Read Ebook: Physiology of the Opera by Scrici

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"For what is so gay as a bag full of fleas."

That portion of the audience comprised in the gentler sex is here in all the attraction of natural loveliness and adventitious ornament, putting to flight a notion once prevalent, that beauty when unadorned is then adorned the most.

The violinists proceed to tighten or slacken the hair of their bows, to throw back the coat collar, or stuff a white handkerchief under it, in order to adjust the violin to the peculiar crook of each neck, with as much apparent anxiety as if they had not been doing the same thing for the last thirty years, and some of their heads had not become bald over the sound-post. In the meantime, the other members of this well-bearded corps are streaming in with their instruments under the arm, and are placing their music books and lamps at the proper elevation on the stands, all the while talking, nodding, and smiling as if rehearsing half the day, and playing half the night, were a mighty good joke.

And then ascend to the highest parts of the house--to the regions of the operatic "paradise," those most singular of all instrumental sounds, those fifty or sixty antagonistic voluntaries with which all the audience would voluntarily dispense, consisting of chromatics in twenty different keys, violin octaves, harmonics, thirds and fifths, clarionet shakes, flute staccatos, horn growlings, ophicleide rumblings, triangular vibrations, and drum concussions.

"See to their desks Apollo's sons repair-- Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair! In unison their various tones to tune, Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon. In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Twang goes the harpsicord, too too the flute, Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, Winds the French horn, and twangs the tingling harp."

The resisting violin having been brought to subjection, the director casts an eye over the whole body of musicians, and having thrown back his head and lifted up both arms, very much in the supposed attitude of Ajax defying the thunder, he remains perfectly motionless for an instant, and then brings forward the whole of his body from the hips upwards, with a rapid and powerful jerk, which introduces his forehead into close proximity with the musical score which he pretends to be reading, the baton strikes the stand with a loud clap, and one old drummer proceeds to touch the drum, but in so gentle a manner, that it sounds as if, instead of using the sticks he were tossing some grains of shot on it. You now tremble for the safety of the director, and you enter into an arithmetical calculation with yourself, the basis of which is, that if the director by such a dangerous inclination of the person can only bring one poor drummer into movement, what amount of bodily labour he will be compelled to undergo, in order to operate on all that concourse of musicians. But your fears are dissipated in a few moments, for you discover that great sounds and little sounds are accompanied with about the same degree of gesticulatory emphasis. In the meantime some horns have commenced to blow on a very small scale, not hard enough, you would suppose, to drive the dust out of them, and if the piston of the cornet did not rattle so, you would pronounce its playing all a sham. The violins and flutes begin to be audible and the violinists are suddenly struck with a simultaneous desire to pick the strings, just as if that would make any music. All the other instruments are now doing duty in very feeble tones, and you take a look round the house to see who are there; and you wonder why that particular family of Smiths, with whom you have the pleasure of an acquaintance has not yet appeared. You think Miss Julia Brown's hair arranged with the usual want of elegance, and then call to mind the fact that at Newport, the previous summer, you complimented her so many times on the peculiar taste which her coiffure always displayed. The aforesaid drummer is now giving the drum considerable ill usage, and then for the first time, you observe that he has two of them which he appears to beat alternately. The director is casting his head from one side to the other, flashes of disapprobation dart from his eyes upon the dilatory violinists, who from time to time, stop as it were, to catch breath, and fail to "come to the scratch" in due season. Every now and then a frown, dark as Erebus, spreads over his brow, as some poor laggard is astray in the mazes of sound, and can't find his place, or turns two pages instead of one, and consequently loses the thread of his harmonious discourse. The music grows so powerful that the conversation of the most enthusiastic and vociferous fast man no longer meets the ear. The orchestra is going as if they were riding an instrumental steeple chase, and the director looks more and more involved in doubt, as to which of his followers is to be left most in the rear.

When the intensity of the tones has been diminished and augmented some half dozen times, the overture is concluded in four grand crashes, in which the cymbals make the most conspicuous figure. During the overture, however, there seems to be occasional seasons when there is a cessation of hostilities, and a soft plaintive air is taken up by one clarionet, violincello or oboe, with which air the audience must be very much delighted, for they laugh and talk with the greatest earnestness, and never turn their eyes towards the orchestra.

