It must be something original, something chic (that word that is almost more Viennese than French), something beautiful and costly—for does not Royalty open the ball? Patsy’s Titian head all but turned grey during the racking period of indecision. When finally with impressive secrecy she and the recovered mädl had spirited her disguise behind locked doors, there was still a tantalizing week before the great event. I did what I could to assuage impatience, in the way of opera tickets, concerts and a performance of Duse.
Over the actress Patsy went as mad as any Viennese; and even I cried a mild bravo or two. Curious, how the sight of a charming woman playing a captivating part, like La Locandiera, has the effect of opening one’s mouth, and making one emit strange sounds! The same thing happened to me at the Sunday-morning concert of the Männergesangverein—it looks like a Sanskrit idiom, but it is a simple society of simple Viennese business-men, clubbed together to sing a delightful two hours on an occasional Sabbath morning. They make no pretense at high art, but are fated (by birth and every instinct) to achieve it; and when they stand up, two hundred strong, and roll out the majestic phrases of Beethoven’s “Hymn of Praise,” it is time for even a moth-eaten mere relative to make a fool of himself.
I behaved better at opera. If there is any behaviour in one, opera will bring it out. In Vienna, I mean, of course; not in New York or Paris or Covent Garden, where manners and clothes to be au fait must be au minimum—and where the real performance is mannequin parade, by the great jewellers and dressmakers. In Vienna, opera-goers have the unique custom of going to hear opera. They arrive on time; or if they do not they wait outside in the corridor till the end of the first act. The conclusion is drawn by the audience in general, that it is present to hear and see what is going on up on the stage; any interruption to this, whether of whispering or rattled programmes, is rudely hissed. While one who attempts to leave or to approach his seat after the first note of the overture has been sounded finds himself detained with greater force than fondness. The rare premise is entertained that opera is designed to furnish music, and that the music is worth hearing. It does not seem to occur to anyone to dispute this by leaving before the final note is struck, and the final curtain falls. To the New Yorker especially, thirsting for his champagne and lobster, this must be a diverting system.
But the New Yorker has probably disdained Vienna opera altogether as too cheap to be worth anything. The best seats in the house are only three dollars, while excellent places may be had for half that price, and the students and enthusiasts up in the gallery pay a sixth of it. Officers come off better still: in the circular pit reserved for them, though they have to stand, these servants of the Emperor pay the Imperial Opera only eighty hellers (eight-pence). Of course there is a goodly show of uniforms all over the house as well; and, with the pretty toilettes of the women, the audience is a gay and attractive one. Though the horseshoe is only about half the size of the New York Metropolitan Opera, there is a comfortable intimacy in its rich gold and scarlet loges; besides (the one elegance the Metropolitan lacks) the quartered trappings of the royal box.
This last is often occupied by one or another of the Archdukes and their wives, and several times a year the Emperor himself is present. Then it is gala performance, and all ladies who attend must be in light evening frocks; gentlemen, of course, in the regulation claw-hammer. It is somewhat disconcerting to see—as I did for the first time—this fashionable assembly extract from its coat pockets a generous ham sandwich, and begin to eat it before the curtain goes up; also to watch the rows of elegant ladies and gentlemen waiting their turn in line at the refreshment bar between acts, and to behold the enthusiasm with which they devour large cheese cakes and beer. The fact is that opera in Vienna begins so early—seven o’clock, as a rule—few people have a chance to dine before they leave home; and they are far too sensible to sit hungry through a long performance, or to satisfy their appetite surreptitiously, as Anglo-Saxons would. They want food, and they go and get it—in as frank quantity as they desire. I have seen our charming Frau Gräfin dispose of as many as nine ham sandwiches in the course of an evening, calmly whisking the crumbs from her white satin gown meanwhile.
It is superfluous to speak of the all-satisfying delight of the music itself at the Imperial Opera. No one who has seen Weingartner conduct needs to have it described. For no one who has not seen him can it be described. Sufficient to say that the merits of the piece are not left in the hands of a quartet of fabulously paid principals, or to the luxurious detail of extravagant mounting; but that every voice in the chorus, every inconspicuous instrument of the orchestra, is planned and trained and worked into an ensemble as perfect as a master ear can make it. And the bravos that resound at the end of each act are the sure token of the master’s success; for nowhere is there a more critical or a more appreciative opera audience than in Vienna.
This is true of the Volksopera as well as of the Imperial. Though at the “People’s Opera” the lighter pieces are given for half the price charged at the more pretentious house, the lower middle class who attend them are no less musically trained and difficult to satisfy.
But while every class demands and is given high excellence in classical music, it is in the operette that they unconsciously recognize and worship the true soul of Vienna. As far removed from English musical comedy as caviar from candy, this sparkling, rippling, dashing whirl of airs and waltzes seems to catch up the familiar types out of the streets and cafés, ballrooms and boudoirs, and present them here on the stage en masse. In place of the musical comedy milkmaid, with her Louis heels and pink satin décolleté, we have the well-known students and grisettes, grandes dames and varnished old noceurs seen in the Graben every day. They wear real clothes, and say real things, and make real mistakes—all to the most entrancing music Franz Lehar or Leo Fall can contrive; and the result is a madness of delight on the part of the audience, such as comes only when people are shown themselves.
Shocking? Yes, frequently. The Viennese and their operettes that reflect them are apt to shock many a conventional-minded foreigner. They even shock themselves sometimes—but excuse the episode a minute later. For they are quick to forgive, and are not over-particular as to morals, if the person eschewing them be gay, attractive and clever. Hence the heroes and heroines of their operettes are audacious to a degree somewhat startling to the uninitiated in Viennese life.
But they make up for it in verve and brilliancy. See them dash through three acts of wit and lightning movement—with all their liveliness they never romp; hear them sing their complicated, racing songs, without a fault; watch them whirl and glide in the heady waltz—laughing, dancing, singing all at once, and perfectly. Shocking? you cry, pounding your cane to bits in time with the tune. Piffle!