The prima donna in fiction – Part 1 'Tower of Ivory'

Gertrude Atherton, Tower of Ivory, (London: John Murray, 1910)

In her youth the American novelist Gertrude Atherton (1857-1948) faced family opposition in her efforts to be a writer. She and an equally-frustrated young friend ‘used to take long despairing walks over the steep hills of the city, wondering if we should ever get out of it. She wanted to be an opera singer, and her father wouldn’t hear of it... life seemed a dreary waste.’[1] The friend was Sybil Sanderson (1865-1903), who would later conquer the opera stages of Paris and for whom Massenet would write Esclarmonde and Thaïs. When Atherton came to write her novel Tower of Ivory,[2] she thus had first hand experience of the struggles faced by any woman aspiring to be a professional creative artist.

In her study of the prima donna from 1815-1930, Susan Rutherford identifies three main forms that fictional images of the prima donna took: demi-mondaine, professional artist and exalted diva.[3] Margarethe Styr, the heroine of Tower of Ivory, is all three. The ‘greatest hochdramatisch the new music had developed’ (p. 1), Styr is a Royal Bavarian Court Singer at Munich in the mid 1880s. She is regarded as the greatest living exponent of Wagner’s roles, especially Brünnhilde, Isolde and Kundry, having studied them with ‘The Master’ and performed them at Bayreuth until after Wagner’s death.[4] King Ludwig honoured her by making her a countess. Styr is ‘the artist best beloved in Munich’ (p. 78); one character declares, ‘…here in Germany she is a goddess walking on clouds’ (p. 19).

But the road to goddess status was long and hard. Born Margaret Hill, she was the daughter of a Hungarian immigrant woman and an unknown man, and grew up in a coal-mining town in the US. And she has an even more horrifying secret: she survived by tying herself to a series of wealthy men (a time-honoured practice for opera heroines). After being thought lost in a shipwreck off Oregon, she travelled to Europe and reinvented herself as Margarethe Styr.

She lives only to perform (p. 20); in early years she had survived misfortune by remembering her extraordinary talent: ‘It was the knowledge of that golden wonder in my throat and the memory of the ecstacy in pouring it forth that kept the breath in my body.’ (p. 34) That ‘golden wonder’ becomes a means of financial and social independence, and a source of meaning and self-identity beyond the prescribed domesticities. Styr chooses to distance herself from the world, and between performances lives with her books and her music in her villa on the Isar, a gift from Ludwig.

Into this exile comes John Ordham, a young, aristocratic Englishman of indolent disposition, spending a year in Munich to perfect his German before entering the diplomatic service. He is devoted to ‘Die Styr’, and attends her every performance. He makes her acquaintance when he becomes a guest of Ludwig at Neuschwanstein. She warms to his friendship but tries to reject it. ‘Think of me as a stage creature only. And after all, I am nothing else.’ (p. 89)[5] But their friendship becomes more intense, becoming ‘a sort of mental marriage’ (p. 198) and bringing Styr out of her ‘tower of ivory’ existence.

For all her coolness towards the world Styr is passionate in her art. After one Tristan she throws an official out of her dressing room and yells, ‘I hate the whole world when I have finished an opera! They ought to give me somebody to kill!’ (p. 175) One night she astounds her audience (and terrifies the tenor) with an incandescent Isolde, fuelled by fury after she hears that Ordham is to marry Mabel Cutting, an American heiress. The relationship survives the wedding, especially when Ordham arranges a Wagner season at Covent Garden where Styr conquers London.

But she does not conquer Mabel’s family. Styr is unacceptable to the Cuttings for two reasons: her unusually close relationship with Ordham, and her status as a professional artist. In the mid to late 19th century singing had become a means for even middle- and upper-class women to establish their independence,[6] but London and New York society seemed unable to ‘receive’ opera singers, in spite of European practice. When asked to sing at a party in London, Melba insisted on attending as an invited guest, as to appear only as a performer would have lowered her social status.[7] With a higher sensitivity to ‘class’, New York found it even more difficult to accept singers as social equals. Melba later wrote:

