that of Grieg or Dvorik.
He wrote a set of Polish dances at the early age of
seven, but did not publish anything before he was twenty-
two. A glance at his three dozen or more piano pieces
shows that in form as in spirit they belong to the Polish
branch of the modem romantic school. Among them
are Krakowiaks, Mazurkas, Polonaises, and other Polish
dances, also a Caprice, Intermezzo, Legend, Barcarolle,
Sarabande, Elegy, Melodies, etc., all of them short
pieces such as are characteristic of the romantic school.
To the "classical" form he has paid deference only in
his concerto and his sonata for violin and piano, al-
though even here he avoids the artificiality and inter-
minableness of the "classical" school. It is to be
hoped that he will have the courage to pay no further
Ixibute
IM Tax LOOKEROK.
tribute to the obsolete sonata f orm, but follow in ite
iootflteps of CSbopiii and lisst ia compositioii as \m does
in playing. In Hiat direction lies the concert music of
the future.
It is not my intention to make an analysis of Pade-
rewski's compositions. I will merely call attention to
a few of the most jMpular and important ones. To the
public at large the best known is his Minuet. WheneFer
he plays this piece (usually as an encore), the audience
bursts out into applause after the first three bars, to show
its delight at his choice. It is not too much to say that
this Minuet is quite on a par with Mozart's &biou8
*^ Bon Juan" Minuet^ but with modem refinements of
harmony and tone^x>lor of which Mozart never dreamed.
A writer in the GFerman periodical Ueber Land und Meet
tells an amusing anecdote about this Minuet : ^^ When
Paderewski was a professor at the Warsaw Cionserva-
tory, he was a frequent visitor at my house, and one
evening I remarked that no living comxK)ser could be
ooi&x)ared with Mozart. Paderewski' s only reply was
a shrug of tiie shoulders, but the next day he came
back, and, sitting down at the piano, said, ^I should
like to play you a little piece of Mozart's which you
perhaps do not know.' He then played the Minuet. I
was enchanted with it and cried, ^ Now you will your-
self acknowledge that nobody of our time could furnish
us with a composition like that I' ^WeU,' answered
Paderewski^ ^ this Minuet is mine.' "
One of the most charming of tiie shorter pieces is the
^^ Chant du Yoyageur " (opus 8, No. 8)— a piece that has
brou^it tears to the eyes of many hardened profession-
ale. Its first three notes suggest by their beat tiiat
celestial melody in Chopin's great Scherzo (opus 20) as
if to show its affiliation with the Chopin achool ; the
rest of it is an expression of a new individuality in
mnaio--one destined to mark a new epoch. I have never
heard an opos 6 so mature, so original, so deeply raoio-
tional. But you mast hear him play it to i^alize all its
diuunns.
A
THE Z OKER ■ ON. 165
A. masterpiece among Mb short works is the Th^me
Yari^ opos 11. The theme itself has the simplicity of
a Glack melody, but on it is boilt an original harmonic
Btmctnre that Chopin might have been
proud of. It is a superbly romantic and
emotional work. Of his Variations et
Fn^e, No. 1, it may be said that the
theme has a ballad-like character, and
the variations are not mere musical^
rhetoric — the art of saying the same
thing in different ways — but they tell,
a tale with bright and tragic episodes.
One of the variations, with an obstinate-
ly repeated baas, suggests the tolling ^ ^' i '-'*•
of funeral bells. His Legend begins V' '^
with a mysterious plaintive narrative, leading up grad-
ually to a terrific tragedy, after which the tone poem is
finished in quieter stanzas. His Cracovienne is as exo-
tic, as weirdly half -Asiatic, as the most Polish of Cho-
pin's mazurkas or the most Magyar of Liszt'srhapsodies.
The four songs included in opus 7 resemble Chopin's
Polish songs, but are not equal to the piano pieces.
Daring his second American tour he occasionally
hammed and played for his friends a set of six new
songs which he had not yet committed to paper. They
sabseqnently appeared in print in a translation by Miss
Alma Tadema and an American version by Mrs. H. D.
Tretbar. Of these, perhaps, "My Tears are Flowing,"
"The Piper's Song," and "Over the Waters" are the
best ; but they are all good. They were first sung in
England by Mr. Lloyd to the composer's accompaniment^
and created quite a sensation. There is a suggestion in
them of C^rieg, but this is merely evidence of the curious
affinity between Norwegian and Polish music.
The sonata for violin and piano to which reference has
been made was played in New York by Professor Brod-
Bky and the composer. It is original in its themes and
admirably salted to the charaoter of the two instrnments.
One of its modem features is its brevity— it lasts only
twenty
156 TEE LOOKES'OK.
twenty minutes. A more important work is the piano
concerto opuB 17. What vigor in th» opening all^ro,
what poetry in the romance, what life and spirit in the
finale I Hans Richter once said that the supreme test
of a bom composer lay in his slow movements; he
I>ointed to Beethoven, Schubert, and Dror&k, among
others, in proof of his assertion. Had he known the
dreamy Romanza of this concerto he would cert^nlj
have added Paderewski. I know of nothing more saperb
in the whole range of piano literatare, and it is only his
opus 17. It reveals Paderewski, too, as the first Polish
composer who is as great a master of the orchestra as of
the piano.
THE POLISH FAMTASIA.
(^HE greatest of Paderewski's works are his Polish
(7 Fantasia and his opera. The opera he has just
completed, and it will have its first
performances in Bnda Pesth, London,
and Dresden. It is on a Polish sub-
ject, its scene being laid in the Car-
pathian Mountains. Mr. Alexander
Mc Arthur, formerly Rubinstein's sec-
retary, had the privilege in Paris of
hearing him play parts of this opera.
He says that "like all Poles, Pade-
^=- ., . ,. rewski is superstitious, and believes
^jr \ that any undertaking spoken of before
I i Ji \| its completion more or less presages
I *J / |\ ill-luck; consequently I had to give
^y -/b \ '■ him my word of honor I would keep
ff f f-' \ silent on the matter of this new opera.
— •"• — ^^-^ However, there is one thing I can say
without overstepping the mark, which is, that this
opera of Paderewski's is going to do more for his
fame than even his piano-playing has done, and that
it will mark an era not only in the great pianist-com-
poser's career, but an era in art itself. It is an abso-
lutely
THE LOOKER-ON. m
Intely superb work, great in intensity and full of truly
liTunan pathos."
In the summer of 1893 Paderewski wrote his Polish
Fantasia, which has brought him more fame, both as
composer and pianist, than anything else he has ever
done. It had its first performance on October 4th, of the
same year, at the Norwich Festival in England, of which
it was pronounced the most attractive and sensational
feature. As I have not yet had the pleasure of hearing
this work, I must quote the opinions of other critics in
whose judgment I have confidence. The London Sun-
day TiTfies wrote of it : " The new Fantasia proved to
be a symphonic poem for piano and orchestra in four
movements (not three, as stated in the analysis), and a
thoroughly well-thought-out musicianly work to boot.
Its chief characteristics are its intense national feeling,
its constructive skill, and its enormous difficulty. The
themes are all original, and it takes a quick ear to per-
ceive on first hearing with what skill the whole of them
are derived or develoi)ed from two or three main sub-
jects. The bold introductory passages merge imper-
ceptibly into the well- worked allegro moderato ; the
impetuous scherzo, with its mazurka -like rhythm,
brings a great change, but in the andante (a gem of
dreamy, plaintive melody), the composer is in reality
metamorphosing material from his allegro ; while the
finale, after starting with a dashing Cracovienne, ob-
tains its most grandiose effect from the theme of the
scherzo, given here in augmentation.'*
In an account of the Norwich Festival we read that
" Paderewski made a capital rehearser, calm and quiet,
never indulging in unnecessary stoppages, and mani-
festly delighted with his own music " ; in another that
"Mr. Paderewski is by no means an easy performer for
an orchestra to accompany, as he rarely plays his music
twice alike" ; while a third writer said that the Fanta-
sia "takes the breath away," and is so difficult that
"few besides its composer will venture to play it."
It was also said that before appearing in public with
his
158 THE LOOKER-On.
his new woik Paderewski had hired an oidiettni to
rehearse with him privately. Many compoaefB^ dcmbtp
leBs, would be glad to follow anch a good eacample be-
fore adding the fimshing touches to their woikB -/but
few can afford such a luxury.
In London the Polish Fantasia aroused the same en-
thusiasm as at Norwich ; and in Paris, last spring,
Lamoureux had to repeat it three times in the Tust
Cirque d' ^Xk. Mr. Alexander Mc Arthur, who was pres-
ent at these concwts, wrote: ^'What struck me most
forcibly about the Fajitasia was, that while the themes
are distinctly Polish, they are nevertheless just as dis-
tinctly non-Chopineeque, something truly wonderfnl in
a Polish Fantasia written for the piano. . . . Padeiew-
ski has not stooped to steal his themes from national
melodies. They are all his own. . . . The orchestration
is superb, and it is owing to this fact especially that the
non-traces of Chopin can be proven. In &ct, fine as the
piano i)artition undoubtedly is, that for the orchestra is
still finer. The ease with which Paderewski handles
combinations of the most difficult harmonic effects is
wonderful, and his skill in contrapuntal groupings mar-
vellous. • . . The piano i)artition is of the most startling
difficulty, yet there is not a bar written for mere effect"
OOKQUXST OF OBRMAmT.
I'P^NE more imi)ortant event in Paderewski's career
15^ remains to be related— his conquest of Gtermany.
For two or three years he had limited his activity almost
entirely to England and America. Being able to draw
a four or five thousand dollar house whenever he pleased,
he probably saw no particular reason for touring in the
impoverished continent where half that sum would
seem a big receipt. However, in May, 1894^ he con-
sented to play his new Fantasia at the biggest of the
German music festivals, the Netherrhenish, at Air-Ia-
Chapelle. The result waa thus described by Mr. Otto
Moersheim : ^' I was dumfounded by both the compo-
sition and the performance, and after it was all over got
THE LOOKER 'ON. 16«
as orasy as the rest of the audience and joined in a
hnnah snch as the venerable citj of Chariemagne has
rarely witnessed. Aix-la-Chai>elle stood on its head
for once and the walls of ttie Kurhans riiook." Ifr.
Floersheim considers the Fantasia ^^the most diftonlt
piece of mnsio ever written for piano^" its style being"
^^ a combination of Liszt and Chopin in a most happy
blending, with a lot of Paderewski tiirown into the
bargain." Begarding his perhaps ha makes this sig-
nificant confession: ^^I had not heard him for two
years, and in the meantime I had heard lour times
Rubinstein, any number of times IVAlbeH, Sammel,
Kosenthal, and some of the ol^r great pianists of
Europe, and I had gradually lulled myself into lAie
thought that perhaps after all I had overrated Pade-
rewski. I had been told it so often in Berlin that finally
I began to distrust my own judgment, and said to my-
self, ^ ^ Well, perhaps they are right and you are wrong. ' '
With the first movement of the Schumann ooneerto, my
doubts were again dispelled, and as the work proceeded
I once more and most firmly became convinced that for
charm, poetry, and beauty Paderewski' s playing <A Hie
piano outrivals that of all other pianists I ever heudin
my life, and henceforth nobody shall ever dare again to
BhB>ke me in this artistic belief."
After the ice had thus been broken in Germany,
Paderewski consented the more readily to attack the
citadels of Dresden and Leipsic. His triumphs there in
February, 1896, were perhaps even greater than in
London, Paris, and New York. The King of Saxony
invited Paderewski to give a special recital in the royal
palace at Dresden, and the musical public was simply
frantic ; even the conservative Leipsicers, who rarely
have a good word for a newcomer, for once became
gushing rhapsodists. ^^The success was colossal,"
wrote the Leipziger Zeitung ; ^^not since Liszt has a
pianist been received as Paderewski was last evening."
"Never since the Albert Hall was built has such
applause been heard there as last evening," wrote the
ATueigerj
160 THE looker-on:
Anzeiger; and the TageblaU of February 3d had the fol-
lowing : ^^ Paderewski haa for some years been enjoying
the greatest triumphs in Austria, France, England, and
America, but, for unknown reasons, avoided Germany
ahnost entirely. . . • C!onceming his colossal suc^cess
in our sister-city of Dresden our readers have already
been informed. . . . Such positively &bulous enthu-
siasm no other artist has aroused in Leii)sic as far back
as our memory goes. The public did not applaud, it
raved. If Paderewski has hitherto avoided Germany
in the belief that he might be coolly received, he must
have been radically cured of that idea last evening."
In conclusion, let me quote the testimony of Alex-
ander Mc Arthur, who wrote the biography of Rubinstein
and lived for years under his roof. Of Paderewski he
says: ^^From the first bar to the last he holds yon
breathless by a series of novel and original effects. His
is an absolutely new school of piano playing, unique,
thoughtful, i)oetic, and altogether the originality of his
readings is something extraordinary, something that,
even apart from his marvellous technic, exquisite grace
and tone-nuance, gives a charm and interest that are
endless."
THE LOOKER-ON, 161
** TOUCH" IN PIANOFORTE PLAYING.
By William Poster Apthobp.
It is not often that a purely technical point in any-
thing relating to music comes in for general discussion,
especially in the daily press. Yet such has been the
case, in the course of the last year or two, with a tech-
nical point connected with what is commonly, and i)er-
haps too loosely, called "touch " in pianoforte playing.
The discussion has been carried on, by one party, with a
quiet sobriety quite usual in arguing questions of scien-
tific research, if somewhat less frequently shown in con-
troversies on questions i)ertaining to art; the other
party has at times permitted itself a display of emotion
hardly compatible with calm scientific reasoning, and
smacking strongly of what would doubtless caU itself
righteous indignation. Certain propositions regarding
"touch " in pianoforte playing have been received with
horror, which would look more like scorn, had it been
expressed with less violent verbosity.
Likely enough, a great part of the trouble has arisen,
as it frequently does in such cases, from a misunder-
standing: from a lack of perfect scientific accuracy of
statement, on the one hand, and on the other, from a
half -careless, half -wilful misconception of the real gist
and scope of the statements made. Some persons, and
those most inclined to be violent on the subject, seem
plainly enough to have considered what they conceived
might be the artistic bearing of certain theories which
have been advanced, instead of taking due pains to
understand exactly what those theories were. Another
source of trouble has undoubtedly been the unfortunate
vagueness of our current musical terminology, and the
consequent confusion between the general and the spe-
cific sense of a common musical term.
Looking back upon the discussion, one finds that
what
t&e vwd
iJi ivir X ia» Veem waed, so I use
in tile
>i ■
I 1 :-"L— ^ ?::
s. a iJ. * n^^Li-^nn* n jf jay inier anas the pianist
Tx-7 xjT-^ IT xj* LjfT^siI :f Ixf ieiLt g ifae qoriBty of
-5 St* -rr* cij^L f^» i 1:^ '-i** Tae:f «Tb?r or boA pedals,
i- M-n-T I- ^«T. r a» c i -Jinr irnra rbe key after it has
':•— a i-7Z7-«e^I * .'•- • ir trz^r^tszy vcnich\ r plprnwin g the
k--', :r iitf :iLxxit-r :f Tr«?arLix sivtcsaiie notes in a
oi-Lfi-:!! Tiriiw*. y r-f xls*-^ rial it is a qoestion of
i.-T^«rs^lzx ~ 5 i-'7-~ i'C 3e^r»»*al keys* either simiil-
^:iJi»-«. 'i^I^ :c in *^' ^'>?s*l».cl
TTii* 5i:r-> ri-^'a i* cae whirh can be answered
ccc^.l-rttrly s^rra ii-^ exasiiaarion of the mechanical
az.d aovrL?Ti-rjI r^ss^r? iliti-?* of the caasL Smtiment has
nciiiiiirTo d-^ wi:i h. f:riiispiirdyaqiiestionof fact.
Let me Sr^:i by c^rosid^^fin^r the mechanical apparatus
wMoh interreiies t^ i»i! e n the pianist^s finger and the
string
TEZ LOOKER" OK 163
string from whieh the tone is produced. This appara-
tus consists of three principal, and independeTity parts.
/
First, the key itsell This is a horizontal, or nearly
horizontal, lever of wood, faced on its outer i)ortion
with ivory; at its fulcrum, it is kept in place by a ver-
tical metal pin which passes through a small hole.
When at rest, its inner end is slightly down and its
outer end up. Its motion is that of an up-and-down see-
saw (bcLscule) : when its outer end is depressed, its inner
end is correspondingly raised; when the depressing
force is removed from its outer end, it falls back of
itself into its original position. What slight lateral
motion may be imparted to it comes from the necessary
looseness of its attachment to the instrument at the
point where it plays on its fulcrum. Were it in any
way attached to its contiguous part of the apparatus,
this i)ossible lateral motion, however slight, might not
be entirely negligible; but, as it is not so attached, the
effect of its lateral motion, slight as it is in any case,
can safely be rated as null.
Next, the action. This is the technical name of a
somewhat complex vertical wooden frame which plays
freely on a horizontal hinge at its inner comer. As it
plays on a hinge, its motion describes the arc of a circle
in a vertical plane; no other motion is possible to it.
When at rest, its lower portion rests upon a capstan on
the inner part of the key. When the inner end of the
key is raised (by depressing the outer end), the action
is raised with it; when the inner end of the key is
allowed
164 THE LOOKSR'OHr.
allowed to faU back to its original position, the actioa
falls with it Bemember— f or this is important— that
there is no connedian between the key and the action,
but only contact ; the action rests upon the key, but is
in no wise fastened to it. When it falls, it falls of its
own weight.
Last, the HAmfKB. This is a wooden hammer, faced
with felt on its striking surface, which plays freely
on a horizontal hinge at the outer, or anterior, end of
what, in an ordinary hammer, would be called its
^< handle." Like the action, its motion describes the
arc of a circle in a vertical plane; and this is the only
motion i)0S8ible to it. When at rest, it rests, very near
its hinge end, ui>on the upi)er portion of the action; so
that when the latter is raised, it is raised, too. But,
as its ^'handle" is the radius of the arc it describes
when in motion, and the hinge is the centre of a circle,
of the circumference of which that arc is a portion, it
follows that a very slight motion imparted at its point
of contact with the action (near the centre) results
in a far more extended and rapid motion of its felt-
faced "head" (on the circumference). As there is no
connection, but merely contact, between the key and the
action, it is equally important to remember that there
is nothing more than contact between the action and
the stem of the hammer. If the action is raised very
gently, the hanmier is carried upward by it; if, on the
other hand, the action is raised by a more sudden im-
pulse, the hanmier is thrown upward by it — ^that is, a
sufficient impetus is imparted to the hanmier to make
it leave all contact with the action and fly upward
through the air on its hinge.
This throwing of the hammer, instead of raising it in
constant contact with the action, is the most important
element in the whole business. For it is only by being
thus thrown that the hammer can possibly be made to
impinge upon the string which is stretched above it.
The greatest amplitude of motion which can possibly be
imparted to the action by the key is insufficient to carry
the
THE LOOKER-ON. 166
the "head" of the hammer from its original position
of rest all the way up to the string. The action can
carry the hammer part way on its journey to the string,
but must perforce throw it the rest of the way. It is
mechanically impossible for the "head" of the ham-
mer to be in contact with the string and the stem of the
hammer to be in contact with the action at the same
moment.
A careful examination of the construction of this
apparatus, herein described, must convince any (ration-
al) person that the pianist can have no possible control
over the motion of the hammer after the loiter has
severed its contact vrith the action. Up to this moment
there has been mediate contact — ^through the key and
the action — ^between the pianist's finger and the ham-
mer; but, so soon as the contact between hammer and
action ceases, so soon as the hammer is thrown by the
action, this mediate contact between finger and hammer
ceases also. The pianist's control over and responsi-
bility for the motion of the hammer consequently ceases
at the same moment. But remember that all contact
between the hammer and the action ceases before the
hammer has touched the string. Therefore the pianist' s
control over the motion of the hammer must also cease
before the hammer has touched the string — that is, be-
fore the tone is produced.
No possible reasoning can controvert this; it may,
and must, be regarded as a scientifically ascertained
and proved fact. The pianist has in reality consider-
ably less control over the motion of the hammer than
the baseball pitcher has over that of the ball he de-
livers, or the billiard-player has over that of the ball
he strikes or pushes with his cue. The cases have this
in common, that, in all three of them, the player must
perforce resign all control over the object thrown after
he has thrown it; but both the pitcher and the billiard-
player can impart a " twist" to their ball, the after re-
sult of which — ^acting against the resistance of the air
or the surface of the billiard-table-— can be more or less
accurately
166 TEB looker-on:
accurately precalculated; the pianifit, howcTer, con im-
part no anch ^^ twiat " to the hammer, which can only
describe its prescribed arc of a circle in a vertical plane,
swinging on its hinge.
Now to the tone produced. It is scientifically un-
questionable that the amount and quality of tone pro-
duced depend upon three things, and upon these three
alone.
1. Upon the character of the string and the resonat-
ing apparatus in the pianoforte.
2. Upon the character of the hammer.
8. Upon the manner in which the hanmier comports
itself at the moment of its impact upon the string.
Now, the first two elements fall out of the discussion
of themselves; they are what mathematicians would call
constant quantities, in which the pianist is impotent to
produce any variation by his manner of striking, push-
ing down, or otherwise depressing the key. Remains
the third element, the manner in which the hammer
comi)orts itself at the moment of its impact upon the
string— in other words, its manner of striking the string,
Here, too, we immediately find one ^^ constant quan-
tity," the hammer itself ; and two more : the point at
which it strikes the string, and the angle at which it
strikes it. These also are constant.
There is only one i)ossible variable in the behavior
of the hammer (constructed and imi>elled as described
above) at the moment of its impact upon the string, and
this is ITS VELOCITY. It does not matter in the least
how or when this velocity was acquired, nor from
how far or near the string the hammer was thrown.
Whether the hammer was slowly raised by the action
part way on its journey and then thrown the rest of the
way, or was briskly thrown from the outset, does not
affect the case in the least, as long as its final velocity
at the moment of impact remains the same. And, as
the velocity of the hammer at the moment of its impact
upon the string is the only possible variable in its man-
ner of striking the string, it is necessarily also the only
efficient
THE LOOKER-ON. 167
efficient element in the production of tone oyer which
the pianist can exert any control by his manner of
striking, pushing down, or otherwise depressing the
key. No matter whether he jams the key down, or
coaxes it down, or pushes or pulls it down — ^I will add,
no matter who or what jams, coaxes, pushes, or puUs it
down— the only possible effective difference, in so far
as the production of tone is concerned, is the velocity
imparted to the hammer, and retained by it at its mo-
ment of imi)act. This is tantamount to saying that the
only element in the pianist's treatment of the key
which can have any possible influence upon the produc-
tion of tone from tilie string * is its force or gentleness.
All that counts in this one particular is whether he hits
hard or soft.
Now, any variation in the velocity of the hammer at
the moment of its impact upon the string — which
velocity depends directly upon the force of the down-
ward stroke or push given the key by the finger — may
cause a corresx)onding variation in the quality {Klang-
farbe) of the tone produced; the higher the velocity of
the hammer, the shorter the moment of impact and the
quicker the rebound; f the length of the moment of im-
pact, brief as it is in any case, may have some influence
upon the development of overtones of the string, and
thus upon the quality of tone produced. But, be this
as it may, what any variation in the velocity of the
hammer at the moment of impact necessarily must
cause is a corresx)onding variation in the dynamic in-
tensity (loudness) of the tone produced. So it stands
to reason that different velocities in the hammer, though
they may produce different qualities of tone, can do so
* Bemember that I only say ** prodMeticn of tone.**
t Thflva is one item in this oonoernlng which I am somewhat in doubt, and I do not
know that it has jet been scientiflcaUy ooosldered. The question that presents itself
to my mind is this: Xaj not the greater flattening: out of the soft ourred surf aoe of
the f!aoe of the hammer, wider a stroor blow upon the string (that is, at high
Telocity), tend to lifng*^»^" the moment of impact, so as more or less to compensate
for the naturally superior quickness of rebound Y At all erents, this llattenix^ out of
the hammer would increase the mtrfaeeqf impact , and thus introduce a new element,
which might be well worth considering.
only
If3 THS ZOOKBR-Olir.
only hy prodncing different dynamic intensities of ton«
at the same time.
Tbe qaestion is nnswOTed ! It is a scientifically
proved fact that thx piaxist has iro nrrLCKHcB ufos
•niE grAJJTT of tox* {Klangfarbe) pbodfcxd theouqh
THE MjUCXEK Uf WHICH HE STRIKES, PUSHES DOWTT, OK
OTHEKiriSE DEPKESSES A BEXOIX KET, INDEFEXDEBT OF
THE DT^AKIC CfTE^tSITT OP THE TOXE PBODUCED. Aid
there is no more rational excuse for the statement of
this fact calling forth exhibitions of sentiment or
violent language than there wonld be for any one to
express righteoos horror at the statemrait that ^e earth
rerolres on its own axis. And let me say also, to con-
clnde, that it is equally irrational and foolish to diaw
illogical conclusions from this scientific fact, or to im
pnte snch conclnsions to those who state it as a fitct.
THE LOOKER-ON, 169
MUSIC IN SHAKESPEARE.
By Louis C. Elson.
When the physician reads the medical allusions in
Shakesi>6are's plays and notes the subtle touches em-
ployed in the portrayal of the insanity of Ophelia^ the
feigned mental alienation of Edgar ^ or the broad refer-
ences to baser diseases in the FalstafBan scenes of ^ ^ ELing
Henry lY.," he is apt to claim the x)oet as almost a profes-
sional brother. The lawyer does much the same because
of Hamlet^ Justice ShallotDy and Portia. The theologian
finds scattered through the poet's work So many quota-
tions of Scriptural language that he is fain to argue
therefrom that Shakespeare had a theological training.
The musician, too, may join in this chorus of homage,
and can readily prove the poet's technical acquaintance
with the divine art by citations from the musical scenes
that are present in almost all of the plays.
This field has, however, received less attention than
the others, since the practical musician has rarely found
time to make himself a Shakesi>earian, and the literary
conunentator has generally lacked the ability to sift the
technical musical terms used by the poet.
