Act III. In a rocky mountain gorge _Adolar_ draws his sword and is

about to slay _Euryanthe_, who in vain protests her innocence. At that moment a huge serpent appears. _Euryanthe_ throws herself between it and _Adolar_ in order to save him. He fights the serpent and kills it; then, although _Euryanthe_ vows she would rather he slew her than not love her, he goes his way leaving her to heaven's protection. She is discovered by the _King_, who credits her story and promises to vindicate her, when she tells him that it was through _Eglantine_, to whom she disclosed the secret of the tomb, that _Lysiart_ obtained possession of the ring.

Gardens of Nevers, where preparations are making for the wedding of _Lysiart_ and _Eglantine_. _Adolar_ enters in black armour with visor down. _Eglantine_, still madly in love with him and dreading her union with _Lysiart_, is so affected by the significance of the complete silence with which the assembled villagers and others watch her pass, that, half out of her mind, she raves about the unjust degradation she has brought upon _Euryanthe_.

_Adolar_, disclosing his identity, challenges _Lysiart_ to combat. But before they can draw, the _King_ appears. In order to punish _Adolar_ for his lack of faith in _Euryanthe_, he tells him that she is dead. Savagely triumphant over her rival's end, _Eglantine_ now makes known the entire plot and is slain by _Lysiart_. At that moment _Euryanthe_ rushes into _Adolar's_ arms. _Lysiart_ is led off a captive. _Adolar's_ sister finds eternal rest in her tomb because the ring has been bedewed by the tears wept by the innocent _Euryanthe_.

The libretto of "Euryanthe" is accounted extremely stupid, even for an opera, and the work is rarely given. The opera, however, is important historically as another stepping-stone in the direction of Wagner. Several Wagnerian commentators regard the tomb motive as having conveyed to the Bayreuth master more than a suggestion of the Leitmotif system which he developed so fully in his music-drama. _Adolar_, in black armour, is believed to have suggested _Parsifal's_ appearance in sable harness and accoutrements in the last act of "Parsifal." In any event, Wagner was a close student of Weber and there is more than one phrase in "Euryanthe" that finds its echo in "Lohengrin," although of plagiarism in the ordinary sense there is none.

While "Euryanthe" has never been popular, some of its music is very fine. The overture may be said to consist of two vigorous, stirringly dramatic sections separated by the weird tomb motive. The opening chorus in the _King's_ palace is sonorous and effective. There is a very beautiful romanza for _Adolar_ ("'Neath almond trees in blossom"). In the challenge of the knights to the test of Euryanthe's virtue occurs the vigorous phrase with which the overture opens. _Euryanthe_ has an exquisite cavatina ("Chimes in the valley"). There is an effective duet for _Euryanthe_ and _Eglantine_ ("Threatful gather clouds about me"). A scene for _Eglantine_ is followed by the finale--a chorus with solo for _Euryanthe_.

_Lysiart's_ recitations and aria ("Where seek to hide?"), expressive of hatred and defiance--a powerfully dramatic number--opens the second act. There is a darkly premonitory duet for _Lysiart_ and _Eglantine_. _Adolar_ has a tranquil aria ("When zephyrs waft me peace"); and a duet full of abandon with _Euryanthe_ ("To you my soul I give"). The finale is a quartette with chorus. The hunting chorus in the last act, previous to the _King's_ discovery of _Euryanthe_, has been called Weber's finest inspiration.

Something should be done by means of a new libretto or by re-editing to give "Euryanthe" the position it deserves in the modern operatic repertoire. An attempt at a new libretto was made in Paris in 1857, at the Théâtre Lyrique. It failed. Having read a synopsis of that libretto, I can readily understand why. It is, if possible, more absurd than the original. Shakespeare's "Cymbeline" is derived from the same source as "Euryanthe," which shows that, after all, something could be made of the story.

OBERON,

OR THE ELF-KING'S OATH

Opera in three acts, by Weber. Words by James Robinson Planché.