And now there is a new commotion among the musicians, while arranging every thing for the more serious undertaking, the opera itself. The director goes about like a general on the eve of battle, reconnoitres his forces, and marshals them for the attack. He mounts the elevated seat, gives another contortion to his frame, similar to that which was necessary to put the overture in movement, and then the curtain rises. Heads are slightly projected from the boxes at this movement, and many an alabaster neck is curved forward till the lowered drapery reveals the snowy bosom. The noise of conversation ceases, and the opera commences in earnest.

Of the Opera in the Concrete.

"Lord! said my mother, what is all this story about?

"A cock and a bull, said Yorick--and one of the best of its kind I ever heard."--TRISTRAM SHANDY.

"If this were played upon a stage, now, I would condemn it as an improbable fiction." TWELFTH NIGHT.

When the curtain rises the scene represents a dark forest, where some quite well dressed, but desperate, foreign-looking gentlemen are engaged at a game of cards, which, from the abandoned appearance of the players, we are warranted to believe, must be some such low pastime as "all fours," or a hand at poker. The desperate gentlemen cantatorially inform the audience that their profession is that of outlaws, and remark that having no particular business then to engage them, they are staking quite extravagant sums on some cards, which the curious observer will discover to have a very unctuous appearance. How the outlaws ever came to be reduced to such straightened circumstances as to put up with these "lodgings upon the cold ground," or how they ever fell into such an improper course of life, we are not told, but we remember once hearing a fast man suggest that they were evidently "nobs who had overdrawn the badger by driving fast cattle, and going it high"--the exact signification of which words we did not understand, but supposed them to refer to scions of nobility who had squandered their patrimonies in riotous living. That these men are lost beyond the hope of redemption, is clear from the fact that they express their determination to employ themselves in no more useful or moral way; and how long they would persist in this pernicious amusement is rendered uncertain, by the entrance of their leader or chieftain--who, it is needless to say, is the tenor. From, the first moment that the spectator casts his eye on this obviously unfortunate individual, he is at once interested in his case, observing to himself, that if the fellow is somewhat addicted to low company, still he's a very gentlemanly character, and to all appearance

"The mildest manner'd man That ever sculled ship or cut a throat."

His looks are sad and melancholy, and would indicate that he is either suffering from a cold in the head, or that his outlaws had been a little more successful at "all fours" than himself. The "dejected haviour of his visage" seems to touch the audience, for they immediately give him several rounds of applause, no doubt with the intention of raising his spirits. This kind manifestation of their feelings is responded to by one or two low bows, and then he turns towards his outlaws to obtain a becoming reception from them.

While he has been informing the audience and his friends of the state of his feelings, he has from time to time indulged in gestures about as strong as we can well conceive of, but now and then when an extraordinarily deep sentiment, and a very high note, choose the same moment for their expression, he is obliged to poise himself on one foot, extend the other behind him, elevating the heel and depressing the toe, fold his hands over his breast, throw back the head and shake his body like a newfoundland dog just issuing from the water--the refractory note and the hidden emotion are always brought to light by these gesticulatory expedients.

The beaux are now in all the excitement that dandies dare permit themselves to yield to, alternately exclaiming, "how grand she is! how beautiful! heavens, but isn't she beautiful!" and then bringing down the focus of the opera-glass on the peerless woman.

The distressed female now launches off into a recitative, in which she expresses, in no measured terms, her utter aversion to the hateful old tyrant, and then, falling on one knee, strikes into a cavatina, in which she says she hopes her lover, who necessarily must be the outlaw chief, , will come immediately and run off with her--a wish that is probably often entertained by young ladies in reference to their particular lovers, but which is seldom avowed in this public way.

During the cavatina, she has been doing some very high singing, and making a great many of the newfoundland dog shakes, the lady part of the audience sitting wrapt in admiration, with the eyes fastened on the stage as intently as if they were witnessing a marriage ceremony, gently murmuring their approbation in detached sentences, such as "sweet, lovely, charming, exquisite;" while the fast men by the door, utter the words "knocker, fast nag," and declare that her time is "two thirty."

One of these very sporting young gentlemen asserts his readiness to "back her against the field." Just as the prima donna makes a very steep raise in the scale with a dreadful velocity of utterance, the same individual expresses his desire to withdraw the offer, observing that she is making her "brushes" too soon, and that he fears "she'll be too distressed to come home handsome."

A troupe of maidens with very plethoric ancles, now make their appearance, encumbered by large gilt paste-board caskets, containing some exceedingly brilliant paste-jewelry, intended as bridal presents for the unprotected female. They have, however, the strangest mode of offering these tokens of friendship that we have ever seen.

