英日対訳:T.ビーチャム自叙伝 A Mingled Chime 第34回(1/2) 父の跡/首相失脚騒動/オケに歌劇に大成功








The unexpected death of my father, due to heart weakness, deeply affected me. Out relationship had been a strange one; outwardly there was an apparent formality, but inwardly an actual sympathy, almost an affinity between us. He was, I think, inclined to be a little afraid of me; and I, for some reason I could never explain to myself, generally felt rather sorry for him. Even in the years when I never saw him, he had been a vivid personality in my mind, and it took me quite a time to realize that I should never see him again. Although I knew that without his all-important participation the scheme which had taken nearly a year to bring to fruition was definitely at an end, I did not yet comprehend all the implications of his disappearance from the scene. What further consequences of the disaster might be in store for us no one could foretell until the true position of his estate was known. Several weeks would have to elapse before this point was reached and for some time longer no business outside the preliminary duties of administration could be imdertaken.  




James White had acted as general business adviser to my father over his London interests, and he now proposed, and I and my brother agreed, that he should look after ours in the same way. Impressed by his conviction that he could handle successfully the problem of the Covent Garden Estate, this seemed a satisfactory  

arrangement at the time, and for a while it worked well and pleasantly enough. But his was not the sort of intelligence to guide us safely through the complications of the intricate tangle in which we were involved. He was dashing and effective enough in the opening stages of a proposition, but later on, and especially if there were occasion to make a wise retreat, he was apt to become apprehensive, sometimes to the point of panic. Such dispositions in business are akin to those who in military tactics are invaluable when on the advance, but of small use if forced to take the defensive or play a waiting game. He had the minimum of education but a considerable charm of manner; an easy capacity for making money, and one still easier for spending it. He once confessed to me that life without £100,000 a year was not worth living, but how he could ever have got through such an income I do not know, for he lived in a very modest way. For a brief period he owned a steam yacht which was intended to serve as a retreat from the bustle and flurry of city life, but the first thing he did when arriving on board was to have a wireless fitted up so that he could be in continual touch with his office. Later on he acquired and ran personally a theater, about the least unexciting diversion to be imagined. His office in the Strand had become a rendezvous for all sorts and conditions of Londoners, politicians, newspaper proprietors, actors, jockeys, and prize fighters, and through this variety of acquaintanceship he sometimes acquired information on current events of importance before the outside world had any inkling of them.  




It was during the late autumn that he one day startled me by saying “Your friend, Mr. Asquith, won’t be long where he is.” I asked him what he meant, but he affected a casual air and said it was just a rumor. I knew his manner too well to be put off like this, and at last wormed out of him a story so extraordinary that, had it not been for the names of his informants with whom I knew he was on intimate terms, I should have looked upon it as a fairy tale. Satisfying myself that he was perfectly serious about it, I sought out a member of the Cabinet, a close friend of the Prime Minister, told him in detail of the existence of an intrigue to oust his leader in favor of Mr. Lloyd George, and that this and that person were in it up to the neck. He said that he would make inquiries from his end and would see me about it again. The days went by and White one evening confided to me that the bomb was shortly due for bursting and that if any counter move were intended, the time had come to make it. As I had heard nothing from the Minister, I passed on to him the further facts which had come into my possession, but he replied cheerfully that he was convinced that there was nothing really to worry about and that Mr. Asquith was never in a stronger position. Just previously I had caused the whole story to be communicated through an influential friend who might succeed in making a more serious impression to Mrs. Asquith, whose only comment was “Nothing but death can remove Henry.” Within a week Mr. Asquith was forced to resign the premiership and Mr. Lloyd George stepped into his shoes.  




In Manchester the affairs of the orchestra were flourishing, for in addition to its usual concert series, it now had the opera season (the company was to make a longer return visit at Christmas), and I had recently inaugurated a season of Promenade Concerts in the building of ill-fame, which had now been rechristened the Opera-House. The cotton and mining industries were booming throughout Lancashire and money was flowing plentifully. In London the concerts of the Royal Philharmonic Society were on a sound footing, and I had extended my interest to those of the London Symphony Orchestra which had been making a gallant fight all this time to keep its head above water. The opera company had increased its popularity and enlarged its audience so widely that I decided to move for the summer season from the Aldwych to the much larger Drury Lane where I had spent such pleasant days in 1915-14. As shortly before this we had increased our Provincial connection by taking in Birmingham, Glasgow, and Edinburgh, the barometer for the future seemed to be set at fair and I saw no reason why it should not remain there. For the migration to Drury Lane, it was essential to provide something in the nature of a “coup” that would place tiie reputation of the company on a pinnacle higher than any it had yet reached. I again called to my aid Hugo Rumbold and requested him to prepare designs for a new production of Figaro that would surpass all that he had hitherto done for me. A fresh translation was made of the text to include the whole of the trial scene in the Third Act, which is usually curtailed and sometimes omitted, and then came the all-important question of stage representation, for I had in mind to reproduce as far as possible the style, and gesture of the Theatre Francais with singers who could also act. We approached Nigel Playfair, who agreed to cooperate on the condition that I would let him have the artists selected for the performance every day for at least three months. But I had to tell him that their necessary appearances in other operas prevented such an exclusive absorption in one work, and that he must be content with having them some of the time for five. And throughout this period, two and often three times weekly the chosen band turned up for rehearsals and worked away enthusiastically to fulfill every direction of the first authority in England on the comedy of the eighteenth century.  




