TheMerry-Go-Round

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_BOOKS BY__CARL VAN VECHTEN_

MUSIC AFTER THE GREAT WAR 1915

MUSIC AND BAD MANNERS 1916

INTERPRETERS AND INTERPRETATIONS 1917

THE MERRY-GO-ROUND 1918

THE MUSIC OF SPAIN 1918

TheMerry-Go-Round

_Carl Van Vechten_

_"Tournez, tournez, bons chevaux de bois, Tournez cent tours, tournez mille tours, Tournez souvent et tournez toujours, Tournez, tournez au sons de hautbois. "_ PAUL VERLAINE

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New York Alfred A. Knopf

MCMXVIII

COPYRIGHT, 1918, BYALFRED A. KNOPF, INC. 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Contents

 PAGE

IN DEFENCE OF BAD TASTE 11

MUSIC AND SUPERMUSIC 23

EDGAR SALTUS 37

THE NEW ART OF THE SINGER 93

_Au Bal Musette_ 125

MUSIC AND COOKING 149

AN INTERRUPTED CONVERSATION 179

THE AUTHORITATIVE WORK ON AMERICAN MUSIC 197

OLD DAYS AND NEW 215

TWO YOUNG AMERICAN PLAYWRIGHTS 227

_De Senectute Cantorum_ 245

IMPRESSIONS IN THE THEATRE

 I _The Land of Joy_ 281

 II A Note on Mimi Aguglia 298

 III The New Isadora 307

 IV Margaret Anglin Produces _As You Like It_ 318

THE MODERN COMPOSERS AT A GLANCE 329

FOOTNOTES 330

INDEX 331

 Some of these essays have appeared in "The Smart Set, " "Reedy's Mirror, " "Vanity Fair, " "The Chronicle, " "The Theatre, " "The Bellman, " "The Musical Quarterly, " "Rogue, " "The New York Press, " and "The New York Globe. " In their present form, however, they have undergone considerable redressing. 

In Defence of Bad Taste

 "_It is a painful thing, at best, to live up to one's bricabric, if one has any; but to live up to the bricabric of many lands and of many centuries is a strain which no wise man would dream of inflicting upon his constitution. _"

 Agnes Repplier. 

In Defence of Bad Taste

In America, where men are supposed to know nothing about matters oftaste and where women have their dresses planned for them, thehousehold decorator has become an important factor in domestic life. Out of an even hundred rich men how many can say that they have hadanything to do with the selection or arrangement of the furnishingsfor their homes? In theatre programs these matters are regulated anddue credit is given to the various firms who have supplied the myriadappeals to the eye; one knows who thought out the combinations ofshoes, hats, and parasols, and one knows where each separate articlewas purchased. Why could not some similar plan of appreciation befollowed in the houses of our very rich? Why not, for instance, a cardin the hall something like the following:

 _This house was furnished and decorated according to the taste of Marcel of the Dilly-Billy Shop_

or

 _We are living in the kind of house Miss Simone O'Kelly thought we should live in. The decorations are pure Louis XV and the furniture is authentic. _

It is not difficult, of course, to differentiate the personal from theimpersonal. Nothing clings so ill to the back as borrowed finery and Ihave yet to find the family which has settled itself fondly andcomfortably in chairs which were a part of some one else's aestheticplan. As a matter of fact many of our millionaires would be more athome in an atmosphere concocted from the ingredients of plain pinetables and blanket-covered mattresses than they are surrounded by thefrippery of China and the frivolity of France. If these gentlemen werefortunate enough to enjoy sufficient confidence in their own taste togive it a thorough test it is not safe to think of the extreme burdenthat would be put on the working capacity of the factories of theGrand Rapids furniture companies. We might find a few emancipatedsouls scouring the town for heavy refectory tables and divans intowhich one could sink, reclining or upright, with a perfect sense ofease, but these would be as rare as Steinway pianos in Coney Island. 

For Americans are meek in such matters. They credit themselves with notaste. They fear comparison. If the very much sought-after SimoneO'Kelly has decorated Mr. B. 's house Mr. M. Does not dare to strugglealong with merely his own ideas in furnishing his. He calls in anexpert who begins, rather inauspiciously, by painting the dining-roomsalmon pink. The tables and chairs will be made by somebody on TenthStreet, exact copies of a set to be found in the Musée Carnavalet. Thelegs under the table are awkwardly arranged for diners but they lookvery well when the table is unclothed. The decorator plans to hang Mr. M. 's personal bedroom in pale plum colour. Mr. M. Rebels at this. "Idetest, " he remarks mildly, "all variants of purple. " "Very well, "acquiesces the decorator, "we will make it green. " In the end Mr. M. 'sworst premonitions are realized: the walls are resplendent in astriking shade of magenta. Along the edge of each panel of Chinesebrocade a narrow band of absinthe velvet ribbon gives the necessarycontrast. The furniture is painted in dull ivory with touches of goldand beryl and the bed cover is peacock blue. Four round cushions of asimilar shade repose on the floor at the foot of the bed. The fatmanufacturer's wife as she enters this triumph of decoration whichmight satisfy Louise de la Vallière or please Doris Keane, is ananachronistic figure and she is aware of it. She prefers, on thewhole, the brass bedsteads of the summer hotels. Mr. M. Himself feelsridiculous. He never enters the room without a groan and a remark onthe order of "Good God, what a colour!" His personal taste finds itssupreme enjoyment in the Circassian walnut panelling, desk, and tablesof the directors' room in the Millionaire's Trust and Savings Bank. "Rich and tasteful": how many times he has used this phrase to expresshis approval! In the mid-Victorian red plush of his club, too, he iscomfortable. "Waiter, another whiskey and soda!"

Mildred is expected home after her first year in boarding school. Hermother wishes to environ her, so to speak. Mildred is delicate in hertastes, so delicate that she scarcely ever expresses herself. Her mindand body are pure; her heart beats faster when she learns of distress. Voluptuousness, Venus, and Vice are all merely words to her. Motherdoes not explain this to the decorator. "My daughter is returning fromschool, " she says, "I want her room done. " "What style of room?""After all you are supposed to know that. I am engaging you to arrangeit for me. " "Your daughter, I take it, is a modern girl?" "You mayassume as much. " In despair for a hint the decorator steals a look ata photograph of the miss, full-lipped, melting dark eyes, andblue-black hair. Sensing an houri he hangs the walls with a deep shadeof Persian orange, over which flit tropical birds of emerald andazure; strange pomegranates bleed their seeds at regular intervals. The couch is an adaptation, in colour, of the celebrated _Sumurun_bed. The dressing table and the _chaise-longue_ are of Chineselacquer. A heavy bronze incense burner pours forth fumes of Bichara's_Scheherazade_. From the window frames, stifling the light, dependflame-coloured brocaded curtains embroidered in Egyptian enamelledbeads. It is a triumph, this chamber, of _style Ballet Russe_. Dianais banished ... And shrinking Mildred, returning from school, findsher demure soul at variance with her surroundings. 

A man's house should be the expression of the man himself. All thebooks on the subject and even the household decorators themselves willtell you that. But, if the decoration of a house is to express itsowner, it is necessary that he himself inspire it, which implies, ofcourse, the possession of ideas, even though they be bad. And men inthese United States are not expected to display mental anguish orpleasure when confronted by colour combinations. In America one isconstantly hearing young ladies say, "He's a man and so, of course, knows nothing about colour, " or "Of course a man never looks atclothes. " It does not seem to be necessary to argue this point. Onehas only to remember that Veronese was a man; so was Velasquez. EvenPaul Poiret and Leon Bakst belong to the sex of Adam. Neverthelessmost Americans still consider it a little _efféminé_, a trifle_declassé_, for a business man (allowances are sometimes made forpoets, musicians, actors, and people who live in Greenwich Village), to make any references to colour or form. He may admire, with obviousemphasis on the women they lightly enclose, the costumes of the_Follies_ but he is not permitted to exhibit knowledge of materialsand any suddenly expressed desire on his part to rush into a shop andhug some bit of colour from the show window to his heart would beregarded as a symptom of madness. 

The audience which gives the final verdict on a farce makes allowancesfor the author; permits him the use of certain conventions. Forexample, he is given leave to introduce a hotel corridor into his lastact with seven doors opening on a common hallway so that hischaracters may conveniently and persistently enter the wrong rooms. It may be supposed that I ask for some such license from my audience. "How ridiculous, " you may be saying, "I know of interior decoratorswho spend weeks in reading out the secrets of their clients' souls inorder to provide their proper settings. " There doubtless are interiordecorators who succeed in giving a home the appearance of a well-kepthotel where guests may mingle comfortably and freely. I should notwish to deny this. But I do deny that soul-study is a requirement forthe profession. If a man (or a woman) has a soul it will not be adecorator who will discover its fitting housing. Others may object, "But bad taste is rampant. Surely it is better to be guided by someone who knows than to surround oneself with rocking chairs, plastercasts of the Winged Victory, and photographs of various madonnas. " Isay that it is _not_ better. It is better for each man to expresshimself, through his taste, as well as through his tongue or his pen, as he may. And it is only through such expression that he will finallyarrive (if he ever can) at a condition of household furnishing whichwill say something to his neighbour as well as to himself. It is apleasure when one leaves a dinner party to be able to observe "That is_his_ house, " just as it is a pleasure when one leaves a concert toremember that a composer has expressed himself and not the result ofseven years study in Berlin or Paris. 

But Americans have little aptitude for self-expression. They prefer tohuddle, like cattle, under unspeakable whips when matters of art areunder discussion. They fear ridicule. As a consequence many of therichest men in this country never really live in their own homes, never are comfortable for a moment, although the walls are hung doublewith Fragonards and hawthorne vases stand so deep upon the tables thatno space remains for the "Saturday Review" or "le Temps. " And theynever, never, never, will know the pleasure which comes whilestumbling down a side street in London, or in the mouldy corners ofthe Venetian ghetto, or in the Marché du Temple in Paris, or, heavenknows, in New York, on lower Fourth Avenue, or in Chinatown, or in aRussian brass shop on Allen Street, or in a big department store (asoften there as anywhere) in finding just the lamp for just the tablein just the corner, or in discovering a bit of brocade, perhaps theragged remnant of a waistcoat belonging to an aristocrat of theDirectorate, which will lighten the depths of a certain room, or achair which goes miraculously with a desk already possessed, or aChinese mirror which one had almost decided did not exist. Nor willthey ever experience the joy of sudden decision in front of a pictureby Matisse, which ends in the sale of a Delacroix. Nor can they feelthe thrill which is part of the replacing of a make-shift rug by _the_rug of rugs (let us hope it was Solomon's!). 

I know a lady in Paris whose salon presents a different aspect eachsummer. Do her Picassos go, a new Spanish painter has replaced them. Have you missed the Gibbons carving? Spanish church carving has takenits place. "And where are your Venetian embroideries?" "I sold them tothe Marquise de V.... The money served to buy these Persianminiatures. " This lady has travelled far. She is not experimenting indoubtful taste or bad art; she is not even experimenting in her owntaste: she is simply enjoying different epochs, different artists, different forms of art, each in its turn, for so long as it saysanything to her. Her house is not a museum. Space and comfort demandexclusion but she excludes nothing forever that she desires.... Sheexchanges. 

Taste at best is relative. It is an axiom that anybody else's tastecan never say anything to you although you may feel perfectly certainthat it is better than your own. If more of the money of the richwere spent in encouraging children to develop their own ideas infurnishing their own rooms it would serve a better purpose than itdoes now when it is dropped into the ample pockets of the professionaldecorators. Oscar Wilde wrote, "A colour sense is more important inthe development of the individual than a sense of right and wrong. "Any young boy or girl can learn something about such matters; most ofthem, if not shamed out of it, take a natural interest in theirsurroundings. You will see how true this is if you attempt torearrange a child's room. Those who have bad taste, relatively, shouldliterally be allowed to make their own beds. On the whole it ispreferable to be comfortable in red and green velvet upholstery thanto be beautiful and unhappy in a household decorator's gilded cage. 

 _September 3, 1915. _

Music and Supermusic

 "_To know whether you are enjoying a piece of music or not you must see whether you find yourself looking at the advertisements of Pears' soap at the end of the program. _"

 Samuel Butler. 

Music and Supermusic

What is the distinction in the mind of Everycritic between good musicand bad music, in the mind of Everyman between popular music and"classical" music? What is the essential difference between an air byMozart and an air by Jerome Kern? Why is Chopin's _G minor nocturne_better music than Thécla Badarzewska's _La Prière d'une Vierge_? Whyis a music drama by Richard Wagner preferable to a music drama byHoratio W. Parker? What makes a melody distinguished? What makes amelody commonplace or cheap? Why do some melodies ring in our earsgeneration after generation while others enjoy but a brief popularity?Why do certain composers, such as Raff and Mendelssohn, hailed asgeniuses while they were yet alive, soon sink into semi-obscurity, while others, such as Robert Franz and Moussorgsky, almostunrecognized by their contemporaries, grow in popularity? Are there noanswers to these conundrums and the thousand others that might beasked by a person with a slight attack of curiosity?... No one _does_ask and assuredly no one answers. These riddles, it would seem, areincluded among the forbidden mysteries of the sphynx. The criticsassert with authority and some show of erudition that the Spohrs, theMendelssohns, the Humperdincks, and the Montemezzis are greatcomposers. They usually admire the grandchildren of Old Lady Traditionbut they neglect to justify this partiality. Nor can we trust thepublic with its favourite Piccinnis and Puccinis.... What then is thetest of supermusic?

For we know, as well as we can know anything, that there is music andsupermusic. Rubinstein wrote music; Beethoven wrote supermusic (Mr. Finck may contradict this statement). Bellini wrote operas; Mozartwrote superoperas. Jensen wrote songs; Schubert wrote supersongs. Thesuperiority of _Voi che sapete_ as a vocal melody over _Ah! nongiunge_ is not generally contested; neither can we hesitate very longover the question whether or not _Der Leiermann_ is a better song than_Lehn' deine Wang'_. Probably even Mr. Finck will admit that the_Sonata Appassionata_ is finer music than the most familiar portrait(I think it is No. 22) in the _Kamennoi-Ostrow_ set. But, if we agreeto put Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, Schubert, and a few others onmarmorean pedestals in a special Hall of Fame (and this is acompromise on my part, at any rate, as I consider much of the musicwritten by even these men to be below any moderately high standard), what about the rest? Mr. Finck prefers Johann Strauss to Brahms, naymore to Richard himself! He has written a whole book for no otherreason, it would seem, than to prove that the author of _Tod undVerklärung_ is a very much over-rated individual. At times sittingdespondently in Carnegie Hall, I am secretly inclined to agree withhim. Personally I can say that I prefer Irving Berlin's music to thatof Edward MacDowell and I would like to have some one prove to me thatthis position is untenable. 

What is the test of supermusic? I have read that fashionable music, music composed in a style welcomed and appreciated by its contemporaryhearers is seldom supermusic. Yet Handel wrote fashionable music, andso much other of the music of that epoch is Handelian that it is oftendifficult to be sure where George Frederick left off and somebody elsebegan. Bellini wrote fashionable music and _Norma_ and _La Sonnambula_sound a trifle faded although they are still occasionally performed, but Rossini, whose only desire was to please his public, (Liszt onceobserved "Rossini and Co. Always close with 'I remain your veryhumble servant'"), wrote melodies in _Il Barbiere di Siviglia_ whichsound as fresh to us today as they did when they were first composed. And when this prodigiously gifted musician-cook turned his back to thepublic to write _Guillaume Tell_ he penned a work which critics haveconsistently told us is a masterpiece, but which is as seldomperformed today as any opera of the early Nineteenth Century whichoccasionally gains a hearing at all. Therefor we must be wary of theold men who tell us that we shall soon tire of the music of Puccinibecause it is fashionable. 

Popularity is scarcely a test. I have mentioned Mendelssohn. Never wasthere a more popular composer, and yet aside from the violin concertowhat work of his has maintained its place in the concert repertory?Yet Chopin, whose name is seldom absent from the program of a pianist, was a god in his own time and the most brilliant woman of his epochfell in love with him, as Philip Moeller has recently reminded us inhis very amusing play. On the other hand there is the case of RobertFranz whose songs never achieved real popularity during his lifetime, but which are frequently, almost invariably indeed, to be found onsong recital programs today and which are more and more appreciated. The critics are praising him, the public likes him: they buy hissongs. And there is also the case of Max Reger who was not popular, isnot popular, and never will be popular. 

Can we judge music by academic standards? Certainly not. Even thehoary old academicians themselves can answer this question correctlyif you put it in relation to any composer born before 1820. Thegreatest composers have seldom respected the rules. Beethoven in hislast sonatas and string quartets slapped all the pedants in the ears;yet I believe you will find astonishingly few rules broken by Mozart, one of the gods in the mythology of art music, and Berlioz, who brokeall the rules, is more interesting to us today as a writer of prosethan as a writer of music. 

Is simple music supermusic? Certainly not invariably. _Vedrai Carino_is a simple tune, almost as simple as a folk-song and we set greatstore by it; yet Michael William Balfe wrote twenty-seven operasfilled with similarly simple tunes and in a selective draft ofcomposers his number would probably be 9, 768. The _Ave Maria_ ofSchubert is a simple tune; so is the _Meditation_ from _Thais_. Why dowe say that one is better than the other. 

Or is supermusic always grand, sad, noble, or emotional? There must beanother violent head shaking here. The air from _Oberon, Ocean, thoumighty monster_, is so grand that scarcely a singer can be found todaycapable of interpreting it, although many sopranos puff and steamthrough it, for all the world like pinguid gentlemen climbing thestairs to the towers of Notre Dame. The _Fifth Symphony_ of Beethovenis both grand and noble; probably no one will be found who will denythat it is supermusic, but Mahler's _Symphony of the Thousand_ islikewise grand and noble, and futile and bombastic to boot. _Or saichi l'onore_ is a grand air, but _Robert je t'aime_ is equally grandin intention, at least. _Der Tod und das Mädchen_ is sad; so is _LesLarmes_ in _Werther_.... But a very great deal of supermusic isneither grand nor sad. Haydn's symphonies are usually as light-heartedand as light-waisted as possible. Mozart's _Figaro_ scarcely seems tohave a care. Listen to Beethoven's _Fourth_ and _Eighth Symphonies_, _Il Barbiere_ again, _Die Meistersinger_.... But do not be misled:Massenet's _Don Quichotte_ is light music; so is Mascagni's_Lodoletta_.... 

Is music to be prized and taken to our hearts because it iscontrapuntal and complex? We frequently hear it urged that Bach (whowas more or less forgotten for a hundred years, by the way) was thegreatest of composers and his music is especially intricate. He is theone composer, indeed, who can _never_ be played with one finger! Butpoor unimportant forgotten Max Reger also wrote in the mostcomplicated forms; the great Gluck in the simplest. Gluck, indeed, haseven been considered weak in counterpoint and fugue. Meyerbeer, it issaid, was also weak in counterpoint and fugue. Is he therefor to beregarded as the peer of Gluck? Is Mozart's _G minor Symphony_ moreimportant (because it is more complicated) than the same composer's, _Batti, Batti_?

We learn from some sources that music stands or falls by its melodybut what is good melody? According to his contemporaries Wagner'smusic dramas were lacking in melody. _Sweet Marie_ is certainly amelody; why is it not as good a melody as _The Old Folks at Home_? Whyis Musetta's waltz more popular than Gretel's? It is no better asmelody. As a matter of fact there is, has been, and for ever will bewar over this question of melody, because the point of view on thesubject is continually changing. As Cyril Scott puts it in his book, "The Philosophy of Modernism": "at one time it (melody) extended overa few bars and then came to a close, being, as it were, a kind ofsentence, which, after running for the moment, arrived at a full stop, or semicolon. Take this and compare it with the modern tendency: forthat modern tendency is to argue that a melody might go onindefinitely almost; there is no reason why it should come to a fullstop, for it is not a sentence, but more a line, which, like therambling incurvations of a frieze, requires no rule to stop it, butalone the will and taste of its engenderer. "

Or is harmonization the important factor? Folk-songs are notharmonized at all, and yet certain musicians, Cecil Sharp for example, devote their lives to collecting them, while others, like PercyGrainger, base their compositions on them. On the other hand suchmusic as Debussy's _Iberia_ depends for its very existence on itsbeautiful harmonies. The harmonies of Gluck are extremely simple, those of Richard Strauss extremely complex. 

H. T. Finck says somewhere that one of the greatest charms of music ismodulation but the old church composers who wrote in the "modes" nevermodulated at all. Erik Satie seldom avails himself of this moderndevice. It is a question whether Leo Ornstein modulates. If we maytake him at his word Arnold Schoenberg has a system of modulation. Atleast it is his very own. 

Are long compositions better than short ones? This may seem a sillyquestion but I have read criticisms based on a theory that they were. Listen, for example, to de Quincy: "A song, an air, a tune, --that is, a short succession of notes revolving rapidly upon itself, --how couldthat by possibility offer a field of compass sufficient for thedevelopment of great musical effects? The preparation pregnant withthe future, the remote correspondence, the questions, as it were, which to a deep musical sense are asked in one passage, and answeredin another; the iteration and ingemination of a given effect, movingthrough subtile variations that sometimes disguise the theme, sometimes fitfully reveal it, sometimes throw it out tumultuously tothe daylight, --these and ten thousand forms of self-conflictingmusical passion--what room could they find, what opening, forutterance, in so limited a field as an air or song?" After thisbroadside permit me to quote a verse of Gérard de Nerval:

 _"Il est un air pour qui je donnerais Tout Rossini, tout Mozart, et tout Weber, Un air très-vieux, languissant et funèbre, Qui pour moi seul a des charmes secrets. "_

And now let us dispassionately, if possible, regard the evidence. Richard Strauss's _Alpine Symphony_, admittedly one of his weakestworks and considered very tiresome even by ardent Straussians, playsfor nearly an hour while any one can sing _Der Erlkönig_ in threeminutes. Are short compositions better than long ones? Answer: _Loveme and the World is Mine_ is a short song (although it seldom soundsso) while Schubert's _C major Symphony_ is called the "symphony ofheavenly length. "

Is what is new better than what is old? Is what is old better thanwhat is new? Schoenberg is new; is he therefor to be considered betterthan Beethoven? Stravinsky is new; is he therefor to be consideredworse than Liszt?

Is an opera better than a song? Compare _Pagliacci_ and Strauss's_Ständchen_. Is a string quartet better than a piece for the piano?But I grow weary.... Under the circumstances it would seem that if youhave any strong opinions about music you are perfectly entitled tothem, for the critics do not agree and you will find many of thembasing their criticism on some of the various hypotheses I haveadvanced. H. T. Finck tells us that the sonata form is illogical, forgetting perhaps that once it served its purpose; Jean Marnolddubbed _Armide_ an _oeuvre bâtarde_; John F. Runciman called_Parsifal_ "decrepit stuff, " while Ernest Newman assures us that itis "marvellous"; Pierre Lalo and Philip Hale disagree on the subjectof Debussy's _La Mer_ while W. J. Henderson and James Huneker wrangleover Richard Strauss's _Don Quixote_. 

The clue to the whole matter lies in a short phrase: Imitative work isalways bad. Music that tries to be something that something else hasbeen may be thrown aside as worthless. It will not endure although itmay sometimes please the zanies and jackoclocks of a generation. Thecritic, therefor, who comes nearest to the heart of the matter, is hewho, either through instinct or familiarity with the various phenomenaof music, is able to judge of a work's originality. There must beindividuality in new music to make it worthy of our attention, andthat, after all is all that matters. For the tiniest folk-song oftenpersists in the hearts and minds of the people, often stirs the pulseof a musician, pursuing its tuneful way through two centuries, while amighty thundering symphony of the same period may lie dead androtting, food for the Niptus Hololencus and the Blatta Germanica. Westill sing _The Old Folks At Home_ and _Le Cycle du Vin_ but we havelaid aside _Di Tanti Palpiti_. Any piece of music possessing thecertain magic power of individuality is of value, it matters notwhether it be symphony or song, opera or dance. What most criticshave forgotten is that in Music matter, form, and idea are one. Inpainting, in poetry the idea, the words, the form, may be separated;each may play its part, but in music there is no idea without form, noform without idea. That is what makes musical criticism difficult. 

 _January 24, 1918. _

Edgar Saltus

 _"O no, we never mention him, His name is never heard!"_

 Old Ballad. 

Edgar Saltus

To write about Edgar Saltus should be _vieux jeu_. The man is anAmerican; he was born in 1858; he accomplished some of his best workin the Eighties and the Nineties, in the days when mutton-leggedsleeves, whatnots, Rogers groups, cat-tails, peacock feathers, Japanese fans, musk-mellon seed collars, and big-wheeled bicycles werein vogue. He has written history, fiction, poetry, literary criticism, and philosophy, and to all these forms he has brought sympathy, erudition, a fresh point of view, and a radiant style. He hasimagination and he understands the gentle art of arranging facts inkaleidoscopic patterns so that they may attract and not repel thereader. America, indeed, has not produced a round dozen authors whoequal him as a brilliant stylist with a great deal to say. And yetthis man, who wrote some of his best books in the Eighties and who isstill alive, has been allowed to drift into comparative oblivion. Evenhis early reviewers shoved him impatiently aside or ignored himaltogether; a writer in "Belford's Magazine" for July, 1888, says:"Edgar Saltus should have his name changed to Edgar Assaulted. " Soonhe became a literary leper. The doctors and professors would have noneof him. To most of them, nowadays, I suppose, he is only a name. Manyof them have never read any of his books. I do not even remember tohave seen him mentioned in the works of James Huneker and you will notfind his name in Barrett Wendell's "A History of American Literature"(1901), "A Reader's History of American Literature" by ThomasWentworth Higginson and Henry Walcott Boynton (1903), Katherine LeeBates's "American Literature" (1898), "A Manual of AmericanLiterature, " edited by Theodore Stanton (1909), William B. Cairns's "AHistory of American Literature" (1912), William Edward Simonds's "AStudent's History of American Literature" (1909), Fred Lewis Pattee's"A History of American Literature Since 1870" (1915), John Macy's "TheSpirit of American Literature" (1913), or William Lyon Phelps's "TheAdvance of the English Novel" (1916). The third volume of "TheCambridge History of American Literature, " bringing the subject up to1900, has not yet appeared but I should be amazed to discover that theeditors had decided to include Saltus therein. Curiously enough he ismentioned in Oscar Fay Adams's "A Dictionary of American Authors"(1901 edition) and, of all places, I have found a reference to him inone of Agnes Repplier's books. 

You will find few essays about the man or his work in current oranterior periodicals. There is, to be sure, the article by RamsayColles, entitled "A Publicist: Edgar Saltus, " published in the"Westminster Magazine" for October, 1904, but this essay could havewon our author no adherents. If any one had the courage to wadethrough its muddy paragraphs he doubtless emerged vowing never to readSaltus. Besides only the novels are touched on. In 1903 G. F. Monkshood and George Gamble arranged a compilation from Saltus's workwhich they entitled "Wit and Wisdom from Edgar Saltus" (Greening andCo. , London). The work is done without sense or sensitiveness and theprefatory essay is without salt or flavour of any sort. An anonymouswriter in "Current Literature" for July, 1907, asks plaintively whythis author has been permitted to remain in obscurity and quotes fromsome of the reviews. In "The Philistine" for October, 1907, ElbertHubbard takes a hand in the game. He says, "Edgar Saltus is the bestwriter in America--with a few insignificant exceptions, " but hedeplores the fact that Saltus knows nothing about the cows andchickens; only cities and gods seem to interest him. Still there issome atmosphere in this study, which is devoted to one book, "TheLords of the Ghostland. " In the New York Public Library four ofSaltus's books and one of his translations (about one-sixth of hispublished work) are listed. You may also find there in a series ofvolumes entitled "Nations of the World" his supplementary chaptersbringing the books up to date. That is all. 

All these years, of course, Saltus has had his admiring circle, [1]people of intelligence, of whom, unfortunately, I cannot say that Iwas one. These, who have been content to read and admire withoutspreading the news, may well be inclined to regard my performance asrepetitive and impertinent. Of these I must crave indulgence and ofSaltus himself too. For he, knowing how well he has done his work, must sit like Buddha, ironic and indulgent, smiling on the poorbenighted who have yet to approach his altars. Once, at least, hespoke: "A book that pleases no one may be poor. The book that pleasesevery one is detestable. "

I seem to remember to have heard his name all my life, but untilrecently I have not read one line concerning or by him. I find that myfriends, many of whom are extensive readers, are in the same sad stateof ignorance. There is an exception and that exception is responsiblefor my conversion. For six years, no less, Edna Kenton has been urgingme to read Edgar Saltus. She has been gently insinuating but firm. None of us can struggle forever against fate or a determined woman. Inthe end I capitulated, purchased a book by Edgar Saltus at random, andread it ... At one sitting. I sought for more. As most of his booksare out of print and as the list in the Public Library conspicuouslyomits all but one of his best _opera_ the matter presenteddifficulties. However, a little diligent search in the old book shopsaccomplished wonders. In less than two weeks I had dug up twenty-twotitles and in less than two weeks I had read twenty-four; since then Ihave consumed the other four. There are few writers in American or anyother literature who can survive such a test; there are few writerswho have given me such keen pleasure. 

The events of his life, mostly remain shrouded in mystery. His comingsand goings are not reported in the newspapers; he does not makepublic speeches; and his name is seldom, if ever, mentioned "amongthose present. " That he has been married and has one daughter "Who'sWho" proclaims, together with the few biographical details mentionedbelow. That is all. May we not herein find some small explanation forhis apparent neglect? Many thousands of lesser men have liftedthemselves to "literary" prominence by blowing their own tubas andstriking their own crotals. Even in the case of a man of such manifestgenius as George Bernard Shaw we may be permitted to doubt if he wouldbe so well known, had he not taken the trouble to erect monuments tohimself on every possible occasion in every possible location. Fame isa quaint old-fashioned body, who loves to be pursued. She seldom, ifever, runs after anybody except in her well-known rôle of necrophile. 

Edgar Evertson Saltus was born in New York City June 8, 1858. He is alineal descendant of Admiral Kornelis Evertson, the commander of theDutch fleet, who captured New York from the English, August 9, 1673. Francis Saltus, the poet, was his brother. He enjoyed a cosmopolitaneducation which may be regarded as an important factor in thedevelopment of his tastes and ideas. From St. Paul's School in Concordhe migrated to the Sorbonne in Paris, and thence to Heidelberg andMunich, where he bathed in the newer Germanic philosophies. Finally hetook a course of law at Columbia University. The influence of thissomewhat heterogeneous seminary life is manifest in all his futurewriting. Beginning, no doubt, as a disciple of Emerson in New England, he fell under the spell of Balzac in Paris, of Schopenhauer and vonHartmann in Germany. Pages might be brought forward as evidence thathe had a thorough classical education. His knowledge of languages madeit easy for him to drink deeply at many fountain heads. If Oscar Wildefound his chief inspiration in Huysmans's "A Rebours, " it is certainthat Saltus also quaffed intoxicating draughts at this source. Indeedin one of his books he refers to Huysmans as his friend. It is furtherapparent that he is acquainted with the works of Barbey d'Aurevilly, Josephin Péladan, [2] Baudelaire, Mallarmé, Verlaine, Arthur Rimbaud, Catulle Mendès, and Jules Laforgue, especially the Laforgue of the"Moralités Legendaires. " His kinship with these writers is near, butthrough this mixed blood run strains inherited from the early pagans, the mediaeval monks, the Germanic philosophers, and London of theEighteen Nineties (although there is not one word about Saltus inHolbrook Jackson's book of the period), and perhaps, after all, hisnearest literary relative was an American, Edgar Allan Poe, whobequeathed to him a garret full of strange odds and ends. But Saltussurpasses Poe in almost every respect save as a poet. 

Joseph Hergesheimer has expressed a theory to the effect that greatart is always provincial, never cosmopolitan; that only provincial artis universal in its appeal. Like every other theory this one is to alarge extent true, but Hergesheimer in his arbitrary summing up, hasforgotten the fantastic. The fantastic in literature, in art of anykind, can never be provincial. The work of Poe is not provincial; noris that of Gustave Moreau, an artist with whom Edgar Saltus can veryreadily be compared. If you have visited the Musée Moreau in Pariswhere, in the studio of the dead painter, is gathered together themost complete collection of his works, which lend themselves toendless inspection, you can, in a sense, reconstruct for yourself anidea of the works of Edgar Saltus. One finds therein the sameunicorns, the same fabulous monsters, the same virgins on the rocks, the same exotic and undreamed of flora and fauna, the same mysticpaganism, the same exquisitely jewelled workmanship. One can findfurther analogies in the Aubrey Beardsley of "Under the Hill, " in theelaborate stylized irony of Max Beerbohm. Surely not provincialsthese, but just as surely artists. 

Moreover Saltus's style may be said to possess Americancharacteristics. It is dashing and rapid, and as clear as the water inSouthern seas. The man has a penchant for short and nervous sentences, but they are never jerky. They explode like so many firecrackers andremind one of the great national holiday!... Nevertheless Edgar Saltusshould have been born in France. 

His essays, whether they deal with literary criticism, history, religion (which is almost an obsession with this writer), devil-worship, or cooking, are pervaded by that rare quality, charm. Somewhere he quotes a French aphorism:

 _"Etre riche n'est pas l'affaire, Toute l'affaire est de charmer, "_

which might be applied to his own work. There is a deep and beneficentguile in the simplicity of his style, as limpid as a brook, and yet, as over a brook, in its overtones hover a myriad of sparklingdragon-flies and butterflies; in its depths lie a plethora of trout. He deals with the most obstruse and abstract subjects with such easeand grace, without for one moment laying aside the badge of authority, that they assume a mysterious fascination to catch the eye of thepasserby. In his fictions he has sometimes cultivated a more hecticstyle, but that in itself constitutes one of the bases of itsrichness. Scarcely a word but evokes an image, a strange, bizarreimage, often a complication of images. He is never afraid of thecolloquial, never afraid of slang even, and he often weaves lovelypatterns with obsolete or technical words. These lines, in whichSaltus paid tribute to Gautier, he might, with equal justice, haveapplied to himself: "No one could torment a fancy more delicately thanhe; he had the gift of adjective; he scented a new one afar like atruffle; and from the Morgue of the dictionary he dragged forgottenbeauties. He dowered the language of his day with every tint of dawnand every convulsion of sunset; he invented metaphors that were wortha king's ransom, and figures of speech that deserve the Prix Montyon. Then reviewing his work, he formulated an axiom which will go downwith a nimbus through time: Whomsoever a thought however complex, avision however apocalyptic, surprises without words to convey it, isnot a writer. The inexpressible does not exist. " It is impossible totaste at this man's table. One must eat the whole dinner to appreciateits opulent inevitability. Still I may offer a few olives, a branch ortwo of succulent celery to those who have not as yet been invited tosit down. One of his ladies walks the Avenue in a gown the "color offried smelts. " Such figurative phrases as "Her eyes were of thatgreen-grey which is caught in an icicle held over grass, " "The sand isas fine as face powder, _nuance_ Rachel, packed hard, " "Death, it maybe, is not merely a law but a place, perhaps a garage which thetraveller reaches on a demolished motor, but whence none can proceeduntil all old scores are paid, " "The ocean resembled nothing so muchas an immense blue syrup, " "She was a pale freckled girl, with hairthe shade of Bavarian beer, " "The sun rose from the ocean like anindolent girl from her bath, " "Night, that queen who reigns only whenshe falls, shook out the shroud she wears for gown, " are to be foundon every page. Certain phrases sound good to him and are re-used:"Disappearances are deceptive, " "ruedelapaixian" (to describe adress), "toilet of the ring" (lifted from the bull-fight in "Mr. Incoul's Misadventure" to do service in an account of the arena gamesunder Nero in "Imperial Purple"), but repetition of this kind isinfrequent in his works and seemingly unnecessary. Ideas and phrases, endless chains of them, spurt from the point of his ardent pen. Standing on his magic carpet he shakes new sins out of his sleeve as aconjurer shakes out white rabbits and juggles words with an exquisitedexterity. He is, indeed, the _jongleur de notre âme_!

From the beginning, his style has attracted the attention of the fewand no one, I am sure, has ever written a three line review of a bookby Saltus without referring to it. Mme. Amélie Rives has quoted OscarWilde as saying to her one night at dinner, "In Edgar Saltus's workpassion struggles with grammar on every page!" Percival Pollard hasdubbed him a "prose paranoiac, " and Elbert Hubbard says, "He writes sowell that he grows enamoured of his own style and is subdued like thedyer's hand; he becomes intoxicated on the lure of lines and the rollof phrases. He is woozy on words--locoed by syntax and prosody. Thelibation he pours is flavoured with euphues. It is all like a cherryin a morning Martini. " A phrase which Remy de Gourmont uses todescribe Villiers de l'Isle Adam might be applied with equal successto the author of "The Lords of the Ghostland": "_L'idéalisme deVilliers était un véritable idéalisme verbal, c'est-à-dire qu'ilcroyait vraiment à la puissance évocatrice des mots, à leur vertumagique. _" And we may listen to Saltus's own testimony in the matter:"It may be noted that in literature only three things count, style, style polished, style repolished; these imagination and the art oftransition aid, but do not enhance. As for style, it may be defined asthe sorcery of syllables, the fall of sentences, the use of the exactterm, the pursuit of a repetition even unto the thirtieth and fortiethline. Grammar is an adjunct but not an obligation. No grammarian everwrote a thing that was fit to read. "

At his worst--and his worst can be monstrous!--garbed fantastically inpurple patches and gaudy rags, he wallows in muddy puddles of Burgundyand gold dust; even then he is unflagging and holds the attention in avise. His women have eyes which are purple pools, their hair is bittenby combs, their lips are scarlet threads. Even the names of hischaracters, Roanoke Raritan, Ruis Ixar, Tancred Ennever, ErastusVarick, Gulian Verplank, Melancthon Orr, Justine Dunnellen, RolandMistrial, Giselle Oppensheim, Yoda Jones, Stella Sixmuth, VioletSilverstairs, Sallie Malakoff, Shane Wyvell, Dugald Maule, EdenMenemon (it will be observed that he has a persistent, balefullyprocacious, perhaps, indeed, Freudian predilection for the letters U, V, and X), [3] are fantastic and fabulous ... Sometimes almostfrivolous. And here we may find our paradox. His sense of humour isabnormal, sometimes expressed directly by way of epigram or slywording but may it not also occasionally express itself indirectly inthese purple towers of painted velvet words, extravagant fables, andunbelievable characters he is so fond of erecting? Some of his workalmost approaches the burlesque in form. He carries his manner to apoint where he seems to laugh at it himself, and then, with a touch ofpoignant realism or a poetic phrase, he confounds the reader'sjudgment. The virtuosity of the performance is breath-taking!

He is always the snob (somewhere he defends the snob in an essay):rich food ("half-mourning" [artichoke hearts and truffles], "filet ofreindeer, " a cygnet in its plumage bearing an orchid in its beak, "heron's eggs whipped with wine into an amber foam, " "mashedgrasshoppers baked in saffron"), rich clothes, rich people interesthim. There is no poverty in his books. His creatures do not toil. Theycut coupons off bonds. Sometimes they write or paint, but for the mostpart they are free to devote themselves exclusively to the pursuit ofemotional experience, eating, reading, and travelling the while. Andwhen they have finished dining they wipe their hands, wetted in agolden bowl, in the curly hair of a tiny serving boy. A character in"Madam Sapphira" explains this tendency: "A writer, if he happens tobe worth his syndicate, never chooses a subject. The subject chooseshim. He writes what he must, not what he might. That's the thing thepublic can't understand. "

There is always a preoccupation with ancient life, sometimes freelyexpressed as in "Imperial Purple, " but more often suggested by plot, phrase, or scene. He kills more people than Caligula killed during thewhole course of his bloody reign. Murders, suicides, and other formsof sudden death flash their sensations across his pages. Webster andthe other Elizabethans never steeped themselves so completely in gore. In almost every book there is an orgy of death and he has beeningenious in varying its forms. The poisons of rafflesia, muscarine, and orsere are introduced in his fictions; somewhere he devotes anessay to toxicology. Daggers with blades like needles, pistols, drownings, asphyxiations, play their rôles ... And in one book thereis a crucifixion!

Again I find that Mr. Saltus has said his word on the subject: "Infiction as in history it is the shudder that tells. Hugo could find nohigher compliment for Baudelaire than to announce that the latter haddiscovered a new one. For new shudders are as rare as new vices;antiquity has made them all seem trite. The apt commingling of thehorrible and the trivial, pathos and ferocity, is yet the one secretof enduring work--a secret, parenthetically, which Hugo knew as no oneelse. "

His fables depend in most instances upon sexual abberrations, curiouscoincidences, fantastic happenings. Rapes and incests decorate hispages. He does not ask us to believe his monstrous stories; he compelsus to. He carries us by means of the careless expenditure of manypassages of somewhat ribald beauty, along with him, captive to hispervasive charm. We are constantly reminded, in endless, almostwearisome, imagery, of gold and purple, foreign languages, esotericphilosophies, foods the names of which strike the ear as graciouslyas they themselves might strike the tongue. From Huysmans he haslearned the formula for ravishing all our senses. Words are often usedfor their own sakes to call up images, colour flits across every page, across, indeed, every line. We taste, we smell, we see. There is thepomp and circumstance of the Roman Catholic ritual in these pages, theRoman Catholic ritual well supplied with mythical monsters, singingflowers, and blooming women. Strange scarlet and mulberry threads formthe woof of these tapestries, threads pulled with great labour fromall the art of the past. There is, in much of his work, anundercurrent of subtle sensuous erotic poison; in one of her storiesEdna Kenton tells us that _chartreuse jaune_ and bananas form such apoison. There is a suggestion of _chartreuse jaune_ and bananas inmuch of the work of Edgar Saltus. 

