Chapter L: M. Hastings (7)

The Meaning of Impressionism

This distinction, however, between the realistic impressionist (Monet), the naïf (Renoir and the _douanier_ Rousseau), and the intellectually constructive artist, such as Cézanne, is apt to be thoroughly misleading. It is true that the theory of impressionism, in its later developments, was a scientific formula calculated to fetter rather than help the artist, but it does not follow, nor is it by any means true, that Monet and Pisarro were not sometimes very fine artists. They elaborated a style which expressed admirably their own brisk and vivacious sentiment, and the result was neither photographic nor discontinuous with the past. Surely nothing but prejudice and the new pedantry of hybrid abstract design could deny æsthetic value to Monet's "Gare St. Lazare," and Pisarro's "Red Roofs," in the Luxembourg. Often, however, Monet's work is distinctly laboured and only differentiated from a photograph by the worried surface of the paint. He is more monotonous and uninspired than his contemporaries, but he is none the less the author of some remarkably good prose descriptions.

In short, impressionism has come to stand for two quite distinct things: one a genuine attempt to articulate an emotion connected with light and atmosphere, the other a scientific theory of colour and light. With the latter, few of the important impressionists were concerned. Seurat is the only one who seems to have been influenced to any noticeable extent and yet to have remained an artist. But with the former the whole group were more or less concerned, including Renoir and Cézanne. They all revolted from the old sombre colours, expressive of the worship of hoary antiquity, and astonished their contemporaries by plunging into the brightness of the present. Their different modes of reacting to this general tendency were the natural result of eminently desirable differences in temperament. This is the essence of the divergence between, say, Monet, Renoir, and Cézanne. For the very reason that they each possessed a personal vision their work differed, both technically and in its content. It simply is a misrepresentation to say that Cézanne indulged in Cubist deformations. To quote a biographer of Cézanne:--"Ce sont ses disciples, ses plagiaires qui raconte qu'il deforme. Ses deformations, que des cuistres voient si bien, eux qui ne sont pas peintres, ce sont des gestes, des attitudes, des contours _vrais_ pour Cézanne. Il ne voyait pas autrement."

Of course it is possible to soak oneself in Cézanne to such an extent that almost everything else will seem uninteresting. But this is not a magnetism peculiar to Cézanne; it is common to all artists of any comprehensive range, not excepting Renoir. Pass quickly after enjoying a collection of Renoir's completest and most lucid work to some of Cézanne's paintings. Most probably they will appear wooden and unattractive. But this will be a psychological illusion, due to a sudden contrast and the fact that the whole of one's emotional consciousness has been shaped to a certain form, and will not immediately reshape itself. Our minds at any single moment are unable to contain more than a few powerful conceptions and impressions, and there must therefore be times of clashing and transition.

But there is a sense in which Renoir might very well be described as naïf and ingenuous. This would refer not to his method or technique, but to the spiritual content of his work, what he means and has to say. The centre of his enjoyment lay always in something charming, radiant, opulent, and, if you like, sensuous. And so those who are ascetically disposed, if not in their life, in their tastes, condemn Renoir as pretty and sentimental. But often they go further and conclude that he was facile, that he painted without difficulty or trouble, as the birds sing. It may, however, have been as difficult for him to attain a satisfactory expression of his emotion, which was _of_ facility, as it was for Cézanne to express his intense consciousness of beauty struck out of conflicting opposites. Indeed, very often there are distinct indications of a struggle in Renoir, of inability to get exactly what he was aiming at. A superficial glance might put this down to bad elementary draughtsmanship. But one has only to consider the technical proficiency of his earlier work (see "Le Cabaret de la Mere Antony, Diane Chasseresse") to realise that the cause of this apparent ineptitude must be deeper. It is the honesty of the artist who is always developing and refuses to overcome difficulties by resort to the camouflage of the obvious and the hackneyed. Consequently the very failure has its appeal.