It was generally allowed that this production topped a peak so far unsealed in the annals of any native opera company. Outside the Russian seasons nothing like it had been seen before, and certainly nothing has appeared since to excel it. And yet the cast, which had been selected more for appearance than voice, contained hardly one of the better vocalists of the company, although the singing was both adequate and stylish. But no one felt poignantly ihe lack of a higher level of vocalism in an entertainment replete with charm and elegance and providing an object lesson in what can be done with a piece like Figaro or Cos'i Fan Tutte, given a bold and novel approach to a fitting method of presentation. There was however a distinction of the highest merit common to every member of the cast, a first rate diction. One evening I went up to the top gallery and stood right at the back to listen, and from there I could hear not only every syllable of the songs, but of the ensemble pieces as well, all being as clearly enunciated as if it had been spoken instead of sung.  



MOZART: Violin Concerto No. 4 in D major KV 218  

Jascha Heifetz (vn)  

Thomas Beecham (cond) 

Royal Philharmonic Orchestra 


英日対訳:The Northen Fiddler 北の大地のフィドラー達('79/'85) 第6回 1部(2/4) 伝承文化の本質と取材体制




London / New York / Sydney / Cologne 











The collector enters into the traditional culture in search of facts and documentation, while in their turn the participants of a traditional society are more concerned with symbolic exchange and initiation rituals. In a traditional culture the process of ritual exchange that is necessary to interpersonal encounters is of more concern than what is actually exchanged. For the men we recorded, the sociality of the moment created by a music session is of the same value as the actual music played, and certainly of greater value than the music recorded. This conflict of intentions, if unrecognised, inevitably leads to mutual misperceptions. As a consequence, throughout our journey we were pursued by a sense of vampirism. We resisted transforming friendships into documents. Eventually our ambivalence produced a crisis of method and motive that we found difficult to resolve.  



Once at a session we had arranged, an aged fiddler of frail health and great skill and knowledge collapsed in his chair from the effect of too much drink supplied by a neighbor. One moment he was capering a light dance step, the next moment he sagged like the bellows of an accordion with a look of immense weariness on his face. For an instant we thought him dead. As he was given food and tea, another neighbor put on a loud chaffing record of a modern 'pop'-oriented fiddler to cover the absence of music. He was being polite, but we experienced the scene as a nightmare metaphor for the contemporary predicament of traditional music: the living reality replaced by a creation of the media. We had seen the life go out of a great musician, glimpsed his death, and the same thought eats away at both our minds. We ask ourselves if our presence here is the last stage in the final draining away of the tradition. For the first time it comes to us that there is an intimate association between collecting and death. We have deluded ourselves that we are fighting death, but instead we are documenting it. We are the pall-bearers at a funeral of a man, a music, an entire world. The photographer caps his lens, the tape machine is disconnected, and we leave shaking and guilty ...  



On another occasion we returned to a house where we had gathered a great deal of music. We returned to play back tapes and show the fiddlers the photographs that had been taken. In the midst of our display of the material gathered in our previous visit, the mood of the fiddlers turned sullen and withdrawn; they showed no further interest in the photos or in listening to the recordings of their music. Their usual good humor returned when we persuaded them to take up their fiddles. It was only as we drove away that we realised how our technology had betrayed us. For it was through our technology - the cameras and tape machines - that we flooded these fiddlers with too much personal feedback. 





Oral cultures have never developed the same capacity for self-dissection and information retrieval that our society has. Instead they build holistic visions of the world and self where image and experience are intertwined. In many societies to separate image or sound from experience its context constitutes a violation of natural order . Probably if presented separately our photos and tapes would not threatened these men. Presented together they formed a synthesis, a technological reconstruction of the self, a travesty of real existence. We had returned to their house with a collation of abstractions and fragments that challenged the way they saw themselves and heard their music. 



Within oral cultures music is strongly connected with personal experience with a specific sense of time and place. Music always appears in context in relation to another experience, people and geographical locations. To separate music from its context is to separate it from its magical power to affect reality. Some American Indian tribes refuse to have their songs and chants taped, for they believe that to remove music from the place where it was composed and sung constitutes a loss of personal power; and draining away of the magic associated with the music. This belief is operative in some form or other in the majority of oral cultures and eventually determined our own approach to gathering music. 



The intensity and beauty of our encounters in Donegal and Tyrone with traditional musicians had such a vivid effect on us that we became afraid of the capacity our technology had to de-realize our experience, the power it possessed to come between ourselves and what we felt at the time of the session. Personal experience began to assume a primacy over documenting. We became caught between documenting and experiencing. This bifurcation of roles was not only the result of an ethical dilemma, but was inherent in the basic characteristics of traditional music itself, which is not essentially a performance medium, with a strict separation between artist and audience. In its original setting traditional music was a social art, where listeners or dancers and players created a single emotional space, a collective theater, completely inner-directed. This experience of a magic circle, a space separate from day to day reality, recurred in most of our sessions. To record or photograph in this situation implied a stepping out of this circle. To remove ourselves from the circle was to break a vital link between us and musicians who, because of years of musical isolation, required a high level of emotional response from the people they gave their music to. Interpersonal relationship became the nexus through which we gathered our material. When to turn the tape machine on became a moral as well as a strategic decision. Each tune recorded was the product of many that were not. 



We never resolved the conflict over our methodology, and we walked a fine line between two approaches. Aesthetically and ethically we had no choice. We were attempting to satisfy the value systems of two cultures. In South-west Donegal we found our own special myth, one that demonstrated the type of understanding the fiddlers possibly had of our journey. This story follows the patterns of many folk tales inasmuch as the moral is never fully demonstrated. 





