Articles on the lack of Italian opera in New York City

“Pike’s Opera House remains quiet—nothing doing. This is bad for a new house.”

“It is a very singular state of affairs that while American artists are creating a furor in Europe Italian opera is, to all intents and purposes, dead in this city. We have two large opera houses, plenty of fashionable people, a full supply of excellent artists—in fine, all the necessary materials for opera, with one sole exception—a manager. By a manager, we do not mean one hundred and ninety-nine and a half individuals who know nothing about opera, entertain the most exalted opinion of themselves and the lowest estimate of everybody else, and regard the opera house as their private domain and the public as intruders. An impresario of Italian opera should be possessed of very different qualities. Italian opera should be managed in the same manner as a newspaper—namely, by making it an intellectual despotism, with one controlling mind alone over it. The impresario must be dictator and responsible only to the public. The mistake made so far by our opera managers has been in looking upon opera in the same light as a circus, minstrel hall or menagerie. The one hundred and ninety-nine-and a half feudal despots of the Irving place catacombs have succeeded in killing opera at the Academy, and through the want of common sense management the same result has been attained at Pike’s. The only principle on which opera management can be successful in this city is on that of centralization of power in the hands of the impresario, always, of course, subject to that grand high court of impeachment (no Manager Butlers included), the public. Every amusement goer in the metropolis knows how the neglect of this principle operated at the Academy; the same idea, with slight variations, was carried forward at Pike’s. At the one place one hundred and ninety-nine and a half managers produced the effect; at the other deference to certain artists and soi-disant musical people led matters to the same end. Let the impresario, with all his faults, be dictator and supreme head, and let no prima donna dare to interpose an objection or even a suggestion, and Italian opera will be made permanent. Why have we no Italian opera? In Europe American singers are reigning stars of the principal opera houses. Mr. Gye, at Covent Garden, depends on Jenny Van Zandt and Patti for his sensations this season, and Mr. Mapelson has Miss Kellogg as one of his first prime donne. In Copenhagen Miss Huntley and other ladies from Boston excite the interest of all the operatic public, and Kate Morensi will be a great card in London this summer. We might multiply examples, but these are sufficient to show that the country which first made the reputation of Malibran is the grand purveyor of Europe in Italian opera. Yet we are deprived of the lyric drama here, because that rar avis, a common sense impresario, is not to be found. Why does not the man who made opera bouffe such a great success at the French theatre take the Italian question in hand and deal with it in the same manner?”

“For the moment opera seems to be dead. The Combination company which played twice a week at the Academy of Music, and gave a matinée on Saturday at the same establishment, received no sort of encouragement. Perhaps, being based on a mistake, it deserved none. If there be a lesson which has been taught over and over again to managers it is that a success or a failure cannot be repeated. Without waiting to inquire whether the artists of the Combination were, or were not, good—and we incline strongly to the belief that they were good—it may be said that the public, without a salient novelty as a new inducement, had had enough of them. Hence the wretched houses which we have barely ventured to record. It is only proper, however, to add that the performances, under the direction of Mr. Carl Bergmann, were careful and artistic.

With this venture will terminate the operatic prospects of the season—a season which we believe to have been unprecedented in disaster. Many brave and true men have been at the wheel, but it was in vain. The public neither cared for the vessel nor the men who were steering it, and hence it went down. It is not pleasant to be compelled to state this so blankly, but it is the truth, and this at all events is something. What then for next season? Nothing, absolutely nothing. There will, of course, be operatic raids where success may sometimes justify temerity. But in a large metropolitan sense there will be no opera worthy of the name. Mr. Pike and Mr. Harrison, it is now understood, will bring out ‘Lurline’ in September. That is an opera, and a good one. Thanks. But it is not opera in the sense which we mean—a large, well organized body of artists, active, energetic and attractive, either knowing or willing to study the best works of the Italian repertoire. For it is Italian opera which gives vitality to every other form of opera. The essential idea of relieving the mind from the burden of language, by speaking in recitative and measured song; by taking it to a sphere where, however strangely, it may still enjoy a new sensation, a new relief, a new recreation in Italian, and nothing but Italian. Whether we refer to the future or the past in music; whether we speak of Gluck or Wagner, the idea is there. It is a pity that it has sunk from our just appreciation. We have two of the prettiest, we may even say handsomest, opera-houses in the world. Bright, airy, graceful edifices, dedicated loyally to art. It would be pleasant to go to them if it were not for the bitter flash which tells us that no one can afford to keep them open; and also the afterthought, too rapid for pleasure, that no one has ever succeeded in doing it. No one. Ole Bull, who finds no difficulty in drawing the representatives of $2,000 to his concerts, was once a manager of the Academy of Music. With a company which, in many respects, was excellent, he failed to cover his expenses. Mr. Max Maretzek, a thoroughly informed, sensible, observant impresario, practically conversant with every detail, as of every essential of his business, has labored for sixteen years, and with what result? Hostility from his enemies, poverty for himself. We will not refer to Maurice Strakosch or to Adelina Patti. They escaped with ‘bag and baggage, if not with scrip and scrippage.’ But it may not be improper to remind certain writers who find it pleasant to dilate on the subject of our prima donnas abroad, that, whatever Adelina Patti may owe to the City of Madrid for the honor of having been born there, she certainly owes nothing to the City of New-York for the appreciation that was extended to her here. Then comes Max Strakosch, a man renowned for his energy. He could accomplish nothing, albeit with the cooperation of people like La Grange, Adelaide Phillips, Brignoli. Lastly, Harrison, the most popular manager in the City. He puts his shoulder to the wheel; but the vessel is too much for him, and down she goes, notwithstanding the steady, firm hand of the helmsman.  

It is not possible for a sensible man to look at these things without becoming aware that there is something radically wrong in the State of this particular Denmark. Something so positively wrong that unless it be righted Italian opera will become like the flourish which accompanied the cups of Hamlet’s father, ‘A custom more honored in the breach than the observance.’

The corollary of this is that whoever gives Italian opera next season, will have to be provoked into it—not persuaded. The strong—musically—have been sacrificed; now comes the chance for the strong in a monetary point of view.”