He is constantly obsessed by the mysteries of love and death, theveils of Isis, the secrets of Moses. While others were delving in theAmerican soil his soul sped afar; he is not even a cosmopolitan; he isa Greek, a Brahmin, a worshipper of Ishtar. There is a prodigious andprodigal display of genius in his work, savannahs of epigrams, forestsof ideas, phrases enough to fill the ocean. [4] There is enoughmaterial in the romances of Edgar Saltus to furnish all the cinemacompanies in America with scenarios for a twelve-month. 

Early in the Eighties a writer in "The Argus" referred to him as "theprose laureate of pessimism. " His philosophy may be summed up in a fewphrases: Nothing matters, Whatever will be is, Everything is possible, and Since we live today let us make the best of it and live in Paris. And through all the _opera_ of Saltus, through the rapes and murders, the religious, philosophical, and social discussions, ringsCherubino's still unanswered question, _Che cosa e amor?_ like apersistent refrain. 

After having said so much it seems unnecessary to add that I stronglyadvise the reader to go out and buy all the books of Edgar Saltus hecan find (and to find many will require patience and dexterity, asmost of them are out of print). To further aid him in the matter Ihave prepared a short catalogue and with his permission I will guidehim gently through this new land. I have also added a list ofpublishers, together with the dates of publication, although I cannot, in some instances, vouch for their having been the original imprints. It may be noted that almost all his books have been reprinted inEngland. [5]

"Balzac, "[6] signed Edgar Evertson Saltus (for a time he used his fullname) is such good literary criticism and such good personal biographythat one wishes the author had tried the form again. He did not savein his prefaces to his translations, his essay on Victor Hugo, and hisshort study of Oscar Wilde. In its miniature way, for the book isslight, "Balzac" is as good of its kind as James Huneker's "Chopin, "Auguste Ehrhard's "Fanny Elssler, " and Frank Harris's "Oscar Wilde. "In style it is superior to any of these. It is a very prettyperformance for a début and if it is out of print, as I think it is, some enterprising publisher should serve it to the public in a newedition. The two most interesting chapters, largely anecdotal butcontinuously illuminating, are entitled "The Vagaries of Genius, "wherein one may find an infinitude of details concerning the mannerin which Balzac worked, and "The Chase for Gold, " but tucked insomewhere else is a charming digression about realism in fiction andthe bibliography should still be of use to students. Saltus tells usthat Balzac took all his characters' names from life, frequently fromsigns which he observed on the street. In this respect Saltuscertainly has not followed him; in another he has been more imitative:I refer to the Balzacian trick of carrying people from one book toanother. 

"The Philosophy of Disenchantment"[7] is an ingratiating account ofthe pessimism of Schopenhauer, a philosophy with which it would seem, Saltus is fully in accord. Two-thirds of the book is allotted toSchopenhauer, but the remainder is devoted to an exposition of theteachings of von Hartmann and a final essay, "Is Life an Affliction?"which query the author seems to answer in the affirmative. One of thebest-known of the Saltus books, "The Philosophy of Disenchantment" iswritten in a clear, translucent style without the iridescence whichdecorates his later _opera_. 

"After-Dinner Stories from Balzac, done into English by MyndartVerelst (obviously E. S. ) with an introduction by Edgar Saltus"[8]contains four of the Frenchman's tales, "The Red Inn, " "MadameFirmiani, " "The 'Grande Bretèche', " and "Madame de Beauséant. " Theintroduction is written in Saltus's most beguiling manner and may bereferred to as one of the most delightful short essays on Balzacextant. The dedication is to V. A. B. 

"The Anatomy of Negation"[9] is Saltus's best book in his earliermanner, which is as free from flamboyancy as early Gothic, and one ofhis most important contributions to our literature. The work is ahistory of antitheism from Kapila to Leconte de Lisle and, while thewriter in a brief prefatory notice disavows all responsibility for theopinions of others, it can readily be felt that the book is a labourof love and that his sympathy lies with the iconoclasts through thecenturies. The chapter entitled, "The Convulsions of the Church, " abrief history of Christianity, is one of the most brilliant passagesto be found in any of the works of this very brilliant writer. Indeed, if you are searching for the soul of Saltus you could not do betterthan turn to this chapter. Of Jesus he says, "He was the mostentrancing of nihilists but no innovator. " Here is another excerpt:"Paganism was not dead; it had merely fallen asleep. Isis gave way toMary; apotheosis was replaced by canonization; the divinities weresucceeded by saints; and, Africa aiding, the Church surged frommythology with the Trinity for tiara. " Again: "Satan was Jew from hornto hoof. The registry of his birth is contained in the evolution ofHebraic thought. " Never was any book so full of erudition and ideas soeasy to read, a fascinating _opus_, written by a true sceptic. Following the Baedeker system, adopted so amusingly by Henry T. Finckin his "Songs and Song Writers, " this book should be triple-starred. 

"Tales before Supper, from Théophile Gautier and Prosper Mérimée, toldin English by Myndart Verelst and delayed with a proem by EdgarSaltus. "[10] Translation again. The stories are "Avatar" and "TheVenus of Ille. " The essay at the beginning is a very charmingperformance. This book is dedicated to E. C. R. 

"Mr. Incoul's Misadventure, "[11] Saltus's first novel, is also thebest of his numerous fictions. It, too, should be triple-starred inany guide book through this _opus_-land. In it will be found, super-distilled, the very essence of all the best qualities of thiswriter. It is written with fine reserve; the story holds; thecharacters are unusually well observed, felt, and expressed. Ironyshines through the pages and the final cadence includes a murder and asuicide. For the former, bromide of potassium and gas are utilized incombination; for the latter laudanum, taken hypodermically, suffices. There are scenes in Biarritz and Northern Spain which include athrilling picture of a bull-fight. There is an interesting glimpse ofthe Paris Opéra. There is a description of an epithumetic librarywhich embraces many forbidden titles, (How that "baron of moralendeavour ... The professional hound of heaven, " Anthony Comstock, would have gloated over these shelves!), a vibrant page about Goya, and another about a Thibetian cat. Many passages could be broughtforward as evidence that Mr. Saltus loves the fire-side sphynx. TheMr. Incoul of the title gives one a very excellent idea of how inhumana just man can be. There is not a single slip in the skilfuldelineation of this monster. The beautiful heroine vaguely shamblesinto a tapestried background. She is _moyen age_ in her appealingweakness. The _jeune premier_, Lenox Leigh, is well drawn andlighted. Time after time the author strikes subtle harmonies whichmust have delighted Henry James. Why is this book not dedicated toauthor of "The Turn of the Screw" rather than to "E. A. S. "? The pagesare permeated with suspense, horror, information, irony, and charm, about evenly distributed, all of which qualities are expressed in theastounding title (astounding after you have read the book). There is awhite marriage in this tale, stipulated in the hymeneal bond. In 1877Tschaikovsky made a similar agreement with the woman he married. 

"The Truth About Tristrem Varick"[12] is written with the samerestraint which characterizes the style of "Mr. Incoul'sMisadventure, " a restraint seldom to be encountered in Saltus's laterfictions. One of the angles of the plot in which an irate fatherattempts to suppress a marriage by suggesting incest, bobs up twiceagain in his stories, for the last time nearly thirty years later in"The Monster. " Irony is the keynote of the work, a keynote sounded inthe dedication, "To my master, the philosopher of the unconscious, Eduard von Hartmann, this attempt in ornamental disenchantment isdutifully inscribed. " The heroine, as frequently happens with Saltusheroines, is veiled with the mysteries of Isis; we do not see theworkings of her mind and so we can sympathize with Varick, who pursuesher with persistent misunderstanding and arduous devotion through 240pages. He attributes her aloofness to his father's unfounded chargeagainst his mother and her father. When he learns that she has borne achild he suspects rape and, with a needle-like dagger that leaves nosign, he kills the man he believes to have seduced her. Then he goesto the lady to receive her thanks, only to learn that she loved theman he has killed. Varick gives himself into the hands of the police, confesses, and is delivered to justice, the lady gloating. Astrikingly pessimistic tale, only less good than "Mr. Incoul. " Thereis superb writing in these pages, many delightful passages. _LaCenerentola_ and _Lucrezia Borgia_ are mentioned in passing. Saltushas (or had) an exuberant fondness for Donizetti and Rossini. Here isa telling bit of art criticism (attributed to a character) descriptiveof the Paris Salon: "There was a Manet or two, a Moreau and a dozenexcellent landscapes, but the rest represented the apotheosis ofmediocrity. The pictures which Gerome, Cabanel, Bouguereau, and theacolytes of these pastry-cooks exposed were stupid and sterile aschurch doors. " This required courage in 1888. One wonders where KenyonCox was at the time! Give this book at least two stars. 

"Eden"[13] is the third of Saltus's fictions and possibly the poorestof the three. Eden is the name of the heroine whose further name isMenemon. Stuyvesant Square is her original habitat but she migrates toFifth Avenue. The tide is flowing South again nowadays. Her husband isalmost too good, but nevertheless appearances seem against him untilhe explains that the lady with whom he has been seen in a cab is hisdaughter by a former marriage, and the young man who seems to havebeen making love to Eden is his son. Characteristic of Saltus is theuse of the Spanish word for nightingale. There are no deaths, nosuicides, no murders in these pages: a very eunuch of a book! A mottofrom Tasso, "_Perdute e tutto il tempo che in amor non si spende_"adorns the title page and the work is dedicated to "E----HAmicissima. "

With "The Pace that Kills"[14] Saltus doffs his old coat and dons anew and gaudier garment. Possibly he owed this change in style to theinfluence of the London movement so interestingly described inHolbrook Jackson's "The Eighteen-Nineties. " The book begins withabortion and ends with a drop over a ferry-boat into the icy EastRiver. There is an averted strangulation of a baby and for the secondtime in a Saltus _opus_ a dying millionaire leaves his fortune to theSt. Nicholas Hospital. Was Saltus ballyhooing for this institution?The hero is a modern Don Juan. Alphabet Jones appears occasionally, ashe does in many of the other novels. This Balzacian trick obsessed theauthor for a time. The book is dedicated to John S. Rutherford andbears as a motto on its title page this quotation from Rabusson:"_Pourquoi la mort? Dites, plutôt, pourquoi la vie?_"

In "A Transaction in Hearts"[15] the Reverend Christopher Gonfallonfalls in love with his wife's sister, Claire. A New England countess, a subsidiary figure, suggests d'Aurevilly. This story originallyappeared in "Lippincott's Magazine" and the editor who accepted it wasdismissed. A year or so later a new editor published "The Picture ofDorian Gray. " Still later Saltus tells me he met Oscar Wilde in Londonand the Irish poet asked him for news of the new editor. "He's quitewell, " answered Saltus. Wilde did not seem to be pleased: "When yourstory appeared the editor was removed; when mine appeared I supposedhe would be hanged. Now you tell me he is quite well. It is mostdisheartening. " Saltus then asked Wilde why Dorian Gray was cut by hisfriends. Wilde turned it over. "I fancy they saw him eating fish withhis knife. "

"A Transient Guest and other Episodes"[16] contains three short talesbesides the title story: "The Grand Duke's Riches, " an account of aningenious robbery at the Brevoort, "A Maid of Athens, " and "Fausta, " astory of love, revenge, and death in Cuba. If the final cadence of thebook is a dagger thrust the prelude is a subtle poison, rafflesia, aSumatran plant, intended for the hero, Tancred Ennever, but consumedwith fatal results by his faithful fox terrier, Zut Alors. The storyis arresting and, as frequently happens in Saltus romances, a manfinds himself no match for a woman. "A Transient Guest" is dedicatedto K. J. M. 

The slender volume entitled "Love and Lore"[17] contains a shortseries of slight essays, interrupted by slighter sonnets, on subjectswhich, for the most part, Saltus has treated at greater length andwith greater effect elsewhere. He makes a whimsical plea for a modernrevival of the Court of Love and in "Morality in Fiction" he deridesthat Puritanism in American letters whose dark scourge H. L. Menckenstill pursues with a cat-o'-nine-tails and a hand grenade. He gives usa fanciful set of rules for a novelist which, happily, he has ignoredin his own fictions. The most interesting, personal, and charmingchapter, although palpably derived from "The Philosophy ofDisenchantment, " is that entitled "What Pessimism Is Not"; here againwe are in the heart of the author's philosophy. Those who like to readbooks about the Iberian Peninsula can scarcely afford to miss"Fabulous Andalucia, " in which an able brief for the race of Othellois presented: "Under the Moors, Cordova surpassed Baghdad. They wrotemore poetry than all the other nations put together. It was they whoinvented rhyme; they wrote everything in it, contracts, challenges, treaties, treatises, diplomatic notes and messages of love. From theearliest khalyf down to Boabdil, the courts of Granada, of Cordova andof Seville were peopled with poets, or, as they were termed, withmakers of Ghazels. It was they who gave us the dulcimer, the hautboisand the guitar; it was they who invented the serenade. We areindebted to them for algebra and for the canons of chivalry aswell.... It was from them that came the first threads of light whichpreceded the Renaissance. Throughout mediaeval Europe they were theonly people that thought. " The book is dedicated to Edgar Fawcett, "perfect poet--perfect friend" and is embellished with a portrait ofits author. 

"The Story Without a Name"[18] is a translation of "Une Histoire SansNom" of Barbey d'Aurevilly, and is preceded by one of Saltus'scharming and atmospheric literary essays, the best on d'Aurevilly tobe found in English. When this book first appeared, Mr. Saltus informsme, a reviewer, "who contrived to be both amusing and complimentary, "said that Barbey d'Aurevilly was a fictitious person and that thisvile story was Saltus's own vile work!

"Mary Magdalen, "[19] on the whole disappointing, is nevertheless oneof the important Saltus _opera_. The opening chapters, like OscarWilde's _Salome_ (published two years later than "Mary Magdalen") owemuch to Flaubert's "Hérodias. " The dance on the hands is a detailfrom Flaubert, a detail which Tissot followed in his painting ofSalome.... From the later chapters it is possible that Paul Heysefilched an idea. The turning point of his drama, _Maria von Magdala_, hinges on Judas's love for Mary and his jealousy of Jesus. Saltusdevelops exactly this situation. Heyse's play appeared in 1899, eightyears after Saltus's novel. However, Saltus has protested to me thatit is an idea that might have occurred to any one. "I put it in, " headded, "to make the action more nervous. " The book begins well with adescription of Herod's court and Rome in Judea, but as a whole it isunsatisfactory. Once the plot develops Saltus seems to lose interest. He lazily quotes whole scenes from the Bible (George Moore verycleverly avoided this pitfall in "The Brook Kerith"). The earlychapters suggest "Imperial Purple, " which appeared a year later andupon which he may well have been at work at this time. There is aforeshadowing, too, of "The Lords of the Ghostland" in a very amusingand slightly cynical passage in which Mary as a child listens toSephorah the sorceress tell legends and myths of Assyria and Egypt. Mary interrupts with "Why you mean Moses! You mean Noah!" just as achild of today, if confronted with the situations in the Greek dramaswould attribute them to Bayard Veiller or Eugene Walter. Saltus is toomuch of a scholar to find much novelty in Christianity. But aside fromthis passage cynicism is lacking from this book, a quality which makesanother story on the same theme, "Le Procurateur de Judée, " one of thegreatest short stories in any language. Mary's sins are quickly passedover and we come almost immediately to her conversion. Herod Antipas, with his "fan-shaped beard" and vacillating Pilate, quite comparableto a modern politician, are the most human and best-realizedcharacters in a book which should have been greater than it is. "MaryMagdalen" is dedicated to Henry James. 

"The facts in the Curious Case of H. Hyrtl, esq. "[20] is a slight yarnin the mellow Stevenson manner, with a kindly old gentleman as themessenger of the supernatural who provides the wherewithal for amarriage between an impoverished artist, who is paintingHeliogabolus's feast of roses, and his sweet young thing. Quite adeparture this from the usual Saltus manner; nevertheless there aretwo deaths, one by shock, the other in a railway accident. The plotdepends on as many impossible entrances and exits as a Palais Royalfarce and the reader is asked to believe in many coincidences. Thebook is dedicated to Lorillard Ronalds who, the author explains in afew French phrases, asked him to write something "_de très pure et detrès chaste, pour une jeunesse, sans doute_. " He adds that the storyis a rewriting of a tale which had appeared twenty years earlier. 

"Imperial Purple"[21] marks the high-tide of Saltus's peculiar genius. The emperors of imperial decadent Rome are led by the chains of artbehind the chariot wheels of the poet: Julius Cæsar, whom Cato called"that woman, " Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, the wicked Agrippina, forwhom Agnes Repplier named her cat, Claudius, Nero, Hadrian, Vespasian, down to the incredible Heliogabolus. Saltus, who has given us manyvivid details concerning the lives of his predecessors, seeminglyfalters at this dread name, but only seemingly. More can be foundabout this extraordinary and perverse emperor in Lombard's "L'Agonie"and in Franz Blei's "The Powder Puff, " but, although Saltus is brief, he evokes an atmosphere and a picture in a few short paragraphs. Thesheer lyric quality of this book has remained unsurpassed by thisauthor. Indeed it is rare in all literature. Page after page thatWalter Pater, Oscar Wilde, or J. K. Huysmans might have been glad tosign might be set before you. The man writes with invention, with sap, with urge. Our eyes are not clogged with foot-notes and references. Itis plain that our author has delved in the "Scriptores HistoriæAugustæ, " that he has read Lampridius, Suetonius, and the others, buthe does not strive to make us aware of it. The historical form has atlast found a poet to render it supportable. Blood runs across thepages; gore and booty are the principal themes; and yet Beauty strutssupreme through the horror. The author's sympathy is his password, asympathy which he occasionally exposes, for he is not above pinninghis heart to his sleeve, as, for example, when he says, "In spite ofAugustus's boast, the city was not by any means of marble. It wasfilled with crooked little streets, with the atrocities of theTarquins, with houses unsightly and perilous, with the moss and dustof ages; it compared with Alexandria as London compares with Paris; ithad a splendour of its own, but a splendour that could be heightened. "Here is a picture of squalid Rome: "In the subura, where at nightwomen sat in high chairs, ogling the passer with painted eyes, therewas still plenty of brick; tall tenements, soiled linen, the odor ofWhitechapel and St. Giles. The streets were noisy with match-pedlars, with vendors of cake and tripe and coke; there were touts there too, altars to unimportant divinities, lying Jews who dealt in old clothes, in obscene pictures and unmentionable wares; at the crossings therewere thimbleriggers, clowns and jugglers, who made glass balls appearand disappear surprisingly; there were doorways decorated with curiousinvitations, gossipy barber shops, where, through the liberality ofpoliticians, the scum of a great city was shaved, curled and paintedfree; and there were public houses, where vagabond slaves and sexlesspriests drank the mulled wine of Crete, supped on the flesh of beastsslaughtered in the arena, or watched the Syrian women twist to theclick of castanets. " The account of the arena under Nero should not bemissed, but it is too long to quote here. The book, which we givethree stars, is dedicated to Edwin Albert Schroeder. Fortunately, ofall Saltus's works, it is the most readily procurable. 

"Imperial Purple" has had a curious history. Belford, Clarke and Co. , who hid their identity behind the "Morrill, Higgins" imprint, failedshortly after they had issued the book. "Presently, " Mr. Saltus writesme, "a Chicago bibliofilou brought it out as the work of some one elseand called it 'The Sins of Nero. '" Meanwhile Greening published it inLondon and finally Mitchell Kennerley reprinted it in New York. In1911 Macmillan in London brought out "The Amazing EmperorHeliogabolus" by the Reverend John Stuart Hay of Oxford. In thepreface to this book I found the following: "I have also thepermission of Mr. E. E. Saltus of Harvard University (_sic_) to quotehis vivid and beautiful studies on the Roman Empire and her customs. Iam also deeply indebted to Mr. Walter Pater, Mr. J. A. Symonds, andMr. Saltus for many a _tournure de phrase_ and picturesque renderingof Tacitus, Suetonious, Lampridius, and the rest. " The Reverend Doctorcertainly helped himself to "Imperial Purple. " Words, sentences, naywhole paragraphs appear without the formality of quotation marks, without any indication, indeed, save these lines in the preface, thatthey are not part of the Doctor's own imagination, unless one comparesthem with the style in which the rest of the book is written. "In oneinstance, " Mr. Saltus writes me, "he gave a paragraph of mine as hisown. Later on he added, 'as we have already said' and repeated theparagraph. The plural struck me as singular. "

"Madam Sapphira"[22] is a vivid study in unchastened womanhood. We seebut little of the lady in the 251 pages of this "Fifth Avenue Story";her character is exposed to us through the experiences of her poorfool husband, who colloquially would be called a simp, by denizens ofthe Low World a boob. He redeems himself to some extent by sendingMadam Sapphira a belated bouquet of cyanide of potassium. On thewhole, though characters and phrases in his work might be broughtforward to prove the contrary, Mr. Saltus obviously has a low opinionof women and thinks that men do better without them. The greater partof the time he appears to agree with Posthumus:

 "Could I find out The woman's part in me! For there's no motion That tends to vice in man but I affirm It is the woman's part; be it lying, note it The woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers; Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers; Ambitions, covetings, changes of prides, disdain, Nice longings, slanders, mutability, All faults that may be named, nay that hell knows, Why, hers, in part or all; but rather, all; For even to vice They are not constant, but are changing still One vice of a minute old for one Not half so old as that. I'll write against them, Detest them, curse them. --Yet 'tis greater skill In a true hate, to pray they have their will: The very devils cannot plague them better. "

"Enthralled, a story of international life setting forth the curiouscircumstances concerning Lord Cloden and Oswald Quain":[23] a mad_opus_ this, an insane phantasmagoria of crime, avarice, and murder. For the second time in this author's novels incest plays a rôle. Thistime it is real. Quain is indeed the half-brother of the lady whodesires to marry him. He is as vile and virulent a villain as any whostalks through the pages of Ann Ker, Eliza Bromley, or Mrs. Radcliffe. A Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde motive is sounded. An ugly man comes backfrom London a handsome fellow after visits to a certain doctor whorearranges the lines of his face. The transformation is effected everyday now (some of our prominent actresses are said to have benefitedby this operation), but in 1894 the mechanism of the trick must havebeen appallingly creaky. This story, indeed, borders on the burlesqueand has almost as much claim to the title as "The Green Carnation. "Was the author laughing at the Eighteen Nineties? The period is subtlyevoked in one detail, constantly reiterated in Saltus's early books:ladies and gentlemen when they leave a room "push aside theportieres. " Sometimes the "rings jingle. " He has in most instancesmercifully spared us further descriptions of the interiors of New Yorkhouses at this epoch.... At a dinner party one of the guests refers toHowells as the "foremost novelist who is never read. " The book isdedicated to "Cherubina, _dulcissime rerum_. " Saltus returned to thecentral theme of "Enthralled" in a story called "The Impostor, "printed in "Ainslee's" for May, 1917. 

"When Dreams Come True"[24] again brings us in touch with TancredEnnever, the stupid hero of "The Transient Guest. " In the meantime hehas become an almost intolerable prig. It is probable that Saltusmeant more by this fable than he has let appear. The roar of the waveson the coast of Lesbos is distinctly audible for a time and thedénoûment seems to belong to quite another story.... Ennever hasturned author. We are informed that he has completed studies onHuysmans and Leconte de Lisle; he is also engaged on a "HistoriaAmoris. " There is an interesting passage relating to the names ofgreat writers. Alphabet Jones assures us that they are always "in twosyllables with the accent on the first. Oyez: Homer, Sappho, Horace, Dante, Petrarch, Ronsard, Shakespeare, Hugo, Swinburne ... Balzac, Flaubert, Huysmans, Michelet, Renan. " The reader is permitted to add... "Saltus"!

"Purple and Fine Women"[25] is a misnamed book. It should be called"Philosophic Fables. " The first two stories are French in form. PaulBourget himself is the hero of one of them! In "The Princess of theSun" we are offered a new and fantastic version of the Coppelia story. "The Dear Departed" finds Saltus in a murderous amorous mood again. In"The Princess of the Golden Isles" a new poison is introduced, muscarine. Alchemy furnishes the theme for one tale; the protagonistseeks an alcahest, a human victim for his crucible. We are left indoubt as to whether he chooses his wife, who wears a diamond set inone of her teeth, or a gorilla. There are dramas of dual personalityand of death. Metaphysics and spiritualism rise dimly out of the charmof this book. There is a duchess who mews like a cat and somewhere weare assured that _Perche non posso odiarte_ from _La Sonnnambula_ isthe most beautiful aria in the Italian repertory. Here is a true andsoul-revealing epigram: "The best way to master a subject of which youare ignorant is to write it up. " Certainly not Saltus at his best, this _opus_, but far from his worst. 

"The Perfume of Eros"[26] is frenzied fiction again; amnesia, drunkenness, white slavery, sex, are its mingled themes. There is apretty picture, recognizable in any smart community, of a witty womanof fashion, and a full-length portrait of a bounder. "The Yellow Fay, "Saltus's _cliché_ for the Demon Rum, was the original title of this"Fifth Avenue Incident. " Romance and Realism consort lovingly togetherin its pages. There is an unforgetable passage descriptive of a youngman ridding himself of his mistress. He interrupts his flow ofexplanation to hand her a card case, which she promptly throws out ofthe window. 

"'That is an agreeable way of getting rid of twelve thousand dollars, 'he remarked. 

"Yet, however lightly he affected to speak, the action annoyed him. Like all men of large means he was close. It seemed to him beastly tolose such a sum. He got up, went to the window and looked down. Hecould not see the case and he much wanted to go and look for it. Butthat for the moment Marie prevented. "

"The Pomps of Satan"[27] is replete with grace and graciousness, andfull of charm, a quality more valuable to its possessor thanjuvenility, our author tells us in a chapter concerning the lostelixir of youth. Neither form nor matter assume ponderous shape inthis volume, which in the quality of its contents reminds one faintlyof Franz Blei's lady's breviary, "The Powder Puff, " but Saltus's bookis the more ingratiating of the two. Satan's pomps are varied; theauthor exposes his whims, his ideas, images the past, forecasts thefuture, deplores the present. There is a chapter on cooking and welearn that Saltus does not care for food prepared in the German style... Nor yet in the American. He forbids us champagne: "Champagne isnot a wine. It is a beverage, lighter indeed than brandy and soda, but, like cologne, fit only for demi-reps. " But he seems untrue tohimself in an essay condemning the use of perfumes. His own books areheavily scented. With the rare prescience and clairvoyance of anartist he includes the German Kaiser in a chapter on hyenas (in1906!); therein stalk the blood-stained shadows of Caligula, Caracalla, Atilla, Tamerlane, Cesare Borgia, Philip II, and Ivan theTerrible. The paragraph is worth quoting: "Power consists in having amillion bayonets behind you. Its diffusion is not general. But thereare people who possess it. For one, the German Kaiser. Not long sincesomebody or other diagnosed in him the habitual criminal. We doubtthat he is that. But we suspect that, were it not for the press, hewould show more of primitive man than he has thus far thoughtjudicious. " Has Mme. De Thèbes done better? Saltus also foresawGertrude Stein. Peering into the future he wrote: "When that day comesthe models of literary excellence will not be the long and windysentences of accredited bores, but ample brevities, such as the 'N' onNapoleon's tomb, in which, in less than a syllable, an epoch, and theglory of it, is resumed. " Saltus forsakes his previous choice fromBellini and installs _Tu che a Dio_ as his favourite Italian operaair. Here is another flash of self-revealment: "Byzance is rumouredto have been the sewer of every sin, yet such was its beauty that itis the canker of our heart we could not have lived there. " Always thisturning to the far past, this delving in rosetta stones andpalimpsests, this preoccupation with the sights and sins of theancient gods and kings. A chapter on poisons, another on Gille deRetz, which probably owes something to "La Bas, " betray thispreference. He playfully suggests that the Academy of Arts and Lettersbe filled up with young nobodies: "They have, indeed, done nothingyet. But therein is their charm. An academy composed of young peoplewho have done nothing yet would be more alluring than one made up offossils who are unable to do anything more. " Herein are containedenough aphorisms and epigrams to make up a new book of Solomonicwisdom. Hardly as evenly inspired as "Imperial Purple, " "The Pomps ofSatan" is more dashing and more varied. It is also more tired. 

"Vanity Square"[28] in Stella Sixmuth boasts such a "vampire" as evenTheda Bara is seldom called upon to portray. Not until the finalchapters of this mystery story do we discover that this lady has beenpoisoning a rich man's wife, with an eye on the rich man's heart andhand. Oraere is this slow and subtle poison which leaves no subsequenttrace. She is thwarted but in a subsequent attempt she is successful. Robert Hichens has used this theme in "Bella Donna. " There is asuicide by pistol. An exciting story but little else, this bookcontains fewer references to the gods and the cæsars than is usualwith Saltus. To compensate there are long discussions about phobias, dual personalities (a girl with six is described) and theories aboutfuture existence. Vanity Square, we are told, is bounded by CentralPark, Madison Avenue, Seventy-second Street and the Plaza. 

It will be remembered that Tancred Ennever was at work on "HistoriaAmoris"[29] in 1895, which would seem to indicate that Saltus hadbegun to collect material for it himself at that time. The title is aliteral description of the contents of the book: it is a history oflove. Such a work might have been made purely anecdotal or scientific, but Saltus's purpose has been at once more serious and more graceful, to show how the love currents flowed through the centuries, to showwhat effect period life had on love and what effect love had on periodlife. Beginning with Babylon and passing on through the "Song ofSongs" we meet Helen of Troy, Scheherazade (though but briefly), Sappho (to whom an entire chapter is devoted), Cleopatra (whom Heinecalled "_cette reine entretenue_"), Mary Magdalen, Héloïse.... TheCourts of Love are described and deductions are drawn as to the effectof the Renaissance on the Gay Science. "Historia Amoris" is concludedby a Schopenhauerian essay on "The Law of Attraction. " Cicisbeism isnot treated in extenso, as it should be, and I also missed thefragrant name of Sophie Arnould. Readers of "Love and Lore, " "ThePomps of Satan, " "Imperial Purple, " and "The Lords of the Ghostland"will find much of their material adjusted to the purposes of thisHistory of Love, which, nevertheless, no one interested in Saltus canafford to miss. 

In "The Lords of the Ghostland, a history of the ideal, "[30] Saltusreturns to the theme of "The Anatomy of Negation. " The newer work isboth more cynical and more charming. It is, of course, a history and acomparison of religions. With Reinach Saltus believes thatChristianity owes much to its ancestors. Brahma, Ormuzd, Amon-Râ, Bel-Marduk, Jehovah, Zeus, Jupiter, and many lesser deities paradebefore us in defile. Prejudice, intolerance, tolerance even arelacking from this book, as they were from "Imperial Purple. " "TheLords of the Ghostland" is neither reverent nor irreverent, it isunreverent. Mr. Saltus finds joy in writing about the gods, the joy ofa poet, and if his chiefest pleasure is to extol the gods of Greecethat is only what might be expected of this truly pagan spirit. Students of comparative theology can learn much from these pages, butthey will learn it unwittingly, for the poet supersedes the teacher. Saltus is never professorial. The scientific spirit is never to thefore; no marshalling of dull facts for their own sakes. Nevertheless Isuspect that the book contains more absorbing information than anysimilar volume on the subject. With a fascinating and guileful stylethis divine devil of an author leads us on to the spot where he canpoint out to us that the only original feature of Christianity is thecrucifixion, and even that is foreshadowed in Hindoo legend, in whichKrishna dies, nailed by arrows to a tree. This book should be requiredreading for the first class in isogogies. 

Most of the scenes of "Daughters of the Rich"[31] are laid in Paris. The plot hinges on mistaken identity and the whole is a veryingenious detective story. The book begins rather than ends with amurder, but that is because the tale is told backward. Through lies, deceit, and treachery the woman in the case, one Sallie Malakoff, betrays the hero into marriage with her. When he discovers her perfidyhe cheerfully cuts her throat from ear to ear and goes to join thelady from whom he has been estranged. She receives him with open armsand suggests wedding bells. No woman, she asserts, could resist a manwho has killed another woman for her sake. This is decidedly a Romanpoint of view! Some of the action takes place in a house on the AvenueMalakoff, which must have been near the _hôtel_ of the Princesse deSagan and the apartment occupied by Miss Mary Garden.... A fatmanufacturer's wife confronts the proposal of a mercenary duke with anepic rejoinder: "Pay a man a million dollars to sleep with mydaughter! Never!"... Again Saltus demonstrates how completely he ismaster of the story-telling gift, how surely he possesses the power tocompel breathless attention. 

"The Monster"[32] is fiction, incredible, insane fiction. The monsteris incest, in this instance _inceste manqué_ because it doesn't comeoff. On the eve of a runaway marriage Leilah Ogsten is informed byher father that her intended husband is her own brother (he inculpatesher mother in the scandal). Leilah disappears and to put barriersbetween her and the man she loves becomes the bride of another. Verplank pursues. There are two fabulous duels and a scene in whichour hero is mangled by dogs. The stage (for we are always in someextravagant theatre) is frequently set in Paris and the familiarscenes of the capital are in turn exposed to our view. It is all mad, full of purple patches and crimson splotches and yet, once opened, itis impossible to lay the book down until it is completed. From thisnovel Mr. Saltus fashioned his only play, _The Gates of Life_, whichhe sent to Charles Frohman and which Mr. Frohman returned. The piecehas neither been produced nor published. 

Last year (1917) the Brothers of the Book in Chicago publishedprivately an extremely limited edition (474 copies) of a book by EdgarSaltus entitled, "Oscar Wilde: An Idler's Impression, " which containsonly twenty-six pages, but those twenty-six pages are very beautiful. They evoke a spirit from the dead. Indeed, I doubt if even Saltus hasdone better than his description of a strange occurrence in a RegentStreet Restaurant on a certain night when he was supping with Wildeand Wilde was reading _Salome_ to him: "apropos of nothing, or ratherwith what to me at the time was curious irrelevance, Oscar, whiletossing off glass after glass of liquor, spoke of Phémé, a goddessrare even in mythology, who after appearing twice in Homer, flashedthrough a verse of Hesiod and vanished behind a page of Herodotus. Intelling of her, suddenly his eyes lifted, his mouth contracted, aspasm of pain--or was it dread?--had gripped him. A moment only. Hisface relaxed. It had gone. 

"I have since wondered, could he have evoked the goddess then? ForPhémé typified what modern occultism terms the impact--the premonitionthat surges and warns. It was Wilde's fate to die three times--to diein the dock, to die in prison, to die all along the boulevards ofParis. Often since I have wondered could the goddess have beenlifting, however slightly, some fringe of the crimson curtain, behindwhich, in all its horror, his destiny crouched. If so, he braved it. 

"I had looked away. I looked again. Before me was a fat pauper, floridand over-dressed, who, in the voice of an immortal, was reading thefantasies of the damned. In his hand was a manuscript, and we weresupping on _Salome_. "

Edgar Saltus began with Balzac in 1884 and he has reached Oscar Wildein 1917. His other literary essays, on Gautier and Mérimée in "TalesBefore Supper, " on Barbey d'Aurevilly in "The Story Without a Name, "and on Victor Hugo in "The Forum" (June, 1912, ) all display the finestqualities of his genius. Pervaded with his rare charm they areclairvoyant and illuminating, more than that arresting. They should bebrought together in one volume, especially as they are at presentabsolutely inaccessible, terrifyingly so, every one of them. And ifthey are to be thus collected may we not hope for one or two newessays with, say, for subjects, Flaubert and Huysmans?

It is, you may perceive, as an essayist, a historian, an amateurphilosopher that Saltus excels, but his fiction should not beunderrated on that account. His novels indeed are half essays, just ashis essays are half novels. Even the worst of them contains charmingpages, delightful and unexpected interruptions. His series of fablessuggests a vast _Comédie Inhumaine_ but this statement must not beregarded as dispraise: it is merely description. You will findsomething of the same quality in the work of Edgar Allan Poe, butSaltus has more grace and charm than Poe, if less intensity. After onedip into realism ("Mr. Incoul's Misadventure") Saltus became anincorrigible romantic. All his characters are the inventions of anerrant fancy; scarcely one of them suggests a human being, but theyare none the less creations of art. This, perhaps, was a daringprocedure in an era devoted to the exploitation in fiction of thefacts of hearth and home.... After all, however, his way may be thebetter way. Personally I may say that my passion for realism is on thewane. 

In these strange tales we pass through the familiar haunts ofmetropolitan life, but the creatures are amazingly unfamiliar. Theyhave horns and hoofs, halos and wings, or fins and tails. An esotericband of fabulous monsters these: harpies and vampires take tea atSherry's; succubi and incubbi are observed buying opal rings atTiffany's; fairies, angels, dwarfs, and elves, bearing branches ofasphodel, trip lightly down Waverly Place; peris, amshaspahands, æsir, izeds, and goblins sleep at the Brevoort; seraphim and cherubimdecorate drawing rooms on Irving Place; griffons, chimeras, andsphynxes take courses in philosophy at Harvard; willis and sylphs singairs from _Lucia di Lammermoor_ and _Le Nozze di Figaro_; naiads andmermaids embark on the Cunard Line; centaurs and amazons drive in theFlorentine Cascine; kobolds, gnomes, and trolls stab, shoot, andpoison one another; and a satyr meets the martichoras in GramercyPark. No such pictures of monstrous, diverting, sensuous existence canbe found elsewhere save in the paintings of Arnold Böcklin, Franz vonStuck, and above all those of Gustave Moreau. If he had done nothingelse Edgar Saltus should be famous for having given New York amythology of its own!

 _January 12, 1918. _

The New Art of the Singer

 "_It's the law of life that nothing new can come into the world without pain. _"

 Karen Borneman. 

The New Art of the Singer

The art of vocalization is retarding the progress of the modern musicdrama. That is the simple fact although, doubtless, you are asaccustomed as I am to hearing it expressed _à rebours_. How many timeshave we read that the art of singing is in its decadence, that soonthere would not be one artist left fitted to deliver vocal music inpublic. The Earl of Mount Edgcumbe wrote something of the sort in 1825for he found the great Catalani but a sorry travesty of his earlyfavourites, Pacchierotti and Banti. I protest against thismisconception. Any one who asserts that there are laws which governsinging, physical, scientific laws, must pay court to other ears thanmine. I have heard this same man for twenty years shouting in themarket place that a piece without action was not a play (usually thedrama he referred to had more real action than that which decoratesthe progress of _Nellie, the Beautiful Cloak Model_), that acomposition without melody (meaning something by Richard Wagner, Robert Franz, or even Edvard Grieg) was not music, that verse withoutrhyme was not poetry. This same type of brilliant mind will go on toaver (forgetting the Scot) that men who wear skirts are not men, (forgetting the Spaniards) that women who smoke cigars are not women, and to settle numberless other matters in so silly a manner that a tenyear old, half-witted school boy, after three minutes light thinking, could be depended upon to do better. 

The rules for the art of singing, laid down in the Seventeenth andEighteenth Centuries, have become obsolete. How could it be otherwise?They were contrived to fit a certain style of composition. We have butthe briefest knowledge, indeed, of how people sang before 1700, although records exist praising the performances of Archilei andothers. If a different standard for the criticism of vocalizationexisted before 1600 there is no reason why there should not after1917. As a matter of fact, maugre much authoritative opinion to thecontrary, a different standard does exist. In certain respects the newstandard is taken for granted. We do not, for example, expect to hearmale sopranos at the opera. The Earl of Mount Edgcumbe admired thisartificial form of voice almost to the exclusion of all others. Hisfavourite singer, indeed, Pacchierotti, was a male soprano. But otherbreaks have been made with tradition, breaks which are not yet takenfor granted. When you find that all but one or two of the singers inevery opera house in the world are ignoring the rules in some respector other you may be certain, in spite of the protests of theprofessors, that the rules are dead. Their excuse has disappeared andthey remain only as silly commandments made to fit an old religion. Asinger in Handel's day was accustomed to stand in one spot on thestage and sing; nothing else was required of him. He was not asked towalk about or to act; even expression in his singing was limited topathos. The singers of this period, Nicolini, Senesino, Cuzzoni, Faustina, Caffarelli, Farinelli, Carestini, Gizziello, andPacchierotti, devoted their study years to preparing their voices forthe display of a certain definite kind of florid music. They hadnothing else to learn. As a consequence they were expected to beparticularly efficient. Porpora, Caffarelli's teacher, is said to havespent six years on his pupil before he sent him forth to be "thegreatest singer in the world. " Contemporary critics appear to havebeen highly pleased with the result but there is some excuse for H. T. Finck's impatience, expressed in "Songs and Song Writers": "Thefavourites of the eighteenth-century Italian audiences were artificialmale sopranos, like Farinelli, who was frantically applauded for suchcircus tricks as beating a trumpeter in holding on to a note, orracing with an orchestra and getting ahead of it; or Caffarelli, whoentertained his audiences by singing, _in one breath_, a chromaticchain of trills up and down two octaves. Caffarelli was a pupil of thefamous vocal teacher Porpora, who wrote operas consisting chiefly ofmonotonous successions of florid arias resembling the music that isnow written for flutes and violins. " All very well for the day, nodoubt, but could Cuzzoni sing Isolde? Could Faustina sing Mélisande?And what modern parts would be allotted to the Julian Eltinges of theEighteenth Century?

