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Title: A Book of Operas: Their Histories, Their Plots, and Their Music
Author: Krehbiel, Henry Edward
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.

*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "A Book of Operas: Their Histories, Their Plots, and Their Music" ***


Plain text adaption by Andrew Sly.







"Old friends are best."--SELDEN.

"I love everything that's old,--old friends, old times, old manners,
old books, old wine."--GOLDSMITH.

"Old wood to burn! Old wine to drink! Old friends to trust!
Old authors to read!"--MELCHIOR.


Chapter I "Il Barbiere di Siviglia"

First performance of Italian opera in the United States--Production of
Rossini's opera in Rome, London, Paris, and New York--Thomas Phillipps
and his English version--Miss Leesugg and Mrs. Holman--Emanuel Garcia
and his troupe--Malibran--Early operas in America--Colman's "Spanish
Barber"--Other Figaro operas--How Rossini came to Write "Il Barbiere"
--The story of a fiasco--Garcia and his Spanish song--"Segui, o caro"
--Giorgi-Righetti--The plot of the opera--The overture--"Ecco ridente
in cielo"--"Una voce poco fà,"--Rossini and Patti--The lesson scene
and what singers have done with it--Grisi, Alboni, Catalani, Bosio,
Gassier, Patti, Sembrich, Melba, and Viardot--An echo of Haydn.

Chapter II "Le Nozze di Figaro"

Beaumarchais and his Figaro comedies--"Le Nozze" a sequel to "Il
Barbiere"--Mozart and Rossini--Their operas compared--Opposition
to Beaumarchais's "Marriage de Figaro"--Moral grossness of Mozart's
opera--A relic of feudalism--Humor of the horns--A merry overture
--The story of the opera--Cherubino,--"Non so più cosa son"--
Benucci and the air "Non più andrai"--"Voi che sapete"--A marvellous
finale--The song to the zephyr--A Spanish fandango--"Deh vieni non

Chapter III "Die Zauberflöte"

The oldest German opera current in America--Beethoven's appreciation
of Mozart's opera--Its Teutonism--Otto Jahn's estimate--Papageno, the
German Punch--Emanuel Schikaneder--Wieland and the original of the
story of the opera--How "Die Zanberflöte" came to be written--The
story of "Lulu"--Mozart and freemasonry--The overture to the opera--
The fugue theme and a theme from a sonata by Clementi--The opera's
play--"O Isis und Osiris"--"Hellish rage" and fiorituri--The song of
the Two Men in Armor--Goethe and the libretto of "Die Zauberflöte"--
How the opera should be viewed.

Chapter IV "Don Giovanni"

The oldest Italian operas in the American repertory--Mozart as an
influence--What great composers have said about "Don Giovanni,"--
Beethoven--Rossini--Gounod--Wagner--History of the opera--Da Ponte's
pilferings--Bertati and Gazzaniga's "Convitato di Pietra"--How the
overture to "Don Giovanni" was written--First performances of the
opera in Prague, Vienna, London, and New York--Garcia and Da Ponte
--Malibran--English versions of the opera--The Spanish tale of Don
Juan Tenorio--Dramatic versions--The tragical note in the overture
--The plot of the opera--Gounod on the beautiful in Mozart's music
--Leporello's catalogue--"Batti, batti o bel Masetto"--The three
dances in the first finale--The last scene--Mozart quotes from his
contemporaries--The original close of the opera.

Chapter V "Fidelio"

An opera based on conjugal love--"Fidelio," "Orfeo," and "Alceste"--
Beethoven a Sincere moralist--Technical history of "Fidelio,"--The
subject treated by Paër and Gaveaux--Beethoven's commission--The
first performance a failure--A revision by the composer's friends--
The second trial--Beethoven withdraws his opera--A second revision
--The revival of 1814--Success at last--First performances in London
and New York--The opera enriched by a ballet--Plot of "Fidelio"--
The first duet--The canon quartet--A dramatic trio--Milder-Hauptmann
and the great scena--Florestan's air--The trumpet call--The opera's
four overtures--Their history.

Chapter VI "Faust"

The love story in Gounod's opera--Ancient bondsmen of the devil--
Zoroaster, Democritus, Empedocles, Apollonius, Virgil, Albertus
Magnus, Merlin, Paracelsus, Theophilus of Syracuse,--The myth-making
capacity--Bismarck and the needle-gun--Printing, a black art--Johann
Fust of Mayence--The veritable Faust--Testimony of Luther and
Melanchthon--The literary history of Dr. Faustus--Goethe and his
predecessors--Faust's covenant with Mephistopheles--Dr. Faustus
and matrimony--The Polish Faust--The devil refuses to marry Madame
Twardowska--History of Gounod's opera--The first performance--
Popularity of the opera--First productions in London and New York--
The story--Marguerite and Gretchen--The jewel song--The ballet.

Chapter VII "Mefistofele"

Music in the mediaeval Faust plays--Early operas on the subject--
Meyerbeer and Goethe's poem--Composers of Faust music--Beethoven--
Boito's reverence for Goethe's poem--His work as a poet--A man of
mixed blood--"Mefistofele" a fiasco in Milan--The opera revised--
Boito's early ambitions--Disconnected episodes--Philosophy of the
opera--Its scope--Use of a typical phrase--The plot--Humors of the
English translation--Music of the prologue--The Book of Job--Boito's
metrical schemes--The poodle and the friar--A Polish dance in the
Rhine country--Gluck and Vestris--The scene on the Brocken--The
Classical Sabbath--Helen of Troy--A union of classic and romantic
art--First performance of Boito's opera in America, (footnote).

Chapter VIII "La Damnation de Faust"

Berlioz's dramatic legend--"A thing of shreds and patches"--Turned
into an opera by Raoul Gunsbourg--The composer's "Scenes from Faust"
--History of the composition--The Rakoczy March--Concert performances
in New York--Scheme of the work--The dance of the sylphs and the
aërial ballet--Dance of the will-o'-the-wisps--The ride to hell.

Chapter IX "La Traviata"

Familiarity with music and its effects--An experience of the
author's--Prelude to Verdi's last act--Expressiveness of some
melodies--Verdi, the dramatist--Von Bülow and Mascagni--How
"Traviata" came to be written--Piave, the librettist--Composed
simultaneously with "Il Trovatore,"--Failure of "La Traviata,"
--The causes--The style of the music--Dr. Basevi's view--Changes
in costuming--The opera succeeds--First performance in New York,
--A criticism by W. H. Fry--Story of the opera--Dumas's story and
harles Dickens--Controversy as a help to popular success.

Chapter X "Aïda"

Popular misconceptions concerning the origin of Verdi's opera--The
Suez Canal and Cairo Opera-house--A pageant opera--Local color--
The entombment scene--The commission for the opera--The plot and
its author, Mariette Bey--His archaeological discoveries at Memphis
--Camille du Locle and Antonio Ghislanzoni--First performance of
the opera--Unpleasant experiences in Paris--The plot--Ancient
Memphis--Oriental melodies and local color--An exotic scale--The
antique trumpets and their march.

Chapter XI "Der Freischütz"

The overture--The plot--A Leitmotif before Wagner--Berlioz and
Agathe's air--The song of the Bridesmaids--Wagner and his dying
stepfather--The Teutonism of the opera--Facts from a court record
--Folklore of the subject--Holda, Wotan, and the Wild Hint--How
magical bullets may be obtained--Wagner's description of the Wolf's
Glen--Romanticism and classicism--Weber and Theodor Körner--German
opera at Dresden--Composition of "Der Freischütz"--First
performances in New York, (footnote).

Chapter XII "Tannhäuser"

Wagner and Greek ideals--Methods of Wagnerian study--The story of
the opera--Poetical and musical contents of the overture--The
bacchanale--The Tannhäuser legend--The historical Tannhäuser--The
contest of minstrels in the Wartburg--Mediaeval ballads--Heroes
and their charmers--Classical and other parallels--Caves of Venus--
The Hörselberg in Thuringia--Dame Holda--The tale of Sir Adelbert.

Chapter XIII "Tristan und Isolde"

The old legend of Tristram and Iseult--Its literary history--Ancient
elements--Wagner's ethical changes--How the drama came to be written
--Frau Wesendonck--Wagner and Dom Pedro of Brazil--First performances
in Munich and New York--The prelude--Wagner's poetical exposition--
The song of the Sailor--A symbol of suffering--The Death Phrase--The
Shepherd's mournful melody--His merry tune--Tristan's death.

Chapter XIV "Parsifal"

The story--The oracle--The musical symbol of Parsifal--Herzeleide--
Kundry--Suffering and lamentation--The bells and march--The
eucharistic hymn--The love-feast formula--Faith--Unveiling of the
Grail--Klingsor's incantation--The Flower Maidens--The quest of the
Holy Grail--Personages and elements of the legend--Ethical idea of
Wagner's drama--Biblical and liturgical elements--Wagner's aim--The
Knights Templars--John the Baptist, Herodias, and the bloody head--
Relics of Christ's sufferings--The Holy Grail at Genoa--The sacred
lances at Nuremberg and Rome--Ancient and mediaeval parallels of
personages, apparatuses, and scenes--Wagner's philosophy--Buddhism--
First performances of "Parsifal" in Bayreuth and New York, (footnote).

Chapter XV "Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg"

"Ridendo castigat mores"--Wagner's adherence to classical ideals of
tragedy and comedy--The subject of the satire in "Die Meistersinger"
--Wagenseil's book on Nuremberg--Plot of the comedy--The Church of
St. Catherine in Nuremberg--A relic of the mastersingers--Mastersongs
in the Municipal Library--Wagner's chorus of mastersingers, (footnote)
--A poem by Sixtus Beckmesser--The German drama in Nuremberg--Hans
Sachs's plays--His Tannhäuser tragedy--"Tristram and Iseult"--"The
Wittenberg Nightingale" and "Wach' auf!"--Wagner's quotation from an
authentic mastersong melody--Romanticism and classicism--The prelude
to "Die Meistersinger."

Chapter XVI "Lohengrin"

Wolfram von Eschenbach's story of Loherangrin--Other sources of the
Lohengrin legend--"Der jüngere Titurel" and "Le Chevalier au Cygne"
--The plot of Wagner's opera--A mixture of myths--Relationship of
the Figaro operas--Contradictions between "Lohengrin" and "Parsifal"
--The forbidden question--Wagner's love of theatrical effect--The
finale of "Tannhäuser,"--The law of taboo in "Lohengrin"--Jupiter and
Semele--Cupid and Psyche--The saga of Skéaf--King Henry, the Fowler.

Chapter XVII "Hänsel und Gretel"

Wagner's influence and his successors--Engelbert Humperdinck--Myths
and fairy tales--Origin of "Hänsel und Gretel"--First performances--
An application of Wagnerian principles--The prelude--The Prayer Theme
--The Counter-charm--Theme of Fulfilment--Story of the opera--A relic
of an old Christmas song--Theme of the Witch--The Theme of Promise--
"Ring around a Rosy"--The "Knusperwalzer."



The history of what is popularly called Italian opera begins in the
United States with a performance of Rossini's lyrical comedy "Il
Barbiere di Siviglia"; it may, therefore, fittingly take the first
place in these operatic studies. The place was the Park Theatre,
then situated in Chambers Street, east of Broadway, and the date
November 29, 1825. It was not the first performance of Italian opera
music in America, however, nor yet of Rossini's merry work. In the
early years of the nineteenth century New York was almost as fully
abreast of the times in the matter of dramatic entertainments as
London. New works produced in the English capital were heard in New
York as soon as the ships of that day could bring over the books and
the actors. Especially was this true of English ballad operas and
English transcriptions, or adaptations, of French, German, and
Italian operas. New York was five months ahead of Paris in making
the acquaintance of the operatic version of Beaumarchais's "Barbier
de Séville." The first performance of Rossini's opera took place in
Rome on February 5, 1816. London heard it in its original form at
the King's Theatre on March 10, 1818, with Garcia, the first
Count Almaviva, in that part. The opera "went off with unbounded
applause," says Parke (an oboe player, who has left us two volumes
of entertaining and instructive memoirs), but it did not win the
degree of favor enjoyed by the other operas of Rossini then current
on the English stage. It dropped out of the repertory of the King's
Theatre and was not revived until 1822--a year in which the
popularity of Rossini in the British metropolis may be measured by
the fact that all but four of the operas brought forward that year
were composed by him. The first Parisian representation of the opera
took place on October 26, 1819. Garcia was again in the cast. By
that time, in all likelihood, all of musical New York that could
muster up a pucker was already whistling "Largo al factotum" and
the beginning of "Una voce poco fà," for, on May 17, 1819, Thomas
Phillipps had brought an English "Barber of Seville" forward at a
benefit performance for himself at the same Park Theatre at which
more than six years later the Garcia company, the first Italian
opera troupe to visit the New World, performed it in Italian on
the date already mentioned. At Mr. Phillipps's performance the
beneficiary sang the part of Almaviva, and Miss Leesugg, who
afterward became the wife of the comedian Hackett, was the Rosina.
On November 21, 1821, there was another performance for Mr.
Phillipps's benefit, and this time Mrs. Holman took the part of
Rosina. Phillipps and Holman--brave names these in the dramatic
annals of New York and London a little less than a century ago!
When will European writers on music begin to realize that musical
culture in America is not just now in its beginnings?

It was Manuel Garcia's troupe that first performed "Il Barbiere
di Siviglia" in New York, and four of the parts in the opera were
played by members of his family. Manuel, the father, was the Count,
as he had been at the premières in Rome, London, and Paris; Manuel,
son, was the Figaro (he lived to read about eighty-one years of
operatic enterprise in New York, and died at the age of 101 years in
London in 1906); Signora Garcia, mère, was the Berta, and Rosina was
sung and played by that "cunning pattern of excellent nature," as a
writer of the day called her, Signorina Garcia, afterward the famous
Malibran. The other performers at this representation of the Italian
"Barber" were Signor Rosich (Dr. Bartolo), Signor Angrisani (Don
Basilio), and Signor Crivelli, the younger (Fiorello). The opera was
given twenty-three times in a season of seventy-nine nights, and the
receipts ranged from $1843 on the opening night and $1834 on the
closing, down to $356 on the twenty-ninth night.

But neither Phillipps nor Garcia was the first to present an
operatic version of Beaumarchais's comedy to the American people.
French operas by Rousseau, Monsigny, Dalayrac, and Grétry, which may
be said to have composed the staple of the opera-houses of Europe in
the last decades of the eighteenth century, were known also in the
contemporaneous theatres of Charleston, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and
New York. In 1794 the last three of these cities enjoyed "an opera
in 3 acts," the text by Colman, entitled, "The Spanish Barber; or,
The Futile Precaution." Nothing is said in the announcements of
this opera touching the authorship of the music, but it seems to
be an inevitable conclusion that it was Paisiello's, composed for
St. Petersburg about 1780. There were German "Barbers" in existence
at the time composed by Benda (Friedrich Ludwig), Elsperger, and
Schulz, but they did not enjoy large popularity in their own
country, and Isouard's "Barbier" was not yet written. Paisiello's
opera, on the contrary, was extremely popular, throughout Europe.
True, he called it "The Barber of Seville," not "The Spanish
Barber," but Colman's subtitle, "The Futile Precaution," came from
the original French title. Rossini also adopted it and purposely
avoided the chief title set by Beaumarchais and used by Paisiello;
but he was not long permitted to have his way. Thereby hangs a
tale of the composition and first failure of his opera which I
must now relate.

On December 26, 1815, the first day of the carnival season, Rossini
produced his opera, "Torvaldo e Dorliska," at the Teatro Argentina,
in Rome, and at the same time signed a contract with Cesarini, the
impresario of the theatre, to have the first act of a second opera
ready on the twentieth day of the following January. For this opera
Rossini was to receive 400 Roman scudi (the equivalent of about
$400) after the first three performances, which he was to conduct
seated at the pianoforte in the orchestra, as was then the custom.
He seems to have agreed to take any libretto submitted by the
impresario and approved by the public censor; but there are
indications that Sterbini, who was to write the libretto, had
already suggested a remodelling of Paisiello's "Barber." In order
to expedite the work of composition it was provided in the contract
that Rossini was to take lodgings with a singer named Zamboni, to
whom the honor fell of being the original of the town factotum
in Rossini's opera. Some say that Rossini completed the score in
thirteen days; some in fifteen. Castil-Blaze says it was a month,
but the truth is that the work consumed less than half that period.
Donizetti, asked if he believed that Rossini had really written the
score in thirteen days, is reported to have replied, no doubt with
a malicious twinkle in his eyes: "It is very possible; he is so
lazy." Paisiello was still alive, and so was at least the memory of
his opera, so Rossini, as a precautionary measure, thought it wise
to spike, if possible, the guns of an apprehended opposition. So
he addressed a letter to the venerable composer, asking leave to
make use of the subject. He got permission and then wrote a preface
to his libretto (or had Serbini write it for him), in which,
while flattering his predecessor, he nevertheless contrived to
indicate that he considered the opera of that venerable musician
old-fashioned, undramatic, and outdated. "Beaumarchais's comedy,
entitled 'The Barber of Seville, or the Useless Precaution,'"
he wrote, "is presented at Rome in the form of a comic drama under
the title of 'Almaviva, ossia l'inutile Precauzione,' in order
that the public may be fully convinced of the sentiments of respect
and veneration by which the author of the music of this drama is
animated with regard to the celebrated Paisiello, who has already
treated the subject under its primitive title. Himself invited to
undertake this difficult task, the maestro Gioachino Rossini, in
order to avoid the reproach of entering rashly into rivalry with
the immortal author who preceded him, expressly required that 'The
Barber of Seville' should be entirely versified anew, and also
that new situations should be added for the musical pieces which,
moreover, are required by the modern theatrical taste, entirely
changed since the time when the renowned Paisiello wrote his work."

I have told the story of the fiasco made by Rossini's opera on its
first production at the Argentine Theatre on February 5, 1816, in an
extended preface to the vocal score of "Il Barbiere," published in
1900 by G. Schirmer, and a quotation from that preface will serve
here quite as well as a paraphrase; so I quote (with an avowal of
gratitude for the privilege to the publishers):--

Paisiello gave his consent to the use of the subject, believing that
the opera of his young rival would assuredly fail. At the same time
he wrote to a friend in Rome, asking him to do all in his power to
compass a fiasco for the opera. The young composer's enemies were
not sluggish. All the whistlers of Italy, says Castil-Blaze, seemed
to have made a rendezvous at the Teatro Argentina on the night set
down for the first production. Their malicious intentions were
helped along by accidents at the outset of the performance. Details
of the story have been preserved for us in an account written
by Signora Giorgi-Righetti, who sang the part of Rosina on the
memorable occasion. Garcia had persuaded Rossini to permit him to
sing a Spanish song to his own accompaniment on a guitar under
Rosina's balcony in the first act. It would provide the needed local
color, he urged. When about to start his song, Garcia found that he
had forgotten to tune his guitar. He began to set the pegs in the
face of the waiting public. A string broke, and a new one was drawn
up amid the titters of the spectators. The song did not please the
auditors, who mocked at the singer by humming Spanish fiorituri
after him. Boisterous laughter broke out when Figaro came on the
stage also with a guitar, and "Largo al factotum" was lost in the
din. Another howl of delighted derision went up when Rosina's
voice was heard singing within: "Segui o caro, deh segui così"
("Continue, my dear, continue thus"). The audience continued "thus."
The representative of Rosina was popular, but the fact that she
was first heard in a trifling phrase instead of an aria caused
disappointment. The duet, between Almaviva and Figaro, was sung amid
hisses, shrieks, and shouts. The cavatina "Una voce poco fà" got a
triple round of applause, however, and Rossini, interpreting the
fact as a compliment to the personality of the singer rather than
to the music, after bowing to the public, exclaimed: "Oh natura!"
"Thank her," retorted Giorgi-Righetti; "but for her you would not
have had occasion to rise from your choir." The turmoil began again
with the next duet, and the finale was mere dumb show. When the
curtain fell, Rossini faced the mob, shrugged his shoulders, and
clapped his hands to show his contempt. Only the musicians and
singers heard the second act, the din being incessant from beginning
to end. Rossini remained imperturbable, and when Giorgi-Rhigetti,
Garcia, and Zamboni hastened to his lodgings to offer their
condolences as soon as they could don street attire, they found him
asleep. The next day he wrote the cavatina "Ecco ridente in cielo"
to take the place of Garcia's unlucky Spanish song, borrowing the
air from his own "Aureliano," composed two years before, into
which it had been incorporated from "Ciro," a still earlier work.
When night came, he feigned illness so as to escape the task of
conducting. By that time his enemies had worn themselves out. The
music was heard amid loud plaudits, and in a week the opera had
scored a tremendous success.

And now for the dramatic and musical contents of "Il Barbiere." At
the very outset Rossini opens the door for us to take a glimpse at
the changes in musical manner which were wrought by time. He had
faulted Paisiello's opera because in parts it had become antiquated,
for which reason he had had new situations introduced to meet the
"modern theatrical taste"; but he lived fifty years after "Il
Barbiere" had conquered the world, and never took the trouble to
write an overture for it, the one originally composed for the opera
having been lost soon after the first production. The overture which
leads us into the opera nowadays is all very well in its way and a
striking example of how a piece of music may benefit from fortuitous
circumstances. Persons with fantastic imaginations have rhapsodized
on its appositeness, and professed to hear in it the whispered
plottings of the lovers and the merry raillery of Rosina, contrasted
with the futile ragings of her grouty guardian; but when Rossini
composed this piece of music, its mission was to introduce an
adventure of the Emperor Aurelian in Palmyra in the third century of
the Christian era. Having served that purpose, it became the prelude
to another opera which dealt with Queen Elizabeth of England, a
monarch who reigned some twelve hundred years after Aurelian. Again,
before the melody now known as that of Almaviva's cavatina (which
supplanted Garcia's unlucky Spanish song) had burst into the
efflorescence which now distinguishes it, it came as a chorus from
the mouths of Cyrus and his Persians in ancient Babylon. Truly,
the verities of time and place sat lightly on the Italian opera
composers of a hundred years ago. But the serenade which follows the
rising of the curtain preserves a custom more general at the time of
Beaumarchais than now, though it is not yet obsolete. Dr. Bartolo,
who is guardian of the fascinating Rosina, is in love with her, or
at least wishes for reasons not entirely dissociated from her money
bags to make her his wife, and therefore keeps her most of the time
behind bolts and bars. The Count Almaviva, however, has seen her on
a visit from his estates to Seville, becomes enamoured of her, and
she has felt her heart warmed toward him, though she is ignorant of
his rank and knows him only under the name of Lindoro. Hoping that
it may bring him an opportunity for a glance, mayhap a word with his
inamorata, Amaviva follows the advice given by Sir Proteus to Thurio
in "The Two Gentlemen of Verona"; he visits his lady's chamber
window, not at night, but at early dawn, with a "sweet concert," and
to the instruments of Fiorello's musicians tunes "a deploring dump."
It is the cavatina "Ecco ridente in cielo." The musicians, rewarded
by Almaviva beyond expectations, are profuse and long-winded
in their expression of gratitude, and are gotten rid of with
difficulty. The Count has not yet had a glimpse of Rosina, who is
in the habit of breathing the morning air from the balcony of her
prison house, and is about to despair when Figaro, barber and
Seville's factotum, appears trolling a song in which he recites his
accomplishments, the universality of his employments, and the great
demand for his services. ("Largo al factotum dello città.") The
Count recognizes him, tells of his vain vigils in front of Rosina's
balcony, and, so soon as he learns that Figaro is a sort of man
of all work to Bartolo, employs him as his go-between. Rosina
now appears on the balcony. Almaviva is about to engage her in
conversation when Bartolo appears and discovers a billet-doux which
Rosina had intended to drop into the hand of her Lindoro. He demands
to see it, but she explains that it is but a copy of the words of an
aria from an opera entitled "The Futile Precaution," and drops it
from the balcony, as if by accident. She sends Bartolo to recover
it, but Almaviva, who had observed the device, secures it, and
Bartolo is told by his crafty ward that the wind must have carried
it away. Growing suspicious, he commands her into the house and
goes away to hasten the preparations for his wedding, after giving
orders that no one is to be admitted to the house save Don Basilio,
Rosina's singing-master, and Bartolo's messenger and general

The letter which Rosina had thus slyly conveyed to her unknown lover
begged him to contrive means to let her know his name, condition,
and intentions respecting herself. Figaro, taking the case in hand
at once, suggests that Almaviva publish his answer in a ballad. This
the Count does ("Se il mio nome saper"), protesting the honesty and
ardor of his passion, but still concealing his name and station. He
is delighted to hear his lady-love's voice bidding him to continue
his song. (It is the phrase, "Segui, o caro, deh segui così," which
sounded so monstrously diverting at the first representation of the
opera in Rome.) After the second stanza Rosina essays a longer
response, but is interrupted by some of the inmates of the house.
Figaro now confides to the Count a scheme by which he is to meet his
fair enslaver face to face: he is to assume the rôle of a drunken
soldier who has been billeted upon Dr. Bartolo, a plan that is
favored by the fact that a company of soldiers has come to Seville
that very day which is under the command of the Count's cousin. The
plan is promptly put into execution. Not long after, Rosina enters
Dr. Bartolo's library singing the famous cavatina, "Una voce poco
fà," in which she tells of her love for Lindoro and proclaims her
determination to have her own way in the matter of her heart, in
spite of all that her tyrannical guardian or anybody else can do.
This cavatina has been the show piece of hundreds of singers ever
since it was written. Signora Giorgi-Righetti, the first Rosina, was
a contralto, and sang the music in the key of E, in which it was
written. When it became one of Jenny Lind's display airs, it was
transposed to F and tricked out with a great abundance of fiorituri.
Adelina Patti in her youth used so to overburden its already florid
measures with ornament that the story goes that once when she sang
it for Rossini, the old master dryly remarked: "A very pretty air;
who composed it?" Figaro enters at the conclusion of Rosina's song,
and the two are about to exchange confidences when Bartolo enters
with Basilio, who confides to the old doctor his suspicion that the
unknown lover of Rosina is the Count Almaviva, and suggests that
the latter's presence in Seville be made irksome by a few adroitly
spread innuendoes against his character. How a calumny, ingeniously
published, may grow from a whispered zephyr to a crashing,
detonating tempest, Basilio describes in the buffo air "La
calunnia"--a marvellous example of the device of crescendo which
in this form is one of Rossini's inventions. Bartolo prefers his
own plan of compelling his ward to marry him at once. He goes
with Basilio to draw up a marriage agreement, and Figaro, who has
overheard their talk, acquaints Rosina with its purport. He also
tells her that she shall soon see her lover face to face if she will
but send him a line by his hands. Thus he secures a letter from her,
but learns that the artful minx had written it before he entered.
Her ink-stained fingers, the disappearance of a sheet of paper
from his writing desk, and the condition of his quill pen convince
Bartolo on his return that he is being deceived, and he resolves
that henceforth his ward shall be more closely confined than ever.
And so he informs her, while she mimics his angry gestures behind
his back. In another moment there is a boisterous knocking and
shouting at the door, and in comes Almaviva, disguised as a cavalry
soldier most obviously in his cups. He manages to make himself known
to Rosina, and exchanges letters with her under the very nose of her
jailer, affects a fury toward Dr. Bartolo when the latter claims
exemption from the billet, and escapes arrest only by secretly
making himself known to the officer commanding the soldiers who
had been drawn into the house by the disturbance. The sudden and
inexplicable change of conduct on the part of the soldiers petrifies
Bartolo; he is literally "astonied," and Figaro makes him the victim
of several laughable pranks before he recovers his wits.

Dr. Bartolo's suspicions have been aroused about the soldier,
concerning whose identity he makes vain inquiries, but he does
not hesitate to admit to his library a seeming music-master who
announces himself as Don Alonzo, come to act as substitute for Don
Basilio, who, he says, is ill. Of course it is Almaviva. Soon the
ill-natured guardian grows impatient of his garrulity, and Almaviva,
to allay his suspicions and gain a sight of his inamorata, gives him
a letter written by Rosina to Lindoro, which he says he had found in
the Count's lodgings. If he can but see the lady, he hopes by means
of the letter to convince her of Lindoro's faithlessness. This
device, though it disturbs its inventor, is successful, and Bartolo
brings in his ward to receive her music lesson. Here, according to
tradition, there stood in the original score a trio which was lost
with the overture. Very welcome has this loss appeared to the
Rosinas of a later day, for it has enabled them to introduce into
the "lesson scene" music of their own choice, and, of course,
such as showed their voices and art to the best advantage. Very
amusing have been the anachronisms which have resulted from these
illustrations of artistic vanity, and diverting are the glimpses
which they give of the tastes and sensibilities of great prime
donne. Grisi and Alboni, stimulated by the example of Catalani
(though not in this opera), could think of nothing nobler than
to display their skill by singing Rode's Air and Variations, a
violin piece. This grew hackneyed, but, nevertheless, survived
till a comparatively late day. Bosio, feeling that variations were
necessary, threw Rode's over in favor of those on "Gia della mente
involarmi"--a polka tune from Alary's "A Tre Nozze." Then Mme.
Gassier ushered in the day of the vocal waltz--Venzano's, of
amiable memory. Her followers have not yet died out, though Patti
substituted Arditi's "Il Bacio" for Venzano's; Mme. Sembrich,
Strauss's "Voce di Primavera," and Mme. Melba, Arditi's "Se saran
rose." Mme. Viardot, with a finer sense of the fitness of things,
but either forgetful or not apprehensive of the fate which befell
her father at the first performance of the opera in Rome, introduced
a Spanish song. Mme. Patti always kept a ready repertory for the
scene, with a song in the vernacular of the people for whom she was
singing to bring the enthusiasm to a climax and a finish: "Home,
Sweet Home" in New York and London, "Solovei" in St. Petersburg.
Usually she began with the bolero from "Les Vêpres Siciliennes," or
the shadow dance from "Dinorah." Mme. Seinbrich, living in a period
when the style of song of which she and Mme. Melba are still the
brightest exemplars, is not as familiar as it used to be when they
were children, also found it necessary to have an extended list of
pieces ready at hand to satisfy the rapacious public. She was wont
at first to sing Proch's Air and Variations, but that always led
to a demand for more, and whether she supplemented it with "Ah!
non giunge," from "La Sonnambula," the bolero from "The Sicilian
Vespers," "O luce di quest anima," from "Linda," or the vocalized
waltz by Strauss, the applause always was riotous, and so remained
until she sat down to the pianoforte and sang Chopin's "Maiden's
Wish," in Polish, to her own accompaniment. As for Mme. Melba, not
to be set in the shade simply because Mme. Sembrich is almost as
good a pianist as she is a singer, she supplements Arditi's waltz
or Massenet's "Sevillana" with Tosti's "Mattinata," to which she
also plays an exquisite accompaniment.

But this is a long digression; I must back to my intriguing
lovers, who have made good use of the lesson scene to repeat their
protestations of affection and lay plots for attaining their
happiness. In this they are helped by Figaro, who comes to shave Dr.
Bartolo in spite of his protests, and, contriving to get hold of the
latter's keys, "conveys" the one which opens the balcony lock, and
thus makes possible a plan for a midnight elopement. In the midst
of the lesson the real Basilio comes to meet his appointment, and
there is a moment of confusion for the plotters, out of which Figaro
extricates them by persuading Basilio that he is sick of a raging
fever, and must go instantly home, Almaviva adding a convincing
argument in the shape of a generously lined purse. Nevertheless,
Basilio afterwards betrays the Count to Bartolo, who commands him to
bring a notary to the house that very night so that he may sign the
marriage contract with Rosina. In the midst of a tempest Figaro and
the Count let themselves into the house at midnight to carry off
Rosina, but find her in a whimsy, her mind having been poisoned
against her lover by Bartolo with the aid of the unfortunate letter.
Out of this dilemma Almaviva extricates himself by confessing his
identity, and the pair are about to steal away when the discovery is
made that the ladder to the balcony has been carried away. As they
are tiptoeing toward the window, the three sing a trio in which
there is such obvious use of a melodic phrase which belongs to Haydn
that every writer on "Il Barbiere" seems to have thought it his duty
to point out an instance of "plagiarism" on the part of Rossini. It
is a trifling matter. The trio begins thus:--

[Musical excerpt--"Ziti, ziti, piano, piano, non facciamo

which is a slightly varied form of four measures from Simon's song
in the first part of "The Seasons":--

[Musical excerpt--"With eagerness the husbandman his tilling work

With these four measures the likeness begins and ends. A venial
offence, if it be an offence at all. Composers were not held
to so strict and scrupulous an accountability touching melodic
meum and tuum a century ago as they are now; yet there was then
a thousand-fold more melodic inventiveness. Another case of
"conveyance" by Rossini has also been pointed out; the air of the
duenna in the third act beginning "Il vecchiotto cerca moglie" is
said to be that of a song which Rossini heard a Russian lady sing
in Rome. I have searched much in Russian song literature and failed
to find the alleged original. To finish the story: the notary
summoned by Bartolo arrives on the scene, but is persuaded by Figaro
to draw up an attestation of a marriage agreement between Count
Almaviva and Rosina, and Bartolo, finding at the last that all his
precautions have been in vain, comforted not a little by the gift of
his ward's dower, which the Count relinquishes, gives his blessing
to the lovers.

I have told the story of "Il Barbiere di Siviglia" as it appears
in the book. It has grown to be the custom to omit in performance
several of the incidents which are essential to the development
and understanding of the plot. Some day--soon, it is to be
hoped--managers, singers, and public will awake to a realization
that, even in the old operas in which beautiful singing is supposed
to be the be-all and end-all, the action ought to be kept coherent.
In that happy day Rossini's effervescent lyrical arrangement of
Beaumarchais's vivacious comedy will be restored to its rights.



Beaumarchais wrote a trilogy of Figaro comedies, and if the tastes
and methods of a century or so ago had been like those of the
present, we might have had also a trilogy of Figaro operas--"Le
Barbier de Seville," "Le Mariage de Figaro," and "La Mère coupable."
As it is, we have operatic versions of the first two of the
comedies, Mozart's "Nozze di Figaro" being a sequel to Rossini's
"Il Barbiere," its action beginning at a period not long after the
precautions of Dr. Bartolo had been rendered inutile by Figaro's
cunning schemes and Almaviva had installed Rosina as his countess.
"Le Nozze" was composed a whole generation before Rossini's opera.
Mozart and his public could keep the sequence of incidents in view,
however, from the fact that Paisiello had acquainted them with the
beginning of the story. Paisiello's opera is dead, but Rossini's is
very much alive, and it might prove interesting, some day, to have
the two living operas brought together in performance in order to
note the effect produced upon each other by comparison of their
scores. One effect, I fancy, would be to make the elder of the
operas sound younger than its companion, because of the greater
variety and freshness, as well as dramatic vigor, of its music. But
though the names of many of the characters would be the same, we
should scarcely recognize their musical physiognomies. We should
find the sprightly Rosina of "Il Barbiere" changed into a mature
lady with a countenance sicklied o'er with the pale cast of a gentle
melancholy; the Count's tenor would, in the short interval, have
changed into barytone; Figaro's barytone into a bass, while the
buffo-bass of Don Basilio would have reversed the process with age
and gone upward into the tenor region. We should meet with some
new characters, of which two at least would supply the element of
dramatic freshness and vivacity which we should miss from the
company of the first opera--Susanna and Cherubino.

We should also, in all likelihood, be struck by the difference in
the moral atmosphere of the two works. It took Beaumarchais three
years to secure a public performance of his "Mariage de Figaro"
because of the opposition of the French court, with Louis XVI at
its head, to its too frank libertinism. This opposition spread also
to other royal and imperial personages, who did not relish the
manner in which the poet had castigated the nobility, exalted the
intellectuality of menials, and satirized the social and political
conditions which were generally prevalent a short time before the
French Revolution. Neither of the operas, however, met the obstacles
which blocked the progress of the comedies on which they are
founded, because Da Ponte, who wrote the book for Mozart, and
Sterbini, who was Rossini's librettist, judiciously and deftly
elided the objectionable political element. "Le Nozze" is by far the
more ingeniously constructed play of the two (though a trifle too
involved for popular comprehension in the original language), but
"Il Barbiere" has the advantage of freedom from the moral grossness
which pollutes its companion. For the unspoiled taste of the better
class of opera patrons, there is a livelier as well as a lovelier
charm in the story of Almaviva's adventures while outwitting Dr.
Bartolo and carrying off the winsome Rosina to be his countess
than in the depiction of his amatory intrigues after marriage.
In fact, there is something especially repellent in the Count's
lustful pursuit of the bride of the man to whose intellectual
resourcefulness he owed the successful outcome of his own wooing.

It is, indeed, a fortunate thing for Mozart's music that so few
opera-goers understand Italian nowadays. The play is a moral
blister, and the less intelligible it is made by excisions in its
dialogue, the better, in one respect, for the virtuous sensibilities
of its auditors. One point which can be sacrificed without detriment
to the music and at only a trifling cost to the comedy (even when it
is looked upon from the viewpoint which prevailed in Europe at the
period of its creation) is that which Beaumarchais relied on chiefly
to add piquancy to the conduct of the Count. Almaviva, we are given
to understand, on his marriage with Rosina had voluntarily abandoned
an ancient seignorial right, described by Susanna as "certe mezz'
ore che il diritto feudale," but is desirous of reviving the
practice in the case of the Countess's bewitching maid on the eve of
her marriage to his valet. It is this discovery which induces Figaro
to invent his scheme for expediting the wedding, and lends a touch
of humor to the scene in which Figaro asks that he and his bride
enjoy the first-fruits of the reform while the villagers lustily
hymn the merits of their "virtuous" lord; but the too frank
discussion of the subject with which the dialogue teems might easily
be avoided. The opera, like all the old works of the lyrical stage,
is in sad need of intelligent revision and thorough study, so that
its dramatic as well as its musical beauties may be preserved. There
is no lovelier merit in Mozart's music than the depth and tenderness
with which the honest love of Susanna for Figaro and the Countess
for her lord are published; and it is no demerit that the volatile
passion of the adolescent Cherubino and the frolicsome, scintillant,
vivacious spirit of the plotters are also given voice. Mozart's
music could not be all that it is if it did not enter fully and
unreservedly into the spirit of the comedy; it is what it is because
whenever the opportunity presented itself, he raised it into the
realm of the ideal. Yet Mozart was no Puritan. He swam along gayly
and contentedly on the careless current of life as it was lived
in Vienna and elsewhere in the closing decades of the eighteenth
century, and was not averse, merely for the fun of the thing, to go
even a step beyond his librettist when the chance offered. Here is
an instance in point: The plotters have been working a little at
cross-purposes, each seeking his own advantages, and their plans are
about to be put to the test when Figaro temporarily loses confidence
in the honesty of Susanna. With his trust in her falls to the ground
his faith in all woman-kind. He rails against the whole sex in the
air, beginning: "Aprite un po' quegl' occhi?" in the last act.
Enumerating the moral blemishes of women, he at length seems to be
fairly choked by his own spleen, and bursts out at the end with
"Il resto nol dico, gia ognuno lo sa" ("The rest I'll not tell
you--everybody knows it"). The orchestra stops, all but the horns,
which with the phrase

[Musical excerpt]

aided by a traditional gesture (the singer's forefingers pointing
upward from his forehead), complete his meaning. It is a pity that
the air is often omitted, for it is eloquent in the exposition of
the spirit of the comedy.

The merriest of opera overtures introduces "Le Nozze di Figaro," and
puts the listener at once into a frolicsome mood. It seems to be the
most careless of little pieces, drawing none of its material from
the music of the play, making light of some of the formulas which
demanded respect at the time (there is no free fantasia), laughing
and singing its innocent life out in less than five minutes as if it
were breathing an atmosphere of pure oxygen. It romps; it does not
reflect or feel. Motion is its business, not emotion. It has no
concern with the deep and gentle feelings of the play, but only with
its frolic. The spirit of playful torment, the disposition of a
pretty tease, speaks out of its second subject:--

[Musical excerpt]

and one may, if one wishes, hear the voice of only half-serious
admonition in the phrase of the basses, which the violins echo as
if in mockery:--

[Musical excerpt]

But, on the whole, the overture does not ask for analysis or
interpretation; it is satisfied to express untrammelled joy in

The curtain is withdrawn, and we discover the lovers preparing for
their wedding. Figaro is taking the dimensions of a room, and the
first motive of a duet illustrates his measured paces; Susanna is
trimming a hat, and her happiness and her complacent satisfaction
with her handiwork are published in the second motive, whose
innocent joy explodes in scintillant semi-quavers in the fiddles
at the third measure. His labors ended, Figaro joins Susanna in
her utterances of joy. But there is a fly in the ointment, Why has
Figaro been so busily measuring the room? To test its fitness as
their chamber, for the Count has assigned it to them, though it is
one of the best rooms in the palace. He points out its convenient
location (duet: "Se a caso madama"); so near the room of the
Countess that her maid can easily answer the "din din" of her bell,
and near enough to the room of the Count that his "don don" would
never sound in vain should he wish to send his valet on an errand.
Altogether too convenient, explains Susanna; some fine day the
Count's "don don" might mean a three-mile journey for the valet,
and then the devil would fetch the dear Count to her side in three
paces. Has he not been making love violently to her for a space,
sending Don Basilio to give her singing lessons and to urge her to
accept his suit? Did Figaro imagine it was because of his own pretty
face that the Count had promised her so handsome a dowry? Figaro had
pressed such a flattering unction to his soul, but now recalls, with
not a little jealous perturbation, that the Count had planned to
take him with him to London, where he was to go on a mission of
state: "He as ambassador, Figaro as a courier, and Susanna as
ambassadress in secret. Is that your game, my lord? Then I'll set
the pace for your dancing with my guitar" (Cavatina: "Se vuol

Almaviva's obedient valet disappears, and presto! in his place
we see our old friend, the cunning, resourceful barber and town
factotum of the earlier days, who shall hatch out a plot to confound
his master and shield his love from persecution. First of all he
must hasten the wedding. He sets about this at once, but all
unconscious of the fact that Dr. Bartolo has never forgiven nor
forgotten the part he played in robbing him of his ward Rosina.
He comes now to let us know that he is seeking revenge against
Figaro and at the same time, as he hopes, rid himself of his old
housekeeper, Marcellina, to whom he is bound by an obligation that
is becoming irksome. The old duenna has been casting amatory glances
in Figaro's direction, and has a hold on him in the shape of a
written obligation to marry her in default of repayment of a sum of
money borrowed in a time of need. She enlists Bartolo as adviser,
and he agrees to lay the matter before the Count. Somewhat early,
but naturally enough in the case of the conceited dotard, he gloats
over his vengeance, which seems as good as accomplished, and
celebrates his triumph in an air ("La vendetta!"). As she is about
to leave the room, Marcellina meets Susanna, and the two make a
forced effort to conceal their mutual hatred and jealousy in an
amusing duettino ("Via resti servita, madama brillante!"), full of
satirical compliments and curtsies. Marcellina is bowed out of the
room with extravagant politeness, and Susanna turns her attention to
her mistress's wardrobe, only to be interrupted by the entrance of
Cherubino, the Count's page. Though a mere stripling, Cherubino is
already a budding voluptuary, animated with a wish, something like
that of Byron's hero, that all woman-kind had but a single mouth and
he the privilege of kissing it. He adores the Countess; but not her
alone. Susanna has a ribbon in her hand with which, she tells him,
she binds up her mistress's tresses at night. Happy Susanna! Happy
ribbon! Cherubino seizes it, refuses to give it up, and offers in
exchange his latest ballad. "What shall I do with the song?" asks
Susanna. "Sing it to the Countess! Sing it yourself! Sing it to
Barbarina, to Marcellina, to all the ladies in the palace!" He
tells Susanna (Air: "Non so più cosa son") of the torments which he
endures. The lad's mind is, indeed, in a parlous state; he feels his
body alternately burning and freezing; the mere sight of a maiden
sends the blood to his cheeks, and he needs must sigh whenever he
hears her voice; sleeping and waking, by lakeside, in the shadow of
the woods, on the mountain, by stream and fountain, his thoughts are
only of love and its sweet pains. It is quite impossible to describe
the eloquence with which Mozart's music expresses the feverish
unrest, the turmoil, and the longing which fill the lad's soul.
Otto Jahn has attempted it, and I shall quote his effort:--

The vibration of sentiment, never amounting to actual passion,
the mingled anguish and delight of the longing which can never be
satisfied, are expressed with a power of beauty raising them out of
the domain of mere sensuality. Very remarkable is the simplicity of
the means by which this extraordinary effect is attained. A violin
accompaniment passage, not unusual in itself, keeps up the restless
movement; the harmonies make no striking progressions; strong
emphasis and accents are sparingly used, and yet the soft flow of
the music is made suggestive of the consuming glow of passion. The
instrumentation is here of a very peculiar effect and quite a novel
coloring; the stringed instruments are muted, and clarinets occur
for the first time, and very prominently, both alone and in
combination with the horns and bassoons.

Cherubino's philandering with Susanna is interrupted by the Count,
who comes with protestations of love, which the page hears from
a hiding-place behind a large arm-chair, where Susanna, in her
embarrassment, had hastily concealed him on the Count's entrance.
The Count's philandering, in turn, is interrupted by Basilio, whose
voice is heard long enough before his entrance to permit the Count
also to seek a hiding-place. He, too, gets behind the chair, while
Cherubino, screened by Susanna's skirts, ensconces himself in the
seat, and finds cover under one of the Countess's gowns which
Susanna hurriedly throws over him. Don Basilio comes in search of
the Count, but promptly begins his pleas in behalf of his master.
Receiving nothing but indignant rejoinders, he twits Susanna with
loving the lad, and more than intimates that Cherubino is in love
with the Countess. Why else does he devour her with his eyes when
serving her at table? And had he not composed a canzonetta for her?
Far be it from him, however, to add a word to what "everybody says."
"Everybody says what?" demands the Count, discovering himself. A
trio follows ("Cosa sento!") The Count, though in a rage, preserves
a dignified behavior and orders the instant dismissal of the page
from the palace. Susanna is overwhelmed with confusion, and plainly
betrays her agitation. She swoons, and her companions are about to
place her in the arm-chair when she realizes a danger and recovers
consciousness. Don Basilio cringes before the Count, but is
maliciously delighted at the turn which affairs have taken.

The Count is stern. Cherubino had once before incurred his
displeasure by poaching in his preserves. He had visited Barbarina,
the pretty daughter of his gardener, and found the door bolted. The
maid appeared confused, and he, seeking an explanation, drew the
cover from the table and found the page hiding under. He illustrates
his action by lifting the gown thrown over the chair, and there
is the page again! This, then, is the reason of Susanna's seeming
prudery--the page, her lover! He accuses Susanna, who asserts her
innocence, and truthfully says that Cherubino had come to ask her
to procure the Countess's intercession in his behalf, when his
entrance had thrown them both into such confusion that Cherubino
had concealed himself. Where? Behind the arm-chair. But the Count
himself had hidden there. True, but a moment before the page had
slipped around and into the chair. Then he had heard all that the
Count had said to Susanna? Cherubino says he had tried his best
not to overhear anything. Figaro is sent for and enters with the
villagers, who hymn the virtues of their lord. To the Count's
question as to the meaning of the demonstration, Figaro explains
that it is an expression of their gratitude for the Count's
surrender of seignorial rights, and that his subjects wish him to
celebrate the occasion by bestowing the hand of Susanna on Figaro at
once and himself placing the bridal veil upon her brow. The Count
sees through Figaro's trick, but believing it will be frustrated by
Marcellina's appeal, he promises to honor the bride, as requested,
in due season. Cherubino has begged for the Count's forgiveness, and
Susanna has urged his youth in extenuation of his fault. Reminded
that the lad knows of his pursuit of Susanna, the Count modifies his
sentence of dismissal from his service to banishment to Seville as
an officer in his regiment. Figaro playfully inducts him into the
new existence.

The air "Non più andrai," in which this is done, is in vigorous
march rhythm. Benucci, the original Figaro in Vienna, had a superbly
sonorous voice, and Michael Kelly, the English tenor (who sang the
two rôles of Don Basilio and Don Curzio), tells us how thrillingly
he sang the song at the first rehearsal with the full band. Mozart
was on the stage in a crimson pelisse and cocked hat trimmed with
gold lace, giving the time to the orchestra. Figaro gave the song
with the greatest animation and power of voice. "I was standing
close to Mozart," says Kelly, "who, sotto voce, was repeating:
'Bravo, bravo, Benucci!' and when Benucci came to the fine passage,
'Cherubino, alla vittoria, alla gloria militar,' which he gave out
with stentorian lungs, the effect was electricity itself, for the
whole of the performers on the stage, and those in the orchestra, as
if actuated by one feeling of delight, vociferated: 'Bravo, bravo,
maestro! Viva, viva, grande Mozart!' Those in the orchestra I
thought would never have ceased applauding by beating the bows of
their violins against the music desks. The little man acknowledged
by repeated obeisances his thanks for the distinguished mark of
enthusiastic applause bestowed upon him."

This ends the first act. At the opening of the second the Countess
asks our sympathy because of the unhappiness caused by her errant
husband. (Cavatina: "Porgi amor.") She prays the god of love to
restore her to his affections. Susanna entering, the Countess asks
her to continue her tale of the Count's pursuit of her. There is
nothing to add, says the maid; the Count wooed as noblemen woo women
of her class--with money. Figaro appears to tell that the Count
is aiding Marcellina in her scheme and of the trick which he has
devised to circumvent him. He had sent Basilio to his lordship with
a letter warning him that the Countess had made an appointment to
meet a lover at the ball to be given in the evening. This would fan
the fires of his jealousy and so enrage him that he would forget his
designs against Susanna until she was safely married, when he would
discover that he had been outwitted. In the meantime, while he is
reflecting on the fact that two could play at the game, Susanna is
to apprise the Count that she will meet him in the garden in the
evening. Cherubino, whose departure to Seville had been delayed for
the purpose, is to meet the Count disguised as Susanna, and the
Countess, appearing on the scene, is to unmask him. The Count is
supposed to have gone a-hunting, and the plotters have two hours for
preparation. Figaro leaves them to find Cherubino, that he may be
put into petticoats. When the page comes, the Countess first insists
on hearing the song which he had given to Susanna, and Cherubino,
stammering and blushing at first, sings it to Susanna's guitar.
(Canzone: "Voi che sapete.") Again I call upon Otto Jahn for a
description of the music. "Cherubino is not here directly expressing
his feelings; he is depicting them in a romance, and he is in the
presence of the Countess, toward whom he glances with all the
bashfulness of boyish passion. The song is in ballad form, to suit
the situation, the voice executing the clear, lovely melody, while
the stringed instruments carry on a simple accompaniment pizzicato,
to imitate the guitar: this delicate outline is, however, shaded and
animated in a wonderful degree by solo wind instruments. Without
being absolutely necessary for the progress of the melodies and the
completeness of the harmonies, they supply the delicate touches of
detail, reading between the lines of the romance, as it were, what
is passing in the heart of the singer. We know not whether to
admire most the gracefulness of the melodies, the delicacy of the
disposition of the parts, the charm of the tone coloring, or the
tenderness of the expression--the whole is of entrancing beauty."

