英日対訳:トーマス・ビーチャム自叙伝「A Mingled Chime」第12章(2/2)出会いは突然:フレデリック・ディーリアス








But apart from his historical importance as the central operatic figure of his generation, Maurel was of some further interest to us as about the last genuine specimen of that theatrical tribe which has suffered such a melancholy change during the last fifty years. Formerly an actor or singer was recognizable as such a quarter of a mile away; and though certain other professions such as parsons or prize-fighters might have claimed the same distinction none of them vaunted it in such conspicuous fashion. Today he is indistinguishable from men of common make in appearance, speech, and manners and, in true accordance with the spirit of the time, aspires to own as little individuality and to be as much like his neighbor as he can be. But the ancient type of player was a creature apart from the rest of his kind, proud of an originality manifested not only in outward ways but in a mentality which had remained unchanged for centuries. The prime function of anyone who seeks to divert the public of a theater is to create illusion, and the greater the performance the greater the illusion. As time goes on the life of the player becomes more and more itself an illusion, through an ever intenser absorption into the realm of fantasy in which its working days are passed. For this reason everything that the mummer of old did or said, his massive movements and picturesque postures, his orotund periods and sententious phrases, were all reflections and echoes of the dream world peopled by the creations of the great dramatists. This dramatic tradition which had held the stage since the production of Marlowe’s Tamburlaine, had been rooted in the mixed soil of tragedy and romance and had followed pretty generally the Aristotelian precept that the actions of great men (in the material sense of power and position) are of more interest than those of their lesser brethren. 

だが、モーレルが、同世代の中心的オペラ界のアーティストとして、歴史的に重要な存在だったことは別にして、彼は私達にとっては、ここ50年間で嘆かわしい変化に見舞われてしまっている、劇場音楽に携わる仲間の中でも、最後の天才的な存在として、大いに興味関心の的だった。かつては、俳優や歌手は、数百メートル先から離れて見ても、すぐにそれと分かる存在だった。そして、キリスト教の司祭や、賞金稼ぎの格闘家のような、他の職業従事者達は、自分達も同じように説明されてもいいはずだ、と言い張るかと思いきや、そういうことをハッキリと鼻にかける人は、誰一人としていない。今では彼は、見た目、話し方、立ち居振る舞いは、他の同業仲間と、代わり映えしない。そして、今の時代精神と完全に一致して、個性をほとんど持たないこと、そして、近しい人々とできるだけ同じ有り様でいることを、強く望んでいる。だが、大昔のタイプの舞台人というものは、彼のような類の他の連中とは違っていて、その内容は、何百年にも亘って変わらぬことだが、外見も中身も、独自性を誇りに思うような動物達である。他の劇場関係者と自分とは違う、そう思いたい連中がまずもってやることは、幻想を作り出そうとすること。そして、パフォーマンスが大掛かりなほど、幻想も大掛かりになる、というものだ。歳月を重ねるにつれて、その者の生活全てが、幻想になってゆく。それも、賞味期限切れの妄想の領域に、ズブズブとのめり込んでゆくのだ。そんなわけで、時代遅れの舞台人の、言動、堂々たる(→仰々しい)所作、表現力に富んだ(→珍奇な)立ち姿、朗々たる名(→迷)調子、その全ては、偉大な劇作家達の創り出した人々が集う夢の世界を、映し出し描き出したものである。クリストファー・マーロウの「タンバレン大王」が制作されて以降、舞台の世界にはびこっている伝統は、悲劇とロマンスの混濁した土壌に根付いている  そして、偉大な人間達の行動(力や立場という形に現れる面という意味で)は、自分達よりも劣ると見なす仲間達の行動によりも、興味の重きをおくという、アリストテレス哲学の教えを相当しっかりと守ってきている。 



For over three centuries the European theater as represented by Shakespeare, Fletcher, Calderon, Racine, Moliere, Goethe, and the rest was mainly an upper-class affair in which the principal personages were seen strutting authoritatively on the larger stage of life, and the men whose daily occupation was to deliver the speech and portray the actions of princes, cardinals, and great ladies came to look down on the middle and lower classes of society as something belonging to an inferior stratum of civilization. But with the triumph of the bourgeois drama of which Ibsen was the progenitor and Shaw the heir, this grandiose and spacious art gradually yielded to one of modest gesture and prosaic speech, much as the easy and familiar style of Hazlitt and Hunt superseded the ornate and weighty periods of Johnson and Gibbon. Forced to reproduce the actions and utterances of the suburban villa in place of those of the royal palace, the actor step by step declined from the exalted height where his spirit bathed daily in the sunshine of reflected greatness, to that flat-land of commonplace existence which most of us endure and do not despise. The process of descent is now accomplished, and an artistic community formerly as isolated from the common herd as the Quakers or the Mormons has achieved a colorless and unimpressive uniformity. Of all the personalities of this ilk who vanished one by one from the scene of their glory forty and fifty years ago, the most characteristic and complete was Maurel. Poetry and fustian, inspiration and bathos, intellectual maturity united with childlike naivete, all were present in him, and such were the merits and demerits of the player of a day that is dead. The mold is shattered and will not be repaired in our time. 




It soon became clear that if the New Symphony Orchestra was to compete successfully for public favor with its elder rivals, the Queen’s Hall and London Symphony, it must evolve from a small into a large body of players. This was accomplished satisfactorily during the summer of 1907, and I was enabled to start the autumn season with a series of concerts in the ampler accommodation of Queen’s Hall with programs this time devoted almost wholly to unfamiliar modern works. The public likes to label a musician just as it does an actor and to isolate him in a special corner of its own choosing. I am sure that it must be a painful shock to thousands of the other sex when some adored idol of the stage, who has been playing for long years romantic parts like Monsieur Beaucaire or Sydney Carton, suddenly betrays their trust by leaving the dear, familiar path for some deplorable aberration such as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Similarly I fear that my rapid transition from a delicate and fastidious classicism to a robust and unbridled modernism, may have wounded the feelings of those who had begun to look upon me as the champion of the neglected music of a half-forgotten age. But my orchestra, now enlarged to ninety musicians, was calling out for stronger fare than Paisiello or Zingarelli could provide, however charming these were in their own way: and my own inclination was at one with its need. 

