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R.A. Streatfeild - The Opera

R >> R.A. Streatfeild >> The Opera




Each in turn is interrupted by Tannhaeuser, who, with ever-growing
vehemence, scoffs at the pale raptures of his friends. A kind of madness
possesses him, and as the hymns in praise of love recall to his memory
the amorous orgies of the Venusberg, he gradually loses all
self-control, and ends by bursting out with a wild hymn in praise of the
goddess herself. The horror-stricken women rush from the hall, and the
men, sword in hand, prepare to execute summary justice upon the
self-convicted sinner; but Elisabeth dashes in before the points of
their swords, and in broken accents begs pardon for her recreant lover
in the name of the Saviour of them all. Touched by her agonised pleading
the angry knights let fall their weapons, while Tannhaeuser, as his
madness slips from him and he realises all that he has lost, falls
repentant and prostrate upon the earth. The Landgrave bids him hasten to
Rome, where alone he may find pardon for a sin so heinous. Far below in
the valley a band of young pilgrims is passing, and the sound of their
solemn hymn rises to the castle windows; the pious strains put new life
into the despairing Tannhaeuser, and crying 'To Rome, to Rome,' he
staggers from the hall.

The scene of the third act is the same as that of the first, a wooded
valley beneath the towers of the Wartburg; but the fresh beauty of
spring has given place to the tender melancholy of autumn. No tidings of
the pilgrim have reached the castle, and Elisabeth waits on in patient
hope, praying that her lost lover may be given back to her arms free and
forgiven. While she pours forth her agony at the foot of a rustic cross,
the faithful Wolfram watches silently hard by. Suddenly the distant
chant of the pilgrims is heard. Elisabeth rises from her knees in an
agony of suspense. As the pilgrims file past one by one, she eagerly
scans their faces, but Tannhaeuser is not among them. With the failure of
her hopes she feels that the last link which binds her to earth is
broken. Committing her soul to the Virgin, she takes her way slowly back
to the castle, the hand of death already heavy upon her, after bidding
farewell to Wolfram in a passage which, though not a word is spoken, is
perhaps more poignantly pathetic than anything Wagner ever wrote. Alone
amid the gathering shades of evening, Wolfram sings the exquisite song
to the evening star which is the most famous passage in the opera. The
last strains have scarcely died away when a gloomy figure slowly enters
upon the path lately trodden by the rejoicing pilgrims. It is Tannhaeuser
returning from Rome, disappointed and despairing. His pilgrimage has
availed him nothing. The Pope bade him hope for no pardon for his sin
till the staff which he held in his hand should put forth leaves and
blossom. With these awful words ringing in his ears, Tannhaeuser has
retraced his weary steps. He has had enough of earth, and thinks only of
returning to the embraces of Venus. In response to his cries Venus
appears, in the midst of a wild whirl of nymphs and sirens. In vain
Wolfram urges and appeals; Tannhaeuser will not yield his purpose. He
breaks from his friend, and is rushing to meet the extended arms of the
goddess, when Wolfram adjures him once more by the sainted memory of
Elisabeth. At the sound of that sinless name Venus and her unhallowed
crew sink with a wild shriek into the earth. The morning breaks, and the
solemn hymn of the procession bearing the corpse of Elisabeth sounds
sweetly through the forest. As the bier is carried forward Tannhaeuser
sinks lifeless by the dead body of his departed saint, while a band of
young pilgrims comes swiftly in, bearing the Pope's staff, which has put
forth leaves and blossomed--the symbol of redemption and pardon for the
repentant sinner.

It will generally be admitted that the story of 'Tannhaeuser' is better
suited for dramatic purposes than that of 'Der Fliegende Hollaender,'
apart from the lofty symbolism which gives it so deeply human an
interest. This would go far to account for the manifest superiority of
the later work, but throughout the score it is easy to note the enhanced
power and certainty of the composer in dealing even with the less
interesting parts of the story. Much of 'Tannhaeuser' is conventional,
but it nevertheless shows a great advance on 'Der Fliegende Hollaender,'
in the disposal of the scenes as much as in the mere treatment of the
voices. But in the orchestra the advance is even more manifest. The
guiding theme, which in 'Der Fliegende Hollaender' only makes fitful and
timid appearances, is used with greater boldness, and with increased
knowledge of its effect. Wagner had as yet, it is true, but little
conception of the importance which this flexible instrument would assume
in his later works; but such passages as the orchestral introduction to
the third act, and Tannhaeuser's narration, give a foretaste of what the
composer was afterwards to achieve by this means. So far as orchestral
colour is concerned, too, the score of Tannhaeuser is deeply interesting
to the student of Wagner's development. Here we find Wagner for the
first time consistently associating a certain instrument or group of
instruments with one of the characters, as, for instance, the trombones
with the pilgrims, and the wood-wind with Elisabeth. This plan--which is
in a certain sense the outcome of the guiding theme system--he was
afterwards to develop elaborately. It had of course been employed
before, notably by Gluck, but Wagner with characteristic boldness
carried it at once to a point of which his predecessor can scarcely have
dreamed. As an illustration, the opening of the third act may be quoted,
in which Elisabeth is represented by the wood-wind--by the clarinets and
bassoons in the hour of her deep affliction and abasement, and by the
flutes and hautboys when her soul has finally cast off all the trammels
of earth--and Wolfram by the violoncello. The feelings of the two are so
exquisitely portrayed by the orchestra, that the scene would be easily
comprehensible if it were carried on--as indeed much of it is--without
any words at all.