Susanna finds that she and Cherubino are of the same height, and
begins to array him in garments belonging to her, first locking the
door against possible intruders. The Countess views the adventure
with some misgivings at first, but, after all, Cherubino is a mere
boy, and she rejoices him with approval of his songs, and smiles
upon him till he is deliriously happy. Basilio has given him his
commission in the Count's regiment, and the Countess discovers that
it lacks a seal to secure which would cause a longer and desired
delay. While Susanna is playing the rôle of dressing-maid to
Cherubino, and instructing him in a ladylike bearing, the Count
raps for admission to the room. Figaro's decoy letter caused him
uneasiness, and he had abandoned the hunt. Cherubino hurries
into the chamber, and the Countess turns the key upon him before
admitting his lordship, who enters in an ill-humor which is soon
turned into jealous rage. Cherubino has awkwardly overturned a chair
in the chamber, and though the Countess explains that Susanna is
within, she refuses to open the door, on the plea that her maid is
making her toilet. The Count goes for tools to break open the door,
taking the Countess with him. Susanna, who has heard all from an
alcove, hastens to Cherubino's rescue, who escapes by leaping
from the window of the Countess's apartment into the garden below.
Susanna takes his place in the chamber. Then begins the most
marvellously ingenious and beautiful finale in the whole literature
of opera. Fast upon each other follow no fewer than eight
independent pieces of music, each a perfect delineation of the
quickly changing moods and situations of the comedy, yet each built
up on the lines of musical symmetry, and developing a musical theme
which, though it passes from mouth to mouth, appears each time to
belong peculiarly to the person uttering it. The Countess throws
herself upon the mercy of the Count, confesses that Cherubino,
suspiciously garbed, is in the chamber, but pleads for his life and
protests her innocence of wrong. She gives the key to her enraged
husband, who draws his sword, unlocks the door, and commands
the page to stand forth. Susanna confronts the pair with grave
unconsciousness upon her features. The Countess is no less amazed
than her lord.

The Count goes into the chamber to search for the page, giving
Susanna a chance to explain, and the nimble-witted women are ready
for him when he comes back confused, confounded, and ready to ask
forgiveness of his wife, who becomes tearful and accusing, telling
him at length that the story of the page's presence was all
an invention to test him. But the letter giving word of the
assignation? Written by Figaro. He then shall be punished.
Forgiveness is deserved only by those willing to forgive. All is
well, and the Countess gives her hand to be kissed by her lord.
Enters Figaro with joyous music to announce that all's ready for
the wedding; trumpets sounding, pipes tootling, peasants singing
and dancing. The Count throws a damper upon his exuberant spirits.
How about that letter? In spite of the efforts of the Countess and
Susanna to make him confess its authorship, Figaro stoutly insists
that he knows nothing of it. The Count summons Marcellina, but
before she arrives, the drunken gardener Antonio appears to tell the
Count that some one had leaped out of the salon window and damaged
his plants and pots. Confusion overwhelms the women. But Figaro's
wits are at work. He laughs loudly and accuses Antonio of being too
tipsy to know what had happened. The gardener sticks to his story
and is about to describe the man who came like a bolt from the
window, when Figaro says it was he made the leap. He was waiting in
the salon to see Susanna, he explains, when he heard the Count's
footsteps, and, fearing to meet him because of the decoy letter, he
had jumped from the window and got a sprained ankle, which he offers
in evidence. The orchestra changes key and tempo, and begins a new
inquisition with pitiless reiteration:--

[Musical excerpt]

Antonio produces Cherubino's commission, "These, then, are your
papers?" The Count takes the commission, opens it, and the Countess
recognizes it. With whispers and signs the women let Figaro know
what it is, and he is ready with the explanation that the page had
left the paper with him. Why? It lacked--the women come again to his
rescue--it lacked the seal. The Count tears up the paper in his rage
at being foiled again. But his allies are at hand, in the persons
of Marcellina, Bartolo, and Basilio, who appear with the accusing
contract, signed by Figaro. The Count takes the case under
advisement, and the act ends with Figaro's enemies sure of triumph
and his friends dismayed.

The third act plays in a large hall of the palace decorated for the
wedding. In a duet ("Crudel! perche finora") the Count renews his
addresses to Susanna. She, to help along the plot to unmask him,
consents to meet him in the garden. A wonderful grace rests upon the
music of the duet, which Mozart's genius makes more illuminative
than the words. Is it Susanna's native candor, or goodness, or
mischievousness, or her embarrassment which prompts her to answer
"yes" when "no" was expected and "no" when the Count had already
received an affirmative? We can think as we please; the musical
effect is delicious. Figaro's coming interrupts further conversation,
and as Susanna leaves the room with her, she drops a remark to
Figaro, which the Count overhears: "Hush! We have won our case
without a lawyer." What does it mean? Treachery, of course. Possibly
Marcellina's silence has been purchased. But whence the money? The
Count's amour propre is deeply wounded at the thought that his
menials should outwit him and he fail of his conquest. He swears
that he will be avenged upon both. Apparently he has not long to
wait, for Marcellina, Don Curzio, and Bartolo enter, followed by
Figaro. Don Curzio announces the decision of the court in the
duenna's suit against Figaro. He must pay or marry, according to the
bond. But Figaro refuses to abide by the decision. He is a gentleman
by birth, as proved by the jewels and costly clothing found upon him
when he was recovered from some robbers who stole him when a babe,
and he must have the consent of his parents. He has diligently
sought them and will prove his identity by a mark upon his arm.
"A spatula on the right elbow?" anxiously inquires Marcellina.
"Yes." And now Bartolo and the duenna, who a moment ago would fain
have made him an OEdipus, recognize in Figaro their own son, born
out of wedlock. He rushes to their arms and is found embracing his
mother most tenderly by Susanna, who comes with a purse to repay the
loan. She flies into a passion and boxes Figaro's ears before the
situation is explained, and she is made as happy by the unexpected
dénouement as the Count and Don Curzio are miserable. Bartolo
resolves that there shall be a double wedding; he will do tardy
justice to Marcellina. Now we see the Countess again in her
lamentable mood, mourning the loss of her husband's love. (Aria:
"Dove sono.") Susanna comes to tell of her appointment with the
Count. The place, "in the garden," seems to be lacking in clearness,
and the Countess proposes that it be made more definite and certain
(as the lawyers say), by means of a letter which shall take the form
of a "Song to the Zephyr." This is the occasion of the exquisite
duet which was surely in the mind of the composer's father when,
writing to his daughter from Vienna after the third performance of
the opera, he said: "One little duet had to be sung three times."
Was there ever such exquisite dictation and transcription? Can any
one say, after hearing this "Canzonetta sull' aria," that it is
unnatural to melodize conversation? With what gracious tact the
orchestra gives time to Susanna to set down the words of her
mistress! How perfect is the musical reproduction of inquiry and
repetition when a phrase escapes the memory of the writer!

[Musical excerpt--Susanna: "sotto i pini?" Conte: "Sotto i pini del

The letter is written, read over phrase by phrase, and sealed with
a pin which the Count is to return as proof that he has received
the note.

The wedding festivities begin with a presentation of flowers to the
Countess by the village maidens, among whom in disguise is the rogue
Cherubino--so fair in hat and gown that the Countess singles him out
of the throng to present his nosegay in person. Antonio, who had
suspected that he was still about the palace, exposes him to the
Count, who threatens the most rigorous punishment, but is obliged to
grant Barberina's petition that he give his consent to her marriage
to the page. Had he not often told her to ask him what she pleased,
when kissing her in secret? Under the circumstances he can only
grant the little maid's wish. During the dance which follows (it
is a Spanish fandango which seems to have been popular in Vienna
at the time, for Gluck had already made use of the same melody in
his ballet "Don Juan"), Susanna kneels before the Count to have
him place the wreath (or veil) upon her head, and slyly slips the
"Canzonetta sull' aria" into his hands. He pricks his finger with
the pin, drops it, but, on reading the postscript, picks it up, so
that he may return it to the writer as a sign of understanding.
In the evening Barberina, who has been commissioned to carry the
pin to her cousin Susanna, loses it again, and her lamentation
"L'ho perdita," with its childish sobs while hunting it, is one
of the little gems of the opera. From her Figaro learns that the
letter which he had seen the Count read during the dance was from
Susanna, and becomes furiously jealous. In an air (which has already
been described), he rails against man's credulity and woman's
faithlessness. The time is come to unmask the Count. The Countess
and Susanna have exchanged dresses, and now come into the garden.
Left alone, Susanna gives voice to her longing and love (for Figaro,
though the situation makes it seem to be for the Count) in the air
which has won great favor in the concert-room: "Deh vieni non
tardar." Here some of Otto Jahn's words are again appropriate:--

Mozart was right to let the feelings of the loving maiden shine
forth in all their depth and purity, for Susanna has none but her
Figaro in her mind, and the sentiments she expresses are her true
ones. Figaro, in his hiding-place, listening and suspecting her of
awaiting the Count's arrival, throws a cross-light on the situation,
which, however, only receives its full dramatic signification by
reason of the truth of Susanna's expression of feeling. Susanna,
without her sensual charm, is inconceivable, and a tinge of
sensuality is an essential element of her nature; but Mozart has
transfigured it into a noble purity which may fitly be compared
with the grandest achievements of Greek sculpture.

Cherubino, watched from different places of concealment by the
Count, Figaro, and Susanna, appears, and, seeing the Countess, whom
he takes for Susanna, confounds not her alone, but also the Count
and Figaro, by his ardent addresses to her. He attempts to kiss her,
but the Count steps forward and interposes his cheek. The Count
attempts to box Cherubino's ears, but Figaro, slipping forward at
the moment, receives the blow instead. Confusion is at its height.
The Count makes love to his wife, thinking she is Susanna, promises
her a dowry, and places a ring on her finger. Seeing torches
approaching, they withdraw into deeper darkness. Susanna shows
herself, and Figaro, who takes her for the Countess, acquaints her
of the Count's doings which he has just witnessed. Susanna betrays
herself, and Figaro resolves to punish her for her masquerading.
He makes love to her with extravagant pathos until interrupted by
a slap in the face. Susanna's patience had become exhausted, and
her temper got the better of her judgment. Figaro laughs at her
ill-humor and confesses his trick, but renews his sham love-making
when he sees the Count returning. The latter calls for lights, and
seizes Figaro and his retainers. In the presence of all he is put
to shame by the disclosures of the personality of the Countess and
Susanna. He falls on his knees, asks forgiveness, receives it, and
all ends happily.



Mozart's "Zauberflöte"--"The Magic Flute"--is the oldest German
opera holding a place on the American stage, though not quite 118
years old; but so far as my memory and records go, it has had but
four performances in the original tongue in New York in a whole
generation. There have been a few representations in English within
this time and a considerable number in Italian, our operatic
institutions being quick, as a rule, to put it upon the stage
whenever they have at command a soprano leggiero with a voice
of sufficient range and flexibility to meet the demands of the
extraordinary music which Mozart wrote for the Queen of Night to
oblige his voluble-throated sister-in-law, Mme. Hofer, who was
the original representative of that character. The same operatic
conditions having prevailed in New York and London for many years,
it is not strange that English-speaking people have come to
associate "The Magic Flute" with the Italian rather than the German
repertory. Yet we have the dictum of Beethoven that it is Mozart's
greatest opera, because in it his genius showed itself in so large
a variety of musical forms, ranging from ditties in the folk-song
style to figurated chorale and fugue, and more particularly because
in it Mozart first disclosed himself as a German composer. By this
Beethoven did not mean that Mozart had not written music before for
a German libretto, but that he had never written German music before
in an opera. The distinction is one more easily observed by Germans
and critical historians than by the ordinary frequenters of our
opera-houses. "Die Zauberflöte" has a special charm for people of
German blood, which is both admirable and amiable. Its magnificent
choruses are sung by men, and Germany is the home of the Männergesang;
among the opera's songs are echoes of the Volkslied--ditties which
seem to have been caught up in the German nurseries or plucked off
the lips of the itinerant German balladist; its emotional music is
heartfelt, warm, ingenuous, and in form and spirit free from the
artificiality of Italian opera as it was in Mozart's day and as it
continued to be for a long time thereafter. It was this last virtue
which gave the opera its largest importance in the eyes of Otto
Jahn, Mozart's biographer. In it, he said, for the first time all
the resources of cultivated art were brought to bear with the
freedom of genius upon a genuine German opera. In his Italian
operas, Mozart had adopted the traditions of a long period of
development, and by virtue of his original genius had brought them
to a climax and a conclusion; but in "Die Zauberflöte" he "stepped
across the threshold of the future and unlocked the sanctuary of
national art for his countrymen."

In this view every critical historian can concur, no matter what his
tastes or where his home. But it is less easy for an English,
French, or Italian critic than a German to pardon the incongruities,
incoherences, and silly buffooneries which mar the opera. Some of
the disturbing elements are dear to the Teutonic heart. Papageno,
for instance, is but a slightly metamorphosed Kasperl, a Jack
Pudding (Hanswurst) twice removed; and Kasperl is as intimately
bound up in the German nature as his cousin Punch in the English.
Kasperl is, indeed, directly responsible for "Die Zauberflöte." At
the end of the eighteenth century there was in Vienna a singular
individual named Emmanuel Schikaneder, a Jack-of-all-trades so far
as public amusements were concerned--musician, singer, actor,
playwright, and manager. There can be no doubt but that he was a sad
scalawag and ribald rogue, with as few moral scruples as ever
burdened a purveyor of popular amusements. But he had some personal
traits which endeared him to Mozart, and a degree of intellectuality
which won him a fairly respectable place among the writers for the
stage at the turn of the century. Moreover, when he had become
prosperous enough to build a new theatre with the proceeds of "Die
Zauberflöte," he was wise enough to give a generous commission,
unhampered by his customary meddlesome restrictions, to Beethoven;
and discreet enough to approve of the highly virtuous book of
"Fidelio." At the beginning of the last decade of the eighteenth
century, however, his theatre had fallen on evil days, and in dire
straits he went to Mozart, whose friendship he had enjoyed from the
latter's Salzburg days, and begged him to undertake the composition
of an opera for which he had written the book, in conjunction with
one of his actors and choristers, named Gieseke (though this fact
never received public acknowledgment at his hands). Wieland's
"Oberon" had filled the popular mind with a great fondness for
fantastic and Oriental subjects, and a rival manager had been
successful with musical pieces in which the principal character was
the popular Kasperl. Casting about for an operatic subject which
should appeal to the general liking for romanticism and buffoonery
at once, Schikaneder hit upon a tale called "Lulu; oder, Die
Zauberflöte," written by Liebeskind, but published by Wieland in a
volume of Orientalia entitled "Dschinnistan." He had got pretty
deep in his work when a rival manager brought out an adaptation of
the same story, with music by Wenzel Müller. The farcical character
of the piece is indicated by its title, which was "Kasper, der
Fagottist; oder, Die Zauberzither"; but it made so striking a
success that Schikaneder feared to enter the lists against it with
an opera drawn from the same source. He was either too lazy, too
much in a hurry, or too indifferent to the principles of art to
remodel the completed portion, but finished his book on lines far
different from those originally contemplated. The transformation
thus accomplished brought about all the blemishes of "Die
Zauberflöte," but also gave occasion for the sublime music with
which Mozart transfigured some of the scenes. This will be
understood better if an outline of Liebeskind's tale is made to
precede the story of the opera as it came from Mozart's hand.

A wicked magician, Dilsenghuin, has robbed the "radiant fairy"
Perifirime of her daughter, Sidi, and carried off a magic talisman.
The magician keeps the damsel in confinement and persecutes her with
amatory advances which she is able to resist through a power which
is to support her so long as her heart is untouched by love.
Perifirime promises the hand of her daughter, whose father is the
King of Cashmere, to Prince Lulu, son of the King of Chorassan, if
he regain the stolen talisman for her. To do this, however, is given
only to one who has never felt the divine passion. Lulu undertakes
the adventure, and as aids the fairy gives him a magic flute and a
ring. The tone of the flute will win the hearts of all who hear it;
by turning the ring, the wearer is enabled to assume any form
desired at will; by throwing it away he may summon the fairy herself
to his aid. The Prince assumes the form of an old man, and, like
Orpheus, softens the nature of the wild beasts that he meets in the
forest. He even melts the heart of the magician himself, who admits
him to his castle. Once he is within its walls, the inmates all
yield to the charm of his magical music, not excepting the lovely
prisoner. At a banquet he throws the magician and his companions
into a deep sleep, and possesses himself of the talisman. It is a
gold fire-steel, every spark struck from which becomes a powerful
spirit whose service is at the command of the possessor. With the
help of genii, struck from the magical implement, and the fairy whom
he summons at the last, Prince Lulu overcomes all the obstacles
placed in his way. Discomfited, the magician flies away as an owl.
Perifirime destroys the castle and carries the lovers in a cloud
chariot to her own palace. Their royal fathers give their blessings,
and Prince Lulu and Princess Sidi are joined in wedlock.

Following in a general way the lines of this story, but supplying
the comic element by the creation of Papageno (who is Kasperl in a
habiliment of feathers), Schikaneder had already got his hero into
the castle of the wicked magician in quest of the daughter of the
Queen of Night (in whose character there was not yet a trace of
maleficence), when the success of his rival's earlier presentation
of the story gave him pause. Now there came to him (or to his
literary colleague) a conceit which fired the imagination of Mozart
and added an element to the play which was bound at once to dignify
it and create a popular stir that might lead to a triumph. Whence
the suggestion came is not known, but its execution, so far as the
libretto was concerned, was left to Gieseke. Under the Emperor
Leopold II the Austrian government had adopted a reactionary policy
toward the order of Freemasons, which was suspected of making
propaganda for liberal ideas in politics and religion. Both
Schikaneder and Mozart belonged to the order, Mozart, indeed, being
so enthusiastic a devotee that he once confessed to his father his
gratitude to God that through Freemasonry he had learned to look
upon death as the gateway to true happiness. In continuing the book
of the opera, Schikaneder (or Gieseke for him) abruptly transformed
the wicked magician into a virtuous sage who had carried off the
daughter of a wicked sorceress, the Queen of Night, to save the
maiden from the baleful influence of her mother. Instead of seeking
to frustrate the efforts of the prince who comes to rescue her,
the sage initiates him into the mysteries of Isis, leads him into
the paths of virtue and wisdom, tests him by trials, and rewards
him at the last by blessing his union with the maiden. The trials
of silence, secrecy, and hardihood in passing through the dread
elements of fire and water were ancient literary materials; they may
be found in the account of the initiation of a neophyte into the
mysteries of Isis in Apuleius's "Metamorphoses; or, The Golden Ass,"
a romance written in the second century. By placing the scene of the
opera in Egypt, the belief of Freemasons that their order originated
in that unspeakably ancient land was humored, while the use of some
of its symbolism (such as the conflict between light and darkness)
and the proclamation of what were believed to be some of its ethical
principles could safely be relied upon to delight the knowing and
irritate the curiosity of the uninitiated. The change also led to
the shabby treatment which woman receives in the opera, while
Schikaneder's failure to rewrite the first part accounts for such
inconsistencies as the genii who are sent to guide the prince
appearing first in the service of the evil principle and afterward
as agents of the good.

The overture to "Die Zauberflöte," because of its firm establishment
in our concert-rooms, is more widely known than the opera. Two of its
salient features have also made it the subject of large discussion
among musical analysts; namely, the reiterated chords, three times
three, which introduce the second part of the overture. {1}

[Musical excerpt]

and the fugued allegro, constructed with a skill that will never
cease to be a wonder to the knowing, built up on the following

[Musical excerpt]

In the chords (which are heard again in the temple scene, at
which the hero is admitted as a novice and permitted to begin his
probation), the analysts who seek to find as much symbolism as
possible in the opera, see an allusion to the signals given by
knocking at the door of the lodge-room. Some such purpose may been
have in the mind of Mozart when he chose the device, but it was
not unique when he applied it. I have found it used in an almost
identical manner in the overture to "Günther von Schwarzburg," by
Ignaz Holzbauer, a German opera produced in Mannheim fifteen years
before "Die Zauberflöte" saw the light of the stage lamps. Mozart
knew Holzbauer, who was a really great musician, and admired his
music. Connected with the fugue theme there is a more familiar
story. In 1781 Clementi, the great pianist and composer, visited
Vienna. He made the acquaintance of Haydn, was introduced at court,
and Emperor Joseph II brought him and Mozart together in a trial of
skill at playing and improvising. Among other things Clementi played
his own sonata in B-flat, the first movement of which begins thus:--

[Musical excerpt]

The resemblance between this theme and Mozart's fugal subject is
too plain to need pointing out. Such likenesses were more common in
Mozart's day than they were a century ago; they were more common
in Handel's day than in Mozart's; they are almost as common in our
day as they were in Handel's, but now we explain them as being the
products of "unconscious cerebration," whereas in the eighteenth
century they were frank borrowings in which there was no moral
obliquity; for originality then lay as much in treatment as in
thematic invention, if not more.

Come we now to a description of the action of the opera. Tamino,--
strange to say, a "Japanese" prince,--hunting far, very far, from
home, is pursued, after his last arrow has been sped, by a great
serpent. He flees, cries for help, and seeing himself already in the
clutch of death, falls in a swoon. At the moment of his greatest
danger three veiled ladies appear on the scene and melodiously and
harmoniously unite in slaying the monster. They are smitten, in
unison, with the beauty of the unconscious youth whom they have
saved, and quarrel prettily among themselves for the privilege of
remaining beside him while information of the incident is bearing
to the Queen of Night, who lives hard by in a castle. No two being
willing that the third shall stay, all three go to the Queen, who is
their mistress. Tamino's consciousness returning, he discovers that
the serpent has been slain, and hails Papageno, who comes upon the
scene, as his deliverer. Papageno is a bird-catcher by trade and
in the service of the Queen of Night--a happy-go-lucky, talkative
fellow, whose thoughts do not go beyond creature comforts. He
publishes his nature (and incidentally illustrates what has been
said above about the naïve character of some of the music of the
opera) by trolling a ditty with an opening strain as follows:--

[Musical excerpt]

Papageno has no scruples about accepting credit and gratitude for
the deed performed by the ladies, and, though he is the veriest
poltroon, he boasts inordinately about the gigantic strength which
had enabled him to strangle the serpent. He is punished for his
mendacity when the ladies return and place a padlock upon his mouth,
closing his lips to the things of which he is most fond--speech and
food. To Tamino they give a miniature portrait, which excites him to
rapturous song ("Dies Bildniss ist bezaubernd schön," or "Oh! cara
immagine," as the case may be). Then he learns that the original of
the portrait is Pamina, daughter of the Queen of Night, stolen from
her mother by a "wicked demon," Sarastro. In the true spirit of
knight-errantry he vows that he will restore the maid to her
mother's arms. There is a burst of thunder, and the Queen appears
in such apparel and manner as the exchequer at the theatre and the
ingenuity of the stage mechanic are able to provide. (When last I
saw her her robe was black, bespangled with stars and glittering
gems, and she rode upon the crescent moon.) She knows the merits and
virtues of the youth, and promises that he shall have Pamina to wife
if he succeeds in his adventure. Papageno is commanded to accompany
him, and as aids the ladies give to Tamino a magic flute, whose
tones shall protect him from every danger, and to Papageno a
bell-chime of equal potency. (These talismans have hundreds of
prototypes in the folk-lore of all peoples.) Papageno is loath to
accompany the prince, because the magician had once threatened to
spit and roast him like the bird he resembled if ever he was caught
in his domain, but the magical bells give him comfort and assurance.
Meanwhile the padlock has been removed from his lips, with
admonitions not to lie more. In the quintet which accompanies these
sayings and doings, there is exquisite music, which, it is said,
Mozart conceived while playing at billiards. Finally the ladies
announce that three boys, "young, beautiful, pure, and wise," shall
guide the pair to the castle of Sarastro.

We are next in a room of the castle before the would-be rescuers
arrive. Pamina has tried to escape, and is put in chains by her
keeper, the Moor Monostatos. She weeps because of her misery, and
repulses the protestations of love with which her jailer plagues
her. Papageno enters the room, and he and the jailer run in opposite
directions at sight of each other--Papageno frightened by the
complexion of the blackamoor, Monostatos terror-stricken at the
sight of a man in feathers. Returning, Papageno convinces himself
of the identity of Pamina with the daughter of the Queen of Night,
tells her of Tamino, who is coming for her with a heart full of
love, and promptly they sing of the divine dignity of the marital
state. It is the duet, "Bei Männern weiche Liebe fühlen," or "Là
dove prende, amor ricetto," familiar to concert-rooms, and the
melody to some hymnals. A story goes that Mozart had to write
this duet three or five times before it would pass muster in the
censorious eyes of Schikaneder. After the opera had made good its
success, the duet as we have it to-day alternated at the performance
with a more ornate version--in all likelihood one of the earlier
forms in which Mozart cast it.

The three boys--genii they are, and if I were stage-manager they
should fly like Peter Pan--lead Tamino into a grove wherein stand
three temples dedicated respectively to Wisdom, Nature, and Reason.
The precinct is sacred; the music tells us that--the halo streaming
from sustained notes of flutes and clarinets, the muted trumpets,
the solemn trombones in softest monotone, the placid undulations of
the song sung by the violins, the muffled, admonitory beats of the
kettledrums. The genii leave Tamino after admonishing him to be
"steadfast, patient, and silent." Conscious of a noble purpose, the
hero boldly approaches the Temple of Reason, but before he can enter
its portals, is stopped by an imperative injunction from within:
"Back!" He essays the Temple of Nature, and is turned away again by
the ominous word. Out of the Temple of Wisdom steps an aged priest,
from whom he learns that Sarastro is master within, and that no
one is privileged to enter whose heart, like his, harbors hatred
and vengeful thoughts. Tamino thinks Sarastro fully deserving of
hatred and revenge, and is informed that he had been deceived by a
woman--one of the sex "that does little, chatters much." Tamino asks
if Pamina lives, but the priest is bound by an oath to say nothing
on that subject until "the hand of friendship shall lead him to an
eternal union within the sanctuary." When shall night vanish and the
light appear? Oracular voices answer, "Soon, youth, or never!" Does
Pamina live? The voices: "Pamina still lives!" Thus comforted, he
sings his happiness, filling the pauses in his song with interludes
on the flute, bringing to his feet the wild beasts and forest
creatures of all sorts. He hears Papageno's syrinx, and at length
finds the fowler with Monostatos; but before their joy can have
expression Pamina and the slaves appear and capture them. Papageno
recollects him of his magic bells; he plays upon them, and the
slaves, willy-nilly, dance themselves out of sight. Scarcely are the
lovers free when a solemn strain announces the approach of Sarastro.
He comes in a chariot drawn by lions and surrounded by a brave
retinue. Pamina kneels to him, confesses her attempt to escape, but
explains that it was to free herself from the odious attentions of
Monostatos. The latter, asking his reward for having thwarted the
plan of Papageno, receives it from Sarastro in the shape of a
bastinado. Pamina pleads for restoration to her mother, but the sage
refuses to free her, saying that her mother is a haughty woman,
adding the ungallant reflection that woman's heart should be
directed by man lest she step outside her sphere. He commands that
Tamino and Papageno be veiled and led into the Temple of Probation.
The first act is ended.

The initiation of Tamino and Papageno into the mysteries, their
trials, failures, triumph, and reward, form the contents of the
second act. At a conclave of the elect, Sarastro announces that
Tamino stands at the door of the Temple of Wisdom, desirous to gaze
upon the "great light" of the sanctuary. He prays Isis and Osiris
to give strength to the neophytes:--

[Musical excerpt--"O Isis und Osiris schenket Der Weisheit Geist
dem neuen Paar."]

To the impressiveness of this prayer the orchestra contributes as
potent a factor as the stately melody or the solemn harmonies. All
the bright-voiced instruments are excluded, and the music assigned
to three groups of sombre color, composed, respectively, (1) of
divided violas and violoncellos; (2) of three trombones, and (3) of
two basset horns and two bassoons. The assent of the sacerdotal
assembly is indicated by the three trumpet blasts which have been
described in connection with the overture, and Tamino and Papageno
are admitted to the Temple, instructed, and begin their probationary
trials. True to the notion of the order, two priests warn the
neophytes against the wiles of woman. Papageno has little inclination
to seek wisdom, but enters upon the trials in the hope of winning a
wife who shall be like himself in appearance. In the first trial,
which is that of silence, the value of the priestly warning just
received is at once made apparent. Tamino and Papageno have scarcely
been left alone, when the three female attendants of the Queen of
Night appear and attempt to terrify them with tales of the false
nature of the priests, whose recruits, say they, are carried to
hell, body and breeches (literally "mit Haut und Haar," i.e. "with
skin and hair"). Papageno becomes terror-stricken and falls to the
floor, when voices within proclaim that the sanctity of the temple
has been profaned by woman's presence. The ladies flee.

The scene changes. Pamina is seen asleep in a bower of roses,
silvered over by the light of the moon. Monostatos, deploring the
fact that love should be denied him because of his color, though
enjoyed by everything else in nature, attempts to steal a kiss. A
peal of thunder, and the Queen of Night rises from the ground. She
importunes Pamina to free herself and avenge her mother's wrongs
by killing Sarastro. To this end she hands her a dagger and pours
out the "hellish rage" which "boils" in her heart in a flood of
scintillant staceati in the tonal regions where few soprano voices

[Musical excerpt]

Monostatos has overheard all. He wrenches the dagger from Pamina,
urges her again to accept his love, threatens her with death, and
is about to put his threat into execution when Sarastro enters,
dismisses the slave, and announces that his revenge upon the Queen
of Night shall lie in promoting the happiness of the daughter by
securing her union with Tamino.

The probationary trials of Tamino and Papageno are continued. The
two are led into a hall and admonished to remain silent till they
hear a trumpet-call. Papageno falls to chattering with an old woman,
is terrified beyond measure by a thunder-clap, and recovers his
composure only when the genii bring back the flute and bells and a
table of food. Tamino, however, remains steadfast, though Pamina
herself comes to him and pleads for a word of love. Papageno boasts
of his own hardihood, but stops to eat, though the trumpet has
called. A lion appears; Tamino plays his flute, and the beast
returns to his cage. The youth is prepared for the final trial; he
is to wander for a space through flood and flame, and Pamina is
brought to say her tearful farewells. The courage and will of the
neophyte remain unshaken, though the maiden gives way to despair and
seeks to take her own life. The genii stay her hand, and assure her
that Tamino shall be restored to her. Two men in armor guard the
gates of a subterranean cavern. They sing of the rewards to be won
by him who shall walk the path of danger; water, fire, air, and
earth shall purify him; and if he withstand death's terrors, heaven
shall receive him and he be enlightened and fitted to consecrate
himself wholly to the mysteries of Isis:--

[Musical excerpt--"Der, welcher wandert diese Strasse voll Beschwerde"]

A marvellous piece of music is consorted with this oracular
utterance. The words are set to an old German church melody--"Ach
Gott, vom Himmel sieh darein"--around which the orchestral
instruments weave a contrapuntal web of wondrous beauty. At the
gates Pamina joins her lover and accompanies him on his journey,
which is happily achieved with the help of the flute. Meanwhile
Papageno is pardoned his loquacity, but told that he shall never
feel the joy of the elect. He thinks he can make shift with a
pretty wife instead. The old woman of the trial chamber appears and
discloses herself as the charming, youthful Papageno, but only for
an instant. He calls after her in vain, and is about to hang himself
when the genii remind him of his magic bells. He rings and sings;
his feathered mate comes to him. Monostatos aids the Queen of Night
and her companions in an assault upon the sanctuary; but a storm
confounds them, and Sarastro blesses the union of Tamino and Pamina,
amidst joyful hymning by the elect.

An extraordinary hodgepodge, truly, yet, taken all in all, an
effective stage piece. Goethe was so impressed with the ingenuity
shown by Schikaneder in treating the device of contrast that he
seriously contemplated writing a second part, the music of which was
to be composed by Wranitzky, who set Gieseke's operatic version of
"Oberon." German critics and managers have deplored its absurdities
and contradictions, but have found no way to obviate them which
can be said to be generally acceptable. The buffooneries cannot be
separated from the sublimities without disrupting the piece, nor can
its doggerel be turned into dignified verse. It were best, I fancy,
that managers should treat the opera, and audiences receive it, as a
sort of Christmas pantomime which Mozart has glorified by his music.
The tendency of German critics has been to view it with too much
seriousness. It is difficult to avoid this while one is under the
magic spell of its music, but the only way to become reconciled to
it on reflection is to take it as the story of its creation shows
that its creators intended it to be taken; namely, as a piece
designed to suit the tastes of the uncultivated and careless masses.
This will explain the singular sacrifice of principle which Mozart
made in permitting a mountebank like Schikaneder to pass judgment on
his music while he was composing it, to exact that one duet should
be composed over five times before he would accept it, and even to
suggest melodies for some of the numbers. Jahn would have us believe
that Mozart was so concerned at the failure of the first act to win
applause at the first performance that he came behind the scenes
pale as death to receive comfort and encouragement from Schikaneder;
I prefer to believe another story, which is to the effect that
Mozart almost died with laughing when he found that the public went
into ecstasies over his opera. Certain it is that his pleasure in
it was divided. Schikaneder had told him that he might occasionally
consult the taste of connoisseurs, and he did so, finding profound
satisfaction in the music written for Sarastro and the priests, and
doubtless also in the fine ensembles; but the enthusiasm inspired
by what he knew to be concessions to the vulgar only excited his
hilarity. The beautiful in the score is amply explained by Mozart's
genius and his marvellous command of the technique of composition.
The dignity of the simple idea of a celebration of the mysteries
of Isis would have been enough, without the composer's reverence
for Freemasonry and its principles, to inspire him for a great
achievement when it came to providing a setting for the scenes in
which the priests figure. The rest of the music he seems to have
written with little regard to coherency or unity of character. His
sister-in-law had a voice of extraordinary range and elasticity;
hence the two display airs; Papageno had to have music in keeping in
his character, and Mozart doubtless wrote it with as little serious
thought as he did the "Piece for an Organ in a Clock, in F minor,
4-4," and "Andante to a Waltz for a Little Organ," which can be
found entered in his autograph catalogue for the last year of
his life. In the overture, one of the finest of his instrumental
compositions, he returned to a form that had not been in use since
the time of Hasse and Graum; in the scene with the two men in armor
he made use of a German chorale sung in octaves as a canto firmo,
with counterpoint in the orchestra--a recondite idea which it is
difficult to imagine him inventing for this opera. I fancy (not
without evidence) that he made the number out of material found in
his sketch-book. These things indicate that the depth which the
critics with deep-diving and bottom-scraping proclivities affect
to see in the work is rather the product of imagination than real.


{1} These chords, played by all the wind instruments of the band,
are the chords of the introduction raised to a higher power.



In the preceding chapter it was remarked that Mozart's "Zauberflöte"
was the oldest German opera in the current American repertory.
Accepting the lists of the last two decades as a criterion, "Don
Giovanni" is the oldest Italian opera, save one. That one is "Le
Nozze di Figaro," and it may, therefore, be said that Mozart's
operas mark the beginning of the repertory as it exists at the
present time in America. Twenty-five years ago it was possible to
hear a few performances of Gluck's "Orfeo" in English and Italian,
and its name has continued to figure occasionally ever since in the
lists of works put forth by managers when inviting subscriptions for
operatic seasons; but that fact can scarcely be said to have kept
the opera in the repertory.

Our oldest Italian opera is less than 125 years old, and "Don
Giovanni" only 122--an inconsiderable age for a first-class work of
art compared with its companion pieces in literature, painting, and
sculpture, yet a highly respectable one for an opera. Music has
undergone a greater revolution within the last century than any
other art in thrice the period, yet "Don Giovanni" is as much
admired now as it was in the last decade of the eighteenth century,
and, indeed, has less prejudice to contend with in the minds of
musicians and critics than it had when it was in its infancy, and
I confidently believe that to its score and that of "Le Nozze di
Figaro" opera writers will soon be turning to learn the methods of
dramatic characterization. Pure beauty lives in angelic wedlock with
psychological expression in Mozart's dramatic music, and these
factors will act as powerful loadstones in bringing composers who
are now laboriously and vainly seeking devices for characterization
in tricks and devices based on arbitrary formulas back to the gospel
of truth and beauty. Wagner has had no successful imitator. His
scheme of thematic identification and development, in its union of
calculation, reflection, and musical inspiration, is beyond the
capacities of those who have come after him. The bow of Ulysses is
still unbent; but he will be a great musician indeed who shall use
the resources of the new art with such large ease, freedom, power,
and effectiveness as Mozart used those of the comparatively
ingenuous art of his day. And yet the great opera composer who is to
come in great likelihood will be a disciple of Gluck, Mozart, and
the Wagner who wrote "Tristan und Isolde" and "Die Meistersinger"
rather than one of the tribe of Debussy.

The great opera composers of the nineteenth century were of one mind
touching the greatness of "Don Giovanni." Beethoven was horrified by
its licentious libretto, but tradition says that he kept before him
on his writing-table a transcript of the music for the trombones in
the second finale of the opera. Shortly after Mme. Viardot-Garcia
came into possession of the autograph score of the masterpiece,
Rossini called upon her and asked for the privilege of looking at
it, adding, "I want to bow the knee before this sacred relic."
After poring over a few pages, he placed his hands on the book and
said, solemnly: "He is the greatest, the master of them all; the
only composer who had as much science as he had genius, and as
much genius as he had science." On another occasion he said to a
questioner: "Vous voulez connaître celui de mes ouvrages que j'aime
le mieux; eh bien, c'est 'Don Giovanni.'" Gounod celebrated the
centenary of the opera by writing a commentary on it which he
dedicated to young composers and artists called upon to take part
in performances of the opera. In the preface of his book he
characterizes it as "an unequalled and immortal masterpiece," the
"apogee of the lyrical drama," a "wondrous example of truth, beauty
of form, appropriateness of characterization, deep insight into the
drama, purity of style, richness and restraint in instrumentation,
charm and tenderness in the love passages, and power in pathos"--in
one word, a "finished model of dramatic music." And then he added:
"The score of 'Don Giovanni' has exercised the influence of a
revelation upon the whole of my life; it has been and remains for
me a kind of incarnation of dramatic and musical impeccability. I
regard it as a work without blemish, of uninterrupted perfection,
and this commentary is but the humble testimony of my Veneration and
gratitude for the genius to whom I owe the purest and most permanent
joys of my life as a musician." In his "Autobiographical Sketch"
Wagner confesses that as a lad he cared only for "Die Zauberflöte,"
and that "Don Giovanni" was distasteful to him on account of the
Italian text, which seemed to him rubbish. But in "Oper und Drama"
he says: "Is it possible to find anything more perfect than every
piece in 'Don Juan'? . . . Oh, how doubly dear and above all honor
is Mozart to me that it was not possible for him to invent music
for 'Tito' like that of 'Don Giovanni,' for 'Cosi fan tutte' like
that of 'Figaro'! How shamefully would it have desecrated music!"
And again: "Where else has music won so infinitely rich an
individuality, been able to characterize so surely, so definitely,
and in such exuberant plenitude, as here?" {1}

Mozart composed "Don Giovanni" for the Italian Opera at Prague,
which had been saved from ruin in the season 1786-1787 by the
phenomenal success of "Le Nozze di Figaro." He chose the subject and
commissioned Lorenzo da Ponte, then official poet to the imperial
theatres of Austria, to write the book of words. In doing so, the
latter made free use of a version of the same story made by an
Italian theatrical poet named Bertati, and Dr. Chrysander (who in
1886 gave me a copy of this libretto, which Mozart's biographer,
Otto Jahn, had not succeeded in finding, despite diligent search)
has pointed out that Mozart also took as a model some of the music
to which the composer Gazzaniga had set it. The title of the opera
by Bertati and Gazzaniga was "Il Convitato di Pietra." It had been
brought forward with great success in Venice and won wide vogue
in Italy before Mozart hit upon it. It lived many years after
Mozart brought out his opera, and, indeed, was performed in London
twenty-three years before Mozart's opera got a hearing. It is
doubtful, however, if the London representation did justice to the
work. Da Ponte was poet to the opera there when "Il Convitato" was
chosen for performance, and it fell to him to prepare the book to
suit the taste of the English people. He tried to persuade the
management to give Mozart's opera instead, and, failing in that,
had the malicious satisfaction of helping to turn the work of
Bertati and Gazzaniga into a sort of literary and musical pasticcio,
inserting portions of his own paraphrase of Bertati's book in place
of the original scenes and preparing occasion for the insertion of
musical pieces by Sarti, Frederici, and Guglielmi.

Mozart wrote the music to "Don Giovanni" in the summer of 1787.
Judging by the circumstance that there is no entry in his autograph
catalogue between June 24 and August 10 in that year, it would seem
that he had devoted the intervening seven weeks chiefly, if not
wholly, to the work. When he went to Prague in September he carried
the unfinished score with him, and worked on it there largely in the
summer house of his friends, the Duscheks, who lived in the suburbs
of the city. Under date of October 28 he entered the overture in his
catalogue. As a matter of fact, it was not finished till the early
morn of the next day, which was the day of the first production of
the opera. Thereby hangs the familiar tale of how it was composed.
On the evening of the day before the performance, pen had not been
touched to the overture. Nevertheless, Mozart sat with a group of
merry friends until a late hour of the night. Then he went to his
hotel and prepared to work. On the table was a glass of punch, and
his wife sat beside him--to keep him awake by telling him stories.
In spite of all, sleep overcame him, and he was obliged to interrupt
his work for several hours; yet at 7 o'clock in the morning the
copyist was sent for and the overture was ready for him. The tardy
work delayed the representation in the evening, and the orchestra
had to play the overture at sight; but it was a capital band, and
Mozart, who conducted, complimented it before starting into the
introduction to the first air. The performance was completely
successful, and floated buoyantly on a tide of enthusiasm which set
in when Mozart entered the orchestra, and rose higher and higher as
the music went on. On May 7, 1788, the opera was given in Vienna,
where at first it made a fiasco, though Mozart had inserted new
pieces and made other alterations to humor the singers and add to
its attractiveness. London heard it first on April 12, 1817, at the
King's Theatre, whose finances, which were almost in an exhausted
state, it restored to a flourishing condition. In the company which
Manuel Garcia brought to New York in 1825 were Carlo Angrisani, who
was the Masetto of the first London representation, and Domenico
Crivelli, son of the tenor Gaetano Crivelli, who had been the
Don Ottavio. Garcia was a tenor with a voice sufficiently deep to
enable him to sing the barytone part of Don Giovanni in Paris and
at subsequent performances in London. It does not appear that he
had contemplated a performance of the opera in New York, but here
he met Da Ponte, who had been a resident of the city for twenty
years and recently been appointed professor of Italian literature
at Columbia College. Da Ponte, as may be imagined, lost no time in
calling on Garcia and setting on foot a scheme for bringing forward
"my 'Don Giovanni,'" as he always called it. Crivelli was a
second-rate tenor, and could not be trusted with the part of Don
Ottavio, and a Frenchman named Milon, whom I conclude to have been
a violoncello player, afterward identified with the organization of
the Philharmonic Society, was engaged for that part. A Mme. Barbieri
was cast for the part of Donna Anna, Mme. Garcia for that of Donna
Elvira, Manuel Garcia, Jr. (who died in 1906 at the age of 101
years) for that of Leporello, Angrisani for his old rôle of Masetto,
and Maria Garcia, afterward the famous Malibran, for that of
Zerlina. The first performance took place on May 23, 1826, in the
Park Theatre, and the opera was given eleven times in the season.
This success, coupled with the speedily acquired popularity of
Garcia's gifted daughter, was probably the reason why an English
version of the opera which dominated the New York stage for nearly
a quarter of a century soon appeared at the Chatham Theatre. In
this version the part of the dissolute Don was played by H. Wallack,
uncle of the Lester Wallack so long a theatrical favorite in the
American metropolis. As Malibran the Signorina Garcia took part in
many of the English performances of the work, which kept the Italian
off the local stage till 1850, when it was revived by Max Maretzek
at the Astor Place Opera-house.

I have intimated that Bertati's opera-book was the prototype of Da
Ponte's, but the story is centuries older than either. The Spanish
tale of Don Juan Tenorio, who killed an enemy in a duel, insulted
his memory by inviting his statue to dinner, and was sent to hell
because of his refusal to repent him of his sins, was but a literary
form of a legend of considerable antiquity. It seems likely that
it was moulded into dramatic shape by monks in the Middle Ages; it
certainly occupied industriously the minds of playwrights in the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in Spain, Italy, Germany, and
England. The most eminent men who treated it at various times were
the Spaniard known as Tirza di Molina, the Frenchman Molière,
the Italian Goldoni, and the Englishman Thomas Shadwell, whose
"Libertine Destroyed" was brought forward in 1676. Before Mozart,
Le Tellier had used it for a French comic opera, Righini and
Gazzaniga for Italian operas, and Gluck for a ballet.

But we are concerned now only with the play as Da Ponte and Mozart
gave it to us. In the dramatic terminology of the eighteenth century
"Don Giovanni" was a dramma giocoso; in the better sense of the
phrase, a playful drama--a lyric comedy. Da Ponte conceived it as
such, but Mozart gave it so tragical a turn by the awful solemnity
with which he infused the scene of the libertine's punishment that
already in his day it was felt that the last scene as written and
composed to suit the conventional type of a comic opera was an
intolerable anticlimax. Mozart sounds a deeply tragical note at the
outset of his overture. The introduction is an Andante, which he
drew from the scene of the opera in which the ghostly statue of the
murdered Commandant appears to Don Giovanni while he is enjoying
the pleasures of the table. Two groups of solemn chords command
attention and "establish at once the majestic and formidable
authority of divine justice, the avenger of crime." {2} They are
followed by a series of solemn progressions in stern, sinister,
unyielding, merciless, implacable harmonies. They are like the
colossal strides of approaching Fate, and this awfulness is twice
raised to a higher power, first by a searching, syncopated phrase
in the violins which hovers loweringly over them, and next by a
succession of afrighted minor scales ascending crescendo and
descending piano, the change in dynamics beginning abruptly as the
crest of each terrifying wave is reached. These wonderful scales
begin thus:--

[Musical excerpt]

in the last scene of the opera. They were an afterthought of the
composer's. They did not appear in the original score of the scene,
as the autograph shows, but were written in after the music had once
been completed. They are crowded into the staves in tiny notes which
sometimes extend from one measure into the next. This circumstance
and the other, that they are all fairly written out in the autograph
of the overture, indicate that they were conceived either at one of
the rehearsals or while Mozart was writing the overture. They could
not have been suggested at the first performance, as Jahn seems to
imply. {3} The introduction is only thirty measures long, and the
Allegro which follows is made up of new material. I quote again
from Gounod: "But suddenly, and with feverish audacity, the Allegro
breaks out in the major key, an Allegro full of passion and
delirium, deaf to the warnings of Heaven, regardless of remorse,
enraptured of pleasure, madly inconstant and daring, rapid and
impetuous as a torrent, flashing and swift as a sword, overleaping
all obstacles, scaling balconies, and bewildering the alguazils." {4}
From the tragic introduction through the impetuous main section we
are led to a peaceful night scene in the garden before the house
of Donna Anna. There Leporello, the servant of Don Giovanni, is
awaiting in discontented mood for the return of his master, who has
entered the house in quest of amatory adventure. Leporello is weary
of the service in which he is engaged, and contrasts his state with
that of the Don. (Air: "Notte e giorno faticar.") He will throw off
the yoke and be a gentleman himself. He has just inflated himself
with pride at the thought, when he hears footsteps, and the poltroon
in his nature asserts itself. He hides behind the shrubbery. Don
Giovanni hurries from the house, concealing his features with his
cloak and impeded by Donna Anna, who clings to him, trying to get a
look into his face and calling for help. Don Giovanni commands
silence and threatens. The Commandant, Donna Anna's father, appears
with drawn sword and challenges the intruder. Don Giovanni hesitates
to draw against so old a man, but the Commandant will not parley.
They fight. At first the attacks and defences are deliberate (the
music depicts it all with wonderful vividness), but at the last it
is thrust and parry, thrust and parry, swiftly, mercilessly. The
Commandant is no match for his powerful young opponent, and falls,
dying. A few broken ejaculations, and all is ended. The orchestra
sings a slow descending chromatic phrase "as if exhausted by the
blood which oozes from the wound," says Gounod. How simple the means
of expression! But let the modern composer, with all his apparatus
of new harmonies and his multitude of instruments, point out a scene
to match it in the entire domain of the lyric drama! Don Giovanni
and his lumpish servant, who, with all his coward instincts, cannot
help trying his wit at the outcome of the adventure, though his
master is in little mood for sportiveness, steal away as they see
lights and hear a commotion in the palace. Donna Anna comes back to
the garden, bringing her affianced lover, Don Ottavio, whom she had
called to the help of her father. She finds the Commandant dead,
and breaks into agonizing cries and tears. Only an accompanied
recitative, but every ejaculation a cry of nature! Gounod is wrought
up to an ecstasy by Mozart's declamation and harmonies. He suspends
his analysis to make this comment:--

But that which one cannot too often remark nor too often endeavor
to make understood, that which renders Mozart an absolutely unique
genius, is the constant and indissoluble union of beauty of form
with truth of expression. By this truth he is human, by this beauty
he is divine. By truth he teaches us, he moves us; we recognize each
other in him, and we proclaim thereby that he indeed knows human
nature thoroughly, not only in its different passions, but also in
the varieties of form and character that those passions may assume.
By beauty the real is transfigured, although at the same time it
is left entirely recognizable; he elevates it by the magic of a
superior language and transports it to that region of serenity and
light which constitutes Art, wherein Intelligence repeats with a
tranquillity of vision what the heart has experienced in the trouble
of passion. Now the union of truth with beauty is Art itself.

Don Ottavio attempts to console his love, but she is insane with
grief and at first repulses him, then pours out her grief and calls
upon him to avenge the death of her father. Together they register
a vow and call on heaven for retribution.

It is morning. Don Giovanni and Leporello are in the highway near
Seville. As usual, Leporello is dissatisfied with his service and
accuses the Don with being a rascal. Threats of punishment bring
back his servile manner, and Don Giovanni is about to acquaint him
of a new conquest, when a lady, Donna Elvira, comes upon the scene.
She utters woful complaints of unhappiness and resentment against
one who had won her love, then deceived and deserted her. (Air:
"Ah! chi mi dice mai.") Don Giovanni ("aflame already," as Leporello
remarks) steps forward to console her. He salutes her with soft
blandishment in his voice, but to his dismay discovers that she is
a noble lady of Burgos and one of the "thousand and three" Spanish
victims recorded in the list which Leporello mockingly reads to her
after Don Giovanni, having turned her over to his servant, for
an explanation of his conduct in leaving Burgos, has departed
unperceived. Leporello is worthy of his master in some things.
In danger he is the veriest coward, and his teeth chatter like
castanets; but confronted by a mere woman in distress he becomes
voluble and spares her nothing in a description of the number of
his master's amours, their place, the quality and station of his
victims, and his methods of beguilement. The curious and also
the emulous may be pleased to learn that the number is 2065,
geographically distributed as follows: Italy, 240; Germany, 231;
France, 100; Turkey, 91; and Spain, 1003. Among them are ladies from
the city and rustic damsels, countesses, baronesses, marchionesses,
and princesses. If blond, he praises her dainty beauty; brunette,
her constancy; pale, her sweetness. In cold weather his preferences
go toward the buxom, in summer, svelte. Even old ladies serve to
swell his list. Rich or poor, homely or beautiful, all's one to him
so long as the being is inside a petticoat. "But why go on? Lady,
you know his ways." The air, "Madamina," is a marvel of malicious
humor and musical delineation. "E la grande maestoso"--the music
rises and inflates itself most pompously; "la piccina"--it sinks in
quick iteration lower and lower just as the Italians in describing
small things lower their hands toward the ground. The final words,
"Voi sapete, quel che fa," scarcely to be interpreted for polite
readers, as given by bass singers who have preserved the Italian
traditions (with a final "hm" through the nose), go to the extreme
of allowable suggestiveness, if not a trifle beyond. The insult
throws Elvira into a rage, and she resolves to forego her love
and seek vengeance instead.