Different Periods

There is a great deal of difference of opinion as to the respective value of Renoir's earlier and his later work, and this has afforded an excellent opportunity for the conflicting schools, who all join in admiring Renoir, to set up within this ostensible "union sacrée" their old party divisions. The conservatives adhere, of course, to the first great period from 1870-1881; that is to say between Renoir's thirtieth and fortieth years. In the rest they see a gradual decline of inspiration, an increasing predilection for rotund and almost coarse sensuousness, a pathetic loss of technical power until, when tortured by gout and hopelessly paralysed, the old master could only apply chaotic dabs of hot and hotter colour, his work became worthless. The extremists, on the other hand, see a steady, though uneven, development. They admit readily the enchantment of the period of early maturity when Renoir was at the height of his physical powers, but they have an uncomfortable feeling that this kind of art is a trifle too normal, it is something that practically anyone can enjoy with a little effort. The later work is more difficult. Renoir never lost his peculiar charm, even when painting the fattest of models (his model, I think, just grew fatter), but he experimented in different directions, passing from the study of light more and more to that of form. Latterly, when an invalid, he was compelled to confine himself within narrower bounds, and the appeal of his work has less volume in it. Nevertheless, it is maintained these last are the two greatest periods, if not in positive achievement, at any rate in intention.

I am disposed, if anything, to favour the work done in the first two phases, between his thirtieth and sixtieth years, and I am not sure that some of his most perfect pictures do not belong to the earlier of the two. For he did not produce many perfect pictures; it is nearly always possible to trace some defect. For instance, there has recently been exhibited at the Eldar Gallery one of the remarkable series of "Baigneuses." This particular canvas was painted in 1888. There is a great deal that is very beautiful in it, but it is not a whole. It is a "studio" picture, the nude and the landscape have no inevitable connection, and little interest is displayed in the face. Further, the body is cut off, or rather smoothed off, from its environment by a swish of paint, which signifies nothing, except that Renoir became too excited by the actual touch and feel and putting on of the paint, and also that he had an _idée fixe_ about the gradual merging of the outline into its surroundings. This was the sentimental echo of his former genuine enthusiasm for _plein-air_ effects. In many of his otherwise admirable figure studies this spongy film (especially affecting the hands) spoils the precision of his rendering. Sometimes, however, it is appropriate; for instance, in the famous picture, "La Moulin de la Galette" (1876). Here the flowing atmospheric technique and the significance coincide. The radiant coolness of the dappled light and shade is expressed with a freedom and spontaneity which is often lacking in Monet and Pisarro. Yet in spite of the unalloyed delight of this dancing scene I always feel a lurking criticism. This is not because of the kind of sentiment which might be mistaken for sentimentality; it is due to something else, a sameness and repetition. There is an absence of diversity in these light-hearted revellers; in fact they are just one man and one woman duplicated many times over, and flushed with exactly the same translucent emotion. Renoir did not possess great constructive imaginative power, and he had very little interest in character. This general limitation, however, only became a concrete limitation (that is to say, a defect observable inside a picture, instead of one of the infinite things that the picture is not) when he was actually portraying some scene necessitating a variety of individual characters.

It is in some of his landscapes, or in portrait heads such as that of Madame Charpentier, or studies such as "La Loge," and some of the later nudes that there is the completest fusion of the content and the form, of the technique and the emotion. It is frequently said that Renoir was not a landscape painter, but was _par excellence_ a painter of women or of woman. The latter statement undoubtedly has some truth in it, although the interest was not so much in woman as in a particular roseate emotion, more evident in women than in men. But he was also a very considerable landscape painter, and his figures of women are usually placed in the open air, amid scenery possessing the same soft and sweeping texture. Even when an invalid he still painted out of doors, in a specially constructed glass house, while his model posed, often naked, in his garden.

About 1881 he seems to have exhausted his direct interest in the _plein-air_ movement. Incidentally, he took a journey to Italy, but there is no evidence of any influence of this visit upon his work, except that it may have served to throw into stronger relief the peculiarities of the French school and his own kinship with it--that school which (in his own phrase) "est si gentille, si clair, de si bonne compagnie."