When composers began to set dramatic texts to music troubleimmediately appeared at the door. For example, the contemporaries ofSophie Arnould, the "creator" of _Iphigénie en Aulide_, are agreedthat she was greater as an actress than she was as a singer. DavidGarrick, indeed, pronounced her a finer actress than Clairon. Fromthat day to this there has been a continual triangular conflictbetween critic, composer, and singer, which up to date, it must beadmitted, has been won by the academic pundits, for, although thesinger has struggled, she has generally bent under the blows of thecritical knout, thereby holding the lyric drama more or less in thestate it was in a hundred years ago (every critic and almost everycomposer will tell you that any modern opera can be sung according tothe laws of _bel canto_ and enough singers exist, unfortunately, tojustify this assertion) save that the music is not so well sung, according to the old standards, as it was then. No singer has hadquite the courage to entirely defy tradition, to refuse to study witha teacher, to embody her own natural ideas in the performance ofmusic, to found a new school ... But there have been many rebells. 

The operas of Mozart, Bellini, Donizetti, and Rossini, as a whole, donot demand great histrionic exertion from their interpreters and for atime singers trained in the old Handelian tradition met everyrequirement of these composers and their audiences. If more action wasdemanded than in Handel's day the newer music, in compensation, waseasier to sing. But even early in the Nineteenth Century we observethat those artists who strove to be actors as well as singers lostsomething in vocal facility (really they were pushing on to the newtechnique). I need only speak of Ronconi and Mme. Pasta. The lady wasadmittedly the greatest lyric artist of her day although it isrecorded that her slips from true intonation were frequent. When shecould no longer command a steady tone the _beaux restes_ of her artand her authoritative style caused Pauline Viardot, who was hearingher then for the first time, to burst into tears. Ronconi's voice, according to Chorley, barely exceeded an octave; it was weak andhabitually out of tune. This baritone was not gifted with vocalagility and he was monotonous in his use of ornament. Neverthelessthis same Chorley admits that Ronconi afforded him more pleasure inthe theatre than almost any other singer he ever heard! If this criticdid not rise to the occasion here and point the way to the future inanother place he had a faint glimmering of the coming revolution:"There might, there _should_ be yet, a new _Medea_ as an opera. Nothing can be grander, more antique, more Greek, than Cherubini'ssetting of the 'grand fiendish part' (to quote the words of Mrs. Siddons on Lady Macbeth). But, as music, it becomes simply impossibleto be executed, so frightful is the strain on the energies of her whois to present the heroine. Compared with this character, Beethoven'sLeonora, Weber's Euryanthe, are only so much child's play. " This istopsy-turvy reasoning, of course, but at the same time it issuggestive. 

The modern orchestra dug a deeper breach between the two schools. Wagner called upon the singer to express powerful emotion, passionatefeeling, over a great body of sound, nay, in many instances, _against_a great body of sound. (It is significant that Wagner himself admittedthat it was a singer [Madame Schroeder-Devrient] who revealed to himthe possibilities of dramatic singing. He boasted that he was the onlyone to learn the lesson. "She was the first artist, " writes H. T. Finck, "who fully revealed the fact that in a dramatic opera there maybe situations where _characteristic_ singing is of more importancethan _beautiful_ singing. ") It is small occasion for wonder thatsingers began to bark. Indeed they nearly expired under the strain oftrying successfully to mingle Porpora and passion. According to W. F. Apthorp, Max Alvary once said that, considering the emotionalintensity of music and situations, the constant co-operation of thesurging orchestra, and, most of all, the unconquerable feeling of thereality of it all, it was a wonder that singing actors did not gostark mad, before the very faces of the audience, in parts likeTristan or Siegfried.... The critics, however, were inexorable; theystood by their guns. There was but one way to sing the new music andthat was the way of Bernacchi and Pistocchi. In time, by dint ofpersevering, talking night and day, writing day and night, theyconvinced the singer. The music drama developed but the singer washeld in his place. Some artists, great geniuses, of course, made thecompromise successfully.... Jean de Reszke, for example, and LilliLehmann, who said to H. E. Krehbiel ("Chapters of Opera"): "It iseasier to sing all three Brünnhildes than one Norma. You are socarried away by the dramatic emotion, the action, and the scene, thatyou do not have to think how to sing the words. That comes of itself"... But they made the further progress of the composer more difficultthereby; music remained merely pretty. The successors of these supplesingers even learned to sing Richard Strauss with broad cantilenaeffects. As for Puccini! At a performance of _Madama Butterfly_ aJapanese once asked why the singers were producing those nice roundtones in moments of passion; why not ugly sounds?

Will any composer arise with the courage to write an opera which_cannot_ be sung? Stravinsky almost did this in _The Nightingale_ butthe break must be more complete. Think of the range of sounds made bythe Japanese, the gipsy, the Chinese, the Spanish folk-singers. Thenewest composer may ask for shrieks, squeaks, groans, screams, athousand delicate shades of guttural and falsetto vocal tones from hisinterpreters. Why should the gamut of expression on our opera stage beso much more limited than it is in our music halls? Why should theHottentots be able to make so many delightful noises that we areincapable of producing? Composers up to date have taken into account asinger's apparent inability to bridge difficult intervals. It is onlyby ignoring all such limitations that the new music will definitelyemerge, the new art of the singer be born. What marvellous effectsmight be achieved by skipping from octave to octave in the humanvoice! When will the obfusc pundits stop shouting for what AveryHopwood calls "ascending and descending tetrarchs!"

But, some one will argue, with the passing of _bel canto_ what willbecome of the operas of Mozart, Bellini, Rossini, and Donizetti? Whowill sing them? Fear not, lover of the golden age of song, _bel canto_is not passing as swiftly as that. Singers will continue to be borninto this world who are able to cope with the floridity of this music, for they are born, not made. Amelita Galli-Curci will have hersuccessors, just as Adelina Patti had hers. Singers of this kind beginto sing naturally in their infancy and they continue to sing, justsing.... One touch of drama or emotion and their voices disappear. Remember Nellie Melba's sad experience with _Siegfried_. The greatMario had scarcely studied singing (one authority says that he hadtaken a few lessons of Meyerbeer!) when he made his début in _Robert, le Diable_ and there is no evidence that he studied very muchafterwards. Melba, herself, spent less than a year with Mme. Marchesiin preparation for her opera career. Mme. Galli-Curci asserts that shehas had very little to do with professors and I do not think Mme. Tetrazzini passed her youth in mastering _vocalizzi_. As a matter offact she studied singing only six months. Adelina Patti told Dr. Hanslick that she had sung _Una voce poco fà_ at the age of seven withthe same embellishments which she used later when she appeared in theopera in which the air occurs. No, these singers are freaks of naturelike tortoise-shell cats and like those rare felines they are usuallyfemales of late, although such singers as Battistini and Bonci remindus that men once sang with as much agility as women. But when thistype of singer finally becomes extinct naturally the operas whichdepend on it will disappear too for the same reason that the works ofMonteverde and Handel have dropped out of the repertory, that theGreek tragedies and the Elizabethan interludes are no longer currenton our stage. None of our actors understands the style of Chineseplays; consequently it would be impossible to present one of them inour theatre. As Deirdre says in Synge's great play, "It's a heartbreakto the wise that it's for a short space we have the same things only. "We cannot, indeed, have everything. No one doubts that the plays ofÆschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles are great dramas; the operas I havejust referred to can also be admired in the closet and probably theywill be. Even today no more than two works of Rossini, the mostpopular composer of the early Nineteenth Century, are to be heard. What has become of _Semiramide_, _La Cenerentola_, and the others?There are no singers to sing them and so they have been dropped fromthe repertory without being missed. Can any of our young misses hum_Di Tanti Palpiti_? You know they cannot. I doubt if you can find twogirls in New York (and I mean girls with a musical education) who cantell you in what opera the air belongs and yet in the early Twentiesthis tune was as popular as _Un Bel Di_ is today. 

Coloratura singing has been called heartless, not altogether withoutreason. At one time its exemplars fired composers to their bestefforts. That day has passed. That day passed seventy years ago. Itmay occur to you that there is something wrong when singers of acertain type can only find the proper means to exploit their voices inworks of the past, operas which are dead. It is to be noted thatNellie Melba and Amelita Galli-Curci are absolutely unfitted to singin music dramas even so early as those of Richard Wagner; Dukas, Strauss, and Stravinsky are utterly beyond them. Even Adelina Pattiand Marcella Sembrich appeared in few, if any, new works ofimportance. They had no bearing on the march of musical history. Hereis an entirely paradoxical situation; a set of interpreters who exist, it would seem, only for the purpose of delivering to us the art of thepast. What would we think of an actor who could make no effect save inthe tragedies of Corneille? It is such as these who have kept LeoOrnstein from writing an opera. Berlioz forewarned us in his"Memoirs. " He was one of the first to foresee the coming day: "Weshall always find a fair number of female singers, popular from theirbrilliant singing of brilliant trifles, and odious to the greatmasters because utterly incapable of properly interpreting them. Theyhave voices, a certain knowledge of music, and flexible throats: theyare lacking in soul, brain, and heart. Such women are regular monstersand all the more formidable to composers because they are oftencharming monsters. This explains the weakness of certain masters inwriting falsely sentimental parts, which attract the public by theirbrilliancy. It also explains the number of degenerate works, thegradual degradation of style, the destruction of all sense ofexpression, the neglect of dramatic properties, the contempt for thetrue, the grand, and the beautiful, and the cynicism and decrepitudeof art in certain countries. "

So, even if, as the ponderous criticasters are continually pointingout, the age of _bel canto_ is really passing there is no actualoccasion for grief. All fashions in art pass and what is known as _belcanto_ is just as much a fashion as the bombastic style of acting thatprevailed in Victor Hugo's day or the "realistic" style of acting weprefer today. All interpretative art is based primarily on thematerial with which it deals and with contemporary public taste. Thiskind of singing is a direct derivative of a certain school of operaand as that school of opera is fading more expressive methods ofsinging are coming to the fore. The very first principle of _belcanto_, an equalized scale, is a false one. With an equalized scale asinger can produce a perfectly ordered series of notes, a charmingstring of matched pearls, but nothing else. It is worthy of note thatit is impossible to sing Spanish or negro folk-songs with an equalizedscale. Almost all folk-music, indeed, exacts a vocal method of itsinterpreter quite distinct from that of the art song. 

We know now that true beauty lies deeper than in the emission of"perfect tone. " Beauty is truth and expressiveness. The new art of thesinger should develop to the highest degree the significance of thetext. Calvé once said that she did not become a real artist until sheforgot that she had a beautiful voice and thought only of the properexpression the music demanded. 

Of the old method of singing only one quality will persist in the lateTwentieth Century (mind you, this is deliberate prophecy but it isabout as safe as it would be to predict that Sarah Bernhardt will liveto give several hundred more performances of _La Dame aux Camélias_)and that is style. The performance of any work demands a knowledge ofand a feeling for its style but style is about the last thing a singerever studies. When, however, you find a singer who understands style, there you have an artist!

Style is the quality which endures long after the singer has lost thepower to produce a pure tone or to contrive accurate phrasing and somakes it possible for artists to hold their places on the stage longafter their voices have become partially defective or, indeed, haveactually departed. It is knowledge of style that accounts for the longcareers of Marcella Sembrich and Lilli Lehmann or of Yvette Guilbertand Maggie Cline for that matter. It is knowledge of style that makesDe Wolf Hopper a great artist in his interpretation of the music ofSullivan and the words of Gilbert. Some artists, indeed, with barely ashred of voice, have managed to maintain their positions on the stagefor many years through a knowledge of style. I might mention VictorMaurel, Max Heinrich (not on the opera stage, of course), AntonioScotti, and Maurice Renaud. 

A singer may be born with the ability to produce pure tones (I doubtif Mme. Melba learned much about tone production from her teachers), she may even phrase naturally, although this is more doubtful, but theacquirement of style is a long and tedious process and one whichgenerally requires specialization. For style is elusive. An auditor, acritic, will recognize it at once but very few can tell of what itconsists. Nevertheless it is fairly obvious to the casual listenerthat Olive Fremstad is more at home in the music dramas of Gluck andWagner than she is in _Carmen_ and _Tosca_, and that Marcella Sembrichis happier when she is singing Zerlina (as a Mozart singer she has hadno equal in the past three decades) than when she is singing _Lakmé_. Mme. Melba sings _Lucia_ in excellent style but she probably could notconvince us that she knows how to sing a Brahms song. So far as I knowshe has never tried to do so. A recent example comes to mind in MariaMarco, the Spanish soprano, who sings music of her own country in herown language with absolutely irresistible effect, but on one occasionwhen she attempted _Vissi d'Arte_ she was transformed immediately intoa second-rate Italian singer. Even her gestures, ordinarily fully ofgrace and meaning, had become conventionalized. 

If this quality of style (which after all means an understanding ofboth the surface manner and underlying purpose of a composition and anability to transmit this understanding across the footlights) is ofsuch manifest importance in the field of art music it is doubly so inthe field of popular or folk-music. A foreigner had best think twicebefore attempting to sing a Swedish song, a Hungarian song, or aPolish song, popular or folk. (According to no less an authority thanCecil J. Sharp, the peasants themselves differentiate between the twoand devote to each a _special vocal method_. Here are his words["English Folk-Song"]: "But, it must be remembered that the vocalmethod of the folk-singer is inseparable from the folk-song. It is acult which has grown up side by side with the folk-song, and is, nodoubt, part and parcel of the same tradition. When, for instance, anold singing man sings a modern popular song, he will sing it in quiteanother way. The tone of his voice will change and he will slur hisintervals, after the approved manner of the street-singer. Indeed, itis usually quite possible to detect a genuine folk-song simply bypaying attention to the way in which it is sung. ") Strangers as a ruledo not attempt such matters although we have before us at the presenttime the very interesting case of Ratan Devi. It is a question, however, if Ratan Devi would be so much admired if her songs or theirtraditional manner of performance were more familiar to us. 

On our music hall stage there are not more than ten singers whounderstand how to sing American popular songs (and these, as I havesaid elsewhere at some length, [33] constitute America's best claim inthe art of music). It is very difficult to sing them well. Tone andphrasing have nothing to do with the matter; it is all a question ofstyle (leaving aside for the moment the important matter ofpersonality which enters into an accounting for any artist'spopularity or standing). Elsie Janis, a very clever mimic, adelightful dancer, and perhaps the most deservedly popular artist onour music hall stage, is not a good interpreter of popular songs. Shecannot be compared in this respect with Bert Williams, Blanche Ring, Stella Mayhew, Al Jolson, May Irwin, Ethel Levey, Nora Bayes, FannieBrice, or Marie Cahill. I have named nearly all the good ones. Thespirit, the very conscious liberties taken with the text (thevaudeville singer must elaborate his own syncopations as the singer ofearly opera embroidered on the score of the composer) are not mattersthat just happen. They require any amount of work and experience withaudiences. None of the singers I have named is a novice. Nor will youfind novices who are able to sing Schumann and Franz _lieder_, although they may be blessed with well-nigh perfect vocal organs. 

Still the music critics with strange persistence continue to adjudge asinger by the old formulæ and standards: has she an equalized scale?Has she taste in ornament? Does she overdo the use of _portamento_, _messa di voce_, and such devices? How is her shake? etc. , etc. Buthow false, how ridiculous, this is! Fancy the result if new writersand composers were criticized by the old laws (so they are, my son, but not for long)! Creative artists always smash the old tablets ofcommandments and it does not seem to me that interpretative artistsneed be more unprogressive. Acting changes. Judged by the standards bywhich Edwin Booth was assessed John Drew is not an actor. But we knownow that it is a different kind of acting. Acting has been flamboyant, extravagant, and intensely emotional, something quite different fromreal life. The present craze for counterfeiting the semblance ofordinary existence on the stage will also die out for the stage is notlife and representing life on the stage (except in a conventionalizedor decorative form) is not art. Our new actors (with our newplaywrights) will develop a new and fantastic mode of expressionwhich will supersede the present fashion.... Rubinstein certainly didnot play the piano like Chopin. Presently a _virtuoso_ will appear whowill refuse to play the piano at all and a new instrument without atempered scale will be invented so that he may indulge in all thesubtleties between half-tones which are denied to the pianist. 

It's all very well to cry, "Halt!" and "Who goes there?" but you can'tstop progress any more than you can stop the passing of time. The oldtechnique of the singer breaks down before the new technique of thecomposer and the musician with daring will go still further if thesinger will but follow. Would that some singer would have the completecourage to lead! But do not misunderstand me. The road to Parnassus isno shorter because it has been newly paved. Indeed I think it islonger. Caffarelli studied six years before he made his début as "thegreatest singer in the world" but I imagine that Waslav Nijinskystudied ten before he set foot on the stage. The new music drama, combining as it does principles from all the arts is all-demanding ofits interpreters. The new singer must learn how to move gracefully andawkwardly, how to make both fantastic and realistic gestures, alwaysunconventional gestures, because conventions stamp the imitator. Shemust peer into every period, glance at every nation. Every nervecentre must be prepared to express any adumbration of plasticity. Manyof the new operas, _Carmen_, _La Dolores_, _Salome_, _Elektra_, toname a few, call for interpretative dancing of the first order. _Madama Butterfly_ and _Lakmé_ demand a knowledge of nationalcharacteristics. _Pelléas et Mélisande_ and _Ariane et Barbe-Bleue_require of the interpreter absolutely distinct enunciation. InHandel's operas the phrases were repeated so many times that thesinger was excused if he proclaimed the meaning of the line once. After that he could alter the vowels and consonants to suit his vocalconvenience. _Monna Vanna_ and _Tristan und Isolde_ exact of theirinterpreters acting of the highest poetic and imaginative scope.... 

It is a question whether certain singers of our day have not solvedthese problems with greater success than that for which they are givencredit.... Yvette Guilbert has announced publicly that she never had ateacher, that she would not trust her voice to a teacher. Theenchanting Yvette practises a sound by herself until she is able tomake it; she repeats a phrase until she can deliver it without aninterrupting breath, and is there a singer on the stage moreexpressive than Yvette Guilbert? She sings a little tenor, a littlebaritone, and a little bass. She can succeed almost invariably inmaking the effect she sets out to make. And Yvette Guilbert is theanswer to the statement often made that unorthodox methods of singingruin the voice. Ruin it for performances of _Linda di Chaminoux_ and_La Sonnambula_ very possibly, but if young singers sit about savingtheir voices for performances of these operas they are more thanlikely to die unheard. It is a fact that good singing in theold-fashioned sense will help nobody out in _Elektra_, _Ariane etBarbe-Bleue_, _Pelléas et Mélisande_, or _The Nightingale_. Theseworks are written in new styles and they demand a new technique. PutMme. Melba, Mme. Destinn, Mme. Sembrich, or Mme. Galli-Curci to workon these scores and you will simply have a sad mess. 

We have, I think, but a faint glimmering of what vocal expressivenessmay become. Such torch-bearers as Mariette Mazarin and FeodorChaliapine have been procaciously excoriated by the critics. Untilrecently Mary Garden, who of all artists on the lyric stage, is themost nearly in touch with the singing of the future, has been treatedas a charlatan and a fraud. W. J. Henderson once called her the "Queenof Unsong. " Well, perhaps she is, but she is certainly better able tocope artistically with the problems of the modern music drama thansuch Queens of Song as Marcella Sembrich and Adelina Patti would be. Perhaps Unsong is the name of the new art. 

I do not think I have ever been backward in expressing my appreciationof this artist. My essay devoted to her in "Interpreters andInterpretations" will certainly testify eloquently as to my previousattitude in regard to her. But it has not always been so with some ofmy colleagues. Since she has been away from us they have learnedsomething; they have watched and listened to others and so when MaryGarden came back to New York in _Monna Vanna_ in January, 1918, theywere ready to sing choruses of praise in her honour. They have beenencomiastic even in regard to her voice and her manner of singing. 

Even my own opinion of this artist's work has undergone a change. Ihave always regarded her as one of the few great interpreters, but inthe light of recent experience I now feel assured that she is thegreatest artist on the contemporary lyric stage. It is not, I wouldinsist, Mary Garden that has changed so much as we ourselves. She has, it is true, polished her interpretations until they seem incrediblyperfect, but has there ever been a time when she gave anything butperfect impersonations of Mélisande or Thais? Has she ever beencareless before the public? I doubt it. 

The fact of the matter is that when Mary Garden first came to New Yorkonly a few of us were ready to receive her at anywhere near her trueworth. In a field where mediocrity and brainlessness, lack oftheatrical instinct and vocal insipidity are fairly the rule herdominant personality, her unerring search for novelty of expression, the very completeness of her dramatic and vocal pictures, annoyed thephilistines, the professors, and the academicians. They had beenaccustomed to taking their opera quietly with their after-dinnercoffee and, on the whole, they preferred it that way. 

But the main obstacle in the way of her complete success lay in thematter of her voice, of her singing. Of the quality of any voice therecan always exist a thousand different opinions. To me the great beautyof the middle register of Mary Garden's voice has always beenapparent. But what was not so evident at first was the absolutefitness of this voice and her method of using it for the dramaticstyle of the artist and for the artistic demands of the works inwhich she appeared. Thoroughly musical, Miss Garden has often puzzledher critical hearers by singing _Faust_ in one vocal style and _Thais_in another. But she was right and they were wrong. She might, indeed, have experimented still further with a new vocal technique if she hadbeen given any encouragement but encouragement is seldom offered toany innovator. As Edgar Saltus puts it, "The number of people whoregard a new idea or a fresh theory as a personal insult is curiouslylarge; indeed they are more frequent today than when Socrates quaffedthe hemlock. " It must, therefore, be a source of ironic amusement toher to find herself now appreciated not alone by her public, which hasalways been loyal and adoring, but also by the professors themselves. 

It would do no harm to any singer to study the multitude of vocaleffects this artist achieves. I can think of nobody who could notlearn something from her. How, for example, she gives her voice thehue and colour of a _jeune fille_ in _Pelléas et Mélisande_, foralthough Mélisande had been the bride of Barbe-Bleue before Golauddiscovered her in the forest she had never learned to be anything elsethan innocent and distraught, unhappy and mysterious. Her treatment ofcertain important phrases in this work is so electrifying in itseffect that the heart of every auditor is pierced. Remember, forexample, her question to Pelléas at the end of the first act, "_Pourquoi partez-vous?_" to which she imparts a kind of dreamyintuitive longing; recall the amazement shining through her grief atGolaud's command that she ask Pelléas to accompany her on her searchfor the lost ring: "_Pelléas!--Avec Pelléas!--Mais Pelléas ne voudrapas_... "; and do not forget the terrified cry which signals thediscovery of the hidden Golaud in the park, "_Il y a quelqu'underrière nous!_"

In _Monna Vanna_ her most magnificent vocal gesture rested on thesingle word _Si_ in reply to Guido's "_Tu ne reviendras pas?_" Herperformance of this work, however, offers many examples of just suchinstinctive intonations. One more, I must mention, her answer toGuido's insistent, "_Cet homme t'a-t-il prise_?"... "_J'ai dit lavérité.... Il ne m'a pas touchée_, " sung with dignity, with force, with womanliness, and yet with growing impatience and a touch ofsadness. 

Let me quote Pitts Sanborn: "It is easy to be flippant about MissGarden's singing. Her faults of voice and technique are patent to achild, though he might not name them. One who has become a man canponder the greatness of her singing. I do not mean exclusively inDebussy, though we all know that as a singer of Debussy ... She hasscarce a rival. Take her _mezza voce_ and her phrasing in the secondact of _Monna Vanna_, take them and bow down before them. Ponder amoment her singing in _Thais_. The converted Thais, about to betakeherself desertward with the insistent monk, has a solo to sing. Thesolo is Massenet, simon-pure Massenet, the idol of the Paris_midinette_. Miss Garden, with a defective voice, a defectivetechnique, exalts and magnifies that passage till it might be thenoblest air of Handel or of Mozart. By a sheer and unashamed relianceon her command of style, Miss Garden works that miracle, transfiguresMassenet into something superearthly, overpowering. Will you rise upto deny that is singing?"

As for her acting, there can scarcely be two opinions about that! Sheis one of the few possessors of that rare gift of imparting atmosphereand mood to a characterization. Some exceptional actors and singersaccomplish this feat occasionally. Mary Garden has scarcely everfailed to do so. The moment Mélisande is disclosed to our view, forexample, she seems to be surrounded by an aura entirely distinct fromthe aura which surrounds Monna Vanna, Jean, Thais, Salome, or Sapho. She becomes, indeed, so much a part of the character she assumes thatthe spectator finds great difficulty in dissociating her from thatcharacter, and I have found those who, having seen Mary Garden in onlyone part, were quite ready to generalize about her own personalityfrom the impression they had received. 

One of the tests of great acting is whether or not an artist remainsin the picture when she is not singing or speaking. Mary Garden knowshow to listen on the stage. She does not need to move or speak to makeherself a part of the action and she is never guilty of such anoffence against artistry as that committed by Tamagno, who, accordingto Victor Maurel, allowed a scene in _Otello_ to drop to nothing whilehe prepared himself to emit a high B. 

Watching her magnificent performance of Monna Vanna it struck me thatshe would make an incomparable Isolde. At the present moment I cannotimagine Mary Garden learning Boche or singing in it even if she knewit, but if some one will present us Wagner's (who hated the Germans asmuch as Theodore Roosevelt does) music drama in French or English withMary Garden as Isolde, I think the public will thank me for havingsuggested it. 

Or it would be even better if Schoenberg, or Stravinsky, or LeoOrnstein, inspired by the new light the example of such a singer hascast over our lyric stage, would write a music drama, ignoring thetechnique and the conventions of the past, as Debussy did when hewrote _Pelléas et Mélisande_ (creating opportunities which anyopera-goer of the last decade knows how gloriously Miss Gardenrealized). It is thus that the new order will gradually becomeestablished. And then the new art ... The new art of the singer.... 

 _April 18, 1918. _

Au Bal Musette

 _"Auprès de ma blonde Qu'il fait bon, fait bon, bon, bon.... "_

 Old French Song. 

Au Bal Musette

It has often been remarked by philosophers and philistines alike thatthe commonest facts of existence escape our attention until they areimpressed upon it in some unusual way. For example I knew nothing ofthe sovereign powers of citronella as a mosquito dispatcher until aplague of the insects drove me to make enquiries of a chemist. Foryears I believed that knocking the necks off bottles, lacking anopener, was the only alternative. A friend who caught me in thispredicament showed me the other use to which the handles of high-boydrawers could be put. It was long my habit to quickly dispose oftrousers which had been disfigured by cigarette burns, but that wasbefore I had heard of _stoppage_, a process by which the originalweave is cleverly counterfeited. And, wishing to dance, in Paris, Ihave been guilty of visits to the great dance halls and to the smallsmart places where champagne is oppressively the only listed beverage. But that was before I discovered the _bal musette_. 

One July night in Paris I had dinner with a certain lady at theCou-Cou, followed by cognac at the Savoyarde. I find nothing strangein this program; it seems to me that I must have dined at the Cou-Couwith every one I have known in Paris from time to time, a range ofacquaintanceship including Fernand, the _apache_, and the Comtesse deJ----, and cognac at the Savoyarde usually followed the dinner. Thisevening at the Cou-Cou then resembled any other evening. Do you knowhow to go there? You must take a taxi-cab to the foot of the hill ofMontmartre and then be drawn up in the _finiculaire_ to the top wherethe church of Sacré-Coeur squats proudly, for all the world like amammoth Buddha (of course you may ride all the way up the mountain inyour taxi if you like). From Sacré-Coeur one turns to the left aroundthe board fence which, it would seem, will always hedge in thisunfinished monument of pious Catholics; still turning to the left, through the Place du Tertre, in which one must not be stayed by thepleasant sight of the _Montmartroises bourgeoises_ eating _petitemarmite_ in the open air, one arrives at the Place du Calvaire. Thetables of the Restaurant Cou-Cou occupy nearly the whole of this tinysquare, to which there are only two means of approach, one up thestairs from the city below, and the other from the Place du Tertre. Anartist's house disturbs the view on the side towards Paris; oppositeis the restaurant, flanked on the right by a row of modest apartmenthouses, to which one gains entrance through a high wall by means of asmall gate. Sundry visitors to these houses, some on bicycles, makeoccasional interruptions in the dinner.... From over this wall, too, comes the huge Cheshire cat (much bigger than Alice's, a beautifulanimal), which lounges about in the hope, frequently realized, thatsome one will give him a chicken bone.... Conterminous to therestaurant, on the right, is a tiny cottage, fronted by a still tiniergarden, fenced in and gated. Many of the visitors to the Cou-Cou hangtheir hats and sticks on this fence and its gate. I have never seenthe occupants of the cottage in any of my numerous visits to this openair restaurant, but once, towards eleven o'clock the crowd in thesquare becoming too noisy, the upper windows were suddenly thrown upand a pailful of water descended.... "_Per Baccho!_" quoth theinn-keeper for, it must be known, the Restaurant Cou-Cou is Italian bynature of its _patron_ and its cooking. 

This night, I say, had been as the others. The Cou-Cou is (and in thisrespect it is not exceptional in Paris) safe to return to if you havefound it to your liking in years gone by. Perhaps some day the smallboy of the place will be grown up. He is a real _enfant terrible_. Itis his pleasure to _tutoyer_ the guests, to amuse himself bypretending to serve them, only to bring the wrong dishes, or none atall. If you call to him he is deaf. Any hope of _revanche_ isabandoned in the reflection of the super-retaliations he himselfconceives. One young man who expresses himself freely on the subjectof Pietro receives a plate of hot soup down the back of his neck, followed immediately by a "_Pardon, Monsieur_, " said not withoutrespect. But where might Pietro's father be? He is in the kitchencooking and if you find your dinner coming too slowly at the hands ofthe distracted maid servants, who also have to put up with Pietro, gointo the kitchen, passing under the little vine-clad porch wherein youmay discover a pair of lovers, and help yourself. And if you find someone else's dinner more to your liking than your own take that off thestove instead. At the Cou-Cou you pay for what you eat, not for whatyou order. And the Signora, Pietro's mother? That unhappy womanusually stands in front of the door, where she interferes with thepassage of the girls going for food. She wrings her hands and moans, "_Mon Dieu, quel monde!_" with the idea that she is helping vastly inthe manipulation of the machinery of the place. 

And the _monde_; who goes there? It is not too _chic_, this _monde_, and yet it is surely not _bourgeois_; if one does not recognize M. Rodin or M. Georges Feydeau, yet there are compensations.... The girlswho come attended by bearded companions, are unusually pretty; onesees them afterwards at the bars and _bals_ if one does not go to theAbbaye or Pagés.... It makes a very pleasant picture, the Place duCalvaire towards nine o'clock on a summer night when tiny lights withpink globes are placed on the tables. The little square twinkles withthem and the couples at the tables become very gay, and sometimessentimental. And when the pink lights appear a small boy in bluetrousers comes along to light the street lamp. Then the urchins gatheron the wall which hedges in the garden on the fourth side of thesquare and chatter, chatter, chatter, about all the things that Frenchboys chatter about. Naturally they have a good deal to say about thepeople who are eating. 

I have described the Cou-Cou as it was this night and as it has beenall the nights during the past eight summers that I have been there. The dinner too is always the same. It is served _à la carte_, but oneis not given much choice. There is always a _potage_, always_spaghetti_, always chicken and a salad, always a lobster, and_zabaglione_ if one wants it. The wine--it is called _chianti_--istolerable. And the _addition_ is made upon a slate with a piece ofwhite chalk. "_Qu'est-ce que monsieur a mangé?_" Sometimes it is verydifficult to remember, but it is necessary. Such honesty compels anexertion. It is all added up and for the two of us on this evening, orany other evening, it may come to nine _francs_, which is not much topay for a good dinner. 

Then, on this evening, and every other evening, we went on, back as wehad come, round past the other side of Sacré-Coeur, past the statue ofthe Chevalier who was martyred for refusing to salute a procession(why he refused I have never found out, although I have askedeverybody who has ever dined with me at the Cou-Cou) to the CaféSavoyarde, the broad windows of which look out over pretty much allthe Northeast of Paris, over a glittering labyrinth of lights set inan obscure sea of darkness. It was not far from here that Louise andJulien kept house when they were interrupted by Louise's mother, andit was looking down over these lights that they swore those eternalvows, ending with Louise's "_C'est une Féerie!_" and Julien's "_Non, c'est la vie!_" One always remembers these things and feels them atthe Savoyarde as keenly as one did sometime in the remote pastwatching Mary Garden and Léon Beyle from the topmost gallery of theOpéra-Comique after an hour and a half wait in the _queue_ for one_franc_ tickets (there were always people turned away fromperformances of _Louise_ and so it was necessary to be there early;some other operas did not demand such punctuality). There is a terraceoutside the Savoyarde, a tiny terrace, with just room for one man, whogriddles _gaufrettes_, and three or four tiny tables with chairs. Atone of these we sat that night (just as I had sat so many timesbefore) and sipped our cognac. 

It is difficult in an adventure to remember just when the departurecomes, when one leaves the past and strides into the future, but Ithink that moment befell me in this café ... For it was the first timeI had ever seen a cat there. He was a lazy, splendid animal. In NewYork he would have been an oddity, but in Paris there are many suchbeasts. Tawny he was and soft to the touch and of a hugeness. He waslying on the bar and as I stroked his coat he purred melifluously.... I stroked his warm fur and thought how I belonged to the mystic band(Gautier, Baudelaire, Mérimée, all knew the secrets) of those who areacquainted with cats; it is a feeling of pride we have thatdifferentiates us from the dog lovers, the pride of the appreciationof indifference or of conscious preference. And it was, I think, as Iwas stroking the cat that my past was smote away from me and I wasprojected into the adventure for, as I lifted the animal into my arms, the better to feel its warmth and softness, it sprang with strengthand unsheathed claws out of my embrace, and soon was back on the baragain, "just as if nothing had happened. " There was blood on my face. Madame, behind the bar, was apologetic but not chastening. "_Il avaitpeur_, " she said. "_Il n'est pas méchant. _" The wound was not deep, and as I bent to pet the cat again he again purred. I had interferedwith his habits and, as I discovered later, he had interfered withmine. 

We decided to walk down the hill instead of riding down in the_finiculaire_, down the stairs which form another of the pictures in_Louise_, with the abutting houses, into the rooms of which one looks, conscious of prying. And you see the old in these interiors, makingshoes, or preparing dinner, or the middle-aged going to bed, but theyoung one never sees in the houses in the summer.... It was early andwe decided to dance; I thought of the Moulin de la Galette, which Ihad visited twice before. The Moulin de la Galette waves its gauntarms in the air half way up the _butte_ of Montmartre; it serves itspurpose as a dance hall of the quarter. One meets the pretty little_Montmartroises_ there and the young artists; the entrance fee is notexorbitant and one may drink a bock. And when I have been there, sitting at a small table facing the somewhat vivid mural decorationwhich runs the length of one wall, drinking my brown _bock_, I haveremembered the story which Mary Garden once told me, how Albert Carréto celebrate the hundredth--or was it the twenty-fifth?--performanceof _Louise_, gave a dinner there--so near to the scenes he hadconceived--to Charpentier and how, surrounded by some of the mostnotable musicians and poets of France, the composer had suddenlyfallen from the table, face downwards; he had starved himself so longto complete his masterpiece that food did not seem to nourish him. Itwas the end of a brilliant dinner. He was carried away ... To theRiviera; some said that he had lost his mind; some said that he wasdying. Mary Garden herself did not know, at the time she first sang_Louise_ in America, what had happened to him. But a little later therumour that he was writing a trilogy was spread about and soon it wasa known fact that at least one other part of the trilogy had beenwritten, _Julien_; that lyric drama was produced and everybody knowsthe story of its failure. Charpentier, the natural philosopher and thepoet of Montmartre, had said everything he had to say in _Louise_. Asfor the third play, one has heard nothing about that yet. 

But on this evening the Moulin de la Galette was closed and then Iremembered that it was open on Thursday and this was Wednesday. Is itThursday, Saturday, and Sunday that the Moulin de la Galette is open?I think so. By this time we were determined to dance; but where? Wehad no desire to go to some stupid place, common to tourists, no suchplace as the Bal Tabarin lured us; nor did the Grelot in the PlaceBlanche, for we had been there a night or two before. The ElyséeMontmartre (celebrated by George Moore) would be closed. Its _patron_followed the schedule of days adopted for the Galette.... To chance Iturn in such dilemmas.... I consulted a small boy, who, with hiscompanion, had been good enough to guide us through many windingstreets to the Moulin. Certainly he knew of a _bal_. Would _monsieur_care to visit a _bal musette_? His companion was horrified. I caughtthe phrase "_mal frequenté_. " Our curiosity was aroused and we gavethe signal to advance. 

There were two grounds for my personal curiosity beyond the moreobvious ones. I seemed to remember to have read somewhere that theladies of the court of Louis XIV played the _musette_, which is Frenchfor bag-pipe. It was the fashionable instrument of an epoch and the_musettes_ played by the _grandes dames_ were elaborately decorated. The word in time slunk into the dictionaries of musical terms asdescriptive of a drone bass. Many of Gluck's ballet airs bear thetitle, _Musette_. Perhaps the bass was even performed on abag-pipe.... "_Mal frequenté_" in Parisian _argot_ has a variety ofsignifications; in this particular instance it suggested _apaches_ tome. A _bal_, for instance, attended by _cocottes_, _mannequins_, or_modèles_, could not be described as _mal frequenté_ unless one werespeaking to a boarding school miss, for all the public _bals_ in Parisare so attended. No, the words spoken to me, in this connection, couldonly mean _apaches_. The confusion of epochs began to invite myinterest and I wondered, in my mind's eye, how a Louis XIV _apache_would dress, how he would be represented at a costume ball, and apicture of a ragged silk-betrousered person, flaunting a plaid-belliedinstrument came to mind. An imagination often leads one violentlyastray. 

The two urchins were marching us through street after street, one ofthem whistling that pleasing tune, _Le lendemain elle étaitsouriante_. Dark passage ways intervened between us and ourdestination: we threaded them. The cobble stones of the underfoot werenot easy to walk on for my companion, shod in high-heels from thePlace Vendôme.... The urchins amused each other and us by capers onthe way. They could have made our speed walking on their hands, andthey accomplished at least a third of the journey this way. Of course, I deluged them with large round five and ten _centimes_ pieces. 

We arrived at last before a door in a short street near the Gare duNord. Was it the Rue Jessaint? I do not know, for when, a year later, I attempted to re-find this _bal_ it had disappeared.... We could hearthe hum of the pipes for some paces before we turned the corner intothe street, and never have pipes sounded in my ears with such a shrillsignificance of being somewhere they ought not to be, never but once, and that was when I had heard the piper who accompanies the dinner ofthe Governor of the Bahamas in Nassau. Marching round the porch of theGovernor's Villa he played _The Blue Bells of Scotland_ and _God Savethe King_, but, hearing the sound from a distance through theinterstices of the cocoa-palm fronds in the hot tropical night, Icould only think of a Hindoo blowing the pipes in India, the charmingof snakes.... So, as we turned the corner into the Rue Jessaint, Iseemed to catch a faint glimpse of a scene on the lawn atVersailles.... Louis XIV--it was the epoch of Cinderella!

But it wasn't a bag-pipe at all. That we discovered when we enteredthe room, after passing through the bar in the front. The _bal_ wasconducted in a large hall at the back of the _maison_. In the doorwaylounged an _agent de service_, always a guest at one of thesefunctions, I found out later. There were rows of tables, long tables, with long wooden benches placed between them. One corner of the floorwas cleared--not so large a corner either--for dancing, and on a smallplatform sat the strangest looking youth, like Peter Pan never to growold, like the _Monna Lisa_ a boy of a thousand years, without emotionor expression of any sort. He was playing an accordion; the bag-pipe, symbol of the _bal_, hung disused on the wall over his head. Hisaccordion, manipulated with great skill, was augmented by sleigh-bellsattached to his ankles in such a manner that a minimum of movementproduced a maximum of effect; he further added to the complexity ofsound and rhythm by striking a cymbal occasionally with one of hisfeet. The music was both rhythmic and ordered, now a waltz, now a tunein two-four time, but never faster or slower, and never ending ... Except in the middle of each dance, for a brief few seconds, while the_patronne_ collected a _sou_ from each dancer, after which the danceproceeded. All the time we remained never did the musician smile, except twice, once briefly when I sent word to him by the waiter toorder a _consommation_ and once, at some length, when we departed. Onthese occasions the effect was almost emotionally illuminating, soinexpressive was the ordinary cast of his features. A strange lad; Ilike to think of him always sitting there, passively, playing theaccordion and shaking his sleigh-bells. He suggested a static picture, a thing of always, but I know it is not so, for even the next summerhe had disappeared along with the _bal_ and now he may have been shotin the Battle of the Marne or he may have murdered his _gigolette_ andbeen transported to one of the French penal colonies.... An _apache, en musicien!_ ... Black cloth around his throat, hair parted in themiddle, _velours_ trousers; a _vrai apache_ I tell you, a cool, cunning creature, shredded with cocaine and absinthe, monotonous inhis virtuosity, playing the accordion. He had begun before we arrivedand he continued after we left. I like to think of him as alwaysplaying, but it is not so.... 