Don Giovanni comes upon a party of rustics who are celebrating in
advance the wedding of Zerlina and Masetto. The damsel is a somewhat
vain, forward, capricious, flirtatious miss, and cannot long
withstand such blandishments as the handsome nobleman bestows
upon her. Don Giovanni sends the merrymakers to his palace for
entertainment, cajoles and threatens Masetto into leaving him alone
with Zerlina, and begins his courtship of her. (Duet: "Là ci darem
la mano.") He has about succeeded in his conquest, when Elvira
intervenes, warns the maiden, leads her away, and, returning, finds
Donna Anna and Don Ottavio in conversation with Don Giovanni,
whose help in the discovery of the Commandant's murderer they are
soliciting. Elvira breaks out with denunciations, and Don Giovanni,
in a whisper to his companions, proclaims her mad, and leads her
off. Departing, he says a word of farewell, and from the tone of
his voice Donna Anna recognizes her father's murderer. She tells
her lover how the assassin stole into her room at night, attempted
her dishonor, and slew her father. She demands his punishment at
Don Ottavio's hands, and he, though doubting that a nobleman and
a friend could be guilty of such crimes, yet resolves to find out
the truth and deliver the guilty man to justice.

The Don commands a grand entertainment for Zerlina's wedding party,
for, though temporarily foiled, he has not given up the chase.
Masetto comes with pretty Zerlina holding on to the sleeve of his
coat. The boor is jealous, and Zerlina knows well that he has cause.
She protests, she cajoles; he is no match for her. She confesses to
having been pleased at my lord's flattery, but he had not touched
"even the tips of her fingers." If her fault deserves it, he may
beat her if he wants to, but then let there be peace between them.
The artful minx! Her wheedling is irresistible. Listen to it:--

[Musical excerpt--"Batti, batti, o bel Masetto"]

The most insinuating of melodies floating over an obbligato of the
solo violoncello "like a love charm," as Gounod says. Then the
celebration of her victory when she captures one of his hands and
knows that he is yielding:--

[Musical excerpt--"Pace, pace o vita mia"]

A new melody, blither, happier, but always the violoncello murmuring
in blissful harmony with the seductive voice and rejoicing in the
cunning witcheries which lull Masetto's suspicions to sleep. Now all
go into Don Giovanni's palace, from which the sounds of dance music
and revelry are floating out. Donna Elvira, Donna Anna, and Don
Ottavio, who come to confront him who has wronged them all, are
specially bidden, as was the custom, because they appeared in masks.
Within gayety is supreme. A royal host, this Don Giovanni! Not only
are there refreshments for all, but he has humored both classes of
guests in the arrangement of the programme of dances. Let there be a
minuet, a country-dance, and an allemande, he had said to Leporello
in that dizzying song of instruction which whirls past our senses
like a mad wind: "Finch' han dal vino." No one so happy as Mozart
when it came to providing the music for these dances. Would you
connoisseurs in music like counterpoint? We shall give it you;--three
dances shall proceed at once and together, despite their warring
duple and triple rhythms:--

[Musical excerpts]

Louis Viardot, who wrote a little book describing the autograph of
"Don Giovanni," says that Mozart wrote in the score where the three
bands play thus simultaneously the word accordano as a direction
to the stage musicians to imitate the action of tuning their
instruments before falling in with their music. Of this fact the
reprint of the libretto as used at Prague and Vienna contains no
mention, but a foot-note gives other stage directions which indicate
how desirous Mozart was that his ingenious and humorous conceit
should not be overlooked. At the point where the minuet, which was
the dance of people of quality, is played, he remarked, "Don Ottavio
dances the minuet with Donna Anna"; at the contra-dance in 2-4 time,
"Don Giovanni begins to dance a contra-dance with Zerlina"; at the
entrance of the waltz, "Leporello dances a 'Teitsch' with Masetto."
The proper execution of Mozart's elaborate scheme puts the resources
of an opera-house to a pretty severe test, but there is ample reward
in the result. Pity that, as a rule, so little intelligence is shown
by the ballet master in arranging the dances! There is a special
significance in Mozart's direction that the cavalier humor the
peasant girl by stepping a country-dance with her, which is all lost
when he attempts to lead her into the aristocratic minuet, as is
usually done.

At the height of the festivities, Don Giovanni succeeds in leading
Zerlina into an inner room, from which comes a piercing shriek a
moment later. Anticipating trouble, Leporello hastens to his master
to warn him. Don Ottavio and his friends storm the door of the
anteroom, out of which now comes Don Giovanni dragging Leporello
and uttering threats of punishment against him. The trick does not
succeed. Don Ottavio removes his mask and draws his sword; Donna
Anna and Donna Elvira confront the villain. The musicians, servants,
and rustics run away in affright. For a moment Don Giovanni loses
presence of mind, but, his wits and courage returning, he beats down
the sword of Don Ottavio, and, with Leporello, makes good his escape.

The incidents of the second act move with less rapidity, and, until
the fateful dénouement is reached, on a lower plane of interest than
those of the first, which have been narrated. Don Giovanni turns his
attentions to the handsome waiting-maid of Donna Elvira. To get the
mistress out of the way he persuades Leporello to exchange cloaks
and hats with him and station himself before her balcony window,
while he utters words of tenderness and feigned repentance. The lady
listens and descends to the garden, where Leporello receives her
with effusive protestations; but Don Giovanni rudely disturbs them,
and they run away. Then the libertine, in the habit of his valet,
serenades his new charmer. The song, "Deh vieni alla finestra,"
is of melting tenderness and gallantry; words and music float
graciously on the evening air in company with a delightfully piquant
tune picked out on a mandolin. The maid is drawn to the window, and
Don Giovanni is in full expectation of another triumph, when Masetto
confronts him with a rabble of peasants, all armed. They are in
search of the miscreant who had attempted to outrage Zerlina. Don
Giovanni is protected by his disguise. He feigns willingness to help
in the hunt, and rids himself of Masetto's companions by sending
them on a fool's errand to distant parts of the garden. Then he
cunningly possesses himself of Masetto's weapons and belabors him
stoutly with his own cudgel. He makes off, and Zerlina, hearing
Masetto's cries, hurries in to heal his hurts with pretty endearments.
(Air: "Vedrai carino.") Most unaccountably, as it will seem to those
who seek for consistency and reason in all parts of the play, all
of its actors except Don Giovanni find themselves together in a
courtyard (or room, according to the notions of the stage manager).
Leporello is trying to escape from Elvira, who still thinks him Don
Giovanni, and is first confronted by Masetto and Zerlina and then by
Ottavio and Anna. He is still in his master's hat and cloak, and is
taken vigorously to task, but discloses his identity when it becomes
necessary in order to escape a beating. Convinced at last that Don
Giovanni is the murderer of the Commandant, Don Ottavio commends his
love to the care of her friends and goes to denounce the libertine
to the officers of the law.

The last scene is reached. Don Giovanni, seated at his table, eats,
drinks, indulges in badinage with his servant, and listens to the
music of his private band. The musicians play melodies from popular
operas of the period in which Mozart wrote--not Spanish melodies of
the unfixed time in which the veritable Don Juan may have lived:--

[Musical excerpts--From Martin's "Una cosa rara." From "Fra i due
litiganti" by Sarti. From "Nozze di Figaro."]

Mozart feared anachronisms as little as Shakespeare. His Don
Giovanni was contemporary with himself and familiar with the
repertory of the Vienna Opera. The autograph discloses that the
ingenious conceit was wholly Mozart's. It was he who wrote the words
with which Leporello greets the melodies from "Una cosa rara," "I
due Litiganti," and "Le Nozze di Figaro," and when Leporello hailed
the tune "Non piu andrai" from the last opera with words "Questo poi
la conosco pur troppo" ("This we know but too well"), he doubtless
scored a point with his first audience in Prague which the German
translator of the opera never dreamed of. Even the German critics
of to-day seem dense in their unwillingness to credit Mozart with a
purely amiable purpose in quoting the operas of his rivals, Martin
and Sarti. The latter showed himself ungrateful for kindnesses
received at Mozart's hands by publicly denouncing an harmonic
progression in one of the famous six quartets dedicated to Haydn as
a barbarism, but there was no ill-will in the use of the air from
"I due Litiganti" as supper music for the delectation of the Don.
Mozart liked the melody, and had written variations on it for the

The supper is interrupted by Donna Elvira, who comes to plead on her
knees with Don Giovanni to change his mode of life. He mocks at her
solicitude and invites her to sit with him at table. She leaves the
room in despair, but sends back a piercing shriek from the corridor.
Leporello is sent out to report on the cause of the cry, and returns
trembling as with an ague and mumbling that he has seen a ghost--a
ghost of stone, whose footsteps, "Ta, ta, ta," sounded like a mighty
hammer on the floor. Don Giovanni himself goes to learn the cause of
the disturbance, and Leporello hides under the table. The intrepid
Don opens the door. There is a clap of thunder, and there enters the
ghost of the Commandant in the form of his statue as seen in the
churchyard. The music which has been described in connection with
the overture accompanies the conversation of the spectre and his
amazed host. Don Giovanni's repeated offer of hospitality is
rejected, but in turn he is asked if he will return the visit. He
will. "Your hand as a pledge," says the spectre. All unabashed, the
doomed man places his hand in that of the statue, which closes upon
it like a vise. Then an awful fear shakes the body of Don Giovanni,
and a cry of horror is forced out of his lips. "Repent, while there
is yet time," admonishes the visitor again and again, and still
again. Don Giovanni remains unshaken in his wicked fortitude. At
length he wrests his hand out of the stony grasp and at the moment
hears his doom from the stony lips, "Ah! the time for you is past!"
Darkness enwraps him; the earth trembles; supernatural voices
proclaim his punishment in chorus; a pit opens before him, from
which demons emerge and drag him down to hell.

Here the opera ends for us; but originally, after the catastrophe
the persons of the play, all but the reprobate whom divine justice
has visited, returned to the scene to hear a description of the
awful happenings he had witnessed from the buffoon who had hidden
under the table, to dispose their plans for the future (for Ottavio
and Anna, marriage in a year; for Masetto and Zerlina, a wedding
instanter; for Elvira, a nunnery), and platitudinously to moralize
that, the perfidious wretch having been carried to the realm of
Pluto and Proserpine, naught remained to do save to sing the old
song, "Thus do the wicked find their end, dying as they had lived."


{1} See my preface to "Don Giovanni" in the Schirmer Collection of Operas.

{2} Gounod.

{3} "The Life of Mozart," by Otto Jahn, Vol. III, p. 169.

{4} "Mozart's Don Giovanni," by Charles Gounod, p. 3.



It was the scalawag Schikaneder who had put together the singular
dramatic phantasmagoria known as Mozart's "Magic Flute," and acted
the part of the buffoon in it, who, having donned the garb of
respectability, commissioned Beethoven to compose the only opera
which that supreme master gave to the world. The opera is "Fidelio,"
and it occupies a unique place in operatic history not only because
it is the only work of its kind by the greatest tone-poet that ever
lived, but also because of its subject. The lyric drama has dealt
with the universal passion ever since the art-form was invented, but
"Fidelio" is the only living opera which occurs to me now, except
Gluck's "Orfeo" and "Alceste," which hymns the pure love of married
lovers. The bond between the story of Alcestis, who goes down to
death to save the life of Admetus, and that of Leonore, who ventures
her life to save Florestan, is closer than that of the Orphic
myth, for though the alloy only serves to heighten the sheen of
Eurydice's virtue, there is yet a grossness in the story of
Aristaeus's unlicensed passion which led to her death, that strongly
differentiates it from the modern tale of wifely love and devotion.
Beethoven was no ascetic, but he was as sincere and severe a
moralist in life as he was in art. In that most melancholy of human
documents, written at Heiligenstadt in October, 1802, commonly known
as his will, he says to his brothers: "Recommend to your children
virtue; it alone can bring happiness, not money. I speak from
experience. It was virtue which bore me up in time of trouble; to
her, next to my art, I owe thanks for my not having laid violent
hands on myself."

That Mozart had been able to compose music to such libretti as those
of "Don Giovanni" and "Così fan tutte" filed him with pained wonder.
Moreover, he had serious views of the dignity of music and of the
uses to which it might be put in the drama, and more advanced
notions than he has generally been credited with as to how music and
the drama ought to be consorted. Like all composers, he longed to
write an opera, and it is not at all unlikely that, like Mendelssohn
after him, he was deterred by the general tendency of the opera
books of his day. Certain it is that though he received a commission
for an opera early in the year 1803, it was not until an opera on
the story which is also that of "Fidelio" had been brought out
at Dresden that he made a definitive choice of a subject. The
production which may have infuenced him was that of Ferdinando
Paër's" Leonora, ossia l'Amore conjugale," which was brought forward
at Dresden, where its composer was conductor of the opera, on
October 3, 1804. This opera was the immediate predecessor of
Beethoven's, but it also had a predecessor in a French opera,
"Léonore, ou l'Amour conjugal," of which the music was composed by
Pierre Gaveaux, a musician of small but graceful gifts, who had been
a tenor singer before he became a composer. This opera had its first
performance on February 19, 1798, and may also have been known to
Beethoven, or have been brought to his notice while he was casting
about for a subject. At any rate, though it was known as early as
June, 1803, that Beethoven intended to compose an opera for the
Theater an der Wien, and had taken lodgings with his brother Caspar
in the theatre building more than two months before, it was not
until the winter of 1804 that the libretto of "Fidelio" was placed
in his hands. It was a German version of the French book by Bouilly,
which had been made by Joseph Sonnleithner, an intimate friend of
Schubert, founder of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, who had
recently been appointed secretary of the Austrian court theatres as
successor of Kotzebue. Beethoven had gone to live in the theatre
building for the purpose of working on the opera for Schikaneder,
but early in 1804 the Theater an der Wien passed out of his hands
into those of Baron von Braun. The intervening summer had been
passed by the composer at Baden and Unter Döbling in work upon the
"Eroica" symphony. The check upon the operatic project was but
temporary. Baron von Braun took Schikaneder into his service and
renewed the contract with Beethoven. This accomplished, the composer
resumed his lodgings in the theatre and began energetically to
work upon the opera. Let two facts be instanced here to show how
energetically and how painstakingly he labored. When he went into
the country in the early summer, as was his custom, he carried with
him 346 pages of sketches for the opera, sixteen staves on a page;
and among these sketches were sixteen openings of Florestan's great
air, which may be said to mark the beginning of the dramatic action
in the opera.

For the rest of the history of the opera I shall draw upon the
preface to "Fidelio," which I wrote some years ago for the vocal
score in the Schirmer collection. The score was finished, including
the orchestration, in the summer of 1805, and on Beethoven's return
to Vienna, rehearsals were begun. It was the beginning of a series
of trials which made the opera a child of sorrow to the composer.
The style of the music was new to the singers, and they pronounced
it unsingable. They begged him to make changes, but Beethoven was
adamant. The rehearsals became a grievous labor to all concerned.
The production was set down for November 20, but when the momentous
day came, it found Vienna occupied by the French troops, Bonaparte
at Schönbrunn and the capital deserted by the Emperor, the nobility,
and most of the wealthy patrons of art. The performance was a
failure. Besides the French occupation, two things were recognized
as militating against the opera's success:--the music was not to
the taste of the people, and the work was too long. Repetitions
followed on November 21 and 22, but the first verdict was upheld.

Beethoven's distress over the failure was scarcely greater than that
of his friends, though he was, perhaps, less willing than they to
recognize the causes that lay in the work itself. A meeting was
promptly held in the house of Prince Lichnowsky and the opera
taken in hand for revision. Number by number it was played on the
pianoforte, sung, discussed. Beethoven opposed vehemently nearly
every suggestion made by his well-meaning friends to remedy the
defects of the book and score, but yielded at last and consented to
the sacrifice of some of the music and a remodelling of the book for
the sake of condensation, this part of the task being intrusted to
Stephan von Breuning, who undertook to reduce the original three
acts to two. {1} When once Beethoven had been brought to give his
consent to the proposed changes, he accepted the result with the
greatest good humor; it should be noted, however, that when the
opera was put upon the stage again, on March 29, 1806, he was so
dilatory with his musical corrections that there was time for only
one rehearsal with orchestra. In the curtailed form "Fidelio" (as
the opera was called, though Beethoven had fought strenuously from
the beginning for the retention of the original title, "Leonore")
made a distinctly better impression than it had four months before,
and this grew deeper with the subsequent repetitions; but Beethoven
quarrelled with Baron von Braun, and the opera was withdrawn. An
attempt was made to secure a production in Berlin, but it failed,
and the fate of "Fidelio" seemed to be sealed. It was left to
slumber for more than seven years; then, in the spring of 1814, it
was taken up again. Naturally, another revision was the first thing
thought of, but this time the work was intrusted to a more practised
writer than Beethoven's childhood friend. Georg Friedrich Treitschke
was manager and librettist for Baron von Braun, and he became
Beethoven's collaborator. The revision of the book was completed by
March, 1814, and Beethoven wrote to Treitschke: "I have read your
revision of the opera with great satisfaction. It has decided me
to rebuild the desolate ruins of an ancient fortress." Treitschke
rewrote much of the libretto, and Beethoven made considerable
changes in the music, restoring some of the pages that had been
elided at the first overhauling. In its new form "Fidelio" was
produced at the Theater am Kärnthnerthor on May 23, 1814. It was a
successful reawakening. On July 18 the opera had a performance for
Beethoven's benefit; Moscheles made a pianoforte score under the
direction of the composer, who dedicated it to his august pupil, the
Archduke Rudolph, and it was published in August by Artaria.

The history of "Fidelio," interesting as it is, need not be pursued
here further than to chronicle its first performances in the English
and American metropoles. London heard it first from Chelard's German
company at the King's Theatre on May 18, 1832. It was first given in
English at Covent Garden on June 12, 1835, with Malibran as Leonore,
and in Italian at Her Majesty's on May 20, 1851, when the dialogue
was sung in recitative written by Balfe. There has scarcely ever
been a German opera company in New York whose repertory did not
include "Fidelio," but the only performances for many years after it
came were in English. A company of singers brought from England by
Miss Inverarity to the Park Theatre produced it first on September
19, 1839. The parts were distributed as follows: Leonore, Mrs.
Martyn (Miss Inverarity); Marcellina, Miss Poole; Florestan, Mr.
Manvers; Pizarro, Mr. Giubilei; and Rocco, Mr. Martyn. The opera
was performed every night for a fortnight. Such a thing would be
impossible now, but lest some one be tempted to rail against the
decadent taste of to-day, let it quickly be recorded that somewhere
in the opera--I hope not in the dungeon scene--Mme. Giubilei danced
a pas de deux with Paul Taglioni.

Beethoven composed four overtures for "Fidelio," but a description
of them will best follow comment on the drama and its music. Some
two years before the incident which marks the beginning of the
action, Don Pizarro, governor of a state prison in Spain, not far
from Seville, has secretly seized Florestan, a political opponent,
whose fearless honesty threatened to frustrate his wicked designs,
and immured him in a subterranean cell in the prison. His presence
there is known only to Pizarro and the jailer Rocco, who, however,
knows neither the name nor the rank of the man whom, under strict
command, he keeps in fetters and chained to a stone in the dimly
lighted dungeon, which he alone is permitted to visit. Florestan's
wife, Leonore, suspecting the truth, has disguised herself in man's
attire and, under the name of Fidelio, secured employment in the
prison. To win the confidence of Rocco, she has displayed so much
zeal and industry in his interests that the old man, whose one
weakness is a too great love of money, gives the supposed youth
a full measure of admiration and affection. Fidelio's beauty and
gentleness have worked havoc with the heart of Marcellina, the
jailer's pretty daughter, who is disposed to cast off Jaquino, the
turnkey, upon whose suit she had smiled till her love for Fidelio
came between. Rocco looks with auspicious eye upon the prospect of
having so industrious and thrifty a son-in-law as Fidelio promises
to be to comfort his old age. The action now begins in the courtyard
of the prison, where, before the jailer's lodge, Marcellina is
performing her household duties--ironing the linen, to be specific.
Jaquino, who has been watching for an opportunity to speak to her
alone (no doubt alarmed at the new posture which his love affair is
assuming), resolves to ask her to marry him. The duet, quite in the
Mozartian vein, breathes simplicity throughout; plain people, with
plain manners, these, who express simple thoughts in simple
language. Jaquino begins eagerly:--

[Musical excerpt--"Jetzt, Schätzchen, jetzt sind wir allein, wir
könnon vertraulich nun plaudern."]

But Marcellina affects to be annoyed and urges him to come to the
point at once. Quite delicious is the manner in which Beethoven
delineates Jaquino's timid hesitation:--

[Musical excerpt--"Ich--ich habe"]

Jaquino's wooing is interrupted by a knocking at the door
(realistically reproduced in the music)

[Musical excerpt]

and when he goes to open the wicket, Marcellina expresses no
sympathy for his sufferings, but ecstatically proclaims her love for
Fidelio as the reason why she must needs say nay. And this she does,
not amiably or sympathetically, but pettishly and with an impatient
reiteration of "No, no, no, no!" in which the bassoon drolly
supports her. A second knocking at the door, then a third, and
finally she is relieved of her tormentor by Rocco, who calls him
out into the garden. Left alone, Marcellina sings her longing for
Fidelio and pictures the domestic bliss which shall follow her union
with him. Rocco and Jaquino enter, and close after them Leonore,
wearied by the weight of some chains which she had carried to the
smith for repairs. She renders an account for purchases of supplies,
and her thrift rejoices the heart of Rocco, who praises her zeal in
his behalf and promises her a reward. Her reply, that she does not
do her duty merely for the sake of wage, he interprets as an allusion
to love for his daughter. The four now give expression to their
thoughts and emotions. Marcellina indulges her day-dream of love;
Leonore reflects upon the dangerous position in which her disguise
has placed her; Jaquino observes with trepidation the disposition of
Rocco to bring about a marriage between his daughter and Fidelio.
Varied and contrasting emotions, these, yet Beethoven has cast their
expression in the mould of a canon built on the following melody,
which is sung in turn by each of the four personages:--

[Musical excerpt]

From a strictly musical point of view the fundamental mood of the
four personages has thus the same expression, and this Beethoven
justifies by making the original utterance profoundly contemplative,
not only by the beautiful subject of the canon, but by the exalted
instrumental introduction--one of those uplifting, spiritualized
slow movements which are typical of the composer. This feeling he
enhances by his orchestration--violas and violoncellos divided, and
basses--in a way copying the solemn color with more simple means
which Mozart uses in his invocation of the Egyptian deities in "The
Magic Flute." Having thus established this fundamental mood, he
gives liberty of individual utterance in the counterpoint melodies
with which each personage embroiders the original theme when sung
by the others. Neither Rocco nor Marcellina seems to think it
necessary to consult Leonore in the matter, taking her acquiescence
for granted. Between themselves they arrange that the wedding shall
take place when next Pizarro makes his monthly visit to Seville to
give an account of his stewardship, and the jailer admonishes the
youthful pair to put money in their purses in a song of little
distinction, but containing some delineative music in the orchestra
suggesting the rolling and jingling of coins. Having been made
seemingly to agree to the way of the maid and her father, Leonore
seeks now to turn it to the advantage of her mission. She asks and
obtains the jailer's permission to visit with him the cells in which
political prisoners are kept--all but one, in which is confined one
who is either a great criminal or a man with powerful enemies ("much
the same thing," comments Rocco). Of him even the jailer knows
nothing, having resolutely declined to hear his story. However, his
sufferings cannot last much longer, for by Pizarro's orders his
rations are being reduced daily; he has been all but deprived of
light, and even the straw which had served as a couch has been taken
from him. And how long has he been imprisoned? Over two years. "Two
years! "Leonore almost loses control of her feelings. Now she urges
that she must help the jailer wait upon him. "I have strength and
courage." The old man is won over. He will ask the governor for
permission to take Fidelio with him to the secret cells, for he
is growing old, and death will soon claim him. The dramatic nerve
has been touched with the first allusion to the mysterious the
matter, taking her acquiescence for granted. Between themselves they
arrange that the wedding shall take place when next Pizarro makes
his monthly visit to Seville to give an account of his stewardship,
and the jailer admonishes the youthful pair to put money in their
purses in a song of little distinction, but containing some
delineative music in the orchestra suggesting the rolling and
jingling of coins. Having been made seemingly to agree to the way
of the maid and her father, Leonore seeks now to turn it to the
advantage of her mission. She asks and obtains the jailer's
permission to visit with him the cells in which political prisoners
are kept--all but one, in which is confined one who is either
a great criminal or a man with powerful enemies ("much the same
thing," comments Rocco). Of him even the jailer knows nothing,
having resolutely declined to hear his story. However, his
sufferings cannot last much longer, for by Pizarro's orders his
rations are being reduced daily; he has been all but deprived of
light, and even the straw which had served as a couch has been taken
from him. And how long has he been imprisoned? Over two years. "Two
years!" Leonore almost loses control of her feelings. Now she urges
that she must help the jailer wait upon him. "I have strength and
courage." The old man is won over. He will ask the governor for
permission to take Fidelio with him to the secret cells, for he is
growing old, and death will soon claim him. The dramatic nerve has
been touched with the first allusion to the mysterious prisoner who
is being slowly tortured to death, and it is thrilling to note how
Beethoven's genius (so often said to be purely epical) responds. In
the trio which follows, the dialogue which has been outlined first
intones a motif which speaks merely of complacency:--

[Musical excerpt--"Gut, Söhnchen, gut hab' immer"]

No sooner does it reach the lips of Leonore, however, than it
becomes the utterance of proud resolve:--

[Musical excerpt--"Ich habe Muth!"]

and out of it grows a hymn of heroic daring. Marcellina's utterances
are all concerned with herself, with an admixture of solicitude for
her father, whose lugubrious reflections on his own impending
dissolution are gloomily echoed in the music:--

[Musical excerpt--"Ich bin ja bald des Grabes Beute"]

A march accompanies the entrance of Pizarro. {2} Pizarro receives
his despatches from Rocco, and from one of the letters learns that
the Minister of Justice, having been informed that several victims
of arbitrary power are confined in the prisons of which he is
governor, is about to set out upon a tour of inspection. Such a
visit might disclose the wrong done to Florestan, who is the
Minister's friend and believed by him to be dead, and Pizarro
resolves to shield himself against the consequences of such a
discovery by compassing his death. He publishes his resolution in
a furious air, "Ha! welch' ein Augenblick!" in which he gloats over
the culmination of his revenge upon his ancient enemy. It is a
terrible outpouring of bloodthirsty rage, and I have yet to hear
the singer who can cope with its awful accents. Here, surely,
Beethoven asks more of the human voice than it is capable of giving.
Quick action is necessary. The officer of the guard is ordered to
post a trumpeter in the watch-tower, with instructions to give a
signal the moment a carriage with outriders is seen approaching
from Seville. Rocco is summoned, and Pizarro, praising his courage
and fidelity to duty, gives him a purse as earnest of riches which
are to follow obedience. The old man is ready enough until he
learns that what is expected of him is

[Musical excerpt--"Morden!"]

whereupon he revolts, nor is he moved by Pizarro's argument that the
deed is demanded by the welfare of the state. Foiled in his plan of
hiring an assassin, Pizarro announces that he will deal the blow
himself, and commands that a disused cistern be opened to receive
the corpse of his victim. The duet which is concerned with these
transactions is full of striking effects. The orchestra accompanies
Rocco's description of the victim as "one who scarcely lives, but
seems to float like a shadow" with chords which spread a cold,
cadaverous sheen over the words, while the declamation of "A
blow!--and he is dumb," makes illustrative pantomime unnecessary.
Leonore has overheard all, and rushes forward on the departure of
the men to express her horror at the wicked plot, and proclaim her
trust in the guidance and help of love as well as her courageous
resolve to follow its impulses and achieve the rescue of the doomed
man. The scene and air in which she does this ("Abscheulicher! wo
eilst du hin?") is now a favorite concert-piece of all dramatic
singers; but when it was written its difficulties seemed appalling
to Fräulein Milder (afterward the famous Frau Milder-Hauptmann), who
was the original Leonore. A few years before Haydn had said to her,
"My dear child, you have a voice as big as a house," and a few years
later she made some of her finest successes with the part; but in
the rehearsals she quarrelled violently with Beethoven because of
the unsingableness of passages in the Adagio, of which, no doubt,
this was one:--

[Musical excerpt--"sie wird's erreichen"]

and when called upon, in 1814, to re-create the part which had been
written expressly for her, she refused until Beethoven had consented
to modify it. Everything is marvellous in the scena--the mild
glow of orchestral color delineating the bow of promise in the
recitative, the heart-searching, transfigurating, prayerful
loveliness of the slow melody, the obbligato horn parts, the sweep
of the final Allegro, all stand apart in operatic literature.

At Leonore's request, and presuming upon the request which Pizarro
had made of him, Rocco permits the prisoners whose cells are above
ground to enjoy the light and air of the garden, defending his
action later, when taken to task by Pizarro, on the plea that he
was obeying established custom in allowing the prisoners a bit of
liberty on the name-day of the king. In an undertone he begs his
master to save his anger for the man who is doomed to die. Meanwhile
Leonore convinces herself that her husband is not among the
prisoners who are enjoying the brief respite, and is overjoyed to
learn that she is to accompany Rocco that very day to the mysterious
subterranean dungeon. With the return of the prisoners to their
cells, the first act ends.

An instrumental introduction ushers in the second act. It is a
musical delineation of Florestan's surroundings, sufferings, and
mental anguish. The darkness is rent by shrieks of pain; harsh,
hollow, and threatening sound the throbs of the kettle-drums. The
parting of the curtain discloses the prisoner chained to his rocky
couch. He declaims against the gloom, the silence, the deathly void
surrounding him, but comforts himself with the thought that his
sufferings are but the undeserved punishment inflicted by an enemy
for righteous duty done. The melody of the slow part of his air,
which begins thus,

[Musical excerpt--"In des Lebens Frühlingstaten ist das Glück von
mir gefloh'n."]

will find mention again when the overtures come under discussion.
His sufferings have overheated his fancy, and, borne upon cool and
roseate breezes, he sees a vision of his wife, Leonore, come to
comfort and rescue him. His exaltation reaches a frenzy which
leaves him sunk in exhaustion on his couch. Rocco and Leonore come
to dig his grave. Melodramatic music accompanies their preparation,
and their conversation while at work forms a duet. Sustained
trombone tones spread a portentous atmosphere, and a contra-bassoon
adds weight and solemnity to the motif which describes the labor
of digging:--

[Musical excerpt]

They have stopped to rest and refresh themselves, when Florestan
becomes conscious and addresses Rocco. Leonore recognizes his
voice as that of her husband, and when he pleads for a drink of
water, she gives him, with Rocco's permission, the wine left in
her pitcher, then a bit of bread. A world of pathos informs his song
of gratitude. Pizarro comes to commit the murder, but first he
commands that the boy be sent away, and confesses his purpose to
make way with both Fidelio and Rocco when once the deed is done. He
cannot resist the temptation to disclose his identity to Florestan,
who, though released from the stone, is still fettered. The latter
confronts death calmly, but as Pizarro is about to plunge the dagger
into his breast, Leonore (who had concealed herself in the darkness)
throws herself as a protecting shield before him. Pizarro, taken
aback for a moment, now attempts to thrust Leonore aside, but is
again made to pause by her cry, "First kill his wife!" Consternation
and amazement seize all and speak out of their ejaculations.
Determined to kill both husband and wife, Pizarro rushes forward
again, only to see a pistol thrust into his face, hear a shriek,
"Another word, and you are dead!" and immediately after the trumpet
signal which, by his own command, announces the coming of the
Minister of Justice:--

[Musical excerpt]

Pizarro is escorted out of the dungeon by Rocco and attendants with
torches, and the reunited lovers are left to themselves and their
frenetic rejoicings. Surrounded by his guard, the populace attracted
by his coming, and the prisoners into whose condition he had come to
inquire, Don Fernando metes out punishment to the wicked Pizarro,
welcomes his old friend back to liberty and honor, and bids Leonore
remove his fetters as the only person worthy of such a task. The
populace hymn wifely love and fidelity.

Mention has been made of the fact that Beethoven wrote four
overtures for his opera. Three of these are known as Overtures
"Leonore No. 1," "Leonore No. 2," and "Leonore No. 3"--"Leonore"
being the title by which the opera was known at the unfortunate
first performance. The composer was never contented with the change
to "Fidelio" which was made, because of the identity of the story
with the "Leonore" operas, of Gaveaux and Paër. Much confusion has
existed in the books (and still exists, for that matter) touching
the order in which the four overtures were composed. The early
biographers were mistaken on that point, and the blunder was
perpetuated by the numbering when the scores were published. The
true "Leonore No. 1," is the overture known in the concert-room,
where it is occasionally heard, as "Leonore No. 2." This was the
original overture to the opera, and was performed at the three
representations in 1805. The overture called "Leonore No. 3" was the
result of the revision undertaken by Beethoven and his friends after
the failure. In May, 1807, the German opera at Prague was
established and "Fidelio" selected as one of the works to be given.
Evidently Beethoven was dissatisfied both with the original overture
and its revision, for he wrote a new one, in which he retained the
theme from Florestan's air, but none of the other themes used in
Nos. 2 and 3. The performances at Prague did not take place, and
nobody knows what became of the autograph score of the overture.
When Beethoven's effects were sold at auction after his death,
Tobias Haslinger bought a parcel of dances and other things in
manuscript. Among them were a score and parts of an overture in C,
not in Beethoven's handwriting, but containing corrections made by
him. It bore no date, and on a violin part Beethoven had written
first "Overtura, Violino Imo." Later he had added words in red
crayon to make it read, "Overtura in C, charakteristische Overture,
Violino Imo." On February 7, 1828, the composition was played at a
concert in Vienna, but notwithstanding the reminiscence of
Florestan's air, it does not seem to have been associated with the
opera, either by Haslinger or the critics. Before 1832, when
Haslinger published the overture as Op. 138, however, it had been
identified, and, not unnaturally, the conclusion was jumped at that
it was the original overture. That known as "Leonore No. 2" having
been withdrawn for revision by Beethoven himself, was not heard of
till 1840, when it was performed at a Gewandhaus concert in Leipsic.
For the revival of the opera in 1814 Beethoven composed the overture
in E major, now called the "Fidelio" overture, and generally played
as an introduction to the opera, the much greater "Leonore No. 3"
being played either between the acts, or, as by Mahler in New York
and Vienna, between the two scenes of the second act, where it may
be said it distinctly has the effect of an anticlimax. The thematic
material of the "Leonore" overtures Nos. 2 and 3 being practically
the same, careless listeners may easily confound one with the other.
Nevertheless, the differences between the two works are many and
great, and a deep insight into the workings of Beethoven's mind
would be vouchsafed students if they were brought into juxtaposition
in the concert-room. The reason commonly given for the revision of
No. 2 (the real No. 1) is that at the performance it was found that
some of the passages for wind instruments troubled the players; but
among the changes made by Beethoven, all of which tend to heighten
the intensity of the overture which presents the drama in nuce
may be mentioned the elision of a recurrence to material drawn
from his principal theme between the two trumpet-calls, and the
abridgment of the development or free fantasia portion. Finally, it
may be stated that though the "Fidelio" overture was written for the
revival of 1814, it was not heard at the first performance in that
year. It was not ready, and the overture to "The Ruins of Athens"
was played in its stead.


{1} As the opera is performed nowadays it is in three acts, but this
division is the work of stage managers or directors who treat each
of the three scenes as an act. At the Metropolitan Opera House, in
New York, Mr. Mahler introduced a division of the first scene into
two for what can be said to be merely picturesque effect, since the
division is not demanded by the dramatic situation.

{2} In Mr. Mahler's arrangement this march becomes entr'acte music
to permit of a change of scene from the interior of the jailer's
lodge to the courtyard of the prison prescribed in the book.



MM. Michel Carré and Jules Barbier, who made the book for Gounod's
opera "Faust," went for their subject to Goethe's dramatic poem. Out
of that great work, which had occupied the mind of the German poet
for an ordinary lifetime, the French librettists extracted the
romance which sufficed them--the story of Gretchen's love for the
rejuvenated philosopher, her seduction and death. This romance is
wholly the creation of Goethe; it has no place in any of the old
legends which are at the bottom of the history of Dr. Faust, or
Faustus. Those legends deal with the doings of a magician who has
sold his soul to the devil for the accomplishment of some end
on which his ambition is set. There are many such legends in
mediaeval literature, and their fundamental thought is older than
Christianity. In a sense, the idea is a product of ignorance
and superstition combined. In all ages men whose learning and
achievements were beyond the comprehension of simple folk were
thought to have derived their powers from the practice of
necromancy. The list is a long one, and includes some of the great
names of antiquity. The imagination of the Middle Ages made bondsmen
of the infernal powers out of such men as Zoroaster, Democritus,
Empedocles, Apollonius, Virgil, Albertus Magnus, Merlin, and
Paracelsus. In the sixth century Theophilus of Syracuse was said to
have sold himself to the devil and to have been saved from damnation
only by the miraculous intervention of the Virgin Mary, who visited
hell and bore away the damnable compact. So far as his bond was
concerned, Theophilus was said to have had eight successors among
the Popes of Rome.

Architects of cathedrals and engineers of bridges were wont, if we
believe popular tales, to barter their souls in order to realize
their great conceptions. How do such notions get into the minds
of the people? I attempted not an answer but an explanation in a
preface to Gounod's opera published by Schirmer some years ago,
which is serving me a good turn now. For the incomprehensible the
Supernatural is the only accounting. These things are products of
man's myth-making capacity and desire. With the advancement of
knowledge this capacity and desire become atrophied, but spring into
life again in the presence of a popular stimulant. The superstitious
peasantry of Bavaria beheld a man in league with the devil in the
engineer who ran the first locomotive engine through that country,
More recently, I am told, the same people conceived the notion that
the Prussian needle-gun, which had wrought destruction among their
soldiery a the war of 1866, was an infernal machine for which
Bismarck had given the immortal part of himself.

When printing was invented, it was looked upon in a double sense as
a black art, and it was long and widely believed that Johann Fust,
or Faust, of Mayence, the partner of Gutenberg, was the original
Dr. Johann Faustus (the prototype of Goethe's Faust), who practised
magic toward the end of the fifteenth and at the beginning of the
sixteenth century, made a compact with Mephistopheles, performed
many miraculous feats, and died horribly at the last. But Fust, or
Faust, was a rich and reputable merchant of Mayence who provided
capital to promote the art of Gutenberg and Schöffer, and Mr. H.
Sutherland Edwards, who gossips pleasantly and at great length about
the Faust legends in Volume I of his book, "The Lyrical Drama,"
indulges a rather wild fancy when he considers it probable that he
was the father of the real mediaeval in carnation of the ancient
superstition. The real Faust had been a poor lad, but money
inherited from a rich uncle enabled him to attend lectures at the
University of Cracow, where he seems to have devoted himself with
particular assiduity to the study of magic, which had at that period
a respectable place in the curriculum. Having obtained his doctorial
hat, he travelled through Europe practising necromancy and acquiring
a thoroughly bad reputation. To the fact that this man actually
lived, and lived such a life as has been described, we have the
testimony of a physician, Philip Begardi; a theologian, Johann Gast,
and no less a witness than Philip Melanchthon, the reformer. Martin
Luther refers to Faust in his "Table Talk" as a man lost beyond all
hope of redemption; Melanchthon, who says that he talked with him,
adds: "This sorcerer Faust, an abominable beast, a common sewer of
many devils (turpissima bestia et cloaca multorum diabolorum),
boasted that he had enabled the imperial armies to win their
victories in Italy."

The literary history of Faust is much too long to be even outlined
here; a few points must suffice us. In a book published in Frankfort
in 1587 by a German writer named Spiess, the legend received its
first printed form. An English ballad on the subject appeared within
a year. In 1590 there came a translation of the entire story, which
was the source from which Marlowe drew his "Tragical History of
the Life and Death of Dr. Faustus," brought forward on the stage
in 1593 and printed in 1604. New versions of the legend followed
each other rapidly, and Faust became a favorite character with
playwrights, romancers, and poets. Toward the end of the eighteenth
century, when Goethe conceived the idea of utilizing the subject for
publishing his comprehensive philosophy of human life, it seems to
have held possession of a large portion of literary Germany. All
together, it was in the mind of the great poet from his adolescence
till his death; but while he was working on his original plan,
literary versions of the legend were published by twenty-eight
German authors, including Lessing, whose manuscript, unhappily, was
lost. Goethe had known the legend from childhood, when he had seen
puppet-plays based on it--these plays being the vulgar progeny of
Marlowe's powerful tragedy, which is still an ornament of English
literature. Music was a part of these puppet-plays. In the first one
that fell into my hands I find the influence of opera manifest in
recitatives and airs put into the mouth of Mephistopheles, and comic
songs sung by Kasperle, the Punch of the German marionette

The love tale which furnished forth the entire opera book of MM.
Carré and Barbier is, as I have said, wholly the invention of
Goethe. There is the shadowy form of a maiden in some of the
versions of the legend, but not a hint of the romantic sentiment
so powerfully and pathetically set forth by the poet. Nor did the
passion either for good or evil play a part in the agreement between
Faust and the devil. That agreement covered five points only: Faust
pledged himself to deny God, hate the human race, despise the
clergy, never set foot in a church, and never get married. So
far from being a love episode in the story, when Faustus, in the
old book by Spiess, once expressed a wish to abrogate the last
condition, Mephistopheles refused him permission on the ground
that marriage is something pleasing to God, and for that reason in
contravention of the contract. "Hast thou," quoth Mephistopheles,
"sworn thyself an enemy to God and to all creatures? To this I
answer thee, thou canst not marry; thou canst not serve two masters,
God and thy prince. For wedlock is a chief institution ordained of
God, and that thou hast promised to defy as we do all, and that thou
hast not only done, but, moreover, thou hast confirmed it with thy
blood. Persuade thyself that what thou hast done in contempt of
wedlock, it is all to thine own delight. Therefore, Faustus, look
well about thee and bethink thyself better, and I wish thee to
change thy mind, for if thou keep not what thou hast promised in thy
writing, we will tear thee in pieces, like the dust under thy feet.
Therefore, sweet Faustus, think with what unquiet life, anger,
strife, and debate thou shalt live in when thou takest a wife.
Therefore, change thy mind." Faustus abandons his purpose for
the time being, but within two hours summons his spirit again
and demands his consent to marriage; whereupon up there comes a
whirlwind, which fills the house with fire and smoke and hurls
Faustus about until he is unable to stir hand or foot. Also there
appears an ugly devil, so dreadful and monstrous to behold that
Faustus dares not look upon him. This devil is in a mood for
jesting. "How likest thou thy wedding?" he asks of Faustus, who
promises not to mention marriage more, and is well content when
Mephistopheles engages to bring him any woman, dead or alive, whom
he may desire to possess. It is in obedience to this promise that
Helen of Troy is brought back from the world of shades to be
Faustus's paramour. By her he has a son, whom he calls Justus
Faustus, but in the end, when Faustus loses his life, mother and
child vanish. Goethe uses the scene of the amour between Faust and
the ancient beauty in the second part of his poem as does Boito in
his "Mefistofele," charging it with the beautiful symbolism which
was in the German poet's mind. In the Polish tale of Pan Twardowsky,
built on the lines of the old legend, there is a more amusing fling
at marriage. In return for the help which he is to receive, the
Polish wizard has the privilege of demanding three duties of the
devil. After enjoying to the full the benefits conferred by two, he
commands the devil to marry Mme. Twardowska. This is more than the
devil had bargained for, or is willing to perform. He refuses; the
contract is broken, and Twardowsky is saved. The story may have
inspired Thackeray's amusing tale in "The Paris Sketch-book,"
entitled "The Painter's Bargain."

For the facts in the story of the composition and production of
Gounod's opera, we have the authority of the composer in his
autobiography. In 1856 he made the acquaintance of Jules Barbier and
Michel Carré, and asked them to collaborate with him in an opera.
They assenting, he proposed Goethe's "Faust" as a subject, and it
met with their approval. Together they went to see M. Carvalho, who
was then director of the Théâtre Lyrique. He, too, liked the idea
of the opera, and the librettists went to work. The composer had
written nearly half of the score, when M. Carvaiho brought the
disconcerting intelligence that a grand melodrama treating the
subject was in preparation at the Théâtre de la Porte Saint-Martin.
Carvalho said that it would be impossible to get the opera ready
before the appearance of the melodrama, and unwise to enter into
competition with a theatre the luxury of whose stage mounting
would have attracted all Paris before the opera could be produced.
Carvalho therefore advised a change of subject, which was such a
blow to Gounod that he was incapable of applying himself to work
for a week. Finally, Carvalho came to the rescue with a request for
a lyric comedy based on one of Molière's plays. Gounod chose "Le
Médecin malgré lui," and the opera had its production at the Théâtre
Lyrique on the anniversary of Molière's birth, January 15, 1858. The
melodrama at the Porte Saint-Martin turned out to be a failure in
spite of its beautiful pictures, and Carvalho recurred to the opera,
which had been laid aside, and Gounod had it ready by July. He read
it to the director in the greenroom of the theatre in that month,
and Mme. Carvalho, wife of the director, who was present, was so
deeply impressed with the rôle of Marguerite that M. Carvalho asked
the composer's permission to assign it to her. "This was agreed
upon," says Gounod, "and the future proved the choice to be a
veritable inspiration."

Rehearsals began in September, 1858, and soon developed
difficulties. Gounod had set his heart upon a handsome young tenor
named Guardi for the titular rôle, but he was found to be unequal
to its demands. This caused such embarrassment that, it is said,
Gounod, who had a pretty voice and was rather fond of showing it,
seriously pondered the feasibility of singing it himself. He does
not tell us this in his autobiography, but neither does he tell us
that he had chosen Mme. Ugalde for the part of Marguerite, and
that he yielded to M. Carvalho in giving it to the director's wife
because Mme. Ugalde had quarrelled with him (as prima donnas will),
about Massé's opera, "La Fée Carabosse," which preceded "Faust" at
the Lyrique. The difficulty about the tenor rôle was overcome by
the enlistment of M. Barbot, an artist who had been a companion of
Carvalho's when he sang small parts at the Opéra Comique. He was now
far past his prime, and a pensioned teacher at the Conservatoire,
but Gounod bears witness that he "showed himself a great musician
in the part of Faust." Of Belanqué, who created the part of
Méphistophélès, Gounod says that "he was an intelligent comedian
whose play, physique, and voice lent themselves wonderfully to this
fantastic and Satanic personage." As for Mme. Carvalho, it was the
opinion of the composer that, though her masterly qualities of
execution and style had already placed her in the front rank of
contemporary singers, no rôle, till Marguerite fell to her lot, had
afforded her opportunity to show in such measure "the superior
phases of her talent, so sure, so refined, so steady, so
tranquil--its lyric and pathetic qualities."

It was a distinguished audience that listened to the first
performance of "Faust" on March 19, 1859. Auber, Berlioz, Reyer,
Jules Janin, Perrin, Émile Ollivier, and many other men who had made
their mark in literature, art, or politics sat in the boxes, and
full as many more of equal distinction in the stalls. Among these
latter were Delacroix, Vernet, Eugène Giraud, Pasdeloup, Scudo,
Heugel, and Jules Lévy. The criticism of the journals which followed
was, as usual, a blending of censure and praise. Berlioz was
favorably inclined toward the work, and, with real discrimination,
put his finger on the monologue at the close of the third act ("Il
m'aime! Quel trouble en mon coeur") as the best thing in the score.
Scudo gave expression to what was long the burden of the critical
song in Germany; namely, the failure of the authors to grasp
the large conception of Goethe's poem; but, with true Gallic
inconsistency, he set down the soldiers' chorus as a masterpiece.
The garden scene, with its sublimated mood, its ecstasy of feeling,
does not seem to have moved him; he thought the third act monotonous
and too long. There was no demand for the score on the part of the
French publishers, but at length Choudens was persuaded to adventure
10,000 francs, one-half of an inheritance, in it. He was at that
time an éditeur on a small scale, as well as a postal official,
and the venture put him on the road to fortune. For the English
rights Gounod is said to have received only forty pounds sterling,
and this only after the energetic championship of Chorley, who made
the English translation. The opera was given thirty-seven times at
the Théâtre Lyrique. Ten years after its first performance it was
revised to fit the schemes of the Grand Opéra, and brought forward
under the new auspices on March 3, 1869. Mlle. Christine Nilsson was
the new Marguerite. No opera has since equalled the popularity of
"Faust" in Paris. Twenty-eight years after its first performance,
Gounod was privileged to join his friends in a celebration of its
500th representation. That was in 1887. Eight years after, the 1000
mark was reached, and the 1250th Parisian representation took place
in 1902.

Two years before "Faust" reached London, it was given in Germany,
where it still enjoys great popularity, though it is called
"Margarethe," in deference to the manes of Goethe. Within a few
weeks in 1863 the opera had possession of two rival establishments
in London. At Her Majesty's Theatre it was given for the first time
on June 11, and at the Royal Italian Opera on July 2. On January 23,
1864, it was brought forward in Mr. Chorley's English version at
Her Majesty's. The first American representation took place at the
Academy of Music, New York, on November 25, 1863, the parts being
distributed as follows: Margherita, Miss Clara Louise Kellogg;
Siebel, Miss Henrietta Sulzer; Martha, Miss Fanny Stockton; Faust,
Francesco Mazzoleni; Mephistopheles, Hanibal Biachi; Valentine, G.
Yppolito; Wagner, D. Coletti. It was sung in Italian, won immediate
popularity, and made money for Max Maretzek, who was at once the
manager and the conductor of the company. Forty years before an
English version of Goethe's tragedy (the first part, of course) had
been produced at the Bowery Theatre, with the younger Wallack as
Faust and Charles Hill as Mephistopheles.

