R.A. Streatfeild - The Opera

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'La Muette de Portici,' which is known in the Italian version as
'Masaniello,' was written for the Grand Opera. Here Auber vainly
endeavoured to suit his style to its more august surroundings. The
result is entirely unsatisfactory; the more serious parts of the work
are pretentious and dull, and the pretty little tunes, which the
composer could not keep out of his head, sound absurdly out of place in
a serious drama. Fenella, the dumb girl of Portici, has been seduced by
Alfonso, the son of the Spanish Viceroy of Naples. She escapes from the
confinement to which she had been subjected, and denounces him on the
day of his marriage to the Spanish princess Elvira. Masaniello, her
brother, maddened by her wrongs, stirs up a revolt among the people, and
overturns the Spanish rule. He contrives to save the lives of Elvira and
Alfonso, but this generous act costs him his life, and in despair
Fenella leaps into the stream of boiling lava from an eruption of
Vesuvius. The part of Fenella gives an opportunity of distinction to a
clever pantomimist, and has been associated with the names of many
famous dancers; but the music of the opera throughout is one of the
least favourable examples of Auber's skill. Auber had many imitators,
among whom perhaps the most successful was Adolphe Adam (1803-1856),
whose 'Chalet' and 'Postillon de Longjumeau' are still occasionally
performed. They reproduce the style of Auber with tolerable fidelity,
but have no value as original work. The only other composer of this
period who deserves to be mentioned is Felicien David (1810-1876). His
'Lalla Rookh,' a setting of Moore's story, though vastly inferior to his
symphonic poem 'Le Desert,' is a work of distinction and charm. To
David belongs the credit of opening the eyes of musicians to the
possibilities of Oriental colour. Operas upon Eastern subjects have
never been very popular in England, but in France many of them have been
successful. 'Le Desert' founded the school, of which 'Les Pecheurs de
Perles,' 'Djamileh,' 'Le Roi de Lahore,' and 'Lakme' are well-known
representatives. The career of the other musicians--many in number--of
this facile and thoughtless epoch may be summed up in a few words. They
were one and all imitators; Clapisson (1808-1866), Grisar (1808-1869),
and Maillart (1817-1871), clung to the skirts of Auber; Niedermeyer
(1802-1861), threw in his lot with Halevy. So far as they succeeded in
reproducing the external and superficial features of the music of their
prototypes, they enjoyed a brief day of popularity. But with the first
change of public taste they lapsed into oblivion, and their works
nowadays sound far more old-fashioned than those of the generation which
preceded them.

CHAPTER IX

WAGNER'S EARLY WORKS

Richard Wagner (1813-1883) is by far the most important figure in the
history of modern opera. With regard to the intrinsic beauty of his
works, and the artistic value of the theories upon which they are
constructed, there have been, and still are, two opinions; but his most
bigoted opponents can scarcely refuse to acknowledge the extent of the
influence which he has had upon contemporary and subsequent music--an
influence, in fact, which places him by the side of Monteverde and Gluck
among the great revolutionists of musical history. As in their case, the
importance of his work rests upon the fact that, although to a certain
extent an assimilation and development of the methods of his
predecessors, it embodied a deliberate revolt against existing musical
conditions.

From one point of view Wagner's revolt is even more important than that
of either of his forerunners, for they were men who, having failed to
win success under the existing conditions of music, revolted--so to
speak--in self-preservation, while he was an accomplished musician, and
the author of a successful work written in strict accordance with the
canons of art which then obtained. Had Wagner pleased, there was
nothing to hinder his writing a succession of 'Rienzis,' and ending his
days, like Spontini, rich and ennobled. To his eternal honour he
rejected the prospect, and chose the strait and narrow way which led,
through poverty and disgrace, to immortality. In spite of the
acknowledged success of 'Rienzi,' Wagner's enemies were never tired of
repeating that, like Monteverde, he had invented a new system because he
could not manipulate the old. It seems hardly possible to us that
musicians could ever have been found to deny that the composer of 'Die
Meistersinger' was a consummate master of counterpoint. Fortunately the
discovery of his Symphony in C finally put an end to all doubts relative
to the thoroughness of Wagner's musical education. In this work, which
was written at the age of eighteen, the composer showed a mastery of the
symphonic form which many of his detractors might have envied. The fact
is, that Wagner was a man of a singularly flexible habit of mind. He was
a careful student of both ancient and modern music, and a study of his
works shows us that, so far from despising what had been done by his
predecessors, he greedily assimilated all that was best in their
productions, only rejecting the narrow conventions in which so many of
them had contentedly acquiesced. His music is the logical development of
that of Gluck and Weber, purified by a closer study of the principles of
declamation, and enriched by a command of orchestral resource of which
they had never dreamed.