As for the dancers, they were of various kinds and sorts. The womenhad that air which gave them the stamp of a quarter; they wore loose_blouses_, tucked in plaid skirts, or dark blue skirts, ormulti-coloured calico skirts (if you have seen the lithographs ofSteinlen you may reconstruct the picture with no difficulty) and theydanced in that peculiar fashion so much in vogue in the Northernoutskirts of Paris. The men seized them tightly and they whirled tothe inexorable music when it was a waltz, whirled and whirled, untilone thought of the Viennese and how they become as dervishes andJapanese mice when one plays Johann Strauss. But in the dances intwo-four time their way was more our way, something between aone-step, a mattchiche, and a tango, with strange fascinating steps oftheir own devising, a folk-dance manner.... Yes, under their feet, thedance became a real dance of the people and, when we entered into it, our feet seemed heavy and our steps conventional, although we triedto do what they did. (How they did laugh at us!) And the strangeyouth emphasized the effect of folk-dancing by playing old _chansonsde France_ which he mingled with his repertory of _café-concert_ airs. And there was achieved that wonderful thing (to an artist) a mixtureof _genres_--intriguing one's curiosity, awakening the most dormantinterest, and inspiring the dullest imagination. 

This was my first night at a _bal musette_ and my last in that year, for shortly afterwards I left for Italy and in Italy one does notdance. But the next season found me anxious to renew the adventure, toagain enjoy the pleasures of the _bal musette_. I have said I wasperhaps wrong in recalling the street as the Rue Jessaint, or perhapsthe old _maison_ had disappeared. At any rate, when I searched I couldnot find the _bal_, not even the bar. So again I appealed for help, this time to a chauffeur, who drove me to the opposite side of thecity, to the _quartier_ of the _Halles_.... And I was beginning tothink that the man had misunderstood me, or was stupid. "He will takeme to a cabaret, l'Ange Gabriel or"--and I rapidly revolved in my mindthe possibilities of this quarter where the _apaches_ come to thesurface to feel the purse of the tourist, who buys drinks as helistens to stories of murders, some of which have been committed, forit is true that some of the real _apaches_ go there (I know because myfriend Fernand did and it was in l'Ange Gabriel that he knocked allthe teeth down the throat of Angélique, _sa gigolette_. You may findthe life of these creatures vividly and amusingly described in thatamazing book of Charles-Henry Hirsch, "Le Tigre et Coquelicot" It isthe only book I have read about the _apaches_ of modern Paris that isworth its pages). But the idea of l'Ange Gabriel was not amusing to methis evening and I leaned forward to ask my chauffeur if he had it inmind to substitute another attraction for my desired _bal musette_. His reply was reassuring; it took the form of a gesture, the waving ofa hand towards a small lighted globe depending over the door of alittle _marchand de vin_. On this globe was painted in black lettersthe single word, _bal_. We were in the narrow Rue des Gravilliers--Iwas there for the first time--and the _bal_ was the Bal desGravilliers. 

The bar is so small, when one enters, that there is no intimation ofthe really splendid aspect of the dancing room. For here there are tworooms separated by the dancing floor, two halls filled with tables, with long wooden benches between them. Benches also line the walls, which are white with a grey-blue frieze; the lighting is brilliant. The musicians play in a little balcony, and here there are two ofthem, an accordionist and a guitarist. The performer on the accordionis a _virtuoso_; he takes delight in winding florid ornament, afterthe manner of some brilliant singer impersonating Rosina in _IlBarbiere_, around the melodies he performs. As in the Rue Jessaint a_sou_ is demanded in the middle of each dance. But there comparisonmust cease, for the life here is gayer, more of a character. The typesare of the _Halles_.... There are strange exits.... 

A short woman enters; "_elle s'avance en se balançant sur ses hanchescomme une pouliche du haras de Cordoue_"; she suggests an operaticCarmen in her swagger. She is slender, with short, dark hair, cropped_à la_ Boutet de Monvel, and she flourishes a cigarette, the smokefrom which wreathes upward and obscures--nay makes more subtle--thestrange poignancy of her deep blue eyes. Her nose is of a snubness. Itis the _môme_ Estelle, and as she passes down the narrow aisle, between the tables, there is a stir of excitement.... The men raisetheir eyes.... Edouard, _le petit_, flicks a _louis_ carelesslybetween his thumb and fore-finger, with the long dirty nails, andthen passes it back into his pocket. Do not mistake the gesture; itis not made to entice the _môme_, nor is it a sign of affluence; it isEdouard's means of demanding another _louis_ before the night is up, if it be only a "_louis de dix francs_. " Estelle looks at him boldly;there is no fear in her eyes; you can see that she would face deathwith Carmen's calm if the Fates cut the thread to that effect.... Themusic begins and Estelle dances with Carmella, _l'Arabe_. Edouardglowers and pulls his little grey cap down tower.... It is a waltz.... Suddenly he is on the floor and Estelle is pressed close to hisbody.... Carmella sits down. She smiles, and presently she is dancingwith Jean-Baptiste.... Estelle and Edouard are now whirling, whirling, and all the while his dark eyes look down piercingly into her blueeyes. The music stops. Estelle fumbles in her stocking for two _sous_. Edouard lights a _Maryland_. 

There is a newcomer tonight. (I am talking to the _agent de service_. )She is of a youth and she is certainly from Brittany. I see hersitting in a corner, waiting for something, trying to know. "She willlearn, " says my friend, "She will learn to pay like the others. " Thatis the _gros_ Pierre who regards her. He twirls his moustache andconsiders, and in the end he lumbers to her and asks her to dance. She is willing to do so, but the intensity of Pierre frightens her, frightens and intrigues.... There is a sign on the wall that one mustnot stamp one's feet, but no other prohibition.... He twists herfinger purposely as they whirl ... And whirl. She cowers. _Gros_Pierre is very big and strong. "_T'es bath, môme_, " I hear him say, asthey pass me by.... The dance over, he towers above her for a briefsecond before he swaggers out.... Estelle smiles. Her lips move andshe speaks quickly to Edouard, _le petit_.... He does not listen. Whyshould he listen to his _gigolette_? She is wasting her time hereanyway. He becomes impatient.... Carmella smiles across the room in abrief second of chance and Estelle answers the smile. Carmella holdsup three fingers (it is now 1. 30). Estelle nods her head quickly. Themusicians are always playing, except in the middle of the dance when_madame, la patronne_, gathers in the _sous_.... Only from one shetakes nothing.... He is twenty and very blonde and he is dancing with_Madame_.... Between dances she pays his _consommations_.... Estellerises slowly and walks out while Carmella, _l'Arabe_, follows her withhis eyes. Edouard, _le petit_, lights a _Maryland_ and poises a_louis_ between his thumb and fore-finger, the nails of which arelong and dirty.... The music is always playing.... The little girlfrom Brittany is again alone in the corner. There is fear in her face. She is beginning to know. She summons her courage and walks to thedoor, on through.... The _agent de service_ twirls his moustache andpoints after her. "She soon will know. " I follow. She hesitates for asecond at the street door and then starts towards the corner.... Shereaches the corner and passes around it.... I hear a scream ... Thesound of running footsteps ... The beat of a horse's hoofs ... Therolling of wheels on the cobble stones.... 

 _November 11, 1915. _

Music and Cooking

 _"Give me some music, --music, moody food Of us that trade in love. "_

 Shakespeare's _Cleopatra_. 

Music and Cooking

It is my firm belief that there is an intimate relationship betweenthe stomach and the ear, the saucepan and the crotchet, the mysteriesof Mrs. Rorer and the mysteries of Mme. Marchesi. It has even occurredto me that one of the reasons our American composers are so barren inideas is because as a race we are not interested in cooking andeating. Those countries in which music plays the greater part in thenational life are precisely those which are the most interested in theculinary art. The food of Italy, the cooking, is celebrated; everypeasant in that sunny land sings, and the voices of some Italians havereverberated around the world. The very melodies of Verdi and Rossiniare inextricably twined in our minds around memories of _ravioli_ and_zabaglione_. _Vesti la Giubba_ is _spaghetti_. The composers of thesemelodies and their interpreters alike cooked, ate, and drank with joy, and so they composed and sang with joy too. Men with indigestion maybe able to write novels, but they cannot compose great music.... TheGermans spend more time eating than the people of any other country(at least they did once). It is small occasion for wonder, therefore, that they produce so many musicians. They are always eating, mammothplates heaped high with Bavarian cabbage, _Koenigsberger Klopps_, _Hasenpfeffer_, noodles, sauerkraut, _Wiener Schnitzel_ ... Drinkingseidels of beer. They escort sausages with them to the opera. All thewomen have their skirts honeycombed with capacious pockets, in whichthey carry substantial lunches to eat while Isolde is deceiving KingMark. Why, the very principle of German music is based on a theory ofwell-fed auditors. The voluptuous scores of Richard Wagner, RichardStrauss, Max Schillings and Co. Were not written for skinny, ill-nourished wights. Even Beethoven demands flesh and bone of hishearers. The music of Bach is directly aimed against the doctrine ofasceticism. "The German capacity for feeling emotion in music hasdeveloped to the same extent as the capacity of the German stomach forcontaining food, " writes Ernest Newman, "but in neither the one casenor the other has there been a corresponding development in refinementof perceptions. German sentimental music is not quite as gross asGerman food and German feeding, but it comes very near to itsometimes.... 'The Germans do not taste, ' said Montaigne, 'they gulp. 'As with their food, so with the emotions of their music. So long asthey get them in sufficient mass, of the traditional quality, and withthe traditional pungent seasoning, they are content to leave piquancyand variety of effect to others. "... Once in Munich in a secondstorey window of the Bayerischebank I saw a small boy, about ten yearsold, sitting outside on the sill, washing the panes of glass. Oppositehim on the same sill a dachshund reposed on her paws, regarding hermaster affectionately. Between the two stood a half-filled toby offoaming Löwenbrau, which, from time to time, the lad raised to hislips, quaffing deep draughts. And when he set the pot down he whistledthe first subject of Beethoven's _Fifth Symphony_. On Sundayafternoons, in the gardens which invariably surround the Munichbreweries, the happy mothers, who gather to listen to the band playwhile they drink beer, frequently replenish the empty nursing bottlesof their offspring at the taps from which flows the deep brownbeverage.... The food of the French is highly artificial, delicatelyprepared and served, and flavoured with infinite art: _vol au vent àla reine_ and Massenet, _petits pois à l'etuvée_ and Gounod, _oeufSte. Clotilde_ and César Franck, all strike the tongue and the earquite pleasantly. Des Esseintes and his liqueur symphony were theinventions of a Frenchman.... Hungarian goulash and Hungarianrhapsodies are certainly designed to be taken in conjunction.... Russian music tastes of _kascha_ and _bortsch_ and vodka. The happy, hearty eaters of Russia, the drunken, sodden drinkers of Russia arereflected in the scores of _Boris Godunow_ and _Petrouchka_.... InEngland we find that the great English meat pasties and puddingsappeared in the same century with the immortal Purcell.... But inAmerica we import our cooks ... And our music. As a race we do notlike to cook. We scarcely like to eat. We certainly do not enjoyeating. We will never have a national music until we have nationaldishes and national drinks and until we like good food. It issignificant that our national drinks at present are mixed drinks, theingredients of which are foreign. It is doubly significant that thatsection of the country which produces chicken _à la Maryland_, cornbread, beaten biscuit, mint juleps, and New Orleans fizzes hasfurnished us with the best of such music as we can boast. Maine hasoffered us no _Suwanee River_; we owe no _Swing Low, Sweet Chariot_ toNebraska. The best of our ragtime composers are Jews, a race whichregards eating and cooking of sufficient importance to include rulesfor the preparation and disposition of food in its religious tenets. 

Most musicians and those who enjoy listening to music, like to eat(this does not mean that people who like to eat always desire tolisten to music at the same time, but nowadays one has little choicein the matter); what is more pregnant, most of them like to cook. Wemay include even the music critics, one of whom (Henry T. Finck) haswritten a book about such matters. The others eat ... And expand. James Huneker devotes sixteen pages of "The New Cosmopolis" to the"maw of the monster. " And as H. L. Mencken has pointed out, "ThePilsner motive runs through the book from cover to cover. " Dinners areconstantly being given for the musicians and critics to meet and talkover thirteen courses with wine. You may read Mr. Krehbiel's glowingaccounts of the dinner given to Adelina Patti (a dinner referred to inJoseph Hergesheimer's lyric novel, "The Three Black Pennys") on theoccasion of her twenty-fifth anniversary as a singer, of the dinner toMarcella Sembrich to mark her retirement from the opera stage, and ofa dinner to Teresa Carreño when she proposed a toast to her threehusbands.... Go to the opera house and observe the lady singers, withtheir ample bosoms and their broad hips, the men with their expansivepaunches ... And use your imagination. Why is it, when a singer isinterviewed for a newspaper, that she invariably finds herself tiredof hotel food and wants an apartment of her own, where she can cook toher stomach's content? Why are the musical journals and the Sundaysupplements of the newspapers always publishing pictures of contraltiwith their sleeves rolled back to the elbows, their Poiret gowns(cunningly and carefully exhibited nevertheless) covered with aprons, baking bread, turning omelettes, or preparing clam broth Uncle Sam?You, my reader, have surely seen these pictures, but it has perhapsnot occurred to you to conjure up a reason for them. 

Edgar Saltus says: "A perfect dinner should resemble a concert. As the_morceaux_ succeed each other, so, too, should the names of thecomposers. " Few dinners in New York may be regarded as concerts andstill fewer restaurants may be looked upon as concert halls, except, unfortunately, in the literal sense. However, if you can find arestaurant where opera singers and conductors eat you may be sure itis a good one. Huneker describes the old Lienau's, where WilliamSteinway, Anton Seidl, Theodore Thomas, Scharwenka, Joseffy, LilliLehmann, Max Heinrich, and Victor Herbert used to gather. FollowAlfred Hertz and you will be in excellent company in a double sense. Then watch him consume a plateful of Viennese pastry. If you have everseen Emmy Destinn or Feodor Chaliapine eat you will feel that justicehas been done to a meal. I once sat with the Russian bass for twelvehours, all of which time he was eating or drinking. He began with sixplates of steaming onion soup (cooked with cheese and toast). The oldNew Year's eve festivities at the Gadski-Tauschers' resembled thestoried banquets of the middle ages.... Boars' heads, meat pies, _salade macédoine_, _coeur de palmier_, _hollandaise_ were washed downwith magnums and quarts of Irroy brut, 1900, Pol Roger, Chambertin, graceful Bohemian crystal goblets of Liebfraumilch and JohannisbergerSchloss-Auslese. Mary Garden once sent a jewelled gift to the _chef_at the Ritz-Carlton in return for a superb fish sauce which he hadcontrived for her. H. E. Krehbiel says that Brignoli "probably ate asno tenor ever ate before or since--ravenously as a Prussian dragoonafter a fast. " _Pêche Melba_ has become a stable article on many menusin many cities in many lands. Agnes G. Murphy, in her biography ofMme. Melba, says that one day the singer, Joachim, and a party offriends stopped at a peasant's cottage near Bergamo, where they wereregaled with such delicious macaroni that Melba persuaded her friendsto return another day and wait while the peasant taught her the exactmethod of preparing the dish. In at least one New York restaurant_oeuf Toscanini_ is to be found on the bill. I have heard OliveFremstad complain of the cooking in this hotel in Paris, or that hotelin New York, or the other hotel in Munich, and when she found herselfin an apartment of her own she immediately set about to cook a fewspecial dishes for herself. 

Two musicians I know not only keep restaurants in New York, butactually prepare the dinners themselves. One of them is at the sametime a singer in the Metropolitan Opera Company. Have you seen BernardBégué standing before his cook stove preparing food for his patrons?His huge form, clad in white, viewed through the open doorwayconnecting the dining room with the kitchen, almost conceals the greatstove, but occasionally you can catch sight of the pots and pans, the_casseroles_ of _pot-au-feu_, the roasting chicken, the filets ofsole, all the ingredients of a dinner, _cuisine bourgeoise_ ... Andafter dining, you can hear Bégué sing the Uncle-priest in _MadamaButterfly_ at the Opera House. 

Or have you seen Giacomo (and have not Meyerbeer and Puccini beenbearers of this name?) Pogliani turning from the _spaghetti_ themechromatically to that of the _risotto_, the most succulent andappetizing _risotto_ to be tasted this side of Bonvecchiati's inVenice ... Or the _polenta_ with _funghi_.... But, best of all, theroasts, and were it not that the Prince Troubetskoy is a vegetarianyou would fancy that he came to Pogliani's for these viands. And itmust not be forgotten that this supreme cook is--or was--a bassoonplayer of the first rank, that he is a graduate of the MilanConservatory. The bassoon is a difficult instrument. It is sometimescalled the "comedian of the orchestra, " but there are few who can playit at all, still fewer who can play it well. Bassoonists are highlypaid and they are in demand. Walter Damrosch used to say that when hewas engaging a bassoon player he would ask him to play a passage fromthe bassoon part in _Scheherazade_. If he could play that, he couldplay anything else written for his instrument. Pogliani gave up thebassoon for the fork, spoon, and saucepan. Like Prospero he buried hismagic wand and in Viafora's cartoon the instrument lies idle in thecobwebs. 

Charles Santley's "Reminiscences" and "Student and Singer" are full ofreferences to food: "ox-hearts, stuffed with onions, " "a joint ofmeat, well cooked, with a bright brown crust which prevented thejuices escaping, " "a splendid shoulder of mutton, a picture to behold, and a _peas pudding_, " and "whaffles" are a few of the dishes referredto with enthusiasm. In America a newspaper gravely informed itsreaders that "Santley says squash pie is the best thing to sing on heknows!" Santley was a true pantophagist, but he was worsted in hisfirst encounter with the American oyster: "I had often heard of thecelebrated American oyster, which half a dozen people had tried toswallow without success, and was anxious to learn if the story werefounded on fact. Cummings conducted me to a cellar in Broadway, where, upon his order, a waiter produced two plates, on which were half adozen objects, about the size and shape of the sole of an ordinarylady's shoe, on each of which lay what appeared to me to be a verybilious tongue, accompanied by smaller plates containing shreddedwhite cabbage raw. I did not admire the look of the repast, but Inever discard food on account of looks. I took up an oyster and triedto get it into my mouth, but it was of no use; I tried to ram it inwith the butt-end of the fork, but all to no purpose, and I had todrop it, and, to the great indignation of the waiter, paid and leftthe oysters for him to dispose of as he might like best. I presumethose oysters are eaten, but I cannot imagine by whom; I have rarelyseen a mouth capable of the necessary expansion. I soon found out thatthere were plenty of delicious oysters in the States within thecompass of ordinary jaws. "

J. H. Mapleson says in his "Memoirs" that at the Opera at Lodi, wherehe made his début as a tenor, refreshments of all kinds were served tothe audience between the acts and every box was furnished with alittle kitchen for cooking macaroni and baking or frying pastry. Thewine of the country was drunk freely, not out of glasses, but "inclassical fashion--from bowls. " Mapleson also tells us that Del Puentewas a "very tolerable cook. " On one trying occasion he preparedmacaroni for his impressario. Michael Kelly declares that the sight ofSignor St. Giorgio entering a fruit shop to eat peaches, nectarines, and a pineapple, was really what stimulated him to study for a careeron the stage. "While my mouth watered, I asked myself why, if Iassiduously studied music, I should not be able to earn money enoughto lounge about in fruit-shops, and eat peaches and pineapples aswell as Signor St. Giorgio.... "

Lillian Russell is a good cook. I can recommend her recipe for thepreparation of mushrooms: "Put a lump of butter in a chafing dish (ora saucepan) and a slice of Spanish onion and the mushrooms minus thestems; let them simmer until they are all deliciously tender and thejuice has run from them--about twenty minutes should be enough--thenadd a cupful of cream and let this boil. As a last touch squeeze inthe juice of a lemon. " When Luisa Tetrazzini was going mad with aflute in our vicinity she varied the monotony of her life by sendingpages of her favourite recipes to the Sunday yellow press. Unfortunately, I neglected to make a collection of this series. Apassion for cooking caused the death of Naldi, a buffo singer of theearly Nineteenth Century. Michael Kelly tells the story: "His illstars took him to Paris, where, one day, just before dinner, at hisfriend Garcia's house, in the year 1821, he was showing the method ofcooking by steam, with a portable apparatus for that purpose;unfortunately, in consequence of some derangement of the machinery, anexplosion took place, by which he was instantaneously killed. " Almosteverybody knows some story or other about a _virtuoso_, trapped intodining and asked to perform after dinner by his host. Kelly relatesone of the first: "Fischer, the great oboe player, whose minuet wasthen all the rage ... Being very much pressed by a nobleman to supwith him after the opera, declined the invitation, saying that he wasusually much fatigued, and made it a rule never to go out after theevening's performance. The noble lord would, however, take no denial, and assured Fischer that he did not ask him professionally, but merelyfor the gratification of his society and conversation. Thus urged andencouraged, he went; he had not, however, been many minutes in thehouse of the consistent nobleman, before his lordship approached him, and said, 'I hope, Mr. Fischer, you have brought your oboe in yourpocket. '--'No, my Lord, ' said Fischer, 'my oboe never sups. ' He turnedon his heel, and instantly left the house, and no persuasion couldever induce him to return to it. " You perhaps have heard rumours thatGiuseppe Campanari prefers _spaghetti_ to Mozart, especially when hecooks it himself. When this baritone was a member of the MetropolitanOpera Company his paraphernalia for preparing his favourite food wenteverywhere with him on tour. Heinrich Conried (or was it MauriceGrau?) once tried to take advantage of this weakness, according to astory often related by the late Algernon St. John Brenon. Campanariwas to appear as Kothner in _Die Meistersinger_, a character with nosinging to do after the first act, although he appears in theprocession in the third act. The singer told his impressario that hesaw no reason why he should remain to the end and explained that hewould leave his costume for a chorus man to don to represent him inthe final episode. "What would the Master say?" demanded Conried, wringing his hands. "Would he approve of such a proceeding? No. Thatwould not be truth! That would not be art!" Campanari was obdurate. The Herr Direktor became reflective. He was silent for a moment andthen he continued: "If you will stay for the last act you will find inyour room a little supper, a bottle of wine, and a box of cigars, which you may consume while you are waiting. " In sooth when Campanarientered his dressing room after the first act of Wagner's comic operahe found that his director had kept his word.... The baritone ate thesupper, drank the wine, put the cigars in his pocket ... And wenthome!

If some singers are good cooks it does not follow that all good cooksare singers. Benjamin Lumley, in his "Reminiscences of the Opera, "tells the sad story of the Countess of Cannazaro's cook, which shouldserve as a lesson to housemaids who are desirous of becoming movingpicture stars. "This worthy man, excellent no doubt as a _chef_, tookit into his head that he was a vocalist of the highest order, and thathe only wanted opportunity to earn musical distinction. His strangefancy came to the knowledge of Rubini, and it was arranged that aperformance should take place in the morning, in which the cook'stalent should be fairly tested. Certainly every chance was affordedhim. Not only was he encouraged by Rubini and Lablache (whose gravityon the occasion was wonderful), but by a few others, Costa included, as instrumentalists. The failure was miserable, ridiculous, aseverybody expected. " Frederick Crowest describes a certain CountCastel de Maria who had a spit that played tunes, "and so regulatedand indicated the condition of whatever was hung upon it to roast. Bya singular mechanical contrivance this wonderful spit would strike upan appropriate tune whenever a joint had hung sufficiently long on itsparticular roast. Thus, _Oh! the roast beef of Old England_, when asirloin had turned and hung its appointed time. At another air, a legof mutton, _à l'Anglaise_ would be found excellent; while some othertune would indicate that a fowl _à la Flamande_ was cooked to a nicetyand needed removal from the fowl roast. "

To Crowest, too, I am indebted for a list of beverages and eatableswhich certain singers held in superstitious awe as capable ofrefreshing their voices. Formes swore by a pot of good porter andWachtel is said to have trusted to the yolk of an egg beaten up withsugar to make sure of his high Cs. The Swedish tenor, Labatt, declaredthat two salted cucumbers gave the voice the true metallic ring. Walter drank cold black coffee during a performance; Southeim tooksnuff and cold lemonade; Steger, beer; Niemann, champagne, slightlywarmed, (Huneker once saw Niemann drinking cocktails from a beerglass; he sang Siegmund at the opera the next night); Tichatschek, mulled claret; Rübgam drank mead; Nachbaur ate bonbons; Arabanekbelieved in Gampoldskirchner wine. Mlle. Brann-Brini took beer and_cafe au lait_, but she also firmly believed in champagne and wouldnever dare venture the great duet in the fourth act of _Les Huguenots_without a bottle of Moët Crémant Rose. Giardini being asked hisopinion of Banti, previous to her arrival in England, said: "She isthe first singer in Italy and drinks a bottle of wine every day. "Malibran believed in the efficacy of porter. She made her lastappearances in opera in Balfe's _Maid of Artois_ during the fall of1836 in London. On the first night she was in anything but goodphysical condition and the author of "Musical Recollections of theLast Half-Century" tells how she pulled herself through: "Sheremembered that an immense trial awaited her in the finale of thethird act; and finding her strength giving way, she sent for Mr. Balfeand Mr. Bunn, and told them that unless they did as they were bid, after all the previous success, the end might result in failure; butshe said, 'Manage to let me have a pot of porter somehow or otherbefore I have to sing, and I will get you an encore which will bringdown the house. ' How to manage this was difficult; for the scene wasso set that it seemed scarcely possible to hand her up 'the pewter'without its being witnessed by the audience. After much consultation, Malibran having been assured that her wish should be fulfilled, it wasarranged that the pot of porter should be handed up to her through atrap in the stage at the moment when Jules had thrown himself on herbody, supposing that life had fled; and Mr. Templeton was drilled intothe manner in which he should so manage to conceal the necessaryarrangement, that the audience would never suspect what was going on. At the right moment a friendly hand put the foaming pewter through thestage, to be swallowed at a draught, and success was won!... Malibran, however, had not overestimated her own strength. She knew that itwanted but this fillip to carry her through. She had resolved to havean encore, and she had it, in such a fashion as made the roof of 'OldDrury' ring as it had never rung before. On the repetition of theopera and afterwards, a different arrangement of the stage was made, and a property calabash containing a pot of porter was used; butalthough the same result was constantly won, Malibran always said itwas not half so 'nice, ' nor did her anything like the good it wouldhave done if she could only have had it out of the pewter. " ClaraLouise Kellogg in her very lively "Memoirs" publishes a similar taleof another singer: "It was told of Grisi that when she was growing oldand severe exertion told on her she always, after her fall as LucreziaBorgia, drank a glass of beer sent up to her through the floor, lyingwith her back half turned to the audience. " Miss Kellogg complains ofthe breaths of the tenors she sang with: "Stigelli usually exhaled anaroma of lager beer; while the good Mazzoleni invariably ate from oneto two pounds of cheese the day he was to sing. He said itstrengthened his voice. Many of them affected garlic. " It isnecessary, of course, that a singer should know what foods agree withhim. He must keep himself in excellent physical condition: smallwonder that many artists are superstitious in this regard. 

Charles Santley, who was so fond of eating and drinking himself, offers some excellent advice on the subject in "Student and Singer":"How the voice is produced or where, except that it is through thepassage of the throat, is unimportant; it is reasonable to say thatthe passage must be kept clear, otherwise the sound proceeding from itwill not be clear. I have known many instances of singers undergoingvery disagreeable operations on their throats for chronic diseases ofvarious descriptions; now, my observation and experience assure methat, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, the root of the evil ischronic inattention to food and raiment. It is a common thing to heara singer say, 'I never touch such-and-such food on the days I sing. 'My dear young friend, unless you are an absolute idiot, you would notpartake of anything on the days you sing which might disagree withyou, or over-tax your digestive powers; it is on the days you do notsing you ought more particularly to exercise your judgment andself-denial. I do not offer the pinched-up pilgarlic who dines off awizened apple and a crust of bread as a model for imitation; at thesame time, I warn you seriously against following the example of thegobbling glutton who swallows every dish that tempts his palate. "

Rossini, after he had composed _Guillaume Tell_, retired. He wasthirty-seven, a man in perfect health, and he lived thirty-nine yearslonger, to the age of seventy-six, yet he never wrote another opera, hardly indeed did he dip his pen in ink at all. These facts haveseriously disconcerted his biographers, who are at a loss to assignreasons for his actions. W. F. Apthorp gives us an ingeniousexplanation in "The Opera Past and Present. " He says that after _Tell_Rossini's pride would not allow him to return to his earlier Italianmanner, while the hard work needed to produce more _Tells_ was morethan his laziness could stomach.... Perhaps, but it must be rememberedthat Rossini did not retire to his library or his music room, but tohis kitchen. The simple explanation is that he preferred cooking tocomposing, a fact easy to believe (I myself vastly prefer cooking towriting). He could cook _risotto_ better than any one else he knew. Hewas dubbed a "hippopotamus in trousers, " and for six years before hedied he could not see his toes, he was so fat. Sir Arthur Sullivanrelates an anecdote which shows that Rossini was conscious of hisgrossness. Once in Paris Sullivan introduced Chorley to Rossini, whenthe Italian said, "_Je vois, avec plaisir, que monsieur n'a pas deventre_. " Chorley indeed was noticeably slender. Rossini could writemore easily, so his biographers tell us, when he was under theinfluence of champagne or some light wine. His provision merchant oncebegged him for an autographed portrait. The composer gave it to himwith the inscription, "To my stomach's best friend. " The tradesmanused this souvenir as an advertisement and largely increased hisbusiness thereby, as such a testimonial from such an acknowledgedepicure had a very definite value. J. B. Weckerlin asserts that whenRossini dined at the Rothschild's he first went to the kitchen to payhis respects to the _chef_, to look over the menu, and even to discussthe various dishes, after which he ascended to the drawing room togreet the family of the rich banker. Mme. Alboni told Weckerlin thatRossini had dedicated a piece of music to the Rothschild's _chef_. 

Anfossi, we are informed, could compose only when he was surrounded bysmoking fowls and Bologna sausages; their fumes seemed to inflame hisimagination, to feed his muse; his brain was stimulated first throughhis nose and then through his stomach. When Gluck wrote music hebetook himself to the open fields, accompanied by at least two bottlesof champagne. Salieri told Michael Kelly that a comic opera of Gluck'sbeing performed at the Elector Palatine's theatre, at Schwetzingen, his Electoral Highness was struck with the music, and inquired who hadcomposed it; on being informed that he was an honest German who loved_old wine_, his Highness immediately ordered him a tun of Hock. Beethoven, on the contrary, seems to have fed on his thoughtsoccasionally, although there is evidence that he was not only a goodeater but also a good cook (the mothers of both Beethoven and Schubertwere cooks in domestic service). There is a story related of him thatabout the time he was composing the _Sixth Symphony_ he walked into aViennese restaurant and ordered dinner. While it was being prepared, he became involved in thought, and when the waiter returned to servehim, he said: "Thank you, I have dined!" laid the price of the dinneron the table, and took his departure. Grétry, too, lost his appetitewhen he was composing. There are numerous references to eating anddrinking in Mendelssohn's letters. His particular preferences, according to Sir George Grove, were for rice milk and cherry pie. Dussek was a famous eater, and it is said that his ruling passioneventually killed him. His patron, the Prince of Benevento, paid thecomposer eight hundred napoleons a year, with a free table for threepersons, at which, as a matter of fact, one person usually presided. Amusical historian tells us that in the summer of 1797 he was diningwith three friends at the Ship Tavern in Greenwich, when the waitercame and laid a cloth for one person at the next table, placingthereon a dish of boiled eels, one of fried flounders, a bowled fowl, a dish of veal cutlets, and a couple of tarts. Then Dussek entered andmade away with the lot, leaving but the bones! In W. T. Parke's"Musical Memoirs" justice is done to the appetite of one C. F. Baumgarten, for many years leader of the band and composer at CoventGarden Theatre. Once at supper after the play he and a friend ate afull-grown hare between them. He would never condescend to drink outof anything but a quart pot. On one occasion, at the request of hisfriends, Baumgarten was weighed before and after dinner. There waseight pounds difference! William Shield, the composer who wrote manyoperas for Covent Garden Theatre, beginning aptly enough with onecalled _The Flitch of Bacon_, was something of an eater. Parke tellshow at a dinner one evening there was a brace of partridges. Thehostess handed Shield one of these to carve and absent-mindedly he setto and finished it, while the other guests were forced to make shiftwith the other partridge. Handel was a great eater. He was called the"Saxon Giant, " as a tribute to his genius, but the phrase might havehad a satirical reference to his enormous bulk. Intending to dine oneday at a certain tavern, he ordered beforehand a dinner for three. Atthe hour appointed he sat down to the table and expressed astonishmentthat the dinner was not brought up. The waiter explained that he wouldbegin serving when the company arrived. "Den pring up de tinnerbrestissimo, " replied Handel, "I am de gombany. " Lulli never forsookthe _casserole_. Paganini was as good a cook as he was a violinist. Parke tells a story of Weichsell, not too celebrated a musician, butthe father of Mrs. Billington and Charles Weichsell, the violinist:"He would occasionally supersede the labours of his cook, and pass awhole day in preparing his favourite dish, rump-steaks, for thestewing pan; and after the delicious viand had been placed on thedinner-table, together with early green peas of high price, if ithappened that the sauce was not to his liking he has been known tothrow rump-steaks, and green peas, and all, out of the window, whilsthis wife and children thought themselves fortunate in not being thrownafter them. "

Is there a cooking theme in _Siegfried_ to describe Mime's brewing?Lavignac and others, who have listed the _Ring motive_, have neglectedto catalogue it, but it is mentioned by Old Fogy. Practically a wholeact is taken up in _Louise_ with the preparation for and consumptionof a dinner. Scarpia eats in _Tosca_ and the heroine kills him with atable knife. There is much talk of food in _Hänsel und Gretel_ andthere is a supper in _The Merry Wives of Windsor_. There are drinkingsongs in _Don Giovanni_, _Lucrezia Borgia_, _Hamlet_, _La Traviata_, _Giroflé-Girofla_.... The reference to whiskey and soda in _MadamaButterfly_ is celebrated. J. E. Cox, the author of "MusicalRecollections, " describes Herr Pischek in the supper scene of _DonGiovanni_ as "out-heroding Herod by swallowing glass after glass ofchampagne like a sot, and gnawing the drumstick of a fowl, which heheld across his mouth with his fingers, just as any of his ownmiddle-class countrymen may be seen any day of the week all the yearround at the _mit-tag_ or _abend-essen_ feeding at one of theirlargely frequented _tables-d'hôte_. " Eating or drinking on the stageis always fraught with danger, as Charles Santley once discoveredduring Papageno's supper scene in _The Magic Flute_: "The supper whichTamino commands for the hungry Papageno consisted of pasteboardimitations of good things, but the cup contained real wine, a smalldraught of which I found refreshing on a hot night in July, amid thedust and heat of the stage. On the occasion in question I was puttingthe cup to lips, when I heard somebody call to me from the wings; Ifelt very angry at the interruption, and was just about to swallow thewine when I heard an anxious call not to drink. Suspecting somethingwas wrong, I pretended to drink, and deposited the cup on the table. Immediately after the scene I made inquiries about the reason for thecaution I received, and was informed that as each night thecarpenters, who had no right to it, finished what remained of the winebefore the property men, whose perquisite it was, could lay hold ofthe cup, the latter, to give their despoilers a lesson, had mingledcastor-oil with my drink!"

A young husband of my acquaintance once bemoaned to me the fact thathis wife seemed destined to become a great singer. "She is such aremarkable cook!" he explained to account for his despondency. Ireassured him: "She will cook with renewed energy when she begins tosing _Sieglinde_ and _Tosca_.... She will practise _Vissi d'Arte_ overthe gumbo soup and _Du herstes Wunder_! while the Frankfurters aresizzling. Her trills, her chromatic scales, and her _messa di voce_will come right in the kitchen; she will equalize her scale and learnto breathe correctly bending over the oven. It is even likely that shewill improve her knowledge of _portamento_ while she is washingdishes. When she can prepare a succulent roast suckling pig she willbe able to sing _Ocean, thou mighty monster_! and she will understand_Abscheulicher_ when she understands the mysteries of old-fashionedstrawberry shortcake. If you hear her shrieking _Suicidio_! invokingAgamemnon, or appealing to the _Casta Diva_ among the kettles and potsbe not alarmed.... For the love you bear of good food, man, do notdiscourage your wife's ambition. The more she loves to sing, thebetter she will cook!"

 _July 17, 1917. _

An Interrupted Conversation

 _"We can never depend upon any right adjustment of emotion to circumstance. "_

 Max Beerbohm. 

An Interrupted Conversation

Ordinarily one does not learn things about oneself from Edmund Gosse, but my discovery that I am a Pyrrhonist is due to that literary man. APyrrhonist, says Mr. Gosse, is "one who doubts whether it is worthwhile to struggle against the trend of things. The man who continuesto cross the road leisurely, although the cyclists' bells are ringing, is a Pyrrhonist--and in a very special sense, for the ancientphilosopher who gives his name to the class made himself conspicuousby refusing to get out of the way of careering chariots. " Now the mostunfamiliar friend I have ever walked with knows my extreme impassivityat the corners of streets, remembers the careless attitude with whichI saunter from kerb to kerb, whether it be across the Grand Boulevard, Piccadilly, or Fifth Avenue. Only once has this nonchalant defiance oftraffic caused me to come to even temporary grief; that was on thelast night of the year 1913, when, in crossing Broadway, I becameentangled, God knows how, in the wheels of a swiftly passing vehicle, and found myself, top hat and all, in the most ignominious positionbefore I was well aware of what had really happened. Then a policemanstooped over me, book and pencil in hand, and another held thechauffeur of the victorious taxi-cab at bay some yards further up thestreet. But I was not hurt and I waved them all away with amagnanimous gesture.... It is owing to this habit of mine that I oftenmake interesting _rencontres_ in the middle of streets. It accounts, in fact, for my running, quite absent-mindedly, plump into DickinsonSitgreaves, who is more American than his name sounds, one August dayin Paris. 

It was one of those charming days which make August perhaps the mostdelightful month to spend in Paris, although the facts are not knownto tourists. Many a sly French pair, however, bored with Trouville, orthe season at Aix, take advantage of the allurements of a Paris Augustto return surreptitiously to the boulevards. On this particular dayalmost all the seduction of an October day was in the air, a splendiddull warm-cool crispness, which filtered down through the fadedchestnut leaves from the sunlight, and left pale splotches of purpleand orange on the _trottoirs_ ... A really marvellous day, which I wasspending in that most excellent occupation in Paris of gazing intoshops and, passing cafés, staring into the faces of those who sat onthe _terrasses_.... But this is an occupation for one alone; so, whenI met Sitgreaves, we joined a _terrasse_ ourselves. We were near theNapolitain and there he and I sat down and began to talk as only wetwo can talk together after long separation. He explained in thebeginning how I had interrupted him.... There was a _fille_, somelittle Polish beauty who had captivated his senses a day or so before, brought to him quite by accident in an hotel where the _patron_furnished his clients with such pleasure as the town and his addressbook afforded.... I knew the _patron_ myself, a fluent, amusing sortof person, who had been a _cuirassier_ and who resembled Mayol ... A_café-concert_ proprietor of an hotel.... It was his boast that he hadnever disappointed a client and it is certain that he would promiseanything. Some have said that his stock in trade was one pretty girl, who assumed costumes, ages, hair, and accents, to please whateverdemand was made upon her, but this I do not believe. There must havebeen at least two of them. The Grand Duchess Anastasia, it wasrumoured, had dined with Marcel at one time, in his little hotel, andcertainly one king had been seen to go there, and one member of theEnglish royal family, but Marcel remained simple and obliging. 

"When will you look up the little _Polonaise_?" I asked, as we sipped_Amer Picon_ and stared with fresh interest at each new boot and anklethat passed. Paris in August is like another place in May. 

"Why don't you come along?" queried Sitgreaves in reply, "and we couldgo at once.... Oh, I know that you are in no mood for pleasure. Yousee the point is that I shall have to wait. Marcel will have to sendfor the _fille_. It is a bore to wait in a room with red curtains anda picture of _Amour et Psyche_ on the walls.... What have you beendoing?" He paid the _consommation_ and started to leave withoutwaiting for a reply, because he knew of my complaisance. I rose withhim and we walked down the boulevard. 

"What is there to do in Paris in August but to enjoy oneself?" Iasked. "I have made friends with an _apache_ and his _gigolette_. Weeat bread and cheese and drink bad wine on the fortifications.... Inthe afternoon I walk. Sometimes I go to the Luxembourg gardens to hearthe band bray sad music, or to watch the little boys play _diavolo_, or sail their tiny boats about the fountain pond; sometimes I walkquite silently up the Avenue Gabriel, with its _triste_ line of trees, and dream that I am a Grand Duke; in the evening there are again the_terrasses_ of the cafés, dinner in Montmartre at the Clou, or theCou-Cou, a _revue_ at La Cigale, but it is all governed, my day and mynight, by what happens and by whom I meet.... Have you seen JacquesBlanche's portrait of Nijinsky?"

"I think it is Picasso that interests me now, " Sitgreaves was saying. "He puts wood and pieces of paper into his composition; architecture, that's what it is.... I don't go to Blanche's any more. It's toodelightfully perfect, the atmosphere there.... The books are by allthe famous writers, and they are all dedicated to Blanche; thepictures are all of the great men of today, and they are all paintedby Blanche; the music is played by the best musicians.... Do you know, I think Blanche is the one man who has made a successful profession ofbeing an amateur--unless one excepts Robert de la Condamine.... Youcan scarcely call a man who does so much a dilettante. Yes, I think heis an amateur in the best sense. "

"I met the Countess of Jena there the other day, " I responded. "Shehad scarcely left the room before three people volunteered, _sansrancune_, to tell her story. She is a devout Catholic, and her husbandcontrived in some way to substitute a spy for the priest in theconfessional. He acquired an infinite amount of information, but itdidn't do him any good. She is so witty that every one invites hereverywhere in spite of her reputation, and he is left to dine alone atthe Meurice. Dull men simply are not tolerated in Paris. 