The opera begins, like Goethe's dramatic poem, after the prologue,
with the scene in Faust's study. The aged philosopher has grown
weary of fruitless inquiry into the mystery of nature and its
Creator, and longs for death. He has just passed a night in study,
and as the morning breaks he salutes it as his last on earth and
pledges it in a cup of poison. As he is about to put the cup to his
lips, the song of a company of maidens floats in at the window. It
tells of the joy of living and loving and the beauty of nature and
its inspirations. Faust's hand trembles, strangely, unaccountably;
again he lifts the cup, but only to pause again to listen to a song
sung by a company of reapers repairing to the fields, chanting their
gratitude to God for the loveliness surrounding them, and invoking
His blessing. The sounds madden the despairing philosopher. What
would prayer avail him? Would it bring back youth and love and
faith? No. Accursed, therefore, be all things good--earth's
pleasures, riches, allurements of every sort; the dreams of love;
the wild joy of combat; happiness itself; science, religion,
prayers, belief; above all, a curse upon the patience with which he
had so long endured! He summons Satan to his aid. Méphistophélès
answers the call, in the garb of a cavalier. His tone and bearing
irritate Faust, who bids him begone. The fiend would know his will,
his desires. Gold, glory, power?--all shall be his for the asking.
But these things are not the heart's desire of Faust. He craves
youthfulness, with its desires and delights, its passions and
puissance. Méphistophélès promises all, and, when he hesitates,
inflames his ardor with a vision of the lovely Marguerite seated at
her spinning-wheel. Eagerly Faust signs the compact--the devil will
serve Faust here, but below the relations shall be reversed. Faust
drinks a pledge to the vision, which fades away. In a twinkling the
life-weary sage is transformed into a young man, full of eager and
impatient strength.

Méphistophélès loses no time in launching Faust upon his career of
adventures. First, he leads him to a fair in a mediaeval town.
Students are there who sing the pleasures of drinking; soldiers,
too, bent on conquest--of maidens or fortresses, all's one to them;
old burghers, who find delight in creature comforts; maids and
matrons, flirtatious and envious. All join in the merriest of
musical hubbubs. Valentin, a soldier who is about to go to the
wars, commends his sister Marguerite to the care of Siebel,
a gentle youth who loves her. Wagner, a student, begins a song,
but is interrupted by Méphistophélès, who has entered the circle of
merry-makers with Faust, and who now volunteers to sing a better
song than the one just begun. He sings of the Calf of Gold ("Le veau
d'or est toujours debout"), and the crowd delightedly shouts the
refrain. The singer accepts a cup of wine, but, finding it not at
all to his taste, he causes vintages to the taste of every one to
flow from the cask which serves as a tavern sign. He offers the
company a toast, "To Marguerite!" and when Valentin attempts to
resent the insult to his sister with his sword, it breaks in his
hand as he tries to penetrate a magic circle which Méphistophélès
draws around himself. The men now suspect the true character of
their singular visitor, and turn the cruciform hilts of their swords
against him, to his intense discomfort. With the return of the
women the merrymaking is resumed. All join in a dance, tripping it
gayly to one waltz sung by the spectators and another which rises
simultaneously from the instruments. Marguerite crosses the
market-place on her way home from church. Faust offers her his arm,
but she declines his escort--not quite so rudely as Goethe's
Gretchen does in the corresponding situation. Faust becomes more
than ever enamoured of the maiden, whom he had seen in the vision
conjured up in the philosopher's study.

Méphistophélès is a bit amused at Faust's first attempt at wooing,
and undertakes to point the way for him. He leads him into the
garden surrounding the cottage in which Marguerite dwells. Siebel
had just been there and had plucked a nosegay for the maiden of his
heart, first dipping his fingers in holy water, to protect them
from the curse which Méphistophélès had pronounced against them
while parading as a fortune-teller at the fair. Faust is lost in
admiration at sight of the humble abode of loveliness and innocence,
and lauds it in a romance ("Salut! demeure chaste et pure"), but is
taken aside by Méphistophélès, who gives warning of the approach
of Marguerite, and places a casket of jewels beside the modest
bouquet left by Siebel. Marguerite, seated at her spinning-wheel,
alternately sings a stanza of a ballad ("Il était un Roi de Thule")
and speaks her amazed curiosity concerning the handsome stranger
who had addressed her in the marketplace. She finds the jewels,
ornaments herself with them, carolling her delight the while, and
admiring the regal appearance which the gems lend her.

Here I should like to be pardoned a brief digression. Years ago,
while the German critics were resenting the spoliation of the
masterpiece of their greatest poet by the French librettists, they
fell upon this so-called Jewel Song ("Air des bijoux," the French
call it), and condemned its brilliant and ingratiating waltz
measures as being out of keeping with the character of Gretchen. In
this they forgot that Marguerite and Gretchen are very different
characters indeed. There is much of the tender grace of the
unfortunate German maiden in the creation of the French authors, but
none of her simple, almost rude, rusticity. As created by, let me
say, Mme. Carvalho and perpetuated by Christine Nilsson and the
painter Ary Scheffer, Marguerite is a good deal of a grande dame,
and against the German critics it might appositely be pleaded that
there are more traces of childish ingenuousness in her rejoicing
over the casket of jewels than in any of her other utterances. The
episode is poetically justified, of course, by the eighth scene of
Goethe's drama, and there was not wanting one German writer who
boldly came to the defence of Marguerite on the ground that she
moved on a higher moral plane than Gretchen. The French librettists,
while they emptied the character of much of its poetical contents,
nevertheless made it in a sense more gentle, and Gounod refined it
still more by breathing an ecstasy into all of its music. Goethe's
Gretchen, though she rejects Faust's first advances curtly enough to
be called impolite, nevertheless ardently returns Faust's kiss on
her first meeting with him in the garden, and already at the second
(presumably) offers to leave her window open, and accepts the
sleeping potion for her mother. It is a sudden, uncontrollable rush
of passion to which Marguerite succumbs. Gretchen remains in simple
amaze that such a fine gentleman as Faust should find anything to
admire in her, even after she has received and returned his first
kiss; but Marguerite is exalted, transfigured by the new feelings
surging within her.

  Il m'aime! quel trouble en mon coeur!
  L'oiseau chante! Le vent murmure!
  Toutes les voix de la nature
  Semblent me répéter en choeur:
    Il t'aime!

I resume the story. Martha, the neighborhood gossip, comes to
encourage Marguerite in a belief which she scarcely dares cherish,
that the jewels had been left for her by some noble admirer, and
her innocent pleasure is interrupted by the entrance of Faust and
Méphistophélès. The latter draws Martha away, and Faust wooes the
maiden with successful ardor. They have indulged in their first
embrace, and said their farewells till to-morrow: Faust is about
to depart, when Méphistophélès detains him and points to Marguerite,
who is burdening the perfumed air with her new ecstasy. He rushes to
her, and, with a cry of delight, she falls into his arms.

Goethe's scene at the fountain becomes, in the hands of the French
librettists, a scene in the chamber of Marguerite. The deceived
maiden is cast down by the jeers and mockings of her erstwhile
companions, and comforted by Siebel. It is now generally omitted.
Marguerite has become the talk of the town, and evil reports reach
the ear of her brother Valentin on his return from the wars with the
victorious soldiery. Valentin confronts Faust and Méphistophélès
while the latter is singing a ribald serenade at Marguerite's door.
The men fight, and, through the machinations of Méphistophélès,
Valentin is mortally wounded. He dies denouncing the conduct of
Marguerite, and cursing her for having brought death upon him.
Marguerite seeks consolation in religious worship; but the fiend is
at her elbow even in the holy fane, and his taunts and the accusing
chant of a choir of demons interrupt her prayers. The devil reveals
himself in his proper (or improper) person at the end, and
Marguerite falls in a swoon.

The Walpurgis night scene of Goethe furnished the suggestion for
the ballet which fills the first three scenes of the fifth act, and
which was added to the opera when it was remodelled for the Grand
Opéra in 1869. The scene holds its place in Paris, but is seldom
performed elsewhere. A wild scene in the Harz Mountains gives way
to an enchanted hail in which are seen the most famous courtesans
of ancient history--Phryne, Laïs, Aspasia, Cleopatra, and Helen of
Troy. The apparition of Marguerite appears to Faust, a red line
encircling her neck, like the mark of a headsman's axe. We reach
the end. The distraught maiden has slain her child, and now lies in
prison upon her pallet of straw, awaiting death. Faust enters and
tries to persuade her to fly with him. Her poor mind is all awry and
occupies itself only with the scenes of her first meeting and the
love-making in the garden. She turns with horror from her lover when
she sees his companion, and in an agony of supplication, which rises
higher and higher with each reiteration, she implores Heaven for
pardon. She sinks lifeless to the floor. Méphistophélès pronounces
her damned, but a voice from on high proclaims her saved. Celestial
voices chant the Easter hymn, "Christ is risen!" while a band of
angels bear her soul heavenward.



There is no reason to question Gounod's statement that it was he
who conceived the idea of writing a Faust opera in collaboration
with MM. Barbier and Carré. There was nothing novel in the notion.
Music was an integral part of the old puppet-plays which dealt with
the legend of Dr. Faustus, and Goethe's tragedy calls for musical
aid imperatively. A musical pantomime, "Harlequin Faustus," was
performed in London as early as 1715, and there were Faust operas
long before even the first part of Goethe's poem was printed, which
was a hundred and one years ago. A composer named Phanty brought out
an opera entitled "Dr. Faust's Zaubergürtel" in 1790; C. Hanke used
the same material and title at Flushing in 1794, and Ignaz Walter
produced a "Faust" in Hanover in 1797. Goethe's First Part had been
five years in print when Spohr composed his "Faust," but it is based
not on the great German poet's version of the legend, but on the old
sources. This opera has still life, though it is fitful and feeble,
in Germany, and was produced in London by a German company in 1840
and by an Italian in 1852, when the composer conducted it; but I
have never heard of a representation in America. Between Spohr's
"Faust," written in 1813 and performed in 1818, and Boito's
"Mefistofele," produced in 1868, many French, German, English,
Italian, Russian, and Polish Faust operas have come into existence,
lived their little lives, and died. Rietz produced a German "Faust,"
founded on Goethe, at Düsseldorf, in 1836; Lindpainter in Berlin, in
1854; Henry Rowley Bishop's English "Faustus" was heard in London,
in 1827; French versions were Mlle. Angélique Bertin's "Faust"
(Paris, 1831), and M. de Pellaert's (Brussels, 1834); Italian
versions were "Fausta," by Donizetti (Mme. Pasta and Signor Donzelli
sang in it in Naples in 1832), "Fausto," by Gordigiano (Florence,
1837), and "Il Fausto arrivo," by Raimondi (Naples, 1837); the
Polish Faust, Twardowsky, is the hero of a Russian opera by
Verstowsky (Moscow, 1831), and of a Polish opera by J. von Zaitz
(Agram, 1880). How often the subject has served for operettas,
cantatas, overtures, symphonies, etc., need not be discussed here.
Berlioz's "Dramatic Legend," entitled "La Damnation de Faust,"
tricked out with stage pictures by Raoul Gunsbourg, was performed as
an opera at Monte Carlo in 1903, and in New York at the Metropolitan
and Manhattan opera-houses in the seasons 1906-1907 and 1907-1908,
respectively; but the experiment was unsuccessful, both artistically
and financially.

I have said that there is no reason to question Gounod's statement
that it was he who conceived the idea of writing the opera whose
popularity is without parallel in the musical history of the Faust
legend; but, if I could do so without reflecting upon his character,
I should like to believe a story which says that it was Barbier who
proposed the subject to Gounod after Meyerbeer, to whom he first
suggested it, had declined the collaboration. I should like to
believe this, because it is highly honorable to Meyerbeer's artistic
character, which has been much maligned by critics and historians
of music since Wagner set an example in that direction. "'Faust,'"
Meyerbeer is reported to have replied to Barbier's invitation, "is
the ark of the covenant, a sanctuary not to be approached with
profane music." For the composer who did not hesitate to make an
opera out of the massacre of St. Bartholomew, this answer is more
than creditable. The Germans, who have either felt or affected great
indignation at the want of reverence for their great poet shown by
the authors of "Faust" and "Mignon," ought to admire Meyerbeer in
a special degree for the moral loftiness of his determination and
the dignified beauty of its expression. Composers like Kreutzer,
Reissiger, Pierson, Lassen, and Prince Radziwill have written
incidental music for Goethe's tragedy without reflecting that
possibly they were profaning the sanctuary; but Meyerbeer, compared
with whom they were pygmies, withheld his hand, and thereby brought
himself into sympathetic association with the only musician that
ever lived who was completely equipped for so magnificent a task.
That musician was Beethoven, to whom Rochlitz bore a commission for
music to "Faust" from Breitkopf and Härtel in 1822. The Titan read
the proposition and cried out: "Ha! that would be a piece of work!
Something might come of that!" but declined the task because he had
the choral symphony and other large plans on his mind.

Boito is not a Beethoven nor yet a Meyerbeer; but, though he did
what neither of them would venture upon when he wrote a Faust opera,
he did it with complete and lovely reverence for the creation of the
German poet. It is likely that had he had less reverence for his
model and more of the stagecraft of his French predecessors his
opera would have had a quicker and greater success than fell to
its lot. Of necessity it has suffered by comparison with the opera
of Barbier, Carré, and Gounod, though it was far from Boito's
intentions that it should ever be subjected to such a comparison.
Boito is rather more poet and dramatist than he is musician. He
made the book not only of "Mefistofele," but also of "Otello"
and "Falstaff," which Verdi composed, "La Gioconda," for which
Ponchielli wrote the music, and "Ero e Leandro," which he turned
over to Bottesini, who set it with no success, and to Mancinelli,
who set it with little. One of the musical pieces which the poet
composed for this last opera found its way into "Mefistofele," for
which work "Ero e Leandro" seems to have been abandoned. He also
translated Wagner's "Tristan und Isolde" into Italian. Being a
poet in the first instance, and having the blood of the Northern
barbarians as well as the Southern Romans in his veins, he was
unwilling to treat Goethe's tragedy as the Frenchman had treated it.
The tearful tale of the love of the rejuvenated philosopher, and the
village maiden, with its woful outcome, did not suffice him. Though
he called his opera "Mefistofele," not "Faust," he drew its scenes,
of which only two have to do with Marguerite (or Gretchen), from
both parts of Goethe's allegorical and philosophical phantasmagoria.
Because he did this, he failed from one point of view. Attempting
too much, he accomplished too little. His opera is not a well-knit
and consistently developed drama, but a series of episodes, which do
not hold together and have significance only for those who know
Goethe's dramatic poem in its entirety. It is very likely that, as
originally produced, "Mefistofele" was not such a thing of shreds
and patches as it now is. No doubt, it held together better in 1868,
when it was ridiculed, whistled, howled, and hissed off the stage
of the Teatro la Scala, than it did when it won the admiration of
the Italians in Bologna twelve years later. In the interval it had
been subjected to a revision, and, the first version never having
been printed, the critical fraternity became exceedingly voluble
after the success in Bologna, one of the debated questions being
whether Boito had bettered his work by his voluminous excisions,
interpolations, and changes (Faust, now a tenor, was originally a
barytone), or had weakly surrendered his better judgment to the
taste of the hoi polloi, for the sake of a popular success. It was
pretty fighting ground; it is yet, and will remain such so long as
the means of comparison remain hidden and sentimental hero-worship
is fed by the notion that Boito has refused to permit the opera
or operas which he has written since to be either published or
performed because the world once refused to recognize his genius.
This notion, equally convenient to an indolent man or a colossal
egoist--I do not believe that Boito is either--has been nurtured by
many pretty stories; but, unhappily, we have had nothing to help us
to form an opinion of Boito as a creative artist since "Mefistofele"
appeared, except the opera books written for Verdi and Ponchielli
and the libretto of "Ero e Leandro."

Boito's father was an Italian, his mother a Pole. From either one
or both he might have inherited the intensity of expression which
marks his works, both poetical and musical; but the tendency to
philosophical contemplation which characterizes "Mefistofele," even
in the stunted form in which it is now presented, is surely the
fruit of his maternal heritage and his studies in Germany. After
completing the routine of the conservatory in Milan, he spent a
great deal of time in Paris and the larger German cities, engrossed
quite as much in the study of literature as of music. Had he
followed his inclinations and the advice of Victor Hugo, who gave
him a letter of introduction to Émile de Girardin, he would have
become a journalist in Paris instead of the composer of "Mefistofele"
and the poet of "Otello," "Falstaff," "La Gioconda," and "Ero e
Leandro." But Girardin was too much occupied with his own affairs
to attend to him when Boito presented himself, and after waiting
wearily, vainly, and long, he went to Poland, where, for want of
something else to do, he sketched the opera "Mefistofele," which
made its memorable fiasco at Milan in March, 1868.

To show that it is impossible to think of "Mefistofele" except as a
series of disconnected episodes, it suffices to point out that its
prologue, epilogue, and four acts embrace a fantastic parody or
perversion of Goethe's Prologue in Heaven, a fragment of his Easter
scene, a smaller fragment of the scene in Faust's study, a bit
of the garden scene, the scene of the witches' gathering on the
Brocken, the prison scene, the classical Sabbath in which Faust
is discovered in an amour with Helen of Troy, and the death and
salvation of Faust as an old man. Can any one who knows that music,
even of the modern dramatic type, in which strictly musical forms
have given way to as persistent an onward flow as the text itself,
must of necessity act as a clog on dramatic action, imagine that
such a number and variety of scenes could be combined into a
logical, consistent whole, compassed by four hours in performance?
Certainly not. But Boito is not content to emulate Goethe in his
effort to carry his listeners "from heaven through the earth to
hell"; he must needs ask them to follow him in his exposition of
Goethe's philosophy and symbolism. Of course, that is impossible
during a stage representation, and therefore he exposes the workings
of his mind in an essay and notes to his score. From these we may
learn, among other things, that the poet-composer conceives Faust
as the type of man athirst for knowledge, of whom Solomon was
the Biblical prototype, Prometheus the mythological, Manfred and
Don Quixote the predecessors in modern literature. Also that
Mephistopheles is as inexhaustible as a type of evil as Faust is as
a type of virtue, and therefore that this picturesque stage devil,
with all his conventionality, is akin to the serpent which tempted
Eve, the Thersites of Homer, and--mirabile dictu!--the Falstaff of

The device with which Boito tried to link the scenes of his opera
together is musical as well as philosophical. In the book which
Barbier and Carré wrote for Gounod, Faust sells his soul to the
devil for a period of sensual pleasure of indefinite duration, and,
so far as the hero is concerned, the story is left unfinished. All
that has been accomplished is the physical ruin of Marguerite.
Méphistophélès exults for a moment in contemplation of the
destruction, also, of the immortal part of her, but the angelic
choir proclaims her salvation. Faust departs hurriedly with
Méphistophélès, but whether to his death or in search of new
adventures, we do not know. The Germans are, therefore, not so
wrong, after all, in calling the opera after the name of the heroine
instead of that of the hero. In Boito's book the love story is but
an incident. Faust's compact with Mefistofele, as in Goethe's
dramatic poem, is the outcome of a wager between Mefistofele and
God, under the terms of which the Spirit of Evil is to be permitted
to seduce Faust from righteousness, if he can. Faust's demand of
Mefistofele is rest from his unquiet, inquisitive mind; a solution
of the dark problem of his own existence and that of the world;
finally, one moment of which he can say, "Stay, for thou art lovely!
"The amour with Margherita does not accomplish this, and so Boito
follows Goethe into the conclusion of the second part of his drama,
and shows Faust, at the end, an old man about to die. He recalls the
loves of Margherita and Helen, but they were insufficient to give
him the desired moment of happiness. He sees a vision of a people
governed by him and made happy by wise laws of his creation. He
goes into an ecstasy. Mefistofele summons sirens to tempt him; and
spreads his cloak for another flight. But the chant of celestial
beings falls into Faust's ear, and he speaks the words which
terminate the compact. He dies. Mefistofele attempts to seize upon
him, but is driven back by a shower of roses dropped by cherubim.
The celestial choir chants redeeming love.

Thus much for the dramatic exposition. Boito's musical exposition
rests on the employment of typical phrases, not in the manner
of Wagner, indeed, but with the fundamental purpose of Wagner.
A theme:--

[Musical excerpt]

which begins the prologue, ends the epilogue. The reader may label
it as he pleases. Its significance is obvious from the circumstances
of its employment. It rings out fortissimo when the mystic chorus,
which stands for the Divine Voice, puts the question, "Knowest thou
Faust?" An angelic ascription of praise to the Creator of the
Universe and to Divine Love is the first vocal utterance and the
last. In his notes Boito observes: "Goethe was a great admirer of
form, and his poem ends as it begins,--the first and last words of
'Faust' are uttered in Heaven." Then he quotes a remark from Blaze
de Bury's essay on Goethe, which is apropos, though not strictly
accurate: "The glorious motive which the immortal phalanxes sing in
the introduction to the first part of 'Faust' recurs at the close,
garbed with harmonies and mystical clouds. In this Goethe has acted
like the musicians,--like Mozart, who recurs in the finale of 'Don
Giovanni' to the imposing phrase of the overture."

M. de Bury refers, of course, to the supernatural music, which
serves as an introduction to the overture to "Don Giovanni," and
accompanies the visitation of the ghostly statue and the death of
the libertine. But this is not the end of Mozart's opera as he
wrote it, as readers of this book have been told.

This prologue of "Mefistofele" plays in heaven. "In the heavens,"
says Theodore Marzials, the English translator of Boito's opera, out
of deference to the religious sensibilities of the English people,
to spare which he also changes "God" into "sprites," "spirits,"
"powers of good," and "angels." The effect is vastly diverting,
especially when Boito's paraphrase of Goethe's

  Von Zeit zu Zeit seh' ich den Alten gern
  Und hüte mich mit ihm zu brechen.
  Es ist gar hübsch von einem grossen Herrn,
  So menschlich mit dem Teufel selbst zu sprechen. {1}

is turned into: "Now and again 'tis really pleasant thus to chat
with the angels, and I'll take good care not to quarrel with them.
'Tis beautiful to hear Good and Evil speak together with such
humanity." The picture disclosed by the opening of the curtain is a
mass of clouds, with Mefistofele, like a dark blot, standing on a
corner of his cloak in the shadow. The denizens of the celestial
regions are heard but never seen. A trumpet sounds the fundamental
theme, which is repeated in full harmony after instruments of
gentler voice have sung a hymn-like phrase, as follows:--

[Musical excerpt]

It is the first period of the "Salve Regina" sung by Earthly
Penitents in the finale of the prologue. The canticle is chanted
through, its periods separated by reiterations of the fundamental
theme. A double chorus acclaims the Lord of Angels and Saints. A
plan, evidently derived from the symphonic form, underlies the
prologue as a whole. Prelude and chorus are rounded out by the
significant trumpet phrase. One movement is completed. There follows
a second movement, an Instrumental Scherzo, with a first section
beginning thus:--

[Musical excerpt]

and a trio. Over this music Mefistofele carries on converse with
God. He begs to disagree with the sentiments of the angelic hymn.
Wandering about the earth, he had observed man and found him in all
things contemptible, especially in his vanity begotten by what he
called "reason"; he, the miserable little cricket, vaingloriously
jumping out of the grass in an effort to poke his nose among the
stars, then falling back to chirp, had almost taken away from the
devil all desire to tempt him to evil doings. "Knowest thou Faust?"
asks the Divine Voice; and Mefistofele tells of the philosopher's
insatiable thirst for wisdom. Then he offers the wager. The scene,
though brief, follows Goethe as closely as Goethe follows the author
of the Book of Job:--

Now, there was a day when the sons of God came to present
themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them.

And the Lord said unto Satan, Whence comest thou? Then Satan
answered the Lord and said, From going to and fro in the earth
and from walking up and down in it.

And the Lord said unto Satan, Hast thou considered my servant
Job, that there is none like him in the earth, a perfect and
an upright man, one that feareth God and escheweth evil?

Then Satan answered the Lord, and said, Doth Job fear God for
nought? . . .

And the Lord said unto Satan, Behold, all that he hath is in
thy power; only upon himself put not forth thine hand. So
Satan went forth from the presence of the Lord.

Boito treats the interview in what he calls a Dramatic Interlude,
which gives way to the third movement, a Vocal Scherzo, starting off
with a chorus of Cherubim, who sing in fugacious thirds and droning

[Musical excerpt--"siam nimbi volanti dai limbi, nei santi"]

It is well to note particularly Boito's metrical device. He
seemingly counted much on the effect of incessantly reiterated
dactyls. Not only do his Cherubim adhere to the form without
deviation, but Helen and Pantalis use it also in the scene imitated
from Goethe's Classical Walpurgis Night,--use it for an especial
purpose, as we shall see presently. Rapid syllabication is also
a characteristic of the song of the witches in the scene on the
Brocken; but the witches sing in octaves and fifths except when
they kneel to do homage to Mefistofele; then their chant sounds like
the responses to John of Leyden's prayer by the mutinous soldiers
brought to their knees in "Le Prophète." Not at all ineptly,
Mefistofele, who does not admire the Cherubs, likens their monotonous
cantillation to the hum of bees. A fourth movement consists of a
concluding psalmody, in which the Cherubs twitter, Earthly Penitents
supplicate the Virgin, and the combined choirs, celestial and
terrestrial, hymn the Creator.

The tragedy now begins. Boito changes the order of the scenes which
he borrows from Goethe, presenting first the merrymaking of the
populace outside the walls of Frankfort-on-the-Main, and then the
interview between Faust and Mefistofele, in which, as in the opening
scene of Gounod's opera, the infernal compact is agreed upon. There
is some mediaeval pageantry in the first scene,--a cavalcade headed
by the Elector, and including dignitaries, pages, falconers, the
court fool, and ladies of the court. Students, townspeople,
huntsmen, lads, and lasses pursue their pleasures, and up and down,
through the motley groups, there wanders a gray friar, whose strange
conduct repels some of the people, and whose pious garb attracts
others. Faust and Wagner, his pupil, come upon the scene, conversing
seriously, and stop to comment on the actions of the friar, who is
approaching them, supposedly in narrowing circles. Wagner sees
nothing in him except a mendicant friar, but Faust calls attention
to the fact that to his eye, flames blaze up from his footprints.
This friar is the "poodle" of Goethe's poem, and Mefistofele in
disguise. It is thus that the devil presented himself to Faustus
in the old versions of the legend, and as a friar he is a more
practicable dramatic figure than he would have been as a dog; but
it cannot but provoke a smile from those familiar with Goethe's poem
to hear (as we do in the opera a few moments later) the familiar

  Das also war des Pudels Kern!
  Ein fahrender Scolast?

turned into: "This, then, was the kernel of the friar! A cavalier?"
The music of the score is characterized by frequent changes from
triple to double time, as illustrated in the opening measures:

[Musical excerpt]

The rhythmical energy and propulsiveness thus imparted to the music
of the merrymaking is heightened by the dance. Peasants rush upon
the scene with shouts of "Juhé!" and make preparations to trip it
while singing what, at first, promises to be a waltz-song:--

[Musical excerpt]

The dance, however, is not a waltz, but an obertass--the most
popular of the rustic dances of Poland. Why should Boito have made
his Rhinelanders dance a step which is characteristically that of
the Poles? Sticklers for historical verity could easily convict him
of a most unpardonable anachronism, if they were so disposed, by
pointing out that even if German peasants were in the habit of
dancing the obertass now (which they are not), they could not have
done it in the sixteenth century, which is the period of the drama,
for the sufficient reason that the Polish dance was not introduced
in North Germany till near the middle of the eighteenth century.
But we need not inquire too curiously into details like this when
it comes to so arbitrary an art-form as the opera. Yet Boito was
his own poet, master of the situation so far as all parts of his
work were concerned, and might have consulted historical accuracy
in a department in which Gluck once found that he was the slave
of his ballet master. Gluck refused to introduce a chaconne into
"Iphigénie en Aulide." "A chaconne?" cried the composer. "When did
the Greeks ever dance a chaconne?" "Didn't they?" replied Vestris;
"then so much the worse for the Greeks!" A quarrel ensued, and
Gluck, becoming incensed, withdrew his opera and would have left
Paris had not Marie Antoinette come to the rescue. But Vestris
got his chaconne. In all likelihood Boito put the obertass into
"Mefistofele" because he knew that musically and as a spectacle
the Polish dance would be particularly effective in the joyous
hurly-burly of the scene. A secondary meaning of the Polish word is
said to be "confusion," and Boito doubtless had this in mind when
he made his peasants sing with an orderly disorder which is

  Tutti vanno alla rinfusa
  Sulla musica confusa,

or, as one English translation has it:--

  All is going to dire confusion
  With the music in collusion.

[Musical excerpt--"Juhé, Juhé! Tutti vanno alla rinfusa"]

Perhaps, too, Boito had inherited a love for the vigorous dance from
his Polish mother.

Night falls, and Faust is returned to his laboratory. The gray friar
has followed him (like Goethe's poodle) and slips into an alcove
unobserved. The philosopher turns to the Bible, which lies upon a
lectern, and falls into a meditation, which is interrupted by a
shriek. He turns and sees the friar standing motionless and wordless
before him. He conjures the apparition with the seal of Solomon, and
the friar, doffing cowl and gown, steps forward as a cavalier (an
itinerant scholar in Goethe). He introduces himself as a part of
the power that, always thinking evil, as persistently accomplishes
good--the spirit of negation. The speech ("Son lo Spirito che nega
sempre") is one of the striking numbers of Boito's score, and the
grim humor of its "No! "seems to have inspired the similar effect
in Falstaff's discourse on honor in Verdi's opera. The pair quickly
come to an understanding on the terms already set forth.

Act II carries us first into the garden of Dame Martha, where we
find Margherita strolling arm in arm with Faust, and Martha with
Mefistofele. The gossip is trying to seduce the devil into an avowal
of love; Margherita and Faust are discussing their first meeting
and the passion which they already feel for each other. Boito's
Margherita has more of Goethe's Gretchen than Gounod's Marguerite.
Like the former, she wonders what a cavalier can find to admire
in her simple self, and protests in embarrassment when Faust (or
Enrico, as he calls himself) kisses her rough hand. Like Goethe's
maiden, too, she is concerned about the religious beliefs of
her lover, and Boito's Faust answers, like Goethe's Faust, that
a sincere man dares protest neither belief nor unbelief in
God. Nature, Love, Mystery, Life, God--all are one, all to be
experienced, not labelled with a name. Then he turns the talk on
herself and her domestic surroundings, and presses the sleeping
potion for her mother upon her. The scene ends with the four people
scurrying about in a double chase among the flowers, for which
Boito found exquisitely dainty music.

There is a change from the pretty garden of the first scene, with
its idyllic music, to the gathering place of witches and warlocks,
high up in the Brocken, in the second. We witness the vile orgies of
the bestial crew into whose circles Faust is introduced, and see how
Mefistofele is acclaimed king and receives the homage. Here Boito
borrows a poetical conceit from Goethe's scene in the witches'
kitchen, and makes it a vehicle for a further exposition of the
character and philosophy of the devil. Mefistofele has seated
himself upon a rocky throne and been vested with the robe and
symbols of state by the witches. Now they bring to him a crystal
globe, which he takes and discourses upon to the following effect
(the translation is Theodore T. Barker's):--

  Lo, here is the world!
    A bright sphere rising,
  Setting, whirling, glancing,
  Round the sun in circles dancing;
    Trembling, toiling,
    Yielding, spoiling,
  Want and plenty by turn enfold it--
  This world, behold it!
  On its surface, by time abraded,
  Dwelleth a vile race, defiled, degraded;
    Abject, haughty,
    Cunning, naughty,
  Carrying war and desolation
  From the top to the foundation
    Of creation.
  For them Satan has no being;
    They scorn with laughter
    A hell hereafter,
      And heavenly glory
      As idle story.
  Powers eternal! I'll join their laugh infernal
  Thinking o'er their deeds diurnal. Ha! Ha!
    Behold the world!

He dashes the globe to pieces on the ground and thereby sets the
witches to dancing. To the antics of the vile crew Faust gives no
heed; his eyes are fixed upon a vision of Margherita, her feet in
fetters, her body emaciated, and a crimson line encircling her
throat. His love has come under the headsman's axe! In the Ride to
Hell, which concludes Berlioz's "Damnation de Faust," the infernal
horsemen are greeted with shouts in a language which the mystical
Swedenborg says is the speech of the lower regions. Boito also uses
an infernal vocabulary. His witches screech "Saboé har Sabbah!" on
the authority of Le Loyer's "Les Spectres."

From the bestiality of the Brocken we are plunged at the beginning
of the third act into the pathos of Margherita's death. The episode
follows the lines laid down by Barbier and Carré in their paraphrase
of Goethe, except that for the sake of the beautiful music of the
duet (which Boito borrowed from his unfinished "Ero e Leandro"), we
learn that Margherita had drowned her child. Faust urges her to fly,
but her poor mind is all awry. She recalls the scene of their first
meeting and of the love-making in Dame Martha's garden, and the
earlier music returns, as it does in Gounod's score, and as it was
bound to do. At the end she draws back in horror from Faust, after
uttering a prayer above the music of the celestial choir, just as
the executioner appears. Mefistofele pronounces her damned, but
voices from on high proclaim her salvation.

The story of Faust and Margherita is ended, but, in pursuance of his
larger plan, already outlined here, Boito makes use of two scenes
from the second part of Goethe's drama to fill a fourth act and
epilogue. They tell of the adventure of Faust with Helen of Troy,
and of his death and the demon's defeat. The "Night of the Classical
Sabbath" serves a dramatic purpose even less than the scene on the
Brocken, but as an intermezzo it has many elements of beauty, and
its scheme is profoundly poetical. Unfortunately we can only attain
to a knowledge of the mission of the scene in the study with
Goethe's poem in hand and commentaries and Boito's prefatory notes
within reach. The picture is full of serene loveliness. We are on
the shore of Peneus, in the Vale of Tempe. The moon at its zenith
sheds its light over the thicket of laurel and oleanders, and floods
a Doric temple on the left. Helen of Troy and Pantalis, surrounded
by a group of sirens, praise the beauty of nature in an exquisite
duet, which flows on as placidly as the burnished stream. Faust
lies sleeping upon a flowery bank, and in his dreams calls upon
Helen in the intervals of her song. Helen and Pantalis depart, and
Faust is ushered in by Mefistofele. He is clad in his proper
mediaeval garb, in strong contrast to the classic robes of the
denizens of the valley in Thessaly. Mefistofele suggests to Faust
that they now separate; the land of antique fable has no charm for
him. Faust is breathing in the idiom of Helen's song like a delicate
perfume which inspires him with love; Mefistofele longs for the
strong, resinous odors of the Harz Mountains, where dominion over
the Northern hags belongs to him. Faust is already gone, and he is
about to depart when there approaches a band of Choretids. With
gentle grace they move through a Grecian dance, and Mefistofele
retires in disgust. Helen returns profoundly disquieted by a
vision of the destruction of Troy, of which she was the cause. The
Choretids seek to calm her in vain, but the tortures of conscience
cease when she sees Faust before her. He kneels and praises her
beauty, and she confesses herself enamoured of his speech, in which
sound answers sound like a soft echo. "What," she asks, "must I do
to learn so sweet and gentle an idiom?" "Love me, as I love you,"
replies Faust, in effect, as they disappear through the bowers. Now
let us turn to Goethe, his commentators, and Boito's explanatory
notes to learn the deeper significance of the episode, which, with
all its gracious charm, must still appear dramatically impertinent
and disturbing. Rhyme was unknown to the Greeks, the music of whose
verse came from syllabic quantity. Helen and her companions sing in
classic strain, as witness the opening duet:--

  La luna immobile innonda l'etere d'un raggio pallido.
  Callido balsamo stillan le ramora dai cespi roridi;
  Doridi e silfidi, cigni e nereidi vagan sul l'alighi.

Faust addresses Helen in rhyme, the discovery of the Romantic

  Forma ideal purissima
  Della bellezza eterna!
  Un uom ti si prosterna
    Innamorato al suolo
  Volgi ver me la cruna
  Di tua pupilla bruna,
  Vaga come la luna,
    Ardente come il sole.

"Here," says Boito, "is a myth both beautiful and deep. Helen and
Faust represent Classic and Romantic art gloriously wedded, Greek
beauty and Germanic beauty gleaming under the same aureole,
glorified in one embrace, and generating an ideal poesy, eclectic,
new, and powerful."

The contents of the last act, which shows us Faust's death and
salvation, have been set forth in the explanation of Boito's
philosophical purpose. An expository note may, however, profitably
be added in the poet-composer's own words: "Goethe places around
Faust at the beginning of the scene four ghostly figures, who utter
strange and obscure words. What Goethe has placed on the stage we
place in the orchestra, submitting sounds instead of words, in order
to render more incorporeal and impalpable the hallucinations that
trouble Faust on the brink of death." The ghostly figures referred
to by Boito are the four "Gray Women" of Goethe--Want, Guilt, Care,
and Necessity. Boito thinks like a symphonist, and his purpose is
profoundly poetical, but its appreciation asks more than the
ordinary opera-goer is willing or able to give. {2}


{1} I like, at times, to hear the Ancient's word,
      And have a care to be most civil:
    It's really kind of such a noble Lord
      So humnanly to gossip with the Devil.
                       --Bayard Taylor's Translation.

{2} "Mefistofele" had its first performance in New York at the
Academy of Music on November 24, 1880. Mlle. Valleria was the
Margherita and Elena, Miss Annie Louise Cary the Marta and Pantalis,
Signor Campanini Faust, and Signor Novara Mefistofele. Signor Arditi
conducted. The first representation of the opera at the Metropolitan
Opera-house took place on December 5, 1883, when, with one exception,
the cast was the same as at the first performance in London, at Her
Majesty's Theatre, on July 6, 1880--namely, Nilsson as Margherita
and Elena, Trebelli as Marta and Pantalis, Campanini as Faust and
Mirabella as Mefistofele. (In London Nannetti enacted the demon.)
Cleofonte Campanini, then maestro di cembalo at the Metropolitan
Opera-house, conducted the performance.



In an operatic form Berlioz's "Damnation de Faust" had its first
representation in New York at the Metropolitan Opera-house on
December 7, 1906. Despite its high imagination, its melodic charm,
its vivid and varied colors, its frequent flights toward ideal
realms, its accents of passion, its splendid picturesqueness, it
presented itself as a "thing of shreds and patches." It was, indeed,
conceived as such, and though Berlioz tried by various devices to
give it entity, he failed. When he gave it to the world, he called
it a "Dramatic Legend," a term which may mean much or little as
one chooses to consider it; but I can recall no word of his which
indicates that he ever thought that it was fit for the stage. It was
Raoul Gunsbourg, director of the opera at Monte Carlo, who, in 1903,
conceived the notion of a theatrical representation of the legend
and tricked it out with pictures and a few attempts at action. Most
of these attempts are futile and work injury to the music, as will
presently appear, but in a few instances they were successful,
indeed very successful. Of course, if Berlioz had wanted to make an
opera out of Goethe's drama, he could have done so. He would then
have anticipated Gounod and Boito and, possibly, have achieved one
of those popular successes for which he hungered. But he was in his
soul a poet, in his heart a symphonist, and intellectually (as many
futile efforts proved) incapable of producing a piece for the
boards. When the Faust subject first seized upon his imagination, he
knew it only in a prose translation of Goethe's poem made by Gerald
de Nerval. In his "Memoirs" he tells us how it fascinated him. He
carried it about with him, reading it incessantly and eagerly at
dinner, in the streets, in the theatre. In the prose translation
there were a few fragments of songs. These he set to music and
published under the title "Huit Scènes de Faust," at his own expense.
Marx, the Berlin critic, saw the music and wrote the composer a
letter full of encouragement. But Berlioz soon saw grave defects in
his work and withdrew it from circulation, destroying all the copies
which he could lay hands on. What was good in it, however, he laid
away for future use. The opportunity came twenty years later, when
he was fired anew with a desire to write music for Goethe's poem.

Though he had planned the work before starting out on his memorable
artistic travels, he seems to have found inspiration in the
circumstance that he was amongst a people who were more
appreciative of his genius than his own countrymen, and whose
language was that employed by the poet. Not more than one-sixth of
his "Eight Scenes" had consisted of settings of the translations of
M. de Nerval. A few scenes had been prepared by M. Gaudonnière from
notes provided by the composer. The rest of the book Berlioz wrote
himself, now paraphrasing the original poet, now going to him only
for a suggestion. As was the case with Wagner, words and music
frequently presented themselves to him simultaneously. Travelling
from town to town, conducting rehearsals and concerts, he wrote
whenever and wherever he could--one number in an inn at Passau, the
Elbe scene and the Dance of the Sylphs at Vienna, the peasants' song
by gaslight in a shop one night when he had lost his way in Pesth,
the angels' chorus in Marguerite's apotheosis at Prague (getting
up in the middle of the night to write it down), the song of the
students, "Jam nox stellata velamina pandit" (of which the words
are also Berlioz's), at Breslau. He finished the work in Rouen and
Paris, at home, at his café, in the gardens of the Tuilleries, even
on a stone in the Boulevard du Temple. While in Vienna he made an
orchestral transcription of the famous Rakoczy march (in one night,
he says, though this is scarcely credible, since the time would
hardly suffice to write down the notes alone). The march made an
extraordinary stir at the concert in Pesth when he produced it,
and this led him to incorporate it, with an introduction, into his
Legend--a proceeding which he justified as a piece of poetical
license; he thought that he was entitled to put his hero in any part
of the world and in any situation that he pleased.

This incident serves to indicate how lightly all dramatic fetters
sat upon Berlioz while "La Damnation" was in his mind, and how
little it occurred to him that any one would ever make the attempt
to place his scenes upon the stage. In the case of the Hungarian
march, this has been done only at the sacrifice of Berlioz's
poetical conceit to which the introductory text and music were
fitted; but of this more presently. As Berlioz constructed the
"Dramatic Legend," it belonged to no musical category. It was
neither a symphony with vocal parts like his "Roméo et Juliette"
(which has symphonic elements in some of its sections), nor a
cantata, nor an oratorio. It is possible that this fact was long
an obstacle to its production. Even in New York where, on its
introduction, it created the profoundest sensation ever witnessed
in a local concert-room, it was performed fourteen times with the
choral parts sung by the Oratorio Society before that organization
admitted it into its lists.

And now to tell how the work was fitted to the uses of the lyric
theatre. Nothing can be plainer to persons familiar with the work in
its original form than that no amount of ingenuity can ever give the
scenes of the "Dramatic Legend" continuity or coherency. Boito, in
his opera, was unwilling to content himself with the episode of the
amour between Faust and Marguerite; he wanted to bring out the
fundamental ethical idea of the poet, and he went so far as to
attempt the Prologue in Heaven, the Classical Sabbath, and the death
of Faust with the contest for his soul. Berlioz had no scruples of
any kind. He chose his scenes from Goethe's poem, changed them at
will, and interpolated an incident simply to account for the
Hungarian march. Connection with each other the scenes have not, and
some of the best music belongs wholly in the realm of the ideal. At
the outset Berlioz conceived Faust alone on a vast field in Hungary
in spring. He comments on the beauties of nature and praises the
benison of solitude. His ruminations are interrupted by a dance of
peasants and the passage of an army to the music of the Rakoczy
march. This scene M. Gunsbourg changes to a picture of a mediaeval
interior in which Faust soliloquizes, and a view through the window
of a castle with a sally-port. Under the windows the peasants dance,
and out of the huge gateway come the soldiery and march off to
battle. At the climax of the music which drove the people of Pesth
wild at its first performance, so that Berlioz confessed that he
himself shuddered and felt the hair bristling on his head--when in a
long crescendo fugued fragments of the march theme keep reappearing,
interrupted by drum-beats like distant cannonading, Gunsbourg's
battalions halt, and there is a solemn benediction of the standards.
Then, to the peroration, the soldiers run, not as if eager to get
into battle, but as if in inglorious retreat.

The second scene reproduces the corresponding incident in Gounod's
opera--Faust in his study, life-weary and despondent. He is about
to drink a cup of poison when the rear wall of the study rolls up
and discloses the interior of a church with a kneeling congregation
which chants the Easter canticle, "Christ is risen!" Here is one of
the fine choral numbers of the work for which concert, not operatic,
conditions are essential. The next scene, however, is of the opera
operatic, and from that point of view the most perfect in the work.
It discloses the revel of students, citizens, and soldiers in
Auerbach's cellar. Brander sings the song of the rat which by good
living had developed a paunch "like Dr. Luther's," but died of
poison laid by the cook. The drinkers shout a boisterous refrain
after each stanza, and supplement the last with a mock-solemn
"Requiescat in pace, Amen." The phrase suggests new merriment to
Brander, who calls for a fugue on the "Amen," and the roisterers
improvise one on the theme of the rat song, which calls out hearty
commendation from Méphistophélès, and a reward in the shape of
the song of the flea--a delightful piece of grotesquerie with its
accompaniment suggestive of the skipping of the pestiferous little
insect which is the subject of the song.

The next scene is the triumph of M. Gunsbourg, though for it he is
indebted to Miss Loie Fuller and the inventor of the aerial ballet.
In the conceit of Berlioz, Faust lies asleep on the bushy banks of
the Elbe. Méphistophélès summons gnomes and sylphs to fill his mind
with lovely fancies. They do their work so well as to entrance,
not only Faust, but all who hear their strains, The instrumental
ballet is a fairy waltz, a filmy musical fabric, seemingly woven
of moonbeams and dewy cobwebs, over a pedal-point on the muted
violoncellos, ending with drum taps and harmonics from the harp--one
of the daintiest and most original orchestral effects imaginable.
So dainty is the device, indeed, that one would think that nothing
could come between it and the ears of the transported listeners
without ruining the ethereal creation. But M. Gunsbourg's fancy has
accomplished the miraculous. Out of the river bank he constructs a
floral bower rich as the magical garden of Klingsor. Sylphs circle
around the sleeper and throw themselves into graceful attitudes
while the song is sounding. Then to the music of the elfin waltz,
others enter who have, seemingly, cast off the gross weight which
holds mortals in contact with the earth. With robes a-flutter like
wings, they dart upwards and remain suspended in mid-air at will or
float in and out of the transporting picture. To Faust is also
presented a vision of Marguerite.

The next five scenes in Berlioz's score are connected by M.
Gunsbourg and forced to act in sequence for the sake of the stage
set, in which a picture of Marguerite's chamber is presented in the
conventional fashion made necessary by the exigency of showing an
exterior and interior at the same time, as in the last act of
"Rigoletto." For a reason at which I cannot even guess, M. Gunsbourg
goes farther and transforms the chamber of Marguerite into a sort of
semi-enclosed arbor, and places a lantern in her hand instead of
the lamp, so that she may enter in safety from the street. In this
street there walk soldiers, followed by students, singing their
songs. Through them Faust finds his way and into the trellised
enclosure. The strains of the songs are heard at the last blended
in a single harmony. Marguerite enters through the street with her
lantern and sings the romance of the King of Thule, which Berlioz
calls a Chanson Gothique, one of the most original of his creations
and, like the song in the next scene, "L'amour l'ardente flamme,"
which takes the place of Goethe's "Meine Ruh' ist hin," is
steeped in a mood of mystical tenderness quite beyond description.
Méphistophétès summons will-o'-the-wisps to aid in the bewilderment
of the troubled mind of Marguerite. Here realism sadly disturbs the
scene as Berlioz asks that the fancy shall create it. The customary
dancing lights of the stage are supplemented with electrical effects
which are beautiful, if not new. They do not mar if they do not help
the grotesque minuet. But when M. Gunsbourg materializes the ghostly
flames and presents them as a mob of hopping figures, he throws
douches of cold water on the imagination of the listeners. Later he
spoils enjoyment of the music utterly by making it the accompaniment
of some utterly irrelevant pantomime by Marguerite, who goes into
the street and is seen writhing between the conflicting emotions of
love and duty, symbolized by a vision of Faust and the glowing of a
cross on the façade of a church. To learn the meaning of this, one
must go to the libretto, where he may read that it is all a dream
dreamed by Marguerite after she had fallen asleep in her arm-chair.
But we see her awake, not asleep, and it is all foolish and
disturbing stuff put in to fill time and connect two of Berlioz's
scenes. Marguerite returns to the room which she had left only in
her dream, Faust discovers himself, and there follows the inevitable
love-duet which Méphistophétès changes into a trio when he enters to
urge Faust to depart. Meanwhile, Marguerite's neighbors gather in
the street and warn Dame Martha of the misdeeds of Marguerite. The
next scene seems to have been devised only to give an environment to
Berlioz's paraphrase of Goethe's immortal song at the spinning-wheel.
From the distance is heard the fading song of the students and the
last echo of drums and trumpets sounding the retreat. Marguerite
rushes to the window, and, overcome, rather unaccountably, with
remorse and grief, falls in a swoon.

The last scene. A mountain gorge, a rock in the foreground
surmounted by a cross. Faust's soliloquy, "Nature, immense,
impénétrable et fière," was inspired by Goethe's exalted invocation
to nature. Faust signs the compact, Méphistophétès summons the
infernal steeds, Vortex and Giaour, and the ride to hell begins.
Women and children at the foot of the cross supplicate the prayers
of Mary, Magdalen, and Margaret. The cross disappears in a fearful
crash of sound, the supplicants flee, and a moving panorama shows
the visions which are supposed to meet the gaze of the riders--birds
of night, dangling skeletons, a hideous and bestial phantasmagoria
at the end of which Faust is delivered to the flames. The picture
changes, and above the roofs of the sleeping town appears a vision
of angels welcoming Marguerite.



In music the saying that "familiarity breeds contempt," is true only
of compositions of a low order. In the case of compositions of the
highest order, familiarity generally breeds ever growing admiration.
In this category new compositions are slowly received; they make
their way to popular appreciation only by repeated performances.
It is true that the people like best the songs as well as the
symphonies which they know best; but even this rule has its
exceptions. It is possible to grow indifferent to even high
excellence because of constant association with it. Especially
is this true when the form--that is, the manner of expression--has
grown antiquated; then, not expecting to find the kind of quality to
which our tastes are inclined, we do not look for it, and though it
may be present, it frequently passes unnoticed. The meritorious old
is, therefore, just as much subject to non-appreciation as the
meritorious new. Let me cite an instance.

Once upon a time duty called me to the two opera-houses of New
York on the same evening. At the first I listened to some of the
hot-blooded music of an Italian composer of the so-called school
of verismo. Thence I went to the second. Verdi's "Traviata" was
performing. I entered the room just as the orchestra began the
prelude to the last act. As one can see without observing, so one
can hear without listening--a wise provision which nature has made
for the critic, and a kind one; I had heard that music so often
during a generation of time devoted to musical journalism that I had
long since quit listening to it. But now my jaded faculties were
arrested by a new quality in the prelude. I had always admired the
composer of "Rigoletto," "Il Trovatore," and "Traviata," and I loved
and revered the author of "Aïda," "Otello," and "Falstaff." I had
toddled along breathlessly in the trail made by his seven-league
boots during the last thirty-five years of his career; but as I
listened I found myself wondering that I had not noticed before that
his modernity had begun before I had commenced to realize even what
maternity meant--more than half a century ago, for "La Traviata" was
composed in 1853. The quivering atmosphere of Violetta's sick-room
seemed almost visible as the pathetic bit of hymnlike music rose
upward from the divided viols of the orchestra like a cloud of
incense which gathered itself together and floated along with the
pathetic song of the solo violin. The work of palliating the
character of the courtesan had begun, and on it went with
each recurrence of the sad, sweet phrase as it punctuated the
conversation between Violetta and her maid, until memory of her
moral grossness was swallowed up in pity for her suffering.
Conventional song-forms returned when poet and composer gave voice
to the dying woman's lament for the happiness that was past and her
agony of fear when she felt the touch of Death's icy hand; but where
is melody more truthfully eloquent than in "Addio, del passato," and
"Gran Dio! morir so giovane"? Is it within the power of instruments,
no matter how great their number, or harmony with all the poignancy
which it has acquired through the ingenious use of dissonance, or
of broken phrase floating on an instrumental flood, to be more
dramatically expressive than are these songs? Yet they are, in
a way, uncompromisingly formal, architectural, strophic, and
conventionally Verdian in their repetition of rhythmical motives
and their melodic formularies. This introduction to the third act
recalls the introduction to the first, which also begins with the
hymnlike phrase, and sets the key-note of pathos which is sounded
at every dramatic climax, though pages of hurdy-gurdy tune and
unmeaning music intervene. Recall "Ah, fors' è lui che l'anima,"
with its passionate second section, "A quell' amor," and that most
moving song of resignation, "Dite all' giovine." These things
outweigh a thousand times the glittering tinsel of the opera and
give "Traviata" a merited place, not only beside the later creations
of the composer, but among those latter-day works which we call
lyric dramas to distinguish them from those which we still call
operas, with commiserating emphasis on the word.