It is refreshing to enter into a field of Shakesi)eariaii
research which is comparatively free from the micro-
scopic examination and comment which have so thor-
oughly gleaned all that the other phases of this versa-
tile mind offer for analysis.
After careful collation and comparison of the many
musical texts in the plays and sonnets, one reaches the
inference that Shakespeare was able to sing in part-
music and was probably able to dance. His knowledge
of instrumental music, although extensive, was not
quite as secure or technical as in these two other
branches of the art.
Let us begin with a couple of errors in the instrumen-
tal
170 TRE LOOKER'OK.
tal field. The 128th sonnet shows that Shakespeare was
not intimately conversant with the construction of the
virginals (the flimsy predecessor of the piano, need
chiefly in the sixteenth and seventeenth centoriesX ^^^
he speaks of
" those jacks that nimble lecq^
To kiss the tender inward of thy band.**
The jack was inside of the instrument, and conld by no
possibility touch the hand of the performer. If the
passage be regarded as metaphor, it is as free as if a
modem poet spoke of Paderewski's finger-tii>8 pressing
down the bounding hammers of the pianoforte. In the
plays there is a single line referring to the virginals. It
is in ^^ Winter's Tale," where the jealous Leomtts^ watch-
ing Hermume and PoltxeneSy mutters,
** StiU TirginaUing upon his palm.**
The reference is to the fingering of the instrument, and,
as used here, in connection with Hermione and Polix-
eneSj is very suggestive.
In "Hamlet,'' when the players with the recorders
come ui)on the scene (the recorders was the name given
to the straight flute, similar to but somewhat larger than
the modem flageolet), the hero, in a most eloquent
simile, alludes to the stops of the instrument, and adds :
" Though you can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me."
The recorders had neither frets nor stops. The intro-
duction of the word "fret" may have been for the
purpose of making a pun, for Shakespeare makes the
obvious pun on "frets" and "fretting" in other
plays. But even in the field of instrumental music
Shakespeare shows startling profundity of knowledge.
In the orchestral music of this time it was customary to
sustain one si)ecial tone-color throughout each move-
ment, a custom which may be studied even in the later
works of Bach ; thus, if the flute were prominent in the
flrst measures of a composition, it remained so to the
very end, and neither violin nor oboe, nor any otiier
instrument, might usurp its place of prominence in that
particular
THE LOOKER ON. 171
partictilar composition. At times composers broke this
role and allowed the instruments to interchange more
freely. Music in which such changes took place was
called ^^ broken." This fact fully explains the lines in
" King Henry V.," where the king woos with —
« Come, your answer in broken music; for thy voice is music and thy
English broken."
That Shakespeare soon drops the music-lesson in the
" Taming of the Shrew " seems to indicate that he under-
stood his instrumental limitation, but even in this scene
there is an indication of technical knowledge that
deserves recording. Twice does the shrewd Bianca
(who prefers the company of Lucentio\ before beginning
the music-lesson, send the troubled Hortensio away to
tune his lute. The saucy LucerUio endeavors to send
him off a third time to retune the bass. In this we have
a graphic picture of the great defect of the lute ; its
players were always tuning and retuning. Mattheson,
who wrote a musical work on the subject more than a
century later, says that if a lute-player lived to be
eighty years old it was probable that he had spent about
sixty years tuning his instrument.
It is not my purpose in this article to speak of all the
musical allusions of Shakespeare. Dismissing all those
hundreds of references, however eloquent, the meaning
of which is clear, and confining my comment only to
those which have not been thoroughly elucidated, or
which illustrate in some pregnant manner the life and
customs of the Elizabethan epoch, there will still be
abundance of matter to bring this paper to a reasonable
length.
Before doing that, however, I shall refer to Shake-
speare' s allusions to dancing. They are so full of hearti-
ness and zest that they prove that Shakespeare not only
understood but enjoyed the Terpsichorean art. Several
of these references are in "Twelfth Night," where Sir
Andrew Aguecheek brags mightily of his abilities in the
dance. In this play Shakespeare alludes to the Gkdl-
iaxd, the "Coranto" (Courante), the Jig (Gigue), the
Cinq-pas
ITS TBS LOOKSB'ON:
CSnq-pas (he makes an unworthy pnn on ^'Sink-ar
paoe"X ^® Passy-measore (Paaso Mezzo), and the Parin
(PktvaneX and it is very evident from the paaeagesy and
provable by other evidence, that England loved beet the
hearty dances. The very slow and stately Pavane was
sometimes danced at court, but almost everybody liked
better the qnick-paced Oalliard. When Sir Toby Belch
expresses his <iiw^«Ti for a ^* Passy-measnre or a Pavin "
he voices the dislike of the rank and file of the English
people of the sixteenth century for the slow Spanish,
Italian, and French dances.
In '* Winter's Tale" the poet causes the clown to
speak of hornpipes. This is a very natural allusion
(although it had no more to do with Bohemia than the
seacoast which Shakesi)eare placed there), for tke horn-
pipe was an English dance. It took its name and origin
from the long wooden horn which the old English shep-
herds were wont to play, (this instrument gave rise to
the English horn of the present orchestra), and was a
lively rustic dance at the first. Even Bach paid tribute
to the English origin of the hornpipe, for he introduced
it into his Suites under the title of ^^Anglaise."
There are some i)ertinent allusions to dances in
^^Love's Labour's Lost," where Armado is addressed by
his l>age thus :
Moth. ICMter, will you win your love with a French brawl ?
Arm, How moan'st thou? brawling in French?
Moth. No, my complete master: but to jig off a tune at tlie
tongue's end, eanary to it with your feet, humour it with turning np
your eyelids.
The French Brawl or Branle was probably one of the
very few dances which France borrowed from England.
It was a round dance in which all the particix)ants took
hold of hands and danced in a circle. AU these circular
dances date back to the remotest past, probably being
sacrificial dances ages ago (the sun- worshipping dances,
the Egyptian dance around the bull-god Apis, the
Israelites' dance around the golden calf, are examplesX
but they took an especial hold upon the English taste
and
THE LOOKER'Oir. 178
and lead one to suppose that the Draids may have been
the first to dance them on English soil. The Canaries
was also a dance of English origin which made its way
into continental society ; it was a more elegant species
of Jig.
One more quotation and we have done with this
branch of onr subject. This quotation shows a wonder-
ful insight into the peculiarities of some of the dances
and may well lead us to suppose that Shakespeare had a
practical acquaintance with them. It is in ^^ Much Ado
About Nothing," where Beatrice says to Hero:
'* Here me, Hero : wooing, wedding, and repenting is as a Scotch
Jig, a measure, and a oinque-paoe: the first suit is hot and hasty, like
a Scotch Jig, and full as fantastical ; the wedding, nuuinerly-modest,
as a measure fuU of state and ancientry ; and then comes repentance,
and, with his bad legs, falls into the cinque-pace foster and fastor, tiU
he sink into his grave."
Here we have the wild pace of the Scotch (at present the
Irish) Jig, the stately style of the Passo Mezzo, only a
trifle quicker than the very slow Payane, and best of
all, the queer tottering irregularity of the five-step
dance called the Cinq-pas, aU brought together to make
an unsurpassable simile.
To return to the subject of music, we find Shakespeare
draws numerous metaphors from the musician's count-
ing of time. Perhaps the most poetical of these is in
the prison scene of ^^ King Bichard II.," where the
royal captive says :
« Music do I hear?
Ha, ha ! keep time : how sour sweet music is,
When time is hroke and no proportion kept I
So Ib it in the music of men's liyes.
And here have I the daintiness of ear
To check time broke in a disordered string ;
But for the concord of my state and time
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke,
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me."
In '^Bomeo and Juliet/' a play replete with muedcat
allusions, there is a pun on the smaller divisions of
The replacing of a large note by several
smaller
174 TBS LOOKEB-OK
smaller ones was caUed " Biyisioii " in the Elizabethan
times ; therefore Juliet in the chamber scene, says :
" SoBM «qr the Imrk nuJcet sweet diviiioii ;
This doth not so, for she divideth as.**
Shakespeare could not resist the temptation to make
a pan, even in the most serious scenes.
Bat the most remarkable reference to time-keeping is
one that seems hitherto to have e8cai)ed the interpie-
tation of the commentators. It occurs in '^ Bomeo and
Juliet," when Benvolio questions Jfercutio regarding
Tybalt. The lines are as follows :
Ben. Why, what is Ty belt?
Jfer. More than prince of cats, I can teU yoo. 0» he is tha
coorageoos eaplatn of complements. He fights as yon sing prick-
song, keeps time, distance, and proportion ; rests me his minim rest,
one, two, and the third in your bosom."
The parts of this sentence relating to 7^da2^ the prince
of cats, and to the punctilios of the professional duellist
of the time, have been fully explained. The allusion to
the prick-song has been passed over in complete silence,
notwithstanding it contains one of the most graphic of
Shakespeare's metaphors. Morley, contemi>oraneoiLS
with Shakespeare, defines the prick-song as the descant
ui)on a plain song or ground (bass-i>art), which was writ-
ten, or pricked down, and not i>erformed eztemi)ora-
neously ; and Playf ord, shortly after the same ei>ocli,
says of the counting of it :
" Measure in this science is a Quantity of the Length or Shortnen
of Time, either by natural sounds, pronounced by the Voice, or Artifi-
cial, upon Instruments ; which Measure is 6y a eeriain mcHon cf the
hand or foot, expressed in variety of notes."
We have here a sure clue to the Shakespearian mean-
ing. The i>oet is making an apt comparison between
the motions of the hand (down, left, right, and up) and
the motions of the expert fencer ; any conductor of the
present time, in directing his orchestra, goes through
these motions, and ^^the third in your bosom" is an
exquisite play of fancy. In this same play, ^'Borneo
and Juliet," there is a very direct bit of sarcasm that
has
TEE LOOKER ON. 176
has not always been understood. Shakespeare always
enjoyed scattering through his plays allusions to the
popular songs of his time. In '' Romeo and Juliet" he
not only alludes to " Heart' s-Ease" and to "My Heart
is E^ull of Woe," but, as the musicians are departing
from the house of Capulet, where Juliet is supposed to
be dead, he introduces a whole dialogue based upon
^' A Song to the Lute in Musicke," the words and music
of which were the production of Richard Edwards,
Master of the Children of the Boyal Chapel of Queen
Elizabeth. In this dialogue Peter displays his wit at
the expense of the musicians, who are packing up their
instruments to depart from the house of mourning.
Peter sings the words :
''When gpriping: grief the heart doth wound.
And doleful dumps the mind oppress^
Then Music with her silver sound" —
and then catechises the musicians thus :
JW. Why " silver sound " ? Why " music with her silver sound *•?
What say you, Simon Catling?
Firfst Mu8. liarry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.
Pet, Pretty ! What say you, Hugh Rebeck ?
Sec. Mu8. I say *' silver sound " because musicians sound for silver.
Pet. Pretty too ! What say you, James Soundpost?
Third Mu8. Faith, I know not what to say.
Pet, O, I cry you mercy ; you are the einger: I wiU say for you. It
is " music with her silver sound,** because musicians have no gold for
sounding.
Richard Grant White in commenting on the words " O,
you are the singer" says: '^Shakespeare understood
the violin. The soundpost stands under the highest
string of the instrument, called the cantor e — singer."
This is one of the most abstruse modes of running a
witticism to earth that is on record. It seems much
more rational to suppose that Shakespeare desired to
satirize the lack of wits which existed among many
singers of his time. The ordinary musician is obliged
to study for his attainments, but the singer, gifted by
nature with a sweet voice, can sometimes get along with
scarcely any education at all. That Shakespeare en-
joyed
17C THS LOOKER'OS:
joyed soek a ffing at the ignonnt Tocalist can be 8Ml
bj vtadTiag the eeeae in ^'Moch Ado aboat Nothing"
where BaWuuar^ the incarnation of self-conceit^ fishee
in vain tor a coiaplinient for his singing of '^ Sigh no
aore, ladies.^' Shakespeare pfrobably meant that Jame9
8omndpo9(M education had extended no higher than hia
One may nadfly beliere that Shakespeare took his
part occasiiMially in the txoUiBg out of a catch ; the
iMcchanalian mnsic of ^^ Twelfth Night" is altogether
too realistic to hare been invented from hearsay evi-
dence, and the introdnction of the worda of Bobert
Jones' ''Corydon's Fuewell to Phyllis" ihronghont
the oonTersation in this bacchanalian scene shows how
mnch the poet delighted in such revelry. There was
emphatically a Bohemian streak in Shakespeare' 8 natnie,
and that he held this to be a Intimate characteristic
of a strong mind may be assumed from the jMrtiality
which he shows for Prince Halj who sweeiNi from the
wildest debaachery to the highest heroism.
The snbject grows wider and wider the more it is
studied^ It would be pleasant to see how Shakesi)eaTe
has made minute differences in the appreciation of
music the touchstone of many of his charactere ; how
he has always balanced his jesting references to the art
by earnest and poetic lines of appreciation in the same
plays which contain the mockeries and scoflhigs.
Space bids us refrain, however, content to dip a little
of the crystal water from the boundless lake :
« BIgfaiiig that Natare f orm*d bat one sooh man.
And Iwoke the die.**
^f '-)
TEE LOOKEIt'Oir. IW
MUSICAL COMMENT AND GOSSIP.
By Henby T. Pikok.
fiftieth bibthday op " taknhaubeb." — waombe
GUILTY OF HIGH TBEASON. — ^BUGEirB D'ALBEBT AKD
TEBESA OABBEirO. — ^ABTIFIOIAL YOI0E8 TO OBDEB. —
GLADSTONE OK MU8I0. — KIKISOH IN LEIPSIO AND BEB-
UN. — ^DVOBAK BEMAINS IN EUBOPE. !
I
Dbesden had the honor of first producing Wagner's
"Rienzi" (1842), "Flying Dutchman'' (1843), and
''Tannh&user" (1845). The Dresdeners lutve there-
fore had three recent opportunities for indulging in
those commemoratiye performances so dear to the Ger*
man heart, and they made good use of them by bringing
out these ox>eras in bright new dresses, and mending
matters generally. They do not like to be reminded of
the fact that the "Flying Dutchman," after its fourth
performance, disapi)eared from their opera house for
twenty years. "TannhSuser" had its fiftieth birthday
on the nineteenth of the past month, and the well-
known Dresden critic, Ludwig Hartmann, took this
occasion to issue a brochure of sixty-five pages, in
which he tells the history of this opera, which to-day
is more popular than ever. It seems that the first per-
formance lasted five hours — ^from 6 to 11 — although
some cuts had been made, whereas Hans Richter and
Anton Seidl manage to compress the same opera into
four hours or less. " Lohengrin," too, when first pro-
duced by liszt, lasted an hour too long. The trouble,
as Wagner pointed out in a letter to Liszt, lay with the
singers, who had not yet mastered the new style of
melodious declamation, but dragged mercilessly.
Hartmann calls attention to the curious fact that al-
though "TannhSuser" made such a stir in Dresden, the
local newspapers paid hardly any attention to it What
Uttle
178 THE LOOKER-ON.
little they did say was nncomplimentary, so that it was
small wonder that four years elapsed before this opera
was brought out in another city (Weimar, by laszt).
Wagner has been often blamed for the violent polemics
in which he indulged in those days, but when one
reads the criticisms in which his works were at that
time pulverized and annihilated, while charlatans were
lauded to the sky, one feels some sympathy with
him. The most favorable notice was written by Ed-
ward Hanslick, who, as is generally known, has been
during the last four decades the most violent enemy of
Wagnerism. This would give the affair the necessary
spice of humgr, were it not supplied otherwise by the
critical prophets, one of whom, the famous Moritz
Hauptmann, wrote, two years after the first i>erformance
of ^^Tannh&user," that not one note of Wagner's music
would survive him. « «
A i^w weeks ago the opera composer, Kienzl, got
hold of, and published in a German newspax)er, a long
poem which Wagner wrote during the revolutionary
movement in Dresden in 1849. The i)oem, at any rate, is
in his own handwriting ; but I cannot say that it throws
any new light on the question as to how far Wagner
took part in that rebellious uprising. That question
was still a mooted point at the time when I wrote my life
of Wagner, and I was unable to get access to the official
documents. Better luck attended the efforts of Hugo
Dinger, who has written a book with the uninviting
title of ** Richard Wagner's Gteistige Entwickelung."
I 8upx)Osed at first that this was merely one of the
countless* tiresome eesthetico - metaphysical treatises
which the Oerman Wagnerites have inflicted on a
weary world ; but to my surpris6 and joy I found that
the third chapter contains a number of interesting
revelations regarding the revolutionary episode in
Wagner's life. Dinger had influential friends in gov-
ernment circles, who secured permission for him to
examine the judicial documents in Dresden. He was
thus
THE L OKER - ON. 179
thus able to nail many lies — ^for instance, Count Beust's
slanderous statements that Wagner had set fire to the
Prince's palace, and that he was condemned to death
in contuTfMciam.
On the other hand, Dinger proves conclusively that
what Wagner did do was more than sufficient to con-
vict him of high treason. It was high treason merely
to "recognize the provisional government," and the
I)enalty for high treason was death. Wagner not only
"recognized" this "government," but worked for it
with all his might and main, by word and deed. It is
probable that he did not carry a rifle, nor fight on the
barricades like his friend, the subsequently famous
architect Semper. But he knew all about the plots,
accompanied Boeckel once when he ordered bombs,
addressed recruits, and helped to give signals and watch
for reinforcements on the Blreuz tower. Had he been
caught — and he escaped by a mere accident, by refusing
his friends' invitation to go in their wagon — ^he would
have been condemned to death like the other culprits,
and subsequently would have had the sentence com-
muted to ten years' imprisonment— in which case the
seven latest and greatest of his operas would have never
been written.
The oddest thing about the whole matter is that
Wagner did not realize the seriousness of his misdemean-
or, but would have gone back to Dresden after peace was
restored had not his wife warned him that the police
were after him I Dinger's book is full of other interest-
ing details which I am sorry I did not have when I
wrote my biography. I was able, however, to make use
of them for the German translation of that work which
will appear in a few months at Breslau. I have therein
summed up this episode in the following words : " That
Wagner's actions were ill-considered, foolish, and cen-
surable, must be admitted. The object of my biography
is to tell the truth about Wagner, not to make him out
an immaculate saint, as GlasenaDP, Ellis, and others
have attempted to do."
EUGENS
180 THX LOOKSR'OSr.
BroKHX D' Albxbt, the Scotch pianist and compoo^,
with the French name and Oennan predilections, ap-
pears to be pursued by bad Inck. He has lost the con-
dnctorship of the Weimar opera. He gave a concert in
Dresden the other day for the benefit of the BUlowmon-
nment fond, which yielded only 64B marks, or abont
tlSS. If my memory serres me right, he intended to
give a concert in Hambnig last spring, but had to
abandon his plan because the adyance sale was too small
to iMiy expenses. On the other hand, when Joachim
gave a concert in Hamburg, a few weeks ago^ for the
Bnlow funds, the yield was 5,134 marks.
The sum so fsr raised for the Billow monument in Ham-
burg is said to amount to about $4,000. No monttment,
however, will give the admirers of the witty pianist and
conductor so much satisfiiction as the announcement that
Breitkopf and HSrtel will soon publish a volume of his
letters. This correspondence will doubtless contain
much spice, irony, malice, and entertainment. Bulow
would deserve immortality as a musical critic if he had
never achieved any other ban-mot than this, that '^ Italy
was the cradle of music and— remained the cradle."
To return to TV Albert for a moment. The readers of
The Look£B-Ok are, of course, aware that he has agwi
obtained a divorce, this time from the fascinating and
talented South American pianist, Teresa Carrefio, whom
it would be a pleasure to hear again in New York. The
Berlin Boersen-Courier gives a brief account of the last
act in the divorce proceedings, which I herewith trans-
late as an interesting bit of double musical biography :
<< < Wilful desertion on the i>art of the husband ' was
given as the ground for the divorce, other deei>er reasons
being merely touched ui)on. The court decided to
question both x)arties personally, and they were in con-
sequence summoned by telephone, one after the other,
by their attorneys. After a brief consultation, the court
decided that the marriage between Carreno and D' Albert
was annulled, and the husband alone declared the guilty
I>arty. Divorced again, the two famous artssts, accom-
panied
LOOKER ON. 181
panied by their counsel, left the court, D' Albert with-
out visible signs of emotion, Carrefio in tears and appar-
ently deeply agitated."
Thx London Times the other day printed a startling
telegram from Australia saying that Professor Anderson,
of the University of Sydney, had succeeded in construct-
ing an artificial larynx which he applied successfully
in the case of a man who had lost the use of his voice.
So far there is nothing in tliis information that will
seem very startling in these days of surgical wonders.
But when the telegram adds that by changing certain
tubes the man operated on can at will talk or sing in a
soprano, tenor, or bass voice, we reach a different atmos-
phere. If this be true, then vocal teachers will soon
have to shut up shop, for voices will presently be
turned out in the machine-shops, and we shall have
singers who will be Patti, Scalchi (easy), Jean and
Edouard de Reszke in succession — or possibly at the
same time, like Mr. Grossmith.
But what if Professor Anderson, or the correspondent
of the London Times^ should prove to be a wag f The
Times is not noted for its sense of humor, and possibly
some one has played a practical joke on it.
In the Jcurnal des Debats I find a curious item about
Mr. Gladstone, which would indicate that the eminent
statesman is not as well informed in musical matters as
he is in politics and Homeric lore. The other evening,
so the Journal relates, some one spoke of Wagner at
dinner, and Mr. Gladstone was quite surprised to hear
that that composer was dead and had been dead more
than twelve years. Mr. Gladstone, on the same occa-
sion, expressed the opinion that the ^^best musical
works are those which please the greatest number of
I)eople." If that is true, then the greatest of all com-
posers — ^the writers of music-hall songs — ^are strangely
and unjufrtly neglected by the critics and the cyclopte-
dias
182 THE L OKER -ONI
dias. But then, has it not always been the lot of lane
genius to be ignored I
However, Mr. Gladstone's dictum is not really so
foolish as it seems. Popularity for a year, or for ten
years — ^particularly immediate popularity — is no test
whatever of merit in music or in any other art ; but
when we look backward, down the vista of decades and
centuries, we find unquestionably that only the best
and fittest survives. It takes years for the light of a
fixed star to reach this planet, but when it arrives it is
hereto stay. « «
*
Possibly some of the Boston critics will feel a tinge
of remorse when they read of the great triumphs which
Mr. Arthur Nikisch is winning in Leipsic and Berlin
as concert conductor. It was they who drove him from
Boston, and now he has captured the two most de-
sirable positions in all Germany, and is stirring up
' at enthusiasm. Mr. Nikisch has his faults, as man
'II' L conductor, and I once saw a very undiplomatic
letter he had written to an amiable critic ; but if yon
do not rub his fur the wrong way he is a most delight-
ful companion. As a conductor he has ideas and the
power to impress them on others. He is not a mere
animated pendulum, but insists that a conductor has
a right to his own conception of a piece, just as an
actor has in regard to a role. The good Leipsicers,
who have so long suffered under the drowsy baton of
the conservative Reinecke, will now have a chance to
learn something about modern music ; and how thej
relish this relief may be inferred from the fact that one
of them, on hearing of Nikisch' s appointment, sent
him a telegram reading, " We congratulate ourselves/ "
As Leipsic and Berlin are only a few hours' ride
apart, Mr. Nikisch will find it easy enough to take care
of the Berlin Philharmonic concerts besides those of
the Leipsic Oewandhaus. His first Berlin programme
was very tempting. He engaged Josef Hofmann to
play a Chopin concerto, and the orchestra played
Tchaikovsky's
TETE LOOKER'OK 183
Tchaikovsky's fifth symphony, Beethoven's third
"Leonora," and Wagner's **Tannhauser" overture.
*
Akekca has lost another great mnsician who, though
he came to us from abroad, might possibly under more
favorable circumstances have made his home among
us permanently, like Theodore Thomas, Anton Seidl,
and many others. I refer to Anton Dvorak, who for
three years presided over our National Conservatory of
Music. It is doubtless a mistake ever to harness Pe-
gasus, but Dr. Dvor&k was lucky to get $12,000 a year
instead of the thousand or so which he earned at the
Prague conservatory. Mrs. Thurber's generosity has
enabled him, in three years, to lay aside more for his
children than his compositions will yield him in a life-
time.
The great Bohemian must have been surprised to find
that so few of our American composers and would-be
composers came to him for instruction and advice. I
was surprised, too, until I found that the members of
our Manuscript Society apparently consider themselves
quite on a level with the greatest living orchestral com-
poser. A swelled head is a great stumbling-block in
the way of progress.
But the three years which Dr. Dvordk si)ent in Amer-
ica were not lost to art. Whatever may be thought of
the Afro- American elements in his latest compositions,
it cannot be denied that they impart to them a charming
local color, something quite new in music. The slow
movement of his " New World" symphony is a gem of
the first water, the most beautiful thing ever composed
in America. His American chamber music, too, is the
best he has written, and if he completes his opera,
'^ Hiawatha," we shall doubtless have some fine speci-
mens of Americanized dramatic music. And for all this
beauty and novelty the world has to thank Mrs. Jean-
nette M. Thurber, to whose inspiration and generosity
Dr. Dvordk's visit to America was due.
Personally, Dr, Dvor&k is not a social man. He is
shy,
IM THE LOOKER -OV.
shy, and wUle in New York seldom went out to call tst
dine. He nsnally comi>06ed very early in the jnoming
and always gave np an honr a day to religions devotion.
He once told me that he f onnd himself in a peculiar
position, inasmnch as he was too Wagnerian for the
conserratives and too conserratiye for the Wag:nerite6.
In the harmonic and orchestral sphere he is to-day more
Wagnerian than ever, bnt in the shaping of kis ideas
and the choice of forms he has been largely influenced
by Brahms. It was Brahms who " discovered " him,
and he is one of the few men to whom Brahms ever
writes a letter.