This, however, is least applicable to the artist towards whom his own inner development seems to have guided him, namely Ingres. To put it in the usual superficial and rather unsatisfactory way, he was passing from the study of light to that of two dimensional form. The actual result was a synthesis in which brilliant colour and light played a part never dreamt of by Ingres. At first his work showed an unusual hardness and lack of skill. He never possessed the sureness of touch of Manet, which often was mere virtuosity; nor does one ever feel behind his hand the overwhelming impetuosity of Van Gogh. He feels his way gradually, producing a great deal, in fact too much, and succeeding only in certain moments. The culmination was reached in the large composition of the four bathers (which I have not seen) in the collection of M. J. E. Blanche. Opinion seems to differ as to its value, but, whatever defects it may possess, it is clearly of a monumental character, and probably represents the highest point that Renoir was able to attain in the attempt to bring together the sculpturesque qualities of one of his first large compositions, "Diane Chasseresse," and the luminosity and richness of the "Moulin de la Galette."

Between the years 1885 and 1897 there followed a whole succession of remarkable pictures, including "Les Enfants Benard," "Mère et Enfant," "Les Filles de Catulle Mendès," "Les Parapluies," and "Au Piano," of which there are two examples, one being at the Luxembourg. Although Renoir was moving away from his former softness and mistiness, as if in dissatisfaction with the youthful joy in mere sensation, he never left it right behind, he remained on the borderland and looked back on it, contemplating it with maturer insight.

About 1900 to 1919

The last stage constituted a partial return to the first; he reverted to his former freedom and suppleness of touch. But the method is more direct and the content more realistic and crude, although there is still the same lyrical tenderness. His colours are bolder and hotter, and it is alleged that he strengthened them purposely with a view to their being modified by time. This appears to me a most dangerous doctrine. How could one ever be certain that the present wrong tones would be altered by exposure to exactly the correct tones? And why put oneself to such pain in the present for the sake of an uncertain future? For it must be very painful to a sensitive artist to create something out of tone, even on purpose. For these reasons (and without the backing of any authority) I rather doubt whether there is much truth in this intended excuse. And I doubt whether any excuse is necessary. I believe that in the majority of cases Renoir meant something by this hotter colour, and that in this respect the pictures are their own justification. It is impossible to hail all of them as masterpieces. Many definitely betray loss of vitality and imagination. But I cannot agree that the work of this period is that of an invalided old man who is living sentimentally on his past.

There has recently been on view, at the Chelsea Book Club, a collection of oil paintings and pastels by Renoir. Some of them were relatively unimportant earlier works, but the majority belonged to the later period. None of them, with the exception, perhaps, of a flower piece and a small head of a woman, can be ranked very high; but they indicate the limits and at the same time the mellow charm of the work of this time. This charm is not perhaps immediately felt; it grows upon one, but it is quite real. In his old age Renoir remained as much as ever a poet, only his poetry is thinner and more fragile.

Renoir was born in 1841 and died in 1919. Of his famous contemporaries only Claude Monet is still alive.

HOWARD HANNAY

MUSIC

THE NATURALIZATION OF OPERA IN ENGLAND

In Italy opera is a tree which has sprung from a seed and grown swiftly in the course of centuries to an exuberant, perhaps an over-exuberant, maturity. It has been fertilised from other countries, but its trunk has kept one firm straight line by its own perfectly natural development. In England that tree has not flourished. Various attempts have been made to naturalize it, but for the most part the English cultivators never produced more than stunted and distorted growths. Even when they seemed to do well for a time they bore curiously little resemblance to their original parent. Other gardeners, observing how meagrely the tree prospered in the open ground, transplanted opera full-grown from Italy, and did their best to provide it artificially with its own soil and its own climate. It was an expensive amusement, and the more expensive it was the more successful its promoters proclaimed it to be. But it could not be called naturalization. The only course which has shown any signs of being practicable was to graft the foreign shoot on to a sturdy native growth, if a suitable stock could be found. But it is a process requiring careful handling and careful watching, for the tree takes a long time to become thoroughly acclimatized.

