Chapters of Opera Being historical and critical observations and records concerning the lyric drama in New York from its earliest days down to the present time — Edition Insights

A Critic's Vantage Point

Krehbiel makes no secret of his position. He is not a neutral compiler but a participant-observer, one who has "seen the failure of the artistic policy" and the subsequent revolutions in repertory. His preface establishes his authority by specifying his seat—stall D-15—and his role as reviewer. This personal stake colors his language: he describes the German period as one that "did much to develop tastes and create ideals," while the later return to Italian opera is framed as a capitulation to "fad and fashion." The critic's voice is present in the very structure of the book, which moves from general historical chapters to a detailed account of the Metropolitan's first quarter-century, each section shaped by his judgment of what constituted serious artistic endeavor.

The Ledger of Taste

Krehbiel's analysis of the German seasons (1884–1891) is notable for its reliance on financial data. He prints tables comparing Wagnerian and non-Wagnerian receipts, showing that Wagner performances consistently earned higher average box-office returns—by margins ranging from $465 to $777 per performance. Yet he also records that the stockholders faced a floating debt of over $84,000 by the end of the German period, with unpaid assessments from shareholders themselves. The tension between artistic success and financial strain is a recurring motif. Krehbiel notes that Abbey, despite his initial skepticism, admitted that German opera was "more advantageous to the manager" because it allowed a repertory built around singers rather than the reverse. The numbers, in Krehbiel's hands, become evidence of a deeper conflict between aesthetic ideals and the economic realities of running a grand opera house.

The Manager's Gamble

Krehbiel's portrait of Henry Abbey is drawn from direct conversation. He reports that Abbey, after signing the contract for Italian and French opera in 1891, confided that he had once considered bringing Wagnerian singers to America himself. Abbey believed the German years had created a public ready for different service from Italian artists—a belief Krehbiel calls "foolish" and notes was "soon painfully disillusionized." The critic's language is precise: Abbey had "speculated successfully with Patti under the 'farewell' device," and the "managerial virus was again in his veins." Krehbiel does not merely narrate events; he interprets motives, using the manager's own words to reveal the mix of calculation, hope, and self-deception that drove the shift in policy. The result is a history that reads like a backstage drama, with the critic as a shrewd observer of human fallibility.

The Weight of a Quarter-Century

Krehbiel's book is organized as a series of chapters that move from the earliest days of opera in New York to the specific history of the Metropolitan. The first seven chapters provide context for the detailed account that follows, a structure that reflects his belief that "existing institutions and conditions" can only be understood through their development. The prose is dense with specific figures—the number of stockholders, the amount of unpaid assessments, the percentage of house capacity—but these details serve a larger argument about the fragility of artistic enterprise. Krehbiel's tone is measured, even clinical, yet his choice of evidence reveals a clear point of view: the German period, despite its financial difficulties, represented a high point of "serious artistic interest," while the subsequent years saw those gains "frittered away." The book is as much a judgment as a record.

Readers approaching Chapters of Opera should expect a work that is part financial audit, part critical essay, and part memoir. Krehbiel's voice is authoritative but not omniscient; he limits his claims to what he witnessed or can document. The book rewards those interested in the mechanics of opera management—the contracts, the deficits, the shifting repertory—as much as those seeking a narrative of artistic triumph. It is a document of its time, written by a critic who believed that the history of an institution could be told through its balance sheets and its box-office receipts, and that the truth of a performance lay not only in the music but in the decisions that brought it to the stage.

Years among the opera stalls taught me how much hinges on those quiet intermissions—the shift of a mood, a repertory’s changing tide. Krehbiel’s chronicle of that Metropolitan struggle reminds me of an older harmony, where even lost modes once carried a nation’s feeling. There is a gentle kinship there, found in The Modes of Ancient Greek Music — Reading Notes, a book I often revisit when pondering what fades from the stage.