I often had a littie chat with Dr. Dvordk when I visited
the conservatory to deliver my weekly lecture on the
history of music. I became better acquainted with him
when the editor of the Century asked me to get an
article out of him on Schubert. It was not an easy thing
to do ; he refused at first point blank, saying he was not
a writer. But by making it as easy as possible for him,
I finally succeeded. I submitted a series of questions
to him and then came for an answer, which he gave in
the most fluent and eloquent manner. Of course I
could not reproduce his exact words, but I did the best
I could, and afterward had him revise the manuscript,
so that every line in it had his approval. Subsequently
he was pleased to get a letter from the greatest living
authority on Schubert — Sir G^rge Grove — ^who wrote
to him that it was the best article on Schubert ever
written. But Bvor&k never saw the number of the
magazine in which it appeared !
THE LOOKER-ON. 185
THE MANUSCRIPT SOCIETY OF
NEW YORK.
Devoted to the Advancement of Musical Composition in America.
In his charming work on ** The Art of Music," Dr. Hubert Parry re-
marks that in music, form and design are most obviously necessary,
because the very source and reason of existence of the art are so ob-
scure. The instinct of the 'artist makes it a necessity for him to find
terms which will be understood by other beings in whom his appeal
can strike a sympathetic chord. The stronger the delight in the
thought or feeling, the greater is the desire to make the terms in
which it is conveyed unmistakably clear ; and this instinctive desire
is one of the main incitements to the development of design.
Of all types of humanity those who are possessed with artistic dis-
positions are notoriously most liable to an absorbing thirst for sym-
pathy, which is sometimes interpreted by those who are not artistic
as a love of approbation or notoriety ; and though it does sometimes
degenerate into that unhappy weakness, its source at least is not un-
worthy of respect.
The necessity of some such sympathy must have influenced the
feelings of four young musicians,'as they met together on the evening
of August 27, 1889, to listen to each other's compositions. These men
were Addison F. Andrews, Louis R. Dressier, Joseph Harrison (now
deceased), and the writer of this article. The 'suggestion was then
made that a Manuscript Musical Club be formed, starting with these
four names as a nucleus. This, in brief, is the history of the inception
of the Manuscript Society of New York, now probably the most nota-
ble organization of composers in the world.
During the' first season of 1889-1890 seven private meetings were
held, the majority of these being at Gerrit Smithes studio, which be-
came a regular meeting-place of the society during that time.
In the following year, and continuing for some period, the society
was enabled through the courtesy of Messrs.' Mason & Hamlin to hold
its private meetings, and transact its business, at their commodious
Hall on Fifth Avenue.
These arrangements have now been superseded by the acquisition
of new and commodious dub-rooms at No. 17 East Twenty-second
Street.
The first officers of the society were : Gerrit Smith, President ;
Louis R. Dressier, Secretary ; Charles B. Hawley, Treasurer ; Addison
F. Andrews, Librarian.
The present officers are : Gterrit Smith, President ; S. N. Penfleld, 1st
Yice-President; John L. Burdette. 2d Vice-President; Louis R. Dressier,
Treasurer ;
18H THE L OOKER-OX.
Treasurer; Harry W. Liadsley, CorrespoDdin^ Secretary; J. Hazard,
WilHon, Recording Secretary ; Sumner Salter, Librarian and Secretary
of MuHic Ck>mmtttee.
Hoard of Directors : Homer N. Bartlett, George F. Bristow, John
L. Burdett, Frederic Dean, Louis R. Dressier. Henry G. Hanchett.
Victor Harris, Robert JafTray, Jr., Harry W. Lindsley, S. N. Penfield.
Silas G. Pratt, Summer Salter, P. A. Schnecker, Gerrit Smith, J.
Hazard Wilson.
The membership of the society is no longer confined to New York-
alone, nor to this country; but in its broad organization it numbers
as active and honorary members composers from all over the United
States and across ths sea, from London, Paris, and Berlin.
The group of four men has now developed into a society of nearly
nine hundred members, included in which number is almost every
distinguished composer in the country. In the ranks of the society
are many professional musicians, such as conductors, singers, aod
instrumentalists. Many of the most prominent musical patrons in
New York City are associate members. The first subscribing member
was Mrs. G rover Cleveland, the first honorary member M. Alexandre
Guilmant, and the first life member Mr. John Jacob Aster. Since
then an imposing array of new members attests the esteem in which
the society is held by those w^ho are invited to join its institutions.
The original prospectus stated the object of the society to be the
advancement of musical composition in America, and the develop-
ment of a Kpirit of honest musical criticism. Since then the society
has also made it a part of its purpose to collect original manuscripts
and to give annual exhibitions for the interpretation of the same.
Another dream of the founders has lately been realized, viz., the
attractive new club- rooms, which go far to prove not only the pros-
perity of the society but its adherence to one of its primary and vital
aims, namely, the promotion of fellowship and good feeling. Here,
almost any day at lunch-time may be found groups of the most
prominent musicians of New York. At the long table, which invites
hospitality, one may find himself seated next to Dr. Wm. Mason, or
Anton Seidl, or Walter Damrosch, or listen to the brilliant flights of
Xavier Scharwenka, or the genial sayings of Jos. Mosenthal, or the
dry witticisms of George F. Bristow.
Many and various are the subjects broached at the broad board.
It n)ay be a manuscript by Rossini, or an autograph of Beethoven, or
a letter of (rrisi's which is going the round of inspection. It may be
a discussion as to the tendencies of modem music, it may be a ques-
tion of dynamics or rhythm, or it may be only Joseph Mosenthal
speaking French to an Italian waiter. But in no case is it considered
a breach of decorum for the speaker to leave the table and seek the
seclusion of the piano to give an illustration or to enforce an argu-
ment. If there is a lull in the conversation it is probably the quieting
inlluence of some lady members who have just come in. The club is
proud of its lady members, and always pauses to do them honor, and
the
IBS THE LOOKER-ON.
tb« society is proud of its increased list of women composers. Scarcely
a eoncert is ^ven without the appearance of some women composers,
and this fact speaks well for the development of musical composition
in a direction hitherto not encouraged or suspected.
As may be seen by the prospectus quoted below the public concerts,
now numberinj^ four yearly, are still ipven by the courtesy of Messrs.
Chickerinic ft Sons in their hall; while the six monthly private meet-
ings will hereafter be held in the attractive hall of the new Mendels-
sohn Clab building. Three of the public concerts are given with
orchestra, and one is a chamber music concert. From among its list
of members the society can now choose as conductors Anton Seidl.
Walter Damrosch, Emil Paur, Theodore Thonuis, Rheinhold Herrman,
and others.
In the early days of the society it was possible for each composer
to conduct his own work. While this was often of value to the
composer as an object lesson it was also of occasional value to the
audience as entertainment. The vision of a well-known composer
rushing into Chickering EUdl on a stormy [evening, with upturned
trousers, and suddenly grasping the baton before a fashionable
audience was almost enough to bring smiles in spite of the dramatic
beauty of his orchestral work. Nor was it less a cause for surprise
and merriment when another famous composer, forgetting it was his
turn to conduct, left the audience waiting a quarter of an hour while
he went out to compose a new symphony. If these early days were
full of pleasant associations and incidents they were not, however,
devoid of unceasing labor and care on the part of those who were
interested in the growth and welfare of the society. Many has been
the time when failure seemed imminent; many has been the time
when money had to be advanced; but through it all there shone forth
the unquestioned value and future dignity of an organization which
now rests secure upon its own foundations.
The critics were kindly at first, but as several seasons went by and
there was not apparent the desired improvement in musical develop-
ment, they criticised only actual facts, and forgot to lend encourage-
ment to ideals. Finally they forgot to criticise at all, which was the
strongest proof of their condemnation. Still the society continued to
exist.
Until the Manuscript Society began its missionary work of making
it possible for a prophet to receive honor in his own country, it was the
^reat exception when an American work could be heard in public.
The American composer lived in a German atmosphere, instructive to
be sure, necessary, I think, but the atmosphere of the school-room, the
doors of which had some day to be thrown open and the scholars pven
an opportunity to meet and greet the great world outside. Many of
these scholars have in their turn become teachers. They now say, Let
us build an institution where we may express our thoughts publicl)'
and in our own language. This institution is the Manuscript Society.
Alfred Bruneau, a composer of the younger school of French musi-
cians
THE LOOKER -OX. 189
cians headed by C^ear Fraack, sajs that the American composers are
at the beginning oF tbeircareer, and that the school now having left its
cradle muBt tend toward the search for national talent, local color, and
characteristic ideal.
Another French critic says that American music is not yet bom,
but is "seeking itself." Writers in the Oerman papers have praised
the schooling and elegant thought of the American composers, but
denied originality.
Id ending this article I cannot do better than to quot« the oloaJng
sentences from an essay by Mr. Henry E. Krehbiel :
"So tar as the future is concerned, the American composer, who is
following the example of his brethren o( Great Britain, France, Italy,
and Russia in studying German ideals, will stand an equal chance with
them in the struggle for recognition ; at toon at he it pat upon their
Itvtl in respect of encouragement at home and abroad. These things
are necessary for the development of that ' vigorous forward man,'
who, as Bagehot has contended in his discussion of the origin of literary
schools, will strike out the rough notion of the style which the Ameri-
CAU people will find congenial, and which, for that reason, will find
imitation. The characteristic modeof expression which will be stamped
upon the music of the future American composer will be the joint crea-
tion of the American's freedom from conventional methods, and his in-
herited predilections and capacities. The refiective Oerman, the
mercurial Frenchman, the stolid Englishman, the warm-hearted Irish-
man, the impulsive Italian, the daring Russian will each contribute his
factor to the sum of national taste. The folk-melodies of all nations
will yield up their individual charms and disclose to the composer a
hundred avenues of emotional expression which have not yet been ex-
plored. The American eompoter toill be the truest representative of a
vnivertal art, became he will be the tr^ett type af a citizen of the
tuortd." Oebrit Smith.
WILLIAM C. CARL.
Mb. Caru llie organist of the First Presbyterian Churth, bis rt-
turni'il from aa fXteniled tour tlirougb the West.
IIo did not jotpnd this trip to be anythinir but a pleasure joumev,
and was lu much Rurprised as any one could be whea it bt-cam^ an
artistic tnurnre. His (arthevt boundary was tlie Pacific Ocean; liut it
his NVw York on^uK^ments had not inlerfcred he would have fow
beyond it to Austraha.
A representative of that country used his best endeavors to ptr^
Buotlu Mr. <.'arl to Ihie course, and perhaps another season will Gnd iiini
in the hind of the Kold-Helds aad the kangaroos.
In lookinf," over th" notices that api>eared in some Western papers.
commenting on his recitals, I was astonished to note the (liscemn]<-r,t
and intclli};eDce thai characterized them. The most frequent observa-
tion W.1S the mention of Mr, Carl's magnetic personalitr. sometiiing
appreciated, hut not defined.
The instant atid complete silence that follOKcd his appearance tt
the or^':m was noted aa unusual, and also as a certain proof of tbe
inimi^diute sympathy that was established between the young organ tat
and lii-i ea^er listeners.
Such a silence fell upon the great audience when I heard Paderevr-
ski for tlie lirst time. I can never forget it, for it seemed to me that
gr(.Mt unci suKtll were alike overpowered in the presence of that great
genius.
In several small towns the idea of an organ recital was as novel as
!i bull-li«-ht would be Id New York.
To the cruder Western mind the organ filled a part of the Sunday
service; but that it might be made a pleasure at any other time was
nut tliou>,'lit of, and its piiKsibilities unknown.
Curiosity incited Investigation, investigation created enthusiasm.
and as a result Mr. Curl has booked many engagements tor the future
in t1ies<- very towns, which fact tctls its own story of the pleasure
given and tlie popularity gained. In the larger tonus, where the
musical experience of the community was greater, the principal com-
ment was in regard to Mr. Carl's technique. His exact phrasing was
a revelation to many, and his marvellous registration received fine ap-
preciutioQ from those of the audience who were familiar with tlie
organ and its almost unlimited capabilities. Be was recalled again
and again, and repeated many times the new sonata in C minor by
GuilmanC,
THE LOOKER-ON. 191
Guilmant, which brought forth such favorable comments from all the
Eastern papers last spring. It is no new truth that it is because of
the full, deep tones of the organ that most performers rely upon effect,
and slight the very exact phrasing demanded of a pianist.
Mr. Carl plays with the precision of a great pianist, with the
warmth and tone- color of a Guilmant. He is, in fact, the beloved
pupil of that great master of the organ, " who is unexcelled for brill-
iancy of execution" and whose visit to this country will ever be
remembered by music-lovers. A teacher, I take it, cares for his pupil
with an artistic rather than a personal love. It is the pupiVs success
that stimulates and creates this love, that brings them closer together,
that creates in the mind of the teacher a passion for his pupil's suc-
cess that could not be equalled by his own personal ambition. When
a pupil has created this feeling by his ability and progress, and when
his teacher is a Guilmant, we may expect much of him. Mr. Carl's
perpetual growth of power and technique is no longer a wonder to us,
and we recognize and appreciate the genius that can bnng from the
organ the thunder-like roar of the ** storms" or the sweet notes of the
vesper hymn.
Each summer for many years Mr. Carl has found his way back to
bis master's villa, at Mendon; each fall he has returned with new
treasures of feeling, new abilities of expression, new results of com-
position.
In future Mr. Carl will spend even a greater part of his time
visiting all parts of the country; opening new organs, giving recitals
(assisted by local artists), and adding his share to the musical culture
and enjoyment to lovers of the great art.
As an evidence of Mr. Carl's earnest work, he has given a number
of free recitals for several succeeding seasons in this city, and in con-
sequence has received unusual testimony of the benefit derived from
them by organists of less ability or fame.
To students these recitals have been invaluable, affording them an
opportunity to listen to one who had accomplished early in life what
they were anxiously aspiring to attain.
Organists whose duties deprive them of hearing the organ played
at the Sunday services are very glad to avail themselves of these per-
formances during the week, just as the students of art gaze with
admiration and careful criticism upon the famous pictures produced
by the skilful artist.
It gives us great pleasure to state that Mr. Carl will give four re-
citals during the coming season at the First Presbyterian Church, Fifth
Avenue and Twelfth Street, the dates of which are, Thursday, October
31st, November 7th, 14th, and 21st, at four o'clock, when a number of
important novelties will figure on the programmes, several of which
are dedicated to the young artist.
THE PLACE OF ELOCQTION AMONG THE ARTS.
BT F. TowSSWro SOUTHWIOK.
To the Aclor and public speaker elocution is a meau to ao end ; a
niean.t more or less valuable, According to its quality. In the estima-
tion of many it in to be shunned as productive of artiflciatitjr and vocal
d el eri oration. To the general public elocution means " speakinp
|iie<'eH " with more or lesa fluency and disregard of the sensibilitiraaf
one's unfortunate auditors. Few, even among its devotees, realize the
true dignity and value of this study as a mental discipline. This is
br-cau!te few have ever studied elocution in an intellectual way.
The "old school" elocutionist of the better class wasted much
time over the pedantic and cumbersome system formulated by Dr.
Rusii. The result was that the average pupil, having little time for
study, found himself, at the end of the brief course, with a formidable
vocabulary of technical terms, but with little real knowledge of bow
to use his voice. The cheaper class ot elocutionists, falling back upon
purely imitative methods both ot study and instruction, and neces-
sarily relying ujion vocal trickery and the' coarser sorts ot comedy for
whatever poor success of a public sort they could command, neither
dreanied tliemsclves nor could enable others to ctmceive ot aught Ibat
could elevate either student or audience.
In every generation a few superior and truly intellectual elocution-
ists have kept before the public the possibilities ot the art, but there
is no denying that to the world in general elocution stands for trash
and claptrap on the one hand, or tor good literature, violently mur-
dered, on the other.
Yet there is no art of them all that has a more honorable history,
or is in itHelf a grander means ot personal culture than this sasit
despised elocution. It is the elder brother ot the Drama and the
father of Music.
Literature owes as much if not more to the artsof recitation pure and
simple than to any otlier. If the actor points to Shakespeare as the
representative of his art, the elocutionist can go back to old Homer,
who was in his times a reciter, and can even claim a good share of the
glory of the Greek tragedy, which originally, as we know, partook far
more ot the character of recitation than of what we denominate dra-
matic expression.
Nor is the function of the elocutionist obsolete to-day. There are
thousands
THE LOOKER-ON. 193
thouBands of refined people nho enjoy liateoiDg to genuine interpreta-
tions ol the masters ot Eogliah prose and poetry. There are other
thousands who could be taught to love Tennyson, Browning, Lowell,
aod others of the poets, if only the readera would do for their art
what the musicians are doing everywhere to-day for theirs. It is a
mistake to aBsume that audiences care for nothing but trash. Too
many audieuces do, because they know no better, or have learned to
expect nothing better from their entertainers. Artists like Churchill,
Riddle, Richardson, Powers, and others whose names will occur to the
reader do not need to condescend to their audiences. But even on
occasions when a certain amount of cheapliterature may be demanded,
the reader must be wofuUy lacking in respect for himself and his
art who will not give at least one worthy selection worthily rendered.
Nearly all of literature that deserves the name lends itself to vocal
interpretation. The older poets were either reciters or balladistB—
that is, dramatic soloists ; their excellencies of expression, dramatic
Gre, and musical cadence they owe very largely to the fact that they
were composed not for the eye but for the ear. One test of modern
poetry is still its vocal effect.
Consciously or unconsciously, the poet has before him an audience
that is moved not by the rhetorical but by the musical or emotional
contents of bis poem. The same thing is true of all great prose
writing. Trace back any fault in composition, and it will be seen that
it ia a violation of some perhaps unrecognized law of vocal expression.
If these laws are forgotten or ignored, written expression, which, after
all, is but the symbol for speech, will deteriorate. In fact, much ot the
verbosity or obscurityof certain modern authors may t>e easily referred
Ui this ever-widening gap between th« written and the spoken word.
When, as ia certain to be the case, expression comes to its own again,
not the least ot the blessings it will bring with it will be the reatora-
tioQ of the ancient criterion to literature — its oratorical effect.
BOOK REVIEWS
4^i
l/S'li*-!''*)! • I • *<m *i* f • t-*.4/»-4r«
("V'CLOP-KDIA OF MUSIC AND MUSICIANS.*
Edited by John Denison Champlin and William Fogteb Afthobp.
A FEW years a^ro the Scribners published a ** Cyclopaedia of Music
and MusiriaDs/* which everv musician and musto-lover would hare
been delighted to possess, but which was so expensive that odIt
wealthy amateurs could afford to buy it. It is true that for tbrHt
such sumptuously printed, hound, and illustrated volumes, of al^mt
flye hundred pages each, $75 was not a dollar too much, but it was
more then the average music-lover, whose purse is apt to be slender,
could pay. Luckily, however, the publishers have now issued a new
edition, little inferior in beauty, and with all the valuable features of
the flrst, but with the price reduced to $15, which, considering the
importance of the work, makes it a ** genuine bargain,*' as the iadifs
say.
Of muHicul dictionaries there are a multitude in the field, and those
of Hiemann (of which an English version by Mr. Shed lock is to appear
soon) and Grove are of course essential to every musical library. But
even those who have Riemann and Grove ought to add to it the '' Cyclo-
paedia of Music and Musicians,*' which has some important features
missing in the other works. Suppose, for instance, that you want to
'*read up" about Mozart*s '*Don Giovanni.*' Riemann's ** Lexicon**
makes no special menticn of the opera, and Grove g^ves it eight lines,
whereas in th«» "Cyclopaidia" you will find four columns about it,
giving its history, original cast, plot of the .libretto, names of the
principal anas, costume portraits of eminent singers, etc. Moreover,
suppose you do not, for the moment, happen to remember who wrote
*' La ci darem la mano," then all you have to do is to look that line up
in its alphabetical place, and you will be referred to the article on
•*Don (liovanni."
Another feature in which the ''Cyclopaedia " is superior to all otber
works of its kind is to be found in the bibliography attached to each
article. This enables you, in case you want more information about
this same opera than the ** Cyclopaedia" can give, to go to the library
and look up the books and periodicals it refers to~Dwight*8 Journal
of Music, Hanslick's ** Moderne Oper,'* Edwards^s •* Lyrical Drama,**
etc., etc. This feature alone makes the '* Cyclopaedia" indispensable
to every critic and student. In compiling these bibliographic refer-
* 8 vols. Clias. Scribner^B Sons.
ences
THE LOOKER-ON. 195
ences the editors, John Denisoa Champlin and William F. Aptborp,
have shown the most comprehensive erudition and patient research.
The writer of this notice f requentJy receives letters from all parts of
the United States, asking ''Where can I find an article on 'Peer
Gynt ' ? " or some other composition; and his answer almost invariably
is, *♦ Consult Scribner's * Cyclopsedia of Music and Musicians.' "
Biographic notices of mere performers and musical literati do not
come within the scope of this work, but, on the other hand, modern
composers, especially those of America, receive an unusual share of
attention. Paine, MacDowell, Chadwick and others are discussed at
considerable length, and lists of their principal works given. In the
matter of portraits, too, the '* Cyclopaedia" is more profusely supplied
than any other work of its kind. The articles are written in choice
English and in the most impartial spirit.
In those cases where the authors have taken their information
largely from other musical books of; reference — ^l\lendel, Fetis, Rie-
mann, etc. — they honestly and frankly indicate their sources. But an
examination of the articles shows that the authors do not claim too
much vrhen they say that their statements are not made at second
hand, but are based on original research. It is possible that errors
occur, but the reviewer ^has never came across one, although he has
used the book constantly for several years. Grove, on the other hand,
is frequently misleading, and even Riemann is not infallible, although
his fourth edition is a great improvement on its predecessors. The
greatest difficulty with all musical cyclopasdias is that new composers,
players, and singers will persist in coming forward. But, after all,
most of them are comets who hardly deserve to have their names
recorded among the stars of the musical firmament. Mascagni and
Leoncavallo, for instance, are not to be found in Scribner's "Cyclo-
paedia." Riemann, in his last edition, grudgingly gives them some
little space, but the tone of his comments indicates that he feels confi-
dent that in his fifth edition he will be able to omit them again, as
being no longer of any consequence.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: A STUDY IN ELIZABETHAN
LITERATURE.
The purpose of Prof. Wendell's book ♦ is, as he informs us, " to pre-
sent a coherent view of the generally accepted facts concerning the
life and work of Shakespeare.*' Its object is by means of serious criti-
cism " so to increase oiir sympathetic knowledge of what we study
that we may enjoy it with fresh intelligence and appreciation." The
method by which this object is to be attained is " to see Shakespeare
. . . as he saw himself."
The facts of Shakespeare's life,so far as we know them, are succinctly
rehearsed. Then follows a chapter on " Literature and the Theatre
in England until 1587." The former is summed up as follows : '* In
1587, then, one may safely say that for above thirty years a certain
* Charles Scribner^s Sods.
graceful
196
THE LOOKER'OX,
graceful poetic culture bad been the fashion ; that its chief coascious
object — so far as it had aoy^was to civilise a barbarous laoguage ;
that it delighted in oddity and novelty, and that it inclined to diiidain
publication.** A description of the English theatre follows.
The form which the Renaissance took in Southern Europe was
Architecture and Painting. In England it found expression in the
Drama- When Shakespeare began to write he found a theatre, erode
to be sure, but still well regulated and firmly established. He also
found himself preceded by and surrounded by a group of dramatic
writers. This environment, without any doubt, had a powerful influ-
ence on the manifestation of his genius. Prof. Wendell briefly, but I
think accurately, describes this environment.
For the purpose of '* defining Shakespeare's artistic individuality,"
he then analyzes the poems and the plays in the order in which he
supposes they were written. In so doing he follows the chronological
order as elaborated by Prof. Dowden and Dr. Furnivall. Of course the
dates at which the different plays were written will always be a mooted
question. The data upon which to form an absolutely accurate opin-
ion do not exist. For all practical purposes, however, the order followed
by Prof. Wendell is sufficiently correct. One of the distin^ishing
traits of Shakespeare's genius, mentioned by Prof. Wendell, which is
manifested both in the poems and plays, is *' that to a remarkable de-
gree words stand for actual concepts.** He discarded the euphuisms
of the day. He eschewed the practice of writing pretty phrases. " To
him, beyond any other writer of English, words and thoughts seemed
naturally identical.*'
In the first dramatic work Shakespeare did he was the playwright.
He took old plays and remodelled them, here and there adding, and in
other places ex purgating. I n com paring the work in the early plays with
that which follows. Prof. Wendell makes this distinction which, I
think, is well founded : '* While the interest of the preceding plays is
chiefly historical, the interest of those to {come remains intrinsic;
apart from any historical conditions they are often in themselves de-
lightful." Further, '* while in the preceding plays one finds at bottom
hardly anything more significant than versatile technical experiment,
one finds throughout those to come constant indications of growing,
spontaneous, creative imagination.*' It is impossible within the limits
of this criticism to follow in detail the author's comments on all the
plays.
Prof. Wendell's book is the fruit of careful study and mature reflec-
tion. It is scholarly and suggestive, and is a valuable addition to
Shakespearian literature. Wm. H. Fleicino.
By Wm. H. Fleming.
MADAME HODJESKA AS ISABELLA.
Id h«r eDgagement, during October, at the Qarrick Theatre, Ma-
dame Hodjeaka presented Jfeosure /or Jtfeasure. This play i a seldom
acted on the modem atage. The plot of the pla; is as follows :
The Dulie Vincentio decides to leave Vienna. Before doing so he
comtnissioas Angelo to act as his deputy.
Old Eacalua, an ancient lord, becomes his secondary. Claudio, a
young gentleman, has been too intimate with Ju)iet, and thereby
violated an old, and for many years obsolete, law of Vienna. The new
governor, Angelo, decides to enforce this law, and
'^ Now putfl the drowsy and DPglected BiCt "
in force. Claud io appeals for assistance to his sister Isabella, who is
about to enter a convent. At Claudio's request she goea to Angelo
and pleads for her brother's life. Angelo, whose life hitherto has been
blameless, is suddenly overcome with a passionate desire for Isabella,
and, as she retires Baying,
"Hearen keapjrourbonoDrBBlBl"
Aogelo, in an aside, responds :
For I un tbat way golmc Ut temptation.
Where prayers crow."