'Lohengrin' (1850) was the first of Wagner's operas which won general
acceptance, and still remains the most popular. The story lacks the deep
human interest of 'Tannhaeuser,' but it has both power and
picturesqueness, while the prominence of the love-interest, which in the
earlier work is thrust into the background, is sufficient to explain the
preference given to it. Elsa of Brabant is charged by Frederick of
Telramund, at the instigation of his wife Ortrud, with the murder of her
brother Godfrey, who has disappeared. King Henry the Fowler, who is
judging the case, allows Elsa a champion; but the signal trumpets have
sounded twice, and no one comes forward to do battle on her behalf.
Suddenly there appears, in a distant bend of the river Scheldt, a boat
drawn by a swan, in which is standing a knight clad in silver armour.
Amidst the greatest excitement the knight gradually approaches, and
finally disembarks beneath the shadow of the king's oak. He is accepted
by Elsa as her champion and lover on the condition that she shall never
attempt to ask his name. If she should violate her promise,
Lohengrin--for it is he--must return at once to his father's kingdom.
Telramund is worsted in the fight, having no power to fight against
Lohengrin's sacred sword, and the act ends with rejoicings over the
approaching marriage of Lohengrin and Elsa.

In the second act it is night; Telramund and Ortrud are crouching upon
the steps of the Minster, opposite the palace, plotting revenge.
Suddenly Elsa steps out upon the balcony of the Kemenate, or women's
quarters, and breathes out the tale of her happiness to the breezes of
night. Ortrud accosts her with affected humility, and soon succeeds in
establishing herself once more in the good graces of the credulous
damsel. She passes into the Kemenate with Elsa, first promising to use
her magic powers so as to secure for ever for Elsa the love of her
unknown lord. Elsa rejects the offer with scorn, but it is evident that
the suggestion has sown the first seeds of doubt in her foolish heart.
As the day dawns the nobles assemble at the Minster gate, and soon the
long bridal procession begins to issue from the Kemenate. But before
Elsa has had time to set foot upon the Minster steps, Ortrud dashes
forward and claims precedence, taunting the hapless bride with ignorance
of her bridegroom's name and rank. Elsa has scarcely time to reply in
passionate vindication of her love, when the King and Lohengrin approach
from the Pallas, the quarters of the knights. Lohengrin soothes the
terror of his bride, and the procession starts once more. Once more it
is interrupted. Telramund appears upon the threshold of the cathedral
and publicly accuses Lohengrin of sorcery. The King, however, will not
harbour a suspicion of his spotless knight. Telramund is thrust aside,
though not before he has had time to whisper fresh doubts and suspicions
to the shuddering Elsa, and the procession files slowly into the
Minster.

A solemn bridal march opens the next act, while the maids of honour
conduct Elsa and Lohengrin to the bridal chamber. There, after a love
scene of enchanting beauty, her doubts break forth once more. 'How is
she to know,' she cries, 'that the swan will not come some day as
mysteriously as before and take her beloved from her arms?' In vain
Lohengrin tries to soothe her; she will not be appeased, and in frenzied
excitement puts to him the fatal question, 'Who art thou?' At that
moment the door is burst open, and Telramund rushes in followed by four
knights with swords drawn. Lohengrin lifts his sacred sword, and the
false knight falls dead at his feet. The last scene takes us back to the
banks of the Scheldt. Before the assembled army Lohengrin answers Elsa's
question. He is the son of Parsifal, the lord of Monsalvat, the keeper
of the Holy Grail. His mission is to succour the distressed, but his
mystic power vanishes if the secret of its origin be known. Even as he
speaks the swan appears once more, drawing the boat which is to bear him
away. Lohengrin bids a last farewell to the weeping Elsa, and turns once
more to the river. Now is the moment of Ortrud's triumph. She rushes
forward and proclaims that the swan is none other than Godfrey, Elsa's
brother, imprisoned in this shape by her magic arts. But Lohengrin's
power is not exhausted; he kneels upon the river bank, and in answer to
his prayer the white dove of the Grail wheels down from the sky,
releases the swan, and, while Elsa clasps her restored brother to her
breast, bears Lohengrin swiftly away over the waters of the Scheldt.