Wagner's first opera, 'Die Feen,' was written in 1833, when the
composer was twenty years old. Wagner always wrote his own libretti,
even in those days. The story of 'Die Feen' was taken from one of
Gozzi's fairy-tales, 'La Donna Serpente.' Wagner himself, in his
'Communication to my Friends,' written in 1851, has given us a _resume_
of the plot: 'A fairy, who renounces immortality for the sake of a human
lover, can only become a mortal through the fulfilment of certain hard
conditions, the non-compliance wherewith on the part of her earthly
swain threatens her with the direst penalties; her lover fails in the
test, which consists in this, that, however evil and repulsive she may
appear to him (in the metamorphosis which she has to undergo), he shall
not reject her in his unbelief. In Gozzi's tale the fairy is changed
into a snake; the remorseful lover frees her from the spell by kissing
the snake, and thus wins her for his wife. I altered this denouement by
changing the fairy into a stone, and then releasing her from the spell
by her lover's passionate song; while the lover, instead of being
allowed to carry off his bride into his own country, is himself admitted
by the fairy king to the immortal bliss of fairyland, together with his
fairy wife.'

When Wagner wrote 'Die Feen' he was under the spell of Weber, whose
influence is perceptible in every page of the score. Marschner, too,
whose 'Vampyr' and 'Templer und Juedin' had been recently produced at
Leipzig, which was then Wagner's headquarters, also appealed very
strongly to the young musician's plastic temperament. 'Die Feen'
consequently has little claim to originality, but the work is
nevertheless interesting to those who desire to trace the master's
development _ab ovo_. Both in the melodies and rhythms employed it is
possible to trace the germs of what afterwards became strongely marked
characteristics. Wagner himself never saw 'Die Feen' performed. In 1833
he could not persuade any German manager to produce it, and, in the
changes which soon came over his musical sympathies, 'Die Feen' was laid
upon the shelf and probably forgotten. It was not until 1888, five years
after the composer's death, that the general enthusiasm for everything
connected with Wagner induced the authorities at Munich to produce it.
Since then it has been performed with comparative frequency, and formed
a part of the cycles of Wagner's works which were given in 1894 and
1895. Wagner's next work was of a very different nature. 'Das
Liebesverbot' was a frank imitation of the Italian school. He himself
confesses that 'if any one should compare this score with that of "Die
Feen" he would find it difficult to understand how such a complete
change in my tendencies could have been brought about in so short a
time.' The incident which turned his thoughts into this new channel was
a performance of Bellini's 'Capuletti e Montecchi,' in which Madame
Schroeder-Devrient sang the part of Romeo. This remarkable woman
exercised in those days an almost hypnotic influence upon Wagner, and
the beauty and force of this particular impersonation impressed him so
vividly that he relinquished his admiration of Weber and the Teutonic
school and plunged headlong into the meretricious sensuousness of Italy.
The libretto of 'Das Liebesverbot' is founded upon Shakespeare's
'Measure for Measure,' It was performed for the first and only time at
Magdeburg in 1836, and failed completely; but it is only just to say
that its failure seems to have been due more to insufficient rehearsal
than to the weakness of the score. After the success of 'Die Feen' at
Munich, it naturally occurred to the authorities there to revive
Wagner's one other juvenile opera. The score of 'Das Liebesverbot' was
accordingly unearthed, and the parts were allotted. The first rehearsal,
however, decided its fate. The opera was so ludicrous and unblushing an
imitation of Donizetti and Bellini, that the artists could scarcely sing
for laughter. Herr Vogl, the eminent tenor, and one or two others were
still in favour of giving it as a curiosity, but in the end it was
thought better to drop it altogether, less on account of the music than
because of the licentious character of the libretto.

'Rienzi,' the next in order of Wagner's operas, was written on the lines
of French opera. Wagner hoped to see it performed in Paris, and
throughout the score he kept the methods of Meyerbeer and Spontini
consistently in his mind's eye. There is very little attempt at
characterisation, but the opportunities for spectacular display are many
and various. In later years Meyerbeer paid Wagner the compliment of
saying that the libretto of 'Rienzi' was the best he had ever read.
'Rienzi' was produced at Dresden in 1842.

