THE OPERA-GOER'S DIARY.
Monday.—Les Huguenots. Madame Nordica as our Valentine. She is toujours riante. Otherwise, vocally, charming. Ravelli the Reliable as Raoul, much applauded and quite two inches higher in popular estimation. Valentina Nordica cannot take anything seriously. She smiles as she is wont to smile at the supreme moment of his great athletic window-jump, when he is shot out of window and killed so thoroughly that he cannot be produced for the last Act of all, which, therefore, is now never given. Simple-minded folk, not up to this, wait in their stalls, and wonder why everybody else is going. Members of orchestra disappear, lights extinguished, brown-holland coverings descend, the fireman enters, the box-keepers retire, and suddenly it bursts upon the inexperienced Opera-goer that it's all over, except shouting for carriages, and that's over too by now, and that there is to be no more Opera to-night.
L'entr'acte est long,
Un peu d'espoir,
There's no more song,
Et puis bon soir.
M. Lassalle as the French nobleman, whom some one described as "Sam Bris," excellent. Good house for the Huguenots.
Tuesday.—Here we are Lohengrinning again. Lohengrin not a comic opera: the name being rather misleading. Melodious, mellifluous Mlle. Melba as Elsa de Brabante. Ned de Reszké as the Great King, Fursch-Madi-gras unrivalled as Ortruda, Dan Drady as Freddy, one of his most dramatic performances; Signor Abramoff as the Family Herald—quite a volume—and Jack de Reszké as a Knight on the Swannee River, or perhaps a knightly visitor from Swansea. Poor Jack suffering from hoarseness. Druriolanus comes forward to explain this. Audience imagines that Druriolanus himself is going to take poor Jack's place. Rather disappointed in consequence. "Could have done it, of course," says Druriolanus afterwards, "but bad example for other members of the governing committee." Jack de R.'s hoarseness scarcely noticeable. No one would have known it if Druriolanus hadn't told us. Some people can't keep a secret.
Wednesday.—Vide last Wednesday's report. Only difference being that Signor Plunketto Greeno is not in statu quo ante, the part of the Commendatore, M.P. for Stony Stratford, being taken by Signor De Vaschetti.
Thursday.—Missed it. Romeo et Juliette. Believe it was performed, not having heard anything to contrary. Reported that Mr. and Mrs. G. were present. Remember he was there last season, when same Opera was played. Came up then, I think, from Dollis Hill. "All roads lead to Romeo," the G.O.M. is reported to have said to Floral Hall, the Covent Gardenia Box Office Manager and enthusiastic devotee of the G.O.M., or "Grand Opera Man."
Friday.—La Favorite in French. Evidently neither particular nor universal Favourite, as so many habitués, conspicuous when here by their noble presence, are now still more conspicuous by their noble absence. Mlle. Richard, her first visit to Royal Franco-Italian Opera at Covent Garden, is the Favourite to-night, and the Favourite wins. Opportunity for Mlle. Bauermeister, who has one of the prettiest airs in the Opera to start with, but then "is heard no more," having only to exhibit, in sympathetic dramatic action, her deep distress at the sufferings of the unhappy Favourite, the victim of Alfonse, King of Castille. King Alfonse gives a garden-party, with "gipsy revellers" of the period, led by small and early Palladino. Refreshments are probably served in an adjoining apartment, but King Alfonse, being, perhaps, a trifle dry, occupies his time in the chair of state by trifling with a lozenge. Great difficulty among audience as to whether Fernand is Montariol or Ybos. Having seen Montariol as David in the Meistersingers, I do not recognise him as Fernand; but having seen Ybos as Raoul, in the Huguenots, Fernand's legs seem familiar to me. If the voice is the voice of Montariol, the legs are the legs of Ybos. Druriolanus Iboss says it is not Ybos but Montariol; while a distinguished Operatic Committeeman tells a despairing critic that it is Ybos, and not Montariol. Anyhow, Mons. Ybos-aux-jambes-montarioliennes is a good, though not great, Fernand. The chorus whether as Monks of one of the great Theatrical Orders, not-admitted-after-seven, or as members of the Castilian Aristocracy, are admirable. Signor Gaspar—a name that suggests a singer rather out of condition, and, like Hamlet, "scant of breath" (he should be appropriately attired in "pants")—keeps his eye on Signor Bevignani, and Signor Bevignani pulls him through. Mem. What an education in modern languages it must require to be a chorister of the R. I. O. C. G.! Italian, French, English, of course; and perhaps one night they'll come out with something of Wagner's in the original German. Everybody looking forward to the revival of Le Prophète on Monday next.
Saturday.—Non adsum, because 'ad sum-where else to go. Covent Garden, however, not closed in consequence. Hear that Jean is to get £600 per week in America. Good interest this for one tenner.
AS WORN.
"Dear Uncle Ben—you're always so kind!—would you sit on my Bonnet a little. I've taken out the Pins."