The interest of 'Lohengrin' lies rather in the subtle treatment of the
characters than in the intrinsic beauty of the story itself. Lohengrin's
love for Elsa, and his apparent intention of settling in Brabant for
life, seem scarcely consistent with his duties as knight of the Grail,
and, save for their mutual love, neither hero nor heroine have much
claim upon our sympathies. But the grouping of the characters is
admirable; the truculent witch Ortrud is a fine foil to the ingenuous
Elsa, and Lohengrin's spotless knighthood is cast into brilliant relief
by the dastardly treachery of Telramund. The story of 'Lohengrin' lacks
the deep human interest of 'Tannhaeuser,' and the music never reaches the
heights to which the earlier work sometimes soars. But in both respects
'Lohengrin' has the merit of homogeneity; the libretto is laid out by a
master hand, and the music, though occasionally monotonous in rhythm,
has none of those strange relapses into conventionality which mar the
beauty of 'Tannhaeuser.' Musically 'Lohengrin' marks the culminating
point of Wagner's earlier manner. All the links with the Italian school
are broken save one, the concerted finale. Here alone he adheres to the
old tradition of cavatina and cabaletta--the slow movement followed by
the quick. The aria in set form has completely disappeared, while the
orchestra, though still often used merely as an accompaniment, is never
degraded, as occasionally happens in 'Tannhaeuser,' to the rank of a 'big
guitar.'

The opening notes of 'Lohengrin' indeed prove incontestably the
increased power and facility with which Wagner had learnt to wield his
orchestra since the days of 'Tannhaeuser.' The prelude to 'Lohengrin'--a
mighty web of sound woven of one single theme--is, besides being a
miracle of contrapuntal ingenuity, one of the most poetical of Wagner's
many exquisite conceptions. In it he depicts the bringing to earth by
the hands of angels of the Holy Grail, the vessel in which Joseph of
Arimathea caught the last drops of Christ's blood upon the cross. With
the opening chords we seem to see the clear blue expanse of heaven
spread before us in spotless radiance. As the Grail motive sounds for
the first time _pianissimo_ in the topmost register of the violins, a
tiny white cloud, scarcely perceptible at first, but increasing every
moment, forms in the zenith. Ever descending as the music gradually
increases in volume, the cloud resolves itself into a choir of angels
clad in white, the bearers of the sacred cup. Nearer and still nearer
they come, until, as the Grail motive reaches a passionate _fortissimo_,
they touch the earth, and deliver the Holy Grail to the band of faithful
men who are consecrated to be its earthly champions. Their mission
accomplished the angels swiftly return. As they soar up, the music
grows fainter. Soon they appear once more only as a snowy cloud on the
bosom of the blue. The Grail motive fades away into faint chords, and
the heaven is left once more in cloudless radiance.

A noticeable point in the score of 'Lohengrin' is the further
development of the beautiful idea which appears in 'Tannhaeuser,' of
associating a certain instrument or group of instruments with one
particular character. The idea itself, it may be noticed in passing,
dates from the time of Bach, who used the strings of the orchestra to
accompany the words of Christ in the Matthew Passion, much as the old
Italian painters surrounded his head with a halo. In 'Lohengrin' Wagner
used this beautiful idea more systematically than in 'Tannhaeuser';
Lohengrin's utterances are almost always accompanied by the strings of
the orchestra, while the wood-wind is specially devoted to Elsa. This
plan emphasises very happily the contrast, which is the root of the
whole drama, between spiritual and earthly love, typified in the persons
of Lohengrin and Elsa, which the poem symbolises in allegorical fashion.