They arrange themselves in a line on one side of the stage, apparently measuring their proximity to or distance from the foot-lights, with reference to the relative thickness of their ankles, until the lady nearest the audience seems to be the subject of a violent attack of elephantiasis. This done, they repeatedly sing five bars, and stretch out the right hand containing the present, in a line, forming, with the body, an angle of about ninety degrees.

A certain king of Castile in disguise, who is another of the many admirers of the heroine, breaks in on this little ceremony, expresses a strong wish to see her, and is told by one of the maidens, that the subject of his admirations is very much depressed in spirits, being considerably smitten with the afore-mentioned outlaw chieftain. The king is shocked at his adored one's want of taste in making a preference so little flattering to himself, and endeavours to force her to escape with him; but the young lady being highly indignant, draws a dagger, and threatens "to go into him," if he don't cease taking such liberties--thereby attracting considerable applause from some gentlemen in a back box, who have a strong penchant for dog-fighting. The outlaw happens to come in at the very nick of time, and after some quite serious altercation between him and the disguised king, at the moment when the "fancy" part of the audience are expecting a "set to," and admiring the courage of the little tenor , which they technically denominate the "game" of the "light weight," the heroine rushes between them with a drawn sword, threatening to destroy herself if they do not desist, and calling upon them to remember the honour of her mansion--thereby, no doubt, alluding to the possibility of an indictment for keeping a disorderly house.

The old tyrant, of whom we have heard a great deal, but have not as yet seen, returns home late at night to his castle, and finding two unknown gentlemen in his house without an invitation, conversing with his shut-up lady, he charges them with the impropriety of their behaviour. The strange gentlemen , not particularly relishing these observations, beg him not to be so violent in his language. This seems only to incense the old fellow the more, who has just suggested "coffee and pistols," when the aforesaid king's followers entering, make the tyrant acquainted with the fact that he's been blowing up a king. The parasitical old tyrant immediately endeavours to excuse himself for the mistake he has made; says he hopes his royal highness will not be offended, that he had not the pleasure of his acquaintance, and all that sort of thing. The king rejoins that he is perfectly excuseable; that no offence has been done--that the cause of his own unlooked-for presence arises from the fact that he is out for the emperorship--that he is about doing a little electioneering, and that he just stopped in to learn the state of public feeling in his district, and solicit his vote. The tyrant being a good deal flattered by this appeal to his chief weak point--namely, his own fancied knowledge of party politics--says that the king does him great honour--"supreme honour"--and invites him to spend the night in the castle; which kind invitation his majesty graciously accepts.

In the meantime, the outlaw, having observed how much more cordially the tyrant is received than himself, has made his exit. The king's followers all draw up in line and conclude the act by a song, the burden of which is that their master's nomination is the only one "fit to be made."

The next act discovers the tyrant awaiting the arrival of the unfortunate heroine, to whom he is going to be married in a few minutes. All is jollity in the castle, till a gentleman clothed as a pilgrim, interrupts the general hilarity; for when the bride enters, he throws off the dreadful black cloak and reveals the outlaw chieftain. He pitches himself into a variety of passionate attitudes, to the great terror of a whole boarding school of young ladies, whom their teacher has permitted to visit the opera to improve their style of singing. The bride elect rushes up to him, and so they both step down to the foot-lights. The outlaw gentleman passes his right hand round the waist of the lady, and clasps in his left both of her's, elevating them to a line with the breast. They remain stationary for a moment, whilst the orchestra is playing the symphony, looking as fondly into each other's eyes as a pair of dear little turtle doves, and smiling as sweetly as every gentleman and lady have a right to smile under such pleasant circumstances. There they begin to assure each other simultaneously of the pleasure they would find in immediately dying, placed in the attitude which they are at present enjoying so highly; by a rare and curious accident, both repeating the same words, with the exception of the respective substitution of the pronouns "I, you, my, your, he, she," as often as such substitutions become necessary--as if one should say, for example,

I'll } bet money on the bob-tail mare. You'll}

He'll } bet money on the bob-tail mare. She'll}

"Leave me here, and when you want me, Sound upon the bugle horn."

The tyrant accepts the present upon the accompanying condition, but having no great confidence in the word of a man who has been associating so long a time with bad company, he requires him to make oath to that effect; which being done, both gentlemen call upon the chorus to follow them immediately in pursuit of the king and his captive lady. These cowardly rascals stand some five minutes and sing about their readiness to depart, instead of marching off instantly, as they are requested to do.

