Scan 25
Musical Courier 1901-12-11: Vol 43 Iss 1133, 1901
20 lines. Read by computer on 22 September 2026. Printed page 26. See the scan on archive.org.
1and her men are shaken as trees in a tropical storm! In Act III. Omphale appears. It is la mère Heglon, the much beloved Heglon, with two baritonal notes left in her massive throat, attired in a ravishing auburn wig and a costume that defies description. It is both hieratic and voluptuous as befits a priestess of the venerable, though not pucic cult of Astarté. This charmer soon unsettles the reason of the boastful warrior with the club and lion skin. She does not use a spinning wheel, either, as is indicated in Lemprière, and suggested by the clever M. Camille Saint-Saëns in his symphonic poem. Her eyes accomplish victories, and when she walks empires totter, so the librettist says. Really Madame Heglon surprised me. Her voice is a dusky ruin, but she fascinates still; her very waddle is fascinating. The finale of this act is tremendously effective. It represents a bacchanalian orgy. The sacred courtesans rush from the groves. The priests chant. A whirling maze of color, dazzling, intoxicating, and the two lovers, to the sound of languorous music, disappear in the darkness. The last act is short. The opera is without genuine dramatic nerves. Leroux is an intellectual composer. In his score is the whole of the "Ring," "Parsifal" and much of Meyerbeer. His own original contribution is slender. But he has assimilated his material better than has Charpentier; above all, he has a native feeling for tone color—there are the usual imitations of Greek modes—the two cults of Vesta and Astarté are musically well contrasted. What most surprised me was the impassioned singing and acting of Alvarez. He was quite another man from the robustious actor and singer we knew here. On his own heath he sang with force, color, dramatic intelligence. The rest were the usual band of screamers and worn-out voices collected by Gailhard years ago. Taffanel conducted with all the passion of a flute player.
3I went to Rouen, rode down there in company with Mr. and Mrs. Rudyard Kipling, both of whom I left tranquilly eating their breakfast en route for Dieppe. At the birthplace of Flaubert I spent two days. I had heard that John F. Runciman was there, but if he was I could not find him. A ride to Croisset, where Flaubert wrote four masterpieces in forty years, dispelled the illusion that France cares for her great men. The old Flaubert home is in ruins, even his atelier, upon whose balcony he paced when composing his wonderful prose rhythms, was a wreck. At a neighboring café I found his old cook, now a man of repute, who showed me the photograph of Flaubert's mother. Show me a great man and I'll show you a great mother! E. Colange is the cook's name. It was all very sad. The master writer is buried in the Monumental Cemetery, but his monument, executed by Chapu—put there in 1890—is in the Solférino Gardens, opposite one of his beloved disciples, Guy de Maupassant. I saw the statue of Boieldieu in the Cours Boieldieu, and also the statue of the dramatist Corneille. But what is Boieldieu to Hecuba nowadays? The cathedral, the churches, the monuments, the curious ferry bridge—"le transbordeur" they call it—and the Jeanne d'Arc memorial at Bonsecours, all these and many more I enjoyed. Rouen is a jewel of a city. Sarah Bernhardt came down that Saturday to play one night. The next morning she returned to Paris for her usual Sunday matinee. I saw her as she left the Hotel d'Angleterre at 9 o'clock. She was as fresh as a girl of twenty. Such vitality, such a rage for life—is it not extraordinary?
5Dear old London—as they say on upper Broadway—has changed little in five years. My ten days there were spent in visits to the National Gallery, British Museum, South Kensington Museum—most wonderful of collections!—to the theatres and the Tate Gallery. I was in hot pursuit after data of John Martin the mezzotinter, and finally, thanks to the kindness of Sidney Colvin, found nearly all I wanted in the National Gallery—all, but not everything, for the mezzotints in the print-room are not so numerous as I had expected. With shameful pride I confess that my own collection is numerically stronger. At the South Kensington Museum I found five or six water colors by Martin. But after all London spells Turner, Reynolds, Gainsborough, Hogarth, Constable—and again Constable. George Morland's pictures at the National Gallery still enchant the eye. The International Society of Sculptors, Painters and Gravers in Piccadilly, No. 191, displayed some beautiful Whistlers and one of Meunier's strong bronze figures, "Lamineur."
