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ancle
ancles
donna
donna's
habitues
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prima
Simms
tenore




Physiology of the Opera.

     "I both compose and perform Sir: and though I say it, perhaps few
     even of the profession possess the _contra-punto_ and the
     _chromatic_ better."

     CONNOISSEUR. No. 130.

     "I see, Sir--you
      Have got a travell'd air, which shows you one
      To whom the opera is by no means new."

     BYRON.




PHYSIOLOGY

OF

THE OPERA.

[Illustration]

BY SCRICI.

PHILADELPHIA. WILLIS P. HAZARD, 178 CHESNUT ST. 1852.

COPYRIGHT SECURED ACCORDING TO LAW.




Introduction.


As an introduction to the dissertation upon which we are about to enter,
such an antiquarian view of the subject might be taken as would tend to
establish a parallel between the ancient Greek tragedy and the modern
sanguinary Italian opera, the strong resemblance therein being displayed
of Signor Salvi trilling on the stage, to the immortal Thespis jargoning
from a dung-cart. But we shall indulge in no such wearying pedantry.
Our intention being merely to "hold the mirror up to nature," in
presenting our immaterial reflector to the public, we invite our readers
to a view of the present only--a period of time in which they take most
interest, since they adorn it with their own presence.

We feel satisfied that few of the ladies who take a peep into this
mirror, will find any cause to break it in a fit of petulancy after
having looked upon the attractive reflection of their own lovely
features. Few young gentlemen will throw down a glass that gives them a
just idea of their striking and distingue appearance behind a large
moustache and a gilded _lorgnette_. Old papas, who rule 'change and keep
a "stall," cannot be offended with that which teaches them how dignified
and creditable is their position, as they sit up proudly and exhibit
their family's extravagance and ostentation as an evidence of the
stability of their commercial relations. Few mammas will carp at a book
which assures them that society does not esteem them less highly because
they use an opera box as a sort of matrimonial show window in which they
place their beautiful daughters, "got up regardless of expense," as
delicate wares in the market of Hymen.

In these our humble efforts to present to our readers an amusing yet
faithful picture of the opera, we hope our manner of treating the
subject has been to nothing extenuate nor aught set down in malice. This
book has not for its end the unlimited censure of foreign opera singers,
or native opera goers. We do not therefore, expect to gratify the
malignant demands of persons of over-strained morality, who maintain
that the opera is a bad school of musical science, or a worse school of
morals; and exclaim with the very correct Mr. Coleridge, who was
_shocked_ in a--_concert room_,

    "Nor cold nor stern my soul, yet I detest
      These scented rooms; where to a gaudy throng,
    Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast,
      In intricacies of laborious song.

    "These feel not music's genuine power, nor deign
      To melt at nature's passion-warbled plaint;
    But when the long-breath'd singer's up-trilled strain
      Bursts in a squall--they gape for wonderment."

Neither do we coincide in sentiment with those who, conceiving that
every folly and absurdity sanctioned by fashion, is converted into
reason and common sense, believe that "the whole duty of man" consists
in _spending the day_ with Max Maretzeck on the occasion of his musical
jubilees, and being roasted by gas in the hours of broad day-light.
Consequently the reader will find no one line herein written with the
intention of flattering the vanity of those who ride to the opera every
night in a splendid coach, followed by spotted dogs.

Having thus declared the impartial manner in which it is our purpose to
pursue the physiological discussion of our subject, and the various
phenomena involved in its consideration, we proceed at once to unveil
the operatic existence to the reader, fatigued no doubt by an
introductory salaam already protracted beyond the limits of propriety.




CHAPTER I.

The Opera in the Abstract.

    "L'Opera toujours
    Fait bruit et merveilles:
    On y voit les sourds
    Boucher leurs oreilles."

    BERANGER.


To most of the world (and we say it advisedly,) the opera is a sealed
book. We do not mean a bare representation with its accompanying
screechings, violinings and bass-drummings. Everybody has seen that--But
the race of beings who constitute that remarkable combination; their
feelings, positions, social habits; their relation to one another; what
they say and eat;[a] whether the tenor ever notices as they (the world)
do, the fine legs of the contralto in man's dress, and whether the basso
drinks pale ale or porter; all these things have been hitherto wrapped
in an inscrutable mystery. In regard to mere actors, not singers, this
feeling is confined to children; but the operators of an opera are
essentially esoteric. They are enclosed by a curtain more impenetrable
than the Chinese wall. You may walk all around them; nay, you may even
know an inferior artiste, but there is a line beyond which even the fast
men, with all their impetuosity, are restrained from invading.