That evening I realized the appositeness of Dr. von Bülow's remark
to Mascagni when the world seemed inclined to hail that young man
as the continuator of Verdi's operatic evangel: "I have found your
successor in your predecessor, Verdi," but it did not seem necessary
to think of "Otello" and "Falstaff" in connection with the
utterance; "La Traviata" alone justifies it. Also it was made plain
what Verdi meant, when after the first performance of his opera,
and its monumental fiasco, he reproached his singers with want of
understanding of his music. The story of that fiasco and the origin
of the opera deserve a place here. "La Traviata," as all the world
knows, is based upon the book and drama, "La Dame aux Camélias," by
the younger Dumas, known to Americans and Englishmen as "Camille."
The original book appeared in 1848, the play in 1852. Verdi
witnessed a performance of the play when it was new. He was writing
"Il Trovatore" at the time, but the drama took so strong a hold upon
him that he made up his mind at once to turn it into an opera. As
was his custom, he drafted a plan of the work, and this he sent
to Piave, who for a long time had been his librettist in ordinary.
Francesco Maria Piave was little more than a hack-writer of verse,
but he knew how to put Verdi's ideas into practicable shape, and
he deserves to be remembered with kindly interest as the great
composer's collaborator in the creation of "I due Foscari,"
"Ernani," "Macbetto," "Il Corsaro," "Stiffclio," "Simon Boccanegra,"
"Aroldo" (a version of "Stiffelio"), and "La Forza del Destino."
His artistic relations with Verdi lasted from 1844 to 1862, but the
friendship of the men endured till the distressful end of Piave's
life, which came in 1876. He was born three years earlier than Verdi
(in 1810), in Durano, of which town his father had been the last
podesta under the Venetian republic. He went mad some years
before he died, and thenceforward lived off Verdi's bounty, the
warm-hearted composer not only giving him a pension, but also caring
for his daughter after his death. In 1853 Verdi's creative genius
was at flood-tide. Four months was the time which he usually devoted
to the composition of an opera, but he wrote "La Traviata" within
four weeks, and much of the music was composed concurrently with
that of "Il Trovatore." This is proved by the autograph, owned
by his publishers, the Ricordis, and there is evidence of the
association in fraternity of phrase in some of the uninteresting
pages of the score. (See "Morrò! la mia memoria" for instance, and
the dance measures with their trills.) "Il Trovatore" was produced
at Rome on January 19, 1853, and "La Traviata" on March 6 of the
same year at the Fenice Theatre in Venice. "Il Trovatore" was
stupendously successful; "La Traviata" made a woful failure. Verdi
seems to have been fully cognizant of the causes which worked
together to produce the fiasco, though he was disinclined at the
time to discuss them. Immediately after the first representation
he wrote to Muzio: "'La Traviata' last night a failure. Was the
fault mine or the singers'? Time will tell." To Vincenzo Luccardi,
sculptor, professor at the Academy of San Luca in Rome, one of his
most intimate friends, he wrote after, the second performance: "The
success was a fiasco--a complete fiasco! I do not know whose fault
it was; it is best not to talk about it. I shall tell you nothing
about the music, and permit me to say nothing about the performers."
Plainly, he did not hold the singers guiltless. Varesi, the
barytone, who was intrusted with the part of the elder Germont,
had been disaffected, because he thought it beneath his dignity.
Nevertheless, he went to the composer and offered his condolences
at the fiasco. Verdi wanted none of his sympathy. "Condole with
yourself and your companions who have not understood my music," was
his somewhat ungracious rejoinder. No doubt the singers felt some
embarrassment in the presence of music which to them seemed new and
strange in a degree which we cannot appreciate now. Abramo Basevi,
an Italian critic, who wrote a book of studies on Verdi's operas,
following the fashion set by Lenz in his book on Beethoven, divides
the operas which he had written up to the critic's time into
examples of three styles, the early operas marking his first manner
and "Luisa Miller" the beginning of his second. In "La Traviata" he
says Verdi discovered a third manner, resembling in some things
the style of French oéera comique. "This style of music," he says,
"although it has not been tried on the stage in Italy, is, however,
not unknown in private circles. In these latter years we have
seen Luigi Gordigiani and Fabio Campana making themselves known
principally in this style of music, called da camera. Verdi, with
his 'Traviata,' has transported this chamber-music on to the stage,
to which the subject he has chosen still lends itself, and with
happy success. We meet with more simplicity in this work than in the
others of the same composer, especially as regards the orchestra,
where the quartet of stringed instruments is almost always
predominant; the parlanti occupy a great part of the score; we meet
with several of those airs which repeat under the form of verses;
and, finally, the principal vocal subjects are for the most part
developed in short binary and ternary movements, and have not, in
general, the extension which the Italian style demands." Campana
and Gordigiani were prolific composers of romanzas and canzonettas
of a popular type. Their works are drawing-room music, very
innocuous, very sentimental, very insignificant, and very far from
the conception of chamber-music generally prevalent now. How they
could have been thought to have influenced so virile a composer as
Verdi, it is difficult to see. But musical critics enjoy a wide
latitude of observation. In all likelihood there was nothing more in
Dr. Basevi's mind than the strophic structure of "Di Provenza," the
song style of some of the other arias to which attention has been
called and the circumstance that these, the most striking numbers
in the score, mark the points of deepest feeling. In this respect,
indeed, there is some relationship between "La Traviata" and "Der
Freischütz"--though this is an observation which will probably
appear as far-fetched to some of my critics as Dr. Basevi's does
to me.

There were other reasons of a more obvious and external nature for
the failure of "La Traviata" on its first production. Lodovico
Graziani, the tenor, who filled the rôle of Alfredo, was hoarse, and
could not do justice to the music; Signora Salvini-Donatelli, the
Violetta of the occasion, was afflicted with an amplitude of person
which destroyed the illusion of the death scene and turned its
pathos into absurdity. The spectacle of a lady of mature years and
more than generous integumental upholstery dying of consumption was
more than the Venetian sense of humor could endure with equanimity.
The opera ended with shrieks of laughter instead of the lachrymal
flood which the music and the dramatic situation called for. This
spirit of irreverence had been promoted, moreover, by the fact that
the people of the play wore conventional modern clothes. The lure
of realism was not strong in the lyric theatres half a century ago,
when laces and frills, top-boots and plumed hats, helped to confine
the fancy to the realm of idealism in which it was believed opera
ought to move. The first result of the fiasco was a revision of the
costumes and stage furniture, by which simple expedient Mr. Dumas's
Marguerite Gauthier was changed from a courtesan of the time of
Louis Philippe to one of the period of Louis XIV. It is an amusing
illustration of how the whirligig of time brings its revenges that
the spirit of verismo, masquerading as a desire for historical
accuracy, has restored the period of the Dumas book,--that is,
restored it in name, but not in fact,--with the result, in New York
and London at least, of making the dress of the opera more absurd
than ever. Violetta, exercising the right which was conquered by
the prima donna generations ago, appears always garbed in the very
latest style, whether she be wearing one of her two ball dresses or
her simple afternoon gown. For aught that I know, the latest fad in
woman's dress may also be hidden in the dainty folds of the robe
de chambre in which she dies. The elder Germont has for two years
appeared before the New York public as a well-to-do country
gentleman of Provence might have appeared sixty years ago, but his
son has thrown all sartorial scruples to the wind, and wears the
white waistcoat and swallowtail of to-day.

The Venetians were allowed a year to get over the effects of the
first representations of "La Traviata," and then the opera was
brought forward again with the new costumes. Now it succeeded and
set out upon the conquest of the world. It reached London on May 24,
St. Petersburg on November 1, New York on December 3, and Paris on
December 6--all in the same year, 1856. The first Violetta in New
York was Mme. Anna La Grange, the first Alfredo Signor Brignoli, and
the first Germont père Signor Amodio. There had been a destructive
competition between Max Maretzek's Italian company at the Academy of
Music and a German company at Niblo's Garden. The regular Italian
season had come to an end with a quarrel between Maretzek and the
directors of the Academy. The troupe prepared to embark for Havana,
but before doing so gave a brief season under the style of the La
Grange Opera Company, and brought forward the new opera on December
3, three days before the Parisians were privileged to hear it. The
musical critic of the Tribune at the time was Mr. W. H. Fry, who was
not only a writer on political and musical subjects, but a composer,
who wrote an opera, "Leonora," in which Mme. La Grange sang at the
Academy about a year and a half later. His review of the first
performance of "La Traviata," which appeared in the Tribune of
December 5, 1856, is worth reading for more reasons than one:--

The plot of "La Traviata" we have already given to our readers. It
is simply "Camille." The first scene affords us some waltzing music,
appropriate in its place, on which a (musical) dialogue takes place.
The waltz is not specially good, nor is there any masterly
outworking of detail. A fair drinking song is afforded, which
pleased, but was not encored. A pretty duet by Mme. de la Grange and
Signor Brignoli may be noticed also in this act; and the final air,
by Madame de la Grange, "Ah! fors' e lui che l'anima," contained a
brilliant, florid close which brought down the house, and the
curtain had to be reraised to admit of a repetition. Act II admits
of more intensified music than Act I. A brief air by Alfred
(Brignoli) is followed by an air by Germont (Amodio), and by a duet,
Violetta (La Grange) and Germont. The duet is well worked up and is
rousing, passionate music. Verdi's mastery of dramatic accent--of
the modern school of declamation--is here evident. Some dramatic
work, the orchestra leading, follows--bringing an air by Germont,
"Di Provenza il mar." This is a 2-4 travesty of a waltz known as
Weber's Last Waltz (which, however, Weber never wrote); and is too
uniform in the length of its notes to have dramatic breadth or
eloquence. A good hit is the sudden exit of Alfred thereupon, not
stopping to make an andiamo duet as is so often done. The next scene
introduces us to a masquerade where are choruses of quasi-gypsies,
matadors, and picadors,--sufficiently characteristic. The scene
after the card-playing, which is so fine in the play, is inefficient
in music. Act III in the book (though it was made Act IV on this
occasion by subdividing the second) reveals the sick-room of
Traviata. A sweet air, minor and major by turns, with some hautboy
wailing, paints the sufferer's sorrows. A duet by the lovers,
"Parigi, O cara," is especially original in its peroration. The
closing trio has due culmination and anguish, though we would have
preferred a quiet ending to a hectic shriek and a doubly loud force
in the orchestra.

Goldsmith's rule in "The Vicar" for criticising a painting was
always to say that "the picture would have been better if the
painter had taken more pains." Perhaps the same might be said about
"La Traviata"; but whether it would have pleased the public more is
another question. Some of the airs certainly would bear substitution
by others in the author's happier vein. The opera was well received.
Three times the singers were called before the curtain. The piece
was well put on the stage. Madame La Grange never looked so well.
Her toilet was charming.

The principal incidents of Dumas's play are reproduced with general
fidelity in the opera. In the first act there are scenes of gayety
in the house of Violetta--dancing, feasting, and love-making. Among
the devotees of the courtesan is Alfredo Germont, a young man of
respectable Provençal family. He joins in the merriment, singing a
drinking song with Violetta, but his devotion to her is unlike that
of his companions. He loves her sincerely, passionately, and his
protestations awaken in her sensations never felt before. For
a moment, she indulges in a day-dream of honest affection, but
banishes it with the reflection that the only life for which she is
fitted is one devoted to the pleasures of the moment, the mad revels
rounding out each day, and asking no care of the moment. But at the
last the voice of Alfredo floats in at the window, burdening the air
and her heart with an echo of the longing to which she had given
expression in her brief moment of thoughtfulness. She yields to
Alfredo's solicitations and a strangely new emotion, and abandons
her dissolute life to live with him alone.

In the second act the pair are found housed in a country villa
not far from Paris. From the maid Alfredo learns that Violetta
has sold her property in the city--house, horses, carriages, and
all--in order to meet the expenses of the rural establishment.
Conscience-smitten, he hurries to Paris to prevent the sacrifice,
but in his absence Violetta is called upon to make a much greater.
Giorgio Germont, the father of her lover, visits her, and, by
appealing to her love for his son and picturing the ruin which is
threatening him and the barrier which his illicit association with
her is placing in the way of the happy marriage of his sister,
persuades her to give him up. She abandons home and lover, and
returns to her old life in the gay city, making a favored companion
of the Baron Duphol. In Paris, at a masked ball in the house of
Flora, one of her associates, Alfredo finds her again, overwhelms
her with reproaches, and ends a scene of excitement by denouncing
her publicly and throwing his gambling gains at her feet.

Baron Duphol challenges Alfredo to fight a duel. The baron is
wounded. The elder Germont sends intelligence of Alfredo's safety
to Violetta, and informs her that he has told his son of the great
sacrifice which she had made for love of him. Violetta dies in the
arms of her lover, who had hurried to her on learning the truth,
only to find her suffering the last agonies of disease.

In the preface to his novel, Dumas says that the principal incidents
of the story are true. It has also been said that Dickens was
familiar with them, and at one time purposed to make a novel on the
subject; but this statement scarcely seems credible. Such a novel
would have been un-English in spirit and not at all in harmony with
the ideals of the author of "David Copperfield" and "Dombey and
Son." Play and opera at the time of their first production raised
questions of taste and morals which have remained open ever since.
Whether the anathema periodically pronounced against them by private
and official censorship helps or hinders the growth of such works
in popularity, there is no need of discussing here. There can
scarcely be a doubt, however, but that many theatrical managers
of to-day would hail with pleasure and expectation of profit such
a controversy over one of their new productions as greeted "La
Traviata" in London. The Lord Chamberlain had refused to sanction
the English adaptations of "La Dame aux Camélias," and when the
opera was brought forward (performance being allowed because it
was sung in a foreign language), pulpit and press thundered in
denunciation of it. Mr. Lumley, the manager of Her Majesty's
Theatre, came to the defence of the work in a letter to the Times,
but it was more his purpose to encourage popular excitement and
irritate curiosity than to shield the opera from condemnation. He
had every reason to be satisfied with the outcome. "La Traviata" had
made a complete fiasco, on its production in Italy, where no one
dreamed of objecting to the subject-matter of its story; in London
there was a loud outcry against the "foul and hideous horrors of the
book," and the critics found little to praise in the music; yet the
opera scored a tremendous popular success, and helped to rescue Her
Majesty's from impending ruin.



Two erroneous impressions concerning Verdi's "Aïda" may as well as
not be corrected at the beginning of a study of that opera: it was
not written to celebrate the completion of the Suez Canal, nor to
open the Italian Opera-house at Cairo, though the completion of
the canal and the inauguration of the theatre were practically
contemporaneous with the conception of the plan which gave the world
one of Verdi's finest and also most popular operas. It is more
difficult to recall a season in any of the great lyric theatres of
the world within the last thirty-five years in which "Aïda" was not
given than to enumerate a score of productions with particularly
fine singers and imposing mise en scène. With it Verdi ought to
have won a large measure of gratitude from singers and impresarios
as well as the fortune which it brought him; for though, like all
really fine works, it rewards effort and money bestowed upon it with
corresponding and proportionate generosity, it does not depend for
its effectiveness on extraordinary vocal outfit or scenic apparel.
Fairly well sung and acted and respectably dressed, it always wins
the sympathies and warms the enthusiasm of an audience the world
over. It is seldom thought of as a conventional opera, and yet it
is full of conventionalities which do not obtrude themselves simply
because there is so much that is individual about its music and its
pictures--particularly its pictures. Save for the features of its
score which differentiate it from the music of Verdi's other operas
and the works of his predecessors and contemporaries, "Aïda" is a
companion of all the operas for which Meyerbeer set a model when
he wrote his works for the Académie Nationale in Paris--the great
pageant operas like "Le Prophète," "Lohengrin," and Goldmark's
"Queen of Sheba." With the last it shares one element which brings
it into relationship also with a number of much younger and less
significant works--operas like Mascagni's "Iris," Puccini's "Madama
Butterfly," and Giordano's "Siberia." In the score of "Aïda" there
is a slight infusion of that local color which is lavishly employed
in decorating its externals. The pomp and pageantry of the drama are
Egyptian and ancient; the play's natural and artificial environment
is Egyptian and ancient; two bits of its music are Oriental,
possibly Egyptian, and not impossibly ancient. But in everything
else "Aïda" is an Italian opera. The story plays in ancient Egypt,
and its inventor was an archaeologist deeply versed in Egyptian
antiquities, but I have yet to hear that Mariette Bey, who wrote the
scenario of the drama, ever claimed an historical foundation for
it or pretended that anything in its story was characteristically
Egyptian. Circumstances wholly fortuitous give a strong tinge of
antiquity and nationalism to the last scene; but, if the ancient
Egyptians were more addicted than any other people to burying
malefactors alive, the fact is not of record; and the picture as we
have it in the opera was not conceived by Mariette Bey, but by Verdi
while working hand in hand with the original author of the libretto,
which, though designed for an Italian performance, was first written
in French prose.

The Italian Theatre in Cairo was built by the khedive, Ismaïl Pacha,
and opened in November, 1869. It is extremely likely that the
thought of the advantage which would accrue to the house, could it
be opened with a new piece by the greatest of living Italian opera
composers, had entered the mind of the khedive or his advisers; but
it does not seem to have occurred to them in time to insure such a
work for the opening. Nevertheless, long before the inauguration of
the theatre a letter was sent to Verdi asking him if he would write
an opera on an Egyptian subject, and if so, on what terms. The
opportunity was a rare one, and appealed to the composer, who had
written "Les Vêpres Siciliennes" and "Don Carlos" for Paris, "La
Forza del Destino" for St. Petersburg, and had not honored an
Italian stage with a new work for ten years. But the suggestion that
he state his terms embarrassed him. So he wrote to his friend Muzio
and asked him what to do. Muzio had acquired much more worldly
wisdom than ever came to the share of the great genius, and he
replied sententiously: "Demand 4000 pounds sterling for your score.
If they ask you to go and mount the piece and direct the rehearsals,
fix the sum at 6000 pounds."

Verdi followed his friend's advice, and the khedive accepted the
terms. At first the opera people in Cairo thought they wanted only
the score which carried with it the right of performance, but soon
they concluded that they wanted also the presence of the composer,
and made him, in vain, munificent offers of money, distinctions,
and titles. His real reason for not going to prepare the opera and
direct the first performance was a dread of the voyage. To a friend
he wrote that he feared that if he went to Cairo they would make a
mummy of him. Under the terms of the agreement the khedive sent him
50,000 francs at once, and deposited the balance of 50,000 francs in
a bank, to be paid over to the composer on delivery of the score.

The story of "Aïda" came from Mariette Bey, who was then director
of the Egyptian Museum at Boulak. Auguste Édouard Mariette was a
Frenchman who, while an attaché of the Louvre, in 1850, had gone on
a scientific expedition to Egypt for the French government and had
discovered the temple of Serapis at Memphis. It was an "enormous
structure of granite and alabaster, containing within its enclosure
the sarcophagi of the bulls of Apis, from the nineteenth dynasty to
the time of the Roman supremacy." After his return to Paris, he was
appointed in 1855 assistant conservator of the Egyptian Museum in
the Louvre, and after some further years of service, he went to
Egypt again, where he received the title of Bey and an appointment
as director of the museum at Boulak. Bayard Taylor visited him in
1851 and 1874, and wrote an account of his explorations and the
marvellous collection of antiquities which he had in his care.

Mariette wrote the plot of "Aïda," which was sent to Verdi, and at
once excited his liveliest interest. Camille du Locle, who had had
a hand in making the books of "Les Vêpres Siciliennes" and "Don
Carlos" (and who is also the librettist of Reyer's "Salammbô"), went
to Verdi's home in Italy, and under the eye of the composer wrote
out the drama in French prose. It was he who gave the world the
information that the idea of the double scene in the last act was
conceived by Verdi, who, he says, "took a large share in the work."
The drama, thus completed, was translated into Italian verse by
Antonio Ghislanzoni, who, at the time, was editor of the Gazetta
Musicale, a journal published in Milan. In his early life
Ghislanzoni was a barytone singer. He was a devoted friend and
admirer of Verdi's, to whom he paid a glowing tribute in his book
entitled "Reminiscenze Artistiche." He died some fifteen or sixteen
years ago, and some of his last verses were translations of
Tennyson's poems.

The khedive expected to hear his opera by the end of 1870, but there
came an extraordinary disturbance of the plan, the cause being
nothing less than the war between France and Germany. The scenery
and costumes, which had been made after designs by French artists,
were shut up in Paris. At length, on December 24, 1871, the opera
had its first performance at Cairo. Considering the sensation which
the work created, it seems strange that it remained the exclusive
possession of Cairo and a few Italian cities so long as it did, but
a personal equation stood in the way of a performance at the Grand
Opéra, where it properly belonged. The conduct of the conductor and
musicians at the production of "Les Vêpres Siciliennes" had angered
Verdi; and when M. Halanzier, the director of the Académie
Nationale, asked for the opera in 1873, his request was refused.
Thus it happened that the Théâtre Italien secured the right of first
performance in Paris. It was brought out there on April 22, 1876,
and had sixty-eight representations within three years. The original
King in the French performance was Édouard de Reszke. It was not
until March 22, 1880, that "Aïda" reached the Grand Opéra. M.
Vaucorbeil, the successor of Halanzier, visited Verdi at his home
and succeeded in persuading him not only to give the performing
rights to the national institution, but also to assist in its
production. Maurel was the Amonasro of the occasion. The composer
was greatly fêted, and at a dinner given in his honor by President
Grévy was made a Grand Officer of the National Order of the Legion
of Honor.

The opening scene of the opera is laid at Memphis, a fact which
justifies the utmost grandeur in the stage furniture, and is
explained by Mariette's interest in that place. It was he who helped
moderns to realize the ancient magnificence of the city described by
Diodorus. It was the first capital of the united kingdom of upper
and lower Egypt, the chief seat of religion and learning, the site
of the temples of Ptah, Isis, Serapis, Phra, and the sacred bull
Apis. Mariette here, on his first visit to Egypt, unearthed an
entire avenue of sphinxes leading to the Serapeum, over four
thousand statues, reliefs, and inscriptions, eight gigantic
sculptures, and many other evidences of a supremely great city.
He chose his scenes with a view to an exhibition of the ancient
grandeur. In a hall of the Royal Palace, flanked by a colonnade with
statues and flowering shrubs, and commanding a view of the city's
palaces and temples and the pyramids, Radames, an Egyptian soldier,
and Ramfis, a high priest, discuss a report that the Ethiopians are
in revolt in the valley of the Nile, and that Thebes is threatened.
The high priest has consulted Isis, and the goddess has designated
who shall be the leader of Egypt's army against the rebels. An
inspiring thought comes into the mind of Radames. What if he should
be the leader singled out to crush the rebellion, and be received in
triumph on his return? A consummation devoutly to be wished, not for
his own glory alone, but for the sake of his love, Aïda, whose
beauty he sings in a romance ("Celeste Aïda") of exquisite
loveliness and exaltation. Amneris, the daughter of the King of
Egypt (Mariette gives him no name, and so avoids possible historical
complications), enters. She is in love with Radames, and eager to
know what it is that has so illumined his visage with joy. He tells
her of his ambition, but hesitates when she asks him if no gentler
dream had tenanted his heart. Aïda approaches, and the perturbation
of her lover is observed by Amneris, who affects love for her slave
(for such Aïda is), welcomes her as a sister, and bids her tell the
cause of her grief. Aïda is the daughter of Ethiopia's king; but she
would have the princess believe that her tears are caused by anxiety
for Egypt's safety. The King appears with Ramfis and a royal
retinue, and learns from a messenger that the Ethiopians have
invaded Egypt and, under their king, Amonasro, are marching on
Thebes. The King announces that Isis has chosen Radames to be
the leader of Egypt's hosts. Amneris places the royal banner in
his eager hand, and to the sounds of a patriotic march he is led
away to the temple of Ptah (the Egyptian Vulcan), there to receive
his consecrated armor and arms. "Return a victor!" shout the hosts,
and Aïda, carried away by her love, joins in the cry; but, left
alone, she reproaches herself for impiousness in uttering words
which imply a wish for the destruction of her country, her father,
and her kinsmen. (Scena: "Ritorna vincitor.") Yet could she wish for
the defeat and the death of the man she loves? She prays the gods to
pity her sufferings ("Numi, pieta"). Before a colossal figure of the
god in the temple of Ptah, while the sacred fires rise upward from
the tripods, and priestesses move through the figures of the sacred
dance or chant a hymn to the Creator, Preserver, Giver, of Life and
Light, the consecrated sword is placed in the hands of Radames.

It is in this scene that the local color is not confined to
externals alone, but infuses the music as well. Very skilfully Verdi
makes use of two melodies which are saturated with the languorous
spirit of the East. The first is the invocation of Ptah, chanted by
an invisible priestess to the accompaniment of a harp:--

[Musical excerpt--"Possente, possente Ftha, del mondo spirito animator
ah! noi t'in vo chiamo."]

The second is the melody of the sacred dance:--

[Musical excerpt]

The tunes are said to be veritable Oriental strains which some
antiquary (perhaps Mariette himself) put into the hands of Verdi.
The fact that their characteristic elements were nowhere else
employed by the composer, though he had numerous opportunities
for doing so, would seem to indicate that Verdi was chary about
venturing far into the territory of musical nationalism. Perhaps
he felt that his powers were limited in this direction, or that he
might better trust to native expression of the mood into which the
book had wrought him. The limitation of local color in his music is
not mentioned as a defect in the opera, for it is replaced at the
supreme moments, especially that at the opening of the third act,
with qualities far more entrancing than were likely to have come
from the use of popular idioms. Yet, the two Oriental melodies
having been mentioned, it is well to look at their structure to
discover the source of their singular charm. There is no mystery as
to the cause in the minds of students of folk-song. The tunes are
evolved from a scale so prevalent among peoples of Eastern origin
that it has come to be called the Oriental scale. Its distinguishing
characteristic is an interval, which contains three semitones:--

[Musical excerpt]

The interval occurring twice in this scale is enclosed in brackets.
Its characteristic effect is most obvious when the scale is
played downward. A beautiful instance of its artistic use is in
Rubinstein's song "Der Asra." The ancient synagogal songs of the
Jews are full of it, and it is one of the distinguishing marks of
the folk-songs of Hungary (the other being rhythmical), as witness
the "Rakoczy March." In some of the Eastern songs it occurs once,
in some twice (as in the case of the melodies printed above), and
there are instances of a triple use in the folk-songs of the modern

Act II. News of the success of the Egyptian expedition against the
Ethiopians has reached Amneris, whose slaves attire her for the
scene of Radames's triumph. The slaves sing of Egypt's victory and
of love, the princess of her longing, and Moorish slaves dance
before her to dispel her melancholy. Aïda comes, weighed down by
grief. Amneris lavishes words of sympathy upon her, and succeeds in
making her betray her love for Radames by saying that he had been
killed in battle. Then she confesses the falsehood and proclaims her
own passion and purpose to crush her rival, who shall appear at the
triumph of Radames as her slave. Aïda's pride rebels for the moment,
and she almost betrays her own exalted station as the daughter of a
king. As a slave she accompanies the princess to the entrance gate
of Thebes, where the King, the priests, and a vast concourse of
people are to welcome Radames and witness his triumphal entry.
Radames, with his troops and a horde of Ethiopian prisoners, comes
into the city in a gorgeous pageant. The procession is headed by two
groups of trumpeters, who play a march melody, the stirring effect
of which is greatly enhanced by the characteristic tone quality of
the long, straight instruments which they use:--

[Musical excerpt]

A word about these trumpets. In shape, they recall antique
instruments, and the brilliancy of their tone is due partly to the
calibre of their straight tubes and partly to the fact that nearly
all the tones used are open--that is, natural harmonics of the
fundamental tones of the tubes. There is an anachronism in the
circumstance that they are provided with valves (which were not
invented until some thousands of years after the period of the
drama), but only one of the valves is used. The first trumpets are
in the key of A-flat and the second B-natural, a peculiarly stirring
effect being produced by the sudden shifting of the key of the march
when the second group of trumpeters enters on the scene.

The King greets Radames with an embrace, bids him receive the wreath
of victory from the hands of his daughter and ask whatever boon
he will as a reward for his services. He asks, first, that the
prisoners be brought before the King. Among them Aïda recognizes
her father, who is disguised as an officer of the Ethiopian army.
The two are in each other's arms in a moment, but only long enough
for Amonasro to caution his daughter not to betray him. He bravely
confesses that he had fought for king and country, and pleads for
clemency for the prisoners. They join in the petition, as does
Aïda, and though the priests warn and protest, Radames asks the
boon of their lives and freedom, and the King grants it. Also,
without the asking, he bestows the hand of his daughter upon the
victorious general, who receives the undesired honor with

Transporting beauty rests upon the scene which opens the third act.
The moon shines brightly on the rippling surface of the Nile and
illumines a temple of Isis, perched amongst the tropical foliage
which crowns a rocky height. The silvery sheen is spread also over
the music, which arises from the orchestra like a light mist
burdened with sweet odors. Amneris enters the temple to ask the
blessing of the goddess upon her marriage, and the pious canticle
of the servitors within floats out on the windless air. A tone of
tender pathos breathes through the music which comes with Aïda,
who is to hold secret converse with her lover. Will he come? And if
so, will he speak a cruel farewell and doom her to death within the
waters of the river? A vision of her native land, its azure skies,
verdant vales, perfumed breezes, rises before her. Shall she never
see them more? Her father comes upon her. He knows of her passion
for Radames, but also of her love for home and kindred. He puts
added hues into the picture with which her heavy fancy had dallied,
and then beclouds it all with an account of homes and temples
profaned, maidens ravished, grandsires, mothers, children, slain by
the oppressor. Will she aid in the deliverance? She can by learning
from her lover by which path the Egyptians will against the
Ethiopians, who are still in the field, though their king is taken.
That she will not do. But Amonasro breaks down her resolution.
Hers will be the responsibility for torrents of blood, the
destruction of cities, the devastation of her country. No longer his
daughter she, but a slave of the Pharaohs! Her lover comes. She
affects to repulse him because of his betrothal to Amneris, but he
protests his fidelity and discloses his plan. The Ethiopians are in
revolt again. Again he will defeat them, and, returning again in
triumph, he will tell the King of his love for her and thereafter
live in the walks of peace. But Aïda tells him that the vengeance of
Amneris will pursue her, and urges him to fly with her. Reluctantly
he consents, and she, with apparent innocence, asks by which path
they shall escape the soldiery. Through the gorge of Napata; 'twill
be unpeopled till to-morrow, for it has been chosen as the route by
which the Egyptian advance shall be made. Exulting, Amonasro rushes
from his place of concealment. At the gorge of Napata will he place
his troops--he the King of Ethiopia! Radames has betrayed his
country. Amneris comes out of the temple, and Amonasro is about
to poignard her when Radames throws himself between. To the high
priest, Ramfis, he yields himself and his sword. Amonasro drags
Aïda away with him.

We reach the last act of the drama. Radames is to be tried for
treason in having betrayed a secret of war to his country's enemy.
Amneris fain would save him were he to renounce Aïda and accept her
love. She offers on such terms to intercede for him with her father,
the king. From her Radames learns that Aïda escaped the guards who
slew her father. He is resolute to die rather than prove faithless
to her, and is led away to the subterranean trial chamber. Amneris,
crouched without, hears the accusing voices of the priests and the
awful silence which follows each accusation; for Radames refuses to
answer the charges. The priests pronounce sentence:--Burial alive!
Amneris hurls curses after them, but they depart, muttering, "Death
to the traitor!"

Radames is immured in a vault beneath the temple of Vulcan, whose
sacred priestesses move in solemn steps above, while he gropes in
the darkness below. Never again shall light greet his eyes, nor
sight of Aïda. A groan. A phantom rises before him, and Aïda is at
his side. She had foreseen the doom of her lover, and entered the
tomb before him to die in his arms. Together they say their farewell
to the vale of tears, and their streaming eyes have a prevision of
heaven. Above in the temple a figure, shrouded in black, kneels
upon the stone which seals the vault and implores Isis to cease her
resentment and give her adored one peace. It is Amneris.



A description of Carl Maria von Weber's opera, "Der Freischütz,"
ought to begin with a study of the overture, since that marvellous
composition has lived on and on in the concert-rooms of the world
without loss of popularity for nearly a century, while the opera
which it introduces has periodically come and gone according to
popular whim or the artistic convictions or caprices of managers in
all the countries which cultivate opera, except Germany. Why Germany
forms an exception to the rule will find an explanation when the
character of the opera and its history come under investigation.
The overture, notwithstanding its extraordinary charm, is only an
exalted example of the pot-pourri class of introductions (though
in the classic sonata form), which composers were in the habit of
writing when this opera came into existence, and which is still
imitated in an ignoble way by composers of ephemeral operettas. It
is constructed on a conventional model, and its thematic material is
drawn from the music of the opera; but, like the prelude to Wagner's
lyric comedy, "Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg," it presents the
contents of the play in the form of what many years after its
composition came to be called a symphonic poem, and illustrates the
ideal which was in Gluck's mind when, in the preface to "Alceste,"
he said, "I imagined that the overture ought to prepare the audience
for the action of the piece, and serve as a kind of argument to it."
The atmosphere of the opera is that which pervades the sylvan life
of Germany--its actualities and its mysteries, the two elements
having equal potency. Into the peacefulness of the woods the French
horns ("Forest horns," the Germans call them) usher us at once with
the hymn which they sing after a few introductory measures.

[Musical excerpt]

But no sooner do we yield to the caress of this mood than there
enters the supernatural element which invests the tragical portion
of the story. Ominous drum beats under a dissonant tremolo of the
strings and deep tones of the clarinets, a plangent declamatory
phrase of the violoncellos:--

[Musical excerpt]

tell us of the emotions of the hero when he feels himself deserted
by Heaven; the agitated principal subject of the main body of the
overture (Molto vivace):--

[Musical excerpt]

proclaims his terror at the thought that he has fallen into the
power of the Evil One, while the jubilant second theme:--

[Musical excerpt]

gives voice to the happiness of the heroine and the triumph of love
and virtue which is the outcome of the drama.

The first glimpse of the opera reveals an open space in a forest and
in it an inn and a target-shooting range. Max, a young assistant to
the Chief Forester of a Bohemian principality, is seated at a table
with a mug of beer before him, his face and attitude the picture of
despondency. Hard by, huntsmen and others are grouped around Kilian,
a young peasant who fires the last shot in a contest of marksmanship
as the scene is disclosed. He hits off the last remaining star on
the target, and is noisily acclaimed as Schützenkönig (King of the
Marksmen), and celebrated in a lusty song by the spectators, who
decorate the victor, and forming a procession bearing the trophies
of the match, march around the glade. As they pass Max they point
their fingers and jeer at him. Kilian joins in the sport until Max's
fuming ill-humor can brook the humiliation no longer; he leaps up,
seizes the lapel of Kilian's coat, and draws his hunting-knife. A
deadly quarrel seems imminent, but is averted by the coming of Cuno,
Chief Forester, and Caspar, who, like Max, is one of his assistants.
To the reproaches of Cuno, who sees the mob surging around Max,
Kilian explains that there was no ill-will in the mockery of him,
the crowd only following an old custom which permitted the people to
make sport of a contestant who failed to hit the target, and thus
forfeited the right to make trial for the kingship. Cuno is amazed
that a mere peasant should have defeated one of his foresters, and
that one the affianced lover of his daughter, Agathe, and who, as
his son-in-law, would inherit his office, provided he could prove
his fitness for it by a trial shot on the wedding day. That day had
been set for the morrow. How the custom of thus providing for the
successorship originated, Cuno now relates in answer to the
questions of one of the party. His great-grandfather, also bearer of
the name Cuno, had been one of the rangers of the prince who ruled
the dominion in his day. Once upon a time, in the course of a hunt,
the dogs started a stag who bounded toward the party with a man tied
to his back. It was thus that poachers were sometimes punished. The
Prince's pity was stirred, and he promised that whoever should shoot
the stag without harming the man should receive the office of Chief
Forester, to be hereditary in the family, and the tenancy of a
hunting lodge near by. Cuno, moved more by pity than hope of reward,
attempted the feat and succeeded. The Prince kept his promise, but
on a suggestion that the old hunter may have used a charmed bullet,
he made the hereditary succession contingent upon the success of a
trial shot. Before telling the tale, Cuno had warned Max to have a
care, for should he fail in the trial shot on the morrow, his
consent to the marriage between him and Agathe would be withdrawn.
Max had suspected that his ill luck for a month past, during which
time he had brought home not a single trophy of bird or beast, was
due to some malign influence, the cause of which he was unable to
fathom. He sings of the prowess and joys that once were his (Aria:
"Durch die Wälder, durch die Auen"), but falls into a moody dread at
the thought that Heaven has forsaken him and given him over to the
powers of darkness. It is here that the sinister music, mentioned in
the outline of the overture, enters the drama. It accompanies the
appearance of Samiel (the Wild Huntsman, or Black Hunter,--in short,
the Devil), and we have thus in Von Weber's opera a pre-Wagnerian
example of the Leitmotif of the Wagnerian commentators. Caspar
returns to the scene, which all the other personages have left to
join in a dance, and finds his associate in the depths of despair.
He plies Max with wine, and, affecting sympathy with him in his
misfortunes, gradually insinuates that there is a means of insuring
success on the morrow. Max remains sceptical until Caspar hands
him his rifle and bids him shoot at an eagle flying overhead. The
bird is plainly out of rifle range, a mere black dot against the
twilight sky; but Max, scarcely aiming, touches the trigger and an
eagle of gigantic size comes hurtling through the air and falls at
his feet. Max is convinced that there is a sure way to win his
bride on the morrow. He asks Caspar if he has more bullets like the
one just spent. No; that was the hunter's last; but more might be
obtained, provided the effort be made that very night. The moment
was propitious. It was the second of three days in which the sun was
in the constellation of the Archer; at midnight there would occur an
eclipse of the moon. What a fortunate coincidence that all the omens
should be fair at so momentous a juncture of Max's affairs! The fear
of losing his bride overcomes Max's scruples; he agrees to meet the
tempter in the Wolf's Glen, a spot of evil repute, at midnight, and
at least witness the casting of more of the charmed bullets.

At the moment when Max's shot brought down the eagle, a portrait of
the original Cuno fell from the wall of the cottage occupied by his
descendant; and when the second act begins, we see Aennchen, a
cousin of Agathe's, putting it back in its place. Aennchen is
inclined to be playful and roguish, and serves as a pretty foil to
the sentimental Agathe. She playfully scolds the nail which she is
hammering into the wall again for so rudely dropping the old ranger
to the floor, and seeks to dispel the melancholy which has obsessed
her cousin by singing songs about the bad companionship of the blues
and the humors of courtship. She succeeds, in a measure, and Agathe
confesses that she had felt a premonition of danger ever since a
pious Hermit, to whom she had gone for counsel in the course of the
day, had warned her of the imminency of a calamity which he could
not describe. The prediction seemed to have been fulfilled in the
falling of the picture, which had slightly hurt her, but might
easily have killed her. Aennchen urges her to go to bed, but she
refuses, saying she shall not retire for sleep until Max has come.
Agathe sings the scena which has clung to our concert-rooms as
persistently as the overture. The slow portion of the aria ("Leise,
leise, fromme Weise"), like the horn music at the beginning of the
overture, has found its way into the Protestant hymn-books of
England and America, and its Allegro furnishes forth the jubilant
music of the instrumental introduction to the opera. Berlioz in his
book "A Travers Chants" writes in a fine burst of enthusiasm of this
scena: "It is impossible for any listener to fail to hear the sighs
of the orchestra during the prayer of the virtuous maiden who awaits
the coming of her affianced lover; or the strange hum in which the
alert ear imagines it hears the rustling of the tree-tops. It even
seems as if the darkness grew deeper and colder at that magical
modulation to C major. What a sympathetic shudder comes over one at
the cry: ''Tis he! 'tis he!' No, no. It must be confessed, there
is no other aria as beautiful as this. No master, whether German,
Italian, or French, was ever able to delineate, as is done here in
a single scene, holy prayer, melancholy, disquiet, pensiveness, the
slumber of nature, the mysterious harmony of the starry skies, the
torture of expectation, hope, uncertainty, joy, frenzy, delight,
love delirious! And what an orchestra to accompany these noble song
melodies! What inventiveness! What ingenious discoveries! What
treasures of sudden inspiration! These flutes in the depths; this
quartet of violins; these passages in sixths between violas and
'cellos; this crescendo bursting into refulgence at the close; these
pauses during which the passions seem to be gathering themselves
together in order to launch their forces anew with greater
vehemence! No, this piece has not its fellow! Here is an art that
is divine! This is poetry; this is love itself!"

Max comes at last, but he is preoccupied, and his words and acts do
little to reassure Agathe. She wants to know what luck he had at
the shooting-match, and he replies that he did not participate in
the target-shooting, but had nevertheless been marvellously lucky,
pointing to the eagle's feather in his hat as proof. At the same
moment he notices the blood upon his sweetheart's hair, and her
explanation of the falling of the portrait of her ancestor just as
the clock struck seven greatly disturbs him. Agathe, too, lapses
into gloomy brooding; she has fears for the morrow, and the thought
of the monstrous eagle terrifies her. And now Max, scarcely come,
announces that he must go; he had shot, he says, a stag deep in the
woods near the Wolf's Glen, indeed, and must bring it in lest the
peasants steal it. In a trio Aennchen recalls the uncanny nature of
the spot, Agathe warns against the sin of tempting Providence and
begs him to stay; but Max protests his fearlessness and the call of
duty, and hurries away to meet Caspar, at the appointed time in the
appointed place. We see him again in the Wolf's Glen, but Caspar is
there before him. The glen lies deep in the mountains. A cascade
tumbles down the side of a mighty crag on the one hand; on the other
sits a monstrous owl on the branch of a blasted tree, blinking
evilly. A path leads steeply down to a great cave. The moon throws
a lurid light on the scene and shows us Caspar in his shirt-sleeves
preparing for his infernal work. He arranges black stones in
a circle around a skull. His tools lie beside him: a ladle,
bullet-mould, and eagle's-wing fan. The high voices of an invisible
chorus utter the cry of the owl, which the orchestra mixes with
gruesome sounds, while bass voices monotonously chant:--

  Poisoned dew the moon hath shed,
  Spider's web is dyed with red;
  Ere to-morrow's sun hath died
  Death will wed another bride.
  Ere the moon her course has run
  Deeds of darkness will be done. {1}

On the last stroke of a distant bell which rings midnight, Caspar
thrusts his hunting-knife into the skull, raises it on high, turns
around three times, and summons his familiar:--

  By th' enchanter's skull, oh, hear,
  Samiel, Samiel, appear!

The demon answers in person, and the reason of Caspar's temptation
of Max is made plain. He has sold himself to the devil for the
charmed bullets, the last of which had brought down the eagle, and
the time for the delivery of his soul is to come on the morrow. He
asks a respite on the promise to deliver another victim into the
demon's hands,--his companion Max. What, asks the Black Huntsman,
is the proffered victim's desire? The magical bullets.

  Sechse treffen,
  Sieben äffen!

warns Samiel, and Caspar suggests that the seventh bullet be
directed to the heart of the bride; her death would drive both lover
and father to despair. But Samiel says that as yet he has no power
over the maiden; he will claim his victim on the morrow, Max or him
who is already his bondsman. Caspar prepares for the moulding. The
skull disappears, and in its place rises a small furnace in which
fagots are aglow. Ghostly birds, perched on the trees round about in
the unhallowed spot, fan the fire with their wings. Max appears on a
crag on one side of the glen and gazes down. The sights and sounds
below affright him; but he summons up his courage and descends part
way. Suddenly his steps are arrested by a vision of his dead mother,
who appears on the opposite side of the gulch and raises her hand
warningly. Caspar mutters a prayer for help to the fiend and bids
Max look again. Now the figure is that of Agathe, who seems about to
throw herself into the mountain torrent. The sight nerves him and he
hurries down. The moon enters into an eclipse, and Caspar begins his
infernal work after cautioning Max not to enter the circle nor utter
a word, no matter what he sees or who comes to join them. Into the
melting-pot Caspar now puts the ingredients of the charm: some lead,
bits of broken glass from a church window, a bit of mercury, three
bullets that have already hit their mark, the right eye of a
lapwing, the left of a lynx; then speaks the conjuration formula:--

  Thou who roamst at midnight hour,
  Samiel, Samiel, thy pow'r!
  Spirit dread, be near this night
  And complete the mystic rite.
  By the shade of murderer's dead,
  Do thou bless the charmed lead.
  Seven the number we revere;
  Samiel, Samiel, appear!

The contents of the ladle commence to hiss and burn with a greenish
flame; a cloud obscures the moon wholly, and the scene is lighted
only by the fire under the melting-pot, the owl's eyes, and the
phosphorescent glow of the decaying oaks. As he casts the bullets,
Caspar calls out their number, which the echoes repeat. Strange
phenomena accompany each moulding; night-birds come flying from the
dark woods and gather around the fire; a black boar crashes through
the bushes and rushes through the glen; a hurricane hurtles through
the trees, breaking their tops and scattering the sparks from the
furnace; four fiery wheels roll by; the Wild Hunt dashes through the
air; thunder, lightning, and hail fill the air, flames dart from the
earth, and meteors fall from the sky; at the last the Black Hunter
himself appears and grasps at Max's hand; the forester crosses
himself and falls to the earth, where Caspar already lies stretched
out unconscious. Samiel disappears, and the tempest abates. Max
raises himself convulsively and finds his companion still lying on
the ground face downward.

At the beginning of the third act the wedding day has dawned. It
finds Agathe kneeling in prayer robed for the wedding. She sings
a cavatina ("Und ob die Wolken sie verhülle") which proclaims
her trust in Providence. Aennchen twits her for having wept; but
"bride's tears and morning rain--neither does for long remain."
Agathe has been tortured by a dream, and Aennehen volunteers to
interpret it. The bride had dreamt that she had been transformed
into a white dove and was flying from tree to tree when Max
discharged his gun at her. She fell stricken, but immediately
afterward was her own proper self again and saw a monstrous black
bird of prey wallowing in its blood. Aennchen explains all as
reflexes of the incidents of the previous night--the work on the
white bridal dress, the terrible black feather on Max's hat; and
merrily tells a ghostly tale of a nocturnal visitor to her sainted
aunt which turned out to be the watch-dog. Enter the bridesmaids
with their song:--

[Musical excerpt--"Wir winden dir den Jungfernkranz mit
veilchenblauer Seide"]

Nearly three generations of Germans have sung this song; it has
accompanied them literally from the cradle to the grave. When Ludwig
Geyer, Richard Wagner's stepfather, lay dying, the lad, then seven
years old, was told to play the little piece in a room adjoining the
sick chamber. The dying man had been concerned about the future of
his stepson. He listened. "What if he should have talent for music?"
Long years after the mother told this story, and the son, when
he became famous as a composer, repeated it in one of his
autobiographical writings, and told with what awe his childish eyes
had looked on the composer as he passed by the door on the way to
and from the theatre.

Evil omens pursue Agathe even on her bridal morn. The bridesmaids
are still singing to her when Aennchen brings a box which she thinks
contains the bridal wreath. All fall back in dismay when out comes a
funeral wreath of black. Even Aennchen's high spirits are checked
for a moment; but she finds an explanation. Old Cuno has tumbled
from the wall a second time; but she herself assumes the blame: the
nail was rusty and she not an adept with the hammer. The action now
hastens to its close. Prince Ottokar, with his retainers, is present
at the festival at which Max is to justify Cuno's choice of him as a
son-in-law. The choice meets with the Prince's approval. The moment
approaches for the trial shot, and Max stands looking at the last of
his charmed bullets, which seems to weigh with ominous heaviness in
his hand. He had taken four of the seven and Caspar three. Of the
four he had spent three in unnecessary shots; but he hopes that
Caspar has kept his. Of course Caspar has done nothing of the kind.
It is suggested that Max shoot at once, not awaiting the arrival of
his betrothed, lest the sight of her make him nervous. The Prince
points to a white dove as the mark, and Max lifts his gun. At the
moment Agathe rushes forward, crying, "Do not shoot; I am the dove!"
The bird flies toward a tree which Caspar, impatient for the coming
of his purposed victim, had climbed. Max follows it with his gun and
pulls the trigger. Agathe and Caspar both fall to the ground. The
holy man of the woods raises Agathe, who is unhurt; but Caspar dies
with curses for everything upon his lips. The devil has cared for
his own and claimed his forfeit. Ottokar orders his corpse thrown
amongst the carrion in the Wolf's Glen and turns to Max for an
explanation. He confesses his wrong and is ordered out of the
Prince's dominion; but on the intercession of Cuno, Agathe, and the
Hermit the sentence is commuted to a year of probation, at the end
of which time he shall marry his love. But the traditional trial
shot is abolished.

          *      *      *

Though there are a dozen different points of view from which Weber's
opera "Der Freischütz" is of fascinating interest, it is almost
impossible for any one except a German to understand fully what the
opera means now to the people from whose loins the composer sprung,
and quite impossible to realize what it meant to them at the time of
its production. "Der Freischütz" is spoken of in all the handbooks
as a "national" opera. There are others to which the term might
correctly and appropriately be applied--German, French, Italian,
Bohemian, Hungarian, Russian; but there never was an opera, and
there is no likelihood that there ever will be one, so intimately
bound up with the loves, feelings, sentiments, emotions,
superstitions, social customs, and racial characteristics of a
people as this is with the loves, feelings, sentiments, emotions,
superstitions, social customs, and racial characteristics of the
Germans. In all its elements as well as in its history it is
inextricably intertwined with the fibres of German nationality. It
could not have been written at another time than it was; it could
not have been written by any other composer living at that time;
it could not have been conceived by any artist not saturated with
Germanism. It is possible to argue one's self into a belief of
these things, but only the German can feel them. Yet there is no
investigator of comparative mythology and religion who ought not to
go to the story of the opera to find an illustration of one of the
pervasive laws of his science; there is no folklorist who ought not
to be drawn to its subject; no student of politics and sociology who
cannot find valuable teachings in its history; no critic who can
afford to ignore its significance in connection with the evolution
of musical styles and schools; no biographer who can fail to observe
the kinship which the opera establishes between the first operatic
romanticist and him who brought the romantic movement to its
culmination; that is, between Carl Maria von Weber and Richard
Wagner. It is even a fair subject for the study of the scientific
psychologist, for, though the story of the opera is generally
supposed to be a fanciful structure reared on a legendary
foundation, it was a veritable happening which gave it currency a
century ago and brought it to the notice of the composer; and this
happening may have an explanation in some of the psychical phenomena
to which modern science is again directing attention, such as
hypnotism, animal magnetism, and the like.