Rumors have spread through the parish of a stranger who wanders the roads, knocking on the doors of any who have a reputation as a fiddler. Under his arm wrapped in a blanket he carries what he claims is a priceless fiddle. At each house he approaches the fiddler, asks the man to play his 'Stradivarius,' and solicits the fiddler's opinion of the instrument. The stranger himself denies any skill at music, which arouses the suspicion of the local people. After he hears each man to his satisfaction, he takes back the fiddle, wraps it in the blanket and proceeds down the road to the next musician. He finally arrives at the door of one of the finest fiddlers in the parish. This fiddler has heard of the stranger's pilgrimage and his dinial of musical skill. When offered the fiddle he carefully feels the strings, fingerboard and bowhair. He then asks the man if he plays himself. The stranger denies it. 'Well, I doubt that,' replies the fiddler, 'judging from the heat that is on the bow and strings I reckon it's been played within the last five minutes.' The stranger grabs the violin away from the fiddler at the same time saying, 'If you're that good I don't want to hear you!' and disappears down the road! 



The story's ending is flat, the value judgement is hidden and the tale's dryness has a didact effect. Within the value system of rural Donegal the stranger is spiritually sterile. He insists on a social relationship with the musicians. He exploits his ownership of a rare violin, the product of the skills and techniques of his own society, to obtain music from the local musicians. His identity seems not to be invested in his musical skill, which he lies about, but in his ownership of the instrument. He is incapable of music himself, or worse still of sharing it with others. In this context his nomadicism is judged as a symptom of spiritual unrest. 



This tale is a subtle and sophisticated social commentary, revealing many attitudes concerning the relationship between traditional music and the world external to the traditional society. For ourselves, the collectors, it raised spectres concerning our own roles and attitudes for which we tried to find alternatives, but from which we found there was no escape. 






英日対訳:The Northern Fiddler北の大地のフィドラー達('79/'85) 第5回 1部(1/4) 民謡採取は抹殺行為?














The project of recording, interviewing and making a visual record of fiddlers from Donegal and Tyrone was undertaken with the awareness that one of the central conditions for the development of Irish traditional music was geographical isolation within the country itself. The physical separation of Ireland from the European mainland has been considered a major contributing factor towards the existence of an Irish rural culture persevering into present times; an archaic material culture, a lifestyle and art forms long since extinct in continental Europe. This 'island' concept can be expanded to include the many 'islands' of musical tradition that flourished by virtue of geographical boundaries within Ireland itself. It is this plurality of related vocal and instrumental traditions that forms the varied mosaic of native Irish music. 



In recent years the extinction of rural life style and the presence of an urban-based folk revival have obscured this regional identity and as a consequence these developments have delayed an historical and aesthetic awareness of the importance of regional musical traditions. Influenced by an orientation towards a national identity and by commercialisation, an Irish national folk music has come into existence. This cultural development with the assistance of the media, cultural organisations, and an incipient 'star system' has precipitated a centralisation of musical style and repertoire.  



The regrettable nature of this pattern lies not only in the blurring and erasure of diverse local traditions within Ireland, but in its occurrence at a time when the rural population of Ireland is experiencing a severe identity crisis due to depopulation, economic change and exposure to contemporary European mass culture. The material presented in this book is an attempt to recover a fragment of the submerged regional history of traditional Irish music. Against this background of blatant indoctrination of the rural population in the values of Anglo-European urban mass culture, it is hoped that in a small way the material presented here can respond to the need for and indigenous revival of regional culture and identity.  



The history of the regional musical culture of Ireland is not a static one. There has always been a struggle to maintain the tradition against pressures such as colonisation, depopulation, cultural suppression and economic deprivation. There were changes in style and instrumentation, and alteration of repertoire. The intensity of involvement of the rural community in its own musical traditions varied, and was always subject to the vicissitudes of history and social change. At times the music and dance was the major aesthetic and recreational activity of the rural populace. In other periods, in times of severe economic deprivation, political repression and social disorder, and survival of the music rested in the hands of a small number of traveling professional musicians and dancing masters governed by a pride in their skill and dependent on their music for a livelihood. Added to this group was the isolated artist in the rural community who held onto this important part of his identity as the cultural life of the community fell into dissolution. 



(p.16: ruined farmhouse in the deserted village of Port, Co Donegal)   





The testimony of the musicians interviewed in our collecting indicates that though the music and dance were a popular art form, the tradition's ultimate continuity depended on the single-minded commitment of a few gifted musicians deeply involved in a classical consciousness of form and style that the inherited body of music conveyed to them. The musical tradition was an oral tradition. It depeneded on the transmission of knowledge and technique from one person to another, and the apathy of a single generation would have been enough to destroy the music. Conversely the enthusiasm and native talent of a single generation would have been sufficient to foster a renaissance and guarantee the survival of the tradition for the future. 



Today as the 'islands' of musical tradition are all but rendered extinct as a consequence of the cultural centralisation and growing modernity of contemporary Ireland, the survival function of the musical tradition becomes more sharply defined. What is documented in these pages is an ancient response to an inevitable historical occurrence. To resist change is a strategy for change in itself. The persistence of traditional fiddling in an alien cultural environment implies a change in that tradition. The fiddlers dealt with in these pages can be classified according to their geographical origins as 'Donegal,' 'Tyrone.' But these geographical origins are historical references, they tell us what was, not what is. The historical regional isolation of the musical tradition has been transformed into the individualised isolation of the lone musician. Regional music has survived because these musicians have survived with their musical identity intact. These musicians separated themselves from the momentum of pseudo-urbanity that flooded their world and destroyed the lifestyle upon which the activity of music-making was based. In making this choice, the music was appropriated by a more personalised tradition. But this ownership of the tradition by a few isolated, ageing men is also haunted by the richness and fecund associations of the music's past and the uncertainty of its future.  