The fourth and last act represents the terrace of a highly illuminated palace, which may be seen in the back ground. Some masked gentlemen, very bandy-legged and knock-kneed, dressed in tight hose, well calculated to exhibit these deformities, are observed flirting with some of the before mentioned thick-ankled ladies, who likewise rejoice in dominos. Every thing indicates that this is a place, where people are in the habit of being extremely jolly, and from which such stupid things as parties to which a few friends are invited "very sociably", or family re-unions, are entirely abolished. Presently all the company break out with the expression of one general wish for the unbounded prosperity of the outlaw chief and the heroine whom we saw betrothed in the last act, and who have just been married. They make their exit shortly afterward in great precipitation, having been frightened from the stage by the appearance of a great, horrible-looking figure, clothed in black, which seems to be a species of bug-bear, sent to scare such naughty people who do nothing but dance, sing and make merry. The bug-bear exits shortly after.

Again the highly profligate chorus enter, in no wise corrected by the visitation of the gloomy looking gentleman, and assure the audience what a pleasant thing it is for one man to flirt with another's wife from behind a mask, or for an innocent young lady "going her first winter" to whisper in a corner with a man about town; but getting weary of this occupation, they at last retire, and the newly married couple--the outlaw and his bride--again show themselves.

The outlaw seems to be struck with a highly poetic vein, for he tells the lady that the noise of the polka in the palace has ceased, that the gas has been stopped off, and that the stars are amusing themselves by smiling on their happy union, "because they've nothing else to do." Thereupon they indulge in a gentle embrace, and start off simultaneously in a duo, declaratory of the union of their two hearts in such an anti-anatomical manner, that henceforth until their latest breath, one cardiacal organ will suffice to perform the functions of two separate bodies. Scarcely have they made this declaration of their abnormal heart-union, before the sound of a horn falls on the ears of the o'er happy couple. At this moment the outlaw forgets all good breeding, and still influenced by his former brigand habits, swears a most horrible oath in the presence of his young bride, and seems to be overcome by great depression of spirits. The poor woman, observing nothing singular about the blast of the horn--in all probability fancying that it is only the tooting of a lazy post boy somewhat behind time, prays him to cheer up, and let her see him smile. Before the outlaw can comply with this small request the horn sounds again. "Behold," shrieks the young husband, "the tiger seeks his prey." The bride surveys the apartment, but observing no tiger or other ferocious animal, takes it for granted that he has the mania ? potu, induced by imbibing too much champagne at the wedding feast. She immediately runs out into the bridal chamber, with the intention of putting on those indefinite garments denominated "things," and going to call up the court physician. The outlaw chieftain stands a moment listening with breathless attention, and hearing no more of the horn, comes to the conclusion that he has no just ground for fear, and that it was only a dreadful ringing in the ears with which he is sometimes afflicted. He thereupon rushes in pursuit of his bride, but just as he arrives at the door of the bridal chamber, his progress is arrested by the same black hob-goblin gentlemen who frighted the dissipated chorus, as before related. This gentleman is recognized by the outlaw in spite of his black clothes and mask, as the hateful old tyrant who persecuted him to such an extent some time previously. The outlaw groans a few times, and then the tyrant asks his victim if he calls to mind his promise, and the words of the poet Tennyson,

"Leave me here, and when you want me Sound upon the bugle horn."

The poor outlaw begs for his life; but the old tyrant remains inexorable, and tells him that he must die.

The unhappy bride returns, and hearing her husband entreating the old tyrant so fervently for a respite, unites her supplications with those of her husband. To this the tyrant makes no direct answer, but merely presents a poignard to the trembling outlaw, with a repetition of the words of the poet Tennyson.

"Leave me here, and when you want me Sound upon the bugle horn."

The tenor's head being elevated to the proper height, he expresses it as his dying wish that the prima donna will continue to live and cherish his memory. They then lament their unhappy fate in a short duo. The tenor dies; the prima donna appears to do the same, but the libretto consoles you by declaring that she only swoons. The old tyrant--the basso--chuckles like a wretch over the success of his successful plot, declares it a revenge worthy of a demon; you concur in his sentiments, and the curtain falls.

Apr?s.

I'm fond of fire and crickets, and all that, A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat.

BYRON.

From this genteel place the reader must not be surprised, if I should convey him to a cellar, or a common porter-house.

CONNOISSEUR. No. 1.

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.

BYRON.