In London, if an artist made a great success, he or she was received on a footing of absolute equality with the most “exalted” people in the Capital. Not so in New York. An artist was an artist, and although she might be the subject of amazing hospitality, though innumerable kindnesses might be showered upon her, there was always a subtle difference between her and the rest of society.[8]

After Mabel’s death in childbirth (surely significant), Ordham proposes that Styr become his wife and take her place beside him as he rises in the diplomatic service. But Styr argues that her place is not with Ordham; even if her past did not make her an unacceptable consort for his chosen career, she could never give up the stage. Rutherford comments on real-life divas of the period:

For [Frances] Alda and many other singers, the crucial distinction… seems to have been one between ‘woman’ and ‘artist’… Such women essentially regarded themselves as having two separate identities – and of the two, the ‘artist’ was by far the most important. Like Alda, the singers would protect their ‘artistic’ self with steely determination if inappropriate demands were made on it by notions of womanly behaviour.[9]

Like her non-fiction sisters Styr favours the ‘artist’: ‘I profoundly believe that no born artist could sacrifice her career – which is merely the insatiable activities of the gift resident in the brain – for any man, give him anything more than the temporary effervescence of her woman’s nature.’ (p. 492) But Ordham does not understand, and lest she submit to him she kills herself by riding her horse into the flames at the end of a performance of Götterdämmerung. Brünnhilde’s sacrifice of godhood for womanhood is not one that she can make.

Soap opera? Of course. Atherton is no James or Wharton, and does not have the stylistic grace needed to turn melodrama into epic. But her novel is saved by two elements: her profound understanding of the artist’s struggle to maintain her identity against the demands of prescribed social and gender roles; and the detailed and thorough knowledge she brings to her descriptions of Wagner performance practice, one of the most insightful fictional portrayals of opera ever written.



[1] Gertrude Atherton, Adventures of a Novelist, (London: Cape, 1932), p. 118.
[2] Gertrude Atherton, Tower of Ivory, (London: John Murray, 1910).
[3] Susan Rutherford, The Prima Donna and Opera, 1815-1930, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), p. 31.
[4] A position taken in reality by Amelie Materna.
[5] Contra a more pragmatic diva who commented, ‘Art is not such a stern mistress as to preclude friends.’ Nellie Melba, Melodies and Memories, (London: Thornton Butterworth, 1925), p. 81.
[6] Rutherford, The Prima Donna and Opera, p. 73.
[7] Ann Blainey, I Am Melba, (Melbourne: Black Inc, 2008), p. 171.
[8] Melba, Melodies and Memories, p. 122.
[9] Rutherford, The Prima Donna and Opera, p. 85-6.

The Ways of Behave

This paper was delivered to great acclaim at the History Department Postgraduate Conference at the University of Sydney yesterday. Some found it very stimulating, others found it entertaining - so a success on both sides. (Mind you, if I could have only one I'd pick entertaining...)

The paper can be found here.

They’re called ‘drafts’ because you can hear the wind whistling through the gaps…

At the suggestion of the lovely Hannah I have uploaded the first draft chapter of my thesis here, with the introduction below. All suggestions welcome.

Here is the blurb I gave the Gang of Four to explain the context of the chapter:
Audience attitudes towards returning singers were governed by the prevailing ethos surrounding opera. This chapter explains how opera became ‘high art’ but still retained a measure of popularity. This sets the scene for an examination of other values for which people looked to opera: social status, local and national identity, and the role of the singer in delivering these values.

‘A necessity of human nature’ – Opera as high art

On Wednesday 26th March 1924 Henry Russell, ‘artistic director’ of the Melba-Williamson Opera Company, was the guest speaker at a Rotary Club luncheon in Melbourne. According to the Age, Russell declared that he ‘would not like his daughters to be surrounded by the atmosphere of comic opera such as it was patronized in Australia’. The sight of ‘twenty girls, with short skirts and bare legs, running about the stage’ was not art but ‘a form of prostitution.’[1]

The public and the theatrical fraternity responded furiously, leading Russell to defend himself in a letter to the Age. Russell explained that he had meant ‘artistic’ prostitution. After defending the moral integrity of the ladies participating in musical comedy in Australia, he placed his comments within the highbrow/lowbrow discussion:

If the amount of money and trouble expended in England, United States of America, &c, were devoted to works of serious artistic import, the youth of to-day would not whistle tunes of jazz and other meaningless ditties, but would familiarize themselves with the melodies of the great composers. That is what I meant when I stated that the artistic atmosphere of comic opera should not be allowed to dominate the youth of this country.[2]

A moral attack was thus defused into a comment on artistic merit. This allowed all sides to withdraw with honour: the more serious charge, the allegation of loose morals, had been dismissed. No one commented on the denigration of musical comedy. Its status as a lesser art form was a self-evident truth.