When Angelo is left alone, in a soliloquy, he reveals his most
hidden thoughts and feelings :
" What'a thla, wbat'i thU < la thli her Fault or mine f
Tbe teoiptererthe tempted, whoalns moet! Bal
Hot she ; nor doth ihs tempt : but It Is t
That, lying by the Tlolet la the sun.
Do as the carrion does, not aa the flower,
Oomi[A nlth Thtuoua seasoD,"
Angelo yields to the temptation and when Isabella again goea to
him to plead for her brother's life, declares :
" Pl^Dly conoelTe, I lore you,"
and makes the salvation of her brother's life depend on Isabella's
sacriBco of her honor*
Isabella
198 THE LOOKER'OX.
Isabella reix>rt6 to her brother :
'* Yr*. brdber. jf « may lire.
Tberr i% a deTilt»h mercy In the jodgre.
If y<iu*Il implore it, that will free your life.
But fatter yua till death."
Claudio*9 df siire to live, and dread of death, are so intense that he b^
his sister, even on the oondition of her dishonor, to save him.
** Sweet «li»ter, let me lire.
What bin you do to sare a brother*s life.
Nature dwpeiMes with the deed so far
That it t>eoomea a virtue/*
I*<ibella, with the utmost 8<'om and contempt, rejects this proposition :
** O you beast !
O faithleaa coward ! C) dishonest wretch :
• • • • •
MtTcy to thee would prore itself a bawd ;
Tis beftt that thou dieat quiclsly/*
An^^elo denies all appeals for mere}* and orders Claud ios execution.
The Duke, who has assumed the disguise of a friar and returned to
Vienna, becomes informed of these facts. He^ by a subterfuge, saves
Claudio and calls Angelo to a strict aooount. The latter confesses and
says:
•'Then, gotid prince.
No 1i>Q}s^r session hold upon my shame.
But let roy trial be mine own confeswon.
Immediate sentence then and sequent death
la all the ^ace I beg."
Tlie Duke condemns him to death :
*' *An Anx-elo for Claudio, death for death!*
liiuste St ill (tays haste, and leisure answers leisure;
Ltke doth quit like, and Mtagwn still h\3T Meaaurey
Isabella, with a charity and forgiveness which are almost divine,
beseeihes the Duke to pardon Angelo. The Duke grants her petition.
Claudio now appears, and is ordered by the Duke :
*• She, Clauilio, that you wronjr'd, look you restore."
Angolo is commanded to love Mariana, to whom he is betrothed,
and the Duke savs :
*' Dear Isabel,
I have a motion much imports your food.
Whereto if youMl a wiilinf ear incline.
What's mine is yours and what is yours is mine.**
Such is the plot of this play.
Of course Isabella is acted by Madame Modjeska. The character of
Isabella is entirely original with Shakespeare, and is one of the most
finely drawn of any of the poet*s creations. She is, as Lucio describes
her,
** . . .a thing enskied and sainted,*'
and this she remains all through the trying experiences of her dramatic
life.
THE LOOKER-ON. 199
life. In some respects Isabella is a difficult character to act. She has
the delicacy and reflnemeDt of feeling of the true woman, and as well
the strong affection of the sister. These two emotions are brought
into conflict. She is tempted to do wrong from a good motive, to
sacrifice her honor in order to save her brother*s life.
The portrayal of this mental and emotional struggle as done by
Madame Modjeska is a fine piece of dramatic art. Her voice, like
Cordelia's, is " soft, gentle, and low." This adds greatly to the effect
of her pleading with Angelo for her brother's life. When Angelo
positively refuses to be merciful and to save Glaudio, her sense of
right and justice becomes outraged, and Madame Modjeska with great
force rebukes him :
*^. . . man, proud*nuui,
Drest In a little brief authority,
• • • • •
Playv 8uch fantastio tricks before high heaven
As make the angels weep ! "
The climax of the play is the scene between Isabella and Glaudio in
the prison. In this scene Madame Modjeska is at her best. Isabella
tells Glaudio :
" There is a devilish mercy in the Judge.**
When she plainly declares what it is, viz., mercy dependent on the
sacrifice of her honor, she tells Glaudio it is better he should die.
When Glaudio, however, begs her to make the sacrifice, her love for
her brother, her grief at his impending death immediately give way
to wrath at his baseness and pusillanimity :
" Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice ? **
She utterly scorns him :
"... Take my defiance !
Die, perish I •'
Madame Modjeska acted this scene grandly. The different shades
of feeling, fraternal love, deep sympathy, passing into the strongest
contempt, are all portrayed by her with great refinement and power.
No woman on the English-speaking stage could act this character as
perfectly as does Madame Modjeska. Her portrayal is dignified and
fascinating; at times full of pathos, at others of scorn, and always
charming.
The other principal characters are fairly well acted. The play is
properly staged, and should be seen by all lovers of the Shakespearian
drama.
Wi hear tbat^Rhea is makiD^ a gr«at sncccas in h#r new plat,
" Ne)l Owynne," Paul Eester's Bve-act diuoa. It is said she will be
M«n ID it bere before.the Mason clocea.
)IH. WiLUAM B. RtlOXS, whoK fine tenor voice adds its own de
lig-ht to all the princip*! muaical fvstivulB of this citj and of the
couDlrv at large, haa opened the seaaon with a verjr large number of
en(,'a£ementa.
Wk are id receipt of a. small booh, issued by Gustave L. Becker, No.
70 West ti3th Street, containing valuable suggestiona to parents who
desire to have their children taught music thoroughly. It may be
obtained free OD application.
)f R. John Cornklius Grioob, of the Metropolitan Ccdlege of Uusic,
IS to give a series of illustrated lectures on Worship Husic before the
Divinity School ot Yale College. There will be seven of them, and
they thoroughly cover the subject.
Mfc Hei;fRICH Ubtk is coming rapidly to the front. He is to ap-
p<>ar at the first Damrosch Oratorio Concert. He has also many minor
enKag'ementB. He is a young man of refined and powerful voice, and
of a. temperament which is sure to attract.
We liave seen an advance copy of the QermanOperaSouvenir, which
is to be sold at a nomioaJ price — ten cents — at all the performances ot
tlie German Opera Company. It is beautifully illustrated, and is, in
sliort, a unique and telling book ot its kind.
V
Miss Mabv Locisb Cl4RT, the remarkable young contralto whose
singing ot "Ben Bolt" has perhaps done more than anything ebe to
popularize in this country the song of Du Haurier's heroine, will
be heard this season in work ranging all the nay from her favorite
oratorio of "Samson and Delilah" to "Trilby recitals." She will
sing in moat ot our leading cities, including Chicago, Boston, SI.
Louis, Toledo, Cincinnati, Piitsburg, Washington, Philadelphia) ud
Brooklyn.
THK
THE LOOKER-ON
DECEMBER, 1895.
A NEW JULIETTE.
By Fbedebio Deaii^.
^^9r HEBE is an old-time stage tradition to tke effect
^£U that "a woman can never play the part of
Juliet until she is too old to look it.'' If this
be tnie of Shakespeare's creation what shall be said of
€(onnod's heroine? For, here is required the same
beauty, the same girlish figure, the same poetic child
possessed of the fervor, the passion, the self-devotion
of highest womanhood, and, in addition, a voice of
girlish purity charged with true dramatic fire. Truly,
a combination rarely to be found, and, she who is thus
endowed of the Gods must indeed possess the rarest of
qualifications for such a rdle.
With the opening of the present season of grand
opera at the Metropolitan Opera House, a new prima
donna was presented in the role of Juliette. She came
unheralded, save by the customary press notices that
accompany every newcomer, be she worthy or unworthy
of the newspaper praise lavished upon her; in the
interviews had with her prior to her public appearance,
she was described as a modest, unassuming little
woman;
208 THE LOOKER-ON.
woman ; and, save for an occasional picture of a face of
rare beauty, we knew but little of h&r whom we to-day
delight to call an ideal Juliette.
Frances Saville is ever a beautiful picture whether as
the light-hearted belle of a Veronese baU, as the loying
woman clinging to her Romeo in spite of all opposition,
or as the sorrowful, dying wife who gives up her life to
be with him whom she loves more than life. As she
trips down the steps of Capulet's palace she is the per-
sonification of youthful charm. The face, the figure,
the dress, the manner, all picture the Juliette of our
fancy, light-hearted, happy, free from all sorrow, from
all care. But a lover crosses her {)ath and note the
change. Here is the same beauty to be sure; but a
new look has crept into the eyes, a new being is this
for whom there is no world save RomeOj no atmosphere
save love. Truly we can quote Leigh Hunt's criticism
of a Juliet of by-gone days, and say of Mme. Saville
that '^love, tenderness, and sorrow were rarely repre-
sented with more efifectual truth."
^' Romeo and Juliette " is the most poetic of Shake-
speare's plays. It has been set to music by the most
poetic of modem French composers, and has in this
new exponent of its heroine one of the most poetic of
Juliettes. Mme. Saville besides possessing youth and
beauty, a voice of surpassing loveliness and true dra-
matic power, is endowed to a large degree with that
nameless something we call magnetism, magnetism of
voice as well as magnetism of personal presence.
Though her tones are beautiful they are not cold, and
though her action is full of tragic power she is ever the
same winsome attractive being, an ideal personifica-
tion
THE LOOKER-ON. 209
tion of the heroine of the greatest love story ever told.
Mme. Saville sings as though she loved to sing. How
joyous was the waltz in the first scene, how tender were
the low pulsating notes with which she converses with
her lover in the moonlight, how sorrow-laden were the
tones of the heart-broken wife over the dead body of
her lover-husband. There is a feature of Mme. SaviUe's
singing that must be here noticed, as it is ever present
in her work, and that is a reserve power that makes
every note appear easy, every eflfort free from possibility
of failure. Is it a cadenza? You feel confident no note
will be sacrificed. Is it a passage demanding special
force? Ample strength is held in reserve for still greater
power than is needed. And thus a feeling of perfect
security is begotten, and one rests in the satisfaction
of knowing that no difficulties will arise that will not
be met and conquered, no beauties of the score, or
interpretation of the part will be lost sight of.
It is a pleasure to see so charming an actress in the
part. Mme. Saville inherits from her Gallic mother
the power of expression by look and gesture. The
French, as a race, are bom actors and actresses, and
the mother of our JuliettCy a cultivated singer, pos-
sessed to a rare degree this same power of mimicry.
Du Maurier tells us there is no genius without a drop
of oriental blood in his veins. Mme. Saville inherits
from her father's family this " golden taint of genius,"
and thus right honestly does she come by her talent.
This mixture of the Oriental and southern European
ha3 produced in the daughter capabilities and powers
accorded only to the few. That she has not been
n^ligent of her gifts is shown by her excellent use
to
210 THE LOOKER' ON.
to which she has already put them. The best of
training, under the most capable masters, has given her
power to become a pet of the European music centers,
and, surely if she continue in other r61es her good
work done in JvZiettey she will end by finding herself
enshrined in our '^ heart of heart."
The performance of the opera in which Mme. Saville
made her American debut was in every way satisfac-
tory. Romeo and Juliette^ the culminating point in
Gounod's career, is in itself a work of great beauty and
charm, and with such interpreters as Jean and Edouard
de Reszke, Plan^on, Bauermeister, and a host of others,
there could be no other verdict than that of well done.
There were other newcomers in the cast that deserve
a word of praise. M. de Yries, the Mercuiio of the
evening, is an addition to the company. His portrayal
of the character was strong and harmonious throughout,
and his Queen-Mab recitation received the recognition it
deserved. Miss Clara Hunt, who essayed the part of
StephanOy sang creditably for the first api>earance on any
stage, and Binaldini, Yaschetti, Castelmary, Mauquiere
contributed their share toward making a successful
premier.
But methought that there was an unusual charm
about the entire performance, more x>o^tic beauty in
the balcony scene, more than usual tragic power in the
last act of all. Romeo was more impassioned in his
wooing, Capulet more obdurate, the good Friar more
then ever sorry for the fate of the i)oor lovers, the ever-
present, never-to-be-gotten-along-without Mile. Bauer-
meister was more than usually urgent in her importuni-
ties in the rdle of the ^^ original woman's rights' dame "
—the
THE LOOKER-ON. 211
— ^the strong-minded Nurse — ^wliUe the baton of the
conductor Bevignani exerted an nnnsnal power over the
gentleman of the orchestra.
And wherein lies the secret? Can it be possible that
this newcomer could so permeate every scene as to give
additional power and beauty not only to the entire work,
but to the task of each individual worker? Solve the
riddle as you will, no more charming performance of
Romeo et JvUette^ and no more poetic interpretation
of Gounod's heroine has been seen in this city for many
a day.
Welcome to our new Jvliette I
212 THE LOOKER- ON.
SHAKESPEARE'S DRAMATIC
CONSTRUCTION.
Julius Oesar.
Bt Wm. H. Flsmino.
Nearly every fact mentioned in this play is taken by
Shakespeare from Plutarch. Plutarch's record of them
is a history; Shakespeare's is a drama. Wherein is
the difference between these two forms of literary com-
I)Osition? A history is a narration of events; a drama
is a representation of events by means of action. The
word drama is derived from the Greek word dran^
to do, to act. Aristotle's definition of tragedy is:
^^ An imitation of one entire, great, and probable action,
not toldy hut represented, which, by moving in us fear
and pity, is conducive to the purging of those two
passions in our minds." In answering the question:
What is that which we call dramatic? James Russell
Lowell {Old English Dramatists, p. 26) not only de-
fines with perfect accuracy the drama, but also makes
very lucid and vivid the difference between it and his-
tory. ''In the abstract it is thought or emotion in
action, or on its way to become action. In the concrete
it is that which is more vivid if represented than
described, and which would lose if narrated." Plutarch
tells
THE LOOKER-ON. 213
tells us about the conspiracy which resulted in the death
of Julius Csesar. Shakespeare puts the conspirators on
the stage; we hear them speak; we see them act.
This, however, is not the only difference between these
two species of literary composition. They differ not
only in form but in nature. "History and poetry,'*
says Aristotle (Po^^tc^, Chap. IX.), "are distinguished
herein that the one relates what has occurred, the
other relates of what nature the occurrence has been.
. . . Poetry refers to the general, and history to
the particular. The general is how such and such a
man would speak or act according to probability or
necessity. . . . The particular, on the contrary, is
what Alcibiades has done or suffered."
Dramatic poetry is not actual but imaginative truth.
It appeals not so much to the intellect as to the imag-
ination; to the ^imaginative reason; to the intellectual
emotions. Poets are the ideal interpreters of life.
Shakespeare adds to Plutarch's facts a subtle, indefina-
ble ideality. After Claudio had cruelly slandered Hero
and then deserted her at the marriage altar. Father Fran-
cis advised that she be hidden, and a notice of her
death published. The effect of this, he said, would be :
^ Wlien Claudio shall hear she died upon his words,
The idea of her life shall sweetly creep
Into his study of imagination,
And every lovely organ of her life
Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit.
More moving, delicate, and full of life,
Into the eye and prospect of his soul.
Than when she lived indeed : "
r. A. about N. iv, 1| 226, teq.
In
214 THE LOOKER' OK
In these words, which are the Tery highest leaeh of
imaginative poetry, Shakespeare describes his own
work in this drama* By his vivifying imagination be
resurrects these men.
^ • . . graves at his oommmd
Have wak'd their sleeperi^ op'd and let 'em forth
Bj hia 80 potent art^ Temp. v. 1, 48.
He recreates them. He reveals to ns ''the idea,"
i. e.| the image, of their lives, and this he does so per-
fectly that we perceive not so much the body as the
mind and spirit. Not to the naked eye but to the eye of
the mind are revealed the thoughts, emotions, inten-
tions, the conflict between ''blood and judgment";
the subtle interflow of good and evil ; in a word, all
these powerful, though silent and invisible, forces which
constituted the springs of action in each of these men.
As a result, '' every organ of their lives " is disdoeed,
and Brutus, Cassius, Csesar, Antony, and the othera
appear before us not as shades of the departed, but as
living men.
'' More moving, delicate and full of life
Than when they lived indeed.'*
Of course, this idealism of the poet must be founded
on realism. He must possess imaginative verity. He
must see into the very " heart of heart " of a man or
woman, and in his drama portray that man orwoman
with perfect truthfulness. Shakespeare would have
erred if he had ascribed to Portia the morals of Cleo-
patra^ oi to Brutus the baseness of lago. At the same
time historical accuracy in every minor detail is not a
requisite
THE LOOKER' ON. 215
requisite of a great drama. Sciolists speak of Sliake-
speare's incorrect history. By so doing they manifest
ignorance of the nature of a historical dramai and also
their lack of the critical faculty. Such in the words of
Sir William Davenant {Prrface to * * Gondibert " ) " take
away the liberty of the Poet, and fetter his feet in the
shackles of the Historian." Shakespeare did not, nor
was it necessary that he should, follow history literally.
Into Brutus's mouth he puts these words :
** My aaoestora did from the streete of Borne
The Tarquin drive, when he waa call'd a
This is not historically correct. Brutus was not of
that family. '' Brutus who expelled the Tarquins,"
says Proude, (Cte^ar, p. 607,) "put his sons to death,
and died childless ; Marcus Brutus came of good plebe-
ian &mily, with no glories of tyrannicide about them ;
hut an imaginary genealogy suited well with the spu-
rious heroics which veiled the motives of Cs&sar's
murderers. '*
Plutarch says CsBsar was stabbed twenty-three times.
Shakespeare speaks of ^^Csesar's three and thirty
wounds." As a matter of history Csesar never uttered
the words M tu Brute t They were original with
Shakespeare. The latter was not a historian, but a
poet. He knew that if Cffisar, when he saw his trusted
friend Brutus raise the dagger, had expressed his
thoughts and feelings it would have been in such words
Et tu Brute ! Por as Antony in his speech said :
'\ . • when the noble Gsesar saw him stob.
Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms,
Quite vanquished him.''
These
216 THE LOOKER-ON.
These words, therefore, while not historically, are poet-
ically true.*
I have descanted, possibly more at length than some
may think needful, npon the difFerence between a his-
tory and a drama, becaose that difference is essential,
and must always be borne in mind by the oitical stu-
dent. A knowledge of that difference guards against
an incorrect method of studying a historical drama. It
must be studied, not as history, not with reference to
the correctness or incorrectness of its statements, but as
a drama. To do the former is entirely to misconceive
the intention of the poet, and, as a consequence, to fail
utterly in comprehending and appreciating the poem.
It is a mistake similar to that pointed out so long ago
by Plutarch {Morals. Of Hearing) : ^' He that goes
about to split wood with a key, and to unlock a door
with an axe, does not so much misemploy his in-
struments, as deprive himself of the proper use of
both."
There are two kinds of tragedies. In one the hero is
the active agent in causing the catastrophe ; in the other,
the hero is passive, the catastrophe being produced by
forces outside of, independent of, himself. In the two,
the dramatist portrays human life as dominated by one
or the other of the two great forces which control it; in
the former, Free- Will; in the latter. Fate, overruling
Providence. Both these forces are referred to in this
^''Tnith, namtiTe and pasl, iathe idol of histoiuns (wlio wonhip adnd
thiog), andiratli, opentiTe and bj ita effecU oonUnnally alive, ia the mistres
of poeti^ who hath not her existence in matter, bat in reason."
Sn Wx. Datsv A»T, iV^oee lo *' QmdibaV*
drama
THE LOOKER-ON. 217
drama. Cassias alludes to the fonner when, in his first
conversation with Bratns, he said :
** Men at some time are masters of their fates.
The faulty dear Bratus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselTes, that we are underlings."
C<esar refers to the latter, mz.^ Fate, overroling Provi-
dence, when he asks Calphnmia :
^ . • • What can be avoided.
Whose end is purposed by the mighty Gods 7 **
And again:
''Of all the wonders that I yet have heard
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death a necessary end.
Will come when it will come.''
Shakespeare has written both kinds of tragedies. His
art is many-sided, catholic. Examples of the former
are Macbeth, Richard III. In these plays the hero, by
his own will, expressing itself in a series of deeds, is
the direct canse of the catastrophe which overwhelms
him. An example of the latter is Romeo and Juliet.
In this play Shakespeare describes the
**. . . misadventured piteous overthrows,"
of
''A pair of star-cross'd lovers,"
whose lives are sacrificed owing to a feud which was
not of their causing. Othello is also a tragedy of the
second kind. And so also is Julius Caesar. Caesar is not,
as were Macbeth and Richard m. the direct cause of
his own death. In this drama he is not only active, but
passive. Forces outside of himself bring the action to
a
218 THE LOOKER-ON.
a climax. Other forces, still outside of himself, carry
the action forward to the catastrophe. While he is the
cause of the action, he is such not as doiTig anything
in the drama^ not as an a/^tor therein^ but as represent-
ing a sentiment, embodying a principle, vtz.j Imperial-
ism. While living he is the passive cause of the con-
spiracy ; when dead, he is the equally passive cause of
the retribution. It is his wounds,
^ Which^ like dumb mouths, do ope Uidr raby lips
To b^ the voice and utterance of my tongue:
that caused Antony to speak. It is his
** • • . wounds, poor, poor, dumb mouthfl^**
which had power to
**• • • move
The Btonee of Rome to rise and mutiny "
that demand vengeance.
A third characteristic of this play, wherein it differs
from most others is — ^no one person dominates it. The
action centers around Julius Csesar. He, however, is
passive. The forepart, all preceding the Climax, is
dominated by the conspirators. Of these, at the begin-
ning, Cassius is the leader. He soon gives way to
Brutus, who becomes the master-spirit. The after-part,
all following the Climax, is dominated by the revengers,
of whom Antony is the controlling personality. But
no one person dominates the action of this play from
beginning to end as did Henry V. , Henry VIII. , Corio-
lanus, Hamlet in the plays bearing those names. Tliis
drama, unlike those, is not a delineation of a x>erson,
but of a principle. It describes not so much the for-
tunes
\
THE LOOKER-ON. 219
tunes of Csesar as it does the conflict between Repub-
licanism and Imperialism. True, Antony said :
''All the conspirators save only he (Brutus),
Did that they did in envy of great Csesar."
This opinion is questionable. But whether Antony
was correct or incorrect of one fact there is no doubt ;
ziz.y the avowed and ostensible motive which governed
the conspirators in assassinating CsBsar was not dislike
of him personally, but the belief that he embodied a
principle which threatened the life of the Republic.
As the play proceeds, this idea is iterated and reiterated.
This was the final consideration which induced Brutus
to join the conspirators.
** It must be by his death : and, for my part,
I know no personal cause to spurn at him,
But for the general."
He reiterated this opinion in his first conference with
the conspirators,
" We all stand up against the spirit of Csesar,"
and then expressed regret that in order to destroy the
principle which, as he thought, Csesar embodied, it was
necessary to kill Caesar :
** O, that we then could come by Caesar's spirit,
And not dismember Csesar.'^
After the murder he told Antony the motive which
led him to stab his friend was
" • • ^ P*ty ^ the general wrong of Rome."
It was the one reason which Brutus gave to the citizens
iorthe justification of the assassination: ^^If there be
any
220 THE LOOKER-ON.
ftny in this aasembly, any dear friend of Cssar's, to
him I say that Bnttas' love to Gssar was no less Uian
his. If, then, that friend demand^ why Brutus rose
against Ciesar, this is my answer — ^Not that I loT'd
Cesar less, but that I lov'd Rome more." In this
statement Brutus was sincere. The motive which gov-
erned him, and which was announced as the motive of
all, was a desire to save the Republic :
** I dew mj belt lover fiv the good of Bome.**
Ciesar's spirit, as the expression of treason against the
Republic, was the cause and object of the attack.
As Cssar's spirit was the cause of the action m fDct9
it also qf the reaction. It caused the conspiracy which
culminated in the assassination. It likewise caused
the retribution which brought to Cassius and Brutos
defeat and death. For, as Antony stood over the
mangled body, apostrophizing it as
**. • • thou bleeding pieoe of earth,"
he said the consequence of that murder would be :
** A euTBe shall light upon the limbe of men;
Domestio fury, and fierce civil rtrift^
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy :
And GuBsar'B spirit rang^g for revenge.
With Ate by his mde, oome hot from heU,
Shall in these confines, with a mcmarch's voioe^
Cry'HavocI' and let dip the dogs of war:"
and so it did.
Nor did Ccesar's spirit cease to range for revenge
until
THE LOOKER-ON. 221
until it brought death to Bratns and Cassius. At the
close of the battle of PMlippi, jnst previous to commit-
tiBg suicide, Brutus said :
'' O Jaliufl GflosaTy thou art mighty yet I
Thy Bpirit walks abroad, and turns our swords,
In our own proper entrails."
As I previously said, no one man dominates this play.
It does not treat of Julius Caesar as an individual ; it
does not dramatize his personal life and fortunes. It
treats of him only so far as he is the embodiment of a
principle. The unity of the drama is not in a person
but in the action. That action relates to the Con-
spiracy, its formation, its culmination, its consequence ;
the avowed object of which conspiracy was, by killing
Cffisar, to preserve to the Koman people
'' Peace I Freedom I and Liberty ! "
In conclusion this play is unlike most of the Shake-
sperian dramas in that it is simple. I use the word in
its original sense (Latin simplex) ^ i. e., not complicated.
The action of the drama is not involved. There are no
sub-actions. There are several episodes. These are
very brief, and of very minor importance. The move-
ment from beginning to end consists almost wholly of
the Main Action. That moves steadily upwards to the
Climax. From there it advances, almost without inter-
ruption to the Catastrophe. The Introduction consists
of Act I. and describes the formation of the Conspiracy.
With the completion of that the action of the drama
b^ins. This ushers in the second division or Growth
which consists of Act II., Scenes 1 and 2. Its subject
is
222 THE LOOKER-ON.
is fhe planB of the oonspintors which are i>erf ected.
The Climax or third division extends from Act n., 3, to
Act III., 2 inclasive. It describes all that immediately
precedes and all that immediately succeeds the assassi-
nation. The Fall, the fourth dramatic divisiony extends
from Act in.y 8, to TV.finU. It marks the b^:inniiig
of the end. The action changes its coarse. It fore-
shadows the Betribution. This is followed by the
Catastrophe, Act Y., which brings the action of the
drama to a conclusion with the defeat and death of
the conspirators*
(2b he eonlmiMl.)