[a] We actually knew a man who, when a tenor was spoken of, as having
gone through his _role_, thought that that worthy had been eating his
breakfast.

You walk in the street with a young female, on whom you flatter yourself
you are making an impression; suddenly she cries out, "Oh, there's
Bawlini; do look! dear creature, isn't he?" You may as well turn round
and go home immediately; the rest of your walk won't be worth half the
dream you had the night before. This shows an importance to be attached
to these remarkable persons, which, together with the mystery which
encircles them, is exceedingly aggravating to the feelings of a large
body of respectable citizens. Among those who are mostly afflicted, we
may mention all women, but most especially boarding school misses.
Mothers of families are much perturbed; they wonder why the tenor is so
intimate with the donna, considering they are not married; and fathers
of families wonder "where under the sun that manager gets the money to
pay a tenor twelve hundred dollars a month, when state sixes are so
shockingly depressed." We were going to enumerate those we thought
particularly afflicted by a praiseworthy desire to know something more
of these obscurities, but they are too many for us. In every class of
society, nay, in the breast of almost every person, there exists a
desire to be rightly informed on these subjects. It was to supply this
want that we have devoted ourselves more especially to the actors who
do, to the exclusion of the auditors who are "_done_."

Shakspeare observes, that "all the world's a stage;" the converse of
this proposition is no less worthy of being regarded as a great moral
truth,--that all the stage is a world. Every condition of life may be
found typified in one or other of the officials or attaches of an opera
house; from the king upon the throne, symbolized by the haughty and
magisterial impresario, to the _chiffonier_ in the gutter, represented
by the unfortunate chorister who is attired as a shabby nobleman on the
stage, but who goes home to a supper of leeks. Between these two
degrees, of dignity and unimportance, come those many shades of social
position corresponding to the happy situations of Secretary of State,
Secretary of the Treasury, and divers other dignitaries, set forth in
the stage director, the treasurer, the chorus-master, &c.

The tenor, basso, prima donna and baritone may be considered as
belonging to what is called "society;"--that well-to-do and ornamental
portion of the community, who having no vocation save to frequent balls,
soirees, concerts and operas, and fall in love--serve as objects of
admiration to those persons less favoured by fortune, who make the
clothes and dress the hair of the former class.

Our simile need not be carried further, it being apparent to the most
inconsiderate reader, that it is quite as truthful as that hatched by
the swan of Avon. We shall now commence our observations upon the most
interesting members of a troupe; those best known to the community
before whom they nightly appear; and leave unnoticed those disagreeable
but influential ones who raise the price of tickets, or stand in a
little box near the door and palm off all the back seats upon the
uninitiated.




CHAPTER II.

Of the Tenore.

     "In short, I may, I am sure, with truth assert, that whether in the
     _allegro_ or in the _piano_, the _adagio_, the _largo_ or the
     _forte_, he never had his equal."--CONNOISSEUR. No. 130.

     "Famed for the even tenor of his conduct, and his conduct as a
     tenor."--KNICKERBOCKER.


[Illustration]

The Tenor is a small man, seldom exceeding the medium height. His voice
is, comparatively speaking, a small voice, and consequently not likely
to issue from over-grown lungs. His proportions are, or at least ought
to be, as symmetrical as possible. His hair, nine times out of ten, is
black, and _always_ curls. His beard is reasonably bushy; but his
moustache is the most artistically cultivated and carefully nurtured
collection of hair that ever adorned the superior lip of man. His
features are likely to be handsome, sometimes, however, effeminately so.
His dress is a little extravagant; not extravagant in the mode and
manner of a fast man or a dandy--for it is not punctiliously fashionable
like that of the latter, without any deviation from tailor's plates;
neither does it resemble that of the former in the gentlemanly roughness
of its appearance; consequently he rejoices not in entire suits of grey
or plaid, those _very_ sporting coats, those English country-gentleman's
shoes, those amply bowed cravats, and those shirts that are so
resplendent with the well executed heads of terrier dogs. No! the primo
tenore has a passion, first, for satin,--secondly, for jewelry,--and
lastly, for hats, boots and gloves. He dotes on satin scarfs, cravats
and ties, and his gorgeous satin vests, of all the hues of the rainbow,
astound the saunterer on the morning promenade. His love for pins,
studs, rings and chains is almost enough to lead us to believe that his
blood is mingled with that of the Mohawks. Boots that fit like gloves,
and gloves that fit like the skin, render him the envy of dandies. His
hat is smooth and glossy to an excess, and its peculiar formation makes
it considered "_un peu trop fort_," even by the most daring of
hat-fanciers.