In the early twentieth century the image of opera as ‘high art’ was firmly established. Russell was speaking to a milieu that accepted that cultural pursuits could be ‘low’ or ‘elevated’. This was not the case when opera seasons had become a regular part of the theatrical scene less than one hundred years earlier. In the mid-nineteenth century the process of cultural bifurcation started, a process that lasted well into the twentieth century but failed to achieve its ultimate ideal, the sacralisation of opera.

For the rest of the chapter, go here.

[1] Age, 28 March 1924, p. 10.
[2] Ibid.

The Art of the Reviewer - Part 5: The Bulletin

Accounts from both the Melbourne and Sydney seasons were recorded in the Bulletin. Both Melbourne and Sydney reviewers were irreverent; however the Sydney reviewer seems to have been willing to spend time discussing the aspects of the production as well as taking the piss – he was concerned with quality of performance as much as the newspaper reviewers

The Melbourne performances were generally reported in “Melbourne Chatter”, a “social round-up” (or should that be wind-up?):

Melba led off on the Monday night as Marguerite. The flaxen locks
were worn a-hanging down her back instead of in the conventional brace of side
plaits – possibly to dodge the risk of a middle parting. The Best Known
overflowed the house in their gladdest rags and thundered applause, and the diva
afterwards voiced her thanks from a garden of flowers. The Stradbrokes scampered
round from their circle pew to a side-pen to hurl laurel wreaths at Melba, who
promptly slung the biggest hoops round her middle, lifebelt fashion. (Bulletin
26/6/24, 28)

The Melbourne reviewer saved his sharpest barbs for the socialites. In his review of Andrea Chenier he complained about the lack of jewelry for the opening night of the return season. “Perhaps we may have a revival of glitter for the Limbless Soldiers’ night. Perish the thought that we should disgorge from ten pounds to two hundred a seat without offering outward evidence of being able to afford it!” (Bulletin 11/9/24, 27). It seems that Melbourne then suffered a similar complaint to one afflicting Sydney audiences today, that of voraciously applauding at any excuse. Reviewing The Tales of Hoffmann, he said, “As the Doll, Dal Monte gave a performance which justified the thunders of applause of a city which spoils the compliment by being prepared to thunder at everything that Toti does.” (Bulletin 18/9/24, 35)

The Sydney reviewer aimed his jokes at the performers. Of Phyllis Archibald’s Delilah he wrote, “She is further helped to her nefarious ends by an attractive personality, fine eyes and a seductive though somewhat overworked arm-action – it rather suggested a Lorelei in deep water during her invocation to the goddess of Vamps.” And discussing a performance of Carmen he said, “Edmondo Grandini sang well, but not enthrallingly, as the Toreador, and somehow managed to convey the impression of a respectable family butler disguised for the Artists’ Ball.” (Bulletin 3/7/24, 34). As for Dino Borgioli’s Faust, “the Devil may have given him back his youth, but he didn’t include the flower of his beauty in the transaction.” (Bulletin 24/7/24 34)

The Sydney reviewer could be respectful towards Melba (the “Indian-summer gold” of Melba’s voice - Bulletin 26/6/24 34) but was not beyond criticising her. In his review of Otello he thought she “presented a too-sophisticated Desdemona; and at times the music put a strain on her fading top notes...” But “the youthful purity of her tone was unimpeachable in the final ‘Ave Maria’, and her last dying notes turned the heart of her blackamoor husband to water; whereupon he committed suicide like a gentleman.” (Bulletin 7/8/24, 35) The intention was to amuse, but he never lost sight of the need to report accurately, without wearing his knowledge on his sleeve.

