CALLAS TODAY

By John Ardoin

To the north of the Arch of Triumph in Paris is the elegant wooded Avenue Foch. It is a quiet street in comparison to the hubbub of the nearby Champs Elysée. The houses on Avenue Foch are imposing and sedate and behind the gate of one lives soprano Maria Callas. Her apartment is rich, but comfortable, with scores and books lining the shelves of her library where we talked. There is a spacious, sunny living room which holds her piano. The foyer was jammed with enormous bouquets of flowers she had received a few days earlier for her debut at the Paris Opera in Bellini’s “Norma.”

She was on the phone when I was ushered into the library, and waved at me with a broad smile and motioned for me to have a seat. She continued talking for a while, which gave me a chance to study her. Callas has a lovely, classic face with enormous eyes; her skin is soft with the olive complexion of the Mediterranean people. Her black hair was pulled back and tied, and she had on a light summer suit. When she finished her call, our conversation turned immediately to several recent newspaper articles. “Why do they continue to say that I was born in Brooklyn? If I was born there, fine, I would be the first one to say so. But I was not. They just want to try to make a story about a poor girl from the slums. My family was not rich, but we were always comfortable. Why do they search everywhere for intrigue? My parents fought—but don’t all parents?” ·

I mentioned the biography written about her by George Jellinek. “I don’t like the books about me, they’re presumptuous. I am still too young for such nonsense. The only book about me will be the one that I will write. I have not read all of Jellinek’s book, but I am told that it’s fair. What I have read seems to be, although I have found many mistakes in it, too. Now there is a new book out about me, and I suppose you know the one written by my poor mother. This new book is by a Greek writer whom I know slightly. He has been backstage several times when I have sung, to say hello, and he sends me flowers. I thank those people who send me flowers, but this hardly means that they are qualified to write a book about me.”

At this point, the conversation changed abruptly to the “Norma” production. I quickly discovered that it was very difficult to hold Callas to any given subject for any length of time. One idea would trigger off another and she would immediately take up the new idea. “Paris should thank their stars for such a ‘Norma’ as Zeffirelli gave them. They will never see such a production again.” In regard to “Norma,” I asked if the current production by Zeffirelli differed from the many “Normas” she had done before. Had he changed her approach to the role? “I always change. My research always goes on in my roles. Music does not sit still, it is an intangible thing, a thing of the moment. It is my psychological point of view that changes mainly. Once I was more static in Norma. But one must continually search, and the more you search the more you spend energy, and this is what an artist must be careful about. I cannot really say that Zeffirelli changed my performance too much. You can’t change a basic interpretation after 16 years. What was admirable in Zeffirelli was that he mainly let me do what I wanted and staged the production around me.”

Her voice in the Paris “Normas” seemed to me more solid than it had two years ago, and when I asked her how she felt about it, she replied: “Today my voice helps me more than before. If your middle voice is weak, you make up for it on the top; but if you build a more solid middle voice, something gives on top. What can you do? You must have ten voices for Norma, but merely singing it is not enough. We learn notes in solfeggio, but then, at a point we stop learning notes and we interpret. And when we interpret, there is always the question of style. What is style? How do we know what the style was in Beethoven’s day, in Donizetti’s day, in Verdi’s day? We don’t know. We can read about the style but we can no longer hear how music was once done. So style today is a question of good taste.

“I have to fight all the time—not the management, not the musicians, but the public, because they do not understand what I try to do. I want to make music, but the public wants loud, high notes. This is not music, this is a circus. Fioratura was not considered by a composer as a means of display but as a means of expression. Trills, acciaccaturas and other embellishments must be done with meaning. Remember ‘Sonnambula’ was written for the same voice as ‘Norma,’ but most people do not realize this.”

She paused for a moment and looked directly at me. “Did you like my voice the first time you heard it?” A feeling of uneasiness crept over me, because I wasn’t sure how to answer. I had not liked her voice when I first heard it, and finally I said so. “Ah, you see,” she said, “no one likes my voice the first time because they don’t understand what I am trying to do with it. People want only beautiful sound, but how tiresome only sound is after a short while if a singer does not also make music. This is why I must fight the public, because I want to make music. You cannot give everything in you to music without paying for it.”

The discussion turned to her recent recordings of French operatic arias, and I asked her when she became interested in this repertory. “The French repertory is not a recent interest. Before I studied with de Hildago, I had already had a year of French repertory. I have always sung French arias—not in public, but in the studio, and recently my interest came back. I now will record ‘Carmen,’ but there will be no Carmen on stage. Eventually, perhaps, but I doubt it. Certainly not now. I don’t really like records and I don’t like to listen to my records. When I hear them I only feel that I should re-do them. Records can never give what the theater does. Neither can concerts. More and more I realize I am not a concert singer.

“I am also interested in several new roles, but I can’t work on new things unless I am in the mood. It is no use that I study at the piano if I don’t feel like it. In one hour, I can do more when I feel like it than in a month, when I don’t feel like it. Mechanical things I can do, yes, but the other things, no.” Then, switching abruptly, she noted: “Singing is much too much a mystery. The world is still after a voice, period. They are used to it. They must be trained to learn that a voice is not enough, notes are not enough; a singer must be an artist. We are instruments.”

I mentioned her statement in 1957 that she had no rivals. This brought a heated reply. “This is right. Rivals I have not. The day when someone sings all my repertory including my repertoire on records, from Isolde to Lucia, then I will have a rival, not before.” Then I mentioned that some people consider Joan Sutherland a rival to Callas. She shook her head “Poor thing, she only sings Lucia and ‘Sonnambula,’ I think. When will she do Isolde? This role is in my mind again, but learning the German is so hard. I want to do Isolde, but I want to do it with a beautiful company. I want beautiful youth for my Isolde, but where can one find a Tristan? This is such an important part, and who today can sing it? Whoever sings it must be careful to see that ‘Tristan’s’ last act is done like a dream world. It must vibrate the heart. I am told that Jess Thomas would make a wonderful Tristan, but I haven’t heard him. Wagner still interests me, but Strauss will never be for me. I am a romantic singer. I like pure melody, the melody of the 19th century. I love Puccini, but he is not a favorite of mine. His music is too down to earth.”

Our visit ended on this note. Callas, today, seemed to me an enormously self-assured woman. There is no shame or pretentiousness about her. She is direct and to-the-point and takes a fierce pride in what she has accomplished. At the same time, however, she has a realistic outlook and knows her limitations. Again and again, Callas impressed me as a person of great determination and honesty. She is intolerant of idle compliments, but shows immediate interest and pleasure when someone is willing to discuss her work, or music, seriously and specifically. And there is a graciousness and charm to her that make her seem as rare a person as she is an artist.