Collecting traditional music in this context is a journey through a fragmented world, a search for a culture that is on the defensive. One can have few illusions concerning the internal integrity of the traditional lifestyle. The roofless shells of farmhouses, the rusted gates made from decayed bed-frames opening out onto the emptiness of Neolithic bog, the receding cultivation line are indicative of the broken geometry of the traditional culture. These items of our landscape, the final remnants of human pattern and creation delineate a temporality and a psychic space distinct from the world we belong to. As collectors, we are separated from the men who inhabit this space by the very fact of the cultural fragmentation they have experienced. They are possessed by a temporality that is inaccessible to us except through their music and memory. 





The fundamental contradiction in our collecting journey lies in the fact that we were attempting to mediate our discontinuity with the products of the very technology that contributed to the cultural fragmentation of rural society. 



It is impossible to avoid the realisation that collecting is part of the wounding process our society has inflicted on traditional culture. Contemporary civilization has destroyed their present and as an extension of this decimation we arrived with tape recorders and cameras to lay claim to their past. Collecting as a reflex to the death of a traditional society is a search within a cultural mirror that reflects more the need of and values of modern civilisation than it does the realities of the traditional culture. The relationship of the informant and collector can replicate the unequal and exploitative interactions between modern and folk cultures. In the context of interpersonal relationships the collector is imprisoned by a methodology and techniques that will not only determine what he finds in a particular environment but also controls how he acts in the field. 



No act of the collector is neutral or without valuation. In his gathering of material the collector is ultimately an extension of the process whereby a dominant and alien culture appropriates the resources of another society. For the collector involved in the process of acquisition there is only one fundamental question - what, if anything at all, of value has he to contribute to those who will be his informants. The answer to that question will determine what response the collector will find to his search in a particular culture.  




In Ireland, 1966

英日対訳:T.ビーチャム自叙伝「A Mingled Chime」第33章(2/2)ワーグナーについて/父の死






Among the other operas which swelled the repertoire were The Magic Flute and Tristan and Isolde, both in English. The former proved to be more popular than any other piece I gave with this company and the latter was a near rival to it, due mainly to the singularly individual impersonation of Frank Mullings. I have often (especially during the last twenty years) been baffled as well as amused by the attitude toward Richard Wagner on the part of a large number of apparently intelligent persons. Although it finds its origin in a dislike for or want of sympathy with the sentiment and style of the music itself, it claims to discern in the man and his work all sorts of characteristics and significances which so far have been entirely hidden from me. One of these is a strange theory which made its appearance in the first World War and has cropped up again in the present one. It is that while the pantheist Beethoven represents a spirit completely in accordance with that of the struggle to preserve the religious ideals of the past nineteen hundred years, the Christian Wagner is as much of an opposing element to him as Beelzebub was to Jehovah. How the creator of The Flying Dutchman, Tannhauser, Lohengrin, and Parsifal, all quasirehgious dramas in praise of the creed, the traditions, and virtues of the ancient faith could ever be regarded as other than the most stalwart and persuasive champion it has yet produced passes my comprehension. Even the pagan Ring considered didactically, is a  weighty sermon on the anti-christian vices of lust of power, fraud, the arbitrary exercise of force, and the tragic consequences that proceed from them. Apparently other composers, Handel, Gluck, Mozart, or Weber are permitted to seek inspiration in Classical Greece and Rome, Moslem Arabia, or Confucianist China; not, however, Wagner. But what of Tristan, which it has become the fashion to refer to as an indelicate exhibition of acute eroticism? Even if this were true, it would not be surprising in the case of a man who devoted most of his time to the preachment of the doctrine of renunciation and the eulogy of Venus Ourania. These antitheses and reactions are the commonplace of the world’s dramatic history, and contrariwise the gayest of all English playwrights turns without effort or embarrassment from the unabashed naturalism of The Custom of the Country to the delicate and lofty spirituality of The Knight of Malta.  

我が歌劇団のレパートリーを広げてくれた作品の中に、「魔笛」それに「トリスタンとイゾルデ」がある。いずれも英語での上演が可能だ。前者「魔笛」は、この歌劇団で上演した中では最も人気を博することになる。後者「トリスタンとイゾルデ」はこれに続く人気を博した。これはひとえに、フランク・マリングス個人の演技力のお陰であるところが、大きい。特にここ20年ほどは、世の知識層と呼ばれる方々の、リヒャルト・ワーグナーに対する見方には、私は興味関心もさることながら、困惑すら覚える。この根源は、音楽自体が醸し出す雰囲気や、音楽自体のスタイルについて、嫌悪感か、もしくは共感したいと思う感情か、そのいずれかにある。だがそれは、ワーグナーの人となりや作品群の中にある、あらゆる類の性格や意味(私にはまだ全く見えてこないが)を見極めるよう求めてくる。その1つは、聞いたこともないような理屈で、第1次世界大戦中に初めて登場し、今次大戦(第2次世界大戦)で突如再登場している。これによると、ベートーヴェンとは「全ては神で、神は全てだ」と信じる人物で、過去1900年間の宗教的な理想を保つ上での戦いに、完璧に沿っている人類を代表する者である。そしてワーグナーは、ベートーヴェンとは大いに真逆の人物であり、この違いは、キリスト教の悪魔「ベルゼバブ」と全能の神「エホバ」ほどの差がある。「さまよえるオランダ人」「タンホイザー」「ローエングリン」あるいは「パルジファル」といった、宗教もどきの楽劇の数々は、大昔からの人類の信じるところの、神を信奉する気持ちや、伝統、美徳といったものを讃えるものだ。これら楽劇の数々を創り出した張本人は、「神がこの世に産み落とした、最も忠良頑健にして説得力のある先駆者である」という評価とは、異なる見方をされている。これが私には理解できない。異教徒の風合いを持つ「ニーベルングの指環」は、「尊大」と見なされているが、これでさえ、権力に対する欲望、人に対する欺き、力の身勝手な行使、そしてこれらがもたらす悲惨な結末、こういった「キリスト教を良しとしないことに関する悪徳」に対しての、重大かつ深刻な説教なのだ。ヘンデルグルックモーツアルト、あるいはウェーバーといった他の作曲家達は、古典とされる文化や文学、つまり、ギリシャ、ローマ、イスラム、アラビア、あるいは中国の儒教言ったものに、自身の作曲のインスピレーションを求めても差し支えがないように見えるのは、明らかである。なのに、ワーグナーだけが、そうではないのだ。ところが、「トリスタンとイゾルデ」はどうか、この作品を、強烈な性欲主義を、下品にさらけ出すものと見なすことが、流行りとなっているようだが?仮にそうだとしても、一人の男が、自分に与えられた時間の大半を、自制・滅私の教義を言い散らかし、「天にまします愛欲の神ヴィーナス様!」と讃えまくる、そんなことに費やしていることも、別に驚くことではないということかもしれない。自制と愛欲、この相対するものの見方とそれに対する反応は、世界の演劇の歴史を見てみれば、よくある話だ。そしてこれとは逆に、イギリス演劇文学の最も艶やかなる作品は、努力も困惑も要せずして、恥じらいのカケラもない自然主義の「The Cusotom of the Country」から、繊細かつ高尚な精神主義の「The Knight of Malta」へと代わってゆく。 