"It was at Blanche's last year that I met George Moore, " I continued. "You know I have just seen him in London. He is at work on _TheApostle_, making a novel of it, to be called 'The Brook Kerith. '... For a time he thought of finishing it up as a play because a novelmeant a visit to Palestine and that was distasteful to him, but itfinally became a novel. He went to Palestine and stayed six weeks, just long enough to find a monastery and to study the lay of thecountry. For he says, truly enough, that one cannot imaginelandscapes; one does not know whether there is a high or low horizon. There may be a brook which all the characters must cross. It isnecessary to see these things. Besides he had to find a monastery.... He told me of his thrill when he discovered an order of monks livingon a narrow ledge of cliff, with 500 feet sheer rise and descent aboveand below it ... And when he had found this his work was done and hereturned to England to write the book, a reaction, for he told me thathe was getting tired of being personal in literature. The book willexhibit a conflict between two types: Christ, the disappointed mystic, and Paul; Christ, who sees that there is no good to be served insaving the world by his death, and Paul, full of hope, idealism, andillusions. It is the drama of the conflict between the nature which isaffected by externals and that which is not, he told me. "

"It's a subject for Anatole France, " said Sitgreaves. "Moore, in myopinion, is not a novelist. His great achievements are his memoirs. Iwas interested in 'Evelyn Innes' and 'Esther Waters, ' but somethingwas lacking. There is nothing lacking in the three volumes of 'Hailand Farewell. ' They grow in interest. Moore has found his _métier_. "

"But he insists, " I explained, before the door of the little hotel, "that 'Hail and Farewell' is a novel. He is infuriated when some onesuggests that it is a book after the manner of, say, 'TheReminiscences of Lady Randolph Churchill. '... "

We entered and walked up the little staircase. 

"Do you mean that the incidents are untrue?"

We were at the door of the _concierge_ and there stood Marcel, hisapron spread neatly over his ample paunch. It was early in theafternoon and the room beyond him, sometimes filled with possibilitiesfor customers, was empty. 

"_Ah, monsieur est revenu!_" he exclaimed in his piping voice. "_C'estpour la petite Polonaise sans doute que monsieur revient?_"

"_Oui_, " answered Sitgreaves, "_faut-il attendre longtemps?_"

"_Mais non, monsieur, un petit moment. Elle habite en face. Je vaisenvoyer le garçon la chercher tout de suite. Et pour monsieur, votreami?_"

"_Je ne desire rien_, " I replied. 

Marcel bowed humbly.... "_Comme monsieur voudra. _" Then a doubtassailed him. "_Peut-être que la petite Polonaise vous suffira à tousles deux?_"

"_Jamais de la vie!_" I shouted, "_Flûte, Mercure, allez! Je suispuceau!_"

Marcel was equal to this. "_Et ta soeur?_" he demanded as hedisappeared down the staircase. 

He had put us meanwhile in the very chamber with the red curtains andthe picture of Cupid and Psyche that Sitgreaves had described. Perhapsall the rooms were similarly decorated. I lounged on the bed whileSitgreaves sat on a chair and smoked.... 

I answered his last question, "No, they are true, but there isselection and form. "

"While other memoirs have neither selection nor form and usually arenot altogether accurate in the bargain.... "

"Especially Madame Melba's.... "

"Especially, " agreed Sitgreaves delightedly, "Madame Melba's. "

"Moore is really right, " I went on. "He says that some people insistthat Balzac was greater than Turgeniev, because the Frenchman took hischaracters from imagination, the Russian his from life. You willremember, however, that Edgar Saltus says, 'The manufacture of fictionfrom facts was begun by Balzac. ' Moore's point is that all greatwriters write from observation. There is no other way. A character mayhave more or less resemblance to the original; it may be derived andbear a different name; still there must have been something.... In aletter which Moore once wrote me stands the phrase, 'Memory is themother of the Muses. ' 'Hail and Farewell' is just as much a work ofimagination, according to Moore, as 'A Nest of Noblemen' or 'LesIllusions Perdues. '"

"Of course, " admitted Sitgreaves. "No writer but what has sufferedfrom the recognition of his characters. Dickens got into trouble. Oscar Wilde is said to have done himself in 'Dorian Gray, ' andMeredith's models for 'The Tragic Comedians' and 'Diana of theCrossways' are well known. "

"All Moore has done is to call his characters by their real names andhe has reported their conversations as he remembered them, but, mindyou, he has not put into the book all their conversations, or even allthe people he knew at that period. Arthur Symons, for instance, agreat friend of Moore's at that time, is scarcely mentioned, and withreason: he has no part in the form of the book; its plot is notconcerned with him. 

"All artists create only in the image of the things they have seen, reduced to terms of art through their imagination. The paintings ofMina Loy seem to the beholder the strange creations of a vagrantfancy. I remember one picture of hers in which an Indian girl standspoised before an oriental palace, the most fantastic of palaces, itwould seem. But the artist explained to me that it was simply thefaçade of Hagenbeck's menagerie in Hamburg, seen with an imaginativeeye. The girl was a model.... One day on the beach at the Lido she sawa young man in a bathing suit lying stretched on the sand with hishead in the lap of a beautiful woman. Other women surrounded the two. The group immediately suggested a composition to her. She went homeand painted. She took the young man's bathing suit off and gave himwings; the women she dressed in lovely floating robes, and she calledthe picture, _l'Amour Dorloté par les Belles Dames_. 

"And once I asked Frank Harris to explain to me the origin of hisvivid story, 'Montes the Matador. ' 'It's too simple, ' he said, 'themodel for Montes was a little Mexican greaser whom I met in Kansas. Hewas one of many in charge of cattle shipped up from Mexico and downfrom the States. All the white cattle men, the gringos, held him ingreat contempt. But, ' continued Harris, speaking deliberately with hisbeautifully modulated voice, and his eyes twinkling with the memory ofthe thing, 'I soon found that the greaser's contempt for the gringoswas immeasureably greater than their's for him. "Bah, " he would say, "they know nothing. " And it was so. He could go into a cattle car on apitch dark night and make the bulls stand up, a feat that none of thewhite men would have attempted. I asked him how he did this and hetold me the answer in three words, "I know them. " He could go into aherd of cattle just let loose together and pick out their leaderimmediately, pick him out before the cattle themselves had! There wasthe origin of "Montes the Matador. " He was named, of course, afterthe famous _torero_ described by Gautier in his "Voyage en Espagne. "When I was in Madrid sometime later I went to a number of bull-fightsbefore I put the story together. ' 'But, ' I asked Harris, 'Is itpossible for an _espada_ to stand in the bull ring with his back tothe bull, during a charge, as you have made him do frequently in thestory?' 'Of course not, ' he answered me at once, smiling his franklymalevolent smile, 'Of course not. That part was put in to show howmuch the public will stand for in a work of fiction. I believe one ofthe _espadas_ tried it some time after the book appeared and wasimmediately killed. '

"Fiction, history, poetry, criticism, at their best, are all the samething. When they inflame the imagination and stir the pulse they areidentical: all creative work. It does not matter what a man writesabout. It matters how he writes it. Subject is nothing. Should weregard Velasquez as less important than Murillo because the formerpainted portraits of contemporaries, whom in his fashion hecriticized, while the Spanish Bouguereau disguised his models as theVirgin? Walter Pater's description of the _Monna Lisa_ would live ifthe picture disappeared. Indeed it has created a factitious interestin da Vinci's masterwork. Even more might be said for Huysmans'sdescription of Moreau's _Salomé_, which actually puts the figures inthe picture in motion! The critic, the historian at their best arecreative artists as the writers of fiction are creative artists. Should we regard, for example, 'Imperial Purple' less a work ofcreative art than 'The Rise of Silas Lapham'?"

"I am getting your meaning more and more, " said Sitgreaves. "And itoccurs to me that perhaps I have been unjust in rating Moore low as anovelist. Perhaps I should have said that he is more successful inthose books which depend more on his memory and less on hisimaginative instinct. He cannot, after all, have known Jesus andPaul.... "

"You are quite wrong, " I said. "At least from his point of view. Hesays that he knows Paul better than he has ever known any one else. Heeven finds hair on Paul's chest. He can describe Paul, I believe, tothe last mole. He knows his favourite colours, and whether he prefersartichokes to alligator pears. As for Christ, everybody professes toknow Christ these days. Since the world has become distinctlyun-Christian it has become comparatively easy to discuss Christ. Heis regarded as an historical character, and a much more simple onethan Napoleon. I have heard anarchists in bar-rooms talk about him bythe hour, sometimes very graphically and always with a certain amountof wit. No, it is all the same.... Moore, now that he has been toPalestine and read the gospels, feels as well acquainted with Christand Paul as he does with Edward Martyn and Yeats and Lady Gregory. "

"I must fall back on the personal then, " said Sitgreaves, now reallyat bay, "and say that I am less moved and interested when Moore isdescribing Evelyn Innes, than when he tells of his affair with Dorisat Orelay. "

"I am glad that you mentioned 'Evelyn Innes' again, " I said, "becauseit is in this very book that he is said to have painted so many of hisfriends. Ulick Dean is undoubtedly Yeats. It has been suggested thatArnold Dolmetsch posed for the portrait of Evelyn's father. Dolmetsch's testimony on this point goes farther. He says that hedictated certain passages in the book.... "

"What is it, then? What is the difference? There is some difference, of that I am sure.... "

"The difference is--" I began when the door opened and Marcel entered, the most amazingly comprehensive smile on his countenance. "_Mademoiselle vous attend_, " he said, and he looked the question. "Shall I bring her in here?"

Sitgreaves answered it immediately, "_Je viens_. " And then to me, "Wait, " as he vanished through the doorway.... I walked to the window, drew aside the red curtains, and looked out into the fountain-splashedcourt below.... 

 * * * * *

"What is the difference?"

"I suppose it is that you prefer the new Moore to the old Moore, theauthor of the later and better written books to the author of theearlier ones. 'Evelyn Innes' was many times rewritten. Moore has saidthat he could never get it to suit him, but he has also said, recently, that he would never rewrite another book (a resolution hehas not kept). 'Memoirs of My Dead Life' and 'Hail and Farewell' donot need rewriting. They are written to stand. 'The Brook Kerith, 'perhaps, you will find equally to your taste. It will be the newestMoore.... "

"You have explained to me, " said Sitgreaves, "the difference: it isone of development. Now that I think of it I don't believe thatAnatole France could write 'The Brook Kerith. '... It would be toosymbolical, too cynical, in his hands. Moore will perhaps make itmore human, by knowing the characters. I wonder, " he continuedmusingly, as we left the room, and descended the stairs, "if he toldyou whether that hair on Paul's chest was red or black.... "

 _February 1, 1915. _

The Authoritative Work onAmerican Music

The Authoritative Work on American Music

H. L. Mencken pointed out to me recently, in his most earnest andpersuasive manner, that it was my duty to write a book about theAmerican composers, exposing their futile pretensions and describingtheir flaccid _opera_, stave by stave. It was in vain that I urgedthat this would be but a sleeveless errand, arguing that I could notfight men of straw, that these our composers had no real standing inthe concert halls, and that pushing them over would be an easyexercise for a child of ten. On the contrary, he retorted, theybelonged to the academies; certain people believed that they wereimportant; it was necessary to dislodge this belief. I suggested, witha not too heavily assumed humility, that I had already done somethingof the sort in an essay entitled "The Great American Composer. " "Agood beginning, " asserted Col. Mencken, "but not long enough. I won'tbe satisfied with anything less than a book. " "But if I wrote a bookabout Professors Parker, Chadwick, Hadley, and the others I could findnothing different to say about them; they are all alike. Neithertheir lives nor their music offer opportunities for variations. " "Anexcellent idea!" cried Major Mencken, enthusiastically, "Write onechapter and then repeat it verbatim throughout the book, changing onlythe name of the principal character. Then clap on a preface, explaining your reason for this procedure. " My last protest was thefeeblest of all: "I can't spend a year or a month or a week poringover the scores of these fellows; I can't go to concerts to hear theirmusic. I might as well go to work in a coal mine. " "I'll do it foryou!" triumphantly checkmated General Mencken. "I'll read the scoresand you shall write the book!" And so he left me, as on a similaroccasion the fiend, having exhibited his prospectus, vanished from theeyes of our Lord. And I returned to my home sorely troubled, findingthat the words of the man were running about in my head like so manylittle Japanese waltzing mice. 

And, after much cogitation, I went to such and such a book case andtook down a certain volume written by Louis Charles Elson (a verylarge red tome) and another by Rupert Hughes, to see if their words ofpraise for our weak musical brothers would stir me to action. I foundthat they did not. My heart action remained normal; no film coveredmy eyes; foam did not issue from my mouth. Indeed I read, quitecalmly, in Mr. Hughes's "American Composers" that A. J. Goodrich is"recognized among scholars abroad as one of the leading spirits of ourtime"; that "(Henry Holden) Huss has ransacked the piano and pillagedalmost every imaginable fabric of high colour.... The result isgorgeous and purple"; that "The thing we are all waiting for is thatAmerican grand opera, _The Woman of Marblehead_ (by Louis AdolpheCoerne). It is predicted that it will not receive the marble heart";that "I know of no modern composer who has come nearer to relightingthe fires that burn in the old gavottes and fugues and preludes (thanArthur Foote). His two gavottes are to me away the best since Bach";that "the song (_Israfel_ by Edgar Stillman-Kelley) is in my ferventbelief, a masterwork of absolute genius, one of the very greatestlyrics in the world's music"; and in "The History of American Music"by Louis C. Elson that "Music has made even more rapid strides thanliterature among us, " and that "he (George W. Chadwick) has reconciledthe symmetrical (sonata) form with modern passion. " But it was in thefourth volume of "The Art of Music, " published by the National Societyof Music, that I found the supreme examples of this kind of writing. The volume was edited by Arthur Farwell and W. Dermot Darby. Therein Iread with a sort of awed astonishment that one of the songs ofFrederick Ayres "reveals a poignancy of imagination and a perceptionand apprehension of beauty seldom attained by any composer. " I learnedthat T. Carl Whitmer has a "spiritual kinship" with Arthur Shepherd, Hans Pfitzner, and Vincent d'Indy. His music is "psychologicallysubtle and spiritually rarefied: in colour it corresponds to theviolet end of the spectrum. " I turned the pages until I came to thename of Miss Gena Branscombe: "Inexhaustible buoyancy, a superlativeemotional wealth, and wholly singular gift of musical intuition arethe qualities which have shaped the composer's musical personality(without much effort of the imagination we might say that they are thequalities that shaped Beethoven's musical personality).... Herimpatient melodies leap and dash with youthful life, while heraccompaniments abound in harmonic hairbreadth escapes. " Before hebecame acquainted with the later French idiom Harvey W. Loomis"spontaneously breathed forth the quality of spirit which we nowrecognize in a Debussy or a Ravel. "

Curiously enough, however, these statements did not annoy me. I foundno desire arising in me to deny them and doubtless, though mayhap witha guilty conscience, I should have ditched the undertaking, consignedit to that heap of undone duties, where already lie notes on acomparison of Andalusian mules with the mules of Liane de Pougy, a fewscribbled memoranda for a treatise on the love habits of the mole, anda half-finished biography of the talented gentleman who signed hisworks, "Nick Carter, " if my by this time quite roving eye had notalighted, entirely fortuitously, on one of the forgotten glories of mylibrary, a slender volume entitled "Popular American Composers. "

I recalled how I had bought this book. Happening into a modestsecond-hand bookshop on lower Third Avenue, maintained chiefly for thelaudable purpose of redistributing paper novels of the Seaside andkindred libraries, of which, alas, we hear very little nowadays, Iasked the proprietor if by chance he possessed any literature relatingto the art of music. By way of answer, he retired to the very back ofhis little room, searched for a space in a litter on the floor, andthen returned with a pile of nine volumes or so in his arms. Thetitles, such as "Great Violinists, " "Harmony in Thirteen Lessons, "and "How to Sing, " did not intrigue me, but in idly turning the pagesof this "Popular American Composers" I came across a half-tonereproduction of a photograph of Paul Dresser, the only less celebratedbrother of Theodore Dreiser, with a short biography of the composer of_On the Banks of the Wabash_. As Sir George Grove in his excellentdictionary neglected to mention this portentous name in American Artand Letters (although he devoted sixty-seven pages, printed in doublecolumns, to Mendelssohn) I saw the advantage of adding the little bookto my collection. The bookseller, when questioned, offered torelinquish the volume for a total of fifteen cents, and I carried itaway with me. Once I had become more thoroughly acquainted with itspages I realized that I would willingly have paid fifteen dollars forit. 

This book, indeed, cannot fail to delight General Mencken. There is noreference in its pages to Edgar Stillman-Kelley, Miss Gena Branscombe, Louis Adolphe Coerne, Henry Holden Huss, T. Carl Whitmer, ArthurFarwell, Arthur Foote, or A. J. Goodrich. In fact, if we overlookbrief notices of John Philip Sousa, Harry von Tilzer, Paul Dresser, Charles K. Harris, and Hattie Starr (whom you will immediately recallas the composer of _Little Alabama Coon_), the author, Frank L. Boyden, has not hesitated to go to the roots of his subject, pushingaside the college professors and their dictums, and has turned hisattention to figures in the art life of America, from whom, Menckenhimself, I feel sure, would not take a single paragraph of praise, sorichly is it deserved. I am unfamiliar with the causes contributing tothis book's comparative obscurity; perhaps, indeed, they are similarto those responsible for the early failure of "Sister Carrie. " May notwe even suspect that the odium cast by the Doubledays on the author ofthat romance might have been actively transferred in some degree to awork which contained a biographical notice and a picture of hisbrother? At any rate, "Popular American Composers, " published in 1902, fell into undeserved oblivion and so I make no apology for inviting myreaders to peruse its pages with me. 

Opening the book, then, at random, I discover on page 96 a biographyof Lottie A. Kellow (her photograph graces the reverse of this page). In a few well-chosen words (almost indeed in "gipsy phrases") Mr. Boyden gives us the salient details of her career. Mrs. Kellow is aresident of Cresco, Iowa, a church singer of note, and the possessorof a contralto voice of great volume. As a composer she has to hercredit "marches, cakewalks, schottisches, and other styles ofinstrumental music. " We are given a picture of Mrs. Kellow at work:"Mrs. Kellow's best efforts are made in the evening, and in darkness, save the light of the moonbeams on the keys of her piano. " We are alsotold that "she is happy in her inspirations and a sincere lover ofmusic. All of her compositions show a decided talent and possessmusical elements which are only to be found in the works of an artist. Mrs. Kellow's musical friends are confident of her success as acomposer and predict for her a brilliant future. "

Let us turn to the somewhat more extensive biography of W. T. Mullinon Page 4 (his photograph faces this page). Almost in the first linethe author rewards our attention: "To him may be applied the simplestand grandest eulogy Shakespeare ever pronounced: 'He was a man. '" Weare also informed that he was born of a cultured family, that hisinherited nobility of character has been carefully fostered by athorough education, and told that one finds in him the unusualcombination of genius wedded to sound common sense and practicalbusiness capacity. His family moved to Colorado, Texas, while he wasstill a lad and here his musical talent began to display itself. "Theinventive faculties of the small boy, and the innate harmony of themusician, combined to improvise a crude instrument which emitted thenotes of the scale. Successful at drawing forth a concord of sweetsounds, he continued to experiment upon everything which would emitmusical vibrations. (Even the pigs, I take it, did not escape. ) Heconsequently discovered the laws of vibrating chords before he hadmastered the intricacies of the multiplication table. Yet strange asit may seem, his musical education was neglected. A four months'course in piano instruction was interrupted and then resumed for twomonths more. Upon this meagre foundation rested his subsequentphenomenal progress. " I pause to point out to the astonished andbreathless reader that even Mozart and Schubert, infant prodigies thatthey were, received more training than this. 

I continue to quote: "At the age of thirteen he joined The Colorado(Texas) Cornet Band as a charter member. The youngest member of theband, he soon outstripped his comrades by virtue of his superiornatural ability. His position was that of second tenor. Wearying ofthe monotony of playing, he determined to venture on solo work. Theboy felt the impetus of restless power and the following incidentillustrates his remarkable originality. Taking the piano score of afavourite melody he transposed it within the compass of the secondtenor. This feat evoked admiring applause because of his extreme youthand untrained abilities. The band-master remarked that elderly andexperienced heads could hardly have accomplished this. 

"From boyhood to manhood he has remained with the Colorado (Texas)band as one of its most efficient members, composing in his leisuremoments, marches, ragtimes, waltzes, song and dance schottisches, etc. Of his many meritorious compositions only one has so far been given tothe public:--_The West Texas Fair March_, composed for and dedicatedto the management of the West Texas Fair and Round-up. Thisinstitution holds its annual meetings at Abilene, Texas. There themarch was played for the first time at their October, 1899, meet withgreat success, and again at their September, 1900, meet by theStockman band of Colorado, Texas, which has furnished music for theWest Texas Fair during their 1899 and 1900 meetings. Mr. Mullin'sposition in the Stockman band is that of euphonium soloist. He is aproficient performer upon all band instruments from cornet to tuba, including slide trombone, his favourites being the baritone and thetrombone. 

"He plays many stringed instruments, as well as the piano and organ. He is the proud possessor of a genuine Stradivarius violin--a familyheirloom--which he naturally prizes beyond the intrinsic value. Thefeat of playing on several instruments at once presents no difficultyto him. 

"This briefly sketches Mr. Mullin's life, character and ability as amusician. His accompanying photograph reveals his superb physique. Personally he possesses charming, agreeable manners and Chesterfieldancourteousness, which vastly contributes to his popularity. Sinceredevotion to his art has been rewarded by that elevating nobility ofsoul, which alone can penetrate the blue expanse of space and revel inthe music of the spheres. "

What more is there to say? I can only assure the reader that Mullinstands unique among all musicians, creative and interpretative, inbeing able to play the organ, many stringed instruments, and all theinstruments in a brass band (several of them simultaneously; it wouldbe interesting to know which and how) after studying the piano for sixmonths. I sincerely hope that the mistake he made in withholding allhis compositions, save one, from the public, has been rectified. 

Helen Kelsey Fox, like so many of our talented men and women, has aEuropean strain in her blood. She is a lineal descendant on hermother's side of a French nobleman and a German princess. Neverthelessshe continues to reside in Vermilion, Ohio. She is of a "decidedpoetic nature and lives in an atmosphere of her own. She dwells in aworld of thought peopled by the creations of an active and lyricmentality. " She is so imbued with the poetic spark that, as sheexpresses it, she "speaks in rhyme half the time. "

John Z. Macdonald, strictly speaking, is not an American composer. Hewas born in Scotland and came to America in 1881 at the age of 21, butas he is one of the very few composers since Nero to enter publicpolitical life he well deserves a place in this collection. In 1890 hewas elected city clerk of Brazil, Indiana, a position which he heldfor seven years. In 1898 he was elected treasurer of Clay County, Indiana. This county is democratic "by between five and six hundred"but Mr. Macdonald was elected on the republican ticket by a majorityof 133. He was the only republican elected. Among the best known ofMr. Macdonald's compositions is his famous "expansion" song, in whichhe predicted the fate of Aguinaldo. He has autograph letters, praisingthis song, from the late President McKinley, Col. Roosevelt, GeneralHarrison, Admiral Schley, John Philip Sousa and other "eminentgentlemen. "

Edward Dyer, born in Washington, was the son of a marble cutter who"helped to erect the U. S. Treasury, Patent Office, and Capitol.... Inthe majority of his compositions there is a tinge of sadness whichappeals to his auditors.... Mr. Dyer never descends to coarseness orvulgarity in his productions; he writes pure, clean words, somethingthat can be sung in the home, school and on the stage to refinedrespectable people. "

We learn much of the study years of Mrs. Lucy L. Taggart: "Fromearliest childhood she received valuable musical instruction from herfather (Mr. Longsdon) who, coming from England in 1835, purchased thefirst piano that came to Chicago, an elegant hand-carved instrumentthat is still treasured in the old home. " Later "she studied underProf. C. E. Brown, of Owego, N. Y. , Prof. Heimburger, of San Franciscoand Herr Chas. Goffrie. Mrs. Taggart was also for five years a pupilof Senor Arevalo, the famous guitar soloist of Los Angeles.... Mrs. Taggart has in preparation (1902) _Methought He Touched the Strings_, an idyl for piano in memory of the late Senor M. S. Arevalo. "

David Weidley, born in Philadelphia, is the composer of the followingsongs, _Old Spooney Spooppalay_, _Jennie Ree_, _Autumn Leaves_, _Hannah Glue_, and _Uncle Reuben and Aunt Lucinda_. "He has done muchto create and elevate a taste for music in the community where heresides and where he is known as 'Dave. ' Even the little children callhim 'Dave' as freely and innocently as those who have known him foryears, and there can be no greater compliment for any man than that heis known and loved by the children. Mr. Weidley is by profession asheet metal worker. He is a P. G. Of the I. O. O. F. , and a P. C. Inthe Knights of Pythias. He is not identified with any church, butloves and serves his fellow-men. "

In the biography of Delmer G. Palmer we are assured that "Versatilityis a trait with which musical composers are not excessively burdened. There are few performers who can include _The Moonlight Sonata_ andSchubert's _Serenade_ with selections from _The Merry-go-round_, anddo justice to the expression of each, much less would suchadaptability be looked for among composers. As most rules haveexceptions, in this there is one who stands in a class occupied by noone else, Mr. Delmer G. Palmer, the 'Green Mountain Composer, ' who atpresent resides in Kansas City. 

"As recently as 1899 Mr. Palmer wrote a song in the popular 'ragtime, '_My Sweetheart is a Midnight Coon_ and almost in the same breath alsowrote the heavy sacred solo, _Christ in Gethsemane_. The first is ofthe usual light order characteristic of this class of music. Thelatter is as far removed to the contrary as is comedy from tragedy. The 'coon' song entered the bubbling effervescing cauldron of what istermed 'ragtime' music among the multitudinous others, and soon wasseen peeping through at the surface among the lightest and mostcatchy.... The sacred solo found its level among the heavier in itsclass, and if the term may be here applied, it was also a hit. "

S. Duncan Baker, born August 25, 1855, still lives (1902) in the oldfamily residence at Natchez, Miss. "In this house is located the denwhere he has spent many hours with his collection of banjos andpictures and in writing for and playing on the instrument which headopted as a favourite during its dark days (about 1871). " We are toldthat he composed an "artistic banjo solo, " entitled, _Memories ofFarland_. "Had this production or its companion piece, _Thoughts ofthe Cadenza_, been written by an old master for some other instrumentand later have been adapted by a modern composer to the banjo, eitheror both of them would have been pronounced classic, barring someslight defects in form. "

I cannot stop to quote from the delightful accounts offered us of thelives and works of Albert Matson, George D. Tufts, D. O. Loy, LaviniaPascoe Oblad, and forty or fifty other American singers, but it seemsto me that I have done enough, Mencken, to prove to you that the greatbook on American music has been written. Without one single mention ofthe names of Horatio Parker, George W. Chadwick, Frederick Converse, or Henry Hadley, by a transference of the emphasis to the place whereit belongs, the author of this undying book has answered your prayer. 

 _December 11, 1917. _

Old Days and New

Old Days and New

Some toothless old sentimentalist or other periodically sets up amelancholy howl for "the good old days of comic opera, " whatever orwhenever they were. Perhaps none of us, once past forty, is guiltlessin this respect. Nothing, not even the smell of an apple-blossom fromthe old homestead, the sight of a daguerreotype of a miss one kissedat the age of ten, or a taste of a piece of the kind of pie that"mother used to make" so arouses the sensibility of a man of middleage as the memory of some musical show which he saw in his buddingmanhood. That is why revivals of these venerable institutions arefrequently projected and, some of them, very successfullyaccomplished. When a manager revives an old drama he must appeal tothe interest of his audience; it may not be the identical interestwhich held the original spectators of the piece spell-bound, but, nonethe less, it must be an interest. When a manager revives an oldmusical comedy he appeals directly to sentiment. 

Of course, the exact date of the good old days is a variable quantity. I have known a vain regretter to turn no further back than to thenights of _The Merry Widow_, _The Waltz Dream_, _The ChocolateSoldier_, _The Girl in the Train_, and _The Dollar Princess_, in otherwords to the Viennese renaissance; another, in using the phrase, issubconsciously conjuring up pictures of _La Belle Hélène_, _Orphée auxEnfers_, or _La Fille de Madame Angot_, good fodder for memory to feedon here; a third will instinctively revert to the Johann Straussoperetta period, the era of _The Queen's Lace Handkerchief_ and _DieFledermaus_; a fourth cries, "Give us Gilbert and Sullivan!" A fifth, when his ideas are chased to their lair, will rhapsodize endlesslyover the charms of the London Gaiety when _The Geisha_, _The CountryGirl_, and _The Circus Girl_ were in favour; a sixth, it seems, findshis pleasure in Americana, _Robin Hood_, _Wang_, _The Babes inToyland_, and _El Capitan_; a seventh becomes maudlin to the mostutter degree when you mention _Les Cloches de Corneville_, or _LaMascotte_, products of a decadent stage in the history of Frenchopéra-bouffe. Not long ago I heard a man speak of the cadet operas inBoston (did a man named Barnet write them?) as the last of the greatmusical pieces; and every one of you who reads this essay will have abrother, or a son, or a friend who went to see _Sybil_ forty-threetimes and _The Girl from Utah_ seventy-six. Twenty years from now, ashe sits before the open fire, the mere mention of _They Wouldn'tBelieve Me_ will cause the tears to course down his cheeks as he patsthe pate of his infant son or daughter and weepingly describes thenever-to-be-forgotten fascination of Julia Sanderson, the (in the thendays) unattainable agility of Donald Brian. 

In no other form of theatrical entertainment is the appeal to softnessso direct. The man who attends a performance of a musical farce goesin a good mood, usually with a couple of friends, or possibly with_the_ girl. If he has dined well and his digestion is in working orderand he is young enough, the spell of the lights and the music isirresistible to his receptive and impressionable nature. There arethose young men, of course, who are constant attendants because of thealtogether too wonderful hair of the third girl from the right in thefront row. Others succumb to the dental perfection of the prima donnaor to the shapely legs of the soubrette. All of us, I am almost proudto admit, at some time or other, are subject to the contagion. I wellremember the year in which I considered myself as a possible suitorfor the hand of Della Fox. Photographs and posters of this deityadorned my walls. I was an assiduous collector of newspaper clippingsreferring to her profoundly interesting activities, although mysophistication had not reached the stage where I might appeal toRomeike for assistance. The mere mention of Miss Fox's name wassufficient cause to make me blush profusely. Eventually my father wasforced to take steps in the matter when I began, in a valiant effortto summon up the spirit of the lady's presence, to disturb the earlymorning air with vocal assaults on _She Was a Daisy_, which, you willsurely remember, was the musical gem of _The Little Trooper_. Here arethe words of the refrain:

 "She was a daisy, daisy, daisy! Driving me crazy, crazy, crazy! Helen of Troy and Venus were to her cross-eyed crones! She was dimpled and rosy, rosy, rosy! Sweet as a posy, posy, posy! How I doted upon her, my Ann Jane Jones!"

You will admit, I think, at first glance, the superior literaryquality of these lines; you will perceive at once to what immeasurablyhigher class of art they belong than the lyrics that librettists forgefor us today. 

Wall Street broker, poet, green grocer, soldier, banker, lawyer, whatever you are, confess the facts to yourself: you were once as I. You have suffered the same feelings that I suffered. Perhaps with youit was not Della Fox.... Who then? Did saucy Marie Jansen awaken youradmiration? Was pert Lulu Glaser the object of your secret butpersistent attention? How many times did you go to see Marie Tempestin _The Fencing Master_, or Alice Nielsen in _The Serenade_? WasVirginia Earle in _The Circus Girl_ the idol of your youth or was itMabel Barrison in _The Babes in Toyland_? Theresa Vaughn in _1492_, May Yohe in _The Lady Slavey_, Hilda Hollins in _The Magic Kiss_, orNancy McIntosh in _His Excellency_? Madge Lessing in _Jack and theBeanstalk_, Edna May in _The Belle of New York_, Phyllis Rankin in_The Rounders_, or Gertrude Quinlan in _King Dodo_?

What do you whistle in your bathtub when you are in a reminiscentmood? Is it _The Typical Tune of Zanzibar_, or _Baby, Baby, Dance MyDarling Baby_, or _Starlight, Starbright_, or _Tell Me, PrettyMaiden_, or _A Simple Little String_, or _J'aime les Militaires_ (ifyou whistle this, ten to one your next door neighbour thinks you havebeen to an orchestra concert and heard Beethoven's _SeventhSymphony_), or _Sister Mary Jane's Top Note_, or _A WanderingMinstrel I_, or _See How It Sparkles_, or the _Lullaby_ from_Erminie_, which Pauline Hall used to sing as if she herself wereasleep, and which Emma Abbott interpolated in _The Mikado_, or _APretty Girl, A Summer Night_, or the _Policeman's Chorus_ from _ThePirates of Penzance_, or _The Soldiers in the Park_, or _My Angeline_, or the _Letter Song_ from _The Chocolate Soldier_, or _I'm LittleButtercup_, or the _Gobble Song_ from _The Mascot_, or the _Anna Song_from _Nanon_, or the march from _Fatinitza_, or _I'm All the Way fromGay Paree_, or _Love Comes Like a Summer Sigh_, or _In the North SeaLived a Whale_, or _Jusqu'là_, or _The Harmless Little Girlie With theDowncast Eyes_, or _They All Follow Me_, or _The Amorous Goldfish_, or_Don't Be Cross_, or _Slumber On, My Little Gypsy Sweetheart_, or_Good-bye Flo_, or _La Légende de la Mère Angot_, or _My Alamo Love_?

There is a very subtle and fragrant charm about these oldrecollections which the sight or sound of a score, a view of an oldphotograph of Lillian Russell or Judic, or a dip in the _ThéâtreComplet_ of Meilhac and Halévy will reawaken. But it is only at arevival of one of our old favourites that we can really bathe insentimentality, drink in draughts of joy from the past, allow memoryfull away. You whose hair is turning white will be in Row A, Seat No. 1 for the first performance of a revival of _Robin Hood_. You will nothear Edwin Hoff in his original rôle; Jessie Bartlett Davis is deadand, alas, Henry Clay Barnabee is no longer on the boards, but thenewcomers, possibly, are respectable substitutes and the airs andlines remain. You can walk about in the lobby and say proudly that youattended the _first_ performance of the opera ever so long ago whenoperettas had tune and reason. "Yes sir, there were plots in thosedays, and composers, and the singers could _act_. Times have certainlychanged, sir. Come to the corner and have a Manhattan.... There wereno cocktails in those days.... There is no singer like Mrs. Davistoday!"

Well the poor souls who cannot feel tenderly about a past they havenot yet experienced have their recompenses. For one thing I am certainthat the revivals of the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas to which DeWolf Hopper devoted his best talents were better, in many respects, than the original London productions; just as I am equally certainthat the representations of _Aida_ at the Metropolitan Opera House areway ahead of the original performance of that work given at Cairobefore the Khedive of Egypt. 

Then there is the musical revue, a form which we have borrowed fromthe French, but which we have vastly improved upon and into which wehave poured some of our most national feeling and expression. Theinterpretation of these frivolities is a new art. Gaby Deslys may beonly half a loaf compared to Marie Jansen, but I am sure that ElsieJanis is more than three-quarters. Frank Tinney and Al Jolson can, intheir humble way, efface memories of Digby Bell and Dan Daly. AdeleRowland and Marie Dressler have their points (and curves). IrvingBerlin, Louis A. Hirsch, and Jerome Kern are not to be sniffed at. Neither is P. G. Wodehouse. Harry B. Smith we have always with us: heis the Sarah Bernhardt of librettists. 

Joseph Urban has wrought a revolution in stage settings for this formof entertainment. Louis Sherwin has offered us convincing evidence tosupport his theory that the new staging in America is coming to us byway of the revue and not through the serious drama. Melville Ellis, Lady Duff-Gordon, and Paul Poiret have done their bit for the dresses. In fact, my dear young man--who are reading this article--you willfeel just as tenderly in twenty years about the _Follies of 1917_ asyour father does now about _Wang_. Only, and this is a very big ONLY, the _Follies of 1917_, depending as it does entirely on topicalsubjects and dimpled knees, cannot be revived. Fervid and enliveningas its immediate impression may be it cannot be lasting. You can neverrecapture the thrills of this summer by sitting in Row A, Seat No. 1at any 1937 _reprise_. There can never be anything of the sort. Therevue, like the firefly, is for a night only. We take it in with thedaily papers ... And the next season, already old-fashioned, it goesforth to show Grinnell and Davenport how Mlle. Manhattan deportedherself the year before. 

So if the youth of these days chooses to be sentimental in the yearsto come over the good old days of Urban scenery and Olive Thomas, theBalloon Girls of the Midnight Frolic and the chorus of the WinterGarden, he will be obliged to give way to the mood at home in front ofthe fire, see the pictures in the smoke, and hear the tunes in thedropping of the coals. Which is perhaps as it should be. For in 1937the youth of that epoch can sit in Row A, Seat No. 1 himself and notbe ousted from his place by a sentimental gentleman of middle age wholongs to hear _Poor Butterfly_ again. 

 _April 25, 1917. _

Two Young American Playwrights

 _"Gautier had a theory to the effect that to be a member of the Academy was simply and solely a matter of predestination. 'There is no need to do anything, ' he would say, 'and so far as the writing of books is concerned that is entirely useless. A man is born an Academician as he is born a bishop or a cook. He can abuse the Academy in a dozen pamphlets if it amuses him, and be elected all the same; but if he is not predestined, three hundred volumes and ten masterpieces, recognized as such by the genuflections of an adoring universe, will not aid him to open its doors. ' Evidently Balzac was not predestined but then neither was Molière, and there must have been some consolation for him in that. "_

 Edgar Saltus. 

Two Young American Playwrights

In the newspaper reports relating to the death of Auguste Rodin I readwith some astonishment that if the venerable sculptor, who lackedthree years of being eighty when he died, had lived two weeks longerhe would have been admitted to the French Academy! In other words, thegreatest stone-poet since Michael Angelo, internationally famous andpowerful, the most striking artist figure, indeed, of the last halfcentury, was to be permitted, in the extremity of old age, to inscribehis name on a scroll, which bore the signatures of many inoffensivenobodies. I could not have been more amused if the newspapers, inpublishing the obituary notices of John Jacob Astor, had announcedthat if the millionaire had not perished in the sinking of the_Titanic_, his chances of being invited to join the Elks were good; orif "Variety" or some other tradespaper of the music halls, hadproclaimed, just before Sarah Bernhardt's début at the Palace Theatre, that if her appearances there were successful she might expect aninvitation to membership in the White Rats.... These hypotheticalinstances would seem ridiculous ... But they are not. The Rodin caseputs a by no means seldom-recurring phenomenon in the centre of thestage under a calcium light. The ironclad dreadnaughts of the academicworld, the reactionary artists, the dry-as-dust lecturers areconstantly ignoring the most vital, the most real, the most importantartists while they sing polyphonic, antiphonal, Palestrinian motets inpraise of men who have learned to imitate comfortably and efficientlythe work of their predecessors. 

 * * * * *

If there are other contemporary French sculptors than Rodin theirnames elude me at the moment; yet I have no doubt that some ten orfifteen of these hackmen have their names emblazoned in the books ofall the so-called "honour" societies in Paris. It is a comfort, on thewhole, to realize that America is not the only country in which suchthings happen. As a matter of fact, they happen nowhere more oftenthan in France. 

If some one should ask you suddenly for a list of the importantplaywrights of France today, what names would you let roll off yourtongue, primed by the best punditic and docile French critics? HenryBataille, Paul Hervieu, and Henry Bernstein. Possibly Rostand. Don'tdeny this; you know it is true, unless it happens you have been doingsome thinking for yourself. For even in the works of Remy de Gourmont(to be sure this very clairvoyant mind did not often occupy itselfwith dramatic literature) you will find little or nothing relating toOctave Mirbeau and Georges Feydeau. True, Mirbeau did not do his bestwork in the theatre. That stinging, cynical attack on the courts ofJustice (?) of France (nay, the world!), "Le Jardin de Supplice" isnot a play and it is probably Mirbeau's masterpiece and the best pieceof critical fiction written in France (or anywhere else) in the lastfifty years. However Mirbeau shook the pillars of society even in theplayhouse. _Le Foyer_ was hissed repeatedly at the Théâtre Français. Night after night the proceedings ended in the ejection and arrest offorty or fifty spectators. Even to a mere outsider, an idle bystanderof the boulevards, this complete exposure of the social, moral, andpolitical hypocricies of a nation seemed exceptionally brutal. _LeFoyer_ and "Le Jardin" could only have been written by a manpassionately devoted to the human ideal ("each as she may, " asGertrude Stein so beautifully puts it). _Les Affaires sont lesAffaires_ is pure theatre, perhaps, but it might be considered thebest play produced in France between Becque's _La Parisienne_ andBrieux's _Les Hannetons_. 

