14 On Opera (Essay, 1928)*

It would be curious to ascertain whether opera is a natural art. By natural art, I mean the kind of art that finds its likeness or correspondence in nature, just as, for instance, a Doric column or a Beethoven sonata directly imitates either nature or human life; as, for instance, painting or theater do. The question of the naturalness of opera is, of course, complicated by the fact that opera is itself a blend of several art forms, which is why it is necessary to establish whether this blend is something natural, or, more precisely, what conditions are needed for this combination to be natural.

Let us begin ab ovo. I am not concerned now with the actual origins of opera, but, rather, with how it might have originated. Could it originate from life itself, from a desire to imitate life, to represent it with that inner accuracy with which, for instance, a sculpture represents life? In other words, does or could opera exist outside of the stage, in nature itself, in life itself? I think, yes. Let us imagine a person who works and sings. What is important here is from where exactly does song, the desire to sing, arise? I suppose that a person is most inclined to break into song when there’s the fullest correspondence between his inner state and the outer environment, nature outside him. A workman sings along with his work in exactly the same way a prima donna sings along with music. A plowman returning home in the evening sings along with the lightness and calm of evening, the evening bell, the soft tread and lowing of the cattle. A street urchin, who has thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers, walks, and whistles (the whistle is a kind of lip song, as distinct from a throat or chest one), finds himself in perfect accord with the pleasant clatter of the city, and it is thanks to this harmony that his whistle, his song, comes into being. In all of these cases there’s already the essence of opera. Transport this plowman or this whistler to the stage, replace that nature—that environment which was unwittingly causing them to sing—with music, and what you get is opera. But one must keep in mind here that occasions when a person expresses his feelings through song, and the singing feelings themselves, are limited. So what is happening? When a shoemaker sings as he works—rather, to the tune of his work—where the work is equivalent to the music, we’re not surprised, but when a fat old tenor expresses his love not through spoken language but through musical howls, we deem this to be unnatural. I think that the fault lies not with opera, but with that mysterious spirit which has governed mankind from time immemorial—a mysterious spirit or, as in my opinion, pure chance. It is perfectly by chance that we express our usual thoughts in words and not in song. Algebra triumphs over music. If the semantic meaning of language lay not in words, not in signs, but in this or that rising or falling of the voice, then we would converse like birds—that is, by means of song. It is of course too late now to learn to sing and unlearn how to speak, but I repeat that it is perfectly by chance that mankind followed the path to speech. A playful imagination will take a certain pleasure in the following picture: a land where all books are written in musical notes, and shop assistants respond with an aria to the aria of the shopper. And that’s why I think that opera, being completely natural in its origins—every day we see a little opera in the street, in the field, in the tavern—remains natural in its further developments, because it provides us with a picture of how people would express their feelings if they always sang, rather than just at work or in the bath. And if correspondence and harmony are always observed between environment and song in everyday life, then this harmony must also exist in opera, and only when this harmony is observed is opera beautiful. It is in this sense that Pelléas and Mélisande, Boris Godunov, and, in part, Carmen, are beautiful.