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Mascagni in America
by Henry T. Finck, The Independent, October 30, 1902
Henry T. Finck wrote this article at the beginning of Mascagni's
1902-1903 American tour. Most of his facts are correct, and his
desire to see Guglielmo Ratcliff performed is quite justified.
However his appreciation of Zanetto and Iris is misguided and
typical of a misunderstanding of Mascagni's operatic output,
which consists in expecting his other operas to sound like
Cavalleria Rusticana. This attitude unfortunately persists
today.
Mascagni in America
By Henry T. Finck
Author of "Wagner and His Works" Etc.
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Maestro Mascagni and his Family
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Musical conductors
are not yet quite as constant travelers as railway conductors,
but they are running them a close race, and their range is much
larger—the whole world is their playground. Not only do eminent
German and French conductors travel from city to city in their
own countries, they also regularly visit foreign capitals—
London has had half a dozen at a time. Sometimes they preside
over local orchestras, at other times they bring along their own
players. From Italy the world has long obtained supplies of
operatic conductors as well as of opera singers, but Pietro
Mascagni is probably the first composer of any country who has
taken a whole grand opera company across the ocean to perform
some of his operas and nothing else. This, surely, is a new
thing under the sun.
It is to be regretted that untoward circumstances prevented the
performance in New York of "William Ratcliff," one of
the four operas which Signor Mascagni was to have conducted.
Had it been produced, Metropolitan music lovers would have had a
chance to hear five of the eight operas he has so far written,
leaving "I Rantzau," "Silvano," and
"The Masks" for some future occasion.
"Cavalleria Rusticana" was produced here at the time
(1891) when it had such a sensational success the world over,
and it has been sung many times since with various Santuzzas,
the best of them being Mme. Calvé. "L'Amico Fritz"
followed in 1894, but altho Mme. Calvé had the part of Suzel,
only two performances were given; and as none of the subsequent
works of Mascagni won a decisive victory, even in Italy, they
were not brought to America.
The reason why it would have been of particular interest to hear
"William Ratcliff" is that that opera antedates, in
part at least, the "Cavalleria Rusticana" (which is
generally supposed to have been Mascagni's first work), and
takes us back to the time in his life when he was a poor
musician who often did not know where he was to get his
maccaroni for the next day. When he was still a student at the
Milan Conservatory he one day came across a translation of
Heine's tragedy, "William Ratcliff," and promptly made
up his mind to convert it into an opera. The love duo was
written as early as 1882. During the following six years he
composed a scene now and then, as he found time, which was not
often, for he led a roving life as conductor of divers opera
companies. His salary began with a dollar a day and was
gradually increased to two, but there were times when meals were
scant and the pawnbroker a friend in need. For his American tour
he gets, so it is said, $8,000 a week.
It was Cervantes, I believe, who said that while it is no
disgrace to be poor, it is devilish inconvenient. The chief
inconvenience to Mascagni was that he could not afford to pay
for a libretto. For some years the story of "Cavalleria
Rusticana" had been haunting him, but he could not engage
any one to put it into shape. At last a friend of his persuaded
Targioni, of Livorno, to undertake this task for him.
"Ratcliff" was then put aside for the time being and
the new score taken in hand. Probably neither the composer nor
the librettist dreamed that their joint work would have more
than a few dozen or at best a hundred performances. But, as
everybody knows, "Cavalleria Rusticana" won the first
prize in the lottery—that is, the competition instituted by the
publisher Sanzogno—and for several years after its first
production at Rome (May 17th, 1890) this little opera had more
performances than all of Wagner's operas combined. Only Weber's
"Freischütz" in its day, and in recent times some of
the operettas of Sullivan and Strauss, boasted such an
instantaneous and universal success.
When a man has written a "Trilby" or an "Eben
Holden" all his subsequent books are eagerly taken up by the
publishers. Mascagni had no difficulty in disposing of his subsequent
scores, altho every one proved a disappointment. The popularity of
"Cavalleria Rusticana" was sufficient to keep him busy in
the role of a popular idol. To this day, if he gives a concert in an
Italian or German city, it is heralded as a great event; and not
infrequently he has been welcomed with brass bands and torchlight
processions.
The feverish, frenzied "Mascagnitis" which prevailed
for a time after the appearance of "Cavalleria
Rusticana" has, indeed, subsided, and the eminent
lexicographer and historian, Dr. Riemann, wrote in 1900 that
Mascagni, tho only thirty-seven years old, had already outlived
his fame. But last summer he once more became the best
advertised of living musicians through his connection with the
Conservatory of Music at Pesaro. Of this institution, which was
founded by Rossini, he was appointed director seven years ago.
But while it is said that he introduced some reforms and that
the students liked him, his attitude in general and his frequent
absence on concert tours, coupled with his intention to visit
America, finally irritated the overseers of the conservatory and
the Pesaro town magistrates so much that they demanded his
resignation, and when he refused he was deposed and had to
invoke the Italian Government to reinstate him. For weeks the
progress of this fight was reported in the daily press of Italy
and Germany; and when Mascagni had been dismissed most of the
Italian newspapers took his part. In Livorno, his native city,
he was worshiped like a prima donna, escorted to his home in a
triumphal procession, and officially proclaimed Italy's greatest
composer, the equal of his predecessors, Rossini and Verdi.