CHARACTERS

OBERON _Tenor_ TITANIA _Mute Character_ PUCK _Contralto_ DROLL _Contralto_ HUON DE BORDEAUX _Tenor_ SCHERASMIN, his esquire _Baritone_ HAROUN EL RASCHID _Baritone_ REZIA, his daughter _Soprano_ FATIMA, her slave _Soprano_ PRINCE BABEKAN _Tenor_ EMIR ALMANSOR _Baritone_ ROSCHANA, his wife _Contralto_ ABDALLAH, a pirate _Bass_ CHARLEMAGNE _Bass_

In a tribute to Weber, the librettist of "Oberon" wrote a sketch of the action and also gave as the origin of the story the tale of "Huon de Bordeaux," from the old collection of romances known as "La Bibliothèque Bleue." Wieland's poem "Oberon," is based upon the old romance and Sotheby's translation furnished Planché with the groundwork for the text.

According to Planché's description of the action, _Oberon_, the Elfin King, having quarrelled with his fairy partner, _Titania_, vows never to be reconciled to her till he shall find two lovers constant through peril and temptation. To seek such a pair his "tricksy spirit," _Puck_, has ranged in vain through the world. _Puck_, however, hears sentence passed on _Sir Huon_, of Bordeaux, a young knight, who, having been insulted by the son of _Charlemagne_, kills him in single combat, and is for this condemned by the monarch to proceed to Bagdad, slay him who sits on the _Caliph's_ left hand, and claim the _Caliph's_ daughter as his bride. _Oberon_ instantly resolves to make this pair the instruments of his reunion with his queen, and for this purpose he brings up _Huon_ and _Scherasmin_ asleep before him, enamours the knight by showing him _Rezia_, daughter of the _Caliph_, in a vision, transports him at his waking to Bagdad, and having given him a magic horn, by the blasts of which he is always to summon the assistance of _Oberon_, and a cup that fills at pleasure, disappears. _Sir Huon_ rescues a man from a lion, who proves afterwards to be _Prince Babekan_, who is betrothed to _Rezia_. One of the properties of the cup is to detect misconduct. He offers it to _Babekan_. On raising it to his lips the wine turns to flame, and thus proves him a villain. He attempts to assassinate _Huon_, but is put to flight. The knight then learns from an old woman that the princess is to be married next day, but that _Rezia_ has been influenced, like her lover, by a vision, and is resolved to be his alone. She believes that fate will protect her from her nuptials with _Babekan_, which are to be solemnized on the next day. _Huon_ enters, fights with and vanquishes _Babekan_, and having spellbound the rest by a blast of the magic horn, he and _Scherasmin_ carry off _Rezia_ and _Fatima_. They are soon shipwrecked. _Rezia_ is captured by pirates on a desert island and brought to Tunis, where she is sold to the _Emir_ and exposed to every temptation, but she remains constant. _Sir Huon_, by the order of _Oberon_, is also conveyed thither. He undergoes similar trials from _Roschana_, the jealous wife of the _Emir_, but proving invulnerable she accuses him to her husband, and he is condemned to be burned on the same pyre with _Rezia_. They are rescued by _Scherasmin_, who has the magic horn, and sets all those who would harm _Sir Huon_ and _Rezia_ dancing. _Oberon_ appears with his queen, whom he has regained by the constancy of the lovers, and the opera concludes with _Charlemagne's_ pardon of _Huon_.

The chief musical numbers are, in the first act, _Huon's_ grand scene, beginning with a description of the glories to be won in battle: in the second act, an attractive quartette, "Over the dark blue waters," _Puck's_ invocation of the spirits and their response, the great scene for _Rezia_, "Ocean, thou mighty monster, that liest like a green serpent coiled around the world," and the charming mermaid's song; and, in the third act, the finale.

As is the case with "Euryanthe," the puerilities of the libretto to "Oberon" appear to have been too much even for Weber's beautiful music. Either that, or else Weber is suffering the fate of all obvious forerunners: which is that their genius finds its full and lasting fruition in those whose greater genius it has caused to germinate and ripen. Thus the full fruition of Weber's genius is found in the Wagner operas and music-dramas. Even the fine overtures, "Freischütz," "Euryanthe," and "Oberon," in former years so often found in the classical concert repertoire, are played less and less frequently. The "Tannhäuser" overture has supplanted them. The "Oberon" overture, like that to "Freischütz" and "Euryanthe," is composed of material from the opera--the horn solo from _Sir Huon's_ scena, portions of the fairies, chorus and the third-act finale, the climax of _Rezia's_ scene in the second act, and _Puck's_ invocation.