Everyone is privileged to read into music that which dogs his own private thoughts and emotions. But if anyone can find in the great love drama a single sign that Wagner did not look upon the passion of its protagonists as a dream outside all practical fulfillment in a world dominated by the claims of duty and honor, it must be someone with a telescopic vision denied to ordinary creatures like myself. The plain fact is that music per se means nothing: it is sheer sound, and the interpreter can do no more with it than his own limitations mental and spiritual will allow, and the same applies to the listener.  




The value of Mullings’ interpretation was that while the music was sung with greater alternate vitality and tenderness than by any other artist I have heard, the whole rendering of the part was suffused with a high nobility, an almost priestly exaltation  of mood and a complete absence of any wallowing in the style of  mere fleshly obsession. The total effect was one of rapt absorption in an other-world fantasy, hopeless of realization on this earth, and this I believe to have been Wagner’s own conception.  




All this time I had kept my eye on the progress of the scheme for placing the Covent Garden contract on something like a manageable basis. There was no question of my father being relieved of any of his personal responsibility to the vendors; indeed an essential part of the new deal was the provision by him of another large cash payment which would increase the amount advanced by him on account of the purchase to upwards of half a million pounds. On the other hand James White had secured the offer of some fresh financial backing as well as an agreement between the contrasting parties that everything else would stand over until the conclusion of war. There was no doubt that the unsettled state of this affair had weighed heavily on my father’s mind during the past two years, and he had aged visibly. I made a point of seeing him more frequently and on most occasions we were alone. All through his life he had been a man of unusual reticence and could rarely bring himself to discuss matters of an intimate nature with anyone. The antithesis of my grandfather, a personality of vigorous utterance and changing impulse, who did not hesitate to let everyone for a mile around know what he was thinking about, he always tried to avoid giving a definite answer to any question. Because of this incapacity to meet others halfway or open his mind freely, he was something of a trial even to those friends who were sincerely attached to him; and occasionally some old crony who had known him for forty or fifty years, would seek my aid under the mistaken impression that I could tell him what my father’s thoughts were about some question on which he himself had been unable to extract any expression of opinion.  




But during the late summer months and early autumn of 1916 , he for the first time in our association unburdened himself to me as much as I believe it was in his nature to do. His had not been a very satisfactory life. He had married against the inclination of his family, his wife had been an invalid during the greater period  of their union, he did not seem to understand his children very  well, nor they him; and the reserve which had afflicted him since boyhood was due to an incurable shyness and a fear of being misunderstood if he talked on any conversational plane save the most prosaic. The greatest of his misfortunes had been the break with myself, which occurred at a time when he needed most the friendship and companionship of a member of his own family. This was something he had been looking forward to during the years I was at school and Oxford, and the loss of it had the effect of causing him to withdraw still further into his shell. For books he cared little; for pictures rather more. But music, after his business, was the main interest of his life, and the operas and symphonies that he loved he would hear over and over again without tiring of them. Lohengrin was his favorite, and he must have seen it a hundred times in nearly every opera house of the world.  




It was about the beginning of October that I went up to Lancashire to stay with him. The signing and sealing of the document which was to free his mind from further anxiety about Covent Garden was to take place some time during the latter part of the month, and there were final details to be discussed and settled before the date of completion. As I had to make preparations for the Halle Concert Season which was to open in about two weeks’ time, the intervening days were spent between Liverpool and Manchester. He attended the first concert, which was on a Thursday; and as it was over at a comparatively early hour, he decided that he would return that night to his home. As I saw him into the train, he reminded me that the appointment at the lawyer’s office to approve finally the various agreements under the revised deal had been made for ten o’clock on Monday morning, and asked me not to be late for it. The next day I went South and spent the week end in the country, going up to London early and arriving at the Aldwych Theater about half past nine.  




My manager was waiting for me with the gravest face and the most unwelcome news. My father had died in his sleep some time during the previous night.  





歌劇ローエングリン第2幕より エルザの大聖堂への行列の場面 

NHK Eテレ放送分より

英日対訳:T.ビーチャム自叙伝「A Mingled Chime」第33章(1/2)戦時下の文化支援/「後宮からの誘拐」








It was during the same summer that I received an invitation to attend a meeting in Birmingham summoned to consider the best way of forming a municipal orchestra. It was surprising that what had proved impossible in peace time should be regarded as feasible in the middle of a world war; but so many unexpected things had happened since 1914 that this perhaps was but one more to be added to the list. So there I went and duly attended several gatherings, at which all the trite sentiments ever uttered upon such a subject anywhere since life began were rolled out by one speaker after another. How necessary it was for Birmingham to have an orchestra, what a valuable contribution to the city's  

culture it would be, how the plan ought to be supported by everyone, and what a wonderful thing music was with its power to inspire and uplift! But of any idea how to put it into practical operation there was little evidence: certainly no one seemed ready to spend any of his own money on it, and the Lord Mayor, Mr. Neville Chamberlain, was very clear that the present was not the time to add one farthing to the rates in the interests of the fine arts. 