The tenor rises late; partly because he is naturally indolent; partly
because the prime basso drank him slightly exhilarated the evening
previous; and partly out of affectation and the desire to appear a very
fine gentleman. Having spent a long time in making a _negligee
toilette_, he orders his breakfast. Seated in his comprehensive arm
chair, and attired in all the splendor of a well-tinselled satin or
velvet _calotte_, a dazzling _robe de chambre_, and slippers of the most
brilliant colors, he takes his matutinal repast. And now we begin to
discover some of the thousand vexations and annoyances that harass the
life of this poor object of popular support. His breakfast is but the
skeleton of that useful and nourishing repast. No rich beef-steaks! no
tender chops! no fragrant ham nor well-seasoned omelettes, transfer
their nutritive properties through his system. Any indulgence in these
wholesome articles of food is considered direct destruction to the
tender organ of the tenor. A hunting breakfast every day, or a glass of
wine at an improper hour, if persisted in for any length of time, it is
supposed would ruin the most delightful voice that ever sung an _aria_.
A large cup of _cafe au lait_, with an egg beaten in it, is all the
morning meal of which the poor _artiste_ (as he styles himself,) is
permitted to partake. This feat accomplished, he takes up the newspaper
in which he _spells out_ the puff which he paid the reporter to insert,
and after satisfying himself that he has received his _quid pro quo_, he
lounges away the morning until a sufficient space of time has elapsed to
render the use of the voice no longer deleterious, as it is immediately
after eating. And then come two or three hours of study that is no
trifle. The tenor is a man; and it seems to be a great moral law, that
whether it come in the form of labor, disease, ennui or indigestion,
suffering shall be the badge of all our tribe. Even prima donnas, who
defy gods and men with more temerity than all living creatures, are
constrained to concede the obligation of this universal moral edict. The
tenor then yields homage to human nature and the public, in the labor of
climbing stubborn scales, rehearsing new operas, and sometimes, though
not often, in receiving the impertinence of arrogant prima donnas,
during several hours every day. After these fatiguing efforts, he makes
his _grande toilette_, and prepares himself to astound the town no less
by his personal attractions than by his song. The chief promenade of the
city, where he condescends to mete out to highly favoured audiences the
treasures of his organ, is made the day-theatre of his glory.
Accompanied by his friend the _primo basso_, he saunters along very
quietly, attracting the gaze of the curious, and calling forth the
passionate remarks of enthusiastic young ladies, who feel it would be a
pleasure to die, if they could only leave such a gentleman behind on
earth to sing "_Tu che a Dio_," in the event of their being "snatched
away in beauty's bloom."

The basso is the chosen male companion of the tenor's walk; firstly,
because he is no rival, and secondly, because the gross physical
endowments of the former are such as to bring out the latter's
symmetrical proportions in such strong relief.

Sometimes the tenor is seen riding out with the prima donna, with whom
he is nearly always a favorite. He is the gentleman who makes himself
useful in assisting her to destroy time; he performs for her those
thousand and one little delicate attentions for which all women are so
truly grateful; and then he sings with her every night those sentimental
duos, that necessarily produce their effect upon the feminine bosom.

Whether walking with his gigantic friend, or riding with his fair one,
the tenor behaves himself with the greatest propriety and gentleman-like
bearing, excepting always a certain air which leads us to believe that
he thinks "too curious old port" of himself. He is more grave, but
apparently more vain when on foot, than when seated in the carriage with
the prima donna; at which time his gesticulation becomes very animated,
sometimes very extravagant; though we must always accord it the
attraction of gracefulness.

The time is thus agreeably walked, ridden and "chaffed" away, until the
hour for the substantial dinner comes to fortify mankind against the
slings and arrows of hunger and tedium. Then the tenor does dare to
partake of a few, of what are technically called "the delicacies of the
season." But still a restraint is put upon the appetite, for in a few
hours more he must go through labours for which the "fulness of satiety"
would little prepare him. A very worthy and elderly clergyman of the
Church of England once made known to the writer his opinion concerning
after-dinner sermons, in the following words; "I believe, sir, that
though sermons preached through the medium of simple roast beef and
plum-pudding may have been sermons invented by inspiration; they are
sure to be enunciated through the agency of the devil." So melting
strains of solos and duos, when sung through the medium of soups, pates
and fricasees, lose their liquidity, and film, mantle and stagnate into
monotony. How the tenor is occupied until the hour of supper, we shall
relate in another chapter; suffice it to say that he is at home--that is
to say, on the stage.

But when supper comes he is