Sadly, the Bulletin reviewers eventually lost their talent to amuse, and started reporting on operas in much the same vein as the dailies – respectful and respectable. Would that today’s reviewers might serve up a little more sauce.

The Art of the Reviewer - Part 4: Noskowski, the citizen of the world

Ladislas de Noskowski (1892-1969) wrote reviews for the weekly Sydney Mail, but also contributed articles to the Sydney Morning Herald. Noskowski was born in Poland, educated in Poland and Switzerland, and first came to Sydney in 1911. After more travel, including a stint in Hollywood and a job as secretary to Paderewski, he settled in Sydney permanently, teaching and eventually working full-time as a journalist.

Writing for a weekly, Noskowski had more room to write in depth. Not only were his articles meant to be a different format, he also had the luxury of later deadlines than the journalists who after the performance had to go back to the office to dash off a quick review before the morning edition was put to bed. Where the Age, Argus and Herald reviewers recorded a great deal of facts, Noskowski was able to indulge in analysis, and approach the subject in a number of different ways.

Noskowski appears to have been an enthusiastic opera-goer since his teenage years; he mentions having seen “an interesting performance of Andrea Chenier in Warsaw in 1905” (Sydney Mail 13/8/24, 18), and often makes comparisons with Melba’s first touring company in 1911, among others.

His review of the first week of Sydney performances (Sydney Mail 2/7/24, 8-9) demonstrates his extensive knowledge of the field. This production of Tosca, he says, is superior to the Rigo (1919) and Quinlan (1912-13) productions, and “compares favourably with the great cast of 1911 (Mme. Wayda, McCormack, and Scandiani), but the staging is more lavish and imparts the correct atmosphere of the period.” He offers well-considered thoughts about staging. “It is generally not understood by the audience that Scarpia had no intention of arresting the painter, nor had Tosca any knowledge of his arrest, until she enters the room.” And, “the artist obviously shares the justifiable opinion of many prima donnas that Tosca would not have had time to change her dress before proceeding to her lover’s execution.” He suggests adopting the Act II finale staging of the Metropolitan Opera’s production, which he probably saw during 1915-17 (with possibly Geraldine Farrar, Claudia Muzio or Emmy Destinn).

When speaking of vocalism he describes impact rather than technique. Apollo Granforte’s enunciation is “most remarkably clear, and the great volume of his resonant voice carries well above the orchestra.” But he when he does mention technique, he does not try to impress with terminology. As Lucia, Toti dal Monte’s vocal technique is “flawless… We get an impression, not of vocal gymnastics, but of flowing notes, which seem to have been composed to suit her.”

Noskowski is well-informed concerning opera in other parts of the world. He notes that “out of the sixteen operas which he [Verdi] composed prior to Rigoletto only Ernani has been retained in the repertoire of most opera houses. A few others, such as Nabucco and Lombardi are very seldom performed, and then only in Italy.” He refers to all the arias by their Italian titles, which the others do only in the case of well-known numbers.

And he is not impressed by Phyllis Archibald’s arms: “This artist left a great deal to the imagination, artistically and histrionically.” She has uneven breath control and poor French enunciation, and her acting is conventional and without passion. “We have heard a much more satisfactory singing of Softly Awakes My Heart by our local artists.”

He also enjoys telling amusing incidents, such as this account of Butterfly’s suicide:

Little “Trouble” seemed very perturbed at her stage mother’s
evolutions with the faithful knife, and, suddenly, making up her mind that it
was too dangerous to risk her life any longer, she ran off the stage calling
out, “I want my mummy.” Signora Concato, however admirably grasped the
situation, and stretched out her hands towards the door as if giving her a last
farewell. (Sydney Mail 16/7/24 10)

Unlike some of his colleagues, he is not an elitist: “…there is no reason why grand opera should not be popular with all classes of people who look for entertainment, for it contains the elements and phases of stage art: music, drama, tragedy, comedy, and production” (Sydney Mail 18/6/24 8-9). He appears to be a fan of popular theatre; he found many of the scenes of Aida “eclipsing in splendour some of Oscar Asche’s most ambitious productions” (Sydney Mail 30/7/24, 17). And he slyly notes the renewed demand for opera hats and full dress suits in Melbourne since the beginning of the season (Sydney Mail 18/6/24 8-9).