This negative kind of zeal was as usual getting us nowhere,  

but I did discover among the representatives of about half a dozen leading societies a much greater willingness to cooperate than formerly, and I told Mr. Chamberlain that if the scheme under discussion did not materialize he might let me know, as I had just the skeleton of another in my head which might result in something tangible. A little while after I did hear from him that he saw no immediate chance of any civic project being carried into effect, and that I was free to work out something on my own lines if I wished to do so. As soon therefore as I could go to Birmingham again I called into consultation two or three energetic spirits whom I had known in earlier days, obtained a list of the concerts given during the past season by all the societies operating within a radius of thirty miles, and finding it to be larger than I expected, invited their managers to come and see me.  




They all attended and I told them that I was willing to engage an orchestra on a permanent basis for six or seven months in the year, if I could rely on their cooperation; which meant simply an undertaking from them to use it for the whole of their concerts. The cost so far as they were concerned would be no more than in previous seasons; indeed if they cared to lengthen their respective series it would be less, in view of the conditions under which the new body of players would be working. On satisfying themselves that there was no catch or snag in the proposal they unanimously consented, and my next step was to ask the principal supporters of the concerts I had conducted in 1911-12-13 if they would join with me in reviving them, as it would hardly do to have a resident orchestra in the town playing only for choral societies. This too was agreed, and I set about the task of founding yet another institution, which I maintained along the lines indicated for two years without incurring more than a reasonable loss. I was preparing to continue for a third when my representative in the town notified me that the Government had taken possession of every building where music could be given and asked what was to be done about it. I replied that the proposition was transparently clear: no hall, no music; no music, no orchestra; and that it was for Birmingham to decide if this was what it wanted. As none of the local authorities took enough interest in the matter to intervene and preserve the existence of the young organization, I had no alternative but to abandon it, and once again the adverse fate which frowned upon every serious enterprise in Birmingham had got the better of us. But the effort was not entirely in vain. I had demonstrated that the thing could be done in a practical and fairly economical way, and a few years later the city council came forward with a grant which brought about the establishment of an actual municipal orchestra.  




The opera company returned from Manchester to the Aldwych Theater, and I made several additions to its repertoire, which by this time included about fifteen operas. The most important of these were II Seraglio of Mozart which I had not given anywhere since 1910. 1 have never understood why this beautiful piece has failed nearly everywhere to win the full favor of the public. Even as late as 1938 when the popularity of Mozart had reached its zenith and I gave it with a superb cast at Covent Garden, it was received coolly. According to Weber, its author never again produced a large work so thoroughly imbued with the spirit of youth and happiness, and as it coincided with the time of his marriage to Costanze it may be looked upon as an epithalamium for that event. Its artistic consequence eclipses even its domestic, for here at last we find the full-grown and mature Mozart, emancipated from the traditions and conventions of a style of operatic composition that had held the stage for eighty years and of which his Idomoneo is a splendid example. In II Seraglio we are introduced to a new and living world. Gone from the scene are the pallid heroes and heroines of antiquity, the unconvincing wizards and enchantresses of the middle ages, and all the other artificial creatures dear to the whole tribe of 18th century librettists. In their unlamented place we have ordinary human beings of recognizable mold, singing their joy and sonows to melody that rings as freshly in our ears today as in those of the Viennese one hundred and sixty years ago.  




In songs of the highest excellence the score is exceptionally rich. Instances are the “O wie angstlich”, with its wonderful accompaniment expressing more perfectly than any other music known to me the tremulous expectation of the anxious lover; the three arias of Costanze, of which the second is the most haunting idyll in all opera; and lastly those of that grand old rascal Osmin,for whom the composer confesses an obvious affection by the gift of the Finest explosion of triumphant malice in vocal sound. But astonishing as is this exhibition of solo virtuosity, it is outrivaled by the ensemble pieces of which the finale to the second act is the crown. Here we have the first instance on a large scale of that matchless skill with which Mozart could weave together a succession of movements, each representing a different mood or stage in the action, into a complete unity that is entirely satisfying to the musical sense. And as the absolute fitness of the music to the dramatic situation is never in question for a moment, all flows on with a natural ease beyond which human art cannot go. In the last number of all, the Vaudeville, we have a specimen of that haunting strain peculiar to this master, half gay, half sad, like the smile on the face of a departing friend. These tender adieux abound in the later Mozart, notably in the slow movements of his later instrumental works, such as the great piano concertos in D minor, in A major, and in C minor.  




I had succeeded in finding another scenic artist of talent, Adrian Allinson, and it was in II Seraglio that he first gave the public a taste of what he could do. Allinson had hardly the same unerring  

flair for stage design as Rumbold; his effort was more unequal and he required some guidance in all that he attempted. But he had a larger fund of poetry and imagination which enabled him now and then to create pictures of the highest charm, and the second act of II Seraglio was quite one of the loveliest I have seen anywhere. Another branch of our work to which we gave particular attention was translation. For general purposes I had a skillful and practised hand in Paul England, who invariably provided us with a scholarly first version. Afterwards I would summon together the principal artists who were to appear in the opera, go over each phrase with them and ascertain what words they could the most easily vocalize on certain notes. Our two leading baritones, Frederic Austin and Frederick Ranalow, had a high degree of ability in this sort of thing and were often able to find in English the vowel sounds which corresponded exactly to those of the original text, a valuable alleviation of a notorious thorn in the flesh of every conscientious singer. 