In his youth Weber composed, to words by Heimer, an amusing little musical comedy entitled "Abu Hassan." It was produced in Dresden under the composer's direction. The text is derived from a well-known tale in the _Arabian Nights_. Another youthful opera by Weber, "Silvana," was produced at Frankfort-on-Main in 1810. The text, based upon an old Rhine legend of a feud between two brothers, has been rearranged by Ernst Pasqué, the score by Ferdinand Lange, who, in the ballet in the second act, has introduced Weber's "Invitation à la Valse" and his "Polonaise," besides utilizing other music by the composer. The fragment of another work, a comic opera, "The Three Pintos," text by Theodor Hell, was taken in hand and completed, the music by Gustav Mahler, the libretto by Weber's grandson, Carl von Weber.

Why Some Operas are Rarely Given

There is hardly a writer on music, no matter how advanced his views, who will not agree with me in all I have said in praise of "Orpheus and Eurydice," the principal Mozart operas, Beethoven's "Fidelio," and Weber's "Freischütz" and "Euryanthe." The question therefore arises: "Why are these works not performed with greater frequency?"

A general answer would be that the modern opera house is too large for the refined and delicate music of Gluck and Mozart to be heard to best effect. Moreover, these are the earliest works in the repertoire.

In Mozart's case there is the further reason that "Don Giovanni" and "The Magic Flute" are very difficult to give. An adequate performance of "Don Giovanni" calls for three prima donnas of the highest rank. The demands of "The Magic Flute" upon the female personnel of an opera company also are very great--that is if the work is to be given at all adequately and effectively. Moreover, the _recitativo secco_ (dry recitative) of the Mozart operas--a recitative which, at a performance of "Don Giovanni" in the Academy of Music, New York, I have heard accompanied by the conductor on an upright pianoforte--is tedious to ears accustomed to have every phrase in modern opera sung to an expressive orchestral accompaniment. As regards "Fidelio" it has spoken dialogue; and if anything has been demonstrated over and over again, it is that American audiences of today simply will not stand for spoken dialogue in grand opera. That also, together with the extreme naïveté of their librettos, is the great handicap of the Weber operas. It is neither an easy nor an agreeable descent from the vocalized to the spoken word. And so, works, admittedly great, are permitted to lapse into unpardonable desuetude, because no genius, willing or capable, has come forward to change the _recitativo secco_ of Mozart, or the dialogue that affronts the hearer in the other works mentioned, into recitatives that will restore these operas to their deserved place in the modern repertoire. Berlioz tried it with "Der Freischütz" and appears to have failed; nor have the "Freischütz" recitatives by Costa seemingly fared any better. This may have deterred others from making further attempts of the kind. But it seems as if a lesser genius than Berlioz, and a talent superior to Costa's, might succeed where they failed.

From Weber to Wagner

In the evolution of opera from Weber to Wagner a gap was filled by composers of but little reputation here, although their names are known to every student of the lyric stage. Heinrich Marschner (1795-1861) composed in "Hans Heiling," Berlin, 1833, an opera based on legendary material. Its success may have confirmed Wagner's bent toward dramatic sources of this kind already aroused by his admiration for Weber. "Hans Heiling," "Der Vampyr" (The Vampire), and "Der Templer und Die Judin" (Templar and Jewess, a version of _Ivanhoe_) long held an important place in the operatic repertoire of their composer's native land. On the other hand "Faust" (1818) and "Jessonda" (1823), by Ludwig Spohr (1784-1859), have about completely disappeared. Spohr, however, deserves mention as being one of the first professional musicians of prominence to encourage Wagner. Incapable of appreciating either Beethoven or Weber, yet, strange to say, he at once recognized the merits of "The Flying Dutchman" and "Tannhäuser," and even of "Lohengrin"--at the time sealed volumes to most musicians and music lovers. As court conductor at Kassel, he brought out the first two Wagner operas mentioned respectively in 1842 and 1853; and was eager to produce "Lohengrin," but was prevented by opposition from the court.