While other reviewers regard the audience etiquette as appropriate, Noskowski considers it “a peculiar phenomenon”, defying the logic of the works. “The audience seems to carry out a self-imposed regulation that no applause should interrupt the music. This is all very well when Tosca or some other modern opera is given, the continuity of which would be impaired if interrupted by hand-clapping. But in old operas the music lends itself to applause; in fact, each number presents an entity, so that even in the most correctly-behaved opera houses in Europe the audiences show their appreciation of the singer’s art.” (Sydney Mail 16/7/24, 10)

The Sydney Mail also published extended interviews by Noskowski with the principal singers of the company (with the exception of Melba). With these interviews, the regional readership of the Sydney Mail learned more about the opera season than the readers of the metropolitan press. Noskowski let his subjects speak for themselves; most of the articles are conversations or monologues, in which they described their technique and approach to singing, and their opinions of modern music (most of whom seemed to like it when it was not too extreme )

He let them describe their training and careers, and elicited many little word-pictures of famous identities. Several tell of encounters with Puccini; Dino Borgioli tells Noskowski, “He is at present composing a new opera, Turandot, of which he has played some excerpts, but I have not heard them” (Sydney Mail 30/7/24, 16-17), and Apollo Granforte describes how Puccini came to his dressing room after the second act of Tosca and said, ‘Good evening, Mr. Scarpia. I enjoyed tonight immensely, and of all the Scarpias I have heard I like yours best!” (Sydney Mail 27/8/24 10). The baritone Prince Alexis Obolensky, a white Russian who escaped from Russia after the Revolution, threw in this tasty little morsel: “Eventually the plan to assassinate him [Rasputin] was carried out by a friend of mine, Prince Yossoupoff” (Sydney Mail 6/8/24 16, 46).

The singers were comfortable with Noskowski. He spoke to them in their own tongues – French and Polish are explicitly mentioned, but he probably had Italian and Russian as well. He met them in their hotel rooms or in their dressing rooms. Toti dal Monte showed him her autograph album, signed by the composer Zandonai (Sydney Mail 9/7/24, 9). Nino Piccaluga and Augusta Concato bantered like the married couple they were, and told him how much they enjoyed driving around Sydney in their time off (Sydney Mail 13/8/24, 13). Lina Scavizzi revealed that she enjoyed the musical comedies Good Morning Dearie in Sydney (playing at the Theatre Royal) and Kissing Time in Melbourne (Sydney Mail 23/7/24). The singers seem to have spoken to Noskowski with an ease that doesn’t seem to have been accorded to other writers, probably because they perceived him to be of their world as well as an Australian.

This was probably his greatest strength. Of all the reviewers who tried to place Australian opera in an international context, Noskowski had the least self-consciousness about his position. Noskowski was a citizen of the world, and could accept the Australian experience of opera as part of that world, without compromise or special pleading.

The Art of the Reviewer - Part 3: The Sydney Morning Herald

At the end of June 1924 the Melba-Williamson circus moved to Sydney. There a similar set of standards and sacred cows prevailed, but the reviewers showed different idiosyncrasies.

The reviewer for the Sydney Morning Herald is an old hand - he quotes his own review of Musgrove’s production of Faust in Sydney in Dec 1900-Jan 1901 (SMH 17/7/24, 10). His knowledge of opera is deep and wide, and he has similar biases to those we have seen. His articles are marked by a conscious effort to place the Melba season in the context of Australian and world opera, but he never makes excuses about production standards.

He can be flowery: Madama Butterfly has “wonderfully dramatic passages that spring upward like a pyramid of fire, and expire again like a flash of summer lightning” (SMH 10/7/24). At his worst he breaks into poetry but without the fulsomeness of the Argus reviewer. Of Toti dal Monte’s Lucia he writes, “To the apothegm ‘Old wood to burn! Old wine to drink! Old friends to trust! Old authors to read!’ must now be added, at any rate when a Dal Monte warbles, ‘Old operas to draw!’” (SMH 24/6/24, 9)

