Part 7
Anita in _La Navarraise_ shares, along with Carmen and Santuzza, the honor of being one of the three rôles of her varied répertoire which Calvé was permitted to sing frequently in this country. It was not long ago that she appeared as Anita at the Manhattan Opera House, where she was succeeded in it by Mme. Gerville-Réache. The work is still in the répertoire of the Opéra-Comique (or was, before the war began).
Although Mary Garden has done more to establish Massenet’s reputation in this country than any other singer, and has sung many of his operas successfully in Europe, especially _Manon_ and _Thaïs_, Massenet wrote only one part especially for her, the title rôle of _Chérubin_. _Chérubin_ was produced at Monte Carlo, February 14, 1905. He is the same youngster immortalized by Beaumarchais and Mozart. He is but seventeen in the Frenchman’s opera, but his good looks and audacity make him a veritable Don Juan.
Schneider wrote of Mary Garden in the title part: “She is Chérubin himself, in flesh and bones; she was the joy and delight of the evening. By reason of her slenderness and agility, her easy and graceful manner, with her innocent airs of conquest and her naïve mien of vexation, she is truly the irresistible youth in whose presence all hearts surrender. And to think that M. de Croisset, only the day before, insisted that his Chérubin should not be played by a woman! His, perhaps, but not that of M. Massenet.”
It was Oscar Hammerstein’s idea that Mary Garden should perform another man’s part. Tired, it is said, of the continuous assertions to the effect that all his operas were written about women for women, Massenet wrote _Le Jongleur de Notre Dame_, in which the single female figure, that of the Virgin, does not sing a note. It is interesting to observe that this opera is dedicated to Mme. Massenet. It was produced February 18, 1902, at Monte Carlo. Paris heard it two years later. When Mr. Hammerstein decided to produce it in New York he asked Miss Garden if she would sing the part of the Juggler, hitherto in every instance sung by a man. She assented, and appeared in the rôle at the Manhattan, November 27, 1908. Her success in the rôle was immediate and continued.
Massenet, in the “Souvenirs,” speaks of the affair: “I was a little frightened, I admit, at the idea of the monk taking off his robes after the play to put on a smart gown from the Rue de la Paix. But before the triumph of the artist I bow and applaud.”
_Thaïs_ introduced Mary Garden to America, and it is in this rôle that she has achieved the greatest popular success of her career. She has sung it everywhere, from Paris to Brooklyn. She sang _Sapho_ three times in New York and _Grisélidis_ a few times.
“I sang the patient Griselda first at Aix-les-Bains,” she once told a reporter. “The King of Greece heard me, and said he didn’t think the part a suitable one for me. I wonder what he meant!”
Miss Garden has also sung Manon, and Prince Charmant in _Cendrillon_.
Massenet’s last inspiration was a contralto, Lucy Arbell, who fired his brain to many creations. She sang the rôle of Perséphone in _Ariane_. This goddess of the nether world appeared only in one act of this long opera, but into that act Massenet put the most popular air of the score, the air of the roses, “_Emmène ta sœur_.” After Ariane had been performed sixty times at the Paris Opéra, Massenet asked her how many times she had sung the part, thinking she would have forgotten.
“Sixty,” she answered.
“Wrong,” he replied, “for you have repeated the air of the roses every night. You have sung the part 120 times!”
The part of Dulcinée in _Don Quichotte_ was written for Lucy Arbell. She sang it both in Paris and Monte Carlo. It is said that before the first performance she spent considerable time learning to play the guitar, so that she could accompany her air in the fourth act herself. _Thérèse_, _Bacchus_ and _Roma_ all contain parts written with Lucy Arbell in mind. One cannot do better than close with the picture evoked by Massenet in describing the effect which the music of _Thérèse_ had on his interpreter when he first played it to her.
“At the first playing of the score to our _créatrice_, Lucy Arbell, artist that she was, stopped me as I was playing the final scene, where Thérèse, with a cry of fear, sees the terrible cart bearing her husband, André Thorel, to the scaffold, and screams, ‘_Vive le roi!_’ with all her force, so that she may be sure of joining her husband in his death. It was at this instant that our interpreter, greatly moved, stopped me and said, ‘I could never _sing_ that scene up to the end, because when I recognized my husband, who gave me his name, who saved Armand de Clerval, I should lose my voice. I ask you to let me _declaim_ the end of the piece.’ Great artists alone,” concludes Massenet, “have the gift of divining these instinctive movements.”