The opera opens at night. The scene is laid in a street near the Lateran
Church in Rome. Orsini, a Roman nobleman, and his friends are attempting
to abduct Irene, the sister of Rienzi, a Papal notary. They are
disturbed by the entrance of Colonna, another Roman noble, and his
adherents. The two ruffians quarrel over the unfortunate girl; their
followers eagerly join in the fray; and in a moment, as it seems, the
quiet street is alive with the _cliquetis_ of steel and the flash of
sword-blades. Adriano, Colonna's son, loves Irene, and when he discovers
who the trembling victim of patrician lust really is, he hastens to
protect her. The tumult soon attracts a crowd to the spot. Last comes
Rienzi, indignant at the insult offered to his sister, and bent upon
revenge. Adriano, torn by conflicting emotions, decides to throw in his
lot with Rienzi, and the act ends with the appointment of the latter to
the post of Tribune--- he refuses the title of King--and the marshalling
of the plebeians against the recreant aristocracy. The arms of the
people carry the day, and in the second act the nobles appear at the
Capitol to sue for pardon. Rienzi, though warned of their treachery by
Adriano, accepts their promise of submission. During the festivities
which celebrate the reconciliation Orsini attempts to assassinate
Rienzi, who is only saved by the steel breastplate which he wears
beneath his robes. For this outrage the nobles are condemned to death.
Adriano begs for his father's life, and Rienzi weakly relents, and
grants his prayer on condition of the nobles taking an oath of
submission.

In the third act the struggle between the nobles and the people advances
another stage. The nobles have once more broken their oath, and are
drawn up in battle array at the gates of Rome. Rienzi marshals his
forces and prepares to march forth against them. In vain Adriano pleads
once more for pardon. The fortune of war goes in favour of the
plebeians. The nobles are routed, Colonna is slain, and the scene closes
as Adriano vows vengeance over his father's body upon his murderer.

In the fourth act the tide has turned against Rienzi. The citizens
suspect him of treachery to their cause. Adriano joins the ranks of
malcontents, and does all in his power to fire them to vengeance. Rienzi
appears, and is at once surrounded by the conspirators, but in a speech
of noble patriotism he convinces them of their mistakes, and wins them
once more to allegiance. Suddenly the doors of the Lateran Church are
thrown open; the Papal Legate appears, and reads aloud the Bull of
Rienzi's excommunication. Horror-stricken at the awful sentence, the
Tribune's friends forsake him and fly, all save Irene, who, deaf to the
wild entreaties of Adriano, clings to her brother in passionate
devotion.

In the fifth act, Rienzi, after a last vain attempt to arouse the
patriotism of the people, seeks refuge in the Capitol, which is fired by
the enraged mob. The Tribune and Irene perish in the flames, together
with Adriano, whose love for Irene proves stronger than death.

Wagner himself has described the frame of mind in which he began to work
at 'Rienzi': "To do something grand, to write an opera for whose
production only the most exceptional means should suffice...this is
what resolved me to resume, and carry out with all my might, my former
plan of 'Rienzi.' In the preparation of this text I took no thought for
anything but the writing of an effective operatic libretto." In the
light of this confession, it is best to look upon 'Rienzi' merely as a
brilliant exercise in the Grand Opera manner. Much of the music is showy
and effective; there is a masculine vigour about the melodies, and the
concerted pieces are skilfully treated, but, except to the student of
Wagner's development, its intrinsic value is very small.

Appropriately enough, the idea of writing an opera upon the legend of
the Flying Dutchman first occurred to Wagner during his passage from
Riga to London in the year 1839. The voyage was long and stormy, and the
tempestuous weather which he encountered, together with the fantastic
tales which he heard from the lips of the sailors, made so deep an
impression upon his mind, that he determined to make his experiences the
groundwork of an opera dealing with the fortunes of the 'Wandering Jew
of the Ocean.' When he was in Paris, the stress of poverty compelled him
to treat the sketch, which he had made for a libretto, as a marketable
asset. This he sold to a now forgotten composer named Dietsch, who wrote
an opera upon the subject, which failed completely. The disappearance of
this work left Wagner's hands free once more, and some years later he
returned _con amore_ to his original idea. 'Der Fliegende Hollaender' was
produced at Dresden in 1843.