THE LOOKER- ON. 223
A DESIDERATUM IN CONCERT-GIVING.
By William Posteb Apthorp.
Ws are living in a more and more Inxnrions age,
one of the marked characteristicB of which is that many
things which, years ago, were to be regarded as Inxn-
ries haye now become, or [are fast becoming, sheer
necessaries. Times change. A little over a hundred
years ago, Mozart wrote home in high glee from Paris
about the " luxury " of being able to write a symphony
for an orchestra that contained a pair of clarinets.
Twenty years ago. Von Bulow stepped angrily up to the
edge of the Boston Music Hall platform, at a private
rehearsal with orchestra, and wished to be informed
what he was going to do without a fourth horn? ^ ^ Uh
guatrienie coTj ce n^est pas un luxe^ wyons! H me
faut dbsolv/ment un quatri^me cor! (Come, a fourth
horn is no luxury I I absolutely must have a fourth
horn !) " And nowadays we feel ourselves rather ill-used
if, at a performance of selections from Wagner's Nxbel-
ungen^ four ordinary band-instruments are substituted
for the prescribed quartet of authentic Bayreuth-tubas.
The time may not have quite come yet, but it is fast
coming when we shall feel our poverty and provincial-
ism at the absence of a real Bayreuth-tuba, much as we
used to feel them thirty or forty years ago, whenever a
double-bassoon part had to be played on a bass-tuba,
or a second-bassoon part on a 'cello.
This
224 THE LOOKER-ON.
This modem loxuy, or rather this changing of
whilom Inxiuiee into neoesBariee, is an excellent thing
in its way. I have eometimee thought it woold be well
to have it more thorongh-going than it actually is. We
now fully appreciate the imix>rtance of giving a com-
poser's score just as he wrote it; it would be better still
if we showed an equal appreciation of the importance of
giving it under just the conditions he had in mind when
he wrote it. It seems to me that there is one not onim-
portant item in c<mcert-giving which has sadly &llen
out of notice— -one missing luxury which ought long
since to have become a necessary.
The enonnous growth of the modem orchestra, and
the corresponding development of the art of modem
orchestration have had as their result something more
than the mere demand for large instrumental masses
and once rare instruments. It should be a source ot
satisfaction to us that here, in America — or at least in
New York and Boston, probably also in Chicago — ^we
are in a condition to meet this demand more fully than
it is met anywhere in Europe, with the exception of
Paris and London. But, as I have said, this particular
demand is not the only result of modem orchestral
writing.
Time was when the traditional division of instra-
mental music into orchestral and chamber-music was
quite rational ; it was a classification in fact as well as
in name. Under the head of chamber-music came all
compositions for the pianoforte (except concertos), either
alone or with other instruments ; also, all those forms of
concerted writing — ^trios, quartets, quintet8,etc. — ^in which
each i)art in the score is to be played by a single instm-
ment.
THE LOOKER-ON. 225
ment. Under the head of orchestral music came all com-
positions for more or less full orchestra, such as sympho-
nies, overtures, suites, divertimenti, etc. The propriety
of giving chamber-music in smaller halls than those used
for orchestral performances was universally acknowl-
edged; and this acknowledgedly valid principle was
pretty generally carried out in concert-giving practice.
Snt it is to be noted that, with time, orchestral music
began to appeal to a larger public than chamber-music ;
more people cared to go to symphony or x)opular or-
chestral concerts than to (nearly always '^ classical")
chamber-concerts. Hayden's, Mozart's, Beethoven's,
Schubert's, Mendelssohn's, and Schumann's symphonies
and overtures were enjoyed by hundreds, where their
quartets and trios were enjoyed by tens. These larger
audiences had somehow to be housed — ^for concert-
giving organizations are naturally loth to refuse good
money when it is offered — ^and orchestral concert halls
began to be built larger and larger. The orchestral
concert hall got at last to vie in size with the opera-
house. Indeed, there are not a few opera-houses in the
world that would be only too glad to be able to count
upon such audiences as habitually attend symphony
concerts to-day. •
That this building of large concert halls, for orches-
tral purposes, had a purely financial basis, need not be
said — ^it goes without saying. A large audience pays
better than a small one; here you have the whole
reason in a nutshell! For it is unquestionable that
these large halls were often utterly out of proportion to
the music played in them ; they were simply " gouffres
d, recettes (abysms for gate-money)," as Berlioz once
called
226 THE LOOKER- ON.
called the huge opeia-honses that preceded them. It
was not until the modem style of oichestration — ^intro-
duced by BerlioZy and then developed by Meyerbeer,
Wagner, liszt, and the whole grand army of contem-
porary composers— came into general vogue, and the
works of the modem school became popular, that con-
cert orchestras could produce their proper effect in the
tone-swallowing spaces in which they were forced to
play. Our large modem halls (that is, the good ones)
are right for Berlioz, Liszt, Wagner, Brahms, and other
modem composers. And do not think that the effect-
iveness of this modem music in laige halls comes prin-
cipally from the laige masses of instruments employed,
nor from any ^^brassiness" in the scoring; it comes
from the whole modem system of orchestration, by
which composers are enabled to draw an enormous
volume of tone from even very inconspicuous orchestral
means. It is the modem style of orchestral treat-
ment which is so effective in large halls, not merely the
composition of the modem orchestra.
But the older orchestral music suffers aa much in
these vast spaces as it ever did ; indeed it suffers more,
by comparison with the effectiveness of the new. The
orchestral works of Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn,
Schumann, Oade, Cherubini — ^let alone Mozart and
Haydn — are completely depapseeSy out of their native
element, in our modem concert halls ; now and then a
heavily " trombonized " movement may tell; but the
effect is for the most part dull, lifeless, breezy, and
inadequate. ^^ Give me a hall in which the violins cut
like a trumpefy^^ once said a noted conductor, "and I
will show you what a Haydn symphony is like! " I
am
THE LOOKER-ON. 227
am folly convinced that the growing disfavor with
which some of the older composers are regarded — and
this disfavor really existo, though it» proportions aad
violence have been exaggerated by some critics — ^is
largely owing to the terrible handicapping put npon
the older orchestral music, by forcing it into immediate
comparison with the brilliancy of modem orchestration
in over-large halls.
We cannot long conceal from ourselves the fact that
the older orchestral music — especially the works of
Haydn and Mozart — has virtually fallen into a category
by itself; that the old classification of instrumental
music into orchestral and chamber-music is superan-
nuated and no longer up to the exigencies of the times.
We need a new classification ; what has hitherto been
lumped together under the general head of " orchestral
music" should be reclassified as large-hall music and
small-hall music. And, as in old times they had small
halls for chamber-music, and larger ones for orchestral,
we now need halls of medium size for this new inter-
mediate category: the orchestral music of the older
composers, especially Mozart and Haydn. And to this
intermediate category should properly be added most
instrumental concertos.
Orchestral performance in very large halls has had
another evU effect, beside placing the older music at
an undue disadvantage. It has, gradually and insidi-
ously, had an untoward effect upon orchestral playing.
I remember once expressing the wish to Mr. Wilhelm
Gericke, that we (in Boston) could have at least some
symphony concerts in a hall the size of that of the
Paris Conservatoire. "Yes," replied Gericke, "I
should
228 THE LOOKER-ON.
should like that, too — with the Conservatoire oreha-
Ira ! " You see, a very large hall affects the orchestral
players themselves quite as much as, if not more than,
it does the audience; the players cannot hear them-
selves play in an over-large hall as well as they can in
a smaller one. And the habit of playing in very laige
halls sooner or later breeds a f alling-off in the matter
of delicacy and finish of style. The artistic material
of which the orchestra of the Paris SocieU dee Concerts
is made up, is not, upon the whole, superior to that to
be found in some other orchestras ; except two or three
phenomenal wind-players, its comi>osition is not unpar-
allelled. The drilling it undeigoes is certainly not
more arduous than that of many another orchestral
body. Why is it, then, that it stands almost undis-
putedly at the head of all orchestras in the world? I
am perfectly sure that one reason is that it habitually
rehearses and plays' in the Conservatoire hall; a hall
of very moderate dimensions, and flawless acoustics,
where every faintest shade of delicacy in playing is
distinctly to be felt.
Even in our best orchestras the pianissimo or piano
cantilena of the strings already seems like a lost art.
And no wonder I Let there be but a grain of passionate
emotion in a cantabile melody, and playing it piano
with the first violins alone in one of our vast halls will
not do: it will lack the first requisite of all artistic
performance, the ^^ eternal get-there. '' Modem com-
posers seldom write an emotional cantilena for the fibrst
violins alone. They usually double the part with
•
something else. But the older composers did write
such cantilenas J and piano at that ; we nowadays hear
them
THE LOOKER-ON. 229
them played forte^ or we hardly hear them at all.
Conductors well know that a short symphony by Haydn
or Mozart requires more careful rehearsing nowadays
than a symphonic poem by liszt; the scoring is so
transparent that the slightest want of finish in the
playing of any part is immediately i)erceiyed as a
blemish. And our orchestral players are growing less
and less used to such minute painstaking. Let them
but play every now and then in a hall appropriate to
the older music, and they will soon o^u their eyes to
the habitual quality of their own playing; it will be
the first step in the direction of acquiring the careful
habit. The Paris Conservatoire orchestra need not
remain forever solitary on its present eminence; we
can do as well here, if we only have a mind and create
the right conditions.
280 TSB LOOKER-ON.
OLGA NETHERSOLE AND HER GENIUS.
By H. Gorbok JoHKSoif .
Mb. Tbeb, in hia Harvard address of a year ago, gave
a significant definition of the diamatio art. ^^ Acting,"
he said, <^is an affair of the imagination. The aetor
more than any other artist may be said to be the
passion-winged minister of thought. Children are bom
actors. They lose the faculty only when th^ wings of
their imagination are weighed with self -consdonsness.
It is not every one to whom is given the capacity of
always remaining a child. It is Hsuja blessed gift of
receptive sensibility which it should be the endeavor
(the unconscious endeavor, perhaps) of every artist to
cultivate and retain."
The significance of this definition lies in the care with
which Mr. Tree seeks to avoid prescribing any mathe-
matical laws as the welLspxings of the dramatic art, to
which that art is necessarily subject. The actor recog-
nizes the idleness of maintaining that one can climb to
any permanent eminence in the dramatic profession,
without those qualities which a strenuous training in
the laws and practices of the art alone can give. But
these laws and practices are no better than the foot-
notes of adroit commentators. All that is most essen-
tial, most luminous in acting is the outcome of the
pre])onderance of the imaginative &iculty.
Dramatic genius is the retention into maturity of
the
OLGA METHERSOLE.
THE LOOKER-ON. 231
the inborn receptiye sensibility to all the impres-
sions and influences of life that belong to the soul
fresh from the hand of God, and true acting is the
reflex of the individual personality to these sensa-
tions.
No better illustration of the truth of Mr. Tree's defini-
tion has ever been seen in America than the actress
who, when those words were si>oken, was playing at the
Boston Museum. Olga Nethersole is not only swayed
by an acute and subtle imagination, which makes her
an actress of great genius, but she is the most perfect
child who has ever made a great and valuable contribu-
tion to our dramatic privileges. We have had the
opportunity of seeing her as we did not those actresses
with whom we naturally compare her — ^Bernhardt and
Dusd — ^in the infancy, so to speak, of her dramatic life.
Growth from girlhood to the present i)eriod of woman-
hood has not given to her delicately powerful imagina-
tion any very considerable docility. Maturity has
given her a wider imaginative scope, and that is very
nearly all. She acts to-day as we can conceive of the
child Olga Nethersole, acting twenty years ago — ^if the
child's imagination could have stretched itself to suffi-
cient scope to grasp such characters as Camille or Frou-
Frou. Her imagination is stiU childishly rampant.
She has kept it the ruling center of her life, largely
untouched by the discipline of the world. Her success,
therefore, is the best possible proof of the essential
truth of Mr. Tree's definition. It was achieved, not
because of strenuous training according to conventional
artistic laws, or because of utter subjection to them,
but in spite of them. Olga Nethersole has shown us,
when
232 THE LOOKER - ON.
when we most needed to see it, that, law or no law, the
divine insanity of imagination which we call genius can,
in acting at least, win its way to success. When Ameri-
can drama was feeling the enthralling influence of Mr.
Henry Irving^s idolatry of artistic golden calves, this
young English prophetess api>eared among us and pro-
claimed afresh the worship of the actor's true Gt)d. It
was this that made her alike fascinating to the pleasure-
loving theater-goer and interesting to the soberer stu-
dent of her art. The impulses of her genius were so
true that in her presentations she could not go far
astray. That genius was so unadulterated, so unformed
by any influences outside of itself, that it made her the
perfect expression of itself.
Olga Nethersole is of all actresses pre-eminently the
embodiment of pure genius and what it can accomplidh
in the dramatic life. It is with her as such that we are
to deal in this paper. With the history of her personal
life we have nothing to do. The morbid curiosity that
seeks to know the details of an actress's personal ex-
I>erience is unwholesome, and tends to degrade the
stage. The critic who descends to such insipidities
deserves the scorn of the intelligent public who read
him, and, as well, of the actress whom he criticises.
But with Olga Nethersole, the actress, we have much
to do* She has been here among us proclaiming great
truths. Acting is an affair of the imagination of child-
hood ripening into manhood and womanhood, unspotted
by the world ; and of the modem spirit which considers
every form of life as evanescing into every other form
by infinitesimal gradations, which knows nothing except
relatively and under conditions, and which defines
truth
THE LOOKER - ON. 233
truth as attention to infinitesimal detail. This has
a place in dramatic representation and a message
through its means. So Olga Nethersole has been
telling us, and this surely is the world's busi-
ness.
What is most essential, most luminous in acting is,
as we have just said, an affair of the imagination. But
this faculty of i)owerf ul and subtle imaging may take
one or two forms. It may give to its possessor the
capability by scanning the text of a part, of projecting
himself into the soul of the character, and of repro-
ducing directly the appropriate accompaniment of
action with force and truth. That is the method of
insight, or, on the other hand, this keen and delicately
adjusted third eye of the sold may read the words as
symbols of action, and image upon its retina in the
actor's brain the picture not of the character of the
man who speaks them, but of himself, uttering them
with all their troop of expression and manner and
action. An actor of this sort has in his brain not the
thought of a character which, out of the materials of
his art and his own personality, he must suitably
rehabilitate, but moving and doing phantoms, whom
through his art and his personality he must make visible
and let live. This is the method of action, the rarer
and dramatically the higher form. The impersonations
of an actor of the former sort are completely successful
only in so far as his imagination gives him a clear and
consistent mental picture of their soids, their motives
and environments, his art is the servant of his intellect.
With an actor of the second sort, assumptions will be
over-exaggerated or meaningless whenever they pass
the
234 THE LOOKER-ON.
the bounds of the capability of his imagination to
register on his brain moving and doing phantoms;
his intellect is the servant of his art. Both are imper-
fect and faulty, both need for their highest develop-
ment a thorough education and a steady discipline in
the methods of the other.
Olga Nethersole's genius is of this rarer and, dramat-
ically more x>erfect, second sort. She is most perfectly
the expression of her genius when she is doing. The
most striking characteristic of her acting is a nearly in-
cessant motion, which at first seems a bewildering rest-
lessness. Tet it is soon seen to be clearly deeper than
the superficial thing which it had api>eared. Her
CamiUe, her Frou-Frou, her Juliet, would be essentially
changed were they acted without this apparent super-
abundance of motion. However good the conception of
these characters might then be, it clearly would not be
Olga Nethersole's.
This wealth of action in which she so exults is no
mannerism of her genius, but one of the great channels
through which its stage expression seeks to interpene-
trate and irradiate the hearts and understandings of her
audience.. Attitude, gesture, muscle-contraction and
extension are all ministers of her genius, as the air is
the minister of the sun in the diffusion of its light. Ju-
liet, in the farewell-scene with Bomeo, as he climbs out
upon the trelliswork, throws herself at full length Jipou
the broad balcony and reaches her hand down to him
caressingly through the railing. The perfect love of
the girl Juliet, unwilling to hold her lover back to his
danger, and yet loathe to let him go, could find no more
fitting representation.
Again,
THE LOOKER - ON. 235
Again, in that great scene of confession where Comille
tells Armand Duval of the loneliness of her life without
father, mother, brother, or sister, or even friends who
are not servile in their friendship, and of the dreams of
a return to the higher living and the purer happiness of
her childhood, built upon his love, and overwhelmed by
the memories of a shameful past which had surged up
at the first thought of his possible defection, we could
not — ^without the restless pacing up and down, the
clinching and unclinching of the hand, the mobile face,
at one moment turning to gaze upon Armand, the next,
as the full ignominy of the fallen woman sweeps over her,
hiding itself from him — have had portrayed the eager,
dissatisfied, longing Camille of Olga Nethersole.
In her power of muscular expression Olga Nether-
sole reminds one slightly of Sarah Bernhardt. She is
not yet such a perfect autocrat of her muscles as Bern-
hardt. One questions whether she would quite dare to
play the eavesdropping scene in Cleopatra, concealed
from the waist up. She rejoices, however, in imperson-
ations and situations that demand for their adequate ex-
pression strong and changeful muscular movement,
whether of face or body matters little. Her Camille is
throughout a study of the highest sort of facial muscu-
lar expression. The look of beatific happiness that
steals into Camille' s face as she breaks with her old life
and refuses to answer YarviUe's note ; the strength that
shines from every feature as she bids M. Duval be of
good cheer, for she will not falter in her resolution
to give Armand back to his father and to social
respectability; the forced happiness with which
she veils her grief as she bids him farewell in
pursuance
236 THE LOOKER-ON.
porsnance of that promiae, aie all genius-brandecL
Olga Nethersole, a8 Juliet, in the i)otion-8oene crouch*
ing on the floor, trembling, chattering with honor,
pooTB such a flood of nightmare fear into her every
muscle as only Bernhardt else could do. The whole of
her passionate nature i>ortrays Juliet's wild and fearful
imaginings with a true tragic force by the speaking of
her muscles.
This virile, action-picturing imagination of Olga
Nethersole's has a more subtle manifestation and a
more i)Owerful influence. Her conceptions are in two
ways molded by this force. The interpretation of a
character which appeals to her is the one most largely
and most readily amenable to this x>ortrayal by action.
It is the romping child of a ^' Frou-Frou " that appeals
to her, and of this conception she never for a moment
loses sight. Once for an instant she struggles out of it,
when she confesses to her husband her longing to fulfill
the duties of her wifehood and motherhood, only, when
that longing has been spumed, to become the child
again. To have created successfully from Hal6vy's
drama that other Frou-Frou, who, waking from her
childishness, remains true to her newly discovered
womanhood, would have demanded a deeper insight
into Frou-Frou's mind and heart, and far less emphasis
upon her girlish exuberance.
Again, the impersonations of an actress of Olga
Nethersole's sort have, as we have said before, meaning
and reality only in so far as they fall within the limits
of the capability of her imagination to register concep-
tions in her brain of their moving and doing phantoms.
This mercilessly logical law of mere being demands that
within
THE LOOKER-ON. 237
witliin the compass of each assumption, considered indi-
vidually, shall be movement, that is development or
groivth.
Obedience to this law controlled her rendering of
Juliet. To her presentation of the Veronese heroine
she brought personal qualities which of themselves
could not have failed to make the rendition of more
tlian ordinary interest. Her perfect bodily grace gave
to her Juliet an unusual beauty, and her own simple
faith in the power of unaided love saved her from the
slightest taint of the coquetry with which thoughtlessly
theatrical Juliets have marred the plighting of her
vows. But a yet more radical and more characteristie
innovation remains. As the play grows, JuUet grows
with it. Olga Nethersole is true to her text, and marks
clearly the distinction between the girl of sixteen and
the woman she afterward becomes under the influence
of love and sorrow. Notwithstanding the fault found
with her by so many professional critics, she could not
have successfully portrayed Juliet had she sacrificed
this conception to any conventionalities, for in so doing
she would also have sacrificed all the opportunity for
growth in her impersonation so essential to her genius
for its truest expression. Her Juliet is in its concep-
tion and its presentation modem and realistic.
Olga Nethersole's implicit obedience to the impulses
of her genius, and her consequent complete manumis-
sion from the thralldom of tradition nowhere find a bet-
ter illustration. The termination of the potion-scene
is the most exquisite torture of tradition and the i)er-
fect quintessence of modem realism. Juliet who had
been crouching on the fioor chattering with a nightmare
fear
238 THE LOOKER' ON.
fear and horror, suddenly springs to her feet, her eyes
fixed on the spot where a moment before she had sewt
the phantom, the dread in her face supplanted by a
look of determinate purpose. Hurrying after the phan-
tom with the words, ^^ Stay, Tybalt, stay. Borneo, I
come,'' she gropes her way, as if blinded, to the table
where she has left the potion and clutches it in hm: hand
with a convuIsiTe shudder. With the words, *' This do
I drink to thee," uttered slowly and with a passionate
solemnity, she deliberately and without haste drinks
the sleeping draught. Juliet, as the potion takes its
certain but gradual eflFect, slowly sinks from tiie conch
and rolls upon the floor.
But this modem Olga Nethersole- Juliet has a wider
significance than its forceful originality. The success-
ful invasion into the Shakespearian rdles of the modem
spirit means that through this medium the nineteenth
century is finding an expression for a characteristic
with which Shakespeare's own age had little in common.
The sciences of observation have developed in modem
times the spirit of the relative in place of the spirit of
the absolute to a degree unknown before. ^^ The moral
world, ever in contact with the physical, has been in-
vaded from the ground of the inductive sciences by this
relative spirit. There it has started a new analysis of the
relations of body and mind, good and evil, freedom and
necessity. Hard and abstract moralities are yielding to
a more exact estimate of the subtility and complexity
of our life. Character meiges into temperament, the
nervous system refines itself into intellect. Man's phys-
ical organism is played ux>on, not only by the physical
conditions about it, but by remote laws of inheritance.
And
THE LOOKER-ON. 239
And even when we have estimated these conditions,
he is still not yet isolated, for the mind of the
race, the character of the age sway him this way or
that throngh the medium of language and current
ideas. It seems as if the most opx)osite statements
about him were true, he is so receptiye. All the
influences of nature and of society ceaselessly play-
ing upon him, so that every hour in his life is unique,
changed altogether by a stray word, or glance or
touch."
In the expression of this relative spirit through the
medium of dramatic form Olga Nethersole excels, and
the Juliet is perhaps the best proof of her excellence.
With a truthfulness at once as rare as it is subtle, she
portrays Julief s irresponsible girlish affection ripening
into the woman's purposeful love by delicate and fugi-
tive gradations. The love of Olga Nethersole's Juliet
from the moment when in the ball-room scene she first
sees her Komeo, to the moment when by the tomb of
the Gapulets she dies by the self-inflicted stab of Romeo's
dagger, never falters in its growth, and yet never at
any isolated moment manes us conscious of the change
it is undergoing. That love when the time of bitter
test comes is not wanting ; the girl's affection flnds its
perfect fulfillment. Not till then have we been fully
conscious of the change, and only by looking backward
over all that has gone before can we understand the
process.
Her charm, in large measure, lies in this i)ower of so
I>erfectly interpreting the modem spirit. Whatever
woman she personates, whether Juliet or Frou-Frou,
Sylvia Woodville or Camille, Olga Nethersole maintains
with
240 THE LOOKER-ON.
with wonderful skill the fusion of indiyidoality and
enTironment. Each character, by the gift of nature or
the discipline of experience, learns to accept the limita-
tions of the situation in which she is placed, of her
inheritance, of her past acts, of the individualities of
others around her, and, having accepted them, to find
in the end, though they may have seemed very hard
at first, her largest usefulness and her truest happiness.
Each is mastered by her environment, only to find the
apparent defeat her life's real victory. Olga Nether-
sole's Juliet is a non-resisting Juliet. She surrenders
without a single serious struggle to Romeo's love, and
to her own love for him, and finds the whole happiness
and purpose of her life in maintaining her utter sub-
mission inviolate. When that is impossible, she finds
nothing for which to live.
But the submission to environment, when it is a hard
and bitter experience, rather than the natural, joyous
surrender of Juliet, summons to its portrayal Olga
Nethersole's highest powers. The Nethersole-Juliet,
except in the i)otion-scene, and the scene where she
refuses to obey her father and marry Paris, is without
any very considerable tragic sorrow. Moments of
acute suffering there are, when, for instance, she first
learns of Tybalfs death, and of Romeo's banishment,
and the instant when she discovers the dead Romeo,
outside the Capulet's tomb ; but these do not strew with
thorns the path she is treading in the following of her
purpose. The idea of faltering in her perfect rest, in
her love, because of Tybalf s murder, or Romeo's banish-
ment, does not cross her mind, and the sight of the
dead Romeo takes from her life all its purpose. Olga
Nethersole
THE LOOKER- ON. 241
Netliersole makes you feel tliat it was a joy to Juliet
to die.
A word must, even at the risk of digression, be said
in commendation of this interpretation. The nature
of fhe tragic in Borneo and Juliet has been one of the
most misunderstood things in our literature, and the
highest praise is due to this young actress, who has
had the originality to perceive, and the courage to
embody her perceptions, that Juliet's life was filled
not with the bitterness of sorrow, but with its love-
transmuted form of joy.
Modem drama is charged with being immoral in its
subjects, inartistic in its form. The charge may be eas-
ily, though by no means necessarily, true. Art, to be
art at all, must inform or control noble matter with
some variety, some compass, some alliance to great ends,
some largeness of hope in it. The drama would indeed
be inartistic that dealt solely with the pessimistic black-
ness of the world's sin and evil, with the helplessness
of its pain. But go deep enough into your study of sin
or suffering, and you always must find some brightness
there. There is always grandeur in endurance, always
nobility in conquest, in self-denial, self-renunciation.
Art that tries to deal with evil must emphasize not the
sin but the sinner ; that which seeks to grapple with
pain must emphasize not the suffering, but the suf-
ferer. It is good that now when the world most
needs it, Olga Nethersole has come among us with a
genius whose best expression is in its insistence upon
the greater importance above the suffering or the sin of
the human life which bears or struggles. life, the
importance of life, the power of life, that is the mes-
sage
242 THE LOOKER- OK
sage she brings in no uncertain tones. We need it,
and are better for it. Our art needs it^ and is the
better lor it. We wish in every undertaking of a glo-
rious and hopeful future a warm Godspeed to Olga
Nethersole.
