OPERATIC CONFUSION.
I went on Saturday to hear the three operatic novelties so liberally provided for us on the same night by Messrs. Mapleson, Lago and Harris. I do not mix my liquors, and I endeavour, as a rule, to keep to the same lyrical drama throughout the evening; nor is it my fault if a good dose of strong Beethoven, sweetened with Gounod and flavoured with Meyerbeer had, on the occasion in question, a somewhat confusing effect on my brain. At Her Majesty's, Lilli Lehmann was all right as Leonora: not Leonora of La Favorita, but Leonora the favourite wife of Manrico—no, not of Manrico, but of another personage who, like the unfortunate Trovatore, has to be rescued by his loving spouse from the tyranny of a powerful baritone; whether Verdi's Count di Luna or Sheridan's Pizarro, I cannot just now call to mind. Mlle. Lehmann is not only a fine singer, but also a serious dramatic artist; and the public was deeply impressed by her performance. She is a Lehmann with all the earnestness of a good clergyman; not that she had taken orders as I (Box No. 70) had done.
From Her Majesty's Theatre, I drove in a rapid Hansom to Drury Lane. I had told the cabman to take me to the Royal Italian Opera, and I was about to remonstrate with him for conveying me to the wrong house, when he promptly explained that there were now two Royal Italian Operas, one at Covent Garden, the other at Drury Lane. New source of confusion! "Confusion worse confounded!" as Milton observes.
"How far have they got?" I inquired as I entered the theatre.
"Valentine's death scene," replied my friend.
"Valentine does not die, my dear fellow; Valentine only faints," I answered, I was thinking of course, of the new dramatic soprano, Mlle. Sandra, in Les Huguenots.
"You are evidently not an Opera-goer," I continued, "or you would know that no one dies in this work, except, of course, in the last Act. But that is always left out."
"Wrong again!" exclaimed Jones, with an amused look. "Augustus Harris restores the last Act. See his prospectus."
"Well, never mind that. Is Ella Russell singing the part of Queen Margaret as well as ever?"
"I did not know that Margaret was a Queen. I always thought she was of humble origin. The part in any case is being played by Mlle. Nordica."
Determined to be no longer the victim of mystification, I wished Jones good-bye, and hurrying in, found the curtain down. Afraid now to ask what was being played, I waited patiently for the next Act, and when at last the curtain went up, I found to my astonishment that some representation entirely new to me was taking place. Will-o'-the-Wisps on a dark back-ground. That was all I saw. I asked myself whether I had gone mad, or whether the Drury Lane Pantomime was being played a little earlier than usual. Then the dark scene gave place to a scene of great brilliancy. There was a throne at the back of the stage, and again my thoughts reverted to the Huguenots, and I fancied I could recognise Queen Margaret. But her features were not the features of Ella Russell. Besides, Ella Russell does not dance, not at least on the Operatic stage; and this lady did.
"This is Helen," said a gentleman in a stall on my right to a lady by his side. Here was at least a clue; and when at the same moment the baritone De Reszke stepped out of a group attired in the garb of Mephistopheles, I said to myself that the performance had been changed, and this was the last Act of Boïto's Mefistofele, with new details, or at least details that I had not noticed when the work was performed at Her Majesty's Theatre and at Covent Garden. Now dancing began in earnest, and I wondered much at the never-failing ingenuity of Mr. Augustus Harris, who with a score of first-rate singers in his Company, had nevertheless found himself compelled (probably at five minutes' notice,) to change an Opera into a ballet. It reminded me of a certain operatic Manager, who, being suddenly deprived of the services of most of his vocalists, announced in his programme, that in consequence of the departure of his principal singers, the music of Don Giovanni, would be "replaced, for that night only, by lively and expressive pantomime."
When, however, Mephistopheles De Reszke and Faust De Reszke both began to sing, I saw that my supposition was untenable.
"What you have seen," said Jones, who meanwhile had come in, and who now occupied a seat on my left, "is not Mefistofele at all. It is Gounod's additional Ballet Scene for Faust. 'Dramatic Divertissement' it ought to be called. Beautiful grouping, picturesque costumes, magnificent scenery, delightful dance music! But you ought not to have missed the new Valentine. That was a great mistake." I looked at my watch. "Time enough for the new Valentine even now," I reflected; and I went over as fast as I could to Covent Garden.
Here there was a new Valentine surely enough. A Russian lady, I was told. Not a bit like the Russian ladies one has seen in Fedora, the Pink Pearl, the Red Lamp, and other dramatic misrepresentations of Russian life. But Mlle. Sandra, or Mlle. Panaeff, or whatever her name may be, was not playing the part of a female Nihilist. She was impersonating a well-bred, Catholic young lady of the Sixteenth Century. Jones subsequently informed me that it was not Mlle. Sandra's Valentine that I ought to have seen, but Victor Maurel's, at the other house.
Note at the Guildhall.—Now we know what the City Marshal has to do. We saw him in his warlike costume, bareheaded, marshalling the carriages of the Great Personages on their departure, and capitally he did it. Not a single name was pronounced incorrectly. Everybody came up to time, and got away comfortably. On these occasions, the City Marshal is a sort of Glorified Linkman.