Meyerbeer and his principal operas will be considered at length in the chapters in this book devoted to French opera. There is no doubt, however, that what may be called the "largeness" of Meyerbeer's style and the effectiveness of his instrumentation had their influence on Wagner.

Gasparo Spontini (1774-1851) was an Italian by birth, but I believe can be said to have made absolutely no impression on the development of Italian opera. His principal works, "La Vestale" (The Vestal Virgin), and "Fernando Cortez," were brought out in Paris and later in Berlin, where he was general music director, 1820-1841. His operas were heavily scored, especially for brass. Much that is noisy in "Rienzi" may be traced to Spontini, but later Wagner understood how to utilize the brass in the most eloquent manner; for, like Shakespeare, Wagner possessed the genius that converts the dross of others into refined gold.

Mention may be here made of three composers of light opera, who succeeded in evolving a refined and charming type of the art. We at least know the delightful overture to "The Merry Wives of Windsor," by Otto Nicolai (1810-1849); and the whole opera, produced in Berlin a few months before Nicolai died, is equally frolicksome and graceful. Conradin Kreutzer (1780-1849) brought out, in 1836, "Das Nachtlager in Granada" (A Night's Camp in Granada), a melodious and sparkling score.

But the German light opera composer par excellence is Albert Lortzing (1803-1851). His chief works are, "Czar und Zimmermann" (Czar and Carpenter), 1834, with its beautiful baritone solo, "In childhood I played with a sceptre and crown"; "Der Wildschütz" (The Poacher); "Undine"; and "Der Waffenschmied" (The Armourer) which last also has a deeply expressive solo for baritone, "Ich auch war einst Jüngling mit lockigem Haar" (I too was a youth once with fair, curly hair).

Richard Wagner

(1813-1883)

Richard Wagner was born at Leipsic, May 22, 1813. His father was clerk to the city police court and a man of good education. During the French occupation of Leipsic he was, owing to his knowledge of French, made chief of police. He was fond of poetry and had a special love for the drama, often taking part in amateur theatricals.

Five months after Richard's birth his father died of an epidemic fever brought on by the carnage during the battle of Leipsic, October 16, 18, and 19, 1813. In 1815 his widow, whom he had left in most straitened circumstances, married Ludwig Geyer, an actor, a playwright, and a portrait painter. By inheritance from his father, by association with his stepfather, who was very fond of him, Wagner readily acquired the dramatic faculty so pronounced in his operas and music-dramas of which he is both author and composer.

At the time Wagner's mother married Geyer, he was a member of the Court Theatre at Dresden. Thither the family removed. When the boy was eight years old, he had learned to play on the pianoforte the chorus of bridesmaids from "Der Freischütz," then quite new. The day before Geyer's death, September 30, 1821, Richard was playing this piece in an adjoining room and heard Geyer say to his mother: "Do you think he might have a gift for music?" Coming out of the death room Wagner's mother said to him: "Of you he wanted to make something." "From this time on," writes Wagner in his early autobiographical sketch, "I always had an idea that I was destined to amount to something in this world."

At school Wagner made quite a little reputation as a writer of verses. He was such an enthusiastic admirer of Shakespeare that at the age of fourteen he began a grand tragedy, of which he himself says that it was a jumble of _Hamlet_ and _Lear_. So many people died in the course of it that their ghosts had to return in order to keep the fifth act going.