CHAPTER X

WAGNER'S LATER WORKS


The attempt to divide the life and work of a composer into fixed periods
is generally an elusive and unsatisfactory experiment, but to this rule
the case of Wagner is an exception. His musical career falls naturally
into two distinct divisions, and the works of these two periods differ
so materially in scope and execution that the veriest tyro in musical
matters cannot fail to grasp their divergencies. In the years which
elapsed between the composition of 'Lohengrin' and 'Das Rheingold,'
Wagner's theories upon the proper treatment of lyrical drama developed
in a surprising manner. Throughout his earlier works the guiding theme
is used with increasing frequency, it is true, so that in 'Lohengrin'
its employment adds materially to the poetical interest of the score;
but in 'Das Rheingold' we are in a different world. Here the guiding
theme is the pivot upon which the entire work turns. The occasional use
of some characteristic musical phrase to illustrate the recurrence of a
special personality or phase of thought has given way to a deliberate
system in which not only each of the characters in the drama, but also
their thoughts, feelings, and aspirations are represented by a distinct
musical equivalent. These guiding themes are by no means the mere labels
that hostile critics of Wagner would have us believe. They are subject,
as much as the characters and sentiments which they represent, to
organic change and development. By this means every incident in the
progress of the drama, the growth of each sentiment or passion, the play
of thought and feeling, all find a close equivalent in the texture of
the music, and the connection between music and drama is advanced to an
intimacy which certainly could not be realised by any other means.

The difference in style between 'Lohengrin' and 'Das Rheingold' is so
very marked that it is only natural to look for some explanation of the
sudden change other than the natural development of the composer's
genius. Wagner's social position at this point in his career may have
reacted to a certain extent upon his music. An exile from his country,
his works tabooed in every theatre, he might well be pardoned if he felt
that all chance of a career as a popular composer was over for him, and
decided for the future to write for himself alone. This may explain the
complete renunciation of the past which appears in 'Das Rheingold,' the
total severance from the Italian tradition which lingers in the pages of
'Lohengrin,' and the brilliant unfolding of a new scheme of lyric drama
planned upon a scale of unexampled magnificence and elaboration.

Intimately as Wagner's theory of the proper scope of music drama is
connected with the system of guiding themes which he elaborated, it
need hardly be said that he was very far from being the first to
recognise the importance of their use in music. There are several
instances of guiding themes in Bach. Beethoven, too, and even Gretry
used them occasionally with admirable effect. But before Wagner's day
they had been employed with caution, not to say timidity. He was the
first to realise their full poetic possibility.

'Das Rheingold,' the first work in which Wagner put his matured musical
equipment to the proof, is the first division of a gigantic tetralogy,
'Der Ring des Nibelungen,' The composition of this mighty work extended
over a long period of years. It was often interrupted, and as often
recommenced. In its completed form it was performed for the first time
at the opening of the Festspielhaus at Bayreuth in 1876, but the first
two divisions of the work, 'Das Rheingold' and 'Die Walkuere,' had
already been given at Munich, in 1869 and 1870 respectively. It will be
most convenient in this place to treat 'Der Ring des Nibelungen' as a
complete work, although 'Tristan und Isolde' and 'Die Meistersinger'
were written and performed before 'Siegfried' and 'Goetterdaemmerung.'

Wagner took the main incidents of his drama from the old Norse sagas,
principally from the two Eddas, but in many minor points his tale varies
from that of the original authorities. Nevertheless he grasped the
spirit of the myth so fully, that his version of the Nibelung story
yields in harmony and beauty to that of none of his predecessors. There
is one point about the Norse mythology which is of the utmost importance
to the proper comprehension of 'Der Ring des Nibelungen.' The gods of
Teutonic legend are not immortal. In the Edda the death of the gods is
often mentioned, and distinct reference is made to their inevitable
downfall. Behind Valhalla towers the gigantic figure of Fate, whose
reign is eternal. The gods rule for a limited time, subject to its
decrees. This ever-present idea of inexorable doom is the guiding idea
of Wagner's great tragedy. Against the inevitable the gods plot and
scheme in vain.

