Mascagni[74] found himself famous after his Cavalleria. The youthful vigor of that music, crude and immature, gripped his countrymen and the inhabitants of other lands and made them believe that a new voice had appeared whose musical message was to be noteworthy. Here was a composer who had the training, who possessed definite musical ideas, who understood the stage—by far the most important thing for a composer of opera—but who has failed to add one iota to his reputation though he has worked laboriously since the early nineties to do so. His Ysabeau, which we were promised a few years ago, has achieved perhaps more success in his native land than any of his operas since Cavalleria; some call it a masterpiece, others decry its style as being unnatural to its composer. A hearing in America would do much to clarify the situation. Unfortunately Mascagni is a man who has disputes with publishers, who disappoints impresarios who desire to produce his works and whose domestic relations rise to turbulent climaxes from time to time. This has played a large part in his failure to receive hearings. And it is indeed lamentable to think that his chances for success have been spoiled by such matters.
His musical style is realistic, but it is never extreme. It was Cavalleria and the success gained by it that gave men like Tasca and Spinelli the idea that they, by carrying verismo further, would be received as composers of note. Mascagni has melodic fluency, he writes well for the voice and his management of the orchestra in Iris is proof positive that he has learned how to avoid that ill-balance of instrumental departments which occurs constantly in Cavalleria.
A smaller spirit is Leoncavallo (b. 1858). I Pagliacci, to be sure, remains one of the most popular operas of the day. But that is no proof of greatness. It must be granted that in it he touched a responsive chord; that his music has warmth and emotional force. But what is there in this little tragedy that lifts one up? What is there of thematic distinction? Signor Leoncavallo, like Mascagni, has pursued the muse and written a dozen or two operas since the world approved of his I Pagliacci. He has written Chatterton, I Medici, Maia, a La Bohème after Murger, I Zingari more recently, and he is now writing an opera called Ave Maria. They represent in toto a vast amount of work, but little of achievement. Those who have heard his recent operas agree unanimously that they lack the spark which Pagliacci possesses, that they are honest works by a man who has little to say and who tries to say that little in an imposing manner.
Perhaps the place of Giacomo Puccini will be determined alone by time. He is one of those creators to whom success in overwhelming measure comes, to whom the praise of the masses is granted during his life-time. Signor Puccini has seen his operas made part and parcel of virtually every operatic institution, large and small, that pretends to have a respectably varied repertory. He has witnessed triumphs, he has the satisfaction of knowing that such a singer as Enrico Caruso in one of his operas can fill the vast auditorium of New York's Metropolitan Opera House. His work, now almost completed, if we are to believe those reports which are divulged as authentic, is the achievement of a successful composer. His early operas Edgar and Le Villi are not in the reckoning. Let us pass them by. But he has given us a La Bohème, Manon Lescaut, Madama Butterfly and La Fanciulla del West. All of them have been accepted, though there may be some dispute as to the place of the last named. Puccini is now fifty-seven years old. He was born in 1858 at Lucca. He has enjoyed worldly possessions as the result of having written music; he is the idol of the public. Has he won the respect of discerning musicians? Has his music been accorded a place alongside that of the great living masters, such as Richard Strauss, Jean Sibelius and Claude Debussy?
Such a problem presents itself in the case of this popular composer for the stage. We would not deny Puccini a claim to respect; he deserves that, if for no other reason than for his having achieved international approval. But when one comes to a wholly serious investigation one fears that he will not be among the elect of his time. And there is this to be considered in arriving at an evaluation of his achievement. He has written music in every case to stories that the world has taken to its heart, witness Manon, La Bohème, Butterfly, Tosca and 'The Girl.' It mattered little to him whether they were dramas or novels. He waited until the public had judged and then set himself to putting them into operatic form. Such a procedure is, of course, any composer's right. And it shows keen insight of, however, a very obvious kind. If the story of one's opera is already popular and admired by the world, half the battle for approval is already won. The big men were often less wise. Weber wrote music to stories that were not only unknown, but that had no especial appeal; and he wrote his inspired music to libretti that were shamefully constructed and amateurishly written.
Modern Italian Composers:
Giacomo Puccini Riccardo Zandonai
Ermanno Wolf-Ferrari Pietro Mascagni
Men of the first rank, who are artists in everything they do, do not choose their subjects in the way Puccini has. For Wagner the writing of a Tristan und Isolde was life—it was as necessary that he work on that particular drama as that he breathe. And to deal with the 'Parsifal' legend when he did was likewise inevitable. Call 'Parsifal' art or twaddle—it matters little which—you must admit that it reflects the master in his almost senile period, interested in just such an absurd conglomeration as Kundry, Amfortas, Klingsor and its other dramatic materials compose. The greatest composers of opera have written because they had to express certain things and because they found a drama which dealt with it. Puccini has been led by what the world approved.
Puccini has been fortunate, indeed. His La Bohème is artistically his best work. In it there is a finer sense of balance and proportion than in anything that he has done. He has done what few Italians are able to do, namely, he has interpreted the French spirit. This little opera—whose libretto, effective as it is, is in no wise an adequate reduction of Murger's great novel—is replete with comic and tragic moments that amuse and thrill by turns. The fun-making of the jolly Bohemians, Rodolphe, Marcel, Schaunard and Colline, is capitally pictured in music that is as care-free as the souls of the inhabitants of the Quartier Latin. And the death of little Mimi makes a musical scene that has potency to-day,—yes, even though Puccini has since learned to handle his orchestral apparatus with a firmer grip and a mightier sweep.