Physiology of the Opera — A Reader’s Guide

The Opera in the Abstract.

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

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 attachés 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, soirées, 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.

"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.

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 _negligée 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 _café 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, patés and fricasées, 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 no longer prevented by fear of "lost voice" or any other dire calamity, from giving way to the cravings of hunger and thirst. He eats with the relish of hunger induced by labor, and drinks with the excitement arising from the consciousness that he is, what in the language of the turf is styled "the favorite." The ladies and gentlemen of the troupe usually assemble at supper, and it is then that the tenor again bestows his _galanteries_ on the prima donna, and says many more really complimentary things than are to be found set down in his professional role.

In concluding this sketch of the tenor, the writer would, with all due submission to the opinion of the public, venture to discover his sentiments upon a question which often agitates society; viz., whether the tenor is always sick when he announces himself to be seriously indisposed. The writer hopes he will not render himself liable to the charge of duplicity or an attempt at evasion, when he declares it to be his impression, that on the occasion of such announcements, the tenor is _sometimes_ seriously indisposed but not _always_. The tenor, as we have before observed, is but a man, and must needs be subject to diseases like other men; but when we consider the delicacy of his conformation, we must multiply the chances of his liability to indisposition. His organization is such, that the most trifling irregularity in his general health operates immediately upon the voice. Now, for the tenor, in the slightest degree out of tone, to appear before a merciless audience, consisting of blasé opera goers, tyrannical critics, hired depreciators, and unrelenting musical amateurs, would indicate the most utter folly and imbecility. The tenor is well aware that a reputation for singing divinely a few nights in the year, is more lucrative than a reputation for ability to sing tolerably well, taking an average of all the nights in that space of time. It is consequently more advantageous for him to sing occasionally, when he feels his voice to be in full force and vigour, and his spirits in a sufficiently animated condition to warrant his appearing with every certainty of success. When, therefore, he does not favour the public with the melody of his notes, it is, generally speaking because, without really suffering from a serious attack of disease, he considers that his appearance would insure a future diminution in the offers of the _impresario_. Hence the _affiches_ usually proclaim nothing but truth itself, when they declare that the tenor is _seriously indisposed_; but then we must be careful to interpret the word indisposition by that one of its significations which is equivalent to _disinclination_.

That some compulsory measures might be taken to make these gentlemen "who can sing but won't sing" more complying, and willing to yield to the wishes and request of managers and audiences, the writer has never entertained a doubt. The ways and means of effecting such an object, he will not take upon himself to devise or advise, but will merely state a fact which probably may induce some one to enter upon a thorough examination of the subject, and suggest the remedy. Upon one occasion, when the Havannah troupe was performing in Philadelphia, and a favorite tenor had been amusing himself by trifling with the public, until the patience of that forbearing portion of mankind was entirely exhausted; the treasury was beginning to fall extremely low, and the wearied out director was well nigh driven to desperation. In this critical juncture of affairs, the gentleman who was the legal adviser of the troupe was applied to, to say whether there was not some compulsory process known to the law, by which the refractory tenor could be brought to a recognition of the right of the rest of the company to the use of his voice to attract large audiences, and thereby replenish the empty coffers of the treasury. Upon answer that there existed no such process, the distracted director muttered a few maledictions upon our country, with a sneer at our _free institutions_, and informed the astonished counsellor, that in Havannah, when the tenor was supposed to be feigning sickness, the proper authorities were resorted to for the right of an examination of the offending party by a physician, and a certificate of the state of his health. Upon the physician certifying that the signor was able to go through his role, a few _gendarmes_ were dispatched to seize the delinquent and take such means as would sooner coerce him into a compliance with the stipulations of his professional contract.

Every reasonable excuse, however, should be made for the necessity the tenor is under to be careful of the delicate organ whereby he gains his subsistence. When we reflect how many of these poor fellows lose their voices and are consequently driven to throw themselves on the cold charity of the public--or out of the window, we must be struck with the inhumanity which would be exercised if this professional singer were excluded from enjoying occasionally by permission, what every clergyman in the land can always claim as a right--the disease which the Hibernian servant expressively denominated "the brown gaiters in the throat."

"And for the bass, the beast can only bellow;

An Ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow."

The Primo Basso is to the primo tenore what the draught horse is to the racer; drawing along the heavy business of an opera, whilst the other goes capering and curvetting through whole pages of chromatics, and runs bounding with unerring precision over the most fearful musical intervals. The basso, consequently, to uphold the vast superstructure of song, must be a man furnished with a strong supporting and sustaining voice. He usually plays the part of tyrants, either of the domestic circle or of the throne; and the tyrants of fiction always have been represented as over-grown individuals, from the time of the Titans down to the giants who met with their well-merited fate from the invincible arm of that doughty nursery hero--_Jack the Giant Killer_. It is a most fortunate circumstance then for the basso, that while his powerful voice must necessarily proceed from gigantic lungs, and these organs again are chiefly found planted in largely developed frames, his huge proportions only the better qualify him for his department of operatic personæ. His form is heavy, and would be muscular, if ease and indolence, unrestrained appetite, and no more exertion than is requisite to blow the bass-bellows during half a dozen evenings in the week, did not permit an undue accumulation of adipose substance. His hair is generally black, but not of that rich, glossy, _curling_ kind, which decks the fair brow of the delicate little tenor. His features are gross and sensual, exhibiting about the amount of intelligence which may be looked for in one of those bedecked and garlanded animals, whose appearance among us announces the future sale of show beef. His dress is an exhibition of slovenly grandeur. Each article of clothing is in itself very handsome, perhaps very gaudy; but the manner in which it is dragged on the figure, makes the _tout ensemble_ coarse and common, slovenly and disagreeable. His animal propensities hold the intellectual faculties in bondage, and every approach to sentiment is excluded by the clogged up avenues to thought. His manner of living is _sensualité en action_. His life is an existence, tossed and troubled by the vicissitudes of sleeping and feeding, with occasional interruptions of mechanical vocalization. He possesses an organ, which it is supposed cannot be impaired by indulgence in the pleasures of the table, and he always acts as if he wished to put this supposition to the test. When he orders his breakfast, therefore, he does not look down the _carte_ in order to see what viands he must avoid, but only to ascertain how many dishes are likely to be objects agreeable to his palate. _Substantials_ form all his meals. No mild _café au lait_, composes the meal which is to announce that he has commenced his daily labours of mastication. After a morning's deglutition worthy of the anaconda, he suffers digestion to prepare him for a walk, while he indulges in piles of cigars. As this smoking effort is a long one, he is about ready to join his elegant friend, the tenor, when the latter calls on him to go out and astound the town. What a majestic stride the heavy, beefy fellow puts on as he saunters down the street! How his body seems to say--for his face is void of expression; how his body seems to say; "gentlemen, you're all very well,--but it won't do; I out-weigh a dozen of you, and the ladies have to surrender to such a superior weight of metal."