It is pretty generally agreed that English opera must be preceded by opera in English. Our public--our real public, that is to say, not the handful of people who concentrate a special attention on opera, both English and foreign--will not be ready to take new native operas to their hearts until they have got thoroughly into the habit of enjoying those popular works which form the international repertory. Those operas--_Faust_, _Carmen_, _Il Trovatore_, and the rest--are popular in England already, it will be said. Yes, as operas go, they are indeed popular; but only among those people, in whatever section of society, who have developed the opera habit. For even in what are called the popular theatres, where they are played in English to cheap and crowded audiences, they are almost always exotic still. If it were not that a large majority of operas are called by the names of their principal characters, we should see more significance in the fact that we speak of the others in nearly every case by their native titles, and do not translate them. We have learnt to talk of _The Magic Flute_ and _The Flying Dutchman_; but even at the "Old Vic." they keep the names of _Il Trovatore_, _La Traviata_, and _Cavalleria Rusticana_.

Wherever they are played by English singers in English theatres they remain, as it were, extra-territorial. To begin with, the translations of nearly all popular operas are abominable. This has been said many times before. But what has not been said so often is that, abominable as they are, there is hardly an opera-singer who is willing to learn a new translation, even when it is candidly admitted that the new translation is easier to sing than the old one. There are plenty of sound reasons for this apparent obstinacy. It is not due merely to laziness or to the vested interests of publishers. What is far more important is that a new translation, if it is really good, involves a new style of singing, a new style of acting, a new scheme for the entire production of the opera. The average opera-singer learns his parts in a spirit of routine. He cannot waste time over trying to find out the plot of the opera or to analyse the personalities of the characters. He learns the traditions and is ready to step into his part without rehearsal in any operatic company that may happen to engage him. It may sound very shocking to the reader that operas should be put on the stage without any rehearsal whatever; but it is nothing unusual in the world of actual fact. After all, it is not much more unreasonable that an opera company should sing _Maritana_ without rehearsing than that an orchestra of professionals should give an unrehearsed performance of the overture to _William Tell_ or the ballet music from _Rosamunde_.

The Function of the Audience

Sir Thomas Beecham, when he first formed his opera company, sought out youth, intelligence and enthusiasm. He began in a brave and gallant spirit, and in his company there is still something of that spirit left. At the beginning it was hardly expected that he would do much better than the well-known provincial companies which used occasionally to give a season in London. But he aimed at storming Covent Garden. Covent Garden was inaccessible during the war, partly because no foreign singers were available to fill it, and partly because it was already filled with furniture. The war ended, the old Covent Garden exotic opera reappeared. Sir Thomas, however, did not leave its territory inviolate, and he is now in complete possession. But Covent Garden has been too strong for the invaders. Like the barbarians who invaded Italy, they are becoming Romanised. At Covent Garden there are boxes and box-holders who adore Melba, Caruso, and the rest. There is a splendid orchestra, there are fine singers, there is magnificent scenery. But the longer the company stays there the less chance there seems to be of their preparing the way for the real English opera of the future.

What English opera wants is an audience. And the best audience that I have ever seen in any opera-house in Europe is the audience at the "Old Vic." Italian audiences are reputed to be appreciative; but they are interested primarily in singing and in little else. They are critical of this only, and they have a certain tendency to be cruel. The "Old Vic." audience, if it is bored, lets the actors know it; but it is never cruel, and it is ready to appreciate other things besides mere singing. Once its attention has been secured there is no audience to equal it for quick intelligence and responsiveness to both tragedy and comedy. But Covent Garden has no pit, and its gallery is too small and too distant to assert itself.

Half-way between the "Old Vic." and Covent Garden stands the new enterprise of Messrs. Miln and Fairbairn, at the Surrey. The Surrey has secured its audience. It has begun with the old familiar favourites, but it has also included in its repertory _The Flying Dutchman_ and _Don Giovanni_, both of which have drawn full houses. Very wisely the management has not wasted its money on elaborate scenery, though it is in a position to stage the _Flying Dutchman_ quite adequately, and that is no small matter. There is an orchestra which, if not large, is at least complete. It began by being rather rough, and even in _Don Giovanni_, for which it is just exactly balanced in proportion of wind and strings, it only too forcibly recalled the criticisms made by Mozart's contemporaries on his overpowering orchestration. It is in their singers that Messrs. Miln and Fairbairn have been peculiarly successful. Youth, intelligence, and enthusiasm are certainly well represented here.