But his feet are well-planted on the ground, in his knowledge of the works, the singers and performance practices. Rather than using his knowledge to show off he uses it to contextualize the performance. A good example of his approach is review of the Tosca of 24th June 1924. He opens by applauding Tosca as an example of “the realistic music drama of the present day”. He makes a detailed comparison of the libretto with the play by Sardou, and quotes (in French) critics of the original play. He also makes connections between this performance and the 1911 Melba tour, Mary Garden’s portrayal in Chicago, and Sarah Bernhardt’s 1891 Sydney performances of the play. In his description of the performance he pays close attention to the score and libretto: “A swift change in the music to an ‘alegretto grazioso’ of rare and vivacious sweetness then ushers in the stout and bustling Sacristan, a comically, because unconsciously, irreverent piece of commonplace humanity presented with a wonderful multiplicity of perfectly natural but intensely funny detail by Gaetano Azzolini.” (SMH 25/6/24, 13-14)

The Herald reviewer has his biases but is not as sniffy as the Argus writer. Like the latter, he does not like Donizetti, but concedes that his music may give pleasure “provided that the critical is suspended as to its style as a whole for tragic purposes.” (He then bolsters this by quoting Percy Grainger on the need to accept the style of a work’s period.) (SMH 24/6/24, 9) And his opinions can be a little out of date: he refers to La Boheme as “still intensely modern”, in an era which saw Elektra and Wozzeck (SMH 27/6/24, 16). He has little time for one particular segment of the audience: “The audience was composed of the usual ‘first-nighters…” (SMH 10/7/24) is a regular comment. “Numbers of the regular ‘first-nighters’ forsook the opera last night for the polo ball, but this apparently did not affect the attendance…” (SMH 4/7/24, 10)

He holds a high view of opera. In the Tosca review discussed earlier he notes the difficulty in horrifying audiences with scenes of torture: “Music seemingly refuses to lend itself either to the impure or the horrible, whilst readily embodying the aesthetically passionate, the majestic, the pathetic, and the sentimental emotions” (SMH 25/6/24, 13-14). But comments like this are rare. Rather than eulogizing high art, he focuses on practical matters. He takes a shot at the caricature of the average theatergoer, wanting realistic representation and not willing to accept, or unaccustomed to, the compromises inherent in operatic production “The average theatergoer is so unreasonable in his expectations that he may be warned that the Melba Opera Company, not being a circus, does not carry about with it a giant. If such a person were found for the role of Samson the same class of every-day critic would surely remark, 'But he can’t sing!'” (SMH 27/6/24, 16)

He often comments on audience behaviour, revealing something of the audience etiquette of the time. He refers to “the modern code of ‘good form’ which rejects the display of emotion” (SMH 10/7/24). Of a performance of Samson and Delilah he notes “Perfect silence was preserved throughout the opera…”[1] (SMH 30/6/24, 12), and on Carmen wrote “Although a grand opera audience is expected to preserve perfect silence during the action of the work, many of those present on Saturday were unable to control their feelings, and they vigorously applauded at the conclusion of several of the better-known airs.” (SMH 7/7/24, 10)

Like all good journos, he can’t resist a good story. Here he describes Australian tenor Alfred O’Shea’s performance of ‘Che gelida manina’ in La Boheme:

There was, however, a mild outbreak of clapping when Rodolfo
reached the close of the “raccanto,” and someone called “Good shot!” in
penetrating tones from the back of the circle. Both the applause and the vocal
appreciation were immediately hushed down by the more cultivated section of the
audience, but the atmosphere of the audience had been shattered, and not until
Melba launched into “Mi chiamano Mimi” was it recreated. (SMH 27/6/24, 16)

[1] Which IMO is the best way to perform that particular work.

The Art of the Reviewer - Part 2: Melbourne

When reading the Argus reviewer nothing comes to mind as strongly as Mr Collins of Pride and Prejudice expounding on the excellences and graces of Lady Catherine de Burgh: “Melba’s Desdemona, standing upon a level of uncommon beauty...” He uses sentence construction that was archaic even in 1924: “Surpassing fair and stately is Dame Nellie Melba’s Desdemona.” No encomium is too much: “It matters not to what age or to what country or to what peculiar dramatic quality song belongs; Melba is so great that she can entirely enfold it and make it her own, so that when she comes to express it, it loses nothing of its inherent nature and receives, in addition, the beauty of her vocal utterance and the extreme sensibility of her musical intelligence” (Argus 14/4/24, 10). Describing Rigoletto he achieves vapidity: “The famous quartet came out splendidly and finished thrillingly” (Argus 4/4/24, 12).

