Stokowski's Satire

The audiences that attend the Friday concerts of the Philadelphia Orchestra are famous for their nonchalance. Lovers of music who have visited Philadelphia recount with indignation how rudely the people drift in, in casual ones and twos and in large box parties, always late--sometimes so late that when the curtain rises most of the seats are vacant. The Philadelphians, however, are rarely late for their teas. If the concert is long, they rise and leave, bowing to their friends and murmuring goodbyes, and hurry away to scones and cinnamon toast and caroling kettles, leaving the music to make its swanlike end exclusively for the benefit of the ushers and those that have free seats, etc. Ah, if only Conductor Leopold Stokowski would treat these Friday excursionists as they treat him, lovers of music have said. If he would return their courtesy, the scene in the auditorium would be something like this:

The curtain rises. Two musicians--the first violin and the cellist--are seated, chatting. Conductor Stokowski strolls vaguely in from the wings. He bows. Puzzled applause from the audience--murmurs of "But good heavens, Victoria, where is the orchestra? . . . Down behind that backdrop? . . . I think it is simply too quaint. . . ." That no orchestra lurks behind the backdrop is clearly demonstrated when Mr. Stokowski raises his baton and the scrannel strains of the violin and cello tremble, quite unsupported, in the hostile air. . . . Now another musician comes in. He carries a horn and a handkerchief and flops down in the first convenient seat; after a premonitory groan, his brass assaults the tune. . . . The piccolo players, the drummer and the flute stroll in, smiling and chuckling; one of them is trying to get a pack of cards into his waistcoat pocket. Obviously a game of penny ante has delayed them. . . . Mr. Stokowski stops while the last of his audience parade down the aisle. . . . Haydn's "Farewell." The orchestra has played it better at other concerts. Some of the players seem merely indifferent, but several are definitely tired; the trombone puts his instrument in a case and walks out, the second cellos follow his example; now no one is left but Mr. Stokowski and two violins. One of the violins makes a surreptitious exit, playing as he goes. The other retires with a gracious bow.

Mr. Stokowski, conducting a symphony of empty chairs, churns on and on; the music must be coming to a climax, for now his arms wildly flagellate; he whips his fiddlers up to a crisis, holds his phantom cymbals and horns and woodwinds suspended in a terrific fortissimo of silence, and then, at a final mute drum-stroke, drops his arms to his sides. . . . Standing alone, his back to the audience, he orders his invisible orchestra to rise to the applause that does not come -- turns, smiles, walks quickly out. . . .

This is what music-lovers have often wished would happen. This, in substance, was what happened last Friday. Philadelphians were "dumbfounded by Stokowski's satire." Some applauded. Some hissed. Forty odd first-row patrons walked out. At last a conductor had had the courage to give a Philadelphia audience a few hints on behavior.

Metropolitan Finale

The season at the Metropolitan Opera House, Manhattan, breathed its last, and songsters, scenery, dancers and orchestra--enough to fill some 30 Pullman cars--were packed off on two special trains for Atlanta* for the annual week of opera. Southerners socially and musically inclined were ready for them, flocked from all over the countryside to hear Aida, with Rosa Ponselle and Giovanni Martinelli; Don Quichotte, with Feodor Chaliapin; La Boheme, with Lucrezia Bori, Beniamino Gigli, Antonio Scotti; Pagliacci, with Mary Lewis, Armand Tokatyan, Lawrence Tibbett; Jewels of the Madonna, with Florence Easton and Martinelli; Lucia, with Marion Talley; Tannhauser, with Rudolf Laubenthal; II Trovatore.

On the last day of the Manhattan season Signer Giulio Gatti-Casazza announced the novelties and revivals for next season. There will be:

1) A three-act American opera, The King's Henchman, by Deems Taylor with text by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

2) Turandot, posthumous opera of Giacomo Puccini, finished by his friend Franco Alfano, to have its world premiere this week at La Scala, Milan.

3) La Giara, "choreographic comedy" in one act, by Alfredo Casella; scenario based on a plot by Luigi Pirandello, famed Italian playwright.

4) The Magic Flute, by Mozart, a revival.

5) Fidelio, by Beethoven, a revival to commemorate the centennial of his death.

6) Mignon, by Thomas, a revival.

7) La Forza del Destino, by Verdi, a revival, absent from the Metropolitan's repertoire since 1923.

8) L'Amore dei Tre Re, by Italo Montemezzi.

9) Le Coq d' Or, by Rimsky-Korsakov.

10) Der Rosenkavalier, by Richard Strauss.

The last three will be revived after a single season's absence.

Critics, finding little field for prediction, looked back over the past season, made generous comment. They agreed for the most part that individual voices were "not what they used to be," that ensembles and mountings were better than ever before, that the eleven novelties and revivals, if not notably significant, had served their purpose of breaking the monotony of the standard repertoire. The consensus of opinion was that little had been accomplished for the cause of the U. S. singer by the widely heralded debuts of Marion Talley and Mary Lewis. Said Critic Olin Downes in the New York Times: "Undoubtedly the most valuable addition to the ranks of the Metropolitan in the past season was Lauritz Melchior, Danish tenor. . . .

"It is a pity that others had not prepared as industriously and intelligently for their debuts as Mr. Melchior. If they had, there might be here a different story to tell of the debuts of Miss Lewis and Miss Talley--Miss Lewis whose voice is not under any circumstances an important one for an operatic career; Miss Talley, with a better vocal equipment, but needing greatly long periods of quiet, concentrated study to eliminate serious vocal difficulties and find herself as an artist. Both young women were given publicity beyond their merits. Both of them went on the Metropolitan stage pursued by reputations manufactured in advance, and neither of them had the technic or artistic maturity to meet the test."

*The tour of the Metropolitan Opera Company comprises a week in Atlanta, ten days in Cleveland, two in Rochester, N. Y.