The prima donna in fiction - Part 3 'Trilby'

Perhaps Atherton (1910) and Cather (1915) were writing to counter the image of the prima donna presented in popular literature. There have been no more popular portrayals of opera in fiction than these books by George du Maurier’s Trilby[1] and Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera.[2] Trilby took the world by storm, giving birth to stage plays, toothpaste and a hat (see Frank Sinatra on the cover of Songs for Swingin’ Lovers), and putting the word ‘Svengali’ into common currency. Phantom gave rise to several popular movie versions and that vile Lloyd Webber thing.[3]

Trilby O’Ferrall is not the main character in Trilby. That honour belongs to Little Billee, Taffy and the Laird, three young artists from Britain sharing a studio in Paris. It is fitting that Trilby surrender first place to them, because she exists purely as the object of men’s desires. All three men love Trilby; she is warm and compassionate, with a great capacity for friendship. But she is especially loved by Little Billee, who longs to transform her into a young lady--say the vicar's daughter in a little Devonshire village--his sister's friend and co-teacher at the Sunday school, a simple, pure, and pious maiden of gentle birth.’ (p. 34) He is especially enamoured of her feet, and draws them.

Trilby, when we get to know her, has a moving story. Her father was a gentleman, the son of a Dublin physician. He had been a fellow of his college and entered holy orders, but was devoted to the bottle and eventually left the church. He became a tutor in classics, went to Paris, and married a Scottish barmaid. Trilby was born ten months (sic) after her father’s death, and her mother died in childbirth. She survives by working as a laundress and an as artists’ model, posing ‘for the altogether’ (ie for all parts to be drawn). (Cue salacious wink from du Maurier.)

Trilby has one weakness – she is sexually promiscuous. But she does it for love, not money; du Maurier likens her to ‘a distinguished amateur who is too proud to sell his pictures, but willingly gives one away now and then to some highly-valued and much-admiring friend.’ (pp. 36-7) However she doesn’t come across to any of the three friends, no matter how much they desire her.

Also in love with this bourgeois male fantasy, but despised by her, is Svengali, the German Jew pianist who wished to sing but couldn’t, and ekes out a living by giving singing lessons. One day he amuses himself, and horrifies the others, by inviting Trilby to sing. She is monumentally awful:

From that capacious mouth and through that high-bridged bony nose there rolled a volume of breathy sound, not loud, but so immense that it seemed to come from all round, to be reverberated from every surface in the studio. She followed more or less the shape of the tune, going up when it rose and down when it fell, but with such immense intervals between the notes as were never dreamed of in any mortal melody. It was as though she could never once have deviated into tune, never once have hit upon a true note, even by a fluke--in fact, as though she were absolutely tone-deaf, and without ear, although she stuck to the time correctly enough.

She finished her song amid an embarrassing silence… At length Little Billee said: 'Thank you so much. It's a capital song.' (pp. 18-19)

Svengali is barely tolerated, but he provides a valuable service to Trilby by curing her of a crippling neuralgia (cluster headaches or migraine) through hypnotism. More on this later...

Most of the book is taken up by the love of Little Billee for Trilby, her acceptance of his proposal of marriage, and the dashing of their love against the rocks of his family, respectable English gentlefolk who cannot stand the thought of an Irish slattern entering the family. Tragic stuff that had the readers lapping up each instalment as it was published.

The story resumes several years later, when Little Billee has become a successful artist. London is seized by a mania for ‘La Svengali’, the mysterious singer who has stormed all the capitals of Europe: ‘It’s what she does with it [the voice] – it’s incredible! it gives one cold all down the back! it drives you mad! it makes you weep hot tears by the spoonful!’ (p. 169) Her audiences clap and scream, but La Svengali does not speak or smile. The three friends travel to Paris to see her, and recognise Trilby. Svengali is consumed by hatred for Little Billee, and spits at him when they meet; the Englishmen give Svengali a thorough drubbing, and return to London.

Svengali takes his wife to London for her British debut, but before the concert begins he recognises the Englishmen in the audience. He is gripped by rage, but dies of heart failure. This is fatal for Trilby. Svengali’s influence over her is hypnotic; when he dies the spell is broken. Trilby sings with the hideousness of old, and the audience jeer and reject her. Trilby collapses, and is rescued by her friends. She cannot remember any of her triumphs. She falls ill, and dies, still in love with Little Billee.

I’ll discuss this more in the next part, but I must say this right now: Trilby is a really, really awful book. I read it so you wouldn’t have to. Don’t make my suffering in vain.

[1] George du Maurier, Trilby, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998 [orig. 1894]).
[2] Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera, (London: Sphere Books, 1975; orig. 1911).
[3] If you like the tunes in that show, you’ll love Puccini’s La fanciulla del West – it’s where Lloyd Webber stole them from.