THE LOOKER-ON. 243
THE WORD OF A VIRGINIAN.
By Gebtbude Blake Stanton.
She was a magnificent creature, and for twenty-eight
years all Virginia, and esx)ecially her own county, had
been telling her so in word and deed, and in the kind of
homage no one but a beautiful woman gets anywhere
outside of Virginia. In other parts of the world she
was called a beauty, and told she was beautiful, in many
different tongues ; but she had a taste for the native way,
and would return to hear just how beautiful she was in
the soft Virginianese. She had a history of duels, heart-
breaks, and even a suicide, while poetry, tradition, and
songs in her name surrounded her with a nimbus of ro-
mance which counted for more in Virginia than any-
where else. It was said that she cared more for her
birth as a Virginian than for her beauty.
I was one of the epicurean sort of men who take their
beauties without speech, and so I refused to be presented
to her. I don't know whether she realized that I avoided
her or not. She never seemed conscious of me until one
night at my sister's house when I happened to be stand-
ing quite near her, just as she sent the man beside her
across the room for her cloak. It was one of those re-
vealing pauses when she thought herself quite alone, and
I saw a nameless something about her apart from her
beauty which held my eyes. She felt it, and turned her
face
244 THE LOOKER-ON.
Ibm fall upon me, and in a flash I realized tAiat she was
more of a woman than I had thought. The dark eyes
were very serious and there was something in them
whioh shot a pang of pity through me despite their
splendor as a pair of woman's eyes. She seemed con-
scious of my thought, a curious expression came orer
her &ce yeiling for a moment its splendid lines and col-
ors in a mist. But only for a moment ; in the next the
superb audacity of her pose and expression gave me
doubt of what I had seen. I was included merely as a
detail in her rapid glance over the room which was fill-
ing with people. She was quickly surrounded, but I
saw her say something to the man who had brought her
doak. He came up to me, it was Page Talcott, and I
remembered having heard that he was her cousin.
<< Miss Talcott will permit me to present you."
'^ It is impossible to be other than willing to obey such
queenly commands." I smiled to myself at the stilted
phrases and followed my guide. I was presented.
*^ People don't usually pity me ; why did you look at
me like that? "
^^ It is something of a distinction to have given Miss
Talcott a new sensation."
''Ah, I didn't expect that sort of thing, — it was
hardly worth while."
" What did you expect? "
'' That you might speak the truth with your lips as
you did just now with your eyes. ' ' She turned her back
on the room and we made a solitude of our own which
is sometimes possible in a crowd.
** But if it seems on nearer view — ^well, hardly worth
"You
THE LOOKER 'OK 246
'^ Yon looked at me as if I were a starving child on a
winter night and when, on nearer view, yon see that I
am a fnll grown woman and it is summer, your interest
dies?"
*^ I might help the child, the woman in the summer
is good to look at — ^but her world and mine — ah, well,
again it is hardly worth while."
'^ Are you then a coniirmed philanthropist? "
" No, only a simple lover of men and — ^women.'*
'^ Of men and women, then it is not only starving
children "
'^ I said men and women."
^^ Ah." She put her face into the June roses which
she carried, and drew in their fragrance with a hint of
a sigh and the fleeting shadows coming about her eyes
again.
^^ Poor child, you are a poor starving child after all."
** Help me, then, why don't you."
"How can I?"
" I don't know, but I am hungry — soul hungry."
" I can't give you bread — ^I might suggest some way
for you to find it — ^but I must know you better first.
What do you feed on now? "
"Oh, admiration, homage, worship."
" At first it tasted sweet, and now? "
"Flatl"
" What do you live for?"
"The best I know."
" And that is, of course, self."
"Teach me something else."
" Have you never been in love? I don't mean with a
man ; with an idea, an aim, an aspiration outside self? "
^*No,
246 THE LOOKER-ON.
'^ N09 1 wish I oould be in love with anything, any
one. Wait, yes, I have been in love with the idea of
moving men with the exercise of power. I have taken
pleasure in acting. . Ton will have to be caiefol ; this
very unusual frankness may turn out a pose. I hardly
know what is real in me. I have as many changes of
self as changes of raiment — all charming, men say — it
would be insufferably dull, otherwise.''
*^ May I tell you what I think would be good for
you?"
" Yes, do."
"The stage."
"The stage?"
" Yes."
" But that would only aggravate the disease; more,
more, more self."
" No, no, I mean the real stage, the serious stage, the
stage of work, and study, and labor. Not Miss Talcott
of Virginia will star, but Miss Jones, Brown, or Robin-
son, working obscurely for several years, gathering life's
fullness into herself and giving it expression again, so
that men and women shall feel its heights, its depths,
its comedy, its tragedy, as art alone can make them
feel."
" Ah, yes, I remember now; I have heard you are a
dramatist of the new school, whatever that may mean.
You naturally think of your own metier"
^ * You don't think I go about the country advising
young women to go upon the stage? Heaven forbid ! I
say this to you because I feel a possibility of dramatic
power in you which is rare, and because I believe your
whole nature is being cramx)ed, stunted, dwarfed for
lack
THE LOOKER^ ON. 247
lack of expression. You must feel, throw off in ex-
pression, and feel again in order to grow. Yon have
been limited to one set of emotions, one phase of life."
** I don't feel anything but weariness any more ; it is
all so intolerably alike after the first round."
"Because you have had all sweets. Try the brown
bread of work. When once you get the wholesome
taste of realities in your mouth you will never forget it,
and the sweets, when you have time for them, will be
all the sweeter. I^ow I am preaching; stop me,
please."
"The stage?'
" No, first some work to see if you have the fiber of
endurance; some hard work, some study.''
" Set me a task."
"But not so capriciously. Think Jt over at least a
night, a day. You must give up much, you know, all
this that you call your life."
"I will think, but it will be strange to do so. I
can't say how long it will take me ; will you come and
see me in a week? "
People said a mood, a caprice, a pose ; but I saw her
day by day and felt the growing earnestness, and knew
that she was so far at least, sincere. In study she had
much of the naivete and sweet seriousness of a very
intelligent child. Very soon I found myself thinking
of my Hester Talcott as quite another woman from the
Hester Talcott other men knew. Yet I was a hard
taskmaster, unsparing, critical, brutal even, with an
instinct of self-defense against her growing ascendency.
For her own sake there must be one man in the world
who could keep his senses when she let her eyes rest
upon
248 THE LOOKER-ON.
upon him. The sex charm was predominant in ho*;
through me she should r««ch her possibilities as human
being.
I was myself surprised at her powers of concentra-
tion. The original, untrained mind bent to its task
with the hot ardor of the bom student. The time of
probation was soon over, and studies direct from the
dramas of the day b^gun. Here her real power came to
the surface, and all went so well that on my next trip
to New York I made an engagement for her under an
assumed name. In a few weeks she would b^gin the
obscure apprenticeship at a good theater. She learned
and really created the princii)al imrt in the play I had
just finished. She had worked along with me, suggest-
ing much, inspiring more, until I felt at last I had
written something worth while. We were rehearsing it
together ; there was one great scene in it between the
man and the woman. When we came to that, the
subtle flattery of her exquisite conception of my work
touched me like wine. Acting melted into reality,
reality lost itself in exaltation. It was in the part to
take her in my arms — ^but for us the play ended there.
Great God ! did she love me already ; what else could
her kiss mean? I held her from me, the great lids
drooped heavily over her eyes.
'^ This isn't acting, this is " I diopi)ed her hands,
my hopes for her, my more than man's love for her —
this was my time to prove it. I drew in my breath
sharply. In a moment I had sprung back into the
part.
'^ Ah, yes, yes, that is good — ^very good — a great ad-
vance. We don't need to go over the rest. That was
always
THE LOOKER- ON. 249
always the sticking point, you know.'* I tamed from
her and canght up my hat. To get away — ^that was all.
I dared not once look at her standing there with the
consciousness of that kiss between us. Somehow, I got
out of the room, somehow to the railroad station. I
knew there was a train for New York due in a short
time. All that night in the train, the pulse of her lips
beat warm against mine, the feel of her arms was on my
shoulders, the clasp of her fingers against my neck, the
faint x>erf ume of her nearness came and went. And I
had dared to write of it, as if I had ever known what it
was before. •
It took some days to get hold of myself, and just as I
was about to go back, some real affairs turned up .to
detain me. The morning I took the train for Virginia
I got a letter from my sister in which there was this
paragraph:
"You had better come back and look after your
pupil. She has broken loose, and returned with
greater zest than ever to her native element. What an
old prig you are, Roger, to think you could turn a
woman like that into a student. Why, the whole
world is her stage, and all the men and women merely
actors. She played a part to subjugate you because
you wouldn't yield to ordinary tactics. I wish I knew
whether you yielded to the acting."
I arrived quietly at my sister's, and knowing the
house was full of young i)eople, told the servants to
leave me unannounced. After some supper in my own
room, I strolled around outside with my cigar, and
finally leaned against one of the windows going into the
drawing-room, and watched what went on inside.
Hester
250 THE LOOKER-ON.
Hester Talcott was the center of the group. With
a pang I realized that it was not my Hester Tal-
cott.
The cloud of thought which had hung over her, soft-
ening and chastening her, had lifted, revealing a de-
moniacal brilliancy, which had perhaps been the unde-
tected secret of her sx)ell. They were all talking, it
seemed, of some tradition in the Talcott family. I
made Qut that Hester's mother and grandmother had
been celebrated beauties, and each had married her
hundredth offer ; that there was an old family wedding-
ring in Hester's possession, with quaint chasing and
some inscription about the fate of a Talcott being the
hundredth man. They tried to make Hester say
whether she would hold to the custom, and whether she
had kept count. She parried cleverly.
^^ Hester slays her thousands," said Page Talcott.
*' No, Page, I haven't got an even hundred yet."
" Then you do keep count ! "
"Wait and see " Hester sprang up and left the
room. In a moment she was back, carrying a long sheet
of white paper which she flourished Don Juan style.
She would not let any one get near her ; she flung her-
self from them into the middle of the room. The light
struck upon a heavily chased gold ring she wore. She
caught her skirt, and with a rapid swirl was off into a
dance. She fluttered the long, white sheet of paper
above her head, pressed it to her heart, let it stream
like a ribbon behind her, trampled it under her feet.
I forgot to be disgusted; I held my breath — surely
there was a demon in the woman. At last she came to
a sudden halt in front of Page Talcott and held the
paper
THE LOOKER-ON. 251
paper out with a pretty affectation of concession for
him to count.
'^ Mustn't read the names, just count," she panted.
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,
ten "
" Oh, that's too tiresome ;" she wheeled off from him.
^ ^ Let me count ; there must be more than one hun-
dred names there. ' '
** No, there are just ninety ''
They waited for the next word.
** Odd ! " It came half smothered in Hester's inimit-
able laughter. Then with a queer sort of defiance-—
"but I am going to end it all. I am going to marry
my hundredth offer, like my good mother and grand-
mother before me. I am going to live and die in old
Virginia."
Suddenly I seemed to realize that she was in earnest.
Why or how I could not tell, but I knew her face when
it took that look. She meant it. Instinctively I
stretched out my arms toward her — "Hester," I said,
but my voice was lost in my sister's
"What guarantee will he have that he is the hun-
dredth?" she said.
" The word of a Virginian."
"I think you are encouraging the gambling spirit,
Hester."
Marriage is a lottery, say the wise. Mine shall be
frankly so, that is aU. ' '
With a quick good-night, thrown carelessly into the
room, she was gone.
Indignation, disgust, disillusion turned me hot; my
thoughts seethed; I could grasp nothing clearly, but
the
252 THE LOOKER' OK
the idea that I must see her at once. She should
account for herself to me. How could I get to her
without my sister or some of the others seeing me?
While I tried to think this out, I was aware that
people were saying good-night ; the keyed-up spirits
had fallen flat, the evening was over. Lights went
out in the great room and appeared again in various
parts of the house. Nothing could be done that night.
I relit my cigar and wandered off at random through
the box-bordered paths, which brought me within
sound of the negroes' quarters. They were swarming
about, singing. The words came faintly to me. I
went nearer and listened :
^ BoekB and a' moantaini,
Fall on m«,
Hide me from an angij Gawd— — ^
The sleepy rhythm soothed, in disregard of the text.
Nothing could hapx>en until morning, and in the morn-
ing she would come to me and tell me that it was all a
bit of acting. Of course, she couldn't have meant a
word of it, my sweet, woman-hearted Hester. I went
back to the house, and climbed in my window, pulling
in the shutters after me.
"An angry Gawd— ,
Bocki and a' moontaine— *
The distant anger of the Almighty hurling rocks
upon his people lulled me to sleep.
I knew nothing till the noise of the falling rocks
seemed turning into the sound of horses' hoofs thud-
ding ui)on the ground beneath my window, and the
daylight lay full in my room. I got up and looked
out;
THE LOOKER-ON. 263
ont ; old Sandy was leading two saddle horses around
to the front piazza. There were some half -hushed
voices. Page Talcott helped Hester to mount, and
jumped into the other saddle himself. They rode
slowly down the avenue, and turned into the lane.
They made a superb pair, each with the characteristic
Talcott poise of head and shoulders. I watched
them out of sight, pushing back the bushes to do so,
and bringiilg down a shower of dew ui)on my head.
Then I dressed and stepped out of my window. It
was several hours until breakfast. I walked myself
out of temper before my sister came downstairs. I
caught sight of her at last, clipping roses into her
basket as she cam^. The girls came fluttering out in
their white dresses, every one foolishly in love with the
sweet, young morning, and willing to linger in its
promise, I alone ready to commit myself to the prosaic
day by the ceremony of breakfast.
There was a smell of frying chicken and crusty corn-
bread from the dining-room, and my sister said
they wouldn't wait for Page and Hester, and we went
in.
^ ^ Are your guests in the habit of taking these early
rides?''
**Not often," and my sister tossed me a yellow rose
from behind the urn.
** You know Page has been in love with Hester since
they were babies, but they say he is one of the few men
left in Virginia who hasn't proposed to her," said one
of the girls."
^^ Got up early this morning to make up for lost time,
I reckon."
264 THE LOOKER-ON.
^^111 bet anything yon like, Page has made up hk
mind to take a chance in Hester's lottery/*
And they fell to betting on the chances of his being
the hundredth man, while I realized that my old super-
ior contempt of them and their ways was coming to the
surface again. After the meal I went directly to the
library, where I shut myself in and made elaborate
prei)arations for work, but all the time I was listening
to the beat of horses' hoofs, until the mocking sound
got into my head, muflling the thoughts I was trying to
put upon xMtper*
I could not tell the real sound when it came, and it
was only the babble of voices, the rush of laughter, and
the clatter of feet upon the piazza, which told me that
the riders had returned. Laughter and gay words
floated in to me.
Confound it all I I didn't want the woman if she had
promised herself to her cousin in that way, and if she
hadn't, then all was well. What the devil had got into
my pen? I couldn't help catching some of the banter-
ing talk from the piazza, and I put my head down on
the table before me, to wait until there was quiet, but
as I did so I felt some one was in the room behind me.
She came swiftly up to me.
<<Why didn't you come into the drawing-room last
night? "
** Is it true?"
*^ What true?"
*^ About you and — and the hundredth man,*' all tiie
scorn I felt got for once into my voice.
**Yes, it is true."
"The play is over then? "
"The
C4
Lt nor vmB laflL ir zda
:?*
^* Yes. I W» IS 315^
soul aad k^«d sba. ir 'ntt mcr ^vou avr 3lj x^n*
socHiiedh?*
**My God. ciilii. woic in yni. jk&x**
**Tatta«wI jCT«d T-m; via iaseel 3d*^ w^Z-ba: rr ^si^
nuoi's vmr to a^ki^ ^ass trzm. si*-. ^Sihl T*:a j^ a»w Fcr
me, tibe leal ne. ima cKcii iccfLfzx.^
**Oued ftocLiix? I car*ti iZ* I cij«d rco :ttzcl**
*'I would Boi tikke to<£ ih&s v^y, im a ssocm of ib.^
senaes. I wantied y^c^i to p^okb y^c^^iKlf frss^ I waiii^xi
to help you.*
"Help me? Wky cool-ii'i jvu haw jost iowd m^?
There's no help like that."
" Bat don't you see. I wanted to show yoa th;iif 1
loved yoa move than any man had loved bef oi^.
^'Bnt yonr kaving me wh^i I had shown vvMU
had given myself — no wcHnan foigives a thin^ lik^
that."
"Bnt I thought ^"
" You wouldn't have thought. You would hav^ Mt
how it hurt me. If you had loved euoxigh> you txmUl
not have done it."
" But I was trying to control myself ,— the mtti\ In luts
for your sake."
"I had rather had you controlled by lovo* UA mn
256 THE LOOKER' ON.
hear it now. All that you didn't say, all that you con-
trolled. I am just a woman after all.*^
" You want to hear it, Hester, hear how I love you
and crave you with every fiber of my aoul and body? "
" Thank God."
"Ah, thank (Jod indeed, Hester."
<< For this one moment."
" For all time and eternity."
" For this moment, don't, don't end it yet."
" End it ? " My arms tightened round her, she let me
look close into her eyes, and brush a lock of hair from
her forehead with my lips. The lids drooped heavily as
I had seen them once before, my lips touched them—
she started.
"Our moment is over," she said, and pushed me ever
so lightly from her.
"Hester!"
" There is a barrier between us."
"There can be none, for you love me."
"There is one."
"What is it?"
" The word of a Virginian," with a pitiful little smile.
Then she drew quite away from me, her great eyes
opened full, the pride of her race sprang out in her pose.
" You have given your word to your cousin? "
" What was to prevent? "
" Your love for me, — or what you are pleased to call
your love."
" Had you given me cause to consider that? "
" Your own heart had given you cause if you were a
true woman. And aU that last night? He is the hun-
dredth man, I suppose."
"Ah,
-. - * '-' — ^._T
^ •
c«
tlie crowi-
4»
much."
'iis^ X T.r 'Z ^ .:^ >. Trr,r '^
(jC ninamr ir T.r^ a.
c -mt *: ^mrr"- iirr ts.t rif j.-^itr ^.*t. 7Ar
Ci
i:k ilzjl:a. T:»tr ilti i j:
l< a
~ «^
Xou ii i§ a M^il ^ T - I
» ;j • c* '^•.
yon abjecilT; jici li^r*. E. ei!r. xii? 2^ i:*^ I j:'^^ jr^^T
Before I tiH-w irinz sht LlL. <a» *- '■rss^ riL iiic kii?*»
and cbsf ir^ x.7 ir^ei. "^^^^ i:5a=^i imil soii r' t.jttx »
me as I sii>:i»?*i z.: ti5s& irec. tiz^'w ri^i irfc Ir^^ai a2»d
let her bnt sLnr ax ^sGifx if v.irsCiT wiS.i I )sad.
someidiere seea ir tii* f^r* :* a ni^ii-f-ral sair a.
** Ah, Go(L d:^i. i;a*i j>:i ai il** ibax war; I ca&^
bearit.'*
" Ko, I ki»T K ; HI- -i--*^ f'.^Lii ssasl beir^ loT^fd ia
that war. I ca::"i I-i-t^ v-ra arr oih*r mav. I haT>?
tried, and so I can i^^t^t br^c^rz to tou.'^
" And loTing me that uray, yon will belong to your
cousin?"
^' I shall not lore yon this wiiy always. I shall fight
it down. I shall kiU it."
"Horrible, horrible! Why can't yon let mtfrisgi^
alone if yon won't many me? "'
" Because I am yery hnman, and if I didn*t marry
some day I should yield to yon, and then — ^then — ^thew
would be no more happiness for either of us* I tell
you I love yon too much. ' '
"Only don't marry. There is the stage; oh, ohild^
woman
258 THE LOOKER-ON.
woman Hester, haven't yon strength enough to live for
that? Yon are a great artist, yon knovr."
^^ Am I? Conld I be famous? "
" Yes, yon could be famous."
^'I lay my talent at your feet, Roger; I shaJl never
act again. I wanted you to feel that I vras an artist.
What do I care for the rest; what does a woman care
for a career? It was all for you, you, you. There
is nothing I could not do for you and the love of
yon."
^^ Except the one thing I ask "
^^ Stop, I shall marry the man who has wooed me, not
the man I have wooed."
*' Hester, can you never believe I love you? "
^^ Yes, but not as I love, a great love makes a man
obedient to it, as to a Gh>d, a love which will obey a
man is a poor love."
" Yet you are making your love obey a woman."
^^ A woman's love must be a txune thing."
*' Leave subtleties. Oome here, Hester "
^^Hush, you have seen. It is not for this world
that kind of love."
"Then we will change this world ; you belong to me.
Come here where you belong, sweetheart."
"Ah, yes, yes, that is good — ^very good — a great
advance ; we don't need to go over the rest — that was
always the sticking-point, you know." Her laugh
struck my face with stinging challenge."
"Another bit of play acting to please a single spec-
tator this time, a sheer waste of your power. But a
skirt dance for the crowd is more your role."
Again the laugh, clear, ringing, with a music which
seemed
THE LOOKER-ON. 259
seemed to borst straight from a woman's heart. The
blood tingled angrily to my face as from a blow.
" Yoa shall decide my rdle in. another moment. I
most give this one to my Cousin Page." She pulled a
letter from some concealment in her gown, and taking
the knife from my desk deliberately cut it open. With
an effort at self-control I watched her. The laughter
went out of her face as she read.
"Ah, poor boy, poor Page, he really cares. I would
never let him speak. I turned him off — so he will
■write to me. Ah, well — that makes the ninety-ninth."
The latent savage stirred in me. I sprang at her,
catching her in my arms, crushing the letter away from
her face, and compelling her eyes to mine.
*' You witch-woman, how you have made me suffer!"
260 THE LOOKER-ON.
IRVING AND TERRY IN MACBETH.
By Wm. H. Fleming.
This play was written by Shakespeare in the very
maturity of his power. In it, he, at times, attains a
grandeur and sublimity above which he never rises. It
portrays
''The fierce dkputo
Betwixt demnetion end impevtoaed cUj — J*
Macbeth vacillates for some time between loyalty and
treason. The temptation to murder the king and seize
the throne becomes irresistible. He yields. Equally,
if not more guilty, is Lady Macbeth. In the play
Shakespeare portrays this mental, emotional, moral
struggle, together with its consequences.
In forming a critical estimate of an actor's work it is
necessary to judge both his conception of a character
and his acting of that character. Mr. Irving has not
left us in doubt as to his conception of Macbeth. ^^ I
have," he says, ^' deduced some theories of my own as
to how Macbeth' s character should be considered. For
one thing, I believe it is evident that he conceived the
murder of Duncan long before his meeting with the
witches. He was a man of sentiment, not of feeling.
Many essayists credit Macbeth with feeling, but he is
undeserving of the least sympathy. He was nothing
more than a thorough-going, black-hearted scoundrel. ' '
This opinion is, I think, mistaken. Macbeth certainly
was a scoundrel and at times, e.^., after he had mur-
dered
'HT L y: VF?- vX :^l
dered DaneaB aai But^~ax '* a i^revcfinf .xi^c. b^s^-
hearted sooxukird.*" Be dcsc:^^^ liztsi^ sis ib^ft
rd iC 1^ fib* SBBk SDI«UC A
Bnt when he first met ihe witcb^ while he wae
I)otent]anT, he wm not in reality •* a thorough-going*
bhick-hearted sconndi^*' If he had bei» thei^ would
not hare heai any misgiTing within him« which there
certainly was. He gires expression to this in a soUI-
oqny nttered jnst after the witches had predicted that
he should be ^* thane of Cawdor/* and *^*King here-
after."
CkiiiKitbeiU,CMPotbegood: iffll.
WliT intli it s^cB Be cwMt of
t\mnutmM4wtg m a tziitb ? I SB thsiie of GnrdoT :
If good, why do I yield to Uiat nnggut iop
Whon borcid image doth anfix Bf Italr
And make nij eMttrf lieut knodc aft m j xib8»
Agamst Uie OK of naftnre ? *
Not wonld there have been that yacillation, that inde-
clsion, which early in the play characterizes his con-
duct:
''If chance will have me Eling^ whj, chanoe maj crown me^
Without mj stir."
Bnt a moment later when the King names Malcolm as
his successor :
" The Prince ci Cumberland I that is a step
On which I most fall down, or else o'er*leapi
For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires I
Let not light see my black and deep desires :
The eye wink at the hand ; yet let that be
Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see."
still
262 THE LOOKER-ON.
Still later, after his conference with Lady Macbeth, he
reverses this decision and tells her :
** We will proceed oo farther in this busiiieai : "
Surely no one knew Macbeth better than his wife,
whom he dearly loved. In her soliloquy, uttered just
after receiving his letter, she describes him :
"Thoa woold'it be great ;
Art not without ambition, bat without
The illnev ahoold attend it ; what thoa woald*8t higUj
That wookf It thoa holil j ; woold'at not plaj &]ae^
And jet woold'it wrong!/ win.''
Even at the very close of his career his better nature
asserts itself, his outraged conscience is heard. In
words inexpressibly pathetic, he says :
" Sejtan I — ^I am rick at heart,
I have liVd long enoogh : mj waj of life
Is faU*n into the aear, the jellow Imi,
And that which ahoold aooompanj old age^
Ab honour, Iotc^ obedience, troopa of friendii^
I must not look to have ; but, in their atead,
Caraee, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath.
Which the poor heart would fain denj, and dare not"
When Mr. Irving says Macbeth was ^'nothing moie
than a thorough-going, black* hearted scoundrel," he
is, in my opinion, in error. Shakespeare portrayed
him, and intended so to do, as a man whose natural
temper would have deterred him from evil, unless
strongly tempted ; a man
** too full o' the milk of human kindneM
T6 catch the neareat waj— "
that is, too thoroughly human (for the word ^^ kind-
ness"
THE L l>: JCE2- OX StS
nes8 '" is Imsr VMd in i^ Oid l^rlifd^ sbbm. ri^. liini^
Tiatttral) lx> use Tioileza. hicodT loauis 10 s«u^ th«
throne.