"Finale" - Entführung aus dem Serail (W.A.Mozart), Florenz, Mehrzad Montazeri (Tenor) 

Italien - Florenz 2002: Maggio Musicale 


Dirigent - Zubin Mehta 





act3 conclusion duet conclusion;vaudeville finale:nie were' ich deine huld verkennen 

constanze--lois marshall 

blonde--ilse hollweg 

belmonte--leopold simoneau 

pedrillo--gerhard unger 

osmin-gottlob frick 

pasha selim-hansgeorg laubentham 

thomas beecham 

英日対訳:T.ビーチャム自叙伝「A Mingled Chime」第32章(2/2)新聞取材の愚/ミニョン・ネヴァダの母








Is it possible that there may be some connection between this phenomenon of the resurgence of the Celt and the steady decline visible in every part of the Empire during that period, similar to that which has overtaken France? For a decline there has been  unmistakably, not so much moral as intellectual, and manifested  most conspicuously in the decrease of the capacity to govern wisely and well. In no quarter is there satisfactory evidence that we retain undebilitated that instinctive gift for successful administration which in former years extorted the unwilling admiration of most other nations. In Canada there is the spectacle of a disunited people that local statesmanship has signally failed to adjust. In Australia we view the unpleasing predicament of a small community in a large continent, retarding its population, discouraging immigration and resenting every effort from outside to relieve its statically backward condition. In India, although we have made a prolonged, honest, and gallant attempt to solve the problem of its racial tangle which is understood and appreciated by no one, the plain fact remains that we have so far failed. Lastly, but worst of all, we stand convicted before the civilized world of want of will to prevent the recovery of a beaten and powerless Germany as a stronger menace to the peace of the world than ever before. What is the cause of it all? There is only one answer. The want of will to govern firmly and the absence of the ability to make clear decisions. The time spirit will overlook mistakes but it never pardons inactivity, and the Empire will have to breed a different class of ruler if it is to survive. The so-called professional politician is the dismalest failure of the ages in all countries; he is not only dead but damned, and until the people full realize it there will be no hope of a saner, wiser, and stronger system of government.  




If any of my readers should begin to wonder what all this has to do with the occupation of an artist, I might remind them of the title of this work, which suggests a selection of topics without  limit. But why should an artist be talking about politics and statecraft? Precisely for the same reason that vitally concerns the fishmonger, the cab driver, and the railway porter. Not less than these is he interested in how his country is run, and his opinions are not inevitably of less consequence.  




I have frequently been struck by the singular attitude adopted towards persons of my profession, or indeed of any other artistic profession, by so-called businessmen. Members of Parliament and journalists. For instance, when in 1940 I was in Australia, a  Sydney newspaper asked me for an interview, and under the mistaken impression that it was interested in the war, I spoke at some length about my experiences in Germany which I had visited annually between 1929-1938. I recounted how my numerous appearances at some of their great festivals such as Gologne, Salzburg, and Munich had brought me into touch with all classes of the people, how on one occasion I had spent two months working in the State Theater of Berlin, how I had met Hitler personally as well as nearly all the other members of the Nazi party, and I made special reference to my meeting with Rudolf Hess at Munich in 1936. In the published account of the interview next day there was not a single reference to any of these matters. All that the reporter had thought fit to relate for the edification of his readers was a description of my buttoned boots and the particular brand of cigar I was smoking. Had I been a politician who had never been to Germany in his life and  who betrayed an obvious ignorance of eveiy'thing that had to do  with its public and private life, my windy platitudes would have  found a welcome in about three columns of the front page. I am  uttering no grievance, for it was not I but the newspaper which had sought the interview, and it was a matter of total indifference to me whether it printed my remarks or not.  




But, returning to the spiritual condition of England in 1916 and the progress of opera in particular, the combination of a high mood of idealism in the public and economic stringency in the  musical profession were effective in enabling me to create and  develop the finest English singing company yet heard among us.  In war time the temper of a section of the people for a while becomes graver, simpler and more concentrated. The opportunities for recreation and amusement are more restricted, transport is limited, and the thoughtful intelligence craves and seeks those antidotes to a troubled consciousness of which great music is perhaps the most potent. But whatever the reason may have been, the public for opera during war time was everywhere greater than it had been before 1914 or than it became after 1919. Although it is true that there was a good deal of new money being made through war industries, that, I like to think, was a collateral cause only. The artist for his or her part, owing to the paucity of work occasioned by the closing down of so many concert societies, was happy to remain in one organization, where a satisfactory if not handsome remuneration for the greater part of the year could be gained. Had the musical machine of the country been running at normal speed, I could never have retained the almost exclusive services of such a fine group of vocalists, for half a hundred towns would, in competition with me, have been offering fees that would often have been beyond my capacity to pay. The importance of the Manchester venture in my plan of operations was that it functioned as a kind of pointer for the other great provincial cities. London I knew would support only so much opera in the year, and if I were to  maintain the company for most of the twelve months I could do so only by a series of seasons elsewhere.  