In 1833, at the age of twenty, Wagner began his career as a professional musician. His elder brother Albert was engaged as tenor, actor, and stage manager at the Würzburg theatre. A position as chorus master being offered to Richard, he accepted it, although his salary was a pittance of ten florins a month. However, the experience was valuable. He was able to profit by many useful hints from his brother, the Musikverein performed several of his compositions, and his duties were not so arduous but that he found time to write the words and music of an opera in three acts entitled "The Fairies"--first performed in June, 1888, five years after his death, at Munich. In the autumn of 1834 he was called to the conductorship of the opera at Magdeburg. There he wrote and produced an opera, "Das Liebesverbot" (Love Veto), based on Shakespeare's _Measure for Measure_. The theatre at Magdeburg was, however, on the ragged edge of bankruptcy, and during the spring of 1836 matters became so bad that it was evident the theatre must soon close. Finally only twelve days were left for the rehearsing and the performance of his opera. The result was that the production went completely to pieces, singers forgetting their lines and music, and a repetition which was announced could not come off because of a free fight behind the scenes between two of the principal singers. Wagner describes this in the following amusing passage in his autobiographical sketch:

"All at once the husband of my prima donna (the impersonator of _Isabella_) pounced upon the second tenor, a very young and handsome fellow (the singer of my _Claudio_), against whom the injured spouse had long cherished a secret jealousy. It seemed that the prima donna's husband, who had from behind the curtains inspected with me the composition of the audience, considered that the time had now arrived when, without damage to the prospects of the theatre, he could take his revenge on his wife's lover. _Claudio_ was so pounded and belaboured by him that the unhappy individual was compelled to retire to the dressing-room with his face all bleeding. _Isabella_ was informed of this, and, rushing desperately toward her furious lord, received from him such a series of violent cuffs that she forthwith went into spasms. The confusion among my personnel was now quite boundless: everybody took sides with one party or the other, and everything seemed on the point of a general fight. It seemed as if this unhappy evening appeared to all of them precisely calculated for a final settling up of all sorts of fancied insults. This much was evident, that the couple who had suffered under the 'love veto' (Liebesverbot) of _Isabella's_ husband, were certainly unable to appear on this occasion."

Wagner was next engaged as orchestral conductor at Königsberg, where he married the actress Wilhelmina, or Minna Planer. Later he received notice of his appointment as conductor and of the engagement of his wife and sister at the theatre at Riga, on the Russian side of the Baltic.

In Riga he began the composition of his first great success, "Rienzi." He completed the libretto during the summer of 1838, and began the music in the autumn, and when his contract terminated in the spring of 1839 the first two acts were finished. In July, accompanied by his wife and a huge Newfoundland dog, he boarded a sailing vessel for London, at the port of Pilau, his intention being to go from London to Paris. "I shall never forget the voyage," he says. "It was full of disaster. Three times we nearly suffered shipwreck, and once were obliged to seek safety in a Norwegian harbour.... The legend of the 'Flying Dutchman' was confirmed by the sailors, and the circumstances gave it a distinct and characteristic colour in my mind." No wonder the sea is depicted so graphically in his opera "The Flying Dutchman."

He arrived in Paris in September, 1839, and remained until April 7, 1842, from his twenty-sixth to his twenty-ninth year. This Parisian sojourn was one of the bitter experiences of his life. At times he actually suffered from cold and hunger, and was obliged to do a vast amount of most uncongenial kind of hack work.

November 19, 1840, he completed the score of "Rienzi," and in December forwarded it to the director of the Royal Theatre at Dresden. While awaiting a reply, he contributed to the newspapers and did all kinds of musical drudgery for Schlesinger, the music publisher, even making arrangements for the cornet à piston. Finally word came from Dresden. "Rienzi" had aroused the enthusiasm of the chorus master, Fischer, and of the tenor Tichatschek, who saw that the title rôle was exactly suited to his robust, dramatic voice. Then there was Mme. Schröder-Devrient for the part of _Adriano_. The opera was produced October 20, 1842, the performance beginning at six and ending just before midnight, to the enthusiastic plaudits of an immense audience. So great was the excitement that in spite of the late hour people remained awake to talk over the success. "We all ought to have gone to bed," relates a witness, "but we did nothing of the kind." Early the next morning Wagner appeared at the theatre in order to make excisions from the score, which he thought its great length necessitated. But when he returned in the afternoon to see if they had been executed, the copyist excused himself by saying the singers had protested against any cuts. Tichatschek said: "I will have no cuts; it is too heavenly." After a while, owing to its length, the opera was divided into two evenings.