_October, 1912._
Stage Decoration as a Fine Art
Stage Decoration as a Fine Art
The question of the use of “scenery” on the stage is perpetually bobbing up, and as perpetually it remains an unsolved question. Specific instances of the dire harm that the decoration can do to a play may be observed in our theatres almost any week during the active season. To take an example, let us mention one of Mr. Sothern’s Shakespearean productions, which had already been cut to run within the time-limit, but which played from eight in the evening until midnight because the “elaborate” settings had to be changed frequently. The intermissions, as a result, occupied more of the spectators’ patience than the play. In another instance, a musical comedy went to pot on the first night because the stagehands could not handle the setting of the second act with enough expedition. As a result, they kept the curtain down for thirty minutes, a fatal length of time in a playhouse devoted to frivolity.
John Palmer, in that book, quotation from which is sheer delight, “The Future of the Theatre,” says that this is the age of the “naturalist” drama, and that as a result, when anyone tries to produce a “romantic” or “poetic” play, there is an attempt made to wrap up the shortcomings of the performance in elaborate upholstery.
“Why does the electrician or the costumier become so much more important in poetic than in naturalist drama? The electrician and costumier become more important as the author and actor become less competent of themselves to assert their intention. Naturalist authors and naturalist players are masters of their method. The poetic dramatists and players are not. Poetic drama has fallen upon evil times. The dramatist, being unequal to his burden, the artificers in light and hair and turpentine are invoked to help him sustain it. In the mid-twentieth-century outburst of poetic splendor, which will follow the foundation of our national theatre, it will soon be realized how the former degradation of the poetic drama was directly measured by the importance yielded thereby to the subordinate crafts. The quaint superstition of to-day that the limelight man is an important person in the raising of Cæsar’s ghost will disappear when poetic drama of the future is lifted to the level of the naturalist drama of to-day.
“Even to-day, when there comes an actor of genius who can present Shakespeare in the solid flesh, it is possible for the least reflective play-goer to realize how little it matters that the limelight is not of the latest and best quality, or that paint upon the scene is spread too thick. We have lately had opportunities, within a single year, of measuring Shakespeare as produced by Mr. Granville Barker against Shakespeare as acted by Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson. Compare for a moment Mr. Barker’s _Twelfth Night_ with Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson’s _Hamlet_. Mr. Barker’s _Twelfth Night_ had every advantage that a producer can bestow. Beautiful costumes against a decorative background, excellent music, an intelligent revival of the necessary apron, a very fair quality of acting, rising in a few instances to an extremely high level of accomplishment--all that the producer as fine-artist has been able to discover was tested and adapted for the occasion.
“‘Look here upon this picture, and on this.’
“Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson in his _Hamlet_ of 1913 seemed bent upon showing once for all that production matters not at all when great acting is toward. The Drury Lane _Hamlet_ of 1913 showed not only that the actor and his author require no artistic aid of theatrical haberdashers to make their effect, but also that the actor and his author, if they have as much genius between them as will cover a penny piece, can unite and play clean out of existence the ugliest daubs of the false cardboard naturalism of the late ‘nineties.’ In Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson’s _Hamlet_ was no borrowed grace of the producing fine-artist. Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson had not even the advantage of the poetic conventions to which his play was originally fitted. He made his dramatic appeal in spite of his conditions, rather than with their assistance. Yet everyone open to the appeal of Shakespeare had to declare that the total æsthetic effect of Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson’s _Hamlet_ infinitely outweighed the total æsthetic effect of Mr. Barker’s _Hamlet_.”
Now, this is the most specious kind of argument. Of course, genius, even unclothed genius, is at all times preferable to mediocrity decked in gauds, but genius properly caparisoned is only added to. If Forbes-Robertson’s interesting study of _Hamlet_ had been properly set, its effect would have been even more vivid.
Let us take, for instance, the case of the Russian dancers. Anna Pavlowa is generally regarded as the greatest of living women dancers. A similar place is assigned Waslav Nijinsky among the male dancers. And yet it cannot be said that Mlle. Pavlowa, with her mediocre (in most instances) scenic and choreographic accompaniments, makes the effect that Nijinsky does surrounded by the Bakst scenery and the elemental spontaneity of the superb Russian ballet. Mlle. Pavlowa’s genius creates the utmost enthusiasm; it awakens admiration on every hand; but it would be more compelling were it encased in the beauty which it suggests.
To take another example, let us regard the production of _Boris Godunow_ at the Metropolitan Opera House. Seldom, at this theatre, have more dramatic splendors been revealed than Adamo Didur showed us in the title part; and never has such adequate staging been seen there. The scenery and costumes, in fact, were all a part of the Russian equipment used in Paris a few seasons ago. Mme. Fremstad’s Brünnhilde in _Götterdämmerung_ is an even more indisputable proof of genius than Mr. Didur’s Boris (taking into account the Russian’s close following of his model, Feodor Chaliapine), but the setting of _Götterdämmerung_ at the Opera is so unimaginative, so unappealing, so unsuggestive, that one has to forget that before one can focus one’s attention on the compelling art of the singing actress.