The opening scene of 'Das Rheingold' is in the depths of the Rhine.
There, upon the summit of a rock, lies the mysterious treasure of the
Rhine, the Rhine-gold, guarded night and day by the three Rhine-maidens
Wellgunde, Woglinde, and Flosshilde, who circle round the rock in an
undulating dance, joyous and light-hearted 'like troutlets in a pool.'
Alberich, the prince of the Nibelungs, the strange dwarf-people who
dwell in the bowels of the earth, now appears. Clumsily he courts the
maidens, trying unsuccessfully to catch first one, then another.
Suddenly the rays of the rising sun touch the treasure on the rock and
light it into brilliant splendour. The maidens, in delight at its
beauty, incautiously reveal the secret of the Rhine-gold to the
inquisitive dwarf. The possessor of it, should he forge it into a ring,
will become the ruler of the world. But, to that end, he must renounce
the delights of love for ever. Alberich, fired with the lust of power,
hastily climbs the rock, tears away the shining treasure, and plunges
with it into the abyss, amidst the cries of the maidens, who vainly
endeavour to pursue him. The scene now changes, the waves gradually
giving place to clouds and vapour, which in turn disclose a lofty
mountainous region at the foot of which is a grassy plateau. Here lie
the sleeping forms of Wotan, the king of the gods, and Fricka, his wife.
Behind them, upon a neighbouring mountain, rise the towers of Valhalla,
Wotan's new palace, built for him by the giants Fafner and Fasolt in
order to ensure him in his sovereignty of the world. In exchange for
their labours Wotan has promised to give them Freia, the goddess of love
and beauty, but he hopes by the ingenuity of Loge, the fire-god, to
escape the fulfilment of his share of the contract. While Fricka is
upbraiding him for his rash promise Freia enters, pursued by the giants,
who come to claim their reward. Wotan refuses to let Freia go, and Froh
and Donner come to the protection of their sister. The giants are
prepared to fight for their rights, but the entrance of Loge fortunately
effects a diversion. He has searched throughout the world for something
to offer to the giants instead of the beautiful goddess, but has only
brought back the news of Alberich's treasure-trove, and his forswearing
of love in order to rule the world. The lust of power now invades the
minds of the giants, and they agree to take the treasure in place of
Freia, if Wotan and Loge can succeed in stealing it from Alberich. On
this quest therefore the two gods descended through a cleft in the earth
to Nibelheim, the abode of the Nibelungs. There they find Alberich, by
virtue of his magic gold, lording it over his fellow-dwarfs. He has
compelled his brother Mime, the cleverest smith of them all, to fashion
him a Tarnhelm, or helmet of invisibility, and the latter complains
peevishly to the gods of the overbearing mastery which Alberich has
established in Nibelheim. When Alberich appears, Wotan and Loge
cunningly beguile him to exhibit the powers of his new treasures. The
confiding dwarf, in order to display the quality of the Tarnhelm, first
changes himself into a snake and then into a toad. While he is in the
shape of the latter, Wotan sets his foot upon him, Loge snatches the
Tarnhelm from his head, and together they bind him and carry him off to
the upper air. When he has conveyed his prisoner in safety to the
mountain-top, Wotan bids him summon the dwarfs to bring up his treasures
from Nibelheim. Alberich reluctantly obeys. His treasure is torn from
him, his Tarnhelm, and last of all the ring with which he hoped to rule
the world. Bereft of all, he utters a terrible curse upon the ring,
vowing that it shall bring ruin and death upon every one who wears it,
until it returns to its original possessor. The giants now appear to
claim their reward. They too insist upon taking the whole treasure.
Wotan refuses to give up the ring until warned by the goddess Erda, the
mother of the Fates, who rises from her subterranean cavern, that to
keep it means ruin. The ring passes to the giants, and the curse at once
begins to work. Fafner slays Fasolt in a quarrel for the gold, and
carries off the treasure alone. Throughout this scene the clouds have
been gathering round the mountain-top. Donner, the god of thunder, now
ascends a cliff, and strikes the rock with his hammer. Thunder rolls and
lightning flashes, the dark clouds are dispelled, revealing a rainbow
bridge thrown across the chasm, over which the gods solemnly march to
Valhalla, while from far below rise the despairing cries of the
Rhine-maidens lamenting their lost treasure.

'Das Rheingold' is conspicuous among the later works of Wagner for its
brevity and concentration. Although it embraces four scenes, the music
is continuous throughout, and the whole makes but one act. Wagner's aim
seems to have been to set forth in a series of brilliant pictures the
medium in which his mighty drama was to unfold itself. Human interest of
course there is none, but the supernatural machinery is complete. The
denizens of the world are grouped in four divisions--the gods in heaven,
the giants on the earth, the dwarfs beneath, and the water-sprites in
the bosom of the Rhine. 'Das Rheingold' has a freshness and an open-air
feeling which are eminently suitable to the prologue of a work which
deals so much with the vast forces of nature as Wagner's colossal drama.
There is little scope in it for the delicate psychology which enriches
the later divisions of the tetralogy, but, on the other hand, Wagner
has reproduced the 'large utterance of the early gods' with exquisite
art. Musically it can hardly rank with its successors, partly no doubt
because the plot has not their absorbing interest, partly also because
'Das Rheingold' is the first work in which Wagner consciously worked in
accordance with his theory of guiding themes, and consequently he had
not as yet gained that complete mastery of his elaborate material which
he afterwards attained. Yet some of the musical pictures in 'Das
Rheingold' would be difficult to match throughout the glowing gallery of
'Der Ring des Nibelungen,' such as the beautiful opening scene in the
depths of the Rhine, and the magnificent march to Valhalla with which it
closes.

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