It is not surprising, on the whole, to find the critical tribe turningfor relief from this somewhat unpleasant display of Gallic closetskeletons to the discreet exhibition of a few carefully chosen bonesin the plays of Bernstein and Bataille, direct descendants of Scribe, Sardou, _et Cie_, but I may be permitted to indulge in a slightsnicker of polite amazement when I discover these gentlemen applyingtheir fingers to their noses in no very pretty-meaning gesture, directed at a grandson of Molière. For such is Georges Feydeau. Hismethod is not that of the Seventeenth Century master, nor yet that ofMirbeau; nevertheless, aside from these two figures, Beaumarchais, Marivaux, Becque, Brieux at his best, and Maurice Donnay occasionally, there has not been a single writer in the history of the Frenchtheatre so inevitably _au courant_ with human nature. His form isfrankly farcical and his plays are so funny, so enjoyable merely as_good shows_ that it seems a pity to raise an obelisk in theplaywright's honour, and yet the fact remains that he understands thepolitical, social, domestic, amorous, even cloacal conditions of theFrench better than any of his contemporaries, always excepting theaforementioned Mirbeau. In _On Purge Bébé_ he has written saucyvariations on a theme which Rabelais, Boccaccio, George Moore, andMolière in collaboration would have found difficult to handle. It isas successful an experiment in bravado and bravura as Mr. HenryJames's "The Turn of the Screw. " And he has accomplished this featwith nimbleness, variety, authority, even (granting the subject)delicacy. Seeing it for the first time you will be so submerged ingales of uncontrollable laughter that you will perhaps not recognizeat once how every line reveals character, how every situation springsfrom the foibles of human nature. Indeed in this one-act farceFeydeau, with about as much trouble as Zeus took in transforming hisgodship into the semblance of a swan, has given you a well-roundedpicture of middle-class life in France with its external and internalimplications.... And how he understands the buoyant French _grue_, unselfconscious and undismayed in any situation. I sometimes thinkthat _Occupe-toi d'Amélie_ is the most satisfactory play I have everseen; it is certainly the most delightful. I do not think you can seeit in Paris again. The Nouveautés, where it was presented for over ayear, has been torn down; an English translation would be an insultto Feydeau; nor will you find essays about it in the yellow volumes inwhich the French critics tenderly embalm their _feuilletons_; nor do Ithink Arthur Symons or George Moore, those indefatigable diggers inParisian graveyards, have discovered it for their English readers. Reading the play is to miss half its pleasure; so you must take myword in the matter unless you have been lucky enough to see ityourself, in which case ten to one you will agree with me that onesuch play is worth a kettleful of boiled-over drama like _Le Voleur_, _Le Secret_, _Samson_, _La Vierge Folle_, _et cetera_, _et cetera_. Inthe pieces I have mentioned Feydeau, in representation, had thepriceless assistance of a great comic artist, Armande Cassive. If weare to take Mr. Symons's assurance in regard to de Pachmann that he isthe world's greatest pianist because he does one thing more perfectlythan any one else, by a train of similar reasoning we mightconfidently assert that Mlle. Cassive is the world's greatest actress. 

When you ask a Frenchman to explain why he does not like Mirbeau (andyou will find that Frenchmen invariably do not like him) he will shrughis shoulders and begin to tell you that Mirbeau was not good to hismother, or that he drank to excess, or that he did not wear a red, white, and blue coat on the Fourteenth of July, or that he did notstand for the French spirit as exemplified in the eating of snails onChristmas. In other words, he will immediately place himself in aposition in which you may be excused for regarding him as a personwhose opinion is worth nothing, whereas his ratiocinatory powers onsubjects with which he is more in sympathy may be excellent. I knowwhy he does not like Mirbeau. Mirbeau is the reason. In his life hewas not accustomed to making compromises nor was he accustomed tomaking friends (which comes after all to the same thing). He did whathe pleased, said what he pleased, wrote what he pleased. His armorialbearings might have been a cat upsetting a cream jug with the motto, "_Je m'en fous_. " The author of "Le Jardin de Supplice" would not bein high favour anywhere; nevertheless I would willingly relinquish anyclaims I might have to future popularity for the privilege of havingbeen permitted to sign this book. 

Feydeau is distinctly another story; his plays are more successfulthan any others given in Paris. They are so amusing that even while heis pointing the finger at your own particular method of living you arelaughing so hard that you haven't time to see the application.... Sothe French critics have set him down as another popular figure, only anobody born to entertain the boulevards, just as the American criticsregard the performances of Irving Berlin with a steely superciliousimpervious eye. The Viennese scorned Mozart because he entertainedthem. "A gay population, " wrote the late John F. Runciman, "always aheartless master, holds none in such contempt as the servants whoprovide it with amusement. "

The same condition has prevailed in England until recently. A fewseasons ago you might have found the critics pouring out their gladsongs about Arthur Wing Pinero and Henry Arthur Jones. Bernard Shawhas, in a measure, restored the balance to the British theatre. He isnot only a brilliant playwright; he is a brilliant critic as well. Foreseeing the fate of the under man in such a struggle he became hisown literary huckster and by outcriticizing the other critics heeasily established himself as the first English (or Irish) playwright. When he thus rose to the top, by dint of his own exertions, he hadstrength enough to carry along with him a number of other importantauthors. As a consequence we may regard the Pinero incident closed andin ten years his theatre will be considered as old-fashioned and asinadept as that of Robertson or Bulwer-Lytton. 

Having no Shaw in America, no man who can write brilliant prefaces andessays about his own plays until the man in the street is obligedperforce to regard them as literature, we find ourselves in thecondition of benighted France. Dulness is mistaken for literaryflavour; the injection of a little learning, of a little poetry(so-called) into a theatrical hackpiece, is the signal for a good dealof enthusiasm on the part of the journalists (there are two brilliantexceptions). Which of our playwrights are taken seriously by thepundits? Augustus Thomas and Percy MacKaye: Thomas the dean, andMacKaye the poet laureate. I have no intention of wrenching the laurelwreathes from these august brows. Let them remain. Each of thesegentlemen has a long and honourable career in the theatre behind him, from which he should be allowed to reap what financial and honouraryrewards he may be able. But I would not add one leaf to thesewreathes, nor one crotchet to the songs of praise which vibrate aroundthem. I turn aside from their plays in the theatre and in the libraryas I turn aside from the fictions of Pierre de Coulevain and ArnoldBennett. 

I love to fashion wreathes of my own and if two young men will nowstep forward to the lecturer's bench I will take delight in crowningthem with my own hands. Will the young man at the back of the hallplease page Avery Hopwood and Philip Moeller?... No response! Theyseem to have retreated modestly into the night. Nevertheless theyshall not escape me!

I speak of Mr. Hopwood first because he has been writing for ourtheatre for a longer period than has Mr. Moeller, and because hisposition, such as it is, is assured. Like Feydeau in France he has alarge popular following; he has probably made more money in a fewyears than Mr. Thomas has made during his whole lifetime and themanagers are always after him to furnish them with more plays withwhich to fill their theatres. For his plays do fill the theatres. _Fair and Warmer_, _Nobody's Widow_, _Clothes_, and _Seven Days_, would be included in any list of the successful pieces produced in NewYork within the past ten years. Two of these pieces would be near thevery top of such a list. An utterly absurd allotment of actors issufficient to explain the failures of _Sadie Love_ and _Our LittleWife_ and it might be well if some one should attempt a revival of oneof his three serious plays, _This Woman and This Man_, in whichCarlotta Nillson appeared for a brief space. 

This author, mainly through the beneficent offices of a gift ofsupernal charm, contrives to do in English very much what Feydeau doesin French. It is his contention that you can smite the Puritans, evenin the American theatre, squarely on the cheek, provided you aresagacious in your choice of weapon. In _Fair and Warmer_ he provokesthe most boisterous and at the same time the most innocent laughterwith a scene which might have been made insupportably vulgar. Aperfectly respectable young married woman gets very drunk with theequally respectable husband of one of her friends. The scene is themainstay, the _raison d'être_, of the play, and it furnishes thematerial for the better part of one act; yet young and old, rich andpoor, philistine and superman alike, delight in it. To make such asituation irresistible and universal in its appeal is, it seems to me, undoubtedly the work of genius. What might, indeed should, have beendisgusting, was not only in intention but in performance very funny. Let those who do not appreciate the virtuosity of this undertakingattempt to write as successful a scene in a similar vein. Even if theyare able to do so, and I do not for a moment believe that there isanother dramatic author in America who can, they will be the first togrant the difficulty of the achievement. With an apparentlyinexhaustible fund of fantasy and wit Mr. Hopwood passes his wand overcertain phases of so-called smart life, almost always with thehappiest results. With a complete realization of the independence ofhis medium he often ignores the realistic conventions and thetraditional technique of the stage, but his touch is so light andjoyous, his wit so free from pose, that he rarely fails to establishhis effect. His pen has seldom faltered. Occasionally, however, theheavy hand of an uncomprehending stage director or of an aggressiveactor has played havoc with the delicate texture of his fabric. Thereis no need here for the use of hammer or trowel; if an actress mustseek aid in implements, let her rather rely on a soft brush, a lacyhandkerchief, or a sparkling spangled fan. 

Philip Moeller has achieved distinction in another field, that ofelegant burlesque, of sublimated caricature. His stage men and womenare as adroitly distorted (the better to expose their comicpossibilities) as the drawings of Max Beerbohm. Beginning with theBible and the Odyssey (_Helena's Husband_ and _Sisters of Susannah_for the Washington Square Players) he has at length, by way ofShakespeare and Bacon (_The Roadhouse in Arden_) arrived at theRomantic Period in French literature and in _Madame Sand_, his firstthree-act play, he has established himself at once as a dangerousrival of the authors of _Cæsar and Cleopatra_ and _The Importance ofBeing Earnest_, both plays in the same _genre_ as Mr. Moeller's latestcontribution to the stage. The author has thrown a very high light onthe sentimental adventures of the writing lady of the early NineteenthCentury, has indeed advised us and convinced us that they weresomewhat ridiculous. So they must have appeared even to hercontemporaries, however seriously George took herself, her romances, her passions, her petty tragedies. A less adult, a less seriouslytrained mind might have fallen into the error of making a sentimentalplay out of George's affairs with Alfred de Musset, Dr. Pagello, andChopin (Mr. Moeller contents himself with these three passions, selected from the somewhat more extensive list offered to us byhistory). Such an author would doubtless have written _GreatCatherine_ in the style of _Disraeli_ and _Androcles and the Lion_after the manner of _Ben Hur_! Whether love itself is always a comicsubject, as Bernard Shaw would have us believe, is a matter fordispute, but there can be no alternative opinion about the loves ofGeorge Sand. A rehearsal of them offers only laughter to any one but asentimental school girl. 

The piece is conceived on a true literary level; it abounds in wit, infantasy, in delightful situations, but there is nothing precious aboutits progress. Mr. Moeller has carefully avoided the traps expresslylaid for writers of such plays. For example, the enjoyment of _MadameSand_ is in no way dependent upon a knowledge of the books of thatauthoress, De Musset, and Heine, nor yet upon an acquaintance with themusic of Liszt and Chopin. Such matters are pleasantly and lightlyreferred to when they seem pertinent, but no insistence is laid uponthem. Occasionally our author has appropriated some phrase originallyspoken or written by one of the real characters, but for that he canscarcely be blamed. Indeed, when one takes into consideration thewealth of such material which lay in books waiting for him, it issurprising that he did not take more advantage of it. In the main hehas relied on his own cleverness to delight our ears for two hourswith brilliant conversation. 

There is, it should be noted, in conclusion, nothing essentiallyAmerican about either of these young authors. Both Mr. Hopwood andMr. Moeller might have written for the foreign stage. Several of Mr. Hopwood's pieces, indeed, have already been transported to foreignclimes and there seems every reason for belief that Mr. Moeller'scomedy will meet a similarly happy fate. 

 _November 29, 1917. _

De Senectute Cantorum

 _"All'età di settanta Non si ama, nè si canta. "_

 Italian proverb. 

De Senectute Cantorum

"I am not sure, " writes Arthur Symons in his admirable essay on SarahBernhardt, "that the best moment to study an artist is not the momentof what is called decadence. The first energy of inspiration is gone;what remains is the method, the mechanism, and it is that which aloneone can study, as one can study the mechanism of the body, not theprinciple of life itself. What is done mechanically, after the heat ofthe blood has cooled, and the divine accidents have ceased to happen, is precisely all that was consciously skilful in the performance of anart. To see all this mechanism left bare, as the form of a skeleton isleft bare when age thins the flesh upon it is to learn more easily allthat is to be learnt of structure, the art which not art but naturehas hitherto concealed with its merciful covering. "

Mr. Symons, of course, had an actress in mind, but his argument can beapplied to singers as well, although it is safest to remember thatmuch of the true beauty of the human voice inevitably departs with theyouth of its owner. Still style in singing is not noticeably affectedby age and an artist who possesses or who has acquired this qualityvery often can afford to make lewd gestures at Father Time. If goodsinging depended upon a full and sensuous tone, such artists asRonconi, Victor Maurel, Max Heinrich, Ludwig Wüllner, and MauriceRenaud would never have had any careers at all. It is obvious that anytrue estimate of their contribution to the lyric stage would put thechief emphasis on style, and this is usually the explanation forextended success on the opera or concert stage, although occasionallyan extraordinary and exceptional singer may continue to give pleasureto her auditors, despite the fact that she has left middle age behindher, by the mere lovely quality of the tone she produces. 

In the history of opera there may be found the names of many singerswho have maintained their popularity and, indeed, a good deal of theirart, long past fifty, and there is recorded at least one instance inwhich a singer, after a long absence from the theatre, returned to thescene of her earlier triumphs with her powers unimpaired, evenaugmented. I refer, of course, to Henrietta Sontag, born in 1805, whoretired from the stage of the King's Theatre in London in 1830 in hertwenty-fifth year and who returned twenty years later in 1849. Shehad, in the meantime, become the Countess Rossi, but although she hadabandoned the stage her reappearance proved that she had not remainedidle during her period of retirement. For she was one of those artistsin whom early "inspiration" counted for little and "method" for much. She was, indeed, a mistress of style. She came back to the public in_Linda di Chaminoux_ and H. F. Chorley ("Thirty Years' MusicalRecollections") tells us that "all went wondrously well. No magiccould restore to her voice an upper note or two which Time had taken;but the skill, grace, and precision with which she turned to accountevery atom of power she still possessed, --the incomparable steadinesswith which she wrought out her composer's intentions--she carriedthrough the part, from first to last, without the slightest failure, or sign of weariness--seemed a triumph. She was greeted--as shedeserved to be--as a beloved old friend come home again in the latesunnier days. 

"But it was not at the moment of Madame Sontag's reappearance that wecould advert to all the difficulty which added to the honour of itssuccess. --She came back under musical conditions entirely changedsince she left the stage--to an orchestra far stronger than that whichhad supported her voice when it was younger; and to a new world ofoperas. --Into this she ventured with an intrepid industry not to beoverpraised--with every new part enhancing the respect of every reallover of music. --During the short period of these new performances atHer Majesty's Theatre, which was not equivalent to two complete Operaseasons, not merely did Madame Sontag go through the range of her oldcharacters--Susanna, Rosina, Desdemona, Donna Anna, and the like--butshe presented herself in seven or eight operas which had not existedwhen she left the stage--Bellini's _Sonnambula_, Donizetti's _Linda_, _La Figlia del Reggimento_, _Don Pasquale_; _Le Tre Nozze_, of SignorAlary, _La Tempesta_, by M. Halévy--the last two works involving whatthe French call 'creation, ' otherwise the production of a part neverbefore represented. --In one of the favourite characters of herpredecessor, the elder artist beat the younger one hollow. --This wasas Maria, in Donizetti's _La Figlia_, which Mdlle. Lind may be said tohave brought to England, and considered as her special property.... With myself, the real value of Madame Sontag grew, night afternight--as her variety, her conscientious steadiness, and her adroituse of diminished powers were thus mercilessly tested. In one respect, compared with every one who had been in my time, she was alone, inright, perhaps of the studies of her early days--as a singer ofMozart's music. "

It was after these last London seasons that Mme. Sontag undertook anAmerican tour. She died in Mexico. 

The great Mme. Pasta's ill-advised return to the stage in 1850 (whenshe made two belated appearances in London) is matter for saddercomment. Chorley, indeed, is at his best when he writes of it, his pendipped in tears, for none had admired this artist in her prime morepassionately than he. Here was a particularly good opportunity tostudy the bare skeleton of interpretative art; the result is one ofthe most striking passages in all literature:

"Her voice, which at its best, had required ceaseless watching andpractice, had been long ago given up by her. Its state of utter ruinon the night in question passes description. --She had been neglectedby those who, at least, should have presented her person to the bestadvantage admitted by Time. --Her queenly robes (she was to sing somescenes from _Anna Bolena_) in nowise suited or disguised her figure. Her hair-dresser had done some tremendous thing or other with herhead--or rather had left everything undone. A more painful anddisastrous spectacle could hardly be looked on. --There were artistspresent, who had then, for the first time, to derive some impressionof a renowned artist--perhaps, with the natural feeling that herreputation had been exaggerated. --Among these was Rachel--whose bitterridicule of the entire sad show made itself heard throughout the wholetheatre, and drew attention to the place where she sat--one might evensay, sarcastically enjoying the scene. Among the audience, however, was another gifted woman, who might far more legitimately have beenshocked at the utter wreck of every musical means of expression in thesinger--who might have been more naturally forgiven, if some humour ofself-glorification had made her severely just--not worse--to an old_prima donna_;--I mean Madame Viardot. --Then, and not till then, shewas hearing Madame Pasta. --But Truth will always answer to the appealof Truth. Dismal as was the spectacle--broken, hoarse, and destroyedas was the voice--the great style of the singer spoke to the greatsinger. The first scene was Ann Boleyn's duet with Jane Seymour. Theold spirit was heard and seen in Madame Pasta's _Sorgi!_ and thegesture with which she signed to her penitent rival to rise. Later, she attempted the final mad scene of the opera--that most complicatedand brilliant among the mad scenes on the modern musical stage--withits two _cantabile_ movements, its snatches of recitative, and its_bravura_ of despair, which may be appealed to as an example of vocaldisplay, till then unparagoned, when turned to the account of frenzy, not frivolity--perhaps as such commissioned by the superb creativeartist. --By that time, tired, unprepared, in ruin as she was, she hadrallied a little. When--on Ann Boleyn's hearing the coronation musicof her rival, the heroine searches for her own crown on herbrow--Madame Pasta turned in the direction of the festive sounds, theold irresistible charm broke out;--nay, even in the final song, withits _roulades_, and its scales of shakes, ascending by a semi-tone, the consummate vocalist and tragedian, able to combine form withmeaning--the moment of the situation, with such personal and musicaldisplay as form an integral part of operatic art--was indicated: atleast to the apprehension of a younger artist. --'You are right!' wasMadame Viardot's quick and heartfelt response (her eyes were full oftears) to a friend beside her--'You are right! It is like the_Cenacolo_ of Da Vinci at Milan--a wreck of a picture, but thepicture is the greatest picture in the world!'"

The great Mme. Viardot herself, whose intractable voice and noblestage presence inevitably remind one of Mme. Pasta, took no chanceswith fate. The friend of Alfred de Musset, the model for George Sand's"Consuelo, " the "creator" of Fidès in _Le Prophète_, and the singerwho, in the revival of _Orphée_ at the Théâtre Lyrique in 1859, resuscitated Gluck's popularity in Paris, retired from the opera stagein 1863 at the age of 43, shortly after she had appeared in _Alceste!_(She sang in concert occasionally until 1870 or later. ) Thereafter shedivided her time principally between Baden and Paris and became thegreat friend of Turgeniev. His very delightful letters to her havebeen published. Idleness was abhorrent to this fine woman and in hermiddle and old age she gave lessons, while singers, composers, andconductors alike came to her for help and advice. She died in 1910 atthe age of 89. Her less celebrated brother, Manuel Garcia (lesscelebrated as a singer; as a teacher he is given the credit for havingrestored Jenny Lind's voice. Among his other pupils Mathilde Marchesiand Marie Tempest may be mentioned), had died in 1906 at the age of101. Her sister, Mme. Malibran, died very young, in the earlyNineteenth Century, before, in fact, Mme. Viardot had made her début. 

Few singers have had the wisdom to follow Mme. Viardot's excellentexample. The great Jenny Lind, long after her voice had lost itsquality, continued to sing in oratorio and concert. So did AdelinaPatti. Muriel Starr once told me of a parrot she encountered inAustralia. The poor bird had arrived at the noble age of 117 and wasentirely bereft of feathers. Flapping his stumpy wings he criedincessantly, "I'll fly, by God, I'll fly!" So, many singers, havinglost their voices, continue to croak, "I'll sing, by God, I'll sing!"The Earl of Mount Edgcumbe, himself a man of considerable years whenhe published his highly diverting "Musical Reminiscences, " gives ussome extraordinary pictures of senility on the stage at the close ofthe Eighteenth Century. There was, for example, the case of CeciliaDavis, the first Englishwoman to sustain the part of prima donna andin that situation was second only to Gabrielli, whom she even rivalledin neatness of execution. Mount Edgcumbe found Miss Davies inFlorence, unengaged and poor. A concert was arranged at which sheappeared with her sister. Later she returned to England ... Too old tosecure an engagement. "This unfortunate woman is now (in 1834) livingin London, in the extreme of old age, disease, and poverty, " writesthe Earl. He also speaks of a Signora Galli, of large and masculinefigure and contralto voice, who frequently filled the part of secondman at the Opera. She had been a principal singer in Handel'soratorios when conducted by himself. She afterwards fell into extremepoverty, and at the age of about seventy (!!!!), was induced to comeforward to sing again at the oratorios. "I had the curiosity to go, and heard her sing _He was despised and rejected of men_ in _TheMessiah_. Of course her voice was cracked and trembling, but it waseasy to see her school was good; and it was a pleasure to observe thekindness with which she was received and listened to; and to mark theanimation and delight with which she seemed to hear again the music inwhich she had formerly been a distinguished performer. The poor oldwoman had been in the habit of coming to me annually for a triflingpresent; and she told me on that occasion that nothing but theseverest distress should have compelled her so to expose herself, which after all, did not answer to its end, as she was not paidaccording to her agreement. She died shortly after. " In 1783 the Earlheard a singer named Allegranti in Dresden, then at the height of herpowers. Later she returned to England and reappeared in Cimarosa's_Matrimonio Segreto_. "Never was there a more pitiable attempt: shehad scarcely a thread of voice remaining, nor the power to sing a notein tune: her figure and acting were equally altered for the worse, andafter a few nights she was obliged to retire and quit the stagealtogether. " The celebrated Madame Mara, after a long sojourn inRussia, suddenly returned to England and was announced for a benefitperformance at the King's Theatre after everybody had forgotten herexistence. "She must have been at least seventy; but it was said thather voice had miraculously returned, and was as good as ever. But whenshe displayed those wonderfully revived powers, they proved, as mighthave been expected, lamentably deficient, and the tones she producedwere compared to those of a _penny trumpet_. Curiosity was so littleexcited that the concert was ill attended ... And Madame Mara washeard no more. I was not so lucky (or so unlucky) as to hear these herlast notes, as it was early in the winter, and I was not in town. Shereturned to Russia, and was a great sufferer by the burning of Moscow. After that she lived at Mitlau, or some other town near the Baltic, where she died at a great age, not many years ago. "

Here is Michael Kelly's account of the same event: "With all her greatskill and knowledge of the world, Madame Mara was induced, by theadvice of some of her mistaken friends, to give a public concert atthe King's Theatre, in her seventy-second year, when, in the course ofnature her powers had failed her. It was truly grievous to see suchtranscendent talents as she once possessed, so sunk--so fallen. I usedevery effort in my power to prevent her committing herself, but invain. Among other arguments to draw her from her purpose, I told herwhat happened to Monbelli, one of the first tenors of his day, wholost all his well-earned reputation and fame, by rashly performing thepart of a lover, at the Pergola Theatre, at Florence, in hisseventieth year, having totally lost his voice. On the stage, he washissed; and the following lines, lampooning his attempt, were chalkedon his house-door, as well as upon the walls of the city:--

 _'All' età di settanta Non si ama, nè si canta. '"_

W. T. Parke, forty years principal oboe player at Covent GardenTheatre, is kinder to Madame Mara in his "Musical Memoirs, " but itmust be taken into account that he is kinder to every one else, too. There is little of the acrimonious or the fault-finding note in hispages. This is his version of the affair: "That extraordinary singerof former days, Madame Mara, who had passed the last eighteen years inRussia, and who had lately arrived in England, gave a concert at theKing's Theatre on the 6th of March (1820), which highly excited thecuriosity of the musical public. On that occasion she sang some of herbest airs; and though her powers were greatly inferior to what theywere in her zenith, yet the same pure taste pervaded her performance. Whether vanity or interest stimulated Mara at her time of life to thatundertaking, it would be difficult to determine; but whichsoever hadthe ascendency, her reign was short; for by singing one nightafterwards at the vocal concert, the veil which had obscured herjudgment was removed, and she retired to enjoy in private life thosecomforts which her rare talent had procured for her. "

Parke also speaks of a Mrs. Pinto, "the once celebrated Miss Brent, the original Mandane in Arne's _Artaxerxes_, " who appeared in 1785 atthe age of nearly seventy in Milton's _Mask of Comus_ at a benefit fora Mr. Hull, "the respectable stage-manager of Covent Garden Theatre. "She was to sing the song of Sweet Echo and as Parke was to play theresponses to her voice on the oboe he repaired to her house forrehearsal. "Although nearly seventy years old, her voice possessed theremains of those qualities for which it had been so muchcelebrated, --power, flexibility, and sweetness. On the night _Comus_was performed she sung with an unexpected degree of excellence, andwas loudly applauded. This old lady, as a singer, gave me the idea ofa fine piece of ruins, which though considerably dilapidated, stilldisplayed some of its original beauties. "

The celebrated Faustina, whose quarrel with Cuzzoni is as famous inthe history of music as the war between Gluck and Piccinni, was lessdaring. Dr. Burney visited her when she was seventy-two years old andasked her to sing. "Alas, I cannot, " she replied, "I have lost all myfaculties. "

La Camargo, the favourite dancer of Paris in the early EighteenthCentury, the inventor, indeed of the short ballet skirt, and thepossessor of many lovers, retired from the stage in 1751 with a largefortune, besides a pension of fifteen hundred francs. Thenceforth sheled a secluded life. She was an assiduous visitor to the poor of herparish and she kept a dozen dogs and an angora cat which sheoverwhelmed with affection. In that quaint book, "The Powder Puff, " byFranz Blei, you may find a most charming description of a call paid tothe lady in 1768 in her little old house in the Rue St. Thomas duLouvre, by Duclos, Grimm, and Helvetius, who had come in banteringmood to ask her whom, in her past life, she had loved best. Her replytouched these men, who took their leave. "Helvetius told Camargo'sstory to his wife; Grimm made a note of it for his Court Journal; andas for Duclos, it suggested some moral reflections to him, for when, two years later, Mlle. Marianne Camargo was carried to her grave, heremarked: 'It is quite fitting to give her a white pall like avirgin. '"

Sophie Arnould, one of the most celebrated actresses and singers ofthe Eighteenth Century, died in poverty at the age of 63 and there isno record of her burial place. She had been the friend of Voltaire, Rousseau, d'Alembert, Diderot, Helvetius, and the Baron d'Holbach. Shehad "created" Gluck's _Iphigénie en Aulide_ and the composer had saidof her, "If it had not been for the voice and elocution of Mlle. Arnould, my _Iphigénie_ would never have been performed in France. " Inher youth she had interested not only Marie Antoinette but also theKing, and she had been the object of Mme. De Pompadour's suspicionand Mme. Du Barry's rage. Garrick declared her a better actress thanClairon. She was as famous for her wit as for her singing and acting. When Mme. Laguerre appeared drunk in _Iphigénie en Tauride_ sheexclaimed, "Why this is _Iphigénie en Champagne_!" Indeed, she made somany remarks worthy of preservation that shortly after her death in1802, a book called "Arnoldiana, " devoted to her epigrams, wasissued.... Nevertheless, this lady was hissed at the age of 36, when, after a short absence from the stage she reappeared as Iphigénie in1776. She was neither old nor ugly and if her voice may have lostsomething her nineteen years of stage life in Paris might have weighedagainst that. On one occasion, according to La Harpe, when she had theline to sing, "You long for me to be gone, " the audience applaudedvociferously. To protect Sophie, Marie Antoinette sat in a box onseveral nights and stemmed the storm of disapproval, but in the endeven the presence of the queen herself was insufficient to quell thehissing. One sad story completes the picture. In 1785, when herfinancial troubles were beginning, her two sons, who bore her no love, called for money. She had none to give them. "There are two horsesleft in the stable, " she said. "Take those. " They rode away on thehorses. 

Latin audiences are notoriously unfaithful to their stage favourites. In "The Innocents Abroad" Mark Twain tells us of the bad manners of anItalian audience. The singer he mentions is Erminia Frezzolini, bornat Orvieto in 1818. She sang both in England and America. Chorley saidof her: "She was an elegant, tall woman, born with a lovely voice, andbred with great vocal skill (of a certain order); but she was thefirst who arrived of the 'young Italians'--of those who fancy thatdriving the voice to its extremities can stand in the stead ofpassion. But she was, nevertheless, a real singer, and her art stoodher in stead for some years after nature broke down. When she had lefther scarce a note of her rich and real soprano voice to scream with, Madame Frezzolini was still charming. " She died in Paris, November 5, 1884. Now for Mark Twain:

"I said I knew nothing against the upper classes from personalobservation. I must recall it. I had forgotten. What I saw theirbravest and their fairest do last night, the lowest multitude thatcould be scraped out of the purlieus of Christendom would blush to do, I think. They assembled by hundreds, and even thousands, in the greatTheatre of San Carlo to do--what? Why simply to make fun of an oldwoman--to deride, to hiss, to jeer at an actress they once worshipped, but whose beauty is faded now, and whose voice has lost its formerrichness. Everybody spoke of the rare sport there was to be. They saidthe theatre would be crammed because Frezzolini was going to sing. Itwas said she could not sing well now, but then the people liked to seeher, anyhow. And so we went. And every time the woman sang they hissedand laughed--the whole magnificent house--and as soon as she left thestage they called her on again with applause. Once or twice she wasencored five and six times in succession, and received with hisseswhen she appeared, and discharged with hisses and laughter when shehad finished--then instantly encored and insulted again! And how thehigh-born knaves enjoyed it! White-kidded gentlemen and ladies laughedtill the tears came, and clapped their hands in very ecstasy when thatunhappy old woman would come meekly out for the sixth time, withuncomplaining patience, to meet a storm of hisses! It was thecruellest exhibition--the most wanton, the most unfeeling. The singerwould have conquered an audience of American rowdies by her brave, unflinching tranquillity (for she answered encore after encore, andsmiled and bowed pleasantly, and sang the best she possibly could, andwent bowing off, through all the jeers and hisses, without ever losingcountenance or temper); and surely in any other land than Italy hersex and her helplessness must have been an ample protection forher--she could have needed no other. Think what a multitude of smallsouls were crowded into that theatre last night!"

English audiences, on the other hand, are notoriously friendly totheir old favourites. When Dr. Hanslick, the Viennese critic, visitedEngland and heard Sims Reeves singing before crowded houses as he hadbeen doing for forty or fifty years, he remarked, "It is not easy towin the favour of the English public; to lose it is quite impossible. "

Mme. Grisi made her last appearance in London in 1866 at the theatreshe had left twenty years previously, Her Majesty's. The opera was_Lucrezia Borgia_. At the end of the first act she miscalculated thedepth of the apron and the descending curtain left her outside on herknees. She had stiffness in her joints and was unable to rise withoutassistance.... This situation must have been very embarassing to asinger who previously had been an idol of the public. In thepassionate duet with the tenor she made an unsuccessful attempt toreach the A natural. Notwithstanding the fact that she was wellreceived and that she got through with the greater part of the operawith credit, her impressario, J. H. Mapleson, relates in his "Memoirs"that after the final curtain had fallen she rushed to tell him that itwas all over and that she would never appear again. In "Student andSinger" Charles Santley writes of the occasion: "I had been singing atthe Crystal Palace concert in the afternoon, and after dining there Iwent up to the theatre to see a little of the performance. I felt verysorry for Grisi that she had been induced to appear again; it was asad sight for any one who had known her in her prime, and even longpast it. "

However, even English audiences can be cold. John E. Cox, in his"Musical Recollections, " recalls an earlier occasion when Grisi sangat the Crystal Palace without much success (July 31, 1861): "Onretiring from the orchestra, after a peculiarly cold reception--asunkind as it was inconsiderate, seeing what the career of thisremarkable woman had been--there was not a single person at the footof the orchestra to receive or to accompany her to her retiring room!I could imagine what her feelings at that moment must have been--shewho had in former years been accustomed to be thronged, wherever sheappeared, and to be the recipient of adulation--often as exaggeratedas it was fulsome--but who was now literally deserted. WithGrisi--although I had been once or twice introduced to her--I neverhad any personal acquaintance. I could not, however, resist theimpulse of preceding her, without obtruding myself on her notice, andopening the door of the retiring room for her, which was situated atsome considerable distance from the orchestra. Her look as I did this, and she passed out of sight, is amongst the most painful of my'Recollections. '"

German audiences are usually kind to their favourites. In America weadopt neither the attitude of the English and Germans, nor yet that ofthe Italians and French. We simply stay away from the theatre. MarkTwain has put it succinctly, "When a singer has lost his voice and ajumper his legs, those parties fail to draw. "

Benjamin Lumley in his "Reminiscences of the Opera, " quoting ananonymous friend, relates a touching story regarding Catalani, who wasborn in 1779 and who retired from the stage in 1831. When Jenny Lindvisited Paris in the spring of 1849 she learned to her astonishmentthat Catalani was in the French capital. The old singer, who residedhabitually in Florence, had come to Paris with her daughter who, asthe widow of a Frenchman, was obliged to go through certain legalforms before taking possession of her share of her husband's property. Through a friend of both ladies it was arranged that the two shouldmeet at a dinner at the home of the Marquis of Normansby, the Englishambassador to the Tuscan court, but the Swedish singer could notrestrain her impatience and before that event she set out one forenoonfor Mme. Catalani's apartment in the Rue de la Paix and sent in hername by a servant. The old singer hastened out to greet herdistinguished visitor with obvious delight. She had known nothing ofMlle. Lind's presence in Paris and had feared that such a chance wouldnever befall her, much as she had longed to see the celebrated singerwho had excited the English public in a way which recalled her ownpast triumphs and who rivalled her in her purity and her charity. Theytalked together for an hour.... At the dinner the Marchioness ofNormansby considerately refrained from asking Jenny Lind to sing, because no one is allowed to refuse such an invitation made by arepresentative of royalty. Catalani, however, had no such scruples. She went up to the Nightingale and begged her to sing, adding, "_C'est la vieille Catalini qui desire vous entendre chanter, avant demourir!_" This appeal was irresistible. Jenny Lind sat down to thepiano and sang _Non credea mirarti_ and one or two other airs, including _Ah! non giunge_. Catalani is described as sitting on anottoman in the centre of the room, rocking her body to and fro withdelight and sympathy, murmuring, "_Ah la bella cosa che la musica, quando si fà di quella maniera!_" and again "_Ah! la carissima! quantobellissima!_" A dinner at Catalani's apartment followed, but a fewdays later it became known that the old singer was ill, an illnesswhich proved fatal. She had, however, heard the Swedish Nightingalesing "_avant de mourir_. "

William Gardiner visited Madame Catalani in 1846. "I was surprised atthe vigour of Madame Catalani, " he says, "and how little she hasaltered since I saw her in Derby in 1828. I paid her a compliment onher good looks. 'Ah, ' said she, 'I'm sixty-six!' She has lost none ofthat commanding expression which gave her such dignity on the stage. She is without a wrinkle, and appears to be no more than forty. Herbreadth of chest is still remarkable: it is this which endowed herwith the finest voice that ever sang. Her speaking voice and dramaticair are still charming, and not in the least impaired. "

Is Christine Nilsson still alive? I think so. She was born August 20, 1843. In Clara Louise Kellogg's very entertaining, but not alwaystrustworthy, "Memoirs" there is an interesting reference to thissinger in her later career. Dates, unfortunately, are not furnished. "I was present, " declares Mme. Kellogg, "on the night ... When shepractically murdered the high register of her voice. She had fiveupper notes the quality of which was unlike any other I ever heard andthat possessed a peculiar charm. The tragedy happened during aperformance of _The Magic Flute_ in London.... Nilsson was the Queenof the Night, one of her most successful early rôles. The second ariain _The Magic Flute_ is more famous and less difficult than the firstaria, and also, more effective. Nilsson knew well the ineffectivenessof the ending of the first aria in the two weakest notes of asoprano's voice, A natural and B flat. I never could understand why amaster like Mozart should have chosen to use them as he did. There isno climax to the song. One has to climb up hard and fast and then stopshort in the middle. It is an appalling thing to do and that nightNilsson took those two notes at the last in _chest tones_. 'Greatheavens!' I gasped, 'what is she doing? What is the woman thinkingof!' Of course I knew she was doing it to get volume and vibration andto give that trying climax some character. But to say that it was afatal attempt is to put it mildly. She absolutely killed a certainquality in her voice there and then and she _never recovered it_. Eventhat night she had to cut out the second great aria. Her beautifulhigh notes were gone forever. " As I have said, the date of thisincident, which, so far as I know, is not recorded elsewhere, is notmentioned, but Christine Nilsson sang in New York in the earlyEighties and continued to sing until 1891, the year of her finalappearance in London. 

Adelina Patti, born the same year as Nilsson but six months before(February 10, 1843; according to some records, which by no means goundisputed, a quartet of famous singers came into the world this year. The other two were Ilma de Murska and Pauline Lucca) made manyfarewell tours of this country ... One too many in 1903-4, when shedisplayed the _beaux restes_ of her voice. She is living at present inretirement at Craig-y-Nos in Wales. Her greatest rival, EtelkaGerster, too, is alive, I believe. 

Lilli Lehmann, one of the oldest of the living great singers, wasborn May 13, 1848. She was a member of the famous casts whichintroduced many of the Wagner works to New York. Her last appearancesin opera here were made, I think, in the late Nineties, but she hassung here since in concert and in Germany she has frequently assistedat the performances of the Mozart festivals at Salzburg and has evensung in _Norma_ and _Götterdämmerung_ within recent years! Her head isnow crowned with white hair and her noble appearance and magnificentstyle in singing have doubtless stood her in good stead at thesebelated performances, which probably were disappointing, judged asvocal exhibitions. 

Lillian Nordica had a long career. She was born May 12, 1859, and madeher operatic début in Brescia in _La Traviata_ in 1879. She continuedto sing up to the time of her death in Batavia, Java, May 10, 1914. Indeed she was then undertaking a concert tour of the world at the ageof 55! But the artist, who in the Nineties had held the MetropolitanOpera House stage with honour in the great dramatic rôles, had verylittle to offer in her last years. Never a great musician, defects instyle began to make themselves evident as her vocal powers decreased. Her season at the Manhattan Opera House in 1907-8 was quickly andunpleasantly terminated. A subsequent single appearance as Isolde atthe Metropolitan in the winter of 1909-10 was even less successful. The voice had lost its resonance, the singer her appeal. Hermagnificent courage and indomitable ambition urged her on to the end. 

Two singers whose voices have been miraculously preserved, who haveindeed suffered little from the ravages of time, are Marcella Sembrichand Nellie Melba. Both of these singers, however, have consistentlyrefrained from misusing their voices (if one may except the oneoccasion on which Mme. Melba attempted to sing Brünnhilde in_Siegfried_ with disastrous results). Mme. Melba (according to Grove'sDictionary, which, like all other books devoted to the subject ofmusic, is frequently inaccurate) was born in Australia, May 19, 1859. Therefore she was 28 years old when she made her début in Brussels asGilda on October 12, 1887. She has used her voice carefully and welland still sings in concert and opera at the age of 59. With theadvance of age, indeed, her voice began to take on colour. When shesang here in opera at the Manhattan Opera House in 1906-7 she was inher best vocal estate. Her voice, originally rather pale, had becomemellow and rich, although it is possible it had lost some of its oldremarkable agility. When last I listened to her in concert, a fewyears ago at the Hippodrome, it seemed to me that I had never beforeheard so beautiful a voice, and yet Mme. Melba sang in the firstperformance of opera I ever attended (Chicago Auditorium; _Faust_, February 22, 1899). 

According to H. T. Finck, Caruso once said, "When you hear that anartist is going to retire, don't you believe it, for as long as hekeeps his voice he will sing. You may depend upon that. " Sometimes, indeed, longer. Mme. Melba made a belated and unfortunate attempt tosing Marguerite in _Faust_ with the Chicago Opera Company, Mondayevening, February 4, 1918, at the Lexington Theatre, New York. Shesang with some art and style; her tone was still pure and herwonderful enunciation still remained a feature of her performance butscarcely a shadow of the beautiful voice I can remember so well wasleft. As if to atone for vocal deficiencies the singer made histrionicefforts such as she had never deemed necessary during the height ofher career. Her meeting with Faust in the Kermesse scene wasaccomplished with modesty that almost became fright. She nearly dancedthe jewel song and embraced the tenor with passion in the love duet. In the church scene, overcome with terror at the sight ofMéphistophélès, she flung her prayer book across the stage.... Herappearance was almost shocking and the first lines of the part ofMarguerite, "_Non monsieur, je ne suis demoiselle, ni belle_" had amerciless application. However, the audience received her withkindness, more with a certain sort of enthusiasm. She reappeared againin the same opera on Thursday evening, February 14, 1918, but on thisoccasion I did not hear her. 