I am here not at all fanciful. Some thirty years ago I came across
a pamphlet published by Dr. J. G. Th. Grässe, a Saxon Court
Councillor, in which he traced the origin of the story at the base
of "Der Freischütz" to a confession made in open court in a Bohemian
town in 1710. Grässe found the story in a book entitled "Monathliche
Unterredungen aus dem Reich der Geister," published in Leipsic in
1730, the author of which stated that he had drawn the following
statement of facts from judicial records: In 1710 in a town in
Bohemia, George Schmid, a clerk, eighteen years old, who was a
passionate lover of target-shooting, was persuaded by a hunter to
join in an enterprise for moulding charmed bullets on July 30, the
same being St. Abdon's Day. The hunter promised to aid the young
man in casting sixty-three bullets, of which sixty were to hit
infallibly and three to miss just as certainly. The two men provided
themselves with coals, moulds, etc., and betook themselves at
nightfall to a cross-roads. There the hunter drew a circle with his
knife and placed mysterious characters, the meaning of which his
companion did not know, around the edge. This done, he told the
clerk to step within the ring, take off his clothing, and make
denial of God and the Holy Trinity. The bullets, said the hunter,
must all be cast between eleven o'clock and midnight, or the clerk
would fall into the clutches of the devil. At eleven o'clock the
dead coals began to glow of their own accord, and the two men began
the moulding, although all manner of ghostly apparitions tried to
hinder them. At last there came a horseman in black, who demanded
the bullets which had been cast. The hunter refused to yield them
up, and in revenge the horseman threw something into the fire which
sent out so noisome an odor that the two venturesome men fell half
dead within the circle. The hunter escaped, and, as it turned out
subsequently, betook himself to the Salzkammergut, near Salzburg;
but the clerk was found lying at the crossroads and carried into
town. There he made a complete confession in court, and because he
had had intercourse with the Evil One, doubtless, was condemned to
be burned to death. In consideration of his youth, however, the
sentence was commuted to imprisonment at hard labor for six years.

In the legend of the Wild Huntsman, who under the name of Samiel
purchases the souls of men with his magic bullets, the folklorist
and student of the evolution of religions sees one of many evidences
of ancient mythology perverted to bring it into the service of
Christianity. Originally the Wild Huntsman was Odin (or Wotan). The
missionaries to the Germans, finding it difficult to root out belief
in the ancient deities, gave their attributes to saints in a few
cases, but for the greater part transformed them into creatures of
evil. It was thus that Frau Holle (or Holda) became a wicked Venus,
as we shall see in the next chapter. The little spotted beetle which
English and American children call ladybug or lady-bird (that is,
the bug or bird of our Lady), the Germans Marienkäferchen, and the
French La bête du bon Dieu, was sacred to Holda; and though the name
of the Virgin Mary was bestowed upon it in the long ago, it still
remains a love oracle, as the little ones know who bid it--

  Fly to the East,
  And fly to the West,
  And fly to the one that I love best!

It was the noise of Wotan's hunting train which the ancient Germans
heard when the storms of winter howled and whistled through the deep
woods of the Northland; but in time it came to be the noise of the
Wild Hunt. In Thuringia the rout headed by Frau Holda and the Wild
Huntsman issues in the Yuletide from the cave in the Horselberg,
which is the scene of Tannhäuser's adventure with Venus in Wagner's
opera, and Holda is the mother of many of the uncanny creatures
which strike terror to the souls of the unlucky huntsmen who chance
to espy them.

From the story drawn from the records of the Bohemian law court, it
is plain that to make a compact with the Wild Huntsman was a much
more gruesome and ceremonious proceeding than that which took place
between Faust and the Evil One in the operas of Gounod and Boito.
In both these instances a scratch of the pen sufficed, and the
deliberations which preceded the agreement were conducted in a
decorous and businesslike manner. But to invoke Samiel and obtain
his gifts was a body, mind, and nerve-racking business. In some
particulars the details differed a little from those testified to by
the Bohemian clerk. In the first place, the Devil's customer had to
repair to a crossroads of a Friday between midnight and one o'clock
when the moon was in an eclipse and the sun in Sagittarius. If in
such a place and at such a time he drew a circle around himself with
his hunting-spear and called "Samiel!" three times, that worthy
would appear, and a bargain might be driven with him for his wares,
which consisted of seven magical bullets ("free bullets," they were
called), which were then cast under the eye of the Evil One and
received his "blessing." The course of six of them rested with the
"free shooter," but the seventh belonged to Samiel, who might direct
it wheresoever he wished. The price of these bullets was the soul of
the man who moulded them, at the end of three years; but it was the
privilege of the bondsman to purchase a respite before the
expiration of the period by delivering another soul into the
clutches of the demon.

Weber used all these details in his opera, and added to them the
fantastic terrors of the Wild Hunt and the Wolf's Glen. Of this
favored abode of the Evil One, Wagner gave a vivid description in an
essay on "Der Freischütz" which he wrote for the Gazette musicale in
May, 1841, when the opera was preparing, under the hand of Berlioz,
for representation at the Grand Opéra in Paris. Wagner's purpose in
writing the essay was to acquaint the Parisians with the contents
and spirit of the piece, make them understand its naïve Teutonism,
and also to save it from the maltreatment and mutilation which he
knew it would have to suffer if it were to be made to conform to
the conventions of the Académie. He wanted to preserve the spoken
dialogue and keep out the regulation ballet, for the sake of which
he had to make changes in his "Tannhäuser" twenty years later. He
failed in both efforts, and afterward wrote an account of the
performance for a German newspaper, which is one of the best
specimens of the feuilleton style which his sojourn in Paris
provoked. There was no need of telling his countrymen what the
Wolf's Glen was, for it had been the most familiar of all scenes in
the lyric theatres of Germany for a score of years, but for the
Parisians he pictured the place in which Weber's hero meets Samiel
very graphically indeed:--

"In the heart of the Bohemian Forest, old as the world, lies the
Wolf's Glen. Its legend lingered till the Thirty Years' War, which
destroyed the last traces of German grandeur; but now, like many
another boding memory, it has died out from the folk. Even at that
time most men only knew the gulch by hearsay. They would relate how
some gamekeeper, straying on indeterminable paths through wild,
untrodden thickets, scarce knowing how, had come to the brink of the
Wolf's Gulch. Returning, he had told of gruesome sights he had there
seen, at which the hearer crossed himself and prayed the saints to
shield him from ever wandering to that region. Even on his approach
the keeper had heard an eerie sound; though the wind was still, a
muffled moaning filled the branches of the ancient pines, which
bowed their dark heads to and fro unbidden. Arrived at the verge,
he had looked down into an abyss whose depths his eye could never
plumb. Jagged reefs of rock stood high in shape of human limbs and
terribly distorted faces. Beside them heaps of pitch-black stones in
form of giant toads and lizards; they moved and crept and rolled
in heavy ragged masses; but under them the ground could no more be
distinguished. From thence foul vapors rose incessantly and spread
a pestilential stench around. Here and there they would divide and
range themselves in ranks that took the form of human beings with
faces all convulsed. Upon a rotting tree-trunk in the midst of all
these horrors sat an enormous owl, torpid in its daytime roost;
behind it a frowning cavern, guarded by two monsters direly blent of
snake and toad and lizard. These, with all the other seeming life
the chasm harbored, lay in deathlike slumber, and any movement
visible was that of one plunged in deep dreams; so that the forester
had dismal fears of what this odious crew might wake into at

"But still more horrible than what he saw, was what he heard. A
storm that stirred nothing, and whose gusts he himself could not
feel, howled over the glen, paused suddenly, as if listening to
itself, and then broke out again with added fury. Atrocious cries
thronged from the pit; then a flock of countless birds of prey
ascended from its bowels, spread like a pitch-black pall across the
gulf, and fell back again into night. The screeches sounded to the
huntsman like the groans of souls condemned, and tore his heart with
anguish never felt before. Never had he heard such cries, compared
to which the croak of ravens was as the song of nightingales. And
now again deep silence; all motion ceased; only in the depths there
seemed a sluggish writhing, and the owl flapped its wings as though
in a dream. The most undaunted huntsman, the best acquainted with
the wood's nocturnal terrors, fled like a timid roe in speechless
agony, and, heedless where his footsteps bore him, ran breathless to
the nearest hut, the nearest cabin, to meet some human soul to whom
to tell his horrible adventure, yet ne'er could find words in which
to frame it." {2}

So much for the folklore and mythology of "Der Freischütz," the
element which makes it not only a national but also the chiefest of
romantic operas. We are grown careless in our use of musical terms,
or else it would not be necessary to devote words to an explanation
of what is meant by romantic in this case. We hear a great deal
about romanticism as contradistinguished from classicism, but it
is seldom that we have the line of demarcation between the two
tendencies or schools drawn for us. Classical composers, I am
inclined to think, are composers of the first rank who have
developed music to its highest perfection on its formal side in
obedience to long and widely accepted laws, preferring aesthetic
beauty over emotional content, or, at any rate, refusing to
sacrifice form to characteristic expression. Romantic composers
would then be those who have sought their ideals in other directions
and striven to give them expression irrespective of the restrictions
and limitations of form--composers who, in short, prefer content
to manner. In the sense of these definitions, Weber's opera is a
classic work, for in it the old forms which Wagner's influence
destroyed are preserved. Nevertheless, "Der Freischütz" is romantic
in a very particular sense, and it is in this romanticism that its
political significance to which I have referred lies. It is romantic
in subject and the source of its inspiration. This source is the
same to which the creators of the romantic school of literature
went for its subjects--the fantastical stories of chivalry and
knighthood, of which the principal elements were the marvellous
and supernatural. The literary romanticists did a great deal to
encourage patriotism among the Germans in the beginning of the
nineteenth century by disclosing to the German people the wealth
of their legendary lore and the beauty of their folk-songs. The
circumstances which established the artistic kinship between Von
Weber and Wagner, to which I have alluded, was a direct fruit of
this patriotism. In 1813 Von Weber went to Prague to organize a
German opera. A part of the following summer he spent in Berlin.
Prussia was leading Europe in the effort to throw off the yoke of
Bonaparte, and the youths of the Prussian capital, especially the
students, were drunken with the wine of Körner's "Lyre and Sword."
While returning to Prague Von Weber stopped for a while at the
castle Gräfen-Tonna, where he composed some of Körner's poems, among
them "Lützow's wilde Jagd" and the "Schwertlied." These songs were
soon in everybody's mouth and acted like sparks flung into the
powder-magazine of national feeling. Naturally they reacted upon the
composer himself, and under their influence and the spirit which
they did so much to foster Weber's Germanism developed from an
emotion into a religion. He worked with redoubled zeal in behalf of
German opera at Prague, and when he was called to be Court Music
Director in Dresden in 1817, he entered upon his duties as if
consecrated to a holy task. He had found the conditions more
favorable to German opera in the Bohemian capital than in the Saxon.
In Prague he had sloth and indifference to overcome; in Dresden the
obstacles were hatred of Prussia, the tastes of a court and people
long accustomed to Italian traditions, and the intrigues of his
colleagues in the Italian opera and the church. What I wrote some
eighteen years ago {3} of Weber's labors in Dresden may serve again
to make plain how the militant Germanism of the composer achieved
its great triumph.

The Italian régime was maintained in Dresden through the efforts of
the conductor of the Italian opera, Morlacchi; the concert master,
Poledro; the church composer, Schubert, and Count von Einsiedel,
Cabinet Minister. The efforts of these men placed innumerable
obstacles in Weber's path, and their influence heaped humiliations
upon him. Confidence alone in the ultimate success of his efforts to
regenerate the lyric drama sustained him in his trials. Against the
merely sensuous charm of suave melody and lovely singing he opposed
truthfulness of feeling and conscientious endeavor for the
attainment of a perfect ensemble. Here his powers of organization,
trained by his experiences in Prague, his perfect knowledge of the
stage, imbibed with his mother's milk, and his unquenchable zeal,
gave him amazing puissance. Thoroughness was his watchword. He put
aside the old custom of conducting while seated at the pianoforte,
and appeared before his players with a bâton. He was an inspiration,
not a figurehead. His mind and his emotions dominated theirs, and
were published in the performance. He raised the standard of the
chorus, stimulated the actors, inspected the stage furnishings and
costumes, and stamped harmony of feeling, harmony of understanding,
and harmony of effort upon the first work undertaken--a performance
of Méhul's "Joseph in Egypt." Nor did he confine his educational
efforts to the people of the theatre. He continued in Dresden the
plan first put into practice by him in Prague of printing articles
about new operas in the newspapers to stimulate public appreciation
of their characteristics and beauties. For a while the work of
organization checked his creative energies, but when his duties
touching new music for court or church functions gave him the
opportunity, he wrote with undiminished energy.

In 1810 Apel's "Gespensterbuch" had fallen into his hands and he had
marked the story of "Der Freischütz" for treatment. His mind
reverted to it again in the spring of 1817. Friedrich Kind agreed to
write the book, and placed it complete in his hands on March 1, nine
days after he had undertaken the commission. Weber's enthusiasm was
great, but circumstances prevented him from devoting much time to
the composition of the opera. He wrote the first of its music in
July, 1817, but did not complete it till May 13, 1820. It was in his
mind during all this period, however, and would doubtless have been
finished much earlier had he received an order to write an opera
from the Saxon court. In this expectation he was disappointed, and
the honor of having encouraged the production of the most national
opera ever written went to Berlin, where the patriotism which had
been warmed by Weber's setting of Körner's songs was still ablaze,
and where Count Brühl's plans were discussing to bring him to the
Prussian capital as Capellmeister. The opera was given on June 18,
1821, under circumstances that produced intense excitement in the
minds of Weber's friends. The sympathies of the musical areopagus of
Berlin were not with Weber or his work--neither before nor after the
first performance; but Weber spoke to the popular heart, and its
quick, responsive throb lifted him at once to the crest of the wave
which soon deluged all Germany. The overture had to be repeated to
still the applause that followed its first performance, and when the
curtain fell on the last scene, a new chapter in German art had been
opened. {4}


{1} Natalia Macfarren's translation.

{2} "Richard Wagner's Prose Works," translated by William Ashton
Ellis, Vol. VII, p. 169.

{3} "Famous Composers and their Works," Vol. I, p. 396.

{4} As I write it is nearly eighty-five years since "Der Freischütz"
was first heard in New York. The place was the Park Theatre and
the date March 2, 1825. The opera was only four years old at the
time, and, in conformity with the custom of the period, the
representation, which was in English, no doubt was a very different
affair from that to which the public has become accustomed since.
But it is interesting to know that there is at least one opera in
the Metropolitan list which antedates the first Italian performance
ever given in America. Even at that early day the scene in the
Wolf's Glen created a sensation. The world over "Der Freischütz" is
looked upon as peculiarly the property of the Germans, but a German
performance of it was not heard in New York till 1856, when the
opera was brought out under the direction of Carl Bergmann, at the
old Broadway Theatre.



Nothing could have demonstrated more perfectly the righteousness of
Wagner's claim to the title of poet than his acceptance of the Greek
theory that a people's legends and myths are the fittest subjects
for dramatic treatment, unless it be the manner in which he has
reshaped his material in order to infuse it with that deep ethical
principle to which reference has several times been made. In "The
Flying Dutchman," "The Nibelung's Ring," and "Tannhäuser" the idea
is practically his creation. In the last of these dramas it is
evolved out of the simple episode in the parent-legend of the death
of Lisaura, whose heart broke when her knight went to kiss the Queen
of Love and Beauty. The dissolute knight of the old story Wagner in
turn metamorphoses into a type of manhood "in its passionate desires
and ideal aspirations"--the Faust of Goethe. All the magnificent
energy of our ideal man is brought forward in the poet's conception,
but it is an energy which is shattered in its fluctuation between
sensual delights and ideal aspirations, respectively typified in the
Venus and Elizabeth of the play. Here is the contradiction against
which he was shattered as the heroes of Greek tragedy were shattered
on the rock of implacable Fate. But the transcendent beauty of the
modern drama is lent by the ethical idea of salvation through the
love of pure woman--a salvation touching which no one can be in
doubt when Tannhäuser sinks lifeless beside the bier of the atoning
saint, and Venus's cries of woe are swallowed up by the pious
canticle of the returning pilgrims. {1}

It will be necessary in the expositions of the lyric dramas of
Wagner, which I shall attempt in these chapters, to choose only such
material as will serve directly to help to an understanding of them
as they move by the senses in the theatre, leaving the reader to
consult the commentaries, which are plentiful, for deeper study of
the composer's methods and philosophical purposes. Such study is not
to be despised; but, unless it be wisely conducted, it is likely to
be a hindrance rather than a help to enjoyment. It is a too common
error of musical amateurs to devote their attention to the forms and
names of the phrases out of which Wagner constructs his musical
fabric, especially that of his later dramas. This tendency has been
humored, even in the case of the earlier operas, by pedants, who
have given names to the themes which the composer used, though he
had not yet begun to apply the system of symbolization which marks
his works beginning with "Tristan und Isolde." It has been done with
"Tannhäuser," though it is, to all intents and purposes, an opera of
the conventional type, and not what is called a "music-drama." The
reminiscent use of themes is much older than Wagner. It is well to
familiarize one's self with the characteristic elements of a score,
but, as I have urged in the book quoted above, if we confine our
study of Wagner to the forms of the musical motives and the names
which have arbitrarily been given to them, we shall at the last have
enriched our minds with a thematic catalogue, and nothing else. It
is better to know nothing about these names, and content ourselves
with simple, sensuous enjoyment, than to spend our time at the
theatre answering the baldest of all the riddles of Wagner's
orchestra: "What am I playing now?" In the studies of Wagner's works
I shall point to some of the most significant phrases in the music
in connection with significant occurrences in the play, but I shall
seldom, if ever, analyze the motival construction in the style of
the Wolzogen handbooks.

          *      *      *

There are texts in the prefatory excerpt for a discussion of
"Tannhäuser" from all the points of view which might make such a
discussion interesting and profitable. There is no doubt in my mind
that it is the poet-composer's noblest tragedy and, from a literary
point of view, his most artistic. It is laid out on such a broad,
simple, and symmetrical plan that its dramatic contents can be set
forth in a few paragraphs, and we can easily forego a detailed
description of its scenes. A knightly minstrel, who has taken part
in one of the tournaments of song which tradition says used to be
held at the court of the Landgrave of Thuringia in the early part of
the thirteenth century, has, by his song and bearing, won the heart
of Elizabeth, niece of the Landgrave. Unmindful of his great good
fortune, he has found his way to the court held by the Goddess of
Love within the hollow of the Hörselberg, which lies across the
valley and over against the Wartburg. Dame Venus herself becomes
enamoured of the knight, who calls himself Tannhäuser, and for a
year and a day he remains at her side and in her arms. At length,
mind and senses surfeited, a longing seizes him for the world which
he has abandoned, for the refreshing sights and sounds of earth,
and even for its pains. Dame Venus seeks to detain him, but he is
resolute to leave her and her realm. Like a true knight, however, he
promises to sing her praises wherever he may go; but when she offers
to welcome him again if he should weary and sicken of the world and
seek redemption from its hypocrisies, he replies that for him
redemption rests only in the Virgin Mary. The invocation breaks the
bonds of enchantment which have held him. The scenes of allurement
which have so long surrounded him melt away, and he finds himself in
an attitude of prayer in a blooming valley below the Wartburg. It
is spring, and a shepherd lad, seated on a rock, trolls a lay to
spring's goddess. A troop of pilgrims passing by on their way to
Rome suggest by their canticle the need of absolution from the
burden of sin which rests upon him, but before he can join them, the
Landgrave and a hunting party come upon him. He is recognized by his
erstwhile companions in song, and consents to return to the castle
on being told by one of the minstrels, Wolfram von Esehenbach, that
his song had vanquished not only them, but the heart of the saintly
Elizabeth as well.

In the Wartburg Tannhäuser meets the maiden whose heart he has won
just after she has apostrophized the walls which had echoed his
voice; and from him she learns the meaning of the strange emotion
which fills her in his presence. Again minstrels gather before a
company of great nobles for a contest in the Hall of Song. Love is
to be the theme, and the hand of Elizabeth the reward of the victor.
Spiritual love is hymned by Tannhäuser's companions. Wolfram von
Eschenbach likens it to a pure fountain from which only high and
sacred feelings can flow. Tannhäuser questions the right of those
who have not experienced the passion as he has felt it to define the
nature of love. Goaded by the taunts and threats of rude Biterolf,
he bursts forth in a praise of Venus. The assembly is in commotion.
Swords are drawn. Sacrilege must be punished. Death confronts the
impiously daring minstrel. But Elizabeth, whose heart has been
mortally pierced by his words, interposes to save him. She has been
stricken, but what is that to his danger of everlasting damnation?
Would they rob his soul of its eternal welfare? The knight,
indifferent to a score of swords, is crushed by such unselfish
devotion, and humbly accepts the Landgrave's clemency, which spares
his life that he may join a younger band of pilgrims and seek
absolution at Rome. He goes to the Holy City, mortifying his flesh
at every step, and humbles himself in self-abasement and accusation
before the Pope; but only to hear from the hard lips of the Keeper
of the Keys that for such sin as his there is as little hope of
deliverance as for the rebudding of the papal staff.

The elder pilgrims return in the fall of the year, and Elizabeth
eagerly seeks among them for the face of the knight whose soul and
body she had tried to save. He is not among them. Gently she puts
aside the proffered help of Wolfram, whose unselfish love is ever
with her, climbs the hill to the castle, and dies. Famished and
footsore, Tannhäuser staggers after the band of pilgrims who
have returned to their homes with sins forgiven. His greeting of
Wolfram is harsh, but the good minstrel's sympathy constrains him to
tell the story of his vain pilgrimage. Salvation forfeited, naught
is left for him but to seek surcease of suffering in the arms of
Venus. Again he sees her grotto streaming with roseate light and
hears her alluring voice. He rushes forward toward the scene of
enchantment, but Wolfram utters again the name of her who is now
pleading for him before the judgment seat, of God Himself; and he
reels back. A funeral cortège descends from the castle. With an
agonized cry: "Holy Elizabeth, pray for me!" Tannhäuser sinks
lifeless beside the bier just as the band of younger pilgrims comes
from Rome bearing the crozier of the Pope clothed in fresh verdure.
They hymn the miracle of redemption.

          *      *      *

Wagner has himself told us what fancies he is willing shall flit
through the minds of listeners to the overture to his opera. It was
performed at a concert under his direction while he was a political
refugee at Zurich, and for the programme of the concert he wrote a
synopsis of its musical and poetical contents which I shall give
here in the translation made by William Ashton Ellis, but with the
beginnings of the themes which are referred to reproduced in musical

To begin with, the orchestra leads before us the pilgrims' chant

[Musical excerpt]

it draws near, then swells into a mighty outpour and passes,
finally, away. Evenfall; last echo of the chant. As night breaks,
magic sights and sounds appear, the whirlings of a fearsomely
voluptuous dance are seen:--

[Musical excerpt]

These are the Venusberg's seductive spells that show themselves at
dead of night to those whose breasts are fired by daring of the
senses. Attracted by the tempting show, a shapely human form draws
nigh; 'tis Tannhäuser, love's minstrel. He sounds his jubilant song
of love

[Musical excerpt]

in joyous challenge, as though to force the wanton witchery to do
his bidding. Wild cries of riot answer him; the rosy cloud grows
denser round him; entrancing perfumes hem him in and steal away his
senses. In the most seductive of half-lights his wonder-seeing eye
beholds a female form indicible; he hears a voice that sweetly
murmurs out the siren call, which promises contentment of the
darer's wildest wishes:--

[Musical excerpt]

Venus herself it is, this woman who appears to him. Then the heart
and senses burn within him; a fierce, devouring passion fires the
blood in all his veins; with irresistible constraint it thrusts him
nearer; before the goddess's self he steps with that canticle of
love triumphant, and now he sings it in ecstatic praise of her. As
though at wizard spell of his, the wonders of the Venusberg unroll
their brightest fill before him; tumultuous shouts and savage cries
of joy mount up on every hand; in drunken glee bacchantes drive
their raging dance and drag Tanhäuser to the warm caresses of love's
goddess, who throws her glowing arms around the mortal, drowned with
bliss, and bears him where no step dare tread, to the realm of

A scurry, like the sound of the wild hunt, and speedily the storm
is laid. Merely a wanton whir still pulses in the breeze, a wave
of weird voluptuousness, like the sensuous breath of unblest love,
still soughs above the spot where impious charms had shed their
raptures and over which the night now broods once more. But dawn
begins to break; already from afar is heard again the pilgrims'
chant. As this chant draws closer and closer, as the day drives
farther back the night, that whir and soughing of the air--which had
erewhile sounded like the eerie cry of souls condemned--now rises to
ever gladder waves, so that when the sun ascends at last in splendor
and the pilgrims' chant proclaims in ecstasy to all the world, to
all that live and move thereon, salvation won, this wave itself
swells out the tidings of sublimest joy. 'Tis the carol of the
Venusberg itself redeemed from curse of impiousness, this cry we
hear amid the hymn of God. So wells and leaps each pulse of life in
chorus of redemption, and both dissevered elements, both soul and
senses, God and nature, unite in the atoning kiss of hallowed love.

This description of the poetical contents of the overture to
"Tannhäuser" applies to the ordinary form of the introduction to
the opera which was used (and still is in many cases) until Wagner
revised the opera for performance in Paris in 1861. The traditions
of French opera called for a ballet in the third act. Wagner was
willing to yield to the desire for a ballet, but he could not place
it where the habits of the opera-going public demanded it. Instead,
he remodelled the overture and, sacrificing the coda which brought
back a return of the canticle of the pilgrims, he lengthened the
middle portion to fit an extended choreographic scene, and with it
led into the opera without a break. The neglect to provide a ballet
in the usual place led to a tremendous disturbance in which the
Jockey Club took the lead. Wagner's purpose in the extended portion
of the overture now called the "Bacchanale" may be read in his
stage-directions for the scene.

The scene represents the interior of the Venusberg (Hörselberg), in
the neighborhood of Eisenach. A large cave seems to extend to an
invisible distance at a turn to the right. From a cleft through
which the pale light of day penetrates, a green waterfall tumbles
foaming over rocks the entire length of the cave. From the basin
which receives the water, a brook flows toward the background, where
it spreads out into a lake, in which naiads are seen bathing and on
the banks of which sirens are reclining. On both sides of the grotto
are rocky projections of irregular form, overgrown with singular,
coral-like trophical plants. Before an opening extending upward on
the left, from which a rosy twilight enters, Venus lies upon a rich
couch; before her, his head upon her lap, his harp by his side, half
kneeling, reclines Tannhäuser. Surrounding the couch in fascinating
embrace are the Three Graces; beside and behind the couch
innumerable sleeping amorettes, in attitudes of wild disorder, like
children who had fallen asleep wearied with the exertions of a
struggle. The entire foreground is illumined by a magical, ruddy
light shining upward from below, through which the emerald green
of the waterfall, with its white foam, penetrates. The distant
background, with the shores of the lake, seems transfigured by a
sort of moonlight. When the curtain rises, youths, reclining on the
rocky projections, answering the beckonings of the nymphs, hurry
down to them; beside the basin of the waterfall the nymphs have
begun the dance designed to lure the youths to them. They pair off;
flight and chase enliven the dance.

From the distant background a procession of bacchantes approach,
rushing through the rows of the loving couples and stimulating them
to wilder pleasures. With gestures of enthusiastic intoxication they
tempt the lovers to growing recklessness. Satyrs and fauns have
appeared from the cleft of the rocks and, dancing the while, force
their way between the bacchantes and lovers, increasing the disorder
by chasing the nymphs. The tumult reaches its height, whereupon the
Graces rise in horror and seek to put a stop to the wild conduct
of the dancing rout and drive the mad roisterers from the scene.
Fearful that they themselves might be drawn into the whirlpool, they
turn to the sleeping amorettes and drive them aloft. They flutter
about, then gather into ranks on high, filling the upper spaces
of the cave, whence they send down a hail of arrows upon the wild
revellers. These, wounded by the arrows, filled with a mighty
love-longing, cease their dance and sink down exhausted. The Graces
capture the wounded and seek, while separating the intoxicated ones
into pairs, to scatter them in the background. Then, still pursued
by the flying amorettes, the bacchantes, fauns, satyrs, nymphs, and
youths depart in various directions. A rosy mist, growing more and
more dense, sinks down, hiding first the amorettes and then the
entire background, so that finally only Venus, Tannhäuser, and
the Graces remain visible. The Graces now turn their faces to the
foreground; gracefully intertwined, they approach Venus, seemingly
informing her of the victory they have won over the mad passions of
her subjects.

The dense mist in the background is dissipated, and a tableau, a
cloud picture, shows the rape of Europa, who, sitting on the back of
a bull decorated with flowers and led by tritons and nereids, sails
across the blue lake.

Song of the Sirens:--

[Musical excerpt]

The rosy mist shuts down, the picture disappears, and the Graces
suggest by an ingratiating dance the secret significance that it
was an achievement of love. Again the mists move about. In the pale
moonlight Leda is discovered reclining by the side of the forest
lake; the swan swims toward her and caressingly lays his head upon
her breast. Gradually this picture also disappears and, the mist
blown away, discloses the grotto deserted and silent. The Graces
courtesy mischievously to Venus and slowly leave the grotto of love.
Deepest silence. (The duet between Venus and Tannhäuser begins.)

The work which Wagner accomplished in behalf of the legend of
Tannhäuser is fairly comparable with the tales which have been woven
around the figure of King Arthur. The stories of the Knights of the
Round Table are in the mouths of all English-speaking peoples
because of the "Idylls of the King"; the legend of Tannhäuser was
saved from becoming the exclusive property of German literary
students by Wagner's opera. Like many folk-tales, the story touches
historical circumstance in part, and for the rest reaches far into
the shadowy realm of legendary lore. The historical element is
compassed by the fact that the principal human characters involved
in it once had existence. There was a Landgrave Hermann of Thuringia
whose court was held in the Wartburg--that noble castle which in a
later century gave shelter to Martin Luther while he endowed the
German people with a reformed religion, their version of the Bible
and a literary language. The minstrel knights, which in the opera
meet in a contest of song, also belong to history. Wolfram von
Eschenbach wrote the version of the Quest of the Holy Grail which
inspired Wagner's "Parsifal" and which is morally the most exalted
epical form which that legend ever received. His companions also
existed. Tannhäuser is not an invention, though it is to Wagner
alone that we owe his association with the famous contest of
minstrelsy which is the middle picture in Wagner's drama. Of the
veritable Tannhäuser, we know extremely little. He was a knight and
minstrel at the court of Duke Frederick II of Austria in the first
decades of the thirteenth century, who, it is said, led a dissolute
life, squandered his fortune, and wrecked his health, but did timely
penance at the end and failed not of the consolations of Holy
Church. After he had lost his estate near Vienna he found protection
with Otto II of Bavaria, who was Stadtholder of Austria from A.D.
1246 till his death in 1253. He sang the praises of Otto's
son-in-law, Conrad IV, who was father of Conradin, the last heir of
the Hohenstaufens. Tannhäuser was therefore a Ghibelline, as was
plainly the folk-poet who made him the hero of the ballad which
tells of his adventure with Venus. Tannhäuser's extant poems, when
not in praise of princes, are gay in character, with the exception
of a penitential hymn--a circumstance which may have had some weight
with the ballad-makers. There is a picture labelled with his name in
a famous collection of minnesongs called the Manessian Manuscript,
which shows him with the Crusaders' cross upon his cloak. This may
be looked upon as evidence that he took part in one of the crusades,
probably that of A.D. 1228. There is no evidence that the contest of
minstrelsy at the Wartburg ever took place. It seems to have been
an invention of mediaeval poets. The Manessian Manuscript is
embellished with a picture of the principal personages connected
with the story. They are Landgrave Hermann, the Landgravine Sophia,
Wolfram von Eschenbach, Reinmar der Alte, Heinrich von Rispach,
Biterolf, Heinrich von Ofterdingen, and Klingesor. The subject
discussed by the minstrels was scholastic, and Ofterdingen, to save
his life, sought help of Klingesor, who was a magician and the
reputed nephew of Virgilius of Naples; and the Landgravine threw her
cloak around him when he was hardest pressed. This incident, its
ethical significance marvellously enhanced, is the culmination of
Wagner's second act. Instead of the historical Sophia, however, we
have in the opera Hermann's niece, Elizabeth, a creation of the
poet's, though modelled apparently after the sainted Elizabeth of
Hungary, who, however, had scarcely opened her eyes upon the world
in the Wartburg at the date ascribed to the contest, i.e. A.D. 1206.
Wagner has given the rôle played by Heinrich von Ofterdingen (also
Effterdingen) to Tannhäuser apparently on the strength of an essay
which appeared about the time that he took up the study of the
mediaeval legends of Germany, which identified the two men.
Ofterdingen himself is now thought to be a creation of some poet's
fancy; but the large part devoted to his adventure in the old poem
which tells of the contest of minstrelsy led the mediaeval poets to
attribute many great literary deeds to him, one of them nothing less
than the authorship of the "Nibelungenlied."

Wagner seems to have been under the impression that there was an old
book of folk-tales (a so-called Volksbuch) devoted to the story of
Tannhäuser and his adventure with Dame Venus. This is a mistake. The
legend came down to modern times by way of popular ballads. One of
these, which was printed by Uhland, consists largely of the dialogue
between Tannhäuser and his enslaver, as does also the carnival play
which Hans Sachs wrote on the subject. The writer of the ballad was
so energetic an enemy of the Papal power that he condemns Urban IV
to eternal torment because of his severe judgment of the penitent

  Do was er widrumb in den berg
  und het sein lieb erkoren,
  des muoss der vierde babst Urban
  auch ewig sein verloren.

A ballad which was sung in one Swiss district as late as the third
decade of the nineteenth century gives the story of the knight and
his temptress in fuller detail, though it knows as little of the
episode of Elizabeth's love as it does of the tournament of song. In
this ballad Tannhäuser (or "Tanhuser") is a goodly knight who goes
out into the forest to seek adventures, or "see wonders." He finds
a party of maidens engaged in a bewildering dance, and tarries to
enjoy the spectacle. Frau Frene, or, as we would write it now, Freya
(the Norse Venus whose memory we perpetuate in our Friday), seeks to
persuade him to remain with her, promising to give him her youngest
daughter to wife. The knight remains, but will not mate with the
maiden, for he has seen the devil lurking in her brown eyes and
learned that once in her toils he will be lost forever. Lying under
Frau Frene's fig tree, at length, he dreams that he must quit his
sinful life. He tears himself loose from the enchantment and
journeys to Rome, where he falls at the feet of the Pope and asks
absolution. The Pope holds in his hand a staff so dry that it has
split. "Your sins are as little likely to be forgiven as this staff
is to green," is his harsh judgment. Tannhäuser kneels before the
altar, extends his arms, and asks mercy of Christ; then leaves the
church in despair and is lost to view. On the third day after this
the Pope's staff is found to be covered with fresh leaves. He sends
out messengers to find Tannhäuser, but he has returned to Frau
Frene. Then comes the moral of the tale expressed with a naïve
forcefulness to which a translation cannot do justice:--

  Drum soil kein Pfaff, kein Kardinal,
  Kein Sünder nie verdammen;
  Der Sünder mag sein so gross er will,
  Kann Gottes Gnad erlangen.

Two other sources supplied Wagner with material for as many
effective scenes in his drama. From E. T. A. Hofmann's "Der Kampf
der Sänger" he got the second scene of the first act, the hunt and
the gathering in the valley below Wartburg; from Ludwig Tieck's "Der
getreue Eckhart und der Tannhäuser" the narrative of the minstrel's
pilgrimage to Rome.

Students of comparative mythology and folklore will have no
difficulty in seeing in the legend of Tannhäuser one of the many
tales of the association during a period of enchantment of men and
elves. Parallels between the theatre and apparatus of these tales
extend back into remote antiquity. The grotto of Venus, in which
Tannhäuser steeps himself with sensuality, is but a German variant
of the Garden of Delight, in which the heroes of antiquity met their
fair enslavers. It is Ogygia, the Delightful Island, where Ulysses
met Calypso. It is that Avalon in which King Arthur was healed of
his wounds by his fairy sister Morgain. The crozier which bursts
into green in token of Tannhäuser's forgiveness has prototypes
in the lances which, when planted in the ground by Charlemagne's
warriors, were transformed overnight into a leafy forest; in the
javelins of Polydore, of which Virgil tells us in the "AEneid"; in
the staff of St. Christopher, which grew into a tree after he had
carried the Christ Child across the river; in the staff which put on
leaves in the hands of Joseph, wherefore the Virgin Mary gave him
her hand in marriage; in the rod of Aaron, which, when laid up among
others in the tabernacle, "brought forth buds and bloomed blossoms
and yielded almonds."

There are many parallels in classic story and folklore of the
incident of Tannhäuser's sojourn with Venus. I mention but a few.
There are the episodes of Ulysses and Calypso, Ulysses and Circe,
Numa and Egeria, Rinaldo and Armida, Prince Ahmed and Peri Banou.
Less familiar are the folk-tales which Mr. Baring-Gould has
collected of Helgi's life with the troll Ingibjorg, a Norse story;
of James Soideman of Serraade, "who was kept by the spirits in a
mountain during the space of seven years, and at length came out,
but lived afterwards in great distress and fear lest they should
again take him away"; of the young Swede lured away by an elfin
woman from the side of his bride into a mountain, where he abode
with the siren forty years and thought it but an hour.

There are many Caves of Venus in Europe, but none around which
there clusters such a wealth of legend as around the grotto in the
Hörselberg. Nineteen years ago the writer of this book visited the
scene and explored the cave. He found it a decidedly commonplace
hole in the ground, but was richly rewarded by the results of
the literary explorations to which the visit led him. Before
Christianity came to reconstruct the folk-tales of the Thuringian
peasants, the Hörselberg was the home of Dame Holda, or Holle, and
the horde of weird creatures which used to go tearing through the
German forests on a wild rout in the Yuletide. Dame Holle, like many
another character in Teutonic mythology, was a benignant creature,
whose blessing brought forth fruitfulness to fields and vineyards,
before the Christian priests metamorphosed her into a thing wholly
of evil. She was the mother of all the fays and fairies that
followed in the train of the Wild Huntsman, and though she appeared
at times as a seductive siren and tempted men to their destruction,
she appeared oftener as an old woman who rewarded acts of kindness
with endless generosity. It was she who had in keeping the souls of
unborn children, and babes who died before they could be christened
were carried by her to the Jordan and baptized in its waters.
Even after priestly sermons had transformed her into a beauteous
she-devil, she still kept up her residence in the cave, which now,
in turn, took on a new character. Venturesome persons who got near
its mouth, either purposely or by accident, told of strange noises
which issued from it, like the rushing of many waters or the voice
of a subterranean storm. The priests supplied explanation and
etymology to fit the new state of things. The noise was the
lamentation of souls in the fires of purgatory, to which place of
torment the cave was an opening. This was said to account for
the old German name of the mountain--"Hör-Seel-Berg"--that is,
"Hear-Souls-Mountain." To this Latin writers added another, viz.
"Mons Horrisonus"--"the Mountain of Horrible Sounds." The forbidding
appearance of the exterior--in which some fantastic writers avowed
they saw a resemblance to a coffin--was no check on the fancy of
the mediaeval storyteller, however, who pictured the interior of
the mountain as a marvellous palace, and filled it with glittering
jewels and treasures incalculable. The story of Tannhäuser's sojourn
within this magical cavern is only one of many, nor do they all end
like that of the minstrel knight. Undeterred by the awful tales told
by monks and priests, poets and romancers sang the glories and the
pleasures of the cave as well as its gruesome punishments. From them
we know many things concerning the appearance of the interior, the
cave's inhabitants, and their merrymakings. I cannot resist the
temptation to retell one of these old tales.

Adelbert, Knight of Thuringia, was one of those who experienced
the delights of the Cave of Venus, yet, unlike Tannhäuser in the
original legend, was saved at the last. He met Faithful Eckhart at
the mouth of the cave, who warned him not to enter, but entrancing
music sounded within and he was powerless to resist. He entered.
Three maidens came forward to meet him. They were airily clad,
flowers were twisted in their brown locks, and they waved branches
before them as they smiled and beckoned and sang a song of spring's
awakening. What could Sir Adelbert do but follow when they glanced
coyly over their white shoulders and led the way through a narrow
passage into a garden surrounded with rose-bushes in bloom, and
filled with golden-haired maidens, lovelier than the flowers, who
wandered about hand in hand and sang with sirens' voices? In the
middle of the rose-hedged garden stood a red gate, which bore in
bold letters this legend:--


The gate-keeper was the fairest of the maidens, and her fingers
were busy weaving a garland of roses, but she stopped her work long
enough to smile a welcome to Sir Adelbert. He thanked her gallantly
and queried: Was the pretty sight a May Day celebration? Replied
the winsome gate-keeper: "Here Dame' Venus holds court in honor
of the noble knight Sir Tannhäuser"; and she opened the gate and
Adelbert entered. Within he beheld a gay tent pitched in a grove of
flowering shrubs, and out of it emerged a beauteous creature and
advanced toward him. Her robe was rose color, adorned with strings
of pearls and festooned with fragrant blossoms. A crown which
glistened with gems rested lightly on her head. In her right hand--a
dainty hand--she carried a tiny kerchief of filmy white stuff
embroidered with gold, and in her left a lute. She sate herself down
on a golden chair, bent her head over her left shoulder. A dreamy,
tender light came into her eyes, and her rosy fingers sought the
strings of her lute--strings of gold. Would she sing? Just then one
of the maidens approached her, lisped musically into her ear, and
pointed to the approaching knight. Almost imperceptibly, but oh,
so graciously, the lips of the vision moved. As if in obedience to
a command, the maiden approached, and said in rhythmical cadence:
"Greetings, Sir Knight, from Dame Venus, who sends you message that
all who love gaming and fair women are welcome at her court." She
gave him her hand to escort him, and when the knight pressed her
fingers in gratitude he felt a gentle pressure in return. The knight
approached the dazzling queen of the palace and fell upon his knee;
but she gave him her hand and she bade him arise, which he did after
he had kissed her fingers. And she called to a maiden, who fetched
a golden horn filled to the brim with wine and handed it to the
knight. "Empty the goblet, like a true knight, to the health of all
fair women who love and are beloved," said the queen. Sir Adelbert
smiled obedience: "To love, fair lady," he said and drank the wine
at a draught. And thus he became a captive and a slave.

Long did he sojourn within the magic realm, in loving dalliance with
Venus and her maidens, until one day a hermit entered the cave in
the absence of the queen and bore him back to the outer world, where
penance and deeds of piety restored him to moral health and saved
him from the fate of Tannhäuser.


{1} "Studies in the Wagnerian Drama," by H. E. Krehbiel, pp. 35, 36.



A vassal is sent to woo a beauteous princess for his lord. While he
is bringing her home the two, by accident, drink a love potion, and
ever thereafter their hearts are fettered together. In the midday of
delirious joy, in the midnight of deepest woe, their thoughts are
only of each other, for each other. Meanwhile the princess has
become the vassal's queen. Then the wicked love of the pair is
discovered, and the knight is obliged to seek safety in a foreign
land. There (strange note this to our ears) he marries another
princess whose name is like that of his love, save for the addition
With the White Hand; but when wounded unto death he sends across the
water for her who is still his true love, that she come and be his
healer. The ship which is sent to bring her is to bear white sails
on its return if successful in the mission; black, if not. Day after
day the knight waits for the coming of his love while the lamp of
his life burns lower and lower. At length the sails of the ship
appear on the distant horizon. The knight is now himself too weak to
look. "White or black?" he asks of his wife. "Black," replies she,
jealousy prompting the falsehood; and the knight's heart-strings
snap in twain just as his love steps over the threshold of his
chamber. Oh, the pity of it! for with the lady is her lord, who,
having learned the story of the fateful potion, has come to unite
the lovers. Then the queen, too, dies, and the remorseful king
buries the lovers in a common grave, from whose caressing sod spring
a rose-bush and a vine and intertwine so curiously that none may
separate them. {1}

Upon the ancient legend which has thus been outlined Wagner reared
his great tragedy entitled "Tristan und Isolde." Whence the story
came nobody can tell. It is a part of the great treasure preserved
from remotest antiquity by itinerant singers and story-tellers, and
committed to writing by poets of the Middle Ages. The first of
these, so far as unquestioned evidence goes, were French trouvères.
From them the tale passed into the hands of the German minnesinger.
The greatest of these who treated it was Gottfried von Strasburg
(circa A.D. 1210), who, however, left the tale unfinished. His
continuators were Ulrich von Türnheim and Heinrich von Freiberg,
whose denouement (not, however, original with them) was followed by
Hermann Kurtz when he published a version of Gottfried's poem in
modern German in 1844. This, unquestionably, was the version which
fell into Wagner's hands when, in the Dresden period (1843-1849)
he devoted himself assiduously to the study of Teutonic legend and
mythology. In English the romance has an equally honorable literary
record. In 1804 Sir Walter Scott edited a metrical version which he
fondly believed to be the work of the somewhat mythical Thomas the
Rhymer and to afford evidence that the oldest literary form of the
legend was British. The adventures of Tristram of Lyonesse (who is
the Tristan of Wagner's tragedy) form a large portion of Sir Thomas
Malory's thrice glorious "Morte d'Arthur." Of modern poets Tennyson,
Matthew Arnold, and Swinburne have sung the passion of the
ill-starred lovers.

Elements of the legend can be traced back to the ancient literatures
of the Aryan peoples. The courtship by proxy has a prototype in
Norse mythology in Skirnir's wooing of Gerd for Van Frey. The
incident of the sails belongs to Greek story--the legend of AEgeus
and Theseus; the magic potion may be found in ancient Persian
romance; the interlocked rose-tree and vine over the grave of the
lovers is an example of those floral auguries and testimonies which
I have mentioned in connection with the legend of Tannhäuser and
the blossoming staff: in token of their innocence flowers spring
miraculously from the graves of persons wrongly done to death.

A legend which lives to be retold often is like a mirror which
reflects not only the original picture, but also the social and
moral surroundings of different relators. So this ancient tale has
been varied by the poets who have told it; and of these variants the
most significant are those made by Wagner. If the ethical scheme of
the poet-composer is to be observed, the chief of these must be kept
in mind. In the poems of Gottfried, Arnold, and Swinburne the love
potion is drunk accidentally and the passion which leads to the
destruction of the lovers is a thing for which they are in nowise
responsible. Wagner puts antecedent and conscious guilt at the door
of both of his heroic characters; they love each other before the
dreadful drinking and do not pay the deference to the passion which
in the highest conception it demands. Tristan is carried away by
love of power and glory before man and Isolde is at heart a murderer
and suicide. The potion is less the creator of an uncontrollable
passion than it is an agency which makes the lovers forget honor,
duty, and respect for the laws of society. Tennyson omits all
mention of the potion and permits us to imagine Tristram and Iseult
as a couple of ordinary sinners. Swinburne and Arnold follow the old
story touching the hero's life in Brittany with the second Iseult
(she of the White Hand); but while Swinburne preserves her a "maiden
wife," Arnold gives her a family of children. Wagner ennobles his
hero by omitting the second Isolde, thus bringing the story into
greater sympathy with modern ideas of love and exalting the passion
of the lovers.

The purpose to write a Tristan drama was in Wagner's mind three
years before he began its execution. While living in Zurich, in
1854, he had advanced as far as the second act of his "Siegfried"
when, in a moment of discouragement, he wrote to Liszt: "As I have
never in my life enjoyed the true felicity of love, I shall erect
to this most beautiful of my dreams" (i.e. the drama on which he
was working) "a monument in which, from beginning to end, this
love shall find fullest gratification. I have sketched in my head
a 'Tristan und Isolde,' the simplest of musical conceptions, but
full-blooded; with the 'black flag' which waves at the end I shall
then cover myself--to die." Three years later he took up the
project, but under an inspiration vastly different from that
notified to Liszt. The tragedy was not to be a monument to a mere
dream of felicity or to his artistic despair, but a tribute to a
consuming passion for Mathilde Wesendonck, wife of a benefactor
who had given him an idyllic home at Triebschen, on the shore of
Lake Lucerne. Mme. Wesendonck was the author of the two poems
"Im Treibhaus" and "Träume," which, with three others from the same
pen, Wagner set to music. The first four were published in the winter
of 1857-1858; the last, "Im Treibhaus," on May 1, 1858. The musical
theme of "Träume" was the germ of the love-music in the second act
of "Tristan und Isolde"; out of "Im Treibhaus" grew some of the
introduction to the third act. The tragedy was outlined in prose in
August, 1857, and the versification was finished by September 18.
The music was complete by July 16, 1859. Wagner gave the pencil
sketches of the score to Mme. Wesendonck, who piously went over them
with ink so that they might be preserved for posterity.

In 1857 Wagner had been eight years an exile from his native land.
Years had passed since he began work on "Der Ring des Nibelungen,"
and there seemed to him little prospect of that work receiving
either publication or performance. In May of that year he received
an invitation from Dom Pedro, Emperor of Brazil, to write an opera
for Rio de Janeiro and direct its production. Two and a half years
before he had seriously considered the project of coming to America
for a concert tour; so the invitation did not strike him as so
strange and extraordinary as it might have appeared to a musician of
less worldly wisdom. It is not likely that he took it seriously into
consideration, but at any rate it turned his thoughts again to the
opera which he had mentioned to Liszt. With it he saw an opportunity
for again establishing a connection with the theatre. Dom Pedro
wanted, of course, an Italian opera. Wagner's plan contemplated the
writing of "Tristan und Isolde" in German, its translation into
Italian, the dedication of its score to the Emperor of Brazil, with
the privilege of its performance there and a utilization of the
opportunity, if possible, to secure a production beforehand of
"Tannhäuser." Meanwhile, he would have the drama produced in its
original tongue at Strasburg, then a French city conveniently near
the German border, with Albert Niemann in the titular rôle and an
orchestra from Karlsruhe, or some other German city which had an
opera-house. He communicated the plan to Liszt, who approved of the
project heartily, though he was greatly amazed at the intelligence
which he had from another source that Wagner intended to write the
music with an eye to a performance in Italian. "How in the name
of all the gods are you going to make of it an opera for Italian
singers, as B. tells me you are? Well, since the incredible and
impossible have become your elements, perhaps you will achieve this,
too," Liszt wrote to him, and promised to go to Strasburg with
a Wagnerian coterie to act as a guard of honor for the composer.
Nothing came of either plan. Inspired by his love for Mathilde
Wesendonck, Wagner wrote the opera and succeeded in selling the
score to Breitkopf & Härtel for the equivalent of $800. Then began
the hunt for a theatre in which to give the first representation.
Eduard Devrient urged Karlsruhe, where he was director, but Wagner
wanted to supervise the production, and this was impossible in
a theatre of Germany so long as the decree of banishment for
participation in the Saxon rebellion hung over his head. The Grand
Duke of Baden appealed to the King of Saxony to recall the decree,
but in vain. Wagner went to Paris and Brussels, but had to content
himself with giving concerts. Weimar, Prague, and Hanover were
considered in order, and at length Wagner turned to Vienna. There
the opera was accepted for representation at the Court Opera, but
after fifty-four rehearsals between November, 1862, and March, 1863,
it was abandoned as "impossible."