The legend of the Flying Dutchman is, of course, an old one. The idea of
the world-wearied wanderer driven from shore to shore in the vain search
for peace and rest dates from Homer. Heine was the first to introduce
the motive of the sinner's redemption through the love of a faithful
woman, which was still further elaborated by Wagner, and really forms
the basis of his drama. The opera opens in storm and tempest. The ship
of Daland, a Norwegian mariner, has just cast anchor at a wild and
rugged spot upon the coast not far from his own home, where his daughter
Senta is awaiting him. He can do nothing but wait for fair weather, and
goes below, leaving his steersman to keep watch. The lad drops asleep,
singing of his home, and through the darkness the gloomy vessel of the
Dutchman is seen approaching with its blood-red sails. The Dutchman
anchors his ship close to the Norwegian barque, and steps ashore. Seven
years have passed since he last set foot upon earth, and he comes once
more in search of a true woman who will sacrifice herself for his
salvation, for this alone can free him from the curse under which he
suffers. But hope of mortal aid is dead within his breast. In wild and
broken accents he tells of his passionate longing for death, and calls
upon the Judgment Day to put an end to his pilgrimage. 'Annihilation be
my lot,' he cries in his madness, and from the depths of the black
vessel the weird crew echoes his despairing cry. Daland issues from his
own vessel and gives the stranger a hearty greeting. The name of Senta
arrests the Dutchman's attention, and after a short colloquy and a
glimpse of the untold wealth which crams the coffers of the Dutchman,
the old miser consents to give his daughter to the stranger. The wind
meanwhile has shifted, and the two captains hasten their departure for
the port.

In the second act we are at Daland's house. Mary, the old housekeeper,
and a bevy of chattering girls are spinning by the fireside, while
Senta, lost in gloomy reverie, sits apart gazing at a mysterious picture
on the wall, the portrait of a pale man clad in black, the hero of the
mysterious legend of the Flying Dutchman. The girls rally Senta upon her
abstraction, and as a reply to their idle prattle she sings them the
ballad of the doomed mariner. Throughout the song her enthusiasm has
been waxing, and at its close, like one inspired, she cries aloud that
she will be the woman to save him, that through her the accursed wretch
shall find eternal peace. Erik, her betrothed lover, who enters to
announce the approach of Daland, hears her wild words, and in vain
reminds her of vows and promises made long ago. When Daland brings the
Dutchman in, and Senta sees before her the hero of her romance, the
living embodiment of the mysterious picture, she gazes spell-bound at
the weird stranger, and seems scarcely to hear her father's hasty
recommendation of the new suitor's pretensions. Left alone with the
Dutchman, Senta rapturously vows her life to his salvation, and the
scene ends with the plighting of their troth.

In the last act we are once more on the seashore. The Dutch and
Norwegian vessels are moored side by side, but while the crew of the
latter is feasting and making merry, the former is gloomy and silent as
the grave. A troop of damsels runs on with baskets of food and wine;
they join with the Norwegian sailors in calling upon the Dutchmen to
come out and share their festivities, but not a sound proceeds from the
phantom vessel. Suddenly the weird mariners appear upon the deck, and
while blue flames hover upon the spars and masts of their fated vessel,
they sing an uncanny song taunting their captain with his failure as a
lover. The Norwegian sailors in terror hurry below, the girls beat a
hasty retreat, and silence descends once more upon the two vessels.
Senta issues from Daland's house, followed by Erik. In spite of his
importunity, her steadfast purpose remains unmoved; but the Dutchman
overhears Erik's passionate appeal and, believing Senta to be untrue to
himself, rushes on board his ship and hastily puts out to sea. Senta's
courage rises to the occasion. Though the Dutchman has cast her off,
she remains true to her vows. She hastens to the edge of the cliff hard
by, and with a wild cry hurls herself into the sea. Her solemn act of
renunciation fulfils the promise of her lips. The gloomy vessel of the
Dutchman, its mission accomplished, sinks into the waves, while the
forms of Senta and the Dutchman transfigured with unearthly light are
seen rising from the bosom of the ocean.

The music of 'Der Fliegende Hollaender' may be looked at from two points
of view. As a link in the chain of Wagner's artistic development, it is
of the highest interest. In it we see the germs of those theories which
were afterwards to effect so formidable a revolution in the world of
opera. In 'Der Fliegende Hollaender' Wagner first puts to the proof the
_Leit-Motiv_, or guiding theme, the use of which forms, as it were, the
base upon which the entire structure of his later works rests. In those
early days he employed it with timidity, it is true, and with but a
half-hearted appreciation of the poetical effect which it commands; but
from that day forth each of his works shows a more complete command of
its resources, and a subtler instinct as to its employment. The
intrinsic musical interest of 'Der Fliegende Hollaender' is unequal.
Wagner had made great strides since the days of 'Rienzi,' but he had
still a vast amount to unlearn. Side by side with passages of vital
force and persuasive beauty there are dreary wastes of commonplace and
the most arid conventionality. The strange mixture of styles which
prevails in 'Der Fliegende Hollaender' makes it in some ways even less
satisfactory as a work of art than 'Rienzi,' which at any rate has the
merit of homogeneity. Wagner is most happily inspired by the sea. The
overture, as fresh and picturesque a piece of tone-painting as anything
he ever wrote, is familiar to all concert-goers, and the opening of the
first act is no less original. But perhaps the most striking part of the
opera, certainly the most characteristic, is the opening of the third
act, with its chain of choruses between the girls and the sailors. A
great deal of 'Der Fliegende Hollaender' might have been written by any
operatic composer of the time, but this scene bears upon it the
hall-mark of genius.