Marcella Sembrich was born February 15, 1858. She made her début inAthens in _I Puritani_, June 8, 1877, and she made her New York débutin _Lucia_ October 24, 1883, at the beginning of the first season ofthe Metropolitan Opera House. After a long absence she returned to NewYork in 1898 as Rosina in _Il Barbiere_. After that year she sangpretty steadily at the Metropolitan until February 6, 1909, when, atthe age of 51 (or lacking nine days of it), she bid farewell to theNew York opera stage in acts from several of her favourite operas. Shesubsequently sang in a few performances of opera in Europe and washeard in song recital in America. When she left the opera house shehad no rival in vocal artistry; and she had so satisfactorily solvedthe problems of style in singing certain kinds of songs that she alsosurveyed the field of song recital from a mountain top.... But such asinger as Mme. Sembrich, who made her appeal through the expression ofthe milder emotions, who never, indeed, attempted to touch dramaticdepths, even style, in the end, will not assist. Magnificent LilliLehmann might make a certain effect in _Götterdämmerung_ so long asshe had a leg to stand on or a note to croak, but an adequate deliveryof _Der Nussbaum_ or _Wie Melodien_ demands a vocal control which asinger past middle age is not always sure of possessing.... After along retirement, Mme. Sembrich gave a concert at Carnegie Hall, November 21, 1915. The house was crowded and the applause at thebeginning must almost have unnerved the singer, who walked slowlytowards the front of the platform as the storm burst and then bowedher head again and again. Her program on this occasion was not one ofher best. She had not chosen familiar songs in which to return to herpublic. This may in a measure account for her lack of success inalways calling forth steady tones. However, on the whole, her voicesounded amazingly fresh. Her high notes especially rang true andresonant as ever. Her middle voice showed wear. Her style remainedimpeccable, unrivalled.... She announced, following this concert, aseries of four recitals in a small hall and actually appeared at oneof them. This time I did not hear her, but I am told that her voicerefused to respond to her wishes. Nor was the hall filled. Theremaining concerts were abandoned. "Mme. Sembrich has never been afailure and she is too old to begin now!" she is reported to have saidto a friend. 

Emma Calvé's date of birth is recorded as 1864 in some of the musicaldictionaries. This would make her 53 years old. Her singing of the_Marseillaise_ a year ago at the Allies Bazaar at the Grand CentralPalace proved to me that her retirement from the Opera was premature. Her performances at the Manhattan Opera House in 1906-7 werememorable, vocally superb. Her Carmen was out of drawing dramatically, but her Anita and her Santuzza remained triumphs of stage craft. 

Emma Eames, born August 13, 1867, is three years younger than Mme. Calvé. She made her début as Juliette, March 13, 1889. She retiredfrom the opera stage in 1907-8, although she has sung since then a fewtimes in concert. Her last appearances at the Opera were made indramatic rôles, Donna Anna, Leonora (in _Trovatore_), and Tosca, incontradistinction to the lyric parts in which she gained her earlyfame. That she was entirely successful in compassing the breach cannotbe said in all justice. Yet there was a certain distinction in hermanner, a certain acid quality in her voice, that gave force to thesecharacterizations. Certainly, however, no one would ever have comparedher Donna Anna favourably with her Countess in _Figaro_. Herperformance of _Or sai chi l'onore_ was deficient in breadth of styleand her lack of breath control at this period gave uncertainty to herexecution. 

Life teaches us, through experience, that no rule is infallible, butinsofar as I am able to give a meaning to these rambling biographicalnotes, collected, I may as well admit, more to interest my reader thanto prove anything, it is the meaning, sounded with a high note oftruth, by Arthur Symons, in the paragraph quoted at the beginning ofthis essay. Style is a rare quality in a singer. With it in hispossession an artist may dare much for a long time. Without it heexists as long as those qualities which are perfectly natural to himexist. A voice fades, but a manner of applying that voice (even whenthere is practically no voice to apply) to an artistic problem has anindefinite term of life. 

Yvette Guilbert once told me that crossing the Atlantic with Duse onone occasion she had asked the Italian actress if she were going toinclude _La Dame aux Camélias_ in her American repertory. "I am tooold to play Marguerite ... " was the sad response. "She was right, "said Guilbert, in relating the incident, "she was too old; she wasborn too old ... In spirit. Now when I am sixty-three I shall begin toimpersonate children. I grow younger every year!"

 _September 12, 1917. _

Impressions in the Theatre

I

The Land of Joy

 _"Dancing is something more than an amusement in Spain. It is part of that solemn ritual which enters into the whole life of the people. It expresses their very spirit. "_

 Havelock Ellis. 

An idle observer of theatrical conditions might derive a certainironic pleasure from remarking the contradiction implied in theprofessed admiration of the constables of the playhouse for theunconventional and their almost passionate adoration for theconventional. We constantly hear it said that the public cries fornovelty, and just as constantly we see the same kind of acting, thesame gestures, the same Julian Mitchellisms and George Marionisms andNed Wayburnisms repeated in and out of season, summer and winter. Indeed, certain conventions (which bore us even now) are so deeplyrooted in the soil of our theatre that I see no hope of their beingeradicated before the year 1999, at which date other conventions willhave supplanted them and will likewise have become tiresome. 

In this respect our theatre does not differ materially from thetheatres of other countries except in one particular. In Europe thejuxtaposition of nations makes an interchange of conventions possible, which brings about slow change or rapid revolution. Paris, forexample, has received visits from the Russian Ballet which almostassumed the proportions of Tartar invasions. London, too, has beeninvaded by the Russians and by the Irish. The Irish playwrights, indeed, are continually pounding away at British middle-classcomplacency. Germany, in turn, has been invaded by England (we regretthat this sentence has only an artistic and figurative significance), and we find Max Reinhardt well on his way toward giving a completecycle of the plays of Shakespeare; a few years ago we might haveobserved Deutschland groveling hysterically before Oscar Wilde's_Salome_, a play which, at least without its musical dress, has not, Ibelieve, even yet been performed publicly in London. In Italy, ofcourse, there are no artistic invasions (nobody cares to pay for them)and even the conventions of the Italian theatre themselves, such asthe _Commedia del' Arte_, are quite dead; so the country remains asdormant, artistically speaking, as a rag rug, until an enthusiast likeMarinetti arises to take it between his teeth and shake it back intorags again. 

Very often whisperings of art life in the foreign theatre (such asaccounts of Stanislavski's accomplishments in Moscow) cross theAtlantic. Very often the husks of the realities (as was the case withthe Russian Ballet) are imported. But whispers and husks have about asmuch influence as the "New York Times" in a mayoralty campaign, and asa result we find the American theatre as little aware of worldactivities in the drama as a deaf mute living on a pole in the desertof Sahara would be. Indeed any intrepid foreign investigator whowishes to study the American drama, American acting, and Americanstage decoration will find them in almost as virgin a condition asthey were in the time of Lincoln. 

A few rude assaults have been made on this smug eupepsy. I mightmention the coming of Paul Orleneff, who left Alla Nazimova with us tobe eventually swallowed up in the conventional American theatre. Fouror five years ago a company of Negro players at the Lafayette Theatregave a performance of a musical revue that boomed like the big bell inthe Kremlin at Moscow. Nobody could be deaf to the sounds. FlorenzZiegfeld took over as many of the tunes and gestures as he could buyfor his _Follies_ of that season, but he neglected to import the oneessential quality of the entertainment, its style, for theexploitation of which Negro players were indispensable. For the pasttwo months Mimi Aguglia, one of the greatest actresses of the world, has been performing in a succession of classic and modern plays (arepertory comprising dramas by Shakespeare, d'Annunzio, and Giacosa)at the Garibaldi Theatre, on East Fourth Street, before very large andvery enthusiastic audiences, but uptown culture and managerial acumenwill not awaken to the importance of this gesture until they readabout it in some book published in 1950.... 

All of which is merely by way of prelude to what I feel must besomething in the nature of lyric outburst and verbal explosion. A fewnights ago a Spanish company, unheralded, unsung, indeed almostunwelcomed by such reviewers as had to trudge to the out-of-the-wayPark Theatre, came to New York, in a musical revue entitled _The Landof Joy_. The score was written by Joaquín Valverde, _fils_, whosemusic is not unknown to us, and the company included La Argentina, aSpanish dancer who had given matinees here in a past season withoutarousing more than mild enthusiasm. The theatrical impressarii, thesong publishers, and the Broadway rabble stayed away on the firstnight. It was all very well, they might have reasoned, to read aboutthe goings on in Spain, but they would never do in America. Spanishdancers had been imported in the past without awakening undueexcitement. Did not the great Carmencita herself visit America twentyor more years ago? These impressarii had ignored the existence of agreat psychological (or more properly physiological) truth: you cannotmix Burgundy and Beer! One Spanish dancer surrounded by Americans isjust as much lost as the great Nijinsky himself was in an Englishmusic hall, where he made a complete and dismal failure. And so theywould have been very much astonished (had they been present) on theopening night to have witnessed all the scenes of uncontrollableenthusiasm--just as they are described by Havelock Ellis, RichardFord, and Chabrier--repeated. The audience, indeed, became hysterical, and broke into wild cries of _Ole! Ole!_ Hats were thrown on thestage. The audience became as abandoned as the players, became a partof the action. 

You will find all this described in "The Soul of Spain, " in"Gatherings from Spain, " in Chabrier's letters, and it had all beentransplanted to New York almost without a whisper of preparation, which is fortunate, for if it had been expected, doubtless we wouldhave found the way to spoil it. Fancy the average New York first-nightaudience, stiff and unbending, sceptical and sardonic, welcoming thisexhibition! Havelock Ellis gives an ingenious explanation for the factthat Spanish dancing has seldom if ever successfully crossed theborder of the Iberian peninsula: "The finest Spanish dancing is atonce killed or degraded by the presence of an indifferent orunsympathetic public, and that is probably why it cannot betransplanted, but remains local. " Fortunately the Spaniards in thefirst-night audience gave the cue, unlocked the lips and loosened thehands of us cold Americans. For my part, I was soon yelling _Ole!_louder than anybody else. 

The dancer, Doloretes, is indeed extraordinary. The gipsy fascination, the abandoned, perverse bewitchery of this female devil of the danceis not to be described by mouth, typewriter, or quilled pen. Heinewould have put her at the head of his dancing temptresses in hisballet of _Méphistophéla_ (found by Lumley too indecent forrepresentation at Her Majesty's Theatre, for which it was written; inspite of which the scenario was published in the respectable "Revue deDeux Mondes"). In this ballet a series of dancing celebrities areexhibited by the female Méphistophélès for the entertainment of hervictim. After Salome had twisted her flanks and exploited the prowessof her abdominal muscles to perfunctory applause, Doloretes would haveheated the blood, not only of Faust, but of the ladies and gentlemenin the orchestra stalls, with the clicking of her heels, the clackingof her castanets, now held high over head, now held low behind herback, the flashing of her ivory teeth, the shrill screaming, electricmagenta of her smile, the wile of her wriggle, the passion of herperformance. And close beside her the sinuous Mazantinita would flaunta garish tambourine and wave a shrieking fan. All inanimate objects, shawls, mantillas, combs, and cymbals, become inflamed with life, oncethey are pressed into the service of these señoritas, languorous andforbidding, indifferent and sensuous. Against these rude gipsies therefined grace and Goyaesque elegance of La Argentina stand forth inhigh relief, La Argentina, in whose hands the castanets become aspotent an instrument for our pleasure as the violin does in thefingers of Jascha Heifetz. Bilbao, too, with his thundering heels andhis tauromachian gestures, bewilders our highly magnetized senses. When, in the dance, he pursues, without catching, the elusiveDoloretes, it would seem that the limit of dynamic effects in thetheatre had been reached. 

Here are singers! The limpid and lovely soprano of the comparativelyplacid Maria Marco, who introduces figurations into the brilliantmusic she sings at every turn. One indecent (there is no other wordfor it) chromatic oriental phrase is so strange that none of us canever recall it or forget it! And the frantically nervous LuisitaPuchol, whose eyelids spring open like the cover of a Jack-in-the-box, and whose hands flutter like saucy butterflies, sings suggestivepopular ditties just a shade better than any one else I know of. 

But _The Land of Joy_ does not rely on one or two principals for itseffect. The organization as a whole is as full of fire and purpose asthe original Russian Ballet; the costumes themselves, in theirblazing, heated colours, constitute the ingredients of an orgy; themusic, now sentimental (the adaptability of Valverde, who has lived inParis, is little short of amazing; there is a vocal waltz in the styleof Arditi that Mme. Patti might have introduced into the lesson sceneof _Il Barbiere_; there is another song in the style of George M. Cohan--these by way of contrast to the Iberian music), now pulsingwith rhythmic life, is the best Spanish music we have yet heard inthis country. The whole entertainment, music, colours, costumes, songs, dances, and all, is as nicely arranged in its crescendos anddecrescendos, its prestos and adagios as a Mozart finale. The close ofthe first act, in which the ladies sweep the stage with long ruffledtrains, suggestive of all the Manet pictures you have ever seen, wouldseem to be unapproachable, but the most striking costumes and thewildest dancing are reserved for the very last scene of all. Therethese bewildering señoritas come forth in the splendourous envelope ofembroidered Manila shawls, and such shawls! Prehistoric African rosesof unbelievable measure decorate a texture of turquoise, from whichdepends nearly a yard of silken fringe. In others mingle royal purpleand buff, orange and white, black and the kaleidoscope! The revue, asublimated form of zarzuela, is calculated, indeed, to hold you in adangerous state of nervous excitement during the entire evening, tokeep you awake for the rest of the night, and to entice you to thetheatre the next night and the next. It is as intoxicating as vodka, as insidious as cocaine, and it is likely to become a habit, likethese stimulants. I have found, indeed, that it appeals to all classesof taste, from that of a telephone operator, whose usual artisticdebauch is the latest antipyretic novel of Robert W. Chambers, to thatof the frequenter of the concert halls. 

I cannot resist further cataloguing; details shake their fists at mymemory; for instance, the intricate rhythms of Valverde's elaboratelysyncopated music (not at all like ragtime syncopation), the thrillingorchestration (I remember one dance which is accompanied by drum tapsand oboe, nothing else!), the utter absence of tangos (which areArgentine), and habaneras (which are Cuban), most of the music beingwritten in two-four and three-four time, and the interesting use offolk-tunes; the casual and very suggestive indifference of thedancers, while they are not dancing, seemingly models for a dozenZuloaga paintings, the apparently inexhaustible skill and variety ofthese dancers in action, winding ornaments around the melodies withtheir feet and bodies and arms and heads and castanets as coloraturasopranos do with their voices. Sometimes castanets are not used;cymbals supplant them, or tambourines, or even fingers. Once, by someesoteric witchcraft, the dancers seemed to tap upon their arms. Theeffect was so stupendous and terrifying that I could not projectmyself into that aloof state of mind necessary for a calm dissectionof its technique. 

What we have been thinking of all these years in accepting theimitation and ignoring the actuality I don't know; it has all beendown in black and white. What Richard Ford saw and wrote down in 1846I am seeing and writing down in 1917. How these devilish Spaniardshave been able to keep it up all this time I can't imagine. Here wehave our paradox. Spain has changed so little that Ford's book isstill the best to be procured on the subject (you may spend many adelightful half-hour with the charming irony of its pages forcompany). Spanish dancing is apparently what it was a hundred yearsago; no wind from the north has disturbed it. Stranger still, itdepends for its effect on the acquirement of a brilliant technique. Merely to play the castanets requires a severe tutelage. And yet it isall as spontaneous, as fresh, as unstudied, as vehement in its appeal, even to Spaniards, as it was in the beginning. Let us hope that Spainwill have no artistic reawakening. 

Aristotle and Havelock Ellis and Louis Sherwin have taught us that thetheatre should be an outlet for suppressed desires. So, indeed, theideal theatre should. As a matter of fact, in most playhouses (I willgenerously refrain from naming the one I visited yesterday) I amcontinually suppressing a desire to strangle somebody or other, butafter a visit to the Spaniards I walk out into Columbus Circlecompletely purged of pity and fear, love, hate, and all the rest. Itis an experience. 

 _November 3, 1917. _

II

A Note on Mimi Aguglia

 _"Art has to do only with the creation of beauty, whether it be in words, or sounds, or colour, or outline, or rhythmical movement; and the man who writes music is no more truly an artist than the man who plays that music, the poet who composes rhythms in words no more truly an artist than the dancer who composes rhythms with the body, and the one is no more to be preferred to the other, than the painter is to be preferred to the sculptor, or the musician to the poet, in those forms of art which we have agreed to recognize as of equal value. "_

 Arthur Symons. 

The only George Jean, "witty, wise, and cruel, " and the "amaranthine"Louis Sherwin, who understands better than anybody else how to plungethe rapier into the vulnerable spot and twist it in the wound, makingthe victim writhe, have been having some fun with the art of actinglately, or to be exact, with the art of actors. Now actor-baiting isno new game; as a winter sport it is as popular as making jokes aboutmothers-in-law, decrying the art of Bouguereau or Howard ChandlerChristy, or discussing the methods of Mr. Belasco. Ever so long ago(and George Henry Lewes preceded him) George Moore wrote an articlecalled "Mummer Worship, " holding the players up to ridicule, butGeorge really adores the theatre and even acting, goes to theplayhouse constantly, and writes a bad play himself every few years. None of these has achieved success on the stage. The list includes_Martin Luther_, written with a collaborator, _The Strike atArlingford_, _The Bending of the Bough_ (Moore's version of a play byEdwin Martyn), a dramatization of "Esther Waters, " _Elizabeth Cooper_, and the fragment, _The Apostle_, on which "The Brook Kerith, " wasbased. Now he is at work turning the novel back into another play.... When the Sunday editor of a newspaper is at his wit's end heinvariably sends a competent reporter to collect data for a symposiumon one of two topics, Is the author or the player more important? orDoes the stage director make the actor? The amount of amusement thisreporter can derive in gathering indignant replies from mountebanksand scribblers is only limited by his own sense of humour. Even thelate Sir Henry Irving felt compelled on more than one occasion todefend his "noble calling. "

The actor, when he slaps back, usually overlooks the point at issue, but sometimes he has something to say over which we may well ponder. Witness, for example, the following passage, quoted from that justlycelebrated compendium of personal opinions and broad-shaft wit called"Nat Goodwin's Book": "The average author and manager of today areprone to advertise themselves as conspicuously as the play (as if thepublic cared a snap who wrote the play or who 'presents'). I doubt iffive per cent of the public know who wrote 'The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, ' 'In Mizzoura, ' or 'Richelieu, ' but they know their stagefavourites. I wonder how many mantels are adorned with pictures of thesuccessful dramatist and those who 'present' and how many there are onwhich appear Maude Adams, Dave Warfield, Billie Burke, John Drew, Bernhardt, Duse, and hundreds of other distinguished players. "

It is principally urged against the claims of acting as an art that ayoung person without previous experience or training can make animmediate (and sometimes lasting) effect upon the stage, whereas inthe preparation for any other art (even the interpretative arts) yearsof training are necessary. This premise is full of holes; neverthelessGeorge Moore, and Messrs. Nathan and Sherwin all cling to it. It istrue that almost any young girl, moderately gifted with charm orcomeliness, may make an instantaneous impression on our stage, especially in the namby-pamby rôles which our playwrights usually giveher to play. But she is soon found out. She may still attractaudiences (as George Barr McCutcheon and Alma Tadema still attractaudiences) but the discerning part of the public will take no joy inseeing her. Charles Frohman said (and he ought to know) that theaverage life of a female star on the American stage was ten years; inother words, her career continued as long as her youth and physicalcharms remained potent. 

We have easily accounted for the unimportant actors, the rank andfile, but what about those who immediately claim positions which theyhold in spite of their lack of previous training? These are rarer. Atthe moment, indeed, I cannot think of any. For while genius oftenmanifests itself early in a career, the great actors, as a rule, havestruggled for many years to learn the rudiments of their art beforethey have given indisputable proof of their greatness, or before theyhave been recognized. "Real acting, " according to Percy Fitzgerald, "is a science, to be studied and mastered, as other sciences arestudied and mastered, by long years of training. " They may not havehad the strenuous Conservatoire and Théâtre Français training of SarahBernhardt. As a matter of fact, indeed, the actor may far better learnto handle his tools by manipulating them before an audience, than bypracticing with them for too long a time in the closet. The techniqueof violin playing can best be acquired before the _virtuoso_ appearsin public, although no amount of training in itself will make a greatviolinist, but the basic elements of acting, grace, diction, etc. , canjust as well be acquired behind the footlights and so many greatactors have acquired them, as many of the greatest have ignored them. There can be no hard and fast rules laid down for this sort of thing. Can we thank nine months with Mme. Marchesi for the instantaneoussuccess and subsequent brilliant career of Mme. Melba? Against thistraining offset the years and years of road playing and the more yearsof study at home in retirement to account for the career of Mrs. Fiske. The Australian soprano was born with a naturally-placed andflexible voice. Her shake is said to have been perfection when she wasa child; her scale was even; her intonation impeccable. She had verylittle to learn except the rôles in the operas she was to sing and herfuture was very clearly marked from the night she made her début asGilda in _Rigolettò_. Mme. Patti was equally gifted. Mme. Pasta andMme. Fremstad, on the other hand, toiled very slowly towards fame. Theformer singer was an absolute failure when she first appeared inLondon and it took several years of hard work to make her the greatestlyric artist of her day. The great Jenny Lind retired from the stagecompletely defeated, only to return as the most popular singer of hertime. Mischa Elman has told me he never practices; Leo Ornstein, onthe other hand, spends hours every day at the piano. Mozart sprang, full-armed with genius, into the world. He began composing at the ageof four. No training was necessary for him, but Beethoven and Wagnerdeveloped slowly. In the field of writers there are even more happyexamples. Hundreds of boys have spent years in theme and literaturecourses in college preparing in vain for a future which was never tobe theirs, while other youths with no educations have taken to writingas a cat takes to cat-nip. Should we assume that the annual output ofProfessor Baker's class at Harvard produces better playwrights thanMolière or Shakespeare, neither of whom enjoyed Professor Baker'slectures, nor, I think I am safe in conjecturing, anything like them?

What, after all, constitutes training? For a creative orinterpretative genius mere existence seems to be sufficient. JosephConrad, Nicholas Rimsky-Korsakov, and Patrick MacGill all were sailorsfor many years before they began to write. We owe "Youth" and thefirst section of _Scheherazade_ to this accident. MacGill also had theprivilege of digging potatoes; he writes about it in "The Rat-pit. "Mrs. Patrick Campbell learned enough about how to move about and howto speak in the country houses she frequented before she began herprofessional career to enable her immediately to take a position ofimportance on the stage. It does not seem necessary, indeed, that thetraining for any career should be prescribed or systematic. Some menget their training one way and some another. A school of acting may beof the greatest benefit to A, while B will not profit by it. Someactors are ruined by stock companies; others are improved by them. Thegeniuses in this interpretative art as in all the other interpretativeand creative arts, seem to rise above obstructions, and to makethemselves felt, whatever difficulties are put in their way. 

Some great actors, like some great musicians and authors, create outof their fulness. They cannot explain; they do not need to study;they create by instinct. Others, like Beethoven and Olive Fremstad, work and rework their material in the closet until it approachesperfection, when they expose it. To say that there are bad actorsfollowing in the footsteps of both these types of geniuses is to beaxiomatic and trite. It would be a foregone conclusion. Just as thereare musicians who write as easily as Mozart but who have nothing tosay, so there are other musicians who write and rewrite, work andrework, study and restudy, and yet what they finally offer the publichas not the quality or the force or the inspiration of a commongutter-ballad. 

It has also been urged in print that as naturalness is the goal of theactor he should never have to strive for it. The names of FrankReicher and John Drew are often mentioned as those of men who "playthemselves" on the stage. A most difficult thing to do! Also anunfortunate choice of names. Each of these artists has undergone along and arduous apprenticeship in order to achieve the natural methodwhich has given him eminence in his career. Indeed, of all thequalities of the actor this is the least easy to acquire. 

Actors are often condemned because they are not versatile. Versatilityis undoubtedly an admirable quality in an actor, valuable, especiallyto his manager, but hardly an essential one. An artist is notrequired to do more than one thing well. Vladimir de Pachmannspecializes in Chopin playing, but Arthur Symons once wrote that "heis the greatest living pianist, because he can play certain thingsbetter than any other pianist can play anything. " Should we not allotsimilar approval to the actor or actress who makes a fine effect inone part or in one kind of part? I should not call Ellen Terry aversatile actress, but I should call her a great artist. Marie Tempestis not versatile, unless she should be so designated for having madeequal successes on the lyric and dramatic stages, but she is one ofthe most satisfying artists at present appearing before our public. Mallarmé was not versatile; Cézanne was not versatile; nor was ThomasLove Peacock. Mascagni, assuredly, is not versatile. The da Vincis andWagners are rare figures in the history of creative art just as theNijinskys and Rachels are rare in the history of interpretative art. 

Someone may say that the great actor dies while the play goesthundering on through the ages on the stage and in everyman's library. This very point, indeed, is made by Mr. Lewes. But this, alas, is thereverse of the truth. We have competent and immensely absorbingrecords of the lives and art of David Garrick, Mrs. Siddons, Ristori, Clairon, Rachel, Charlotte Cushman, Edwin Booth, and other prominentplayers, while most of the plays in which they appeared are not onlyno longer actable, but also no longer readable. The brothers deGoncourt, for example, wrote an account of Clairon which is a book ofthe first interest, while I defy any one to get through two pages ofmost of the fustian she was compelled to act! The reason for this isvery easily formulated. Great acting is human and universal. It iseternal in its appeal and its memory is easily kept alive whileplaywrighting is largely a matter of fashion, and appeals to the mobof men and women who never read and who are more interested in policenews than they are in poetry. George Broadhurst or Henry Bernstein orArthur Wing Pinero, or others like them, have always been the popularplaywrights; a few names like Sophocles, Terence, Molière, Shakespeare, and Ibsen come rolling down to us, but they are preciousand few. 

A great actor, indeed, can put life into perfectly wooden material. Inthe case of Sarah Bernhardt, who was the creator, the actress orSardou? In the case of Henry Irving, who was the creator, the actor orthe authors of _The Bells_ and _Faust_ (not, in this instance, Goethe)? Is Langdon Mitchell's version of "Vanity Fair" sufficientlya work of art to exist without the co-operation of Mrs. Fiske? WhenDuse electrified her audiences in such plays as _The Second Mrs. Tanqueray_ and _Fedora_, were the dramatists responsible for theeffect? Arthur Symons says of her in the latter play, "A greatactress, who is also a great intelligence, is seen accepting it, forits purpose, with contempt, as a thing to exercise her technical skillupon. " One reads of Mrs. Siddone that she could move a roomful ofpeople to tears merely by repeating the word "hippopotamus" withvarying stress. Should we thank the behemoth for this miracle?

Any one who understands, great acting knows that it is illumination. There are those who are born to throw light on the creations of thepoets, just as there are others born to be poets. These interpretersgive a new life to the works of the masters, Æschylus, Congreve, Tchekhov. When, as more frequently happens, they are called upon toplay mediocre parts it is with their own personal force, theiratmospheric aura that they create something more than the authorhimself ever intended or dreamed of. How could Joseph Jefferson play_Rip Van Winkle_ for thirty years (or longer) with scenery in tattersand a company of mummers which Corse Payton would have scorned? Wasit because of the greatness of the play? If that were true, why is notsome one else performing this drama today to large audiences? Has anyone read the Joseph Jefferson acting version of _Rip Van Winkle_? Whowrote it? Don't you think it rather extraordinary that a play whichapparently has given so much pleasure, and in which Jefferson washailed as a great actor by every contemporary critic of note, as is initself so little known? It is not extraordinary. It was Jefferson'sperformance of the title rôle which gave vitality to the play. 

Of course, there are few actors who have this power, few great actors. What else could you expect? A critic might prove that playwriting wasnot an art on the majority of the evidence. Almost all the musiccomposed in America could be piled up to prove that music was not anart. Should we say that there is no art of painting because theGermans have no great painters?

At present, however, it is quite possible for any one in New York withcar or taxi-cab fare to see one of the greatest of living actresses. She is not playing on Broadway. This actress has never been todramatic school; she has not had the advantages of Alla Nazimova, whohas worked with at least one fine stage director. She was simply borna genius, that is all; she has perfected her art by appearing in agreat variety of parts, the method of Edwin Booth. Most of these partshappen to be in masterpieces of the drama. She is not unaccustomed toplaying _Zaza_ one evening and d'Annunzio's _Francesca da Rimini_ thenext. Her repertory further includes _La Dame aux Camélias_, _Hamlet_, _Romeo and Juliet_, _La Figlia di Iorio_, Giuseppe Giacosa's _Come leFoglie_, Sicilian folk-plays, and plays by Arturo Giovannitti. When Ifirst saw Mimi Aguglia she was little more than a crude force, a greatstruggling light, that sometimes illuminated, nay often blinded, butwhich shone in unequal flashes. Experience has made of her an actresswho is almost unfailing in her effect. If you asked her about thetechnique of her art she would probably smile (as Mozart and Schubertmight have done before her); if you asked her about her method shewould not understand you ... But she understands the art of acting. 

Watch her, for instance, in the second act of _Zaza_, in the scene inwhich the music hall singer discovers that her lover has a wife andchild. No heroics, no shrieks, no conventional posturings andshruggings and sobbing ... Something far worse she exposes to us, anameless terror. She stands with her back against a table, nonchalantand smilingly defiant, unwilling to return to the music hall with herformer partner, but pleasantly jocular in her refusal. Stung intoanger, he hurls his last bomb. Zaza is smoking. As she listens to thecruel words the corner of her mouth twitches, the cigarette almostfalls. That is all. There is a moment's silence unbroken save by theheartbeats of her spectators. Even the babies which mothers bring inabundance to the Italian theatre are quiet. With that esotericmagnetism with which great artists are possessed she holds theaudience captive by this simple gesture. I could continue to point outother astounding details in this impersonation, but not one of them, perhaps, would illustrate Aguglia's art as does this one. If notraining is necessary to produce effects of this kind, I wouldpronounce acting the most holy of the arts, for then, surely, it is adirect gift from God. 

 _September 5, 1917. _

III

The New Isadora

 _"We shift and bedeck and bedrape us, Thou art noble and nude and antique;"_

 Swinburne's "Dolores. "

I have a fine memory of a chance description flung off by some one ata dinner in Paris; a picture of the youthful Isadora Duncan in herstudio in New York developing her ideals through sheer will andpreserving the contour of her feet by wearing carpet slippers. Thelatter detail stuck in my memory. It may or may not be true, but itcould have been, _should_ have been true. The incipient dancer keepingher feet pure for her coming marriage with her art is a subject forphilosophic dissertation or for poetry. There are many poets who wouldhave seized on this idea for an ode or even a sonnet, had it occurredto them. Oscar Wilde would have liked this excuse for a poem ... EvenRobert Browning, who would have woven many moral strophes from thistext.... It would have furnished Mr. George Moore with material foranother story for the volume called "Celibates. " Walter Pater mighthave dived into some very beautiful, but very conscious, prose withthis theme as a spring-board. Huysmans would have found thissuggestion sufficient inspiration for a romance the length of"Clarissa Harlowe. " You will remember that the author of "En Route"meditated writing a novel about a man who left his house to go to hisoffice. Perceiving that his shoes have not been polished he stops at aboot-black's and during the operation he reviews his affairs. Theproblem was to make 300 pages of this!... Lombroso would have addedthe detail to his long catalogue in "The Man of Genius" as anotherproof of the insanity of artists. Georges Feydeau would have foundtherein enough matter for a three-act farce and d'Annunzio for apoetic drama which he might have dedicated to "Isadora of thebeautiful feet. " Sermons might be preached from the text and manypainters would touch the subject with reverence. Manet might havepainted Isadora with one of the carpet slippers half depending from abare, rosy-white foot. 

There are many fables concerning the beginning of Isadora's career. One has it that the original dance in bare feet was an accident.... Isadora was laving her feet in an upper chamber when her hostessbegged her to dance for her other guests. Just as she was shedescended and met with such approval that thenceforth her feetremained bare. This is a pretty tale, but it has not the fine ring oftruth of the story of the carpet slippers. There had been bare-footdancers before Isadora; there had been, I venture to say, discinct"Greek dancers. " Isadora's contribution to her art is spiritual; it isher feeling for the idea of the dance which isolates her from hercontemporaries. Many have overlooked this essential fact in attemptingto account for her obvious importance. Her imitators (and has anyother interpretative artist ever had so many?) have purloined hercostumes, her gestures, her steps; they have put the music ofBeethoven and Schubert to new uses as she had done before them; theyhave unbound their hair and freed their feet; but the essence of herart, the _spirit_, they have left in her keeping; they could not welldo otherwise. 

Inspired perhaps by Greek phrases, by the superb collection of Greekvases in the old Pinakotheck in Munich, Isadora cast the knowledge shehad gleaned of the dancer's training from her. At least she forced itto be subservient to her new wishes. She flung aside her memory of theentrechat and the pirouette, the studied technique of the ballet; butin so doing she unveiled her own soul. She called her art therenaissance of the Greek ideal but there was something modern aboutit, pagan though it might be in quality. Always it was pure andsexless ... Always abstract emotion has guided her interpretations. 

In the beginning she danced to the piano music of Chopin and Schubert. Eleven years ago I saw her in Munich in a program of Schubert_impromptus_ and Chopin _preludes_ and _mazurkas_. A year or two latershe was dancing in Paris to the accompaniment of the ColonneOrchestra, a good deal of the music of Gluck's _Orfeo_ and the verylovely dances from _Iphigénie en Aulide_. In these she remainedfaithful to her original ideal, the beauty of abstract movement, therhythm of exquisite gesture. This was not sense echoing sound butrather a very delightful confusion of her own mood with that of themusic. 

So a new grace, a new freedom were added to the dance; in her laterrepresentations she has added a third quality, strength. Too, herimmediate interpretations often suggest concrete images.... Apassionate patriotism for one of her adopted countries is at the rootof her fiery miming of the _Marseillaise_, a patriotism apparently asdeep-rooted, certainly as inflaming, as that which inspired Rachel inher recitation of this hymn during the Paris revolution of 1848. Intimes of civil or international conflagration the dancer, the actressoften play important rôles in world politics. Malvina Cavalazzi, theItalian _ballerina_ who appeared at the Academy of Music during theEighties and who married Charles Mapleson, son of the impressario, once told me of a part she had played in the making of United Italy. During the Austrian invasion the Italian flag was _verboten_. Onenight, however, during a representation of opera in a town the name ofwhich I have forgotten, Mme. Cavalazzi wore a costume of green andwhite, while her male companion wore red, so that in the _pas de deux_which concluded the ballet they formed automatically a semblance ofthe Italian banner. The audience was raised to a hysterical pitch ofenthusiasm and rushed from the theatre in a violent mood, whichresulted in an immediate encounter with the Austrians and theireventual expulsion from the city. 

Isadora's pantomimic interpretation of the _Marseillaise_, given inNew York before the United States had entered the world war, arousedas vehement and excited an expression of enthusiasm as it would bepossible for an artist to awaken in our theatre today. The audiencesstood up and scarcely restrained their impatience to cheer. At theprevious performances in Paris, I am told, the effect approached theincredible.... In a robe the colour of blood she stands enfolded; shesees the enemy advance; she feels the enemy as it grasps her by thethroat; she kisses her flag; she tastes blood; she is all but crushedunder the weight of the attack; and then she rises, triumphant, withthe terrible cry, _Aux armes, citoyens!_ Part of her effect is gainedby gesture, part by the massing of her body, but the greater part byfacial expression. In the anguished appeal she does not make a sound, beyond that made by the orchestra, but the hideous din of a hundredraucous voices seems to ring in our ears. We see Félicien Rops's_Vengeance_ come to life; we see the _sans-culottes_ following thecarts of the aristocrats on the way to execution ... And finally wesee the superb calm, the majestic flowing strength of the Victory ofSamothrace.... At times, legs, arms, a leg or an arm, the throat, orthe exposed breast assume an importance above that of the rest of themass, suggesting the unfinished sculpture of Michael Angelo, anaposiopesis which, of course, served as Rodin's inspiration. 

In the _Marche Slav_ of Tschaikovsky Isadora symbolizes her conceptionof the Russian moujik rising from slavery to freedom. With her handsbound behind her back, groping, stumbling, head-bowed, knees bent, shestruggles forward, clad only in a short red garment that barely coversher thighs. With furtive glances of extreme despair she peers aboveand ahead. When the strains of _God Save the Czar_ are first heard inthe orchestra she falls to her knees and you see the peasantshuddering under the blows of the knout. The picture is a tragic one, cumulative in its horrific details. Finally comes the moment ofrelease and here Isadora makes one of her great effects. She does notspread her arms apart with a wide gesture. She brings them forwardslowly and we observe with horror that they have practically forgottenhow to move at all! They are crushed, these hands, crushed andbleeding after their long serfdom; they are not hands at all butclaws, broken, twisted piteous claws! The expression of frightened, almost uncomprehending, joy with which Isadora concludes the march isanother stroke of her vivid imaginative genius. 

In her third number inspired by the Great War, the _Marche Lorraine_of Louis Ganne, in which is incorporated the celebrated _ChansonLorraine_, Isadora with her pupils, symbolizes the gaiety of themartial spirit. It is the spirit of the cavalry riding gaily withbanners waving in the wind; the infantry marching to an inspiredtune. There is nothing of the horror of war or revolution in thispicture ... Only the brilliancy and dash of war ... The power and theglory!

Of late years Isadora has danced (in the conventional meaning of theword) less and less. Since her performance at Carnegie Hall severalyears ago of the _Liebestod_ from _Tristan_, which Walter Damroschhailed as an extremely interesting experiment, she has attempted toexpress something more than the joy of melody and rhythm. Indeed on atleast three occasions she has danced a Requiem at the MetropolitanOpera House.... If the new art at its best is not dancing, neither isit wholly allied to the art of pantomime. It would seem, indeed, thatIsadora is attempting to express something of the spirit of sculpture, perhaps what Vachell Lindsay describes as "moving sculpture. " Hermedium, of necessity, is still rhythmic gesture, but its developmentseems almost dream-like. More than the dance this new art partakes ofthe fluid and unending quality of music. Like any other new art it isnot to be understood at first and I confess in the beginning it saidnothing to me but eventually I began to take pleasure in watching it. Now Isadora's poetic and imaginative interpretation of the symphonicinterlude from César Franck's _Redemption_ is full of beauty andmeaning to me and during the whole course of its performance theinterpreter scarcely rises from her knees. The neck, the throat, theshoulders, the head and arms are her means of expression. I thought ofBarbey d'Aurevilly's phrase, "_Elle avait l'air de monter vers Dieules mains toutes pleines de bonnes oeuvres. _"

 * * * * *

Isadora's teaching has had its results but her influence has beenwider in other directions. Fokine thanks her for the new RussianBallet. She did indeed free the Russians from the conventions of theclassic ballet and but for her it is doubtful if we should have seen_Scheherazade_ and _Cléopâtre_. _Daphnis et Chloe_, _Narcisse_, and_L'Aprèsmidi d'un Faune_ bear her direct stamp. This then, aside fromher own appearances, has been her great work. Of her celebrated schoolof dancing I cannot speak with so much enthusiasm. The defect in hermethod of teaching is her insistence (consciously or unconsciously) onherself as a model. The seven remaining girls of her school dancedelightfully. They are, in addition, young and beautiful, but they areminiature Isadoras. They add nothing to her style; they make the samegestures; they take the same steps; they have almost, if not quite, acquired a semblance of her spirit. They vibrate with intention; theyhave force; but constantly they suggest just what they are ... Imitations. When they dance alone they often make a very charming butscarcely overpowering effect. When they dance with Isadora they arebut a moving row of shadow shapes of Isadora that come and go. Her ownpresence suffices to make the effect they all make together.... I havebeen told that when Isadora watches her girls dance she often weeps, for then and then only she can behold herself. One of the griefs of anactor or a dancer is that he can never see himself. This oversight ofnature Isadora has to some extent overcome. 

Those who like to see pretty dancing, pretty girls, pretty things ingeneral will not find much pleasure in contemplating the art ofIsadora. She is not pretty; her dancing is not pretty. She has beencast in nobler mould and it is her pleasure to climb higher mountains. Her gesture is titanic; her mood generally one of imperious grandeur. She has grown larger with the years--and by this I mean something morethan the physical meaning of the word, for she is indeed heroic inbuild. But this is the secret of her power and force. There is nosuggestion of flabbiness about her and so she can impart to us thesoul of the struggling moujik, the spirit of a nation, the figure onthe prow of a Greek bark.... And when she interprets the_Marseillaise_ she seems indeed to feel the mighty moment. 

 _July 14, 1917. _

IV

Margaret Anglin Produces_As You Like It_

Of all the comedies of Shakespeare _As You Like It_ is the one whichhas attracted to itself the most attention from actresses. No femininestar but what at one time or another has a desire to play Rosalind. Bernard Shaw says, "Who ever failed or could fail as Rosalind?" and Iam inclined to think him right, though opinions differ. It would seem, however, that Rosalind is to the dramatic stage what Mimi in _LaBohème_ is to the lyric, a rôle in which a maximum of effect can begotten with a minimum of effort. 