7Francis Neilson troubled himself to show me the new stage of Covent Garden, upon which the Syndicate has lavished £11,000. It is one of the most complete operatic "plants" in the world. But the house is as dingy as ever, its position as mean as you can well find in all London. I saw an Alhambra ballet and I enjoyed Mrs. Patrick Campbell's exotic acting in "The Second Mrs. Tanqueray" at the Royalty. In the Café Gambrinus Hans Richter, "Gus" Kerker and Max Beerbohm, most brilliant of dramatic causieurs, were housed one Sunday evening. Beerbohm Tree's brilliant and elaborate revival of "Twelfth Night" at Her Majesty's Theatre was drawing to a close when I visited it. Mr. Tree's Malvolio is one of his most original impersonations. He is always subtle, intellectual and picturesque. One thing struck me. Malvolio is accompanied by a leading musical motive. It was singularly effective. Courtice Pounds, who may be remembered here as Nanki Poo in "The Mikado," made an excellent Clown. Mr. Tree was rehearsing "The Last of the Dandies" when I left London. As a production it is rich, and the versatile actor's characterization of Count d'Orsay is remarkable. He may visit America next season. For me he is the one dramatic artist of truly cosmopolitan culture on the English speaking stage.
9Robert Newman's Promenade Concerts in Queen's Hall are the very British, very philistine transposition of a Continental custom. They are called Promenade because no one promenades, I suppose. The Englishman takes his music en masse. Wedged in a formidable mob he wears his hat indoors, like one of Walt Whitman's "powerful uneducated persons," and he smokes—smokes pipe, cigarette or tale-bearing cigars. These latter are terrible weapons of offense and defense. From the balcony one Saturday evening I listened to Henry Wood's orchestra. It was foggy without, but foggier within. Tobacco smoke obscured the stage, the players; even the music came to me huskily through yellow rifts of nicotine vapor. The program was monstrously long, and built for general consumption. Fancy two numbers from Glazounow's "Les Saisons"—charming ballet music—a conglomeration of Liszt Rhapsodies, the "Preislied," two Songs without Reason, for orchestra, written for piano, by Mendelssohn, "Batti, Batti," Prelude to Act III. of "Lohengrin," a Benedictus by Mackenzie, a violin solo by Wilhelmj, called "In Memoriam," a new suite, "Sweet Nell of Old Drury," by Raymond Roze—six numbers—a song by Sullivan evocative of lost chords, overture to "Flying Dutchman," "Faust" Fantaisies, with solos by members of the orchestra, a song, "Macgregor's Gathering," by Lee, bassoon solo, two more songs by Goring Thomas and Paul Rubens—the latter wrote the Malvolio motive for Mr. Tree's production—another song and the "Wedding March," by Mendelssohn—toujours Mendelssohn in England! There's a hodge-podge for you! There's a Yorkshire pudding, a Welsh rabbit and an oyster stew for you! There's an English salutation in English slop for you—pace Shakespeare! Little wonder that the band plays roughly, that finish, nuance and dynamic variety are lacking. Where does Mr. Wood get the time to rehearse such an amazing medley of musical nonsense? And how do his men stand the strain? How does he stand it? He is a conductor of force and a certain quantum of individuality. I should not care to hear him reading the classics. He has temperament—and I think that he plays upon his temperament a trifle too strenuously.
11So much the record of a musical holiday. I really prefer staying at home in the summer time; all play and no work makes Jack a very dull boy indeed. And last summer it was too much play—music play, Wagner play!
13MUSICALE AT NEW YORK ATHLETIC CLUB.
15In connection with "ladies' day" at the New York Athletic Club last Saturday, a musicale was given in the afternoon in the gymnasium, under the direction of the entertainment committee of the club. From 11 a. m. to 6 p. m. the large, well appointed club house was crowded with women. Each one of the 4,000 members of the club has the privilege of inviting one woman on "ladies' day," and from the crush it looked as if few members had neglected their rights. The musical artists who contributed to the entertainment in the afternoon included Mrs. Elizabeth Hazard, soprano; Mrs. Dora Phillips, soprano; Miss Marguerite M. Fritsch, violinist; William H. Rieger, tenor, and Charles Schuetze, harpist. The remainder of the entertainment was given by vaudeville artists.
17Mrs. Hazard sang charmingly to harp accompaniments "Si Mes Vers Avaient des Ailes," by Hahn, and "The Last Rose of Summer." Her beautiful head tones and the general refinement of her style appealed to the discriminating. Mrs. Phillips, with her rarely sympathetic voice, was heard with pleasure in "O Come With Me," by Van der Stucken, and "Ich Hat Mir ein Lied Erdacht," by Bungert. Mr. Rieger, who was in particularly good voice, delighted the audience with a group of songs, "Unter Blumen," by Meyer-Helmund, and "All for You," by d'Harcelot, and an English ballad. Miss Fritsch showed good schooling and drew from her violin a small but true and lovely tone. She played Wieniawski's "Legende" and one of the Brahms' "Hungarian Dances," arranged by Joachim. As a harp solo, Mr. Schuetze played "Danse des Fées" and he played so well that he was obliged to add another number.
19The entertainment committee of the New York Athletic Club is composed of Charles L. Burnham, chairman; George D. Phillips, Howard P. Frothingham and Frederick Vilmar.
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