The next year saw the turning-point in Wagner's career. Ludwig
of Bavaria invited him to come to Munich, the political ban was
removed, and "Tristan und Isolde" had its first performance, to the
joy of the composer and a host of his friends, on June 10, 1865, at
the Royal Court Theatre of the Bavarian capital, under the direction
of Hans von Bölow. The rôles of Tristan and Isolde were in the hands
of Ludwig Schnorr von Carolsfeld and his wife. Albert Niemann was
prevented by the failure of the Strasburg plan from being the first
representative of the hero, but to him fell the honor of setting the
model for all American representations. The first performance in the
United States took place in the Metropolitan Opera-house on December
1, 1886, under the direction of Anton Seidl. The cast was as
follows: Isolde, Lilli Lehmann; Brangäne, Marianne Brandt; Tristan,
Albert Niemann; Kurwenal, Adolf Robinson; König Marke, Emil Fischer;
Melot, Rudolph von Milde; ein Hirt, Otto Kemlitz; ein Steuermann,
Emil Saenger; ein Seemann, Max Alvary.

Two circumstances bid us look a little carefully into the
instrumental prelude with which Wagner has prefaced his drama. One
is that it has taken so prominent a place in the concert-room that
even those whose love for pure music has made them indifferent to
the mixed art-form called the opera ought to desire acquaintance
with its poetical and musical contents; the other is that the
prelude, like the overture to "Fidelio" known as "Leonore No. 3,"
presents the spiritual progress of the tragedy from beginning to
end to the quickened heart and mind of the listener freed from all
material integument. To do this it makes use of the themes which are
most significant in the development of the psychology of the drama,
which is far and away its most important element, for the pictures
are not many, and the visible action is slight. Listening to the
music without thought of the drama, and, therefore, with no purpose
of associating it with the specific conceptions which later have
exposition in the text, we can hear in this prelude an expression
of an ardent longing, a consuming hunger,

    which doth make
  The meat it feeds on,

a desire that cannot be quenched, yet will not despair. Then, at the
lowest ebb of the sweet agony, an ecstasy of hope, a wildly blissful
contemplation of a promise of reward. If I depart here for a brief
space from my announced purpose not to analyze the music in the
manner of the Wagnerian commentators, it will be only because the
themes of the prelude are the most pregnant of those employed in the
working out of the drama, because their specific significance in the
purpose of the composer is plainly set forth by their association
with scenes and words, and because they are most admirably fitted
by structure and emotional content to express the things attributed
to them. The most important of the themes is that with which the
prelude begins:--

[Musical excerpt]

Note that it is two-voiced and that one voice ascends chromatically
(that is, in half steps), and the other descends in the same manner.
In the aspiring voice there is an expression of longing; in the
descending, of suffering and dejection. We therefore may look upon
it as a symbol of the lovers and their passion in a dual aspect.
After an exposition of this theme there enters another:--

[Musical excerpt]

followed immediately by:--

[Musical excerpt]

In the play the first of these two is associated with the character
of the hero; the second with the glance which Tristan cast upon
Isolde when she was about to kill him--the glance which inspired
the love of the princess. Two modifications of the principal theme
provide nearly all the rest of the material used in the building up
of the prelude. The first is a diminution of the motif compassed by
the second and third measures, which by reiteration develops the
climax of the piece:--

[Musical excerpt]

The second is a harmonized inversion of the same short figure,
preceded by a jubilantly ascending scale:--

[Musical excerpt]

This is the expression of the ecstasy of hope, the wildly blissful
contemplation of a promise of reward of which I have spoken.
Wagner tells us what the thing hoped for, the joy contemplated in
expectation, is, not only in the drama, but also in an exposition of
the contents of the prelude made for concert purposes. He deserves
that it shall be known, and I reproduce it in the translation of
William Ashton Ellis. After rehearsing the legend down to the
drinking of the fateful philtre, he says:--

The musician who chose this theme for the prelude to his love drama,
as he felt that he was now in the boundless realm of the very
element of music, could only have one care: how he should set
bounds to his fancy, for the exhaustion of the theme was impossible.
Thus he took, once for all, this insatiable desire. In long-drawn
accents it surges up, from its first timid confession, its softest
attraction, through sobbing sighs, hope and pain, laments and
wishes, delight and torment, up to the mightiest onslaught, the most
powerful endeavor to find the breach which shall open to the heart
the path to the ocean of the endless joy of love. In vain! Its power
spent, the heart sinks back to thirst with desire, with desire
unfulfilled, as each fruition only brings forth seeds of fresh
desire, till, at last, in the depths of its exhaustion, the starting
eye sees the glimmering of the highest bliss of attainment. It is
the ecstasy of dying, of the surrender of being, of the final
redemption into that wondrous realm from which we wander farthest
when we strive to take it by force. Shall we call this Death? Is it
not rather the wonder world of night, out of which, so says the
story, the ivy and the vine sprang forth in tight embrace o'er the
tomb of Tristan and Isolde?

If we place ourselves in spirit among the personages of Wagner's
play, we shall find ourselves at the parting of the curtain which
hangs between the real and the mimic world, on board a mediaeval
ship, within a few hours' sail of Cornwall, whither Tristan is
bearing Isolde to be the wife of his king Marke. The cheery song of
a sailor who, unseen, at the masthead, sings to the winds which are
blowing him away from his wild Irish sweetheart, floats down to us.
It has a refreshing and buoyant lilt, this song, with something of
the sea breeze in it, and yet something, as it is sung, which
emphasizes the loneliness of the singer:--

[Musical excerpt--"Frisch weht der Wind der Heimat zu: Mein irisch
Kind, wo weilest du?"]

An innocent song, the strain of which, more decorous than any modern
chantey, inspires the sailors as they pull at the ropes, and gives
voice to the delights of the peaceful voyage:--

[Musical excerpt]

Yet it stirs up a tempest in the soul of Isolde. She is the daughter
of an Irish queen, a sorceress, and she now deplores the degeneracy
of her race and its former potency. Once her ancestors could command
wind and wave, but now they can brew only balsamic potions. Wildly
she invokes the elements to dash the ship to pieces, and when her
maid, Brangäne, seeks to know the cause of her tumultuous disquiet,
she tells the story of her love for Tristan and of its disgraceful
requital. He had come to Ireland's queen to be healed of a wound
received in battle. He had killed his enemy, and that enemy
was Morold, Isolde's betrothed. The princess, ignorant of that
fact,--ignorant, too, of his name, for he had called himself
Tantris,--had herself nursed him back almost to health, when one day
she found that a splinter of steel, taken from the head of Morold,
where he had received the adolorous stroke, fitted into a nick in
the sword of the wounded knight. At her mercy lay the slayer of her
affianced husband. She raised the sword to take revenge, when his
look fell upon her. In a twinkling her heart was empty of hate
and filled instead with love. Now, instead of requiting her love,
Tristan is taking her to Cornwall to deliver her to a loveless
marriage to Cornwall's "weary king." It will be well to note in this
narrative how the description of Tristan's sufferings are set to a
descending chromatic passage, like the second voice of the principal
theme already described:--

[Musical excerpt--"Von einem Kahn, der klein und arm"]

The thought of her humiliation maddens the high-spirited woman,
and she sends her maid, Brangäne, to summon the knight into her
presence. The knight parleys diplomatically with the messenger. Duty
keeps him at the helm, but once in port he will suffer no one but
himself to escort the exalted lady into the presence of the king. At
the last the maid is forced to deliver the command in the imperious
words used by her mistress. This touches the pride of Tristan's
squire, Kurwenal, who asks permission to frame an answer, and,
receiving it, shouts a ballad of his master's method of paying
tribute to Ireland with the head of his enemy; for the battle
between Tristan and Morold had grown out of the effort made by the
latter to collect tribute-money from England. It is a stiff stave,
rugged, forceful, and direct, in which the spirit of the political
ballad of all times is capitally preserved.

Isolde resolves to wipe out what she conceives to be her disgrace by
slaying Tristan and herself. Brangäne tries to persuade her that the
crown of Cornwall will bring her honor, and when Isolde answers
that it would be intolerable to live in the presence of Tristan and
not have his love, she hints that her mother had not sent her into
a strange land without providing for all contingencies. Isolde
understands the allusion to her mother's magical lore, and commands
that a casket be brought to her. Brangäne obeys with alacrity and
exhibits its contents: lotions for wounds, antidotes for poisons,
and, best of all,--she holds a phial aloft. Isolde will not have it
so; she herself had marked the phial whose contents were to remedy
her ills. "The death draught!" exclaims Brangäne, and immediately
the "Yo, heave ho!" of the sailors is heard and the shout of "Land!"
Throughout this scene a significant phrase is heard--the symbol
of death:--

[Musical excerpt]

Also the symbol of fate--a downward leap of a seventh, as in the
last two notes of the brief figure illustrative of the glance which
had inspired Isolde's fatal love.

At sight of land Tristan leaves the helm and presents himself before
Isolde. She upbraids him for having avoided her during the voyage;
he replies that he had obeyed the commands of honor and custom. She
reminds him that a debt of blood is due her--he owes her revenge for
the death of Morold. Tristan offers her his sword and his breast;
but she declines to kill the best of all Marke's knights, and
offers to drink with him a cup of forgiveness. He divines her
purpose and takes the cup from her hand and gives this pledge:
Fidelity to his honor, defiance to anguish. To his heart's illusion,
his scarcely apprehended dream, will he drink the draught which
shall bring oblivion. Before he has emptied the cup, Isolde snatches
it from his hands and drains it to the bottom. Thus they meet
their doom, which is not death and surcease of sorrow, as both had
believed, but life and misery; for Brangäne, who had been commanded
to pour the poison in the cup, had followed an amiable prompting and
presented the love-potion instead. A moment of bewilderment, and
the fated ones are in each other's arms, pouring out an ecstasy of
passion. Then her maids robe Isolde to receive the king, who is
coming on board the ship to greet his bride.

In the introduction to the second act, based upon this restless

[Musical excerpt]

we have a picture of the longing and impatience of the lovers before
a meeting. When the curtains part, we discover a garden before the
chamber of Isolde, who is now Cornwall's queen. It is a lovely night
in summer. A torch burns in a ring beside the door opening into
the chamber at the top of a stone staircase. The king has gone
a-hunting, and the tones of the hunting-horns, dying away in the
distance, blend entrancingly with an instrumental song from the
orchestra which seems a musical sublimation of night and nature in
their tenderest moods. Isolde appears with Brangäne and pleads with
her to extinguish the torch and thus give the appointed signal to
Tristan, who is waiting in concealment. But Brangäne suspects
treachery on the part of Melot, a knight who is jealous of Tristan
and himself enamoured of Isolde. It was he who had planned the
nocturnal hunt. She warns her mistress, and begs her to wait. Beauty
rests upon the scene like a benediction. To Isolde the horns are but
the rustling of the forest leaves as they are caressed by the wind,
or the purling and laughing of the brook. Longing has eaten up all
patience, all discretion, all fear. In spite of Brangäne's pleadings
she extinguishes the torch, and with wildly waving scarf beckons on
her hurrying lover. Beneath the foliage they sing their love through
all the gamut of hope and despair, of bliss and wretchedness. The
duet consists largely of detached ejaculations and verbal plays,
each paraphrasing or varying or giving a new turn to the outpouring
of the other, the whole permeated with the symbolism of pessimistic
philosophy in which night, death, and oblivion are glorified, and
day, life, and memory contemned. In this dialogue lies the key
to the philosophy which Wagner has proclaimed in the tragedy. In
Wagner's exposition of the prelude we saw that he wishes us to
observe "the one glimmering of the highest bliss of attainment" in
the "surrender of being," the "final redemption into that wondrous
realm from which we wander farthest when we try to take it by
force." For this realm he chooses death and night as symbols, but
what he means to imply is the nirvana of Buddhistic philosophy, the
final deliverance of the soul from transmigration. Such love as
that of Tristan and Isolde presented itself to Wagner as ceaseless
struggle and endless contradiction, and for this problem nirvana
alone offers a happy outcome; it means quietude and identity.

In vain does Brangäne sing her song of warning from the tower;
the lovers have been transported beyond all realization of their
surroundings; they sing on, dream on in each other's arms, until
at the moment of supremest ecstasy there comes a rude interruption.
Kurwenal dashes in with a sword and a shout: "Save thyself,
Tristan!" the king, Melot, and courtiers at his heels. Day, symbol
of all that is fatal to their love, has dawned. Tristan is silent,
though Marke bewails the treachery of his nephew and his friend.
From the words of the heart-torn king we learn that he had been
forced into the marriage with Isolde by the disturbed state of his
kingdom, and had not consented to it until Tristan, whose purpose
it was thus to quiet the jealous anger of the barons, had threatened
to depart from Cornwall unless the king revoked his purpose to make
him his successor, and took unto himself a wife. Tristan's answer to
the sorrowful upbraidings of his royal uncle is to obtain a promise
from Isolde to follow him into the "wondrous realm of night." Then,
seeing that Marke does not wield the sword of retribution, he makes
a feint of attacking Melot, but permits the treacherous knight to
reach him with his sword. He falls wounded unto death.

The last act has been reached. The dignified, reserved knight
of the first act, the impassioned lover of the second, is now a
dream-haunted, longing, despairing, dying man, lying under a lime
tree in the yard of his ancestral castle in Brittany, wasting his
last bit of strength in feverish fancies and ardent yearnings
touching Isolde. Kurwenal has sent for her. Will she come? A
shepherd tells of vain watches for the sight of a sail by playing
a mournful melody on his pipe:--

[Musical excerpt]

Oh, the heart-hunger of the hero! The longing! Will she never come?
The fever is consuming him, and his heated brain breeds fancies
which one moment lift him above all memories of pain and the next
bring him to the verge of madness. Cooling breezes waft him again
toward Ireland, whose princess healed the wound struck by Morold,
then ripped it up again with the avenging sword with its telltale
nick. From her hands he took the drink whose poison sears his heart.
Accursed the cup and accursed the hand that brewed it! Will the
shepherd never change his doleful strain? Ah, Isolde, how beautiful
you are! The ship, the ship! It must be in sight. Kurwenal, have
you no eyes? Isolde's ship! A merry tune bursts from the shepherd's

[Musical excerpt]

It is the ship! What flag flies at the peak? The flag of "All's
well!" Now the ship disappears behind a cliff. There the breakers
are treacherous. Who is at the helm? Friend or foe? Melot's
accomplice? Are you, too, a traitor, Kurwenal? Tristan's strength is
unequal to the excitement of the moment. His mind becomes dazed. He
hears Isolde's voice, and his wandering fancy transforms it into the
torch whose extinction once summoned him to her side: "Do I hear
the light?" He staggers to his feet and tears the bandages from his
wound. "Ha! my blood! flow merrily now! She who opened the wound is
here to heal it!" Life endures but for one embrace, one glance, one
word: "Isolde!" While Isolde lies mortally stricken upon Tristan's
corpse, Marke and his train arrive upon a second ship. Brangäne
has told the secret of the love-draught, and the king has come
to unite the lovers. But his purpose is not known, and faithful
Kurwenal receives his death-blow while trying to hold the castle
against Marke's men. He dies at Tristan's side. Isolde, unconscious
of all these happenings, sings out her broken heart, and expires.

  And ere her ear might hear, her heart had heard,
  Nor sought she sign for witness of the word;
  But came and stood above him, newly dead,
  And felt his death upon her: and her head
  Bowed, as to reach the spring that slakes all drouth;
  And their four lips became one silent mouth. {2}


{1} "Studies in the Wagnerian Drama," by H. E. Krehbiel.

{2} Swinburne, "Tristram of Lyonesse."



A lad, hotfoot in pursuit of a wild swan which one of his arrows has
pierced, finds himself in a forest glade on the side of a mountain.
There he meets a body of knights and esquires in attendance on a
king who is suffering from a wound. The knights are a body of men
whose mission it is to succor suffering innocence wherever they may
find it. They dwell in a magnificent castle on the summit of the
mountain, within whose walls they assemble every day to contemplate
and adore a miraculous vessel from which they obtain both physical
and spiritual sustenance. In order to enjoy the benefits which flow
from this talisman, they are required to preserve their bodies in
ascetic purity. Their king has fallen from this estate and been
grievously wounded in an encounter with a magician, who, having
failed in his ambition to enter the order of knighthood, had built
a castle over against that of the king, where, by practice of the
black art and with the help of sirens and a sorceress, he seeks the
ruin of the pure and celestial soldiery. In his hands is a lance
which once belonged to the knights, but which he had wrested from
their king and with which he had given the dolorous stroke from
which the king is suffering.

The healing of the king can be wrought only by a touch of the lance
which struck the wound; and this lance can be regained only by one
able to withstand the sensual temptations with which the evil-minded
sorcerer has surrounded himself in his magical castle. An oracle,
that had spoken from a vision, which one day shone about the
talisman, had said that this deliverer fool, an innocent simpleton,
pity had made knowing:--

[Musical excerpt--"Durch mitleid wissend, der reine Thor, harre sein'
den ich erkor." THE ORACLE]

For this hero king and knights are waiting and longing, since
neither lotions nor baths nor ointments can bring relief, though
they be of the rarest potency and brought from all the ends of the
earth. The lad who thus finds himself in this worshipful but woful
company is himself of noble and knightly lineage. This we learn from
the recital of his history, but also from the bright, incisive,
militant, chivalresque music associated with him:--

[Musical excerpt--THE SYMBOL OF PARSIFAL]

But he has been reared in a wilderness, far from courts and the
institutions of chivalry and in ignorance of the world lying beyond
his forest boundaries. His father died before he was born, and his
mother withheld from him all knowledge of knighthood, hoping thus
to keep him for herself. One day, however, he saw a cavalcade of
horsemen in brilliant trappings. The spectacle stirred the chivalric
spirit slumbering within him; he deserted his mother, followed after
the knights, and set out in quest of adventure. The mother died:--


In the domain whither his quarry had led the lad, all animals were
held sacred. A knight (Gurnemanz) rebukes him for his misdeed in
shooting the swan, and rue leads him to break his bow and arrows.
From a strange creature (Kundry),--

[Musical excerpt--THE PENITENT KUNDRY]

in the service of the knights, he learns of the death of his mother,
who had perished for love of him and grief over his desertion. He is
questioned about himself, but is singularly ignorant of everything,
even of his own name. Hoping that the lad may prove to be the
guileless fool to whom knowledge was to come through pity, the
knight escorts him to the temple, which is the sanctuary of the
talisman whose adoration is the daily occupation of the brotherhood.
They walk out of the forest and find themselves in a rocky defile
of the mountain. A natural gateway opens in the face of a cliff,
through which they pass, and are lost to sight for a space. Then
they are seen ascending a sloping passage, and little by little the
rocks lose their ruggedness and begin to take on rude architectural
contours. They are walking to music which, while merely suggesting
their progress and the changing natural scene in the main, ever and
anon breaks into an expression of the most poignant and lacerating
suffering and lamentation:--


Soon the pealing of bells is heard:--

[Musical excerpt]

and the tones blend synchronously and harmonously with the music of
their march:--


At last they arrive in a mighty Byzantine hail, which loses itself
upward in a lofty, vaulted dome, from which light streams downward
and illumines the interior. Under the dome, within a colonnade, are
two tables, each a segment of a circle. Into the hall there come
in procession knights wearing red mantles on which the image of a
white dove is embroidered. They chant a pious hymn as they take
their places at the refectory tables:--

[Musical excerpt--"Zum letzten Liebesmahle Gerüstet Tag für Tag."

The king, whom the lad had seen in the glade, is borne in on a
litter, before him a veiled shrine containing the mystical cup which
is the object of the ceremonious worship. It is the duty of the
king to unveil the talisman and hold it up to the adoration of the
knights. He is conveyed to a raised couch and the shrine is placed
before him. His sufferings of mind and body are so poignant that
he would liever die than perform his office; but the voice of his
father (Titurel), who had built the sanctuary, established the order
of knighthood, and now lives on in his grave sustained by the sight
of the talisman, admonishes the king of his duty. At length he
consents to perform the function imposed upon him by his office. He
raises himself painfully upon his couch. The attendants remove the
covering from the shrine and disclose an antique crystal vessel
which they reverently place before the lamentable king. Boys' voices
come wafted down from the highest height of the dome, singing a
formula of consecration: "Take ye my body, take my blood in token
of our love":--

[Musical excerpt--THE LOVE-FEAST FORMULA]

A dazzling ray of light flashes down from above and falls into the
cup, which now glows with a reddish purple lustre and sheds a soft
radiance around. The knights have sunk upon their knees. The king
lifts the luminous chalice, moves it gently from side to side, and
thus blesses the bread and wine provided for the refection of the
knights. Meanwhile, celestial voices proclaim the words of the
oracle to musical strains that are pregnant with mysterious

Another choir sturdily, firmly, ecstatically hymns the power
of faith:--

[Musical excerpt--THE SYMBOL OF FAITH]

and, at the end, an impressive antiphon, starting with the knights,
ascends higher and higher, and, calling in gradually the voices of
invisible singers in the middle height, becomes metamorphosed into
an angelic canticle as it takes its flight to the summit. It is
the voice of aspiration, the musical symbol of the talisman which
directs the thoughts and desires of its worshippers ever upward:--


The lad disappoints his guide. He understands nothing of the solemn
happenings which he has witnessed, nor does he ask their meaning,
though his own heart had been lacerated with pain at sight of the
king's sufferings. He is driven from the sanctuary with contumely.

He wanders forth in quest of further adventures and enters the
magical garden surrounding the castle of the sorcerer. A number of
knights who are sent against him he puts to rout. Now the magician
summons lovely women, clad in the habiliments of flowers, to seduce
him with their charms:--


They sing and play about him with winsome wheedlings and cajoleries,
with insinuating blandishments and dainty flatteries, with pretty
petulancies and delectable quarrellings:--

[Musical excerpt--"Komm, Komm, holder Knabe," THE SEDUCTIVE SONG OF

But they fail of their purpose, as does also an unwilling siren whom
the magician invokes with powerful conjurations. It is Kundry, who
is half Magdalen, half wicked sorceress, a messenger in the service
of the pious knights, and as such hideous of aspect; a tool in the
hands of the magician, and as such supernaturally beautiful. It was
to her charms that the suffering king had yielded. To win the youth
she tells him the story of his mother's death and gives to him her
last message and--a kiss! At the touch of her impure lips a flood of
passion, hitherto unfelt, pours through the veins of the lad, and in
its surge comes understanding of the suffering and woe which he had
witnessed in the castle on the mountain. Also a sense of his own
remissness. Compassionate pity brings enlightenment; and he thrusts
back the woman who is seeking to destroy him. Finding that the wiles
of his tool have availed him naught, the wicked magician himself
appears to give battle, for he, too, knows the oracle and fears the
coming of the king's deliverer and the loss of the weapon which he
hopes will yet enable him to achieve the mystical talisman. He hurls
the lance at the youth, but it remains suspended in midair. The lad
seizes it, makes the sign of the cross, speaks some words of exorcism,
and garden, castle, damsels--all the works of enchantment disappear.

Now the young hero is conscious of a mission. He must find again
the abode of the knights and their ailing king, and bring to them
surcease of suffering. After long and grievous wanderings he is
again directed to the castle. Grief and despair have overwhelmed the
knights, whose king, unable longer to endure the torture in which he
has lived, has definitively refused to perform his holy office. In
consequence, his father, no longer the recipient of supernatural
sustenance, has died, and the king longs to follow him. The hero
touches the wound in the side of the king with the sacred spear,
ends his dolors, and is hailed as king in his place. The temptress,
who has followed him as a penitent, freed from a curse which had
rested upon her for ages, goes to a blissful and eternal rest.

          *      *      *

Such is the story of Wagner's "Parsifal." It is the purpose of this
book to help the musical layman who loves lyric drama to enjoyment.
Criticism might do this, but a purpose of simple exposition has
already been proclaimed, and shall be adhered to lest some reader
think that he is being led too far afield. In this case the
exposition shall take the form of a marshalling of the elements of
the story in two aspects--religious and legendary. Careful readers
of English literature will have had no difficulty in recognizing in
it a story of the quest of the Holy Grail. Tennyson will have taught
them that the hero is that

                          Sir Percivale
  Whom Arthur and his knighthood called the Pure;

that the talismanic vessel is

              the cup itself from which our Lord
  Drank at the last sad supper with His own;

that the lance which struck and healed the grievous wound in the
side of the king is the spear with which the side of the Christ was
pierced on Calvary. It is also obvious that the king, whose name
is Amfortas, that is, "the powerless one," is a symbol of humanity
suffering from the wounds of slavery to desire; that the heroic act
of Parsifal, as Wagner calls him, which brings release to the king
and his knights, is renunciation of desire, prompted by pity,
compassion, fellow-suffering; and that this gentle emotion it was
that had inspired knowledge simultaneously of a great need and a
means of deliverance. The ethical idea of the drama, as I set forth
in a book entitled "Studies in the Wagnerian Drama" many years ago,
is that it is the enlightenment which comes through pity which
brings salvation. The allusion is to the redemption of mankind
by the sufferings and compassionate death of Christ; and that
stupendous tragedy is the prefiguration of the mimic drama which
Wagner has constructed. The spectacle to which he invites us, and
with which he hoped to impress us and move us to an acceptance of
the lesson underlying his play, is the adoration of the Holy Grail,
cast in the form of a mimicry of the Last Supper, bedizened with
some of the glittering pageantry of mediaeval knighthood and romance.

In the minds of many persons it is a profanation to make a stage
spectacle out of religious things; and it has been urged that
"Parsifal" is not only religious but specifically Christian; not
only Christian but filled with parodies of elements which are partly
liturgical, partly Biblical. In narrating the incidents of the play
I have purposely avoided all allusions to the things which have been
matters of controversy. It is possible to look upon "Parsifal" as a
sort of glorified fairy tale, and to this end I purpose to subject
its elements to inquiry, and shall therefore go a bit more into
detail. Throughout the play Parsifal is referred to as a redeemer,
and in the third act scenes in which he plays as the central figure
are borrowed from the life of Christ. Kundry, the sorceress, who
attempts his destruction at one time and is in the service of the
knights of the Grail at another, anoints his feet and dries them
with her hair, as the Magdalen did the feet of Christ in the house
of Simon the Pharisee. Parsifal baptizes Kundry and admonishes her
to believe in the Redeemer:--

    Die Taufe nimm
  Und glaub' an den Erlöser!

Kundry weeps. Unto the woman who was a sinner and wept at His feet
Christ said: "Thy sins are forgiven. . . . Thy faith hath saved
thee. Go in peace." At the elevation of the grail by Parsifal after
the healing of Amfortas a dove descends from the dome and hovers
over the new king's head. What saith the Scripture? "And Jesus,
when he was baptized, went up straightway out of the water; and
lo, the heavens were opened unto him, and he saw the Spirit of God
descending like a dove, and lighting upon him." (St. Matthew iii.
16.) It would be idle to argue that these things are not Biblical,
though the reported allusions to Parsifal as a redeemer do not of
necessity belong in the category. We shall see presently that the
drama is permeated with Buddhism, and there were a multitude of
redeemers and saviours in India besides the Buddha.

Let us look at the liturgical elements. The Holy Grail is a chalice.
It is brought into the temple in solemn procession in a veiled
shrine and deposited on a table. Thus, also, the chalice, within its
pall, is brought in at the sacrament of the mass and placed on the
altar before the celebrant. In the drama boys' voices sing in the
invisible heights:--

  Nehmet hin mein Blut
  Um unserer Liebe willen!
  Nehmet hin meinem Leib
  Auf dass ihr mein gedenkt!

Is there a purposed resemblance here to the words of consecration in
the mass? Accipite, et manducate ex hoc omnes. Hoc est enim Corpus
meum. Accipite, et bibite ex eo omnes. Hic est enim Calix sanguinis
mei! In a moment made wonderfully impressive by Wagner's music,
while Amfortas bends over the grail and the knights are on their
knees, a ray of light illumines the cup and it glows red. Amfortas
lifts it high, gently sways it from side to side, and blesses the
bread and wine which youthful servitors have placed beside each
knight on the table. In the book of the play, as the hall gradually
grows light the cups before the knights appear filled with red wine,
and beside each lies a small loaf of bread. Now the celestial
choristers sing: "The wine and bread of the Last Supper, once the
Lord of the Grail, through pity's love-power, changed into the blood
which he shed, into the body which he offered. To-day the Redeemer
whom ye laud changes the blood and body of the sacrificial offering
into the wine poured out for you, and the bread that you eat!" And
the knights respond antiphonally: "Take of the bread; bravely change
it anew into strength and power. Faithful unto death, staunch in
effort to do the works of the Lord. Take of the blood; change
it anew to life's fiery flood. Gladly in communion, faithful as
brothers, to fight with blessed courage." Are these words, or are
they not, a paraphrase of those which in the canon of the mass
follow the first and second ablutions of the celebrant: Quod ore
sumpsimus Domine, etc., and: Corpus tuum, Domine, etc.? He would
be but little critical who would deny it.

Nevertheless, it does not necessarily follow that Wagner wished only
to parody the eucharistic rite. He wanted to create a ceremonial
which should be beautiful, solemn, and moving; which should be an
appropriate accompaniment to the adoration of a mystical relic;
which should, in a large sense, be neither Catholic, Protestant,
nor Buddhistic; which should symbolize a conception of atonement
older than Christianity, older than Buddhism, older than all records
of the human imagination. Of this more anon. As was his custom,
Wagner drew from whatever source seemed to him good and fruitful;
and though he doubtless thought himself at liberty to receive
suggestions from the Roman Catholic ritual, as well as the German
Lutheran, it is even possible that he had also before his mind
scenes from Christian Masonry. This possibility was once suggested
by Mr. F. C. Burnand, who took the idea from the last scene of the
first act only, and does not seem to have known how many connections
the Grail legend had with mediaeval Freemasonry or Templarism. There
are more elements associated with the old Knights Templars and their
rites in Wagner's drama than I am able to discuss. To do so I should
have to be an initiate and have more space at my disposal than I
have here. I can only make a few suggestions: In the old Welsh tale
of Peredur, which is a tale of the quest of a magical talisman, the
substitute for the grail is a dish containing a bloody head. That
head in time, as the legend passed through the imaginations of poets
and romances, became the head of John the Baptist, and there was a
belief in the Middle Ages that the Knights Templars worshipped a
bloody head. The head of John the Baptist enters dimly into Wagner's
drama in the conceit that Kundry is a reincarnation of Herodias,
who is doomed to make atonement, not for having danced the head off
the prophet's shoulders, but for having reviled Christ as he was
staggering up Calvary under the load of the cross. But this is
pursuing speculations into regions that are shadowy and vague. Let
it suffice for this branch of our study that Mr. Burnand has given
expression to the theory that the scene of the adoration of the
grail and the Love Feast may also have a relationship with the
ceremony of installation in the Masonic orders of chivalry, in
which a cup of brotherly love is presented to the Grand Commander,
who drinks and asks the Sir Knights to pledge him in the cup "in
commemoration of the Last Supper of our Grand Heavenly Captain, with
his twelve disciples, whom he commanded thus to remember him." Here,
says Mr. Burnand, there is no pretence to sacrifice. Participation
in the wine is a symbol of a particular and peculiarly close
intercommunion of brotherhood.

To get the least offence from "Parsifal" it ought to be accepted in
the spirit of the time in which Christian symbolism was grafted on
the old tales of the quest of a talisman which lie at the bottom of
it. The time was the last quarter of the twelfth century and the
first quarter of the thirteenth. It is the period of the third
and fourth crusades. Relic worship was at its height. Less than a
hundred years before (in 1101) the Genoese crusaders had brought
back from the Holy Land as a part of the spoils of Caesarea, which
they were helpful in capturing under Baldwin, a three-cornered dish,
which was said to be the veritable dish used at the Last Supper of
Christ and his Apostles. The belief that it was cut out of a solid
emerald drew Bonaparte's attention to it, and he carried it away
to Paris in 1806 and had it examined. It proved to be nothing but
glass, and he graciously gave it back to Genoa in 1814. There it
still reposes in the Church of St. John, but it is no longer an
object of worship, though it might fairly excite a feeling of

For 372 years Nuremberg possessed what the devout believed to be the
lance of Longinus, with which the side of Christ was opened. The
relic, like most objects of its kind (the holy coat, for instance),
had a rival which, after inspiring victory at the siege of Antioch,
found its way to Paris with the most sacred relics, for which Louis
IX built the lovely Sainte Chapelle; now it is in the basilica of
the Vatican, at Rome. The Nuremberg relic, however, enjoyed the
advantage of historical priority. It is doubly interesting, or
rather was so, because it was one of Wagner's historical characters
who added it to the imperial treasure of the Holy Roman Empire. This
was none other than Henry the Fowler, the king who is righteous in
judgment and tuneful of speech in the opera "Lohengrin." Henry, so
runs the story, wrested the lance from the Burgundian king, Rudolph
III, some time about A.D. 929. After many vicissitudes the relic was
given for safe keeping to the imperial city of Nuremberg, in 1424,
by the Emperor Sigismund. It was placed in a casket, which was
fastened with heavy chains to the walls of the Spitalkirche. There
it remained until 1796. One may read about the ceremonies attending
its annual exposition, along with other relics, in the old history
of Nuremberg, by Wagenseil, which was the source of Wagner's
knowledge of the mastersingers. The disruption of the Holy Roman
Empire caused a scattering of the jewels and relics in the imperial
treasury, and the present whereabouts of this sacred lance is
unknown. The casket and chains, however, are preserved in the
Germanic Museum at Nuremberg to this day, and there have been seen,
doubtless, by many who are reading these lines.

There is nothing in "Parsifal," neither personage nor incident nor
thing, no principle of conduct, which did not live in legendary
tales and philosophical systems long before Christianity existed as
a universal religion. The hero in his first estate was born, bred,
went out in search of adventure, rescued the suffering, and righted
wrong, just as Krishna, Perseus, Theseus, OEdipus, Romulus,
Remus, Siegfried, and Wolf-Dietrich did before him. He is an Aryan
legendary and mythical hero-type that has existed for ages. The
talismanic cup and spear are equally ancient; they have figured
in legend from time immemorial. The incidents of their quest,
the agonies wrought by their sight, their mission as inviters of
sympathetic interest, and the failure of a hero to achieve a work of
succor because of failure to show pity, are all elements in Keltic
Quester and Quest stories, which antedate Christianity. Kundry, the
loathly damsel and siren, has her prototypes in classic fable and
romantic tale. Read the old English ballad of "The Marriage of Sir
Gawain." So has the magic castle of Klingsor, surrounded by its
beautiful garden. It is all the things which I enumerated in the
chapter devoted to "Tannhäuser." It is also the Underworld, where
prevails the law of taboo--"Thou must," or "Thou shalt not;" whither
Psyche went on her errand for Venus and came back scot-free; where
Peritheus and Theseus remained grown to a rocky seat till Hercules
came to release them with mighty wrench and a loss of their bodily
integrity. The sacred lance which shines red with blood after it
has by its touch healed the wound of Amfortas is the bleeding spear
which was a symbol of righteous vengeance unperformed in the old
Bardic day of Britain; it became the lance of Longinus which pierced
the side of Christ when Christian symbolism was applied to the
ancient Arthurian legends; and you may read in Malory's "Morte
d'Arthur" how a dolorous stroke dealt with it by Balin opened a
wound in the side of King Pellam from which he suffered many years,
till Galahad healed him in the quest of the Sangreal by touching
the wound with the blood which flowed from the spear.

These are the folklore elements in Wagner's "Parsifal." It is plain
that they might have been wrought into a drama substantially like
that which was the poet-composer's last gift to art without loss
of either dignity or beauty. Then his drama would have been like
a glorified fairy play, imposing and of gracious loveliness, and
there would have been nothing to quarrel about. But Wagner was a
philosopher of a sort, and a sincere believer in the idea that the
theatre might be made to occupy the same place in the modern world
that it did in the classic. It was to replace the Church and teach
by direct preachments as well as allegory the philosophical notions
which he thought essential to the salvation of humanity. For the
chief of these he went to that system of philosophy which rests on
the idea that the world is to be redeemed by negation of the will to
live, the conquering of all desire--that the highest happiness is
the achievement of nirvana, nothingness. This conception finds its
highest expression in the quietism and indifferentism of the old
Brahmanic religion (if such it can be called), in which holiness
was to be obtained by speculative contemplation, which seems to me
the quintessence of selfishness. In the reformed Brahmanism called
Buddhism, there appeared along with the old principle of self-erasure
a compassionate sympathy for others. Asceticism was not put aside,
but regulated and ordered, wrought into a communal system. It was
purged of some of its selfishness by appreciation of the loveliness
of compassionate love as exemplified in the life of Çakya-Muni and
those labors which made him one of the many redeemers and saviours
of which Hindu literature is full. Something of this was evidently
in the mind of Wagner as long ago as 1857, when, working on "Tristan
und Isolde," he for a while harbored the idea of bringing Parzival
(as he would have called him then) into the presence of the
dying Tristan to comfort him with a sermon on the happiness of
renunciation. Long before Wagner had sketched a tragedy entitled
"Jesus of Nazareth," the hero of which was to be a human philosopher
who preached the saving grace of love and sought to redeem his time
and people from the domination of conventional law, the offspring
of selfishness. His philosophy was socialism imbued by love. Before
Wagner finished "Tristan und Isolde" he had outlined a Hindu play in
which hero and heroine were to accept the doctrines of the Buddha,
take the vow of chastity, renounce the union toward which love
impelled them, and enter into the holy community. Blending these two
schemes, Wagner created "Parsifal." For this drama he could draw
the principle of compassionate pity and fellow-suffering from the
stories of both Çakya-Muni and Jesus of Nazareth. But for the sake
of a spectacle, I think, he accepted the Christian doctrine of the
Atonement with all its mystical elements; for they alone put the
necessary symbolical significance into the principal apparatus of
the play--the Holy Grail and the Sacred Lance. {1}


{1} "Parsifal" was performed for the first time at the Wagner
Festival Theatre in Bayreuth on July 28, 1882. The prescription
that it should belong exclusively to Bayreuth was respected till
December 24, 1903, when Heinrich Conried, taking advantage of the
circumstance that there was no copyright on the stage representation
of the work in America, brought it out with sensational success at
the Metropolitan Opera-house in New York. The principal artists
concerned in this and subsequent performances were Milka Ternina
(Kundry), Alois Burgstaller (Paraifal), Anton Van Rooy (Amfortas),
Robert Blass (Gurnemanz), Otto Görlitz (Klingsor) and Louise Homer
(a voice).



The best definition of the true purpose of comedy which I know is
that it is to "chastise manners with a smile" (Ridendo castigat
mores); and it has no better exemplification in the literature
of opera than Wagner's "Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg." Wagner's
mind dwelt much on Greek things, and as he followed a classical
principle in choosing mythological and legendary subjects for his
tragedies, so also he followed classical precedent in drawing the
line between tragedy and comedy. "Tannhäuser," "Tristan und Isolde,"
"Der Ring des Nibelungen," "Parsifal," and, in a lesser degree,
"Lohengrin," are examples of the old tragedy type. To them the
restrictions of time and space do not apply. They deal with large
passions, and their heroes are gods or godlike men who are shattered
against the rock of immutable law--the "Fate" of the ancient
tragedians. His only significant essay in the field of comedy was
made in "Die Meistersinger," and this is as faithful to the old
conception of comedy as the dramas mentioned are to that of tragedy.
It deals with the manners, vices, and follies of the common people;
and, therefore, it has local environment and illustrates a period
in history. It was conceived as a satyr-play following a tragedy
("Tannhäuser"), and though there can be no doubt that it was
designed to teach a lesson in art, it nevertheless aims primarily
to amuse, and only secondarily to instruct and correct. Moreover,
even the most cutting of its satirical lashes are administered with
a smile.

As a picture of the social life of a quaint German city three and a
half centuries ago, its vividness and truthfulness are beyond all
praise; it is worthy to stand beside the best dramas of the world,
and has no equal in operatic literature. The food for its satire,
too, is most admirably chosen, for no feature of the social life of
that place and period is more amiably absurd than the efforts of the
handicraftsmen and tradespeople, with their prosaic surroundings,
to keep alive by dint of pedantic formularies the spirit of
minstrelsy, which had a natural stimulus in the chivalric life of
the troubadours and minnesingers of whom the mastersingers thought
themselves the direct and legitimate successors. In its delineation
of the pompous doings of the mastersingers, Wagner is true to
the letter. He has vitalized the dry record to be found in old
Wagenseil's book on Nuremberg, {1} and intensified the vivid
description of a mastersingers' meeting which the curious may read
in August Hagen's novel "Norica." His studies have been marvellously
exact and careful, and he has put Wagenseil's book under literal and
liberal contribution, as will appear after a while. Now it seems
best to tell the story of the comedy before discussing it further.

Veit Pogner, a rich silversmith, desiring to honor the craft of the
mastersingers, to whose guild he belongs, offers his daughter Eva
in marriage to the successful competitor at the annual meeting of
the mastersingers on the feast of St. John. Eva is in love (she
declares it in the impetuous manner peculiar to Wagner's heroines)
with Walther von Stolzing, a young Franconian knight; and the knight
with her. After a flirtation in church during divine service,
Walther meets her before she leaves the building, and asks if she
be betrothed. She answers in the affirmative, but it is to the
unknown victor at the contest of singing on the morrow. He resolves
to enter the guild so as to be qualified for the competition. A
trial of candidates takes place in the church of St. Catherine in
the afternoon, and Walther, knowing nothing of the rules of the
mastersingers, some of which have hurriedly been outlined to him
by David, a youngster who is an apprentice at shoemaking and also
songmaking, fails, though Hans Sachs, a master in both crafts,
recognizes evidences of genius in the knight's song, and espouses
his cause as against Beckmesser, the town clerk, who aims at
acquiring Pogner's fortune by winning his daughter. The young
people, in despair at Walther's failure, are about to elope when
they are prevented by the arrival on the scene of Beckmesser. It is
night, and he wishes to serenade Eva; Sachs sits cobbling at his
bench, while Eva's nurse, Magdalena, disguised, sits at a window
to hear the serenade in her mistress's stead. Sachs interrupts
the serenader, who is an ill-natured clown, by lustily shouting
a song in which he seeks also to give warning of knowledge of
her intentions to Eva, whose departure with the knight had been
interrupted by the cobbler when he came out of his shop to work
in the cool of the evening; but he finally agrees to listen to
Beckmesser on condition that he be permitted to mark each error in
the composition by striking his lap-stone. The humorous consequences
can be imagined. Beckmesser becomes enraged at Sachs, sings more
and more falsely, until Sachs is occupied in beating a veritable
tattoo on his lap-stone. To add to Beckmesser's discomfiture,
David, Sachs's apprentice and Magdalena's sweetheart, thinking
the serenade intended for his love, begins to belabor the singer
with a chub; neighbors join in the brawl, which proceeds right
merrily until interrupted by the horn of a night watchman. The
dignity and vigor of Wagner's poetical fancy are attested by the
marvellous chose of the act. The tremendous hubbub of the street
brawl is at its height and the business of the act is at an end.
The coming of the Watchman, who has evidently been aroused by the
noise, is foretold by his horn. The crowd is seized with a panic.
All the brawlers disappear behind doors. The sleepy Watchman stares
about him in amazement, rubs his eyes, sings the monotonous chant
which publishes the hour of the night, continues on his round, and
the moon shines on a quiet street in Nuremberg as the curtain falls.

In the third act Walther, who had been taken into his house by Sachs
and spent the night there, sings a recital of a dream; and Sachs,
struck by its beauty, transcribes it, punctuating it with bits of
comments and advice. Beckmesser, entering Sachs's shop when the
cobbler-poet is out for a moment, finds the song, concludes that it
is Sachs's own composition, and appropriates it. Sachs, discovering
the theft, gives the song to Beckmesser, who secures a promise from
Sachs not to betray him, and resolves to sing it at the competition.
The festival is celebrated in a meadow on the banks of the Pegnitz
River, between Fürth and Nuremberg. It begins with a gathering
of all the guilds of Nuremberg, each division in the procession
entering to characteristic music--a real masterpiece, whether
viewed as spectacle, poetry, or music. The competition begins, and
Beckmesser makes a monstrously stupid parody of Walther's song.
He is hooted at and ridiculed, and, becoming enraged, charges the
authorship of the song on Sachs, who coolly retorts that it is
a good song when correctly sung. To prove his words he calls on
Walther to sing it. The knight complies, the mastersingers are
delighted, and Pogner rewards the singer with Eva's hand. Sachs,
at the request of the presiding officer of the guild, also offers
him the medal as the insignia of membership in the guild of
mastersingers. Walther's experience with the pedantry which had
condemned him the day before, when he had sung as impulse, love, and
youthful ardor had prompted, leads him to decline the distinction;
but the old poet discourses on the respect due to the masters and
their, work as the guaranty of the permanence of German art, and
persuades him to enter the guild of mastersingers.

"Die Meistersinger" is photographic in many of its scenes,
personages, and incidents; but so far as the stage pictures which
we are accustomed to see in the opera-houses of New York and the
European capitals are concerned, this statement must be taken with
a great deal of allowance, owing to the fact that opera directors,
stage managers, scene painters, and costumers are blithely
indifferent to the verities of history. I have never seen a mimic
reproduction of the church of St. Catherine on any stage; yet the
church stands to-day with its walls intact as they were at the time
in which the comedy is supposed to play. This time is fixed by the
fact that its principal character, Hans Sachs, is represented as
a widower who might himself be a suitor for Eva's hand. Now the
veritable Sachs was a widower in the summer of the year 1560. I
visited Nuremberg in 1886 in search of relics of the mastersingers
and had no little difficulty in finding the church. It had not been
put to its original purposes for more than a hundred years, and
there seemed to be but few people in Nuremberg who knew of its
existence. It has been many things since it became secularized: a
painter's academy, drawing-school, military hospital, warehouse,
concert-hall, and, no doubt, a score of other things. When I found
it with the aid of the police it was the paint-shop and scenic
storeroom of the municipal theatre. It is a small building, utterly
unpretentious of exterior and interior, innocent of architectural
beauty, hidden away in the middle of a block of lowly buildings
used as dwellings, carpenter shops, and the like. That Wagner never
visited it is plain from the fact that though he makes it the
scene of one act of his comedy (as he had to do to be historically
accurate), his stage directions could not possibly be accommodated
to its architecture. In 1891 Mr. Louis Loeb, the American artist,
whose early death in the summer of 1909 is widely mourned, visited
the spot and made drawings for me of the exterior and interior of
the church as it looked then. The church was built in the last half
decade of the thirteenth century, and on its water-stained walls,
when I visited it, there were still to be seen faint traces of the
frescoes which once adorned it and were painted in the fourteenth,
fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries; but they were ruined beyond
hope of restoration. In the Germanic Museum I found a wooden tablet
dating back to 1581, painted by one Franz Hein. It preserves
portraits of four distinguished members of the mastersingers' guild.
There is a middle panel occupied by two pictures, the upper
showing King David, the patron saint of the guild, so forgetful of
chronology as to be praying before a crucifix, the lower a meeting
of the mastersingers. Over the heads of the assemblage is a
representative of the medallion with which the victor in a contest
used to be decorated, as we see in the last scene of Wagner's
comedy. One of these decorations was given to the guild by Sachs
and was in use for a whole century. At the end of that time it had
become so worn that Wagenseil replaced it with another.

Church and tablet are the only relics of the mastersingers left
in Nuremberg which may be called personal. I had expected to find
autobiographic manuscripts of Sachs, but in this was disappointed.
There is a volume of mastersongs in the poet-cobbler's handwriting
in the Royal Library of Berlin, and one of these is the composition
of the veritable Sixtus Beckmesser; but most of the Sachs
manuscripts are in Zwickau. In the Bibliotheca Norica Williana,
incorporated with the Municipal Library of Nuremberg, there are
several volumes of mastersingers' songs purchased from an old
mastersinger some 135 years ago, and from these the students may
learn the structure and spirit of the mastersongs of the period of
the opera as well as earlier and later periods, though he will find
all the instruction he needs in any dozen or twenty of the 4275
mastersongs written by Hans Sachs. The manuscript books known serve
to prove one thing which needed not to have called up a doubt. In
them are poems from all of the mastersingers who make up the meeting
which condemns Walther in St. Catherine's church. Wagner has adhered
to the record. {2} The most interesting of Sixtus Beckmesser's
compositions is "A New Year's Song," preserved in the handwriting
of Sachs in the Royal Library at Berlin. This I have translated in
order to show the form of the old mastersongs as described by the
apprentice, David, in Wagner's comedy, and also to prove (so far
as a somewhat free translation can) that the veritable Beckmesser
was not the stupid dunce that Wagner, for purposes of his own,
and tempted, doubtless, by the humor which he found in the name,
represented him to be. In fact, I am strongly tempted to believe
that with the exception of Sachs himself, Beckmesser was the best
of the mastersingers of the Nuremberg school:--

    By Sixtus Beckmesser

    (First "Stoll")
      Christian thoughts employ
  This day
  Doth say
      The Book of old
      That we should hold
      The faith foretold;
  For naught doth doubt afford.
  The patriarchs with one accord
  Lived hoping that the Lord
  Would rout the wicked horde.
      Thus saith the word
      To all believers given.

    (Second "Stoll")
  Council held, triune,
  When soon
  The boon
      The son foresaw:
      Fulfilled the law
      That we might draw
  Salvation's prize. God then
  An angel sent cross moor and fen,
  ('Twas Gabriel, heaven's denizen,)
  To Mary, purest maid 'mongst men.
      He greeted her
      With blessings sent from heaven.

    (The "Abgesang")
  Thus spake the angel graciously:
      "The Lord with thee,
      Thou blessed she;
  The Lord's voice saith,
  Which breathes thy breath,
  That men have earned eternal death.
      Saves alone from sin's subjection;
      For while weak Eve God's anger waked,
  'Twas, Ave, thine the blest election
  To give the world peace and protection,
      Most blessed gift
      To mortals ever given!"

In Nuremberg the veritable Hans Sachs wrote plays on Tännhauser,
Tristan, and Siegfried between three and four hundred years before
the poet-composer who put the old cobbler-poet into his comedy. Very
naïve and very archaic indeed are Hans Sachs's dramas compared with
Wagner's; but it is, perhaps, not an exaggeration to say that Sachs
was as influential a factor in the dramatic life of his time as
Wagner in ours. He was among the earliest of the German poets
who took up the miracle plays and mysteries after they had been
abandoned by the church and developed them on the lines which ran
out into the classic German drama. His immediate predecessors were
the writers of the so-called "Fastnacht" (Mardi-gras) plays, who
flourished in Nuremberg in the fifteenth century. Out of these
plays German comedy arose, and among those who rocked its cradle
was another of the mastersingers who plays a part in Wagner's
opera,--Hans Folz. It was doubtless largely due to the influence of
Hans Sachs that the guild of mastersingers built the first German
theatre in Nuremberg in 1550. Before then plays with religious
subjects were performed in St. Catherine's church, as we have seen,
the meeting place of the guild. Secular plays were represented in
private houses.