Mr. Irrine arts liis oaDCPjidon ol th^ chanKm* ud
does not pcfftny sxlt Tial^oit sxnu^xrl^ in Marhetk.
Rather lus Macbeth is a man ^iriko has delibentelT d^
termined to murder the King and s»ae the thivme^
Failing, as I beliere he does, to conceire this character
correctly, his acting of it mnst of necessity be defect-
ive. Xot beliering that Macbeth is at war with him-
self, he ooold not ledte correctly those soliloquies in
which Macbeth erpresses his indecisicou e^g.^ the one
just before the mnrder of Duncan :
If it VCR
1Xwmn6autqmddj
Later in the pbiy, after the mnrder of Dnncan and
Banqno, Macbeth throws all scmples aside —
'Framtliis wmmbI
Tlw TCfj fintlb^ of Bj heut ahaD be
Hie findinsi of m J hand.*
Mr. Irving's portrayal of Macbeth when he has reached
this condition is much truer and more effective. Irre-
si)ective of his own conception of the character, his
elocution is woefully defective. His tendency to mouth
his words, to express them in a thick, guttural sound
has increased since last he was here. The result is, his
intonation is very indistinct, not a little of what he says
is unintelligible or inaudible. This was especially no-
ticeable in the soliloquy :
'* Li this a dagger which I see befbre me.
The handle toward mj hand ? Mg.''
His
264 THE LOOKER-ON.
His mannerisms, which seem to have become more pro-
nouncedy direct attention to the actor and not to the
character which is portrayed. One sees and tiiinks not
of Macbeth, but only of Irving. In passages the rendi-
tion of which requires intensity and tragic force, Mr.
Irving is unequal to the demands upon him. He is not
a great tragedian. His embodiment of this character
—we say it with r^grel^is a failure.
Equally disappointing is Miss Terry's x>ortrayal of
Lady Macbeth. Miss Terry has the proper physique
to act this character. Lady Maobeth was not a large,
gross, Amazonian woman — ^her hand was ' ' little. " It is
likely she was a small woman of a highly organized
nervous temperament. But her nature became prosti-
tuted to an unholy ambition, and she became Macbeth's
^ ^ fiend-like queen. ' ' An overmastering ambition silenced
the warning of conscience ; deadened her womanly feel-
ings. Miss Terry lacks the tragic power to act this
character. She is an ideal Portia, or Beatrice, or Ophe-
lia, but is unequal to the task of portraying Lady
Macbeth. She does not possess that i)ower which is
necessary to make Lady Macbeth the dominating force
in the forepart of the drama. She is better in the
sleep-walking scene. That is pathetic. But even in
this she does not i)ortray the utter ruin of a strong but
perverted nature. Her acting lacks force and is disap-
pointing.
The minor characters are very well acted. The
staging of the play is all that could be desired. Mr.
Irving is always faithful to Shakespeare's text. He
may, in order to shorten the representation, omit
some passages, but he never adds to Shakespeare's
words.
THE LOOKER-ON. 265
words. For this he deserves the thanks 6f every
spectator. The scenery, dresses, music — down to the
smallest details — are all historically and dramatically
correct.
I hesitate to criticise unfavorably any work of
Mr. Irving's. As a stage-manager no man since
Shakespeare's day has done so much to elevate
the stage and make it a great educational force.
His staging of this play, as of all in his repertoire,
is a work of art. But candor compels me to say
that neither he nor Miss Terry, great as they
are in some roles, are able to act Lord and Lady
Macbeth.
I know it is a false standard to judge one actor or
actress by another. It may be ungracious to do so.
Still as I witnessed this production of Macbeth, I could
not but recall another one, given many years ago with
Edwin Booth and Charlotte Cushman in the leading
roles. Both of these artists conceived the characters
correctly, and both possessed tragic force and genius
sufficient to portray them. Never to be forgotten were
three of the scenes. One was that of the hesitating
Macbeth who had just told his wife :
" We will proceed no farther in this bnedneBB.''
By his side stood Charlotte Cushman. She was larger,
taller, and towered above him. She was wrought up
to the intensest feeling. She attempted to infuse her
own demoniac energy into the man. With one hand
she patted him on the back lovingly, firmly, yet re-
proachfully ; with the other, she grasped her own
breast as she said :
266 THE LOOKER- OK
** I hate given nick tod know
How tendw 'tis to loTe the babe that milka me :
I woald, while it wis smiling in mj face
Hare pluck'd mj nipple from his boneless gmna
And dash'd the brains ont, had I so sworn as jon
Have done to this ^
Boothy and every one in the audience as well, felt the
masterful power of this woman who so unsexed her-
self to gain the throne for her husband.
At the banquet scene both were supremely great.
Booth was the utterly unnerved Macbeth. Charlotte
Cushman impressed every one with her dominating
power. She was at times the hostess ; at others, the
wife. As the latter she was at times tender ; at others,
sarcastic. When she found Macbeth's fears were un-
controllable, she rose, and with all the gracious dignity
and authority of a queen, dismissed the guests.
'* At ODoe, good night :
Stand not npon the order of joor going.
But go at onoe.
In the sleep-walking scene in the last act she came on
the stage dressed in her night robes, carrying a lighted
taper. She placed it on a table, then walked diago-
nally across the stage. All the while she was asleep.
Her eyes were open, and revealed her mental desola-
tion. Her sorely charged heart found relief in a sigh
which was full of tragic pathos. It was a sigh which
revealed the abysmal deeps of Lady Macbeth's person-
ality, wherein was raging one of those " greater storms
and tempests than almanacs can report." When she
left the stage the impression made on every beholder
was that of a great, but perverted, nature approaching
its doom.
Booth's
THE LOOKER-ON. 267
Booth's Macbeth, at the conclusion of the play, was
equally powerful — and unforgettable. The Scotch King,
as Booth acted him, was overcome with grief and des-
peration.
'' I £^ to be aweary of the soiiy
And wish the estate o' the world were now undone —
King the alaram-bell I — Blow, wind I Come, wrack I
At least we'll die with harness on our back."
And SO he does, fighting bravely as he meets death at
the hand of Macduff.
268 THE LOOKER-ON,
THE INFLUENCE OF THE POET
ON MUSIC.
By Louis C. Elsoit.
In the old Oreek days, Mausikej whence our modera
term ^^ Music," meant the union of all the beautiful
arts of the Muses. We are not surprised, therefore, to
find that in ancient Greece composer and poet were one,
that poetry and music were not sisters but were abso-
lutely branches of the same Art. Aeschylus, Euripides,
Sophocles, and even Aristophanes, were comiK>ser8,
although we generally think of them as poets only. It
is possible that even oratory, in its early days, was
closely intertwined with music, for Cicero is known to
have had a slave with a pitch-pipe, behind him during
his great speeches, to help him modulate his voice in
certain passages.
In mediaeval times one finds the same union of the
two arts in the works of the Troubadours and Minne-
singers. The Troubadour, it is true, allowed himself an
assistant in the guise of a Jongleur, but even when this
underling was employed, he was in no sense a collab-
orator, for he did no more than play the accompaniments
to the knightly Troubadour's compositions, the music
and words being furnished by the latter alone. It ifr to
be noticed that wherever the poet and musician were
thus
TEE LOOKER-ON. 269
thus nnited in a single person poetry seems to have
taken the lead, and music was, in the strictest Wagner-
ian sense, the ^^ Handmaiden of Poetry.'' The moment
that music became more complex the divorce between
the two arts took place, yet poetry still retained the
leadership and the poet still remained the power which
moved the musician.
Thus, for example, Shakespeare, who probably never
wrote a note of music in his life, wielded a direct and
tangible influence upon the art. No man that ever
lived caused so much music to be written or gave the
motive to so many different comx>ositions. In the field
of opera his influence was the most direct, and each of
the important plays has furnished a libretto for the
oi)eratic composer, some of them a great many times
over. Thus, "The Tempest'' has been set fourteen
times as an oi)era, beginning with Dr. Ame in the mid-
dle of the last century, not to speak of its rather absurd
most recent treatment as a ballet, by Ambroise Thomas,
six years ago. "The Merry Wives of Windsor" has
had nine settings, of which the Nicolai version ("Die
Lustigen Weiber von Windsor," composed in 1849),
and Verdi's very recent " Falstaff " promise to live in-
definitely. "Measure for Measure" thrust Wagner
into music with "Das liebesverbot. " "The Taming
of the Shrew " awakened a musical genius for the world
in the shape of Hermann Goetz. "Henry VIII.," with
those audacious interpolations which the French ven-
ture to give to Shakesx)eare, caused St. Saens to bring
forth his greatest opera. "Romeo and Juliet" has
been set some twenty times as an opera, and has inspired
a great symphony (by Berlioz) as well as overtures and
symphonic
270 THE LOOKER-ON.
symphonio poems galore ; Gounod's settiiig remains the
masterpiece among the operatic attempts with this play.
«< Othello " with its four settings bronght forth one
masterpiece, the opera of Yerdi, although some portions
of Rossini's settings do not vanish from the rei)ertoire
after 80 years of wear. ^' Hamlet " with a dozen set-
tings presents Thomas's work as possibly permanent
It would become wearisome to pursue the list in detail;
more than ISO operas exist upon Shakespearian libretti,
and such glorious works as Locke's '^ Macbeth " music,
and Mendelssohn's music to scenes in *' Midsummer
Night's Dream/' are also to be credited to the same
source. This influence began to be exerted even in the
century in which the poef s later plays were written,
and Henry Purcell, the greatest musical genius that
England ever produced, was at work ui)on Shakespearian
topics about sixty years after the poef s death.
There are many stories told of rapidity of composition
on the part of the great tone-masters, but when these are
sifted they generally prove to be more or less mythical ;
one, however, bears all the tests of historical investiga-
tion, and is strictly true ; it shows how quickly Shake-
si)eare could kindle a flame in a true composer's nature.
It was on a Sunday morning in midsummer of 1826
that Schubert was taking a stroll around the suburbs of
Vienna with a party of friends. They were on the
homeward journey, having turned back at Potzleindorf,
and were passing through Wahring, when Schubert
saw his friend Tieze sitting in a little open-air restau-
rant, ^^Zum Biersack." In an instant the party of
friends had joined their new-found companion and were
seated at the table ordering their own refreshments.
Beside
THE LOOKER - ON. 271
Beside ISeze's plate lay a little volnme which he had
evidently been reading ; Schnbert at once seized it, and,
as was his wont, began looking through the pages for
musical subjects. The volume was ^' Shakespeare's Short
Poems and Sonnets." Suddenly, the musician paused
and read and reread one of the x>oems, and then burst
forth : '' If I only had music-paper here ! I have thought
of the very melody to fit this poem." Instantly one of
the party, Doppler by name, took the bill of fare, and,
drawing the requisite lines across its back, handed it to
Schubert. Then and there, in the confusion of a Vien-
nese restaurant on a* Sunday morning, and in the short
space of time while the party were waiting for their
breakfasts to be prepared, was composed Schubert's
''Hark, Hark, the Lark," a setting which gives to
Gloten's morning serenade to Imogen a double immor-
tality.
Toward the end of the sixteenth century music had
gone to the end of its intellectual tether ; the art had
become more and more complex until the most diiSicult
mathematical problems with tones were evolved on
every hand. The influence of the amateur is generally
a most healthy one in the domain of art ; it was a set of
amateurs who guided our art to a pleasanter path. The
culmination of their efforts was the opera, which began
in 1600 as an effort to bring words and music into closer
combination, as they had been in the old Greek days.
But in evolving emotional music these cultured antiqua-
rians had brought about something higher than the old
Greek form which they attempted to copy, and they
had also (like the fisherman in the ''Arabian Nights ")
uncorked a genii that they could not control, for the
effect
272 THE LOOKER-ON.
effect of the new music waa such that the public began
to value the music above the words. For a time the
influence of poetry in this wedding of the arts was nulli-
fied, the French proverb that '* whatever is too stupid
to be spoken may be sung," became true, and it was
not until the last half of the next century that Oluck
arose to bestow a prox>er balance between the two arts,
only to be followed by Rossini who undid all his prede-
cessor's work by a baleful genius for tunes wiHiout
meaning or dramatic puri)ort.
While Italy was thus proving untrue to the art that
she had established, Germany was very weakly follow-
ing her lead in many of the vocal forms. There was,
to be sure, a Bach, reconciling the old intellectuality
with the modem emotion, in the oratoric field, but in
the song-forms nothing worthy was evolved, because the
musician held that i)oems were merely p^gs whereon to
hang pretty tunes, while the i)oets cared little for the
short lyric, and generally essayed the larger and more
abstruse styles of expression.
It was, therefore, a very real musical influence when
Goethe introduced short lyrics into his works. Such
songs as the ^^ Mai-lied," Gretchen's ^'Meine Buh' ist
hin," the songs of the Harper in ^'Wilhelm Meister,"
all meant a new epoch in music. Whenever a true
poet appears the great musician is not far behind;
Goethe awakened Schubert and was therefore a distinct
factor in the evolution of the German Lied. This lat-
ter form, which owes its glory to the triumvirate com-
posed of Schubert, Schumann, and Franz, is the Meis-
sonier of musical art, the presentation of a gem in small-
est compass. Naturally, its completeness depends upon
the
THE LOOKER-ON. 273
the manner in wMch Poetry and Music second each
other. The ideal poem for musical treatment is one in
which the poet has not been too definite, where he has
left something important for the composer to say. If
one takes Goethe's " Erl-King " as an example, it will
be seen at once where the poet has left room for the
composer. The first lines
" Who gallops so late through the night-wind wild T
It is a father and his child/'
is a barren statement, but the composer can give the
movement of the gallop, and can evoke the howling
wind in a manner that shall give to the two lines all
their latent force. The conversation of the father and
child is brief enough, but it allows the composer to con-
trast the sturdiness of the former with the timid anxi-
ety and feebleness of the latter in artistic juxtaposition.
The enticing words of the ' ' Erl-king " permit of a use
of all the melodic sweetness that a composer possesses,
while the final impatience of the spectral monarch and
his seizure of the struggling child, the cry of agony
" O father I he clutches me now with his arm.
The Erl-King has done me a deadly harm/'
gains tremendously in realism by the addition of music.
The terror-stricken gallop to the castle, the pulling up
at the door, and the discovery of the catastrophe, the
death of the child, are all merely outlined by the poet,
and the colors are filled in by the composer. Here,
then, we have the true exposition of the supplementing
of poetry by music, whether we take the setting of
Schubert,
274 THE LOOKER-ON.
Schubert, or the still more graphic one by Carl Loewe
as oar guide.
The use of the strophe-form in song-comixMEdtioii, the
repeating of a single tune over and over to each succeed-
ing stanza of the poem, although a frequent attribute
of the folk-song, is a distinct lessening of the bond of
union between the two arts. A familiar example may
be cited to prove this ; ELingsley's poem, '^ The Three
Fishers," has been sung in this form in every English-
speaking country, to the wonderfully powerful melody
of HuUah, yet any one who reads the i>oem will see that
the preamble, ** Three fishers went sailing out into the
west," calls for a different musical treatment from that
required by the picture of the second verse, wherein
three wives agitatedly watch the storm from the light-
house-tower, or from the dread climax where "Three
corses lay out on the shining sands.'' The dramatic
power of the later poets in short lyric forms is gradu-
ally emancipating music from this false direction, and
the art-song, in which each poetic turn of sentiment is
reflected by a similar change in the music (the Ger-
mans graphically call this Durchcomponirung) is gradu-
ally abolishing the strophe-form save in the treatment
of the simplest and most monochromatic of poems.
Germany has been particularly fortunate in the poetic
influence that was brought to bear in this matter, for
Goethe was followed by Heine, and the latter brought
the short lyric to its most powerful expression. Heine
was a direct inspiration to the German song-composers.
Schubert was removed from the scene before the
poet's power had fairly asserted itself, but if one exam-
ines the settings of *'DieStadt," or "Am Meer," it
wiU
THE LOOKER - ON. 275
will be evident that his style of dealing with poetry-
was changing for the better because of the influence of
Heine, and it is not too much to say that the highest
powers of Schumann and Franz were evoked by the
same poet, who therefore had quite as much to do with
the establishment of the Lied as any composer whatso-
ever.
When the importance of portraying poetry by music
is understood as Wagner endeavored to make it under-
stood, the day of haphazard translations will have
passed by forever. At present, too many of our native
composers merely grasp the fact that some masters have
achieved great results by musical treatment of Goethe
or Heine in the original, and then take with avidity an
English translation of the poets for their musical treat-
ment, forgetting that translated poems generally resemble
decanted champagne. How carelessly this branch of
musical art is carried on may be instanced by such
translations (actual cases) as that of Brahms's ^^Wie
bist du, meine Konigin? " into *^How dost thou fare,
my radiant Queen?" or by the havoc that has been
made with Goethe's "Erl-King*' in the celebrated
Augener edition (London), in which the words of the
child, set by Schubert to high- treble tones, are given to
the father, while the child responds in the notes in-
tended by the composer for the parent, becoming quite
a bass- voiced infant in the transfer, not to speak of a
subsequent stanza which runs
" O father, my father, and saw you not plain
The Erl-king's pale daughter glide fast through the rain T
O no, my heart's treasure, I knew it full soon
It was the grey willow that danced to the moon/'
a
276 THE LOOKER-ON.
a sudden change of weather, in a single verse, that
would scare even a New Englander. It may be nrged
that these are extreme cases, but it is the sorrowful
truth that, did not space forbid, many more equally
startling examples in prominent editions might be cited
oflFhand.
Thanks to the musical thunderstorm that cleared the
atmosphere when such works as ''The Mastersingers of
Nuremberg," or '* The Flying Dutchman," were written,
the great composers of the present see more clearly what
is needed in the combination of the arts than their pred-
ecessors did, but our native poetry is yet almost an
un worked mine to our native composers. How much of
progress has been achieved within the half -century may
best be illustrated by tracing the actions of Yerdi in the
matter. At the beginning of the epoch we find him
utterly indifferent as to the worth of the poetry he set
to music, judging it only by its immediate stage value ;
if a drinking-song were requisite for enlivenment of a j
scene it appeared even if the scene in question were a
funeral. Two slaves carried out the mandates of this <
musical overlord of poetry ; Solera and Piave were ready
to deliver anything from prayers to cabalettas at any |
point of their librettos. '' Un Ballo m Maschera " was
a historical libretto ending with the assassination of Gus-
tavus III. ; forbidden in Naples, the Roman authorities '
gave permission to attempt the performance if the
murdered party were not a king. Verdi made not the
slightest objection to changing the hero into the " Gov- ,
emor of Bosion^^^ and this gentleman was duly assas- ,
sinated at a masked ball which must have been held in
Massachusetts in the time of the Puritans. When this
master
THE LOOKER-ON. 277
master essayed the setting of Shakespeare, a half -cen-
tury ago, he caused Macduff to roar forth a dashing
" Ldberty-song " because Italy was then furious against
Austrian tyranny, and the audience would go wild over
the subject, — and they did. Fancy a Macduff singing
" Our Country forsaken
Our tears should awaken ;
'Gainst tyrants, unshaken,
Our Spirit should rise; "
and tlien fancy this same comi)oser, changed with the
spirit of the time, studying the meaning of our great
poet before setting another of his plays to music, forty
years after ; calling to his aid the most careful librettist
of Italy, Arrigo Boito, heightening every trait of
Othello and lago with reverent hand, blending salient
points from "King Henry IV." with "The Merry
Wives of Windsor" in order to accentuate the char-
acter of Falstaff, and, in short, showing allegiance, in
every note, to the art he had once regarded merely as a
vehicle for gaining applause for his music.
The reforms of Wagner bring us to the starting point
again, for we have been traveling in a circle ; once more
we find the poet and musician united in the same
person, once more we find the poet giving the direction,
the composer the fulfillment, as a sounding-board is
directed by the vibrations of a string, yet amplifies and
glorifies the tone ; but there is a distinction — ^in ancient
Greece the music was probably of a simplicity that
made it possible of attainment by any cultivated poet ;
it probably consisted of melody only, or at least no
harmony beyond a simple drone bass ; to-day it is too
much to demand a second Wagner, it is unwise to ex-
pect
278 THE LOOKER-ON.
pect the i)oet to master an art which in itself demands
a lifetime of stndy» or to demand that the musician
shall be able to express himself in words before he
Tentnres to give a still higher expression in tones ; bnt
it is not too much to expect that the wedding of the
two arts shall not become a mesaUiaficey that the poet
shall insist upon his thought being carried out and not
subverted, and that the composer shall listen to the
poet with some effort to catch his note, before he com-
mences his song. A year before his death, the greatest
of recent song-composers, Robert Franz, wrote to the
author of this article the following important words
regarding his mode of composition :
** One of the chief characteristioB of mj songs maj lie in the
hd that I do not make music to the text which I use, but allow it
to develop itself from, the poem. The first two veises of a Hdne
poem run:
**Jf your eyes are very clear
And upon my songs you ponder,
Tou will see a fair young maid
Through their measures gently wander.
** If your ears are very sharp,
E'en to hear her Toice endeavor,
And her sighing, laughing, singing;
They shall rule your heart forever.
^'I instinctively followed this suggestion of Hdne, and did this
chiefly from the conviction that a closer connection ruled between
Poetry and Muac than barren minds could comprehend. Every
truly lyrical poem holds latent within itself its melody."
Herbert Spencer, in his essay ^^On Education,"
states the same fact with more detail. He says, ^ ^ Per-
haps
THE LOOKER-ON. 279
Iiaps it will suffice to instance the swarms of worthless
ballads that infest drawing-rooms as compositions that
Science would forbid. They sin against Science by set-
ting to Mnsic ideas that are not emotional enough to
prompt musical expression ; and they also sin against
Science by using musical phrases that have no relation
to the ideas expressed even when these are emotional.
They are bad because they are untrue. And to say
that they are untrue is to say that they are un-
scientific."
Extremes meet in this case, for the most conservative
composer and the most thoughtful scientist echo the
thought of the most radical musical reformer ; and the
above extracts, and this entire article with its state-
ment of the poet's influence on music, only amplify
Wagner's . terse sentence, not to be read or compre-
hended by every one who runs, yet containing the pith
of the entire subject — " Music is Truth."
IfflMlI-ffiWAlNS-
* people • and -^inys- in.
iBooks 5ociel)^*^J\ealLife V
Naa
ON THE DEPASTDia WOMAJI.
We hear a good deal, in these latter daj^ about the Coming
Woman. She casts her shadow before. If her substance is to
florrespond with it in all points, she will be somewhat fearfully
and wonderfully mad^ and will ^ve abundant occupation to
The Lookeb-On.
But meantime there is another figure on the ^age not unworthy
of oar attention. I suppose we must call her the Departing
Woman. If this is to be her last appearance, as the hand-bills
say ; if she is to be finally and forever displaced by the new
arrival, then there is all the more reason for making our obeer-
vatione with promptness and predion before she vanishes &om
onr sight.
Friendly these observations must be, perforce. For, apart
from all considerations of prudence in making remarks upon a
queen whose abdication is not yet accomplished, and who still
retains tiie power of inflicting con^derable punishinmta and
bestowing great rewards, setting e»de all these motives of self-
preservation and interest, I must cunfess an immeasurable grati-
tude and an unutterable attachment to the Departing Woman.
She has played her part well. She has filled a large and
noble
THE LOOKER-ON. 281
noble r5le with credit and renown. She has moved us to happy
laughter, and purifying tears. Wanting her presence, life's drama
would have been dull and worthless, and often base. And if,
forsooth, the next act is to be played without her, I for one
would join heart and hand in applauding her while she still
lingers on the stage, and never suffer her to leave without her
well-earned ovation of praise.
This Departing Woman, according to modem accounts, has
been horribly handicapped. It must be true, or else so many
people would not agree in saying it. But in spite of her handi-
caps she has done wonders.
Her education has been abominably n^lected. At least so
they tell us. And yet, somehow or other, she has succeeded in
performing the largest, and by no means the worst, part of the
world's teaching. I will venture to say that seventy-five men
out of every hundred who know how to read and write and
cipher learned these primaiy accomplishments from a woman.
In the army of instruction it may be true that most of the
generals and staff-officers have worn the trousers; but what
advance would they have made without the patient, skillftil work
of the more numerous captains and non-conmiissioned officers
in skirts?
Is it a less important, or a less difficult task to awaken the
young mind to a desire of knowledge, and to train it in the first
exercise of its powers, than to make new discoveries in the
sciences and new inventions in the arts?
Even here the Departing Woman has not &iled to make her
mark. There is hardly one of the branches of modem learning,
or of the departments of modem industry, from astronomy to
cotton-spinning, that does not owe something to her insight and
skill. But if she has devoted her attention chiefly to the sunpler
nidiments of knowledge and the finer arts of living, this also has
been
282 THE LOOKER-ON.
been very much to the world's gain. No other oonld be firand
at onoe so capable and so interesting. In oonversationy in letter-
writingy in all the deUcades of human interoourse, she has been,
and still is, our mistresB, and the molder of mankind.
It is true, I suppose— ^t all events it is commonly
that her character has suffered fix>m the tyrannies of man. And
yet she has been broad enough to exerose a controlling and
guiding influence on all sorts and conditions of men, and strong
enough to do the main part in upholding the moral standards
of the world.
I do not fimcy that she has had a better chance in Armenia
than in other countries. Here is what an Armenian said of her
the other day :
'^ It is the Armenian woman who has preserved the Arm^iian
nation. The patient dignity, the devoted fiuth, and the unflinch-
ing heroism of the Armenian wife, mother, and daughter are
traditional among their native hills and in the archives of their
raoe.^'
Where is the nation from which you will not hear a like
testimony ? The world's highest work has been done, the world's
noblest deeds have been achieved, the world's upward and onward
movement has been maintained hitherto, under the influence and
inspiration of the Departing Woman. Who could have expected
it from such a poor, dwarfed, down-trodden, and neglected
creature?