When he started for America he doubtless expected not only a
repetition of his European triumphs, but a rest from his trials and
tribulations. On his arrival, he can have found no fault with his
reception, for he was met in the harbor by a band of admirers; and
when he conducted his "Zanetto" and "Cavalleria
Rusticana" at the Metropolitan Opera House, on October 8th, a
considerable number of Americans helped to make up the big audience
which gave him an enthusiastic welcome notwithstanding the mediocre
performance. But he found the atmosphere of New York quite as
bellicose as that of Pesaro. A mistake had been made in bringing over
from Italy an orchestra which was not only of inferior quality, but
incomplete. The attempt to complete it led to a war with the Musical
Union, whereat Mascagni was so disgusted that he threatened to take
the next steamer back to Europe.
Matters were finally adjusted, but the poor, unrehearsed band
proved a serious handicap. Altho the ambitious, energetic
composer set to work rehearsing with all his might and main, so
incessantly that he had to miss dinners given in his honor, both
in New York and Philadelphia, he did not succeed, with the
material at his command, in giving satisfactory performances of
his operas. Instead of hearing the "Cavalleria
Rusticana" for the first time quite at its best, the
admirers and judges who assembled at the Opera House were agreed
that they had seldom heard so bad a performance of it. The
result of this was that at subsequent performances of this
opera, as well as at those of "Iris," the audiences
were discouragingly small, wherefore the enterprise has proved
neither a financial nor an artistic success.
Had Mascagni visited us eleven years ago he might have been the object
of almost as wild a craze as Admiral Dewey (in whose honor the
Spaniards last summer accused him of having written a hymn—which he
denied). Coming as he did, the only advantage he has brought us has
been the chance to hear two of his operas which Mr. Grau would have
never introduced in his repertory—"Zanetto" and
"Iris." And even this seems a doubtful
advantage. "Zanetto" certainly is one of the dreariest
little operas ever placed on the stage. If "Ratcliff" had
been produced in its place the prevalent opinion that Mascagni is a
"yellow" composer would have been confirmed, for Heine's
tragedy, "William Ratcliff," which his libretto closely
follows, is a story of ghosts, highwaymen and murders. But
"Zanetto" roars as gently as a sucking dove. There are only
two characters in it. One of them is a young woman who poses as a
widow and keeps a country inn. The other is Zanetto, a wandering
minstrel, who does not know that the widow is the beautiful but cruel
Sylvia he has heard so much about and is in quest of. She seeks to
retain him and offers him a home, but he departs, and she weeps. This
idyl may be allegorical, but it certainly is not operatic in either
the good or the bad sense of the word. Nor is the music which Mascagni
wrote for it operatic. It is prettily orchestrated, chiefly for
strings and harps; but there is no inspiration in it—no warmblooded
melody.
Much more interesting in every way is "Iris." It is based on
a Japanese story— or, rather, a story placed in Japan, for there
are not a few slips which show that the librettist does not undestand
Japanese sentiments and motives. The plot, however, is sufficiently
plausible and operatic, and the fact that the supernatural enters as
an invisible chorus representing the voice of the sun makes it the
more suitable for a romantic opera.
Iris is the lovely daughter of a blind man, Cieco. A
roué named Osaka plans her abduction. Aided by Kyoto, a
pander, he arranges a puppet show, and when Iris mingles with
the crowd gathered by it she is seized and carried off to
Kyoto's house in the Yoshiwara. There Osaka makes love to her in
the second act, but her innocence is proof against his wiles,
and he leaves, disgusted. Kyoto thereupon exhibits his prize to
the crowd in the street. This brings back Osaka, who renews his
advances, when presently the voice is heard of the blind father.
He has been brought to the place in which his daughter dwells,
and thinking that she left him of her own accord, he throws mud
on her and curses her. Crazed by the curses, Iris jumps into a
sewer basin, where, in the last act, she is found by ragpickers.
They flee in superstitious terror when she shows signs of life.
But it is the last flickering of the flame. As in a trance, she
once more hears the voices of Osaka, Kyoto, Cieco. Then the
rising sun intones a chorus, and, covering her body with a dense
growth of lotos flowers, lifts her up toward the Infinite.
And the music? An Italian sitting near me said to his companion after
the first act that he should like to hear it two or three times before
making up his mind about it. After the second act he looked
disappointed, and remarked that the music was "too heavy."
He had expected another "Cavalleria Rusticana," with its
broad, impassioned melodies. Now, as a work of art, formally
considered, "Iris " is immeasurably above
"Cavalleria," but it lacks those melodies, trivial but
fervent, which made the "Cavalleria" famous. In
"Iris" he seems deliberately to avoid such melodies, or
rather tunes; he seeks to rise into the higher dramatic atmosphere of
Wagner and the later Verdi; but not being big enough he fails to'get
there. His orchestration is bizarre rather than dramatic, and his
vocal parts have very few rememberable melodies. Yet there are some
admirable details. The tune which the geisha hums at the opening of
the second act suggests genuine local color, while the swelling
crescendo of the opening chorus is superb, even if it is too obviously
an imitation of the prologue in Boito's "Mefistofele."
"Iris" would have probably enjoyed better success had
its two hours of music not been diluted to a four-hour
performance. The small size of the audiences attracted by it,
combined with the scant time for rehearsal, doubtless account
for the non-production of "William Ratcliff."
New York City.
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