Hans Sachs wrote no less than 208 dramas, which he divided into
"Carnival Plays," "Plays," "Comedies," and "Tragedies." He dropped
the first designation in his later years, but his first dramatic
effort was a Fastnachtspiel, and treated the subject of Tannhäuser
and Venus. It bears the date February 21, 1517, and was therefore
written 296 years before Wagner was born. Of what is now dramatic
form and structure, there is not a sign in this play. It is merely
a dialogue between Venus and various persons who stand for as many
classes of society. The title is: "Das Hoffgesindt Veneris," or,
as it might be rendered in English, "The Court of Venus." The
characters are a Herald, Faithful Eckhardt, Danheuser (sic),
Dame Venus, a Knight, Physician, Citizen, Peasant, Soldier, Gambler,
Drunkard, Maid, and Wife. The Knight, Citizen, and the others appear
in turn before Venus and express contempt for her powers,--the
Knight because of his bravery, the Physician because of his learning,
the Maid because of her virtue, the Wife because of her honor.
Faithful Eckhardt, a character that figures in many Thuringian
legends, especially in tales of the Wild Hunt, warns each person in
turn to beware of Venus. The latter listens to each boast and lets
loose an arrow. Each boaster succumbs with a short lamentation. When
the play opens, Danheuser is already a prisoner of the goddess.
After all the rest have fallen victims, he begs for his release,
and they join in his petition. Venus rejects the prayer, speaks in
praise of her powers, and calls on a piper for music. A general
dance follows, whereupon the company go with the enchantress into
the Venusberg. The last speech of Venus ends with the line:--

So says Hans Sachs of Nuremberg.

There is but a single scene in "The Court of Venus." In other plays
written in after years, no matter how often the action demanded it,
there is neither change of scenes nor division into acts; and the
personages, whether Biblical or classical, talk in the manner of
the simple folk of the sixteenth century. Sachs's tragedy, "Von der
strengen Lieb' Herrn Tristrant mit der schönen Königin Isalden" ("Of
the strong love of Lord Tristram and the beautiful Queen Iseult"),
contains seven acts, as is specified in the continuation of the
title "und hat sieben Akte." It was written thirty-six years later
than the carnival play and three years after the establishment of
a theatre in Nuremberg by the mastersingers. Each act ends with a
triple rhyme. Though Sachs uses stage directions somewhat freely
compared with the other dramatists of the period, the personages
all speak in the same manner, and time and space are annihilated in
the action most bewilderingly. Thus, no sooner does Herr Tristrant
volunteer to meet Morhold der Held to settle the question of
"Curnewelshland's" tribute to "Irland" than the two are at it hammer
and tongs on an island in the ocean. All the other incidents of the
old legends follow as fast as they are mentioned. Tristrant saves
his head in Ireland when discovered as the slayer of Morhold by
ridding the country of a dragon, and is repeatedly convicted of
treachery and taken back into confidence by König Marx, as one may
read in Sir Thomas Malory's "Morte d'Arthur." Sachs follows an old
conclusion of the story and gives Tristrant a second Iseult to wife,
and she tells the lie about the sails. The first Iseult dies of a
broken heart at the sight of her lover's bier, and the Herald in a
speech draws the moral of the tale:--

  Aus dem so lass dich treulich warnen,
  O Mensch, vor solcher Liebe Garnen,
  Und spar dein Lieb' bis in die Eh',
  Dann hab' Ein lieb' und keine meh.
  Diesselb' Lieb' ist mit Gott und Ehren,
  Die Welt damit fruchtbar zu mehren.
  Dazu giebt Gott selbst allewegen
  Sein' Gnad' Gedeihen und milden Segen.
  Dass stete Lieb' und Treu' aufwachs'
  Im ehlich'n Stand', das wünscht Hans Sachs.

One of the most thrilling scenes in "Die Meistersinger" is the
greeting of Hans Sachs by the populace when the hero enters with the
mastersingers' guild at the festival of St. John (the chorus, "Wach'
auf! es nahet gen den Tag"). Here there is another illustration of
Wagner's adherence to the verities of history, or rather, of his
employment of them. The words of the uplifting choral song are not
Wagner's, but were written by the old cobbler-poet himself. Wagner's
stage people apply them to their idol, but Sachs uttered them in
praise of Martin Luther; they form the beginning of his poem
entitled "The Wittenberg Nightingale," which was printed in 1523.

To the old history of Nuremberg written by Wagenseil, Wagner went
for other things besides the theatre and personages of his play.
From it he got the rules which governed the meeting of the
mastersingers, like that which follows the religious service in the
church of St. Catherine in the first act, and the singular names
of the melodies to which, according to David, the candidates for
mastersingers' honors were in the habit of improvising their songs.
In one instance he made a draft on an authentic mastersinger melody.
The march which is used throughout the comedy to symbolize the guild
begins as follows:--

[Musical excerpt]

Here we have an exact quotation from the beginning of the first
Gesetz in the "Long Tone" of Heinrich Müglin, which was a tune
that every candidate for membership in the guild had to be able to
sing. The old song is given in full in Wagenseil's book, and on the
next page I have reproduced a portion of this song in fac-simile, so
that my readers can observe the accuracy of Wagner's quotation and
form an idea of the nature of the poetic frenzy which used to fill
the mastersingers, as well as enjoy the ornamental passages (called
"Blumen" in the old regulations) and compare them with the fiorituri
of Beckmesser's serenade.

There is no doubt in my mind but that Wagner's purpose in "Die
Meistersinger" was to celebrate the triumph of the natural, poetical
impulse, stimulated by healthy emotion and communion with nature,
over pedantry and hide-bound conservatism. In the larger study of
the opera made in another place, I have attempted to show that the
contest is in reality the one which is always waging between the
principles of romanticism and classicism, a contest which is
essentially friendly and necessary to progress. The hero of the
comedy is not Walther, but Sachs, who represents in himself both
principles, who stands between the combatants and checks the
extravagances of both parties. {3}

Like Beethoven in his "Leonore" overtures written for the opera
"Fidelio," Wagner constructs the symphonic introduction to his
comedy so as to indicate the elements of his dramatic story, their
progress in the development of the play, and, finally, the outcome.
The melodies are of two sorts conforming to the two parties into
which the personages of the play can be divided; and, like those
parties, the melodies are broadly distinguished by external
physiognomy and emotional essence. Most easily recognized are the
two broad march tunes typical of the mastersingers and their
pageantry. One of them has already been presented. Like its

[Musical excerpt]

which opens the prelude, it is a strong, simple melody, made on the
intervals of the diatonic scale, square-cut in rhythm, firm and
dignified, and, like the mastersingers, complacent and a trifle
pompous in stride. The three melodies which are presented in
opposition to the spirit represented by the mastersingers and their
typical music, are disclosed by a study of the comedy to be
associated with the passion of the young lovers, Walther and Eva.
They differ in every respect--melodic, rhythmic, and harmonic,--from
those which stand for the old guildsmen and their rule-of-thumb
notions. They are chromatic, as see this:--

[Musical excerpt]

and this (which is the melody which in a broadened form becomes that
of Walther's prize song):--

[Musical excerpt]

and this, which is peculiarly the symbol of youthful ardor:--

[Musical excerpt]

Their rhythms are less regular and more eager (note the influence of
syncopation upon them); they are harmonized with greater warmth and
infused with greater passion. In the development of the prelude
these melodies are presented at first consecutively, then as in
conflict (first one, then another pushing forward for expression),
finally in harmonious and contented union. The middle part of the
prelude, in which the opening march tune is heard in short, quick
notes (in diminution, as the theoreticians say) maybe looked upon as
caricaturing the mastersingers, not in their fair estate, but as
they are satirized in the comedy in the person of Beckmesser.


{1} "Joh. Christophori Wagenseilii De Sacri Rom. Imperii Libera
Civitate Noribergensi Commentatio. Accedit, De Germaniae
Phonascorum Von Der Meister-Singer Origine, Praestantia, Utilitate,
et Institutis, Sermone Vernaculo Liber. Altdorf Noricorum Typis
Impensisque Jodoci Wilhelmi Kohlesii. CID ICD XCVII."

{2} I quote from Wagenseil's book--he is writing about the history
of the mastersingers: "Nach der Stadt Mäyntz, hat in den Stätten
Nürnberg und Strassburg / die Meister-Singer-Kunst sonderlich
floriret / wie dann auchXII. Alte Nürnbergische Meister annoch im
Beruff sind; so mit Namen geheissen / 1. Veit Pogner. 2. Cuntz
Vogelgesang. 3. Hermann Ortel. 4. Conrad Nachtigal. 5. Fritz
Zorn. 6. Sixtus Beckmesser. 7. Fritz Kohtner. 8. Niclaus Vogel.
9. Augustin Moser. 10. Hannss Schwartz. 11. Ulrich Eisslinger.
12. Hannss Foltz."

{3} "In the musical contest it is only the perverted idea of
Classicism which is treated with contumely and routed; the
glorification of the triumph of Romanticism is found in the
stupendously pompous and brilliant setting given to the
mastersingers' music at the end. You see already in this prelude
that Wagner is a true comedian. He administers chastisement with a
smile and chooses for its subject only things which are temporary
aberrations from the good. What is strong, and true, and pure, and
wholesome in the art of the mastersingers he permits to pass through
his satirical fires unscathed. Classicism, in its original sense as
the conservator of that which is highest and best in art, he leaves
unharmed, presenting her after her trial, as Tennyson presents his
Princess at the close of his corrective poem, when

  Her falser self slipt from her like a robe,
  And left her woman, lovelier in her mood
  Than in her mould that other, when she came
  From barren deeps to conquer all with love."

--"Studies in the Wagnerian Drama," by H. E. Krehbiel, p. 95.



In the last hundred lines of the last book of his epic poem to which
Wagner went for the fundamental incidents, not principles, of his
"Parsifal," Wolfram von Eschenbach tells the story of one of the
Grail King's sons whom he calls Loherangrin. This son was a lad when
Parzival (thus Wolfram spells the name) became King of the Holy
Grail and the knights who were in its service. When he had grown
to manhood, there lived in Brabant a queen who was equally gifted
in beauty, wealth, and gentleness. Many princes sought her hand in
marriage, but she refused them all, and waited for the coming of one
whom God had disclosed to her in a vision. One day a knight of great
beauty and nobley, as Sir Thomas Mallory would have said, came to
Antwerp in a boat drawn by a swan. To him the queen at once gave
greeting as lord of her dominions; but in the presence of the
assembled folk he said to her: "If I am to become ruler of this
land, know that it will be at great sacrifice to myself. Should you
nevertheless wish me to remain with you, you must never ask who
I am; otherwise I must leave you forever." The queen made solemn
protestation that she would never do aught against his will. Then
her marriage with the stranger knight was celebrated, and they abode
together long in happiness and honor. But at the last the queen was
led to put the fatal question. Then the swan appeared with the boat,
and Loherangrin, for it was he, was drawn back to Montsalvat, whence
he had come. But to those whom he left behind he gave his sword,
horn, and ring.

There are other mediaeval poems which deal with the story of
Lohengrin, more, indeed, than can or need be discussed here. Some,
however, deserve consideration because they supply elements which
Wagner used in his opera but did not find in Wolfram's poem. Wagner
went, very naturally, to a poem of the thirteenth century, entitled
"Lohengrin," for the majority of the incidents of the drama. Thence
he may have drawn the motive for the curiosity of Elsa touching the
personality of her husband. Of course, it lies in human nature, as
stories which are hundreds if not thousands of years older attest;
but I am trying, as I have been in preceding chapters in this book,
to account for the presence of certain important elements in
Wagner's opera, and so this poem must also be considered. In it
Lohengrin rescues Elsa, the Duchess of Brabant, from the false
accusations of Telramund, the knight having been summoned from
Montsalvat (or "Monsalväsch," to be accurate) by the ringing of a
bell which Elsa had taken from a falcon's leg. The knight marries
her, but first exacts a promise that she will never seek of him
knowledge of his race or country. After the happy domestic life of
the pair has been described, it is told how Lohengrin overthrew the
Duke of Cleves at a tournament in Cologne and broke his arm. The
Duchess of Cleves felt humiliated at the overthrow of her husband by
a knight of whom nothing was known, and wickedly insinuated that it
was a pity that so puissant a jouster should not be of noble birth,
thereby instilling a fatal curiosity into the mind of the Lady of
Brabant, which led to questions which Lohengrin answered before the
emperor's court and then disappeared from view. From "Der jüngere
Titurel," another mediaeval poem, came the suggestion that the
mysterious knight's prowess was due to sorcery and might be set at
naught if his bodily integrity were destroyed even in the slightest
degree. In the French tale of "Le Chevalier au Cygne," as told in
the "Chansons de geste," you may read the story of Helyas, who was
one of seven children of King Oriant and Queen Beatrix, who were
born with silver chains around their necks. The chains being removed
with evil purpose, the children turned into swans and flew away--all
but one, Helyas, who was absent at the time. But Helyas got
possession of all the chains but one, which had been wrought into a
cup, and one day, when he heard the sound of wings, and six swans
let themselves down into the water, he threw the chains around their
necks, and they at once assumed the forms of his brothers. Also how,
one day, Helyas, from the window of his palace, saw a swan drawing a
boat, and how he donned his armor, took a golden horn, and was drawn
away to Nimwegen, where Emperor Otto was holding court. There he
found that the Count of Blankenbourg had accused his sister-in-law,
the Duchess of Bouillon, of having poisoned her husband, and had
laid claim to the duchy. There was to be a trial by ordeal of
battle, and while the duchess waited for the coming of a champion,
lo! there was the sound of a horn, and Helyas came down the river in
a boat drawn by a swan, undertook the cause of the innocent lady,
slew her accuser, and married her daughter. For long she was a good
and faithful wife, and bore him a child who became the mother of
Godfrey de Bouillon, Baldwin de Sebourg, and Eustace de Boulogne.
But one day she asked of her lord his name and race. Then he bade
her repair to Nimwegen, and commending her and her daughter to the
care of the emperor, he departed thence in a swan-drawn boat and was
never seen more.

Here we have the essentials of the story which Wagner wrought into
his opera "Lohengrin" Only a few details need be added to make the
plot complete. The meeting of Lohengrin and Elsa takes place on the
banks of the river Scheldt in Brabant. The King has come to ask
the help of the Brabantians against the Huns, who are invading
Germany. He finds Brabant in a disturbed state. The throne is
vacant; Count Frederick of Telramund, who has his eyes upon it,
had offered his hand in marriage to Elsa, who, with her brother,
Gottfried, had been left in his care on the death of their father,
but had met with a refusal. He had then married Ortrud, a Frisian
princess. She is the last of a royal line, but a pagan, and
practises sorcery. To promote the ambition of herself and her
husband, she has changed Gottfried into a swan by throwing a magical
chain about his neck, and persuaded Telramund to accuse Elsa of
having murdered the boy in the hope of enjoying the throne together
with a secret lover. The King summons Elsa to answer the charge and
decrees trial by ordeal of battle. Commanded to name her champion,
she tells of a knight seen in a dream: upon him alone will she
rely. Not until the second call of the Herald has gone out and
Elsa has fallen to her knees in prayer does the champion appear. He
is a knight in shining white armor who comes in a boat drawn by a
swan. He accepts the gage of battle, after asking Elsa whether or
not she wants him to be her husband if victorious in the combat, and
exacting a promise never to ask of him whence he came or what his
name or race. He overcomes Telramund, but gives him his life; the
King, however, banishes the false accuser and sets the stranger over
the people of Brabant with the title of Protector. Telramund is
overwhelmed by his misfortunes, but Ortrud urges him to make another
trial to regain what he has lost. The knight, she says, had won by
witchcraft, and if but the smallest joint of his body could be taken
from him, he would be impotent. Together they instil disquiet and
suspicion into the mind of Elsa as she is about to enter the
minster to be married. After the wedding guests have departed, her
newly found happiness is disturbed by doubt, and a painful curiosity
manifests itself in her speech. Lohengrin admonishes, reproves,
and warns in words of tenderest love. He had given up greater
glories than his new life had to offer out of love for her. A
horrible fear seizes her: he who had so mysteriously come would as
mysteriously depart. Cost what it may, she must know who he is. She
asks the question, but before he can reply Telramund rushes into
the room with drawn weapon. Elsa has but time to hand Lohengrin his
sword, with which he stretches the would-be assassin dead on the
chamber floor. Then he commands that the body be carried before the
King, whither he also directs her maids to escort his wife. There is
another conclave of King and nobles. Lohengrin asks if he had acted
within his right in slaying Telramund, and his deed is approved by
all. Then he gives public answer to Elsa's question:

  In distant lands, where ye can never enter,
  A castle stands and Montsalvat its name;
  A radiant temple rises from its center
  More glorious far than aught of earthly fame.
  And there a vessel of most wondrous splendor,
  A shrine, most holy, guarded well doth rest,
  To which but mortals purest service render--
  'Twas brought to earth by hosts of angels blest!
  Once every year a dove from heaven descendeth
  To strengthen then its wondrous powers anew:
  'Tis called the Grail--and purest faith it lendeth
  To those good knights who are its chosen few.
  To serve the Grail whoe'er is once elected
  Receives from it a supernatural might;
  From baneful harm and fraud is he protected,
  Away from him flees death and gloom of night!
  Yea, whom by it to distant lands is bidden
  As champion to some virtuous cause maintain,
  Well knows its powers are from him never hidden,
  If, as its knight, he unrevealed remain.
  Such wondrous nature is the Grail's great blessing,
  Reveal'd must then the knight from mortals flee:
  Let not rest in your hearts a doubt oppressing,--
  If known to you he saileth o'er the sea.
  Now list what he to you in troth declareth:
  The Grail obeying here to you I came.
  My father Parzival, a crown he weareth,
  His knight am I and Lohengrin my name! {1}

A prohibition which rests upon all who are served by a Knight of the
Grail having been violated, he must depart from thence; but before
going he gives his sword, horn, and ring to Elsa, and tells her that
had he been permitted to live but one year at her side, her brother
would have returned in conduct of the Grail. The swan appears to
convey him back to his resplendent home. Ortrud recognizes the chain
around its neck and gloats over her triumph; but Lohengrin hears her
shout. He sinks on his knees in silent prayer. As he rises, a white
dove floats downward toward the boat. Lohengrin detaches the chain
from the neck of the swan. The bird disappears, and in its place
stands Gottfried, released from the spell put upon him by the
sorceress. The dove draws the boat with its celestial passenger
away, and Elsa sinks lifeless into the arms of her brother.

In this story of Lohengrin there is an admixture of several elements
which once had no association. It is the story of an adventure of a
Knight of the Holy Grail; also a story involving the old principle
of taboo; and one of many stories of the transformation of a human
being into a swan, or a swan into a human being. This swan myth is
one of the most widely spread of all transformation tales; it may
even be found in the folk-stories of the American Indians. To
discuss this feature would carry one too far afield, and I have
a different purpose in view.

          *      *      *

The two Figaro operas, the discussion of which opened this book,
were composed by different men, and a generation of time separated
their production. The opera which deals with the second chapter of
the adventures of Seville's factotum was composed first, and is the
greater work of the two; yet we have seen how pleasantly they can be
associated with each other, and, no doubt, many who admire them have
felt with me the wish that some musician with sufficient skill and
the needful reverence would try the experiment of remodelling the
two and knitting their bonds closer by giving identity of voice
to the personages who figure in both. The Wagnerian list presents
something like a parallel, and it would be a pleasant thing if two
of the modern poet-composer's dramas which have community of subject
could be brought into similar association, so that one might be
performed as a sequel to the other. The operas are "Lohengrin" and
"Parsifal." A generation also lies between them, and they ought
to bear a relationship to each other something like that existing
between "Le Nozze di Figaro" and "Il Barbiere di Siviglia." Indeed,
the bond ought to be closer, for one man wrote books and music
as well of the Grail dramas, whereas different librettists and
different composers created the Figaro comedies. But it will
never be possible to bring Wagner's most popular opera and his
"stage-consecrating play" into logical union, notwithstanding that
both deal with the legend of the Holy Grail and that the hero of one
proclaims himself to be the son of the hero of the other. Wagner
cast a loving glance at the older child of his brain when he quoted
some of the "swan music" of "Lohengrin "in "Parsifal"; but he built
an insurmountable wall between them when he forsook the sane and
simple ideas which inspired him in writing "Lohengrin" for the
complicated fabric of mediaeval Christianity and Buddhism which
he strove to set forth in "Parsifal." In 1847 Wagner was willing
to look at the hero of the quest of the Holy Grail whom we
call Percival through the eyes of his later guide, Wolfram von
Eschenbach. To Wolfram Parzival was a married man; more than that--a
married lover, clinging with devotion to the memory of the wife from
whose arms he had torn himself to undertake the quest, and losing
himself in tender brooding for days when the sight of blood-spots
on the snow suggested to his fancy the red and white of fair
Konwiramur's cheeks. Thirty years later Wagner could only conceive
of his Grail hero as a celibate and an ascetic. Lohengrin glories in
the fact that he is the son of him who wears the crown of the Grail;
but Parsifal disowns his son.

This is one instance of the incoherency of the two Grail dramas.
There is another, and by this second departure from the old legends
which furnished forth his subject, Wagner made "Lohengrin" and
"Parsifal" forever irreconcilable. The whole fabric of the older
opera rests on the forbidden question:--

  Nie solist du mich befragen, noch
  Wissen's Sorge tragen,
  woher ich kam der Fahrt,
  noch wie mein Nam' und Art. {2}

So impressed was Wagner with the significance of this dramatic
motive sixty years ago, that he gave it a musical setting which
still stands as the finest of all his many illustrations of the
principle of fundamental or typical phrases in dramatic music:--

[Musical excerpt--"Nie sollst du mich befragen"]

And no wonder. No matter where he turned in his studies of the
Grail legend, he was confronted by the fact that it was by asking a
question that the seeker after the Grail was to release the ailing
king, whom he found in the castle in which the talismans were
preserved, from his sufferings. In the Welsh tale of Peredur and
the French romances the question went only to the meaning of the
talismans; but this did not suffice Wolfram von Eschenbach, who
in many ways raised the ethical standard of the Grail legend. He
changed the question so as to make it a sign of affectionate and
compassionate interest on the part of the questioner; it was no
longer, "What mean the bloody head and the bleeding lance?" but
"What ails thee, uncle?"

Wagner was fond, a little overfond, indeed, of appealing to the
public over the heads of the critics, of going to the jury rather
than the judge, when asking for appreciation of his dramas; but
nothing is plainer to the close student than that he was never
wholly willing to credit the public with possession of that high
imaginativeness to which his dramas more than those of any other
composer make appeal. His first conception of the finale of
"Tannhäuser," for instance, was beautiful, poetical, and reasonable;
for the sake of a spectacle he reconstructed it after the original
production and plunged it into indefensible confusion and absurdity.

A desire to abstain as much as possible from criticism (that not
being the purpose of this book) led me to avoid mention of this
circumstance in the exposition of "Tannhäuser"; but I find that I
must now set it forth, though briefly. In the original form of the
opera there was no funeral procession and no death of the hero
beside the bier of the atoning saint. The scene between Tannhäuser
and Wolfram was interrupted by the tolling of a bell in the castle
to indicate the death of Elizabeth and the appearance of a glow of
rose-colored light across the valley to suggest the presence of
Venus. By bringing the corpse of Elizabeth on the stage so that
Tannhäuser might die by its side, Wagner was guilty of worse than an
anachronism. The time which elapses in the drama between Elizabeth's
departure from the scene and her return as a corpse is just as long
as the song which Wolfram sings in which he apostrophizes her as his
"holder Abendstern"--just as long and not a moment longer. There
is no question here of poetical license, for Wolfram sings the
apostrophe after her retreating figure, and the last chord of
his postlude is interrupted by Tannhäuser's words, "Ich hörte
Harfenschlag!" Yet we are asked to assume that in the brief interim
Elizabeth has ascended the mountain to the Wartburg, died, been
prepared for burial, and brought back to the valley as the central
object of a stately funeral.

It would have been much wiser to have left the death of Elizabeth
to the imagination of the public than to have made the scene
ridiculous. But Wagner was afraid to do that, lest his purpose be
overlooked. He was a master of theatrical craft, and though he could
write a tragedy like "Tristan und Isolde," with little regard for
external action, he was quite unwilling to miss so effective a
theatrical effect as the death of Tannhäuser beside Elizabeth's
bier. After all, he did not trust the public, whose judgment he
affected to place above that of his critics, and for this reason,
while he was willing to call up memories of his earlier opera by
quoting some of its music in "Parsifal," he ignored the question
which plays so important a rôle in "Lohengrin," and made the healing
of Amfortas depend upon a touch of the talismanic spear--a device
which came into the Grail story from pagan sources, as I have
already pointed out.

Now, why was the questioning of Lohengrin forbidden? Wolfram von
Eschenbach tells us, and his explanation sufficed Wagner when he
made his first studies of the Grail legends as a preparation for
"Lohengrin." It was the Holy Grail itself which pronounced the
taboo. An inscription appeared on the talisman one day commanding
that whenever a Knight of the Grail went into foreign lands to
assume rule over a people, he was to admonish them not to question
him concerning his name and race; should the question be put, he
was to leave them at once. And the reason?

  Weil der gute Amfortas
  So lang in bittern Schmerzen lag,
  Und ihn die Frage lange mied,
  Ist ihnen alles Fragen leid;
  All des Grales Dienstgesellen
  Wollen sich nicht mehr fragen lassen.

The same explanation is made in the mediaeval poem "Lohengrin." We
are not called upon to admire the logic of Wolfram and the Knights
of the Grail, but nothing could be plainer than this: The sufferings
of Amfortas having been wofully prolonged by Parzival's failure to
ask the healing question, the Knights of the Grail were thereafter
required by their oracular guide to prohibit all questioning of
themselves under penalty of forfeiture of their puissant help.
When Wagner wrote his last drama, he was presented with a dilemma:
should he remain consistent and adhere to the question as a dramatic
motive, or dare the charge of inconsistency for the sake of that bit
of spectacular apparatus, the sacred lance? He chose inconsistency
and the show, and emphasized the element of relic worship to such
a degree as to make his drama foreign to the intellectual and
religious habits of the time in which he wrote. But this did not
disturb him; for he knew that beauty addresses itself to the
emotions rather than the intellect, and that his philosophical
message of the redeeming power of loving comnpassion would find
entrance to the hearts of the people over all the obstacles that
reason might interpose. Yet he destroyed all the poetical bonds
which ought or might have existed between "Parsifal" and "Lohengrin."

It was Wagner who created the contradiction which puts his operas
in opposition by his substitution of the sacred lance as a dramatic
motive for the question. But poets had long before taken the
privilege of juggling with two elements of ancient myths and
folk-tales which are blended in the story of Lohengrin. Originally
there was no relationship between the Knight of the Holy Grail and
the Swan Knight, and there is no telling when the fusion of the
tales was made. But the element of the forbidden question is of
unspeakable antiquity and survives in the law of taboo which
exists among savages to-day. When Wagner discussed his opera in
his "Communication to My Friends" he pointed out the resemblance
between the story of Lohengrin and the myth of Zeus and Semele. Its
philosophical essence he proclaimed to be humanity's feeling of
the necessity of love. Elsa was "the woman who drew Lohengrin from
the sunny heights to the depths of earth's warm heart. . . . Thus
yearned he for woman--for the human heart. And thus did he step down
from out his loneliness of sterile bliss when he heard this woman's
cry for succor, this heart cry from humanity below." This is all
very well, and it would be churlish to say that it is not beautifully
reflected in Wagner's drama; but it does not explain the need of the
prohibition. A woman who loves must have unquestioning faith in her
husband--that is all. But there are two ancient myths which show
that the taboo was conceived as a necessary ingredient of the
association of divine men with human women. Let both be recalled,
for both have plainly gone over into the mediaeval story.

The first is the one to which Wagner made allusion: Jupiter has
given his love to Semele. Wickedly prompted by the jealous Juno,
Semele asks her august lover to grant her a wish. He promises
that she shall have her desire, and confirms his words with the
irrevocable oath, swearing by the Stygian flood. Semele asks him
then to appear to her in all his celestial splendor. The god would
have stopped her when he realized her purpose, but it was too late.
Sorrowfully he returned to the celestial abode and fearfully he put
on his lesser panoply. Arrayed in this he entered the chamber of
Semele, but though he had left behind him the greater splendors,
the immortal radiance consumed her to ashes.

That is one story; the other is the beautiful fable, freighted with
ethical symbolism, which Apulcius gave to literature in the second
century of the Christian era, though, no doubt, his exquisite
story is only the elaboration of a much older conceit. Psyche, the
daughter of a king, arouses the envy of Venus because of her beauty,
and the goddess's anger because of the feeling which that beauty
inspires among men. She resolves to punish her presumptuous mortal
rival, and sends Cupid as her messenger of vengeance. But the God
of Love falls himself a victim to the maiden's charms. The spell
which he puts upon her he cannot wholly dissipate. Hosts of admirers
still follow Psyche, but no worthy man offers her marriage. Her
parents consult the oracle of Apollo, who tells him that she is
doomed to become the wife of a monster who lives upon a high
mountain. The maiden sees in this a punishment meted out by Venus
and offers herself as a propitiatory sacrifice. Left alone by
parents and friends, she climbs the rocky steeps and falls asleep
in the wilderness. Thither come the Zephyrs and carry her to a
beautiful garden, where unseen hands serve her sumptuously in a
magnificent palace and the voices of invisible singers ravish her
cars with music. Every night she is visited by a mysterious being
who lavishes loving gifts upon her, but forbids her to look upon
his face, and disappears before dawn. Psyche's sisters, envious
of her good fortune and great happiness, fill her mind with wicked
doubt and distrust. A fatal curiosity seizes upon her, and one night
she uncovers her lamp to look upon the form of her doting companion.
Instead of the monster spoken of by the oracle, she sees the
loveliest of the immortals. It is Cupid who lies sleeping before
her, with snowy wings folded, and golden ringlets clustering about
his shoulders. Anxious for a closer view, Psyche leans over him,
but a drop of hot oil falls from the lamp upon his shining skin.
The god awakes, and without a word flies out of the window. Palace
and garden disappear, and Psyche is left alone to suffer the
consequences of her foolish curiosity. After wandering long in
search of the lost one, she wins the sympathy of Ceres, who advises
her to seek out Venus and offer reparation. She becomes the slave of
the goddess, who imposes cruel tasks upon her. But at length Cupid
can no longer endure to be separated from her, and goes to Jupiter,
who intercedes with Venus and wins her forgiveness for Psyche. Then
the supreme god gives her immortality, and she becomes forever the
wife of Cupid.

There are two other points, one legendary, one historical, which
ought to be mentioned for the sake of those who like to know the
sources of stories like that of Lohengrin. The ancient Angles had
a saga which told of the arrival in their country of a boat,
evidently sailless, oarless, and rudderless, containing only a
child surrounded by arms and treasure. They brought him up and
called him Skéaf (from which word our "sheaf"), because he lay upon
a bundle of grain. He became king of the people, and, when he felt
death upon him, commanded to be carried back to the shore where he
had been found. There lay the boat in which he had come, and when
his dead body was placed in it, it moved away of its own accord.
From him descended a race of kings. Here, I am inclined to see a
survival of the story of Danaë and her child Perseus found floating
on the sea in a chest, as sung by Simonides. The historical element
in "Lohengrin" is compassed by the figure of the king, who metes out
justice melodiously in the opening and closing scenes. It is King
Henry I of Germany, called the Fowler, who reigned from A.D. 918 to
936. He was a wise, brave, and righteous king, who fought the savage
Huns, and for his sake the management of the festival performances
at Bayreuth, in 1894, introduced costumes of the tenth century.


{1} John P. Jackson's translation.

{2} In Mr. John P. Jackson's translation:--

  Ne'er with thy fears shalt task me,
  Nor questions idly ask me:
  The land and from whence I came,
  Nor yet my race and name.



In many respects "Hänsel und Gretel" is the most interesting opera
composed since "Parsifal," and, by being an exception, proves
the rule to which I directed some remarks in the chapter on "Don
Giovanni." For a quarter of a century the minds of musical critics
and historians have been occupied at intervals with the question
whether or not progress in operatic composition is possible on the
lines laid down by Wagner. Of his influence upon all the works
composed within a period twice as long there never was a doubt;
but this influence manifested itself for the greater part in
modifications of old methods rather than the invention of new.
In Germany attempts have been made over and over again to follow
Wagner's system, but though a few operas thus produced have had a
temporary success, in the end it has been found that the experiments
have all ended in failures. It was but natural that the fact should
provoke discussion. If no one could write successfully in Wagner's
manner, was there a future for the lyric drama outside of a return
to the style which he had striven to overthrow? If there was no
such future, was the fact not proof of the failure of the Wagnerian
movement as a creative force? The question was frequently answered
in a spirit antagonistic to Wagner; but many of the answers were
overhasty and short-sighted. It needed only that one should come
who had thoroughly assimilated Wagner's methods and had the genius
to apply them in a spirit of individuality, to demonstrate that
it was possible to continue the production of lyric dramas without
returning to the hackneyed manner of the opposing school. The
composer who did this was Engelbert Humperdinck, and it is
particularly noteworthy that his demonstration acquired its most
convincing force from the circumstance that instead of seeking his
material in the myths of antiquity, as Wagner did, he found them
in the nursery.

While emphasizing this fact, however, it is well not to forget that
in turning to the literature of folklore for an operatic subject
Humperdinck was only carrying out one of the principles for which
Wagner contended. The Mährchen of a people are quite as much a
reflex of their intellectual, moral, and emotional life as their
heroic legends and myths. In fact, they are frequently only the
fragments of stories which, when they were created, were embodiments
of the most profound and impressive religious conceptions of which
the people were capable. The degeneration of the sun god of our
Teutonic forefathers into the Hans of Grimm's tale, who could not
learn to shiver and shake, through the Sinfiotle of the "Volsunga
Saga" and the Siegfried of the "Nibelungenlied," is so obvious that
it needs no commentary. Neither should the translation of Brynhild
into Dornröschen, the Sleeping Beauty of our children's tales.
The progress illustrated in these examples is that from myth to
Mährchen, and Humperdinck in writing his fairy opera, or nursery
opera if you will, paid tribute to German nationality in the same
coin that Wagner did when he created his "Ring of the Nibelung."
Everything about "Hänsel und Gretel" is charming to those who can
feel their hearts warm toward the family life and folklore of
Germany, of which we are, or ought to be, inheritors. The opera
originated, like Thackeray's delightful fireside pantomime for great
and small children, "The Rose and the Ring." The composer has a
sister, Frau Adelheid Wette, wife of a physician in Cologne. She,
without any particular thought of literary activity, had been in
the habit of writing little plays for production within the family
circle. For these plays her brother provided the music. In this way
grew the first dramatic version of the story of Hänsel and Gretel,
which, everybody who has had a German nurse or has read Grimm's
fairy tales knows, tells the adventures of two children, a brother
and sister, who, driven into the woods, fell into the toils of the
Crust Witch (Knusperhexe), who enticed little boys and girls into
her house, built of gingerbread and sweetmeats, and there ate them
up. The original performers of the principal characters in the play
were the daughters of Frau Wette. Charmed with the effect of the
fanciful little comedy, Herr Humperdinck suggested its expansion
into a piece of theatrical dimensions; and the opera was the result.
It was brought forward for the first time in public on December 23,
1893, in Weimar, and created so profound an impression that it
speedily took possession of all the principal theatres of Germany,
crossed the channel into England, made its way into Holland,
Belgium, and Italy, and reached America within two years. Its first
performance in New York was in an English version at Daly's Theatre
on October 8, 1895. There were drawbacks in the representation which
prevented a success, but after it had been incorporated in the
German repertory of the Metropolitan Opera-house in the season of
1895-1896 it became as much of a permanency as any opera in the list.

Humperdinck has built up the musical structure of "Hänsel und
Gretel" in the Wagnerian manner, but has done it with so much
fluency and deftness that a musical layman might listen to it
from beginning to end without suspecting the fact, save from the
occasional employment of what may be called Wagnerian idioms. The
little work is replete with melodies which, though original, bear
a strong family resemblance to two little songs which the children
sing at the beginning of the first and second acts, and which are
veritable nursery songs in Germany. These ditties and the principal
melodies consorted with them contribute characteristic motifs out
of which the orchestral part is constructed; and these motifs are
developed in accordance with an interrelated scheme every bit as
logical and consistent as the scheme at the bottom of "Tristan und
Isolde." As in that stupendous musical tragedy, the orchestra takes
the part played by the chorus in Greek tragedy, so in "Hänsel und
Gretel" it unfolds the thoughts, motives, and purposes of the
personages of the play and lays bare the simple mysteries of the
plot and counterplot. The careless happiness of the children, the
apprehension of the parents, promise and fulfilment, enchantment and
disenchantment--all these things are expounded by the orchestra in a
fine flood of music, highly ingenious in contrapuntal texture, rich
in instrumental color, full of rhythmical life, on the surface of
which the idyllic play floats buoyantly, like a water-lily which

              starts and slides
  Upon the level in little puffs of wind,
  Tho' anchored to the bottom.

It is necessary, because the music is so beautiful and also because
the piece, like the "Leonore" overtures of Beethoven and the
"Meistersinger" prelude of Wagner (of which, indeed, it is a pretty
frank imitation) is a sort of epitome of the play, to spend some
time with the prelude to "Hänsel und Gretel." After I have done
this I shall say what I have to say about the typical phrases of
the score as they are reached, and shall leave to the reader the
agreeable labor of discovering the logical scheme underlying their
introduction and development. The prelude is built out of a few
themes which are associated with some of the most significant
elements of the play. Not one of them is a personal label, as is
widely, but erroneously, supposed to be the case in Wagner's dramas.
They stand for dramatic ideas and agencies, and when these are
passed in review, as it is purposed shall be done presently, it will
be found that not the sinister but the amiable features of the story
have been chosen for celebration in the overture. Here, too, in what
may be called the ethical meaning of the prelude, Humperdinck has
followed the example of Wagner in the prelude to his comedy. Simply
for the sake of identification hereafter names will be attached to
the themes out of which the prelude is constructed and which come
from the chief melodic factors of the opera. The most important of
these is the melody sung by the horns at the beginning:--

[Musical excerpt]

Let it be called the "Prayer Theme," for the melody is that of the
prayer which the little ones utter before laying themselves down to
sleep in the wood. The melody seems to be associated throughout the
opera with the idea of divine guardianship, and is first heard in
the first scene, when Hänsel, having complained of hunger, Gretel
gently chides him and holds out comfort in the words (here I use
the English version of the opera):--

  When past bearing is our grief
  God, the Lord, will send relief.

Humperdinck's splendid contrapuntal skill shows itself in a most
varied use of this theme. Once in the prelude it appears in three
different forms simultaneously, and in an augmented shape it forms
the substratum of the prelude, while other themes are cunningly
woven above it. The second theme is an exceedingly bright and
energetic little phrase with which the rapid portion of the prelude
begins. It shall be called the "Counter-Charm" theme, because it is
the melodic phrase which serves as a formula with which the spell
which the witch puts upon her victims is released by her as well as
by the children who overhear it. When it occurs in the play it has
this form:--

[Musical excerpt--"hocus pocus elder bush!"]

Words and music come from the mouth of Gretel when she releases
Hänsel from the spell in the third act, and from that of Hänsel when
he performs the same office for the gingerbread children. After two
phrases of minor significance there comes the "Theme of Fulfilment,"
so called because of its association with the answer to the prayer
for protection in the woods. Thus it forms part of the dawn music at
the beginning of the third act when the children are awakened by the
Dewman. It makes up the original part of the song of this Dawn Fairy
and is the melody to which Hänsel and Gretel sing their explanation
to the wondering gingerbread children:--

  The angels whispered in dreams to us in silent night
  What this happy day has brought to light.

[Musical excerpt]

There is a fourth theme, the "Theme of Rejoicing" which is the
inspiration of the dance which the gingerbread children execute
around Hänsel and Gretel to celebrate their release from the
enchantment put upon them by the wicked Witch.

At the parting of the curtain we see the interior of the hut of a
poor broom-maker. Specimens of his handiwork hang upon the walls. A
tiny window beside the door in the background, shows a glimpse of
the forest beyond. Hänsel and Gretel are at work, he making brooms,
she knitting. Gretel sings an old German folk-song, beginning thus:--

[Musical excerpt--"Suse liebe suse was raschelt im stroh?"]

All the melodies in this act have a strong family resemblance, but
this song, a cradle song of the long ago, is the only one not
composed by Humperdinck. Miss Constance Bache has failed, in her
English translation, to reproduce the quaint sentiment of the
old song, which calls attention to the fact that all geese are
shoeless. It is not for want of leather,--the shoemaker has that in
plenty,--but he has no lasts, and so the poor things must needs go
barefoot. The song invites a curious historical note. "Suse" and
"Sause" were common expressions in the cradle songs which used to be
sung to the Christ-child in the German churches at Christmas when
the decadent nativity plays (now dwarfed to a mere tableau of the
manger, the holy parents, and the adoring shepherds and magi) were
still cultivated. From the old custom termed Kindeiwiegen, which
remained in the German Protestant Church centuries after the
Reformation, Luther borrowed the refrain, "Susaninne" for one of his
Christmas chorales. The beginning of the little song which Gretel
sings used to be "Sause liebe Ninne," which, of course, is Luther's
"Susaninne." The song dominates the whole of the first act. Out
of portions of its melody grows a large part of the instrumental
accompaniment to the melodious recitative in which the dialogue is
carried on. Through expressive changes, not only in this act, but
later also, it provides a medium for much dramatic expression. A
little motif with which the orchestra introduces it develops into
a song, with which Hänsel greets his sister's announcement that
a neighbor has sent in some milk, and when Gretel, as soon as
she does, attempts to teach Hänsel how to dance, the delightful
little polka tune which the two sing is almost a twin brother to
the cradle song.

It is the gift of milk which directly brings the sinister element
into the play. The mother comes home weary, hungry, and out of
humor. She finds that the children have neglected their work, and
while attempting to punish them she overturns the milk jug. It is
the last straw, and, with threats of a terrible beating if they do
not bring home a heaping basket of berries for supper, she drives
the little ones out into the forest. Exhausted, she falls asleep
beside the hearth. From the distance comes the voice of the
broom-maker trolling a song which is now merry, now sad. He enters
his hut in great good humor, however, for he has sold all his wares
and comes with his basket loaded with good things to eat and no
inconsiderable quantity of kümmel in his stomach. Till now, save for
the few moments which followed the entrance of the mother, the music
has echoed nothing but childish joy. All this is changed, however,
when the father, inquiring after his children, learns that they have
gone into the woods. He tells his wife the legend of the Witch of
the Ilsenstein and her dreadful practices, while the orchestra
builds up a gruesome picture out of fragments from the innocent song
which had opened the act. Fearful for the fate of her children, the
mother dashes into the forest, followed by the broom-maker.

A musical delineation of a witch's ride separates the first and
second acts. It is a garishly colored composition beginning with a
pompous proclamation of the "Theme of the Witch":--

[Musical excerpt]

This is interwoven with echoes from the song of the broom-maker,
and, as might be expected, a great deal of chromatic material, such
as seems indispensable in musical pictures of the supernatural.
Towards the close the weird elements gradually disappear and give
way to a peaceful forest mood, pervaded by a long-drawn melody from
the trumpet, accompanied by sounds suggestive of the murmuring of
trees. The parting of the curtain discovers a scene in the depths
of the woods. Gretel sits under a large tree weaving a garland of
flowers. Hänsel is picking strawberries. The sun is setting. Gretel
sings another folk-song, the meaning of which is lost to those who
are unfamiliar with the song in the original. It is a riddle of
the German nursery: "A little man stands in the forest, silent and
alone, wearing a purplish red mantle. He stands on one leg, and
wears a little black cap. Who is the little man?" Answer:--the
Hagebutte; i.e. the rose apple, fruit of the rose tree. After the
Witch's ride, nothing could be more effective in restoring the
ingenuous mood essential to the play than this song, which is as
graceful and pretty in melody as it is arch in sentiment. With the
dialogue which follows, a variation of the closing cadence of the
song is sweetly blended by the orchestra. Hänsel crowns Gretel Queen
of the Woods with the floral wreath, and is doing mock reverence to
her when a cuckoo calls from a distance. The children mimic the cry,
then playfully twit the bird with allusions to its bad practice of
eating the eggs of other birds and neglecting its own offspring.
Then they play at cuckoo, eating the strawberries in lieu of eggs,
until the basket is empty. They remember the threat of their mother,
and want to fill the basket again, but darkness is settling around
them. They lose their way, and their agitated fancy sees spectres
and goblins all around them. Hänsel tries to reassure his sister
by hallooing, and scores of voices send back echoes, while the
cuckoo continues its lonely cry. Gretel is overcome by fear for a
moment, and Hänsel, too, succumbs to fright when he sees a figure
approaching through the mist. But it is not a goblin, as the
children think--only the Sandman, a little gray, stoop-shouldered
old man, carrying a bag. He smiles reassuringly and sings a song of
his love for children, while he sprinkles sleep-sand in the eyes of
the pair. The second part of his song introduces another significant
phrase into the score; it is the "Theme of Promise," to which the
Sleep Fairy sings the assurance that the angels give protection and
send sweet dreams to good children while they are asleep:--

[Musical excerpt]

"Sandman has been here," says Hänsel, sleepily; "let us say our
evening blessing." They kneel and repeat the prayer to the melody
which has been called the "Prayer Theme," then go to sleep in each
other's arms. All has been dark. Now a bright light pierces the
mist, which gathers itself into a cloud that gradually takes the
shape of a staircase reaching apparently from heaven to earth. The
orchestra plays a beautiful and extended piece of music, of which
the principal melodic material is derived from the themes of
"Prayer" and "Promise," while seven pairs of angels descend the
cloud-stairs and group themselves about the little sleepers, and
a golden host extends upward to the celestial abode. By this time
the scene is filled with a glory of light, and the curtain closes.

The greater part of the dramatic story is told in, the third act.
The opening of the curtain is preceded by a brief instrumental
number, the principal elements of which are a new theme:--

[Musical excerpt]

and the "Theme of Fulfilment." The significance of the latter in
this place is obvious: the promised benison to the children has
been received. The former theme is a pretty illustration of what
has already been said of Humperdinck's consistent devotion to the
folk-song spirit in his choice of melodies. The phrase has an
interrogatory turn and is, in fact, the melody of the mysterious
question which comes from the house of the Witch a few minutes
later, when the children help themselves to some of the toothsome
material out of which the magic structure is built:--

[Musical excerpt--"Nibble, nibble, mouskin, Who's nibbling at my

Simple as this little phrase is, it is yet a draught from a
song-game that comes nigh to being universal. No phrase is more
prevalent among nursery songs than that made up of the first six
notes. The original German song itself has come down to American and
English children, and enthusiastic folklorists see in it a relic
of the ancient tree worship and an invocation of Frau Holda, the
goddess of love and spring of our Teutonic ancestors. It is the
first phrase of the German, "Ringel, ringel, reihe," which our
children know as "Ring around a rosy." It was an amiable conceit of
the composer's to put such a tune into the mouth of the Witch at a
moment of terror in the play. By it he publishes his intention
not to be too utterly gruesome in his treatment of the hag. This
intention, moreover, he fulfils in the succeeding scene. The Witch
appears weird and wicked enough in appearance, in her discordant
laugh, and the instrumental delineation of her, but when she sings
to the children, she is almost ingratiating. Of course, she is
seeking to lure them to a horrible fate, but though she does not
deceive them for even a moment, her musical manner is much like
theirs, except when she is whirling through the air on a broomstick.

When the curtain opens on the third act the scene is the same as at
the close of the second, except that morning is breaking and the
background is filled with mist, which is slowly dissipated during
the song of the Dewman (Dawn Fairy), who sprinkles dew on the
sleeping children as he sings. The beginning of his song is like
that of the Sandman, but its second part consists of the melody of
"Fulfilment" instead of that of "Promise." Gretel is the first to
awake, and she wakes Hänsel by imitating the song of the lark. He
springs up with the cry of chanticleer, and lark's trill and cock's
crow are mingled in a most winsome duet, which runs out into a
description of the dream. They look about them to point out the spot
where the angels had been. By this time the last veil of mist has
withdrawn from the background, and in the place of the forest of
firs the gingerbread house stands glistening with barley sugar in
the sunshine. To the left is the Witch's oven, to the right a cage,
all inside a fence of gingerbread children. A duet of admiration and
amazement follows in a new, undulatory melody. Hänsel wants to enter
the house, but Gretel holds him back. Finally they decide to venture
so far as to nibble a bit. Hänsel stealthily breaks a piece of
gingerbread off the corner, and at once the voice of the Witch is
heard in the phrase already quoted:--

  Nibble, nibble, mousekin,
  Who's nibbling at my housekin?

After a moment of alarm Gretel picks up a bit of the gingerbread
which had fallen from Hänsel's hand at the sound of the Witch's
voice, and the duet of enjoyment is resumed in a higher key. Then
a second piece of gingerbread is stolen and munched, and the weird
voice is heard again; but this time without alarm. The Witch
stealthily approaches and throws a noose about Hänsel's neck. They
have fallen into her clutches, and in a luring song she tells of
the sweetmeats which she keeps in the house for children of whom
she is fond. Hänsel and Gretel are not won over, however, by her
blandishments, and try to run away. The Witch extends her magic
wand and chants the charm which deprives her victims of the power
of motion, beginning:--

[Musical excerpt--"Hocus pocus witches' charm"]

This phrase stands in the score as the antithesis of the
"Counter-Charm" mentioned in the analysis of the prelude. It
illustrates an ingenious constructive device. Desiring to send
Gretel on an errand a moment later, the Witch disenchants her
with the formula,

  Hocus, pocus, elderbush,

already described as the first theme of the Allegro in the prelude.
It is an inversion of the theme of enchantment, a proceeding
analogous to reversing the rod, or spelling the charm backward.
Wagner makes use of the same device in "Götterdämmerung" when he
symbolizes the end of things by inverting the symbol of the original
elements in "Das Rheingold." The Witch now discloses her true
character, and in the exuberance of her demoniac glee indulges in
a ride on a broom, first repeating some jargon in imitation of the
cabalistic formulas common to mediaeval necromancy. Frau Wette's
lines are partly a copy of the Witch's multiplication table in
Goethe's "Faust." The play hurries to its catastrophe. Gretel gives
Hänsel power of motion by repeating the "Counter-Charm," which she
has overheard from the Witch, and the children push the hag into
her own oven while she is heating it to roast Hänsel. The two then
break into a jubilant waltz, which the composer designates the
Knusperwalzer, i.e. the "Crust Waltz." A frightful explosion
destroys the Witch's oven, and with the crash the gingerbread
covering falls from the children, who formed the fence around the
house. They are unable to move, being still partly under a spell,
but when Hänsel repeats the "Counter-Charm," they crowd around their
deliverers and sing their gratitude. The parents of Hänsel and
Gretel, who have been hunting them, appear on the scene. Out of the
ruins of the oven the happy children drag the figure of the Witch
baked into a monstrous gingerbread, and dance around it hand in
hand. At the last all join in a swelling utterance of the "Prayer
Theme" to the words, "When need is greatest God is nearest."

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "A Book of Operas: Their Histories, Their Plots, and Their Music" ***

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