The performance of Boris had proved to be an auspicious opening, and I followed it up shortly afterwards with a new production of Verdi’s Otello executed by the Russian painter Polunin. It was sung in its original tongue with Frank Mullings in the title role, Bouillez as Iago, and Mignon Nevada as Desdemona. Of these three artists Bouillez was the least successful, his downright delivery and robust deportment being less suited to the sinuous line of lago than to Boris. The Otello of Mullings was a striking study in drama, and the vocal part of it improved fifty per cent when later on the work was sung in English, in the use of which his accomplishment matched that of John Coates. The Desdemona of Mignon Nevada was the best I have seen on any stage. The gentle helplessness of the character and its simple pathos were rendered with perfect judgment and art, and the voice in the middle and upper middle registers had an appealing quality evocative of a tender melancholy admirably suited to this part or that of Marguerite in Faust As compared with most other sopranos, its color was as ivory is to white, and what it lacked in brightness and edge was more than set off by the charm of its subdued and creamy vocal tone. Both of these highly gifted artists suffered from the same serious weakness, an unsound vocal method. In the case of Mullings I do not think he ever had one at all, and when he tackled or rather stormed certain high passages in Otello, Aida, or Tristan, I used to hold my breath in apprehension of some dire physical disaster, averted only by the possession of an iron frame that permitted him to play tricks which would have sent any other tenor into the hospital for weeks. But in the center his voice had ease and uncommon beauty, and his singing of quiet passage had a poetry, spirituality, and intelligence which I have never heard in any other native artist and in very few elsewhere. Like most large men he was also a first-rate comedian, and his fooling in Phoebus and Pan as Midas was a joy to all who saw it and has come down as a legend to the present generation.  




The case of Mignon Nevada was wholly different. She had been trained exhaustively and exquisitely, but along the wrong lines. Her mother, Emma Nevada, had been a light soprano of beautiful quality and a natural coloratura equal to any of her contemporaries. But on taking up teaching she had contracted the pious belief that every soprano, without exception, should be a model of herself, and she strove with zest and ardour to make them into such. This worked out all right in the case of those who had been created and dedicated by Providence to this end, for within these limits Emma Nevada really knew how to teach. For those, however, who were otherwise endowed, this application of the methods of the Procrustean bed was less successful. Her daughter was naturally a lyric soprano with a unique quality about as far removed from the typical light coloratura as is possible to imagine, and upon this foundation the zealous Emma had striven to superimpose a top that would enable Mignon to sing all those parts dear to her own heart, like Somnambula, Linda di Chamomix or La Perle de Bresil. This maternal ambition to see her daughter go one better than herself was frustrated by the stubborn refusal of Nature to submit to such an arbitrary experiment, and the unlucky subject of it ended by not singing at all: just one more sacrificial victim on the altar of misguided enthusiasm.  






Johann Sebastian Bach: "Der Streit zwischen Phoebus und Pan" 

(Weltliche Kantate BWV 201) Pergamon-Museum Berlin 1984  

(Schreier - Nossek, Liebold; Schreier, Ude, Lorenz, Wlaschiha) 

Carola Nossek, Soran (Momus) 

Angela Liebold, Alt (Mercurius) 

Peter Schreier, Tenor (Tmolus) 

Armin Ude, Tenor (Midas) 

Siegfried Lorenz, Bariton (Phoebus) 

Ekkehard Wlaschiha, Bariton (Pan) 

Berliner Solisten (Einstudierung: Dietrich Knothe) 

Kammerorchester Berlin 

Dirigent: Peter Schreier 




condensed score 

民謡を「楽曲」へと作り込むこと:ヴォーン・ウィリアムズ「National Music」第4章より(1934)




D. Mus.  









Copyright, 1934, by  

Ralph Vaughan Williams  




著作権発効 1934年 













Thus it is that the folk-song evolves and becomes in reality the voice of the people. 




Why am I sure that it is not a process of disintegration or "corruption" as our scholarly friends are so fond of saying? For there are those who would have us believe that the folk-songs which have been sung during the last hundred years are corrupted, imperfect, half-remembered relics of some mysterious "original." But how with any semblance of accuracy can such tunes as "Searching for Lambs" or "My Bonny Boy" be described as corrupt, or imperfect, or disintegrated--are they not complete rounded, finished works of art? True, they may be different from other versions which have preceded them, but must they therefore be worse--cannot they be better? Is it not possible that the collector caught them at the climax of their evolution--if these are derelict relics, what were the originals? 




I am far from saying that this is true of all folk-songs, there are dull and stupid folk-tunes just as there is dull and stupid music of all kinds, and it occasionally happens that a collector stumbles across a folk-tune just as it has got into the hands of an incompetent singer who has spoilt it; but we must remember this, that purely traditional music if it falls into bad hands tends to die a natural death while the written note, however bad it is, remains to cumber our national libraries. 




One other point. The communal evolution of a folk-tune is in all points parallel to the evolution of a musical idea in the mind of an individual composer. We can sometimes, as in the case of Beethoven's notebooks, trace this evolution in all its stages in the composer's mind. 




Is the final version then of the great tune in the Ninth Symphony a "corruption" of the idea as it originally appears in Beethoven's sketch book? If the worshippers of "originals" are to be logical this is what they will have to say. 




It may be argued that since the folk-song has now ceased to evolve traditionally, it must be something dead, a mere archaism, interesting to the antiquarian, but with no living message for us in the 20th century. 




Our traditional melodies are, I am aware, no longer traditional. They have been noted down by experts and committed to printing, they have been discussed and analysed and harmonized and sung at concerts; they have in fact been stereotyped. They are no longer in a state of flux, they are no longer the exclusive property of the peasant, but have come into line with the composed music of which they are supposed to be the antithesis. From this you might suppose that their growth had stopped and that they are no longer something vital; that however beautiful they may be they belong to an age which is past and have nothing to say to the modern generation. The folk-song is I believe not dead, but the art of the folk-singer is. We cannot, and would not if we could, sing folk-songs in the same way and in the same circumstances in which they used to be sung. If the revival of folk-song meant merely an attempt to galvanize into life a dead past there would be little to be said for it. The folk-song has now taken its place side by side with the classical songs of Schubert, the drawing-room ballad and the music-hall song, and must be judged on its intrinsic merits.