The Surrey's Opportunity

Mr. Fairbairn, who is responsible for the production of the operas, has in this company a wonderful opportunity, if he will only seize it. Here is a splendid house that combines the dignity of an eighteenth-century design with the practical convenience of an interior recently remodelled; an audience with no critical and social pretensions to keep up, but unsophisticated, appreciative, and alert; and a company of young singers keen to learn and ready to throw themselves generously into their work. Starting on such a basis, the Surrey has every chance to develop into a great and flourishing school of English opera. But to develop such a school needs more than average courage, initiative, intelligence, and hard work. It means that gradually, one by one, the translations of all the standard operas must be thoroughly revised. Along with this revision there must be a thorough-going revision and reconsideration from the beginning of the system on which each opera is produced. Tradition must be abandoned if it cannot be justified by common sense. Each opera must be worked out afresh from the beginning, as if it had never been put on the stage before. And the director of such a school must be prepared to face possible hostility towards his revisions. There will always be some among his audience who prefer the old tradition, good or bad, simply because they like to hear what they have always heard. Such people have got to be convinced and converted. That is not impossible. Even operatic audiences have a certain amount of common sense, and it is to common sense that an operatic producer must not be afraid of appealing. The plots of most operas are generally admitted to be nonsense, but that is no reason why one should not make a vigorous effort to put sense into them. Few plots could be more absurd than that of _Il Trovatore_; but if Verdi succeeded in writing music that, by virtue of its persistent directness, its unswerving pursuit of its dramatic end, has made _Il Trovatore_ one of the greatest operas ever composed, surely it is worth a producer's while to concentrate attention on making the libretto as clear and as sure of its dramatic intention as the music is. The translator of an opera must not rest satisfied with merely translating each line as singably and as reasonably as he can, just as it happens to come along. He must regard the libretto as a literary whole, must endeavour to attain some unity of style, and still more to achieve a cumulative dramatic effect by little touches, significant phrases to fit important musical phrases; he must in each recitative or aria see at once where the climax is and fit it with a telling point, to which the rest of the movement will lead up. He must differentiate his characters, giving each its own literary individuality. If his original text is a bad one he must improve upon it. There are many cases in which a librettist has had a good idea but has failed to express it adequately. Sometimes the composer has understood the idea and has clothed the wretched words with music that lifts them on to a higher plane. The translator here finds his opportunity, and must do his best to find English words which may express the poet's intention rather than his actual achievement.

The singer who meets with a good translation is no longer uncomfortable, nervous, and ashamed about his part. He finds that he can bring home his songs to his audience in a way that he never could before; he learns to realise his part as a personality, he may even get as far as beginning to imagine what the character in question might have said or done when he was not on the stage. In this way the double appeal to the audience can be made, the appeal that is irresistible, the appeal to their own common sense, coupled with the overwhelming appeal of real personality in the actor.

If all operatic directors insisted resolutely on good translations and insisted that their singers should sing them like real natural English, we might develop a really English school of opera. Our own poets and composers could watch and listen, and possibly learn something which would guide them in the construction of their own original librettos and music. They would gradually come to find out what even our song-writers have only very partially discovered, namely, what are the true dramatic possibilities of English voices singing English poetry.

EDWARD J. DENT

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Transcribers' Notes:

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Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced quotation marks retained.

Inconsistent hyphenation and ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.

Text uses both "Newdigate" and "Newdegate".

Page 53: "God bless your Majesty" is missing ending punctuation.

Page 65: "the corn of the crocus" perhaps should be "corm".

Page 201: "rallying-point or the new" perhaps should be "of".

Page 202: "an" was added by Transcribers to "a familiar thing from an unfamiliar angle", as there was empty space where a short word belonged.

Page 243: "Les Précieuses Ridicules" was printed without the acute accent.

Page 262: "Keatsiam" probably should be "Keatsian".

Page 367: Unclear whether the punctuation after "Ramsay Macdonald" is a comma or period.

Page 388: "rake-hells" was printed that way.

Page 388: "with a priceless gift" had blank space where the "a" has been added in this eBook.

Page 560: "as the authors' record" was printed with the apostrophe.

Page 608: "deeplier" was printed that way.

Page 714: The printing of "twenty more he lover's" was defective.

Page 719: "^e" represents the superscript "e".

Page 720: "^a" represents the superscript "a".