The success of "Rienzi" led the Dresden management to put "The Flying Dutchman" in rehearsal. It was brought out after somewhat hasty preparations, January 2, 1843. The opera was so different from "Rienzi," its sombre beauty contrasted so darkly with the glaring, brilliant music and scenery of the latter, that the audience failed to grasp it. In fact, after "Rienzi," it was a disappointment.

Before the end of January, 1843, not long after the success of "Rienzi," Wagner was appointed one of the Royal conductors at Dresden. He was installed February 2d. One of his first duties was to assist Berlioz at the rehearsals of the latter's concerts. Wagner's work in his new position was somewhat varied, consisting not only of conducting operas, but also music between the acts at theatrical performances and at church services. The principal operas which he rehearsed and conducted were "Euryanthe," "Freischütz," "Don Giovanni," "The Magic Flute," Gluck's "Armide," and "Iphigenia in Aulis." The last-named was revised both as regards words and music by him, and his changes are now generally accepted.

Meanwhile he worked arduously on "Tannhäuser," completing it April 13, 1844. It was produced at Dresden, October 19, 1845. At first the work proved even a greater puzzle to the public than "The Flying Dutchman" had, and evoked comments which nowadays, when the opera has actually become a classic, seem ridiculous. Some people even suggested that the plot of the opera should be changed so that _Tannhäuser_ should marry _Elizabeth_.

The management of the Dresden theatre, which had witnessed the brilliant success of "Rienzi" and had seen "The Flying Dutchman" and "Tannhäuser" at least hold their own in spite of the most virulent opposition, looked upon his next work, "Lohengrin," as altogether too risky and put off its production indefinitely.

Thinking that political changes might put an end to the routine stagnation in musical matters, Wagner joined in the revolutionary agitation of '48 and '49. In May, 1849, the disturbances at Dresden reached such an alarming point that the Saxon Court fled. Prussian troops were dispatched to quell the riot and Wagner thought it advisable to flee. He went to Weimar, where Liszt was busy rehearsing "Tannhäuser." While attending a rehearsal of this work, May 19, news was received that orders had been issued for his arrest as a politically dangerous individual. Liszt at once procured a passport and Wagner started for Paris. In June he went to Zurich, where he found Dresden friends and where his wife joined him, being enabled to do so through the zeal of Liszt, who raised the money to defray her journey from Dresden.

Liszt brought out "Lohengrin" at Weimar, August 28, 1850. The reception of "Lohengrin" did not at first differ much from that accorded to "Tannhäuser." Yet the performance made a deep impression. The fact that the weight of Liszt's influence had been cast in its favour gave vast importance to the event, and it may be said that through this performance Wagner's cause received its first great stimulus. The so-called Wagner movement may be said to have dated from this production of "Lohengrin."

He finished the librettos of the "Nibelung" dramas in 1853. By May, 1854, the music of "Das Rheingold" was composed. The following month he began "Die Walküre" and finished all but the instrumentation during the following winter and the full score in 1856. Previous to this, in fact already in the autumn of 1854, he had sketched some of the music of "Siegfried," and in the spring of 1857 the full score of the first act and of the greater part of the second act was finished. Then, recognizing the difficulties which he would encounter in securing a performance of the "Ring," and appalled by the prospect of the battle he would be obliged to wage, he was so disheartened that he abandoned the composition of "Siegfried" at the _Waldweben_ scene and turned to "Tristan." His idea at that time was that "Tristan" would be short and comparatively easy to perform. Genius that he was, he believed that because it was easy for him to write great music it would be easy for others to interpret it. A very curious, not to say laughable, incident occurred at this time. An agent of the Emperor of Brazil called and asked if Wagner would compose an opera for an Italian troupe at Rio de Janeiro, and would he conduct the work himself, all upon his own terms. The composition of "Tristan" actually was begun with a view of its being performed by Italians in Brazil!

The poem of "Tristan" was finished early in 1857, and in the winter of the same year the full score of the first act was ready to be forwarded to the engraver. The second act is dated Venice, March 2, 1859. The third is dated Lyons, August, 1859.