The curtain falls, much to the delight of those gentlemen whose sole motive for frequenting the opera, is to have an opportunity of what they term "chaffing" with some fair lady friend, whilst repairing thither, and returning from thence, as well as during the enchanting moments when the "drop" displays one of those accommodating landscapes, which the audience, at their option, may convert either into the lake of Como, or the ruins of Palmyra. If we may trust the assertion of many fair mouths, we must infer that the curtain has fallen, much to the regret of certain young ladies who declare that they could sit and hear Bosio forever--a period of time which we have always been taught to regard as very long indeed.

During all this time the ladies have been standing in an apparently half decided state, as to what was ultimately to become of them, alternately looking on the stage and picking up hoods and shawls which they immediately let fall again. Now that their suspense is ended, they commence to hood and shawl; and many is the gentleman who announces in whispers that he is unspeakably happy in being permitted to place a cloak upon shoulders that rival alabaster.

Harry Brown is unfortunate, for Miss Smith's cousin George has anticipated him, having already astutely seized upon a shawl, during the "calling out" which he carefully keeps until the blissful moment arrives for enveloping that lady. Miss Smith thanks cousin George, as she always calls him, with such a sweet smile that Harry Brown immediately becomes occupied in a protracted search after his hat, muttering to himself "hang these cousins."

The audience go out of the boxes together with the going out of the gas, and masses of people stand crowded together in the lobbies, while the house is slowly emptying itself.

After the confusion attendant on the coming and going of carriages, cabs and divers other vehicles, the fatigued audience are at length set in motion towards their respective dwellings.

Let us now see what becomes of those gentlemen who have been sitting in the parquette, giving the opera their most anxious attention at all such times as either the prima donna is on the stage, or any aria is sung, but who have been giving quite unmistakeable signs of ennui and weariness during the recitatives and choruses. If we have narrowly observed the movements of this portion of the audience, we will have remarked, that during the performance of the last act they have, from time to time, cast hurried glances towards the avenues of egress, and contorted their countenances in a way which would indicate that their olfactories were greeted by certain savory odours, imperceptible to every body but the possessors of the said olfactories. These gentlemen, immediately after leaving the opera, may be seen to walk along the street in companies of three or four, with a hurried step, until their progress is arrested by the view of divers green, blue, pink, or crimson coloured lamps, holding a very conspicuous position over the doors of some houses of very suggestive exterior, or before some suspicious hiatuses in the pavement, where those horrid monsters, who figure in Christmas pantomimes, might easily be imagined to dwell. These lamps seem to be possessed of a most incredible power of human attraction, for no sooner does their light fall upon the vision of the nocturnal wayfarer, than he is drawn within the portals over which they are established. Upon mounting the steps into these houses, or descending into these subterranean regions, the inquirer will discover a long, brilliantly illuminated, gaudily papered chamber, whose walls are ornamented with numerous over-grown mirrors, and French coloured prints, representing young ladies in short dresses, standing in every possible posture except that usually assumed by ladies of our acquaintance. Along one side of this apartment, at the distance of about three and a half feet from the wall, extends a marble slab, placed in a horizontal position, and elevated three feet from the floor, forming a species of enclosure. Within this enclosure, a number of men, habited to the waist in white garments,--apparently a nameless order of priesthood--are going through some inexplicable mystic rites, repeatedly seizing up various large glass bottles containing transparent or opaque liquids, and carrying them to different parts of this marble slab at the request of various persons, who seem to be the worshippers in this temple. At one end of the enclosure, a solitary man of a dark and sombre hue, evidently a person held more sacred than the other priests, is seen alternately to hammer portions of some hard matter, resembling stone in appearance, and then split them by the magical application of a small piece of blunt iron. He conducts this ceremony with the greatest solemnity, occasionally pronouncing these incantatory words, "Plate or shell, sah?" in a seemingly interrogative manner. The worshippers at these shrines are some of the same young gentlemen whom we have seen standing back in the opera boxes by the doors, making fast remarks on all that was passing around them, or sitting in the parquette endeavouring to annihilate the prima donna by the attractiveness of their appearance. Others, of this same class of persons, merely pass through this chamber, having first said in a low tone to the most potential of the priests, "Four dozen broiled; ale for one, and brandy and water for three." The priest immediately repeats these words so fraught with significance, in a loud voice, which resounds through the whole chamber. An invisible priest, at some distance from the first, again repeats them, and thus the mysterious sound is passed from one unseen priest to another, until it ceases to be heard in the distance.

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