If 'Der Fliegende Hollaender' proved that the descriptive side of
Wagner's genius had developed more rapidly than the psychological, the
balance was promptly re-established in 'Tannhaeuser,' his next work. Much
of the music is picturesque and effective, even in the lowest sense, but
its strength lies in the extraordinary power which the composer displays
of individualising his characters--a power of which in 'Der Fliegende
Hollaender' there was scarcely a suggestion.

So far as mere form is concerned, 'Tannhaeuser' (1845) is far freer from
the conventionalities of the Italian school than 'Der Fliegende
Hollaender,' but this would not have availed much if Wagner's
constructive powers had not matured in so remarkable a way. It would
have been useless to sweep away the old conventions if he had had
nothing to set in their place. Apart from the strictly musical side of
the question, Wagner had in 'Tannhaeuser' a story of far deeper human
interest than the weird legend of the Dutchman, the tale which never
grows old of the struggle of good and evil for a human soul, the tale of
a remorseful sinner won from the powers of hell by the might of a pure
woman's love.

There is a legend which tells that when the gods and goddesses fled from
their palace on Olympus before the advance of Christianity, Venus betook
herself to the North, and established her court in the bowels of the
earth, beneath the hill of Hoerselberg in Thuringia. There we find the
minstrel Tannhaeuser at the opening of the opera. He has left the world
above, its strifes and its duties, for the wicked delights of the grotto
of Venus. There he lies in the embraces of the siren goddess, while life
passes in a ceaseless orgy of sinful pleasure. But the poet wearies of
his amorous captivity, and would fain return to the earth once more. In
vain the goddess pleads, in vain she calls up new scenes of ravishing
delight, he still prays to be gone. Finally he calls on the sainted name
of Mary, and Venus with her nymphs, grotto, palace and all, sink into
the earth with a thunder-clap, while Tannhaeuser, when he comes to his
senses once more, finds himself kneeling upon the green grass on the
slope of a sequestered valley, lulled by the tinkling bells of the flock
and the piping of a shepherd from a rock hard by. The pious chant of
pilgrims, passing on their way to Rome, wakens his slumbering
conscience, and bids him expiate his guilt by a life of abstinence and
humiliation. His meditations are interrupted by the appearance of the
Landgrave of Thuringia, his liege lord, who is hunting with Wolfram von
Eschinbach, Walther von der Vogelweide, and other minstrel-knights of
the Wartburg; but his newly awakened sense of remorse forbids him to
return with them to the castle, until Wolfram breathes the name of the
Landgrave's niece Elisabeth, the saintly maiden who has drooped and
pined since Tannhaeuser disappeared from the singing contests at the
Wartburg. The thought of human love touches his heart with warm
sympathy, and he gladly hastens to the castle with his newly found
friends.

In the second act we are at the Wartburg, in the Hall of Song in which
those tournaments of minstrelsy were held, for which the castle was
celebrated in the middle ages. Elisabeth enters, bringing a greeting to
the hall, whose threshold she has not crossed since Tannhaeuser's
mysterious departure. Her joyous tones have scarcely ceased when
Tannhaeuser, led by Wolfram, appears and falls at the feet of the
youthful Princess. Her pure spirit cannot conceive aught of dishonour in
his absence, and she welcomes him back to her heart with girlish trust.
Now the guests assemble and, marshalled in order, take their places for
the singers' tourney. The Landgrave announces the subject of the
contest--the power Of love--and more than hints that the hand of
Elisabeth is to be the victor's prize. The singers in turn take their
harps and pour forth their improvisations; Wolfram sings of the chaste
ideal which he worships from afar, Walther of the pure fount of virtue
from which he draws his inspiration, and the warrior Biterolf praises
the chivalrous passion of the soldier.

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