Victor Herbert: A Theatrical Life

Chapter 1. Ireland, My Sireland

CHAPTER 1 ireland, my sireland (1859–1886) If Victor Herbert was not the greatest of composers, he was certainly a great human being. He was tolerant and fair, but strongly tenacious of his own convictions and devoted to the ideals in which he believed. Cheerful and sophisticated, his humor ever-present, he had the rare faculty of drawing others to him. To be happy he had to give play to the tremendous mental and physical energy that carried him, at top speeds, to the very end of his life. He touched people in many extramusical ways: with his generosity and encouragement; with the example of his enormous capacity for enjoying life and work; with his enthusiasm for personal and political justice; and with his patriotism—Irish, German, and American. As he once said, ‘‘I dream of the old sod of Ireland; I love the fatherland, but a yoke of oxen couldn’t drag me from the States.’’1 The brilliance of his talent for composition, approaching but not truly reaching genius, illuminated the world of musical theater of which he and his art remain a vital part. To say that a composer is not a genius in no way belittles his contribution . Puccini, almost Herbert’s exact contemporary, famously remarked that he felt God had touched him with His little finger and told him to write for the stage. If God had indeed touched Puccini with His little finger, then He had, perhaps, touched Herbert with His finger tip. But that was sufficient. That light touch provided the essential element . Herbert had what the Germans call Theaterblut, a sense of what works on stage. Without that instinct, composers of the caliber of Beethoven and Schubert, whose purely musical gifts were far greater than Herbert ’s, failed in the theater. This genius for the stage shows itself in the method, the technique, the instinctive appreciation of what will and won’t work, the skillful adaptation of musical means to theatrical ends that permitted Herbert to achieve success in the composition of operettas, even if his specific gifts were not of the highest. But, for Herbert, that was not enough. If Puccini accepted his fate, Herbert never really did. Where other artists might have accepted their 1 limitations and rejoiced in their strengths, Herbert never could—at least with good grace. Beneath the jovial exterior there lay a feeling of discontent , of frustration that surfaced in explosions of temper and bursts of passion that punctuate the story of his career and, in many cases, shape it as well. His cutting remarks during rehearsals, for example: I used to know a musician who had played with Victor Herbert. He told me that Herbert used bristling Swabian dialect when he got mad, such as ‘‘Des isch jo zom Schwanz raussreissa.’’ (That makes me so angry I could tear my dick off!)2 or his self-described, passionate Irish identity: Blood will tell, especially Irish Blood. I’m a grandson of Samuel Lover and was born in Dublin myself, and it should not seem strange that an Irishman could and should write Irish song, or an Irish rhapsody. A real Irish song has to come from the soul . . . and an Irish soul by preference.3 or his famous tears: The first thing Fritzi Scheff did when she got back from her European junket was to hunt up Herbert and hand him a photograph she had stumbled upon in an old curio shop in Dresden. The picture shows members of the court orchestra at Stuttgart in 1885, including Victor Herbert at the age of 25. In the photograph he is lean of face and of compact frame. The composer first laughed—and then cried at the sight of the familiar faces in the picture.4 and this: My mother told me that she only saw Victor Herbert cry once. She was visiting him in his studio at Willow Grove Park where he presented summer concerts; and he told her he was upset because his opera, Natoma, had not been a success.5 This, after Natoma had a run of twenty-four performances, more than any other American opera at that time. This illustrates something else about Herbert: he was absolutely honest in his self-appraisal. He knew what his limitations were. That motive force drove him to attempt ever greater achievement. He was convinced 2 i r e l a n d , m y s i r e l a n d [18.226...