1905年に立ち上がった「新交響楽団(New Symphony Orchestra)」であったが、これがクイーンズホールやロンドン交響楽団といった、既存のライバル達との客の取り合いに勝ち抜けるようであれば、小さな所帯に演奏家達が集まってくることが、程なく確実になってきた。これが現実のものとなったのが、1907年夏シーズンのことであった。お陰で私は、秋シーズンのコンサートシリーズを開催できる運びとなった。集客はクイーンズホールを一杯にできる見通しが立ち、作品は、ほぼ全曲、まだ馴染みが薄い現代のもので固めることにした。聴衆の側は、役者達を品定めするように、演奏家達を品定めするようになっている。何千人もの御婦人方にとっては、さぞかし衝撃的であったであろう。何しろ、舞台を彩る贔屓の役者達が、アンドレ・メサジェの「ボーケール氏」だの、チャールズ・ディケンズの「二都物語」のシドニー・カールトンだのといった、お馴染みの役どころから、急にジキルとハイドのような、哀れな方向へ路線変更をするのだ。そういう私も同じように、恐れていたことがある。繊細で、丁寧に作り込む古典主義が、今までの売りだったが、これを急激に、骨太・奔放な現代芸術へと舵を切るのだ。音楽ファンには半ば忘れられている時代の、これまで注目されていなかった音楽を、しっかりと聞かせるという評判を取り始めていただけに、心象を悪くしないか、気になってはいた。だが、私のオーケストラは、今や人数が90名と膨れ上がり、イタリアのジョヴァンニ・パイジェッロだのニコロ・アントニオ・ジガレッリだのといった昔の作曲家の作品が、どんなに魅力的であったとしても、それで引っ張れる集客よりも、もっとしっかりと確保したいと求めており、この点、私の好むところと、完全に一致していた。 



At the conclusion of our first concert a stranger of striking appearance was brought into the artist’s room and introduced to me. It was Frederick Delius, who, arriving from France a few days before, had been struck by the novel look of our program and had come along to see what was going on. With fine and ascetic features that might have been taken for those of a distinguished ecclesiastic had it not been for the curiously eager and restless expression both in the eyes and mouth, he spoke with decision and emphasis, and a slight North of England accent. Praising the performance he told us that he had come over to look into the orchestral situation, as a German friend of his, Fritz Cassirer, who earlier in the year had produced his opera A Village Romeo and Juliet at the Komischer Oper in Berlin, wanted to give some concerts in London. An eminent authority whom they consulted had advised them that there were only two orchestras available, and here to his surprise was a third, playing the music of his own day and, from what he could observe, really liking it. On this he commented in characteristic fashion, “London is the only town in the world where a first-class band like this can give such a set of concerts without one of its leading musicians being aware of its existence.” 




A few days later he came to see me again, this time with Cassirer, and engaged the orchestra for a trial concert in which the principal pieces to be played were his “Appalachia” and “Ein Heldenleben” of Strauss. With the exception of the piano concerto, an early work given a few weeks before this at a Promenade Concert, nothing of Delius had been heard in London for seven or eight years, and musical circles were keenly interested in this almost legendary figure who, although born an Englishman, had been living abroad for over twenty years. He had reached the age of forty-five, had written a long string of works of which hardly any of us had yet heard a note, and had now turned up again like a traveller from distant parts with a trunk full of rare curiosities. I had dipped only casually into a few of them, but enough to compel the instant recognition of a musical intelligence not only different from but in actual opposition to any with which I was familiar. Then came the performance of “Appalachia,” throughout which my dominant emotion was wonderment that music like this could have remained unknown for years, when any number of inferior compositions were being given daily with the printer’s ink scarcely dry upon their scores. The piece made a deep impression on everyone, but in all that was written or said about it, its two outstanding qualities were hardly noticed. Whether it was or was not an authentic set of variations, whether it was too short or too long, or whether Delius had been well or ill-advised in writing the choral finale just in the way he had done, were all points of secondary interest. What should have been evident at first hearing was the remotely alien sound of it, a note in English music stranger than any heard for over two hundred years, and the masterly and personal use of the orchestra. The instrumental combinations, notably those in the variations that depict nature life in the woods and swamps, were a revelation of what the orchestra could be made to utter, and although forty years have passed since it was first put down on paper, the whole work still astonishes by its variety of atmosphere, loveliness of tone and the unorthodox exploitation of those “tutti” moments which are handled by most composers old and new in such depressingly stereotyped fashion.  




It seemed that if there was one thing above all else for the orchestra and myself to do at once, it was to acquire all of this music that we could lay our hands on, make it as much our own as that of the lesser eighteenth-century masters, and play it often and everywhere. It was too late to make any change in our pre-Christmas programs but I found a place in the first of the New Year for “Paris,” the “Song of a Great City,” which though written as far back as 1899 had not yet been given in London. This extraordinary work, wrought in the form of a colossal nocturne and the greatest experiment in musical impressionism yet made, won more immediate and general acceptance than any other of the composer’s works played during this period, and thirty-three years later in the spring of 1941, when I gave it at Carnegie Hall, the boldest and acutest of American critics declared that Delius wrote better for the orchestra than anyone else.