Opinions differ however. Stung to fury by Mrs. Kendal's playing of thepart, George Moore says somewhere, "Mrs. Kendal nurses children allday and strives to play Rosalind at night. What infatuation, whatridiculous endeavour! To realize the beautiful woodland passion andthe idea of the transformation a woman must have sinned, for onlythrough sin may we learn the charm of innocence. To play Rosalind awoman must have had more than one lover, and if she has been made towait in the rain and has been beaten she will have done a great dealto qualify herself for the part. " Still another critic considers therôle a difficult one. He says: "With the exception of Lady Macbeth nowoman in Shakespeare is so much in controversy as Rosalind. Thecharacter is thought to be almost unattainable. An ideal that is loftybut at the same time vague seems to possess the Shakespeare scholar, accompanied by the profound conviction that it never can be fulfilled. Only a few actresses have obtained recognition as Rosalind, chiefamong them being Mrs. Pritchard, Peg Woffington, Mrs. Dancer, DoraJordan, Louisa Nesbitt, Helen Faucit, Ellen Tree, Adelaide Neilson, Mrs. Scott-Siddons and Miss Mary Anderson. "

Of those who have recently played Rosalind perhaps Mary Anderson, AdaRehan, Henrietta Crosman and Julia Marlowe will remain longest in thememory, although Marie Wainwright, Mary Shaw, Mrs. Langtry and JuliaNeilson are among a long list of those who have tried the part. MissRehan appeared in the rôle when Augustin Daly revived the comedy atDaly's Theatre, December 17, 1889. We are told that an effort was madein this production to emphasize the buoyant gaiety of the piece. Thescenery displayed the woods embellished in a springtime green, andthe acting did away as much as possible with any of the underlyingmelancholy which flows through the comedy. 

William Winter frankly asserts--perhaps not unwittingly giving astaggering blow to the art of acting in so doing--that the reasonRosalind is not more often embodied "in a competent and enthrallingmanner is that her enchanting quality is something that cannot beassumed--it must be possessed; it must exist in the fibre of theindividual, and its expression will then be spontaneous. Art canaccomplish much, but it cannot supply the inherent captivation thatconstitutes the puissance of Rosalind. Miss Rehan possesses thatquality, and the method of her art was the fluent method of naturalgrace. "

Fie and a fig for Mr. Moore's theory about being beaten and standingin the rain, implies Mr. Winter!

To Mr. Winter I am also indebted for a description of Mary Anderson in_As You Like It_: "Miss Anderson, superbly handsome as Rosalind, indicated that beneath her pretty swagger, nimble satire and silverplayfulness Rosalind is as earnest of Juliet--though different intemperament and mind--as fond as Viola and as constant as Imogen. "

Miss Marlowe's Rosalind, somewhat along the same lines as MissAnderson's, and Miss Crosman's, a hoydenish, tomboy sort of creature, first cousin to Mistress Nell and the young lady of _The Amazons_, should be familiar to theatregoers of the last two decades. 

Last Monday evening Margaret Anglin exposed her version of the comedy. As might have been expected, it has met with some unfavourablecriticism. Preconceived notions of Rosalind are as prevalent aspreconceived notions of Hamlet. And yet if _As You Like It_ had beenproduced Monday night as a "new fantastic comedy, " just as _Prunella_was, for instance, I am inclined to think that everybody who dissentedwould have been at Miss Anglin's charming heels. 

The scenery has been given undue prominence both by the management andby the writers for the newspapers. Its most interesting feature is thearrangement by which it is speedily changed about. There were no longwaits caused by the settings of scenes during the acts. To say, however, that it has anything to do with the art of Gordon Craig is tospeak nonsense. The scenes are painted in much the same manner as thatto which we are accustomed and inured. There is a certain haze overthe trees, caused partially by the tints and partially by thelighting, which produces a rather charming effect, but the outlines ofthe trees are quite definite; no impressionism here. 

The acting is quite a different matter. _As You Like It_ is one of themost modern in spirit of the Shakespeare plays. This air of modernityis still further emphasized by the fact that the play, for the mostpart, is written in prose. I feel certain that Bernard Shaw derivedpart of his inspiration for _Man and Superman_ from _As You Like It_. Only in Shakespeare's play Ann Whitefield (Rosalind) pursues Octavius(Orlando) instead of Jack Tanner. I am inclined to believe that Shaw'spsychology in this instance is the more sound. It seems incrediblethat a girl so witty, so beautiful, and so intelligent as Rosalindshould waste so much time on that sentimental, uncomprehendingcreature known as Orlando. Every line of Orlando should have soundedthe knell of his fate in her ears. However, it must be remembered thatOrlando was young and good-looking, and that, at least in the play, men of the right stamp seemed to be scarce. Of course, it is out ofTouchstone that Shaw has evolved his Jack Tanner. 

Whether Miss Anglin had this idea in mind or not when she produced thecomedy I have no means of ascertaining. It is not essential to mypoint. At least she has emphasized it, and she has done the mostintelligent stage directing that I have observed in the performance ofa Shakespeare play for many a long season. There is consistency in theacting. Rosalind, Jaques, Touchstone, Celia, Oliver, the dukes, Charles, Sylvius, the whole lot, in fact, are natural in method andmanner. There is no striving for the fantastic. Let that part of thecomedy take care of itself, undoubtedly suggested Miss Anglin. 

Jaques, finely portrayed by Fuller Mellish, delivers that arrant bitof nonsense "The Seven Ages of Man" in such a manner as a man mighttell a rather serious story in a drawing room. "The Seven Ages ofMan, " of course, is just as much of an aria as _La Donna e Mobile_. Italways awakens applause, but this time the applause was deserved. Mr. Mellish emphasized the cynical side of the rôle. He smiled in and outof season, and his most "melancholy" remarks were delivered in such amanner as to indicate that they were not too deeply felt. Jaques was alittle bored with the forest and his companions, but he would havebeen quite in his element at Mme. Récamier's. Such was the impressionthat Fuller Mellish gave. Bravo, Mr. Mellish, for an impression!

Similarly the Touchstone of Sidney Greenstreet. We are accustomed tomore physically attractive Touchstones, fools with finer bodies, andyet this keen-minded, stout person spoke his lines with such pertnessand spontaneity that they rarely failed of their proper effect. As forOrlando, it seemed to me that Pedro de Cordoba was a little toorhetorical at times to fit in with the spirit of the performance, butOrlando at times does not fit into the play. For instance, when heutters those incredible lines:

 "If ever you have looked on better days, If ever been where bells have knolled to church, If ever sat at any good man's feast, If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear.... "

I do not know whether Miss Anglin is a disciple of George Moore orWilliam Winter in her acting of Rosalind. How she acquired her charmis not for us to seek into. It is only for us to credit her withhaving it in great plenty. A charming natural manner which made themasquerading lady seem more than a fantasy. Her warning to Phebe, "Sell when you can; you are not for all markets, "

was delicious in its effect. I remember no Rosalind who wooed herOrlando so delightfully. For Rosalind, as Woman the Pursuer, drivenforward by the Life Force, is convincingly Miss Anglin's conception--aconception which fits the comedy admirably. 

As to the objections which have been raised to Miss Anglin'sassumption of the masculine garments without any attempt atcounterfeiting masculinity, I would ask my reader, if she be a woman, what she would do if she found it necessary to wear men's clothes. Ifshe were not an actress she would undoubtedly behave much as she didin women's, suppressing unnecessary and telltale gestures as much aspossible, but not trying to imitate mannish gestures which wouldimmediately stamp her an impostor. There is no internal evidence inShakespeare's play to prove that Rosalind was an actress. She mighthave appeared in private theatricals at the palace, but even that isdoubtful. Consequently when she donned men's clothes it became evidentto her that many men are effeminate in gesture and those that are donot ordinarily affect mannish movements. Her most obvious concealmentwas to be natural--quite herself. This, I think, is one of the mostinteresting and well-thought-out points of Miss Anglin'sinterpretation. 

 _March 20, 1914. _

The Modern Composers at a Glance

The Modern Composers at a Glance

An Impertinent Catalogue

IGOR STRAVINSKY: Paul Revere rides in Russia. 

CYRIL SCOTT: A young man playing Debussy in a Maidenhead villa. 

BALILLA PRATELLA: Pretty noises in funny places. 

ENGELBERT HUMPERDINCK: His master's voice. 

LEO ORNSTEIN: A small boy upsetting a push-cart. 

GIACOMO PUCCINI: Pinocchio in a passion. 

ERIK SATIE: A mandarin with a toy pistol firing into a wedding cake. 

PAUL DUKAS: A giant eating bonbons. 

RICCARDO ZANDONAI: Brocade dipped in garlic. 

ERICH KORNGOLD: The white hope. 

ARNOLD SCHOENBERG: Six times six is thirty-six--and six is ninety-two!

MAURICE RAVEL: Tomorrow ... And tomorrow ... And tomorrow.... 

CLAUDE DEBUSSY: Chantecler crows _pianissimo_ in whole tones. 

RICHARD STRAUSS: An ostrich _not_ hiding his head. 

SIR EDWARD ELGAR: The footman leaves his accordion in the bishop'scarriage. 

ITALO MONTEMEZZI: Three Kings--but no aces. 

PERCY ALDRIDGE GRAINGER: An effete Australian chewing tobacco. 

 _August 8, 1917_. 

 * * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: One evidence of this is that his works are eagerly soughtafter and treated tenderly by the second-hand book-sellers. Some ofthem command fancy prices. ]

[Footnote 2: For an account of Péladan see my essay on Erik Satie in"Interpreters and Interpretations. "]

[Footnote 3: You will find an account of Balzac's interesting theoryregarding names and letters, which may well have had a directinfluence on Edgar Saltus, in Saltus's "Balzac, " p. 29 _et seq. _ For aprecisely contrary theory turn to "The Naming of Streets" in MaxBeerbohm's "Yet Again. "]

[Footnote 4: "Wit and Wisdom from Edgar Saltus" by G. F. Monkshood andGeorge Gamble, and "The Cynic's Posy, " a collection of epigrams, themajority of which are taken from Saltus, may be brought forward inevidence. ]

[Footnote 5: Certain books by Edgar Saltus have been announced fromtime to time but have never appeared; these include: "Annochiatura, ""Immortal Greece, " "Our Lady of Beauty, " "Cimmeria, " "Daughters ofDream, " "Scaffolds and Altars, " "Prince Charming, " and "The CrimsonCurtain. "]

[Footnote 6: Houghton, Mifflin and Co, ; 1884. Reprinted 1887 and1890. ]

[Footnote 7: Houghton, Mifflin and Co. ; 1885. Reprinted by the BelfordCo. ]

[Footnote 8: George J. Coombes; 1886. Reprinted by Brentano's. ]

[Footnote 9: Scribner and Welford; 1887. Revised edition, Belford, Clarke and Co. ; 1889. ]

[Footnote 10: Brentano's; 1887. ]

[Footnote 11: Benjamin and Bell; 1887. ]

[Footnote 12: Belford Co. ; 1888. ]

[Footnote 13: Belford, Clarke and Co. ; 1888. ]

[Footnote 14: Belford Co. ; 1889. ]

[Footnote 15: Belford Co. ; 1889. ]

[Footnote 16: Belford, Clarke and Co. ; 1889. ]

[Footnote 17: Belford Co. ; 1890. ]

[Footnote 18: Belford Co. ; 1891. ]

[Footnote 19: Belford Co. ; 1891. Reprinted by Mitchell Kennerley;1906. ]

[Footnote 20: P. F. Collier; 1892; "Written especially for 'Once aWeek Library. '"]

[Footnote 21: Morrill, Higgins and Co;. 1893. Reprinted by MitchellKennerley; 1906. ]

[Footnote 22: F. Tennyson Neely; 1893. ]

[Footnote 23: Tudor Press: 1894. ]

[Footnote 24: The Transatlantic Publishing Co. ; 1895. ]

[Footnote 25: Ainslee; 1903. ]

[Footnote 26: A. Wessels Co. ; 1905. ]

[Footnote 27: Mitchell Kennerley; 1906. ]

[Footnote 28: J. B. Lippincott Co. ; 1906. ]

[Footnote 29: Mitchell Kennerley; 1907. ]

[Footnote 30: Mitchell Kennerley; 1907. ]

[Footnote 31: Mitchell Kennerley; 1909. ]

[Footnote 32: Pulitzer Publishing Co. ; 1912. ]

[Footnote 33: In an essay entitled "The Great American Composer" in mybook, "Interpreters and Interpretations. "]

 * * * * *

Index

Abbott, Emma, 220

Academy of Arts and Letters, 80, 225, 227

Acting, 111, 113, 119, 120, 272, 283, 293 _et seq. _

Adam, Villiers de l'Isle, 48, 49

Adams, Maude, 295

Adams, Oscar Fay, 38

Æschylus, 103, 303

Agrippina, 69

Aguglia, Mimi, 284, 304, _et seq. _

Ainslee's Magazine, 75

Alary, Signor, 248

Alboni, Marietta, 169

Alchemy, 76

Allegranti, Maddalena, 254, 255

Alma Tadema, 296

Alvary, Max, 99

Anderson, Mary, 319, 320

Anfossi, Pasquale, 169

Anglin, Margaret, 321 _et seq. _

d'Annunzio, G. , 284, 305

Apaches, 126, 135, 138, 140, 141 _et seq. _, 182

Apthorp, W. F. , 99, 168

Arabanek, 164

Archilei, 94

Arditi, Luigi, 288

Argentina, La, 284, 287

Argus, The, 54

Aristotle, 291

Arne, 257

Arnould, Sophie, 82, 96, 259 _et seq. _

Astor, J. J. , 227

Atilla, 79

Audran, 216

Augustus, 69, 70

d'Aurevilly, Barbey, 43, 63, 66, 87, 315

Ayres, Frederick, 200

Bach, 24, 28, 150, 199

Badarzewska, Thécla, 23

Baedeker, 58

Bag-pipe, 135, 136, 137

Bahamas, 136

Baker, J. Duncan, 211

Baker, Prof. , 298

Bakst, Leon, 16

Bal des Gravilliers, 141 _et seq. _

Balfe, Michael William, 27, 165

Bal musette, 125, 134 _et seq. _

Balzac, 43, 50, 55, 56, 57, 63, 76, 86, 187, 225

Banti, Brigitta, 93, 164

Bara, Theda, 80

Barnabee, Henry Clay, 221

Barnet, R. A. , 216

Barrison, Mabel, 219

Barry, Mme. Du, 260

Bassoonists, 157

Bataille, Henry, 228, 230, 232

Bates, Katherine Lee, 38

Battistini, 102

Baudelaire, Charles, 43, 52, 131

Baumgarten, C. F. , 171

Bayes, Nora, 110

Beardsley, Aubrey, 45

Becque, Henry, 230

Beerbohm, Max, 45, 50, 177, 238

Beethoven, 24, 27, 28, 32, 98, 150, 151, 170, 175, 200, 219, 298, 300

Bégué, Bernard, 156

Belasco, David, 294

Bel canto, 97, 101, 105

Belford's Magazine, 37

Bell, Digby, 222

Bellini, Vincenzo, 24, 25, 77, 79, 97, 100, 101, 114, 175, 248, 267, 270, 273

Bel-Marduk, 82

Bergström, Hjalmar, 90

Berlin, Irving, 25, 222, 234

Berlioz, Hector, 27, 104

Bernacchi, Antonio, 99

Bernhardt, Sarah, 106, 222, 227, 245, 295, 297, 302

Bernstein, Henry, 228, 230, 232, 302

Bible, The, 67

Bichara, 15

Bilbao, 287

Billington, Mrs. , 172

Bizet, Georges, 108, 113, 275

Blanche, Jacques, 183, 184

Blei, Franz, 69, 78, 259

Böcklin, Arnold, 89

Bonci, Alessandro, 102

Booth, Edwin, 111, 302, 305

Bouguereau, 61, 293

Bourget, Paul, 76

Boyden, Frank L. , 203

Boynton, Henry Walcott, 38

Brahma, 82

Brahms, 25, 274

Brann-Brini, Mlle. , 164

Branscombe, Gena, 200, 202

Brenon, Algernon St. John, 162

Bretón, Tomás, 113

Brian, Donald, 217

Brice, Fannie, 110

Brieux, 230

Brignoli, Pasquale, 155

Broadhurst, George, 302

Bromley, Eliza, 74

Brothers of the Book, 85

Browning, Robert, 307

Bunn, Alfred, 165

Burke, Billie, 295

Burney, Dr. , 258

Butler, Samuel, 21

Byzance, 80

Cabanel, 61

Cæsar, Julius, 69

Caffarelli, 95, 96, 112

Cahill, Marie, 110

Cairns, William B. , 38

Caligula, 51, 69, 79

Calvé, Emma, 106, 275

Camargo, 258, 259

Campanari, Giuseppe, 161, 162

Campbell, Mrs. Patrick, 299

Caracalla, 79

Carestini, Giovanni, 95, 96

Carmencita, 285

Carnegie Hall, 25

Carré, Albert, 133

Carreño, Teresa, 153

Caruso, Enrico, 272

Cassive, Armande, 232

Catalani, Angelica, 93, 265 _et seq. _

Cato, 69

Cats, 59, 69, 77, 102, 127, 131, 132, 233, 258, 259, 298

Cavalazzi, Malvina, 310

Cesare Borgia, 79

Cézanne, 301

Chabrier, Emmanuel, 285

Chadwick, George W. , 197, 199, 212

Chambers, Robert W. , 290

Chaliapine, Feodor, 114, 155

Charpentier, Gustave, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 173

Cherubini, 98

Cherubino's question, 54

Chinese plays, 103

Chopin, 23, 26, 55, 112, 239, 240, 301, 310

Chorley, Henry Fothergill, 98, 169, 247, 249, 261

Christ, 58, 67, 185, 191, 192

Christianity, 57, 68, 82, 83

Christy, Howard Chandler, 293

Churchill, Lady Randolph, 185

Cimarosa, Domenico, 255

Cinderella, 137

Cicisbeism, 82

Clairon, 96, 260, 302

Classical music, 23

Claudius, 69

Cleopatra, 82

Cline, Maggie, 107

Coerne, L. A. , 199, 202

Cohan, George M. , 288

Colles, Ramsay, 39

Colonne Orchestra, 310

Coloratura singing, 103, 104

Columbia University, 43

Comstock, Anthony, 59

Condamine, Robert de la, 183

Congreve, 303

Conrad, Joseph, 299

Conried, Henrich, 161, 162

Converse, Frederick, 212

Cooking, 26, 50, 78, 129, 130, 149 _et seq. _

Cordoba, Pedro de, 324

Corneille, 104

Costa, Michael, 163

Cou-Cou Restaurant, 125 _et seq. _, 183

Courts of Love, 65, 82

Cox, J. E. , 165, 173, 264

Cox, Kenyon, 62

Craig, Gordon, 321

Critics, 24, 26, 30, 33, 34, 96, 97, 99, 100, 105, 111, 115, 228, 234

Crosman, Henrietta, 319, 321

Crowest, Frederick, 163, 164

Current Literature, 39

Cushman, Charlotte, 302

Cuzzoni, Francesca, 95, 258

Daly, Augustin, 319

Daly, Dan, 222

Damrosch, Walter, 157, 314

Dancing, 112, 113, 137 _et seq. _, 281 _et seq. _, 307 _et seq. _

Dante, 76

Darby, W. D. , 200

Davis, Cecilia, 253

Davis, Jessie Bartlett, 221

Davis, Owen, 93

Debussy, Claude, 30, 33, 96, 113, 116, 117, 118, 119, 121, 200, 315, 329

Decoration, Interior, 11 _et seq. _

Delacroix, 19

Delibes, Léo, 108, 113

Deslys, Gaby, 222

Destinn, Emmy, 114, 155

Devi, Ratan, 109

Dickens, Charles, 187

Dolmetsch, Arnold, 192

Doloretes, 286, 287, 288

Donizetti, Gaetano, 61, 79, 88, 97, 101, 108, 113, 114, 166, 173, 247, 248, 249, 250, 251, 263

Doubleday, 203

Dreiser, Theodore, 202, 203

Dresser, Paul, 202, 203

Dressler, Marie, 222

Drew, John, 111, 295, 300

Duclos, 259

Duff-Gordon, Lady, 222

Dukas, Paul, 104, 113, 114, 329

Dumas, Alexandre, _fils_, 106, 205

Duncan, Isadora, 307 _et seq. _

Duse, Eleanora, 277, 295, 303

Dussek, Johann Ludwig, 171

Dyer, Edward, 209

Eames, Emma, 275

Earle, Virginia, 219

Ehrhard, Auguste, 55

Elgar, Sir Edward, 329

Elizabethan plays, 51, 103

Ellis, Havelock, 281, 285, 286, 291

Ellis, Melville, 222

Elman, Mischa, 298

Elson, L. C. , 198, 199

Elssler, Fanny, 55

Eltinge, Julian, 96

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 43

Euripides, 103

Evertson, Admiral Kornelis, 42

Fall, Leo, 216

Fame, 42

Farinelli, 95

Farwell, Arthur, 200, 202

Faustina, 95, 96, 258

Fawcett, Edgar, 66

Février, Henry, 113, 115, 118, 119, 120

Feydeau, Georges, 129, 229, 230, 231, 232, 233, 236, 237, 308

Finck, H. T. , 24, 25, 30, 32, 58, 95, 99, 153, 272

Fischer, Johann Christian, 161

Fiske, Mrs. , 297, 303

Fitzgerald, Percy, 296

Flaubert, Gustave, 66, 76, 87

Folk-song, 30, 33, 100, 106, 109, 152

Follies, The, 16, 222, 223

Foote, Arthur, 199, 202

Ford, Richard, 285, 291

Formes, Karl, 164

Forum, The, 87

Foster, Stephen, 29, 33, 152

Fox, Della, 217, 218, 219

Fox, Helen Kelsey, 208

Fragonard, 18

France, Anatole, 68, 185, 193

Franck, César, 151, 315

Franz, Robert, 23, 26, 93, 111

Fremstad, Olive, 108, 156, 298, 300

Freud, 50

Frezzolini, Erminia, 261 _et seq. _

Frohman, Charles, 85, 296

Gadski, Johanna, 155

Galli, Signora, 254

Galli-Curci, Amelita, 101, 102, 104, 114

Gamble, George, 39, 54

Ganne, Louis, 313

Garcia, Manuel, 160

Garcia, Manuel, _fils_, 252

Garden, Mary, 84, 114 _et seq. _, 131, 133, 155

Gardiner, William, 267

Garrick, David, 96, 260, 302

Gautier, Théophile, 46, 58, 87, 131, 190, 225

German music, 150

Gerome, 61

Gerster, Etelka, 269

Giacosa, 284, 305

Giardini, Felice de, 164

Gibbons, Grinling, 19

Gilbert, W. S. , 107, 216, 221

Giovannitti, Arturo, 305

Gipsy, 100, 286

Gizziello, 95

Glaser, Lulu, 219

Gluck, 29, 30, 96, 108, 135, 170, 232, 258, 259, 260, 310

Goncourt, Brothers de, 302

Goodrich, A. J. , 199, 202

Goodwin, Nat, 295

Gosse, Edmund, 179

Gounod, 117, 151, 272, 273

Gourmont, Remy de, 48, 229

Goya, 59, 287

Grainger, Percy, 30, 330

Grau, Maurice, 161

Greek Plays, 103

Greenstreet, Sidney, 324

Greenwich Village, 16

Gregory, Lady, 192

Grétry, 170

Grieg, Edvard, 93

Grimm, 259

Grisi, Giulia, 166, 263 _et seq. _

Grove, Sir George, 171, 202, 271

Guilbert, Yvette, 107, 113, 114, 277

Hadley, Henry, 197, 212

Hadrian, 69

Hale, Philip, 33

Halévy, Jacques, 248

Hall, Pauline, 219

Handel, George Frederick, 25, 95, 97, 102, 113, 119, 172, 254

Hanslick, Eduard, 102, 263

Harris, Charles K. , 202

Harris, Frank, 55, 189, 190

Hartmann, Eduard von, 43, 56, 60

Hawthorne vases, 18

Hay, Reverend John Stuart, 72

Haydn, 28

Heidelberg, 43

Heifetz, Jascha, 287

Heine, Heinrich, 82, 240, 286, 287

Heinrich, Max, 107, 155, 246

Helen of Troy, 82

Heliogabolus, 68, 69, 72

Héloïse, 82

Helvetius, 259

Henderson, W. J. , 33, 115

Herbert, Victor, 155, 216

Hergesheimer, Joseph, 44, 153

Herodotus, 86

Hertz, Alfred, 155

Hervieu, Paul, 228

Heyse, Paul, 67

Hichens, Robert, 75, 81

Higginson, Thomas Wentworth, 38

Hirsch, Charles-Henry, 141

Hirsch, Louis A. , 222

Hoff, Edwin, 221

Hollins, Mabel, 219

Homer, 76, 86

Hopper, De Wolf, 107, 221

Hopwood, Avery, 101, 236 _et seq. _

Horace, 76

Howells, W. D. , 74, 191

Hubbard, Elbert, 39, 48

Hughes, Rupert, 198, 199

Hugo, Victor, 52, 55, 76, 87, 105

Humperdinck, Engelbert, 24, 29, 173, 329

Huneker, James, 33, 38, 55, 153, 154, 164, 173

Huss, Henry Holden, 199, 202

Huysmans, J. K. , 43, 53, 70, 76, 80, 87, 151, 191, 308

Ibsen, 302

Incest, 60, 74, 84

d'Indy, Vincent, 200

Irving, Sir Henry, 294, 302

Irwin, May, 110

Ivan the Terrible, 79

Jackson, Holbrook, 44, 63

James, Henry, 59, 68, 231

Janis, Elsie, 110, 222

Jansen, Marie, 219, 222

Jefferson, Joseph, 303, 304

Jehovah, 82

Jensen, Adolph, 24

Jew, 58, 71, 152

Joachim, Joseph, 156

Jolson, Al, 110, 222

Jones, Henry Arthur, 234

Joseffy, Rafael, 155

Judic, 220

Jupiter, 82

Kaiser, The, 79

Kapila, 57

Keane, Doris, 13

Kellogg, Clara Louise, 166, 268, 269

Kellow, Lottie A. , 203, 204

Kelly, Michael, 159, 160, 161, 170, 256

Kendal, Mrs. , 318

Kenton, Edna, 41, 53

Ker, Ann, 74

Kern, Jerome, 23, 222

Korngold, Erich, 329

Koven, Reginald de, 216, 221

Krehbiel, H. E. , 100, 153, 155

Krishna, 83

Labatt, 104

Lablache, Luigi, 163

Laforgue, Jules, 43

Laguerre, Mme. , 260

La Harpe, 260

Lalo, Pierre, 33

Lampridius, 70, 72

Lavignac, Albert, 173

Lecocq, Charles, 173, 216

Lehar, Franz, 216

Lehmann, Lilli, 100, 107, 155, 269, 270, 274

Leoncavallo, Ruggiero, 32, 149

Lesbian, 75

Lessing, Madge, 219

Levey, Ethel, 110

Lewes, George Henry, 294, 301

Lienau's, 154

Lind, Jenny, 248, 253, 265 _et seq. _, 298

Lindsay, Vachell, 314

Lippincott's Magazine, 63

Lisle, Leconte de, 57, 76

Liszt, 25, 32, 240

Lombard, Jean, 69

Lombroso, 308

Loomis, Harvey W. , 200

Louis XIV, 135, 137

Louis XV, 12

Love, 81, 82

Loy, Mina, 188

Lucca, Pauline, 269

Lulli, 172

Lumley, Benjamin, 162, 285, 286

MacDowell, Edward, 25

Macdonald, John Z. , 208

MacGill, Patrick, 299

MacKaye, Percy, 235

McCutcheon, George Barr, 296

McIntosh, Nancy, 219

Macy, John, 38

Maeterlinck, Maurice, 117

Mahler, Gustav, 28

Male sopranos, 94

Malibran, Maria, 164, 165, 166, 253

Mallarmé, Stéphane, 43, 301

Manet, 61, 289, 308

Mapleson, J. H. , 159, 284

Mara, Gertrude Elisabeth, 255 _et seq. _

Marchesi, Mathilde, 102, 149, 252, 297

Marco, Maria, 108, 288

Marie Antoinette, 259, 260

Marinetti, 282

Mario, 102

Marion, George, 28

Marlowe, Julia, 319, 321

Marnold, Jean, 32

Marseillaise, 310 _et seq. _

Martyn, Edward, 192, 294

Mary Magdalen, 66, 67, 68

Mascagni, Pietro, 28, 275, 301

Massenet, 27, 28, 116, 117, 119, 120, 151, 275

Matisse, 19

Maurel, Victor, 107, 120, 246

May, Edna, 219

Mayhew, Stella, 110

Mazantinita, 287

Mazarin, Mariette, 114

Mazzoleni, 166

Melba, Nellie, 102, 104, 107, 108, 114, 155, 156, 187, 271 _et seq. _, 297

Mellish, Fuller, 323

Melody, 29, 93

Mencken, H. L. , 59, 65, 153, 197, 198, 202, 203, 212

Mendelssohn, 23, 24, 26, 171, 202

Mendès, Catulle, 43

Meredith, George, 187

Mérimée, Prosper, 58, 87, 131, 142

Meyerbeer, Giacomo, 28, 29, 102, 157, 164, 252

Michael Angelo, 227, 312

Michelet, 76

Milton, 257

Mirbeau, Octave, 229, 230, 231, 232, 233

Mitchell, Julian, 281

Mitchell, Langdon, 303

Modern Orchestra, 98

Modulation, 30

Moeller, Philip, 26, 236, 238 _et seq. _

Molière, 225, 230, 231, 298, 302

Monbelli, 256

Monkshood, G. F. , 39, 54

Montaigne, 150

Montemezzi, Italo, 24, 330

Montes, 189

Monteverde, 102

Montmartre, 126 _et seq. _

Monvel, Boutet de, 142

Moore, George, 67, 134, 184 _et seq. _, 231, 232, 294, 295, 307, 318, 320, 324

Moors, The, 65

Moreau, Gustave, 44, 61, 89, 191

"Morrill, Higgins, and Co. , " 71

Moulin de la Galette, 133, 134

Mount Edgcumbe, Earl of, 93, 94, 253, 254, 255

Moussorgsky, 23, 152

Mozart, 23, 24, 27, 28, 29, 31, 54, 88, 97, 101, 108, 119, 161, 173, 174, 205, 234, 248, 268, 269, 270, 275, 276, 289, 298, 300, 305

Mullin, W. T. , 204 _et seq. _

Murillo, 190

Murphy, Agnes G. , 155

Murska, Ilma de, 269

Musset, Alfred de, 239, 240, 252

Musette, 135

Nachbaur, Franz, 164

Names, Theory of, 49, 50, 56, 76

Napoleon, 79, 192

Naldi, Giuseppe, 160

Nathan, George Jean, 283, 295

Nazimova, Alla, 283, 305

Negro Players, 283

Newman, Ernest, 32, 150

Niemann, Albert, 164

Nero, 69, 71, 72

Nerval, Gérard de, 31

New York Times, The, 233

Nicolai, Carl, 173

Nicolini, 95

Nielsen, Alice, 219

Nijinsky, Waslav, 112, 183, 285, 301

Nillson, Carlotta, 237

Nilsson, Christine, 268, 269

Nordica, Lillian, 270

Offenbach, 216, 219

Opéra-Comique, Paris, 131

Orleneff, Paul, 283, 305

Ornstein, Leo, 30, 104, 121, 298, 329

Oysters, American, 158

Pacchierotti, 93, 94, 95

Pachmann, Vladimir de, 301

Paganini, 172

Palmer, Delmar G. , 210, 211

Pan, Peter, 137

Parke, W. T. , 171, 172, 256, 257, 258

Parker, Horatio W. , 23, 197, 212

Pasta, Giuditta, 97, 249 _et seq. _

Pater, Walter, 70, 72, 137, 190, 307

Pattee, Fred Lewis, 38

Patti, Adelina, 101, 102, 104, 115, 153, 253, 269, 288, 298

Payton, Corse, 304

Peacock, Thomas Love, 301

Péladan, Josephin, 43

Persian miniatures, 19

Pessimism, 56, 60, 61, 65

Petrarch, 76

Pfitzner, Hans, 200

Perfumes, 79

Phelps, William Lyon, 38

Phémé, 86

Philip II, 79

Philistine, The, 39

Philosophy of Edgar Saltus, 54, 56

Picasso, Pablo, 19, 183

Piccinni, Niccola, 24, 258

Pinero, Arthur Wing, 234, 295, 302, 303, 321

Pinto, Mrs. , 257

Pischek, Johann, 173

Pistocchi, Francesco, 99

Plagiarism, 79

Poe, Edgar Allan, 44, 87

Pogliani, Giacomo, 157

Poiret, Paul, 154, 222

Poisons, 51, 52, 59, 64, 76

Pollard, Percival, 48

Pompadour, Mme. De, 260

Ponchielli, Amilcare, 175

Popular music, 23

Porpora, 95, 96, 99

Pougy, Liane de, 201

Pratella, Balilla, 329

Puccini, Giacomo, 24, 26, 29, 100, 103, 108, 113, 157, 173, 175, 318, 329

Puchol, Luisita, 288

Puente, del, 159

Purcell, Henry, 152

Puritanism, 65

Pyrrhonist, 179

Quincy, de, 31

Quinlan, Gertrude, 219

Rabusson, 63

Rachel, 250, 301, 302, 310

Radcliffe, Mrs. , 74

Raff, Joseph Joachim, 23

Ragtime, 110, 152, 290

Rankin, Phyllis, 219

Ravel, Maurice, 200, 315, 329

Realism in fiction, 56, 77, 88

Realistic acting, 105, 111

Reeves, Sims, 263

Reger, Max, 27, 29

Rehan, Ada, 319, 320

Reicher, Frank, 300

Reinhardt, Max, 282

Renan, 76

Renaud, Maurice, 107, 246

Repplier, Agnes, 9, 38, 69

Reszke, Jean de, 100

Retz, Gille de, 80

Rimbaud, Arthur, 43

Rimsky-Korsakov, 157, 299, 315

Ring, Blanche, 110

Ristori, 302

Rives, Mme. Amélie, 48

Rodin, Auguste, 129, 227, 228, 312

Rome, 70, 71

Ronalds, Lorillard, 69

Ronconi, Giorgio, 97, 98, 246

Ronsard, 76

Roosevelt, Theodore, 120, 209

Rops, Félicien, 312

Rorer, Mrs. , 149

Rossini, Gioacchino, 25, 26, 28, 31, 33, 61, 97, 101, 102, 103, 142, 149, 168, 169, 248, 273, 288

Rostand, 228

Rowland, Adele, 222

Rübgam, 164

Rubini, Giovanni Battista, 163

Rubinstein, Anton, 24, 112

Runciman, J. F. , 32, 234

Russell, Lillian, 160, 220

Russian Ballet, 282, 288, 315

Rutherford, John S. , 63

Sacré-Coeur, Church of, 126, 130

Sagan, Princesse de, 84

St. Giorgio, Signor, 159, 160

St. Paul's School, 42

Salieri, Antonio, 170

Salome, 66, 67, 86, 287

Saltus, Edgar, 37 _et seq. _, 117, 154, 187, 191, 225

Saltus, Francis, 42

Sanborn, Pitts, 118

Sand, George, 26, 239, 240, 252

Sanderson, Julia, 217

Santley, Charles, 158, 167, 174, 264

Sappho, 76, 82

Sardou, 302, 303

Satan, 58, 78, 286, 287

Satie, Erik, 30, 329

Saturday Review, The, 18

Savoyarde, restaurant, 125, 126, 130, 131

Scharwenka, Xaver, 155

Scheherazade, 82

Schillings, Max, 150

Schoenberg, Arnold, 30, 32, 121, 329

Schopenhauer, 43, 56

Schroeder, Edwin Albert, 71

Schroeder-Devrient, Wilhelmine, 99

Schubert, 24, 27, 28, 33, 170, 205, 305, 310

Schumann, 111, 274

Scott, Cyril, 29, 329

Scotti, Antonio, 107

Scriptores Historiæ Augustæ, 70

Seidl, Anton, 155

Sembrich, Marcella, 104, 107, 108, 114, 115, 153, 271, 273 _et seq. _

Senesino, 95

Shakespeare, 73, 76, 98, 147, 284, 298, 302, 305, 318 _et seq. _

Sharp, Cecil J. , 30, 109

Shaw, George Bernard, 42, 234, 235, 239, 318, 322

Shepherd, Arthur, 200

Sherwin, Louis, 222, 291, 293, 295

Shield, William, 171, 172

Siddons, Mrs. , 18, 302, 303

Simonds, W. E. , 38

Singing, 93 _et seq. _

Smith, Harry B. , 222

Snob, 50

Socrates, 117

Solomon, 19, 80, 82

Sonata form, 33

Sontag, Henrietta, 246 _et seq. _

Sophocles, 103, 302

Sorbonne, 43

Sousa, John Philip, 202, 209, 216

Southeim, 164

Spain, 19, 59, 62, 94, 100, 106, 142, 189, 190, 281 _et seq. _

Spiritualism, 43

Spohr, Louis, 24

Stanislavski, 283

Stanton, Theodore, 38

Starr, Hattie, 202

Starr, Muriel, 253

Steger, 164

Stein, Gertrude, 19, 79, 229

Steinlen, 139

Steinway, William, 154

Stevenson, R. L. , 58, 74

Stigelli, 166

Stillman-Kelley, Edgar, 199, 202

Straus, Oskar, 216

Strauss, Johann, 25, 139, 216

Strauss, Richard, 25, 30, 31, 32, 33, 100, 104, 113, 114, 120, 175, 330

Stravinsky, Igor, 32, 100, 104, 114, 121, 152, 329

Stuck, Franz von, 89

Style in Singing, 98, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 116, 117, 118, 119, 245, 246, 249, 250, 251, 270, 273, 274, 276

Style in Writing, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 53, 55, 56

Suetonius, 70, 72

Sullivan, Sir Arthur, 107, 169, 216, 220, 221

Swinburne, 76, 307

Symonds, J. A. , 72

Symons, Arthur, 188, 232, 245, 293, 301, 303

Synge, J. M. , 103

Tacitus, 72

Taggart, Lucy L. , 209

Tamagno, Francesco, 120

Tasso, 62

Taste, 11 _et seq. _

Tchekhov, 303

Tempest, Marie, 219, 252, 301

Temps, Le, 18

Terence, 302

Terry, Ellen, 301

Tetrazzini, Luisa, 102, 160

Thèbes, Mme. De, 79

Thomas, Ambroise, 173

Thomas, Augustus, 235, 236, 295

Thomas, Olive, 223

Thomas, Theodore, 155

Tiberius, 69

Tichatschek, Joseph Aloys, 164

Tilzer, Harry von, 202

Tinney, Frank, 222

Tissot, 67

Toscanini, Arturo, 156

Tradition, 24, 97, 281

Troubetskoy, Prince, 157

Tschaikovsky, 59, 312

Turgeniev, 187, 252

Twain, Mark, 261, 265

Urban, Joseph, 222, 223

Vagaries of genius, 55

Vallière, Louise, de la, 13

Valverde, Joaquín, 284 _et seq. _

Vaughn, Theresa, 219

Verelst, Myndart, 56, 58

Veiller, Bayard, 68

Velasquez, 16, 190

Verdi, Giuseppe, 120, 149, 173, 221, 270, 275, 298, 323

Verlaine, Paul, 43

Veronese, 16

Versatility in acting, 300

Vespasian, 69

Viafora, 157

Viardot, Pauline, 98, 250, 251, 252, 253

Victory of Samothrace, The, 17, 312

Vinci, Leonardo da, 190, 191, 301

Wachtel, Theodor, 164

Wagner, Richard, 23, 29, 32, 93, 96, 99, 100, 102, 104, 108, 113, 120, 150, 162, 173, 175, 270, 271, 274, 298, 301, 314

Walter, Eugene, 68

Walter, Gustav, 164

Warfield, David, 295

Wayburn, Ned, 281

Weber, 27, 31, 98, 175

Webster, 51

Weckerlin, J. B. , 169

Weichsell, Carl, 172

Weichsell, Charles, 172

Weidley, David, 210

Wendell, Barrett, 38

Westminster Magazine, 39

Whitmer, T. Carl, 200, 202

Wilde, Oscar, 20, 43, 48, 55, 63, 64, 66, 70, 85, 86, 87, 187, 239, 282, 307

Winter, William, 320, 324

Wodehouse, P. G. , 222

Women, Saltus's opinion of, 73

Wüllner, Ludwig, 246

Yeats, W. B. , 192

Yohe, May, 219

Zandonai, Riccardo, 329

Zeus, 82

Ziegfeld, Florenz, 283

Zuloaga, 290

 * * * * *

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Variations in spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation have beenretained from the original book except for the following changes:

Table of Contents: Added listings for FOOTNOTES and INDEX. 

Page 32: Used oe for the oe ligature in "oeuvre bâtarde". 

Page 189: Changed "their's" to "theirs". 

Page 227: Added "Young" to the chapter title, "Two Young AmericanPlaywrights, " to match the Table of Contents and section title. 

Page 259: Changed "Eightenth Century" to "Eighteenth Century". 

Page 303: "Mrs. Siddone" might be a typo for "Mrs. Siddons". Retained. 

Page 320: Capitalized "It" in "As You Like It" for consistency. 

Page 331: (Index) Changed "Aeschylus" to "Æschylus" to match text. 

Page 332: (Index) The reference for Bergström, Hjalmar, 90 was not foundanywhere in the original book, and page 90 was a blank page. 

Page 332: (Index) Changed page ref. 122 to 222 for Bernhardt, Sarah. 

Page 332: (Index) Changed "Caesar, Julius, " to "Cæsar, Julius, " tomatch text. 

Page 338: (Index) Changed page ref. 176 to 76 for Michelet. 

Page 339: (Index) Changed "Péladin, Josephin" to "Péladan, Josephin"to match text. 

Page 341: (Index) Changed "Scriptores Historiae Augustae" to"Scriptores Historiæ Augustæ" to match text.