In religion her pre-eminence and power have been acknowl-
edged as a matter of course. It has been generally admitted
that she has kept far ahead of man in sudi afiBiiis as praying
and reading good books and going to church and exercising the
heavenly virtues of fidth, hope, and charity. There has even
been a disposition to grant her a monopoly of these things. I
am
THE LOOKER - ON. 283
am sure that when we get a sight of the Directory of the Celestial
City we shall have no right to be surprised or offended at the
predominance of feminine names.
Sut I do not mean to dwell upon this side of the subject. I
want to stick close to its teiTestrial aspect Looking at the
practical results of religion^ and at the church as an institution
which is designed to benefit this present world^ it would be hard
to overestimate the good influence of the Departing Woman.
She may not have kept up to date in her views of Moses^ but
she has xmderstood how to help the poor. Her perception of
fine points in doctrine may be a little hazy along the edges, but
she knows what it means to love God^ and your neighbor as
yourself. She has been the mainstay of hospitals^ and asylums^
and benevolent societies.
I honestly believe that nothing but her unconquerable prejudice
in favor of good works and plain, wholesome religion, has kept
the church many a time from degenerating into a theological
debating society, and talking Christianity clear out of sight
This is no small service. It is all the more remarkable as
coming fix)m a person who is alleged to have a comparatively
small mind.
And when we come to think of it, there is a lot of practical
benefits that she has conferred upon society which are not exactly
of the nature that one would have expected from her.
Take, for a concrete example, street-cleaning. That is rough
work ; for more than a hundred years it has been " a dirty
business " in New York in aU possible senses of the word. And
yet I think it is no more than fiur to say that the present convic-
tion of the people of New York that the streets can be cleaned,
and their determination that they must be cleaned, are the results
of the work begun by a woman — ^Mrs. F. P. Eannicutt— who
gave no rest to mayors, or common councilmen, or uncommon
conmiitbee-men,
r.*
284 THE LOOKER' ON.
oommittee-men^ until she had shown tibem what ooold be done
with a broom.
I will admit for the sake of argoment, that the Departing
Woman has her limitations, prejudioes^ and pectiliarides. But
I will not consent to call them fiuilts. Many of them, as, for
instance, her views in regaitl to mice^^are endearing, although,
or perhaps because, thqr are not altogether reasonable. Some
like her inability to keep acoounts— her own, I mean, for she
often shows amazing skill in keeping those of other people— can
do no great harm so long as we recognise them. And others,
such as her unaccountable fondness for reading aloud, her firmly
rooted opinion that the shortest way to every man's heart is through
his stomach and her invincible tendency to give a personal turn
to all conversation, while in themselves things not conformable
to philosophy, are yet, in their ultimate and undesigned result^
highly beneficial and productive of much pleasure. So that,
upon the whole, we may conclude that even the limitations and
peculiarities of the Departing Woman have added to the Joy of
Life and increased the Grayety of Nations.
Charles Lamb 8a3rs a gentle thing about her in the '^ Essays
of Elia " : '^ If she does not always divide your trouble, upon
the pleasanter occasions of life she is always sure to treble your
satisfaction. She is excellent to be at a play with, or upon a
visit ; but best when she goes a journey with you."
And is not this true of life itself, which is only a longer
journey ? Woman — not the Coming Woman, but the Departing
Woman — ^has made a decided success as a companion in this
protracted voyage, and all the more because she has not been a
commercial traveler or a rival in trade, but a friendly comrade,
without envy or competition.
It nuiy prove an unambitious spirit that she should have been
willing so long to allow man to win and defend the kingdom of
home,
THE LOOKER-ON. 286
Lome^ whfle ahe was content to rule and adorn it I am not
going to dispute that point All I saj is^ that the result has
been highly satis&ctoiy.
There has been a certain charm about her way of doing things,
a delightful consistency in her very inconsistencies, and an air
of superiority in her very shortcomings that has gone far to
enliven the tedious stretches of conscious existence^ and made us
feel that she is a peison whom it would be ^' gey ill to live wi'oot''
She is absurdly subject, for instance, as all men say, to the
caprices of fashion. But somehow she manages to subjugate
them all in turn to her feminine quality. She may wear wings
on her shoulders, or hang a wire cage from her waist, or carry ^
hump on her back, but through all these quaint disguises she
looks like herself. For the one thing that the Departing Woman
has not desired is — ^to be mistaken for a man.
She is open to compliment And, in spite of what the doctors
of psychology have said about its necessary effects, she can digest
it without injury.
She is capable of receiving the homage of gallantry without
fidling into the insolence of a tyrant in petticoats. But she
has her own old-fashioned taste in the matter, which is quite
unlike the preference attributed to the Coming Woman. The
Departing Woman has not been pleased by courtesies offered to
her person in disparagement of her sex. She would rather be
deferred to as a woman, than praised for the accidental symmetry
of her foot, or the exceptional perfection of her mathematical
faculty. In short, she has the singular humor of not cariDg to
be r^arded as a freak of nature, even for the sake of becoming
a missing link in the chain of evolution toward a new order of
society.
She has her own little vanities of course, perhaps almpst lo
many
286 THE LOOKER-ON.
many of them as her husband or her brother; but tfaqr appear
like humilitieB by oompariaon with the grandeur of her fixed
idea that there is no quality in the world quite so worthy of
reverenoe as that which belongs to her alone — the quality of
womanliness.
And to tell the truth most of the men who have had any ideas
at all have shared in this one. All the poets and painters and
sculptors and dramatists and novelists have used their arts to
glorify " das ewig Weibliche/'
The world's literature would be a blank without the figure of
the Departing Woman. She has been the central point of fine
ambitions, the prize of noble conflicts, the guiding star of heroic
hopes. She peoples the Palace of Imagination with her presence,
and all the Temples of True Fame edio with her name. What
were Greek Drama without Antigone and Iphigenia? or the
poetry of the Renaissance without Beatrice and Laura? or
Shakespeare's stage without Perdita and Juliet, Cordelia and
Desdemona? or modem fiction without Ellen Douglas and
Flora Mclvor and Jeannie Deans, without Lady Esmond and
Loma Doone and Romola and Lucy Desborough. And what
are all these shapes of lovelinesB and vital power but fonns of
her who has inspired man's best efforts since time began, his
counterpart, his other self,
<< Not like to like, bat Uke in difference,"
— ^the Departing Woman ?
For my part, I am sure that the best thing that we can do is
to pray that she may not depart after alL She has done so
much for us that we should be lost without her. Let her stay
with us and she shall have a better chance than ever before.
Set her up in another kind of type, if it must be, but let her
keep the same meamng. And, merciful Heaven, forbid that she
should ever lose the inscription whidi she has carried on her
heart since it began to beat — ^^ hviyda wmiaai!^
THE LOOKER- ON. 287
MUSICAL COMMENT AND GOSSIP.
By Hekbt T. Finck.
Concert Hall Befonns — Last Stage of the Mascagni Fever — A Berlin Fail-
axe — PerBonally Conducted Operas — The Absurd Attitude of Singers —
Music in Scandinavia — Prizes for Women — The Most Popular Com-
posers — Dr. Spitzka on Nordau, Wagner, and Liszt — The Paderewski
Craze.
Beslioz, in one of those delightful essays on music which
Mr. Apthorp has done into idiomatic English with a literary art
rare among translators, dwells at some length on the harm which
comes to music from the excessive size of our operarhouses and con-
cert halls. He points out that what might be called the "musical
fluid/' the unknown cause of musical emotion, ''is without force,
warmth, or vitality at a certain distance from its point of departure.
We hear^ but we do not vibrate. Now, we mud vibrate ourselves
with the instruments and voices, and be made to vibrate by them
in order to have true musical sensations."
There is much truth in this contention, and I have sometimes
wondered whether Berlioz's propensity, to write for a colossal orches-
tra, did not spring partly from an instructive desire to compel the
auditors at the other end of a big hall to " vibrate " with his music
It might possibly be asserted, too, with some show of justice that
one reason why Wagner's music moves and stirs modem audiences
like no other music, is because of its sonorous orchestration, which
enables it to reach the topmost parts of the gallery before it has lost
its glow of color. No doubt, the increasing dimensions of our opera-
houses have helped to drive the thinly orchestrated works of the
Italian and French schools from the stage, and it may be safely as-
serted that Humperdinck's fairy-opera, ** Hansel and Gretel," with
all its charming music, could not have won its extraordinary success
in Europe, if the composer had not wisely given his orchestration
Wagnerian fullness and resonance.
The science of applied musical acoustics is still in its infancy,
and it remains for architects of the future to make possible once
more the performance of works that are not sonorous ** music of the
future."
2S8 THE LOOKER-ON.
future." But, there are other needed refonsB in our oonoert halls
that might earilybe attended to at once. The other day Dr. Fri-
denberg had a letter in the Evening Po$ty in which he complained
about the exceaeive light in these places. ** There is no reason,'' he
wrote, ^ why, at the concerts at the Cam^e or the Metropolitan
Opera House, the eyes of thousands of helpless auditors should be
exposed for hours together to the glare of innumerable bright elec-
tric lights. To say nothing of the discomfort, the strain thus in-
flicted upon the eyes is injurious and productive in many cases of
headache and other liervous derangements. As the people file out
of the house, at the close of a concert, you may observe a number of
burning, blinking, weary-looking eyes, that welcome the darkness
of the street"
A " dim religious light " is quite as desirable in a concert hall as
in a church, in order that the attention may not be distracted firom
the thing for which the people assemble. You cannot enjoy mucic if
there are a hundred sights in glaring light to divert your attention ;
still less, if that light makes your eyes smart, and your head adie.
By generalizing this assertion, we come to another and still
more serious defect in our amusement halls — the lack of proper
means of ventilation. Everybody knows the exhilarating eflect of
fresh air — ^knows that he can work or enjoy himself twice as much
in pure air as in a vitiated atmosphere. Yet the air in our places
of amusement is almost always so stagnant and filthy that the brain
is wearied after an hour's attention, and everybody wishes for the
end of what was dearly paid for in the hope of keen enjoyment
People remember such depressing experiences, and when the ques-
tion next comes up, ** Shall I attend to-night*s concert? " the answer
is very apt to be, " Oh, dear I I felt so tired and sleepy the last
time I went, I guess I'll stay at home." If managers and artists
suspected how much money they lose from this cause, they would not
sleep a wink until they had bribed some expert to solve the problem
of ventilation — without chilling draughts. It can be done; but
architects, like shipbuilders, are only just beginning to study the
problems of comfort and health.
^* ^p ^p ^^
In the last number of The LooKER-Oiir I incidentally referred
to the fact that the distinguished German critic, theorist, historian,
and lexicographer. Dr. Riemann, expresses his contempt for Mas-
cagni, and his surprise at those who caught the '^ Mascagni fever.''
He
THE LOOKER - OK 289
He thinks that the success of " Cavalleria Busticana " was partly
due to its libretto, partly to the clever advertising skill of the pub-
lisher, Sonzogno ; and he refers to the absolute failure of his next
two operas, *' Amico Fritz '' and " I Rantzau," in which " the weak-
ness of the music was no longer covered by the merits of the libret-
to." Since this was written, Mascagni has produced three more
operas, each of which added another fiasco to his repertory, both in .
Italy and in Grermany ; while the absurdly overrated " Cavalleria,''
too, has proved its ephemeral character by its virtual disappearance
from most opera-houses.
It is always a more or less invidious and unwise thing to cry
'' I told you so " ; but I cannot help recalling with satisfaction an
article that appeared in the Epoch some years ago, in which surprise
was expressed at my audacity in opposing nearly all the musical
experts and critics in treating Mascagni as a charlatan, and in
laughing at the so-called '' new school of Italian opera " as a chi-
mera. Well, gentlemen and confreres, where is that " new school "
now ? What has become of all these much-advertised operas, these
musical or unmusical settings of coarse, vulgar scenes of peasant
life, of jealousies, adulteries, and murders? With one or two ex-
ceptions, you will not find them on current repertories, and it seems
the very irony of fate that a recent book which treats of them,
Pfohl's '' Modeme Oper '* — though intended, as its title indicates,
to be a guide to current operatic literature — should already have a
merely historic value, or would have, were it not for its excellent
chapters on the Bohemian Smetana, the German Cornelius, and the
immortal octogenarian Verdi, whose last three operas alone consti-
tute a real *' new school of Italian opera."
The five consecutive fiascos have cooled the Mascagni fever,
which has now entered on its very last stage — the personal. It is
an interesting bit of ephemeral musical history that the man who
discovered Mascagni and foisted him on the world, had to fall back
on him, a few weeks ago, as his only savior from immediate collapse.
He organized an Italian Opera Company and went to Berlin,
where he announced a four-weeks' season, at which the gems of the
"new Italian school" were to be produced. But the Berliners had
already had enough of these paste diamonds, and left them on the
manager's hands. Result: the "four-weeks' season" lasted just
nine days, and the Italian singers might have had to walk home
had it not been for Sonzogno's happy thought of having the " Ca-
valleria
290 THE LOOKER-ON.
▼alleria Rusticana" ''penonally conducted" by the oompoaer.
Mascagni was hastily summoned from Italy, and the people flocked
to tee him. The wily manager rubbed his hands joyfully, and at
once set out on a tour through Germany with his ** personally om-
ducted" "CavaUeria" — ^his last and only trump card, and that
only good in the hand of its maker. Mascagni received $250 a
night for conducting, and he was worth it, so the manager thinks.
But ocular curiosity is soon satisfied, and the latest report is that
Mascagni, tired of these self-exhibitions, is about to accept the posi-
tion of director of the conseryatory of Pesaro. Sic irantU gloria
mundL
% a|e 9|e 3|e
I wonder 'if Hans von Billow's delightful pamphlet, entitled
*' Letters from Scandinavia," will be included in the two volumes of
hb correspondence which Breitkopf & Hartel have nearly ready
for the market If not, these letters ought to be reprinted in book
form, together with his pamphlet on Wagner's Faust Overture and
some other critical essays. Pamphlets are almost as ephemeral as
newspapers. Some years ago I tried to get those '' Scandinavian
Letters " from several German music sellers, but failed until one of
them called my attention to a sort of literary detective company in
Leipsic, which hunts up such things for a slight consideration, and
which promptly put me in possession of the desired document.
The Scandinavian countries have always seemed to me worthy
of more attention than they get from musicians. There are Grid's
songs, for instance, gloriously original in harmony and steeped in a
most bewitching Northern atmosphere. Our vocalists never sing
them, simply because difficult intervak occur in them, and because
their own convenient " Italian method " has taught them that all
songs which are not written for the singer's benefit — to give him a
chance to show ofi* his good points — ** are unvocal." Grieg has just
completed a new volume of songs, but they will of course be
neglected, like their predecessors. As Sebastian B. Schlesinger, a
friend of Robert Franz, and himself a good song-writer, has said,
** Singers generally do not consider that they are put into the world
to interpret the works of composers, but regard the latter as having
been put into the world for their special benefit, and the creators
must take a back seat while the interpreters sit in the front row.
Music is good if it suits their voices ; if it doesn't, it has ' no sort o'
interest ' for them."
There
THE LOOKER - ON. 291
There seems to be a good deal of activity in the concert halls of
the Scandinavian capitak. I see that the season at Christiania
opened with a concert under the direction of no less a personage
than Grieg, who produced on this occasion a new work of his, a
'' Legend " for orchestra, which, it is to be hoped, we shall hear on
this side of the Atlantic before the end of the season.
At Copenhagen woman seems to have come to the front. Femi-
nine orchestras and players are not a new thing, but heretofore they
have been associated chiefly with dime museums and beer-gardens.
At Copenhagen they have recently had a Woman's Exhibition, and
in connection therewith prizes have been offered for which only
lady musicians were allowed to compete. The successful instru-
mental works were thereupon executed by a feminine orchestra,
while a cantata that had received a prize was sung by a choir of
ladies, both under a female conductor.
* * * *
Who are the two most popular composers in New York? Wag-
ner, of course, for one. The directors of the London Crystal-
Palace concerts declared publicly a year or two ago that a Wagner
programme was more certain to draw a large audience than any
other kind of a programme that could be made up, and New York
is a much more Wagnerian town than London. So anxious, in-
deed, are New Yorkers to hear Wagner, that even the wretched
performances given last spring were a great financial success. But
who comes next to Wagner? It is hard to say, but I believe that
we shall not go far astray in naming Liszt. No other composer
evokes more enthusiastic applause from the most refined audiences,
especially when Paderewski plays or Seidl conducts. Paderewski,
though not a pupil of Liszt, has done for that master what Seidl
has done for Wagner, and I shall never forget the enthusiastic
applause which he evoked at his first New York recital this season
by his performance of Liszt's first concerto. And with what raptur-
ous delight are Liszt's Hungarian rhapsodies always received when
Paderewski plays them I
I make these remarks by way of introduction to an amusing
critical curiosity which lies before me. It is a reprint of an article
on Max Nordau which appeared in the Arnerioan Journal of In-
sanity. Its author is Dr. £. C. Spitzka, well known as one of our
best authorities on mental diseases — a most interesting department
of medicine and psychology to which I, too, devoted considerable
time
292 THE LOOKER' ON.
time during mj student days in Berlin, under the excellent Prof.
Westphal, who, as is often the caae, went crazy himself a few yean
ago from constant association with madmen. Ahmnihe omen, as the
Frenchman said.
On page four of Dr. Spitzka's pamphlet I discoyered the reason
why he sent it to me— obviously as a challenge. The doctor fiankly
confesses hb ignorance of music, but this, of eourae, does not prevent
him from posing as an authority on the subject If Max Nordau
claimed that the modem craze for Wagner was a proof of " degen-
eracy," Dr. Spitzka tries to prove the contrary by claiming that
there i$ no Wagner eraze^ that " Linda di Clamounix " and *' Trova-
tore *' draw larger audiences than Wagner's operas (has the doctor
been asleep fifteen years ?) and that ** Parsifal " sufl^ a " jawning
neglect " — when, as a matter of fiict, the ** Parsifal " festivals at
Bayreuth are the most profitable of modem operatic enterprises.
But, of course, the doctor does not know that ** Para&l " is not
allowed to be sung except at Bayreuth.
Dr. Spitzka's comments on Liszt are in the same vein. I quote
them without comment, as jokes ought not to be explained : " It
were to be fervently wished that Nordau could have been present
at a recent entertainment given by the leading German- American
musical society. He would have been struck by the look of hope-
less bewilderment of some, of the visible efibrt bom of courtesy to
repress hisses on other, and the unmitigated disgust on all faces when
Liszt's horrible mal-interpretation of the 'Lorelei ' was performed,
and he would have surely cancelled this portion of his work."
Most assuredly he would I But does not Dr. Spitzka think that
a cobbler — ^beg pardon — ^an alienist ought to stick to his asylum,
and leave musical diagnosis and prognosis to those who know some-
thing about music ? In spite of Dr. Spitzka, there is a Wagner-
Liszt *' craze " ; and if it is a mental disease the job of curing it
will prove too big for one man, for then all the world's a madhouse
and all the men and women merely lunatics. The opponents of
Wagner and Liszt usually lack a sense of humor, or they would see
that they are in the position of the twelfth juror, who declared that
an agreement could have been easily reached had it not been for
the stubbornness of the other eleven jurors.
4: :|c He s|e
The New York correspondents of newspapers in other cities have
been busy of late in telling their readers about the " hysterical
craze"
THE LOOKER-ON. 293
craze " of New York women over Paderewski, and preaching severe
little sermons on the subject. When women shout themselves hoarse
over the winners of a boat race or a football match, these corre-
spondents apparently see nothing wrong or unfeminine in their
doings ; but that thej should " enthuse " over a genius, the greatest
living pianist, seems very unbecoming and hysterical to them. As
a matter of fact, their pictures are absurdly overdrawn. It is true
that the applause is more demonstrative at a Paderewski concert
than anywhere else ; but there is a very good reason for that It is
true, too, that hundreds of women crowd down toward the stage
while he is playing his encores ; but many do this simply to get a
near view of his hands in playing and of the expression of his fefip
tures. It is also true that his room is invaded after each perform-
ance, and that there are some unbidden guests who ask foolish
questions. But most of these visitors are personal friends who go
there to shake hands with him, as he is so busy that it is almost
impossible to see him anywhere else. Let us be grateful if there is a
Paderewski craze. It is infinitely better than if he was neglected
by his generation, like so many geniuses of the past. Schopenhauer
compared men of genius to grapes which men never enjoyed^ fresh,
but waited till time had changed them into raisins. We have for-
tunately learned to like our grapes fresh and luscious from Nature's
garden.
ESSAYS ON SCANDINAVIAN LITERATURE.*
This work of Prof. Bojesen which was published but a few
months ago, poesesses an interest aside firom its literary value, be-
cause of his recent and sad death. In buoyant health, in the prime
of life, full of intellectual vigor he was suddenly taken hence.
This volume was the second of three which he was preparing on the
great literary personalities of Norway, Sweden, and Denmark. The
first volume was devoted to Henrik Ibsen. In the one under con-
sideration he studied Bjomson, Kielland, lie, Andersen, Brando^
T^fn^r, and also devoted one chapter to Contemporary Danish lit-
erature. In the succeeding volume, not published, he proposed to
treat of some prominent Swedish and Danish authors.
For the task which he undertook he was thoroughly well
equipped. To its performance he brought broad and de^ cul-
ture, and a fine critical insight. I know of nothing in all the range
of literature which better describes the vocation of the literary critic
than the opening paragraphs of the essay on Greoige Brandes : '' It
is a greater achievement in a critip to gain an international fiune
than in a poet or writer of fiction. The world is always more ready
to be amused than to be instructed, and the literary purveyor of
amusement has opportunities for fame ten times greater than those
which fall to the lot of the literary instructor. The epic delight —
the delight in fable and story — ^to which the former appeals, is a
fundamental trait in human nature ; it appears full grown in the
child, and has small need of cultivation. But the faculty of genei^
alization to which the critic appeals, is indicative of a stage of intel-
lectual development to which only a small minority even of our
so-called cultivated public attains. It is therefore a minority of a
minority which he addresses, the intellectual ilUe which does the
world's thinking. To impress these is fiu* more difficult than to im-
presB the multitude ; for they are already surfeited with good
writinft
* Chts. Scriboer's Bona
Ik FAVORITE JULIET
THE LOOKER-ON. 295
'writing, and are apt to reject with a shoulder-shrug whatever does
not coincide with their own tenor of thought.
AVhat I mean by a critic in this connection is not a witty and
agreeable eauaeur, like the late Jules Janin, who, taking a book for
his text, discoursed entertainingly about everything under the sun ;
but an interpreter of a civilization, and a representative of a school
of thought, who sheds new light upon old phenomena — men like Les-
sing, Matthew Arnold, and Taine. The latest candidate for admis-
aiou to this company, whose title, I think, no one who has read him
will dispute, is the Dane, Georg Brandes."
The first of Prof. Boyesen's essays is devoted to Bjornstjeme Bjom-
son, who is, he says, " the first Norwegian poet who can in any sense
he called national. The national genius, with its limitations as well
as its virtues, has found its living embodiment in him. Whenever
he opens his mouth it is as if the nation itself were speaking. If he
writes a little song, hardly a year elapses before its phrases have passed
into the common speech of the people ; composers compete for the
honor of interpreting it in simple Norse-sounding melodies, which
gradually work their way from the drawing-room to the kitchen,
the street, and thence out over the wide fields and highlands of Nor-
way. His tales, romances, and dramas express collectively the su-
preme result of the nation's experience, so that no one to-day can
view Norwegian life or Norwegian history except through their me-
dium." Boyesen then gives a sketch of Bjornson's life and an ex-
haustive analysis of his tales, romances, and dramas. This essay ex-
tends to nearly half the book, which is not too much room to allot
to it, considering the overshadowing literary influence of the subject
on the life and literature of Norway.
l^hese essays are all interesting and instructive, and manifest on
the part of the critic a comprehensive grasp of the subject, and an
ability to express that in good English.
THE ODES OF HORACE.*
[Translated into English by W. R Gladstone.]
The principal characteristic of Horace's genius, that which has
made him a favorite with scholars, is — charm. Of all the lyrical
singers of the ages none is more popular than the Venusian poet.
His poetry possesses that requisite of great art, universality. His
kindliness of heart, his width of observation, his varied experiences
of
* Chas. Scribnei's Sons.
296 THE LOOKER-ON.
of life have all tended to develop in him a quality which is best
described by the Latin word urbanitas. These qualities find ex-
pression in his iM>etry and give to it a charm which has made it
popular with cultured people in all lands and ages. No poet prob-
ablv is more difficult to translate. In fact he is almost untranslat-
able. It is almost as difficult to catch and reproduce his wit, his
fire, hif» jx^rfect form as to capture the fragrance of the flower, the
song of the bird. And yet no poet has had more translators
Among the latent of these is Mr. Gladji^tone. He'brings to the task
thorough familiarity with the subject, coupled with ripe culture as
a cla&tical scholar. He thinks one requisite of success in translat-
ing Horace is " the necessity of compression." Coupled with that
the translator must exercise great freedom. " Ever}' one of the
Odes, as a rule, has a spirit, genius, and movement of its own ; and
I hold that the translator of Horace should both claim and
exercise the largest poi^sible freedom in varying its meters, so as to
adapt them in each case to the original with which he has to deal.*'
This method of translating has been fallowed by Mr. Gladstone
with the happiest results. While he has not translated Horace
literally, he has in some measure caught the spirit, and reproduced
the meaning of the poet. How well Mr. Gladstone has done this
can bfi^t be illustrated by comparing an ode translated by Bulwer
Lytton, who attempted to translate literally, with the same ode
trans1at(Ki by Mr. Gladstone. There is none better for this pur-
pose than the ode "To his Lyre" (I. 32). Bulwer Lytton's
translation begins as follows :
" We are summoned. If e'er under ihadow seqaestered,
Jlaa sweet dalliance with thee in light moments of leisure
Given birth to a something which lives, and may, haply,
Live in years, later." sfq.
The same stanza is rendered by Mr. Gladstone:
" They call for thee. In sport, in shade,
Thou, {) my Lyre, some strains hast played,
Which yet may live. But now inspire
A patriot tire." seq.
While the lattor is not so literal as the former, it has far more
deftly caught the .spirit, the lilt of the original, and conveys to ub
Horace's poetry.
The book is a fine specimen of the bookmaker's art.
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