Of late years the item of scenery has become more and more costly, more and more elaborate. What does it mean, after all, the kind of scenery we see? Who cares about the painted stumps of trees, the ridiculous apple blossoms and the pink drawing-rooms? A little simple staging would effect a much needed reform in the American Theatre, especially if it were coupled with a good play.
It is in Europe that attempts have been made at reform. Some of them have been successful. Gordon Craig has been accounted the inventor of many of the ideas that are prevalent at present, but like many other inventors, he neither had the practical ability, nor perhaps the desire, to put them into effect himself. Stanislawsky, Reinhardt, and even Bakst, have all learned something from him, and have turned his ideas to practical account.
At present Gordon Craig, ensconced in the Arena Goldoni in Florence, is said to be at the head of a great school which shall teach the art of the theatre. He is, to be sure, surrounded by a pack of boys with soulful eyes, who wear dirty-greens and call him “Master.” These he takes driving occasionally over the hills near Florence in no other vehicle than a coach and four. When this monumental anachronism passes through the Piazza Vittorio Emmanuele, or down the Via Tornabuoni with its crowd from _Patience_ seated aloft, the effect on the populace of Firenze La Bella can be only faintly imagined.
Occasionally someone tries to effect an entrance into the school over which this eccentric genius presides and for which he issues pronunciamentos and catalogues without number, to say nothing of advertisements, and articles in “The Mask,” and _affiches_ which are pasted on the high walls of the Italian and English towns. If the youth who is hardy enough to make the trial succeeds in reaching the great presence he may be deemed a lucky mortal. Mr. Craig observes each newcomer from carefully prepared peep-holes. One look convinces him whether the prospective student has talent for the arts or not; one look alone suffices. Once having made up his mind, nothing changes it.
Robert Jones tried to invade the domain of the Craig school last summer, but not once could he get near the Master; not once could he get any more information than that very vague sort which is included in the catalogue. Jones, sick of trying to get on in Florence, went to Germany and now is one of Reinhardt’s props and aids. (He has since done good work in New York.)
Another friend of mine who did not care to enter the school had more success. He attained the Craig presence.
“But how,” he asked, “do you intend to teach music without teachers?”
“Oh,” answered Mr. Craig quite simply, “we shall work away, driving nails into boards, or walking in the country, and when we feel like it we shall sing!”
And so the possessor of some of the best ideas that have come to the theatre in recent years ingeniously steps aside while others, with a view to their more practical use, apply them to their own purposes. (I need not refer to Adolphe Appia here. I leave his case for a separate discussion.)
In the first paragraph of this article I emphasized the practical value of simpler scenery for plays which require frequent or sudden changes; but, of course, the artistic side far outweighs that. The kind of scenery we see so much of in New York really deceives nobody. The moment a human being of three dimensions steps on the stage you have that human being posing against badly painted pictures. It is as if one should combine statuary and painting.
The intention in current stage decoration seems to be to intensify the lack of imagination on the part of the spectator. Each part of what is called the scenery of a play is so clearly defined that there is no opportunity for the communication of suggested feeling. The spectator sees at once that he is looking at an imitation of the place, scenery painted to look as much like the place as possible. As a consequence he has the feeling, after the first five minutes, if he has imagination, that he is not in the place at all. When the photographic accuracy wears away the lack of suggestion becomes appalling. The commonplace is scaled.
This is said, taking into account scenery which has scarcely any plastic features--such scenery, for instance, as is used to a great extent at the Metropolitan Opera House, where rocks and rills, woods, templed hills and marble halls are painted on flimsy drops. In palaces the architectural features are depicted in the same naïve way, using the word naïve in its worst sense. I believe that scenery like this is intended to represent the real thing just as much as a _papier-mâché_ mill which crushes the villain in a melodrama, and it succeeds just as much.
This art, I think, came from Italy. At least, most of the scenery that is painted in this fashion, or the inspiration for it, comes from there nowadays. May it not be possible that it is suggested to the scene-painter by the houses one sees in the small Italian towns, where windows with shutters often are painted on the façade? The fantasy of some of these windows is sublime. Occasionally, persons are painted looking out of them. Dogs sit on the sills; I have seen peacocks. In some instances the whole architecture is painted on the outside of the house--columns, balconies, and all. This is a familiar enough device in Italian churches, and I fancy many Catholic churches in America may show traces of the style.
Carl Hagemann of Germany tries to get away from this sort of thing, just as David Belasco has tried to in New York, by making his whole scene plastic, every object built separately inside of a sky drop which runs around from one proscenium arch to the other. If he uses a house or a tree or a bench, it is not painted on the drop. It is built. In the case of interiors his task is easier, of course.
