Sunday, 26 March, 1913.
Dear Walter:
There was not a more amazed person amongst the audience last Thursday than your old friend here. Having plowed away and wallowed in storm for some time on my own One Act play, I know of the difficulties, the doubts and hazards that one encounters in the business of writing an opera. It is therefore with genuine admiration, that I take off my hat and bow low to him, who could write the Score of Cyrano. It is a masterly accomplishment of a treacherous task. I did not see you on that exciting night; there having been some uncertainty as to my being able to obtain a bed on the 1 o’clock train, I finally had to give up the pleasure of going to your house. I press your dear old hand now in spirit and in sincere admiration.
Your orchestration sounded superbly. Your choruses blended wonderfully with the orchestra and I have no doubt that with a slight remaniement and raccourcissement, Cyrano will give great joy to many in the future. I understand that you have already made considerable cuts, still do I advise cutting out more. Four Acts is a long proposition and some of the best things come in the last Act. But the public begins to tire and can no longer thoroughly enjoy the beauties of this Act. A few things have occurred to me besides. In the scene on the balcony, I think it is a mistake to let Cyrano say what Christian shall repeat to Roxane. Is this not what happens in Act III, “How could I love you more,” etc? Would it not be more expressive to let Cyrano prompt his stupid friend in whispering and pantomimic gesture? Curiously enough, this scene which one would have picked out as “made for an opera,” was perhaps the least effective part of the Opera. After the climb to his lady love, everything is again admirable.
Then, in the last act, I believe if you were to shorten Cyrano’s delirium and hasten his death somewhat, you would strengthen and heighten the final effect of your work. Cyrano dies hard and one thinks of the nine-live-cat-death of Tristan! All this may only seem long coming at the end of the preceding three intense hours. There are really extraordinary effects in this final Act of yours and one would like to look at such a score as yours. Probably, like all telling things in this world, your effects are obtained through simplest means.
The whole work is to me a delight on account of its real musicianship—a work evolved from a highly sensitive, very intelligent brain, that has absorbed and assimilated much, without imitating anybody or anything.
These are my first sincere impressions of your work, to which I will add my sentiments. While the musician listened during the hours of the performance, the friend in him was carefully kept apart. When, however, the musician’s heart began beating more and more warmly, the friend and the musician became again at one in their joy.
Here also arises the reflection: Where did you or where does anybody acquire mastery? Do the gifted themselves really know what they are doing and is Maeterlinck right when he makes Mélisande say “Je ne sais pas ce que je sais”?
A priori I shall always say: There must be Opera in English—but at present there cannot be, as nobody knows how to sing in it. The performance however was admirable. Amato was superb and so was the orchestra, chorus and old Herty! Hats off to him too!
Kindest regards to Mrs. Damrosch in which Elise joins me.