The Argus reviewer is in no doubt as to the high virtue of the artform. The opening night of the season proved that “there is a wide and discerning public for the things that really matter” (Argus 31/3/24 9-10). In Tosca, Puccini’s handling of Sardou’s sensational play demonstrated “the ennobling influence of music over dramatic material which is not altogether ennobling” (Argus 2/4/24, 20).

That comment is unusual; he does not have many kind words for many of the works presented by the company. His theme throughout the season seems to be “loathed the opera, loved the performance”. Lucia di Lammermoor is a work “as dead as any mutton, and would have been buried long ago but for the fact that it gives misguided prima donnas the opportunity to discharge quantities of vocal fireworks of a singularly distressing kind” (Argus 1/4/24, 12). “Responsible writers joined in a chorus of lamentation when La Sonnambula was resuscitated in London not long ago, and not without justification” (Argus 9/5/24, 18). Il Trovatore “affords a splendid test of good singing… and perhaps that is what retains it in the favour of the masses long after it has lost its appeal to the more fastidious.” (Argus 28/4/24, 10). He displays a disdain of the showy early Verdi, and prefers the more refined, musically “developed” later Verdi (Argus 14/4/24, 10). But even then Aida is not as quite as good as Otello and Falstaff, although “some good judges think that here, more than anywhere else, Verdi achieved that blend of self-assertion and self-effacement which alone enables true opera to be written…” (Argus 16/5/24, 12) Which makes it sound like good composing is a matter of etiquette and character rather than talent and technical skill.

The Age’s critic, on the other hand, expressed no extreme opinions about performers or works. His articles have the same restraint as today’s reviewers, albeit prompted by good taste rather than the possibility of legal action. He was capable of the subtle pointed remark; in a review of Aida he notes “the high notes the artist gave out in the ensemble were startling in their brilliant shrillness” (Age 16/5/24, 10).

His comments are incisive and short, rather than expansive and baroque; he does wax lyrical when describing Melba’s farewell performance, but that is excusable when you believe you are describing the end of an era (Age 14/10/24, 9).

Like the Argus critic he has a great knowledge of opera, but doesn’t expend it in criticisms of the works. He describes singers’ performances with attention to technique rather than hyperbole. He knows the traditions, but doesn’t hold them as inviolate – in fact he remarks positively on innovation:

Caro Nome probably proved an astonishment to many who have heard it
sung in galloping fashion, with the fioriture thrown off in bravoura style. Last
night it came out quietly and mostly softly. That is as the item should be. An
innocent girl does not, or should not, want to proclaim the name of her lover to
all and sundry. Especially if she happens to be Rigoletto’s daughter. (Age
4/4/24, 9)

He holds opera as highly as the Argus critic: “Melbourne is entitled to the gratification that may be derived from the knowledge that it has shown itself to be not indifferent to the higher form of entertainment”; and he refers to it as “music and story in the highest form.” (Age 21/5/24)

Although he is competent in describing the vocal characteristics of the performances, he seems more comfortable commenting on the plot or stage action. At times he focuses on the physical rather than the vocal aspects. At several points he concentrates on Toti dal Monte’s physical caharacterisation of her roles (Age 26/5/24, 10 and 16/6/24, 11); and after seeing Phyllis Archbold’s portrayal of Delilah he may have needed a good lie down:

The play she made with her arms was superb. As far as arms can they
played the technique of love to perfection. Samson was beyond question caught by
Delilah’s face and figure. That her voice played a big part in his ruin goes
without saying. But with those arms in the first act luring him on, gyrating in
lascivious motion, almost kissing his hard, roughened skin, one felt that, apart
form everything else he was doomed from the outset. When they got closer (in Act
II) they would round him like caressing snakes. And the way the artist let her
body sway in sympathy with her arms was astonishing. (Age 5/5/24, 11)

Quite.