This method of procedure has two distinct disadvantages. In the first place, it takes away all the charm of suggestion, which I think should play an important part in theatrical entertainment, and in the second place, it does away with the possibility of producing a play with more than one scene in each act, unless the producer happens to have a revolving stage in his theatre, an equipment, by the way, which every playhouse in New York should possess. Hagemann gave Goethe’s _Faust_, which has countless scenes, by means of a revolving stage. He has produced Shakespearean plays in this manner. Mr. Belasco has followed Hagemann’s method pretty closely in some of his recent productions. _The Auctioneer_ is a play, it seems to me, which needs this kind of scenery, if anything does. _A Good Little Devil_, on the other hand, would have benefited greatly by more imaginative treatment.
Gordon Craig, of course, would substitute suggestion for realism. He uses a combination of screens, occasional draperies, and little else, to gain his ends. The lighting is all from above; the natural lighting in this world. If your floors were made of glass under which were concealed hundreds of glaring electric lights, you would get the effect that footlights give on the stage.
It seems to me there are few romantic or poetic plays which would not be improved by Craig’s method of staging; and yet he has had little practical experience in putting on pieces. Sets of model scenes for _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ have been exhibited in London. I think Beerbohm Tree used adaptations of one of these at one time. Certainly Craig’s _Hamlet_ was seen at Stanislawsky’s Theatre in Moscow. It is highly probable that Isadora Duncan’s dancing background is a fancy of Gordon Craig’s. However, little of the practical work of this man has reached the public, except through his books, which are verbose and vague except in spots; and through his conversation, which is usually said to be unillumined even by flashes.
Craig worked at Moscow for a considerable time, however, and it is probable that from the point of view of staging, Stanislawsky now leads the world. He has adopted some of Craig’s ideas and fitted them to others until he has obtained a formula for staging every play from _Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme_ to _Hedda Gabler_. This theatre is the direct antithesis of the Opéra-Comique in Paris, which has obtained such a false reputation for good staging.
The Opéra-Comique clings stolidly to the Italian method of using flimsy drops, with every detail carefully painted thereon, combined with plastic objects, the whole painted in pastel or primary colors in a manner to suggest a St. Valentine’s gift of the 1850 period. The lighting is usually excellent. There are no innovations to be looked for at the Opéra-Comique at present, which holds as fast to its traditions as if the Russian Ballet had never been seen in Paris.
Max Reinhardt and Leon Bakst have utilized Craig’s ideas in a measure, but they have altered them to a degree where they have become unrecognizable. Reinhardt is known in New York by _Sumurun_, one of his slightest productions. Still, it gives a good idea of his impressionistic use of flat surfaces to create atmosphere and a colorful background to his picture.
Leon Bakst, who has designed many of the famous ballets which the Russians give in Paris and other Continental cities from time to time, proceeds on a more lavish scale. There are no plastic features in a scene by Bakst. Everything is painted on flat canvas, but the barbaric gorgeousness, the impressionistic and suggestive qualities, appeal to the eye as no attempted copy of a real scene could ever do. The number of colors he uses in one scene is almost countless, and yet the combination is always thrilling and effective.
Bakst is better known for his _Sheherazade_ than for any other of his ballets, but he also designed the scenery for _Carnaval_, _Thamar_, _Jeux_, _Daphnis et Chloë_, _Narcisse_, _l’Après-midi d’un Faune_, and _Le Spectre de la Rose_.
He has further utilized his supreme talent for decoration in staging the dramas in which that Russian mime, Ida Rubinstein, has appeared at the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris during recent seasons: Oscar Wilde’s _Salome_, Verhaeren’s _Hélène de Sparte_, and d’Annunzio’s _Le Martyre de Saint-Sébastien_ and _La Pisanelle, ou la Mort parfumée_.
It was in this last play, produced in Paris in the spring of 1913 for ten special performances, that Bakst expressed himself perhaps more personally than he had hitherto been able to do. Unlimited means were placed at his disposal. He had all the money he wanted and an exactitude in color, in scene and costume, was aimed at which required the dyeing and redyeing of many stuffs, and the searching through countless shops for others.
The scene in the port, with the ship of the blood-red sails painted against a sky of blood-red clouds, in front of which figures garbed in scarlet, vermillion, maroon, rose, mulberry, carnation, and other shades of this brilliant color carried on the drama, will not soon be forgotten by those who saw it. In the final scene Bakst combined black, white, green, orange, rose, and magenta in the most extraordinary manner. In this play, too, he utilized a series of curtains of different colors, according to the scene, which hung half the depth of the stage on either side. And back of the proscenium arch, also on either side, was builded a column of gold, each column divided into numberless small pillars, like the mass which supports the ribs of a vaulted roof of a great Gothic cathedral.
This season Bakst has staged two new ballets for the Russians, Richard Strauss’s _The Legend of Joseph_, in which Paolo Veronese is suggested in the superb Venetian robes, and _Papillons_, which calls into play the same qualities Bakst had already exhibited in his designs for _Carnaval_.