Interpreters — Edition Insights
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Virgin was her inspiration for her conception of this scene.
Luscious in quality, Mme. Fremstad's voice is not altogether a tractable organ, but she has forced it to do her bidding. A critic long ago pointed out that another singer would not be likely to emerge with credit through the use of Mme. Fremstad's vocal method. It is full of expediences. Oftener than most singers, too, she has been in "bad voice." And her difficulties have been increased by her determination to become a soprano, difficulties she has surmounted brilliantly. In other periods we learn that singers did not limit their ranges by the quality of their voices. In our day singers have specialized in high or low roles. Many contraltos, however, have chafed under the restrictions which composers have compelled them to accept. Almost all of them have attempted now and again to sing soprano roles. Only in the case of Edyth Walker, however, do we find an analogy to the case of Olive Fremstad. Both of these singers have attained high artistic ideals in both ranges. Magnificent as Brangaene, Amneris, and Ortrud, the Swedish singer later presented unrivalled characterizations of Isolde, Armide, and Bruennhilde.
The high tessitura of the music allotted to the _Siegfried_ Bruennhilde is a strain for most singers. Mme. Nordica once declared that this Bruennhilde was the most difficult of the three. Without having sung a note in the early evening, she must awake in the third act, about ten-thirty or eleven, to begin almost immediately the melismatic duet which concludes the music drama. Mme. Fremstad, by the use of many expediences, such as pronouncing Siegfried as if it were spelled Seigfried when the first syllable fell on a high note, was able to get through with this part without projecting a sense of effort, unless it was on the high C at the conclusion, a note of which she frequently allowed the tenor to remain in undisputed possession. But the fierce joy and spirited abandon she put into the acting of the role, the passion with which she infused her singing, carried her victoriously past the dangerous places, often more victoriously than some other singer, who could produce high notes more easily, but whose stage resources were more limited.
I do not think Mme. Fremstad has trained her voice to any high degree of agility. She can sing the drinking song from _Lucrezia Borgia_ and Delibes's _Les Filles de Cadix_ with irresistible effect, a good part of which, however, is produced by her personality and manner, qualities which carry her far on the concert stage, although for some esoteric reason they have never inveigled the general public into an enthusiastic surrender to her charm. I have often heard her sing Swedish songs in her native tongue (sometimes to her own accompaniment) so enchantingly, with such appeal in her manner, and such velvet tones in her voice, that those who heard her with me not only burst into applause but also into exclamations of surprise and delight. Nevertheless, in her concerts, or in opera, although her admirers are perhaps stronger in their loyalty than those of any other singer, she has never possessed the greatest drawing power. This is one of the secrets of the stage; it cannot be solved. It would seem that the art of Mme. Fremstad was more homely, more human in song, grander and more noble in opera, than that of Mme. Tetrazzini, but the public as a whole prefers to hear the latter, just as it has gone in larger numbers to see the acting of Miss Garden or Mme. Farrar. Why this is so I cannot pretend to explain.
Mme. Fremstad has appeared in pretty nearly all of the important, and many of the lesser, Wagner roles. She has never sung Senta, and she once told me that she had no desire to do so, nor has she been heard as Freia or Eva. But she has sung Ortrud and Elsa, Venus and Elisabeth, Adriano in _Rienzi_, Kundry, Isolde and Brangaene, Fricka, Erda, Waltraute, Sieglinde, one of the Rhine maidens (perhaps two), and all three Bruennhildes. In most of these characterizations she has succeeded in making a deep impression. I have never seen her Ortrud, but I have been informed that it was a truly remarkable impersonation. Her Elsa was the finest I have ever seen. To Ternina's poetic interpretation she added her own greater grace and charm, and a lovelier quality of voice. If, on occasion, the music of the second act proved too high for her, who could sing the music of the dream with such poetic expression?--or the love music in the last act?--as beautiful an impersonation, and of the same kind, as Mary Garden's Melisande.
Carl Van Vechten's Interpreters (1920) is a collection of critical portraits of seven opera singers and the dancer Vaslav Nijinsky, originally published separately and revised for this edition. Despite its Project Gutenberg classification under Science Fiction & Utopias, the book is squarely a work of music and dance criticism. The excerpts show Van Vechten analyzing performers through their physical and vocal choices, historical research, and ability to transform across roles. He is less concerned with vocal purity than with dramatic conviction, as when he praises a 'great musical power served by a defective voice' over a 'beautiful and stupid' one.
The Critic's Method: Gesture, Costume, and Historical Research
Van Vechten evaluates performers by their attention to visual and historical detail. Of Feodor Chaliapine, he notes that the bass studied Repin's painting of Ivan the Terrible to inform his portrayal of the Tsar's grief, transforming the image 'without the revolting suggestion of the shambles which mars the painter's work.' He also observes that Chaliapine's dignified make-up as Dositheus in Khovanstchina owes a debt to the personality of critic Vladimir Stassov. For Van Vechten, the singer's art extends beyond the voice to encompass costume, gesture, and the simulation of emotion. He describes Chaliapine's 'nude Mefistofele' and the 'flamboyant exposure of personality' in Mary Garden's Thais, linking these visual choices to the overall interpretation.
Olive Fremstad: Struggle and Will
The opening portrait of Olive Fremstad emphasizes her career as a 'continuous struggle' against poverty, a refractory voice, and her own temperament. Van Vechten notes that after achieving fame in contralto roles, she 'determined to sing soprano parts, and did so, largely by an effort of will.' He observes that she is 'always dissatisfied with her characterizations' and studies ways to improve them. Interestingly, he claims she is 'little at her ease in any impromptu performance,' citing a return to the stage with an itinerant company where she 'all but lost her grip.' This focus on the labor behind artistry—rather than innate talent—is a recurring theme in the excerpts.
The Range of Roles: From Boris to Don Quichotte
Van Vechten's portraits emphasize the breadth of his subjects' repertoires. Chaliapine is praised for roles as varied as Boris Godunow, Ivan the Terrible, the Old Believer Dositheus, the Tartar chieftain in Prince Igor, and the 'funny, dirty, expectorating Spanish priest' in Il Barbiere. The critic notes that even in a role with few lines, like the Tartar chieftain, Chaliapine's gestures during the ballet are 'stamped on the memory as definitely as a figure in a Persian miniature.' This attention to minor roles and physical detail suggests Van Vechten values the complete actor-singer who can create a living character through small gestures and make-up, not just vocal prowess.
Readers should approach Interpreters as a series of discrete critical essays, not a unified narrative. Van Vechten's judgments are grounded in specific performances he witnessed, and he often compares different singers' approaches to similar roles. The book's value lies in its detailed observations of early 20th-century operatic and dance practice, filtered through a critic who valued dramatic truth over vocal perfection. The epilogue and illustrations mentioned in the contents are not included in the excerpts, so their content remains unknown.
There’s something tender about how Van Vechten watches a performer’s smallest gestures, as if each hand movement held a whole history. It reminded me of the quiet patience in Children's Rights: A Book of Nursery Logic — A Closer Reading—that same gentle attention to what others might overlook, the unspoken language of growing things. I kept thinking about that long after I set either book down.
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