It is interesting to note in connection with "Tristan" that, while Wagner wrote it because he thought it would be easy to secure its performance, he subsequently found more difficulty in getting it produced than any other of his works. In September, 1859, he again went to Paris with the somewhat curious hope that he could there find opportunity to produce "Tristan" with German artists. Through the intercession of the Princess Metternich, the Emperor ordered the production of "Tannhäuser" at the Opéra. Beginning March 13, 1861, three performances were given, of which it is difficult to say whether the performance was on the stage or in the auditorium, for the uproar in the house often drowned the sounds from the stage. The members of the Jockey Club, who objected to the absence of a ballet, armed themselves with shrill whistles, on which they began to blow whenever there was the slightest hint of applause, and the result was that between the efforts of the singers to make themselves heard and of Wagner's friends to applaud, and the shrill whistling from his enemies, there was confusion worse confounded. But Wagner's friendship with Princess Metternich bore good fruit. Through her mediation, it is supposed, he received permission to return to all parts of Germany but Saxony. It was not until March, 1862, thirteen years after his banishment, that he was again allowed to enter the kingdom of his birth and first success.

His first thought now was to secure the production of "Tristan," but at Vienna, after fifty-seven rehearsals, it was put upon the shelf as impossible.

In 1863, while working upon "Die Meistersinger," at Penzing, near Vienna, he published his "Nibelung" dramas, expressing his hope that through the bounty of one of the German rulers the completion and performance of his "Ring of the Nibelung" would be made possible. But in the spring of 1864, worn out by his struggle with poverty and almost broken in spirit by his contest with public and critics, he actually determined to give up his public career, and eagerly grasped the opportunity to visit a private country seat in Switzerland. Just at this very moment, when despair had settled upon him, the long wished-for help came. King Ludwig II., of Bavaria, bade him come to Munich, where he settled in 1864. "Tristan" was produced there June 10, 1865. June 21, 1868, a model performance of "Die Meistersinger," which he had finished in 1867, was given at Munich under the direction of von Bülow, Richter acting as chorus master and Wagner supervising all the details. Wagner also worked steadily at the unfinished portion of the "Ring," completing the instrumentation of the third act of "Siegfried" in 1869 and the introduction and first act of "The Dusk of the Gods" in June, 1870.

August 25, 1870, his first wife having died January 25, 1866, after five years' separation from him, he married the divorced wife of von Bülow, Cosima Liszt. In 1869 and 1870, respectively "The Rhinegold" and "The Valkyr" were performed at the Court Theatre in Munich.

Bayreuth having been determined upon as the place where a theatre for the special production of his "Ring" should be built, Wagner settled there in April, 1872. By November, 1874, "Dusk of the Gods" received its finishing touches, and rehearsals had already been held at Bayreuth. During the summer of 1875, under Wagner's supervision, Hans Richter held full rehearsals there, and at last, twenty-eight years after its first conception, on August 13th, 14th, 16th, and 17th, again from August 20 to 23, and from August 27 to 30, 1876, "The Ring of the Nibelung" was performed at Bayreuth with the following cast: _Wotan_, Betz; _Loge_, Vogel; _Alberich_, Hill; _Mime_, Schlosser; _Fricka_, Frau Grün; _Donner_ and _Gunther_, Gura; _Erda_ and _Waltraute_, Frau Jaide; _Siegmund_, Niemann; _Sieglinde_, Frl. Schefsky; _Brünnhilde_, Frau Materna; _Siegfried_, Unger; _Hagen_, Siehr; _Gutrune_, Frl. Weckerin; _Rhinedaughters_, Lilli and Marie Lehmann, and Frl. Lammert. First violin, Wilhelmj; conductor, Hans Richter. The first _Rhinedaughter_ was the same Lilli Lehmann who, in later years, at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, became one of the greatest of prima donnas and, as regards the Wagnerian repertoire, set a standard for all time. Materna appeared at that house in the "Valkyr" production under Dr. Damrosch, in January, 1885, and Niemann was heard there later.

To revert to Bayreuth, "Parsifal" was produced there in July, 1882. In the autumn of that year, Wagner's health being in an unsatisfactory state, though no alarming symptoms had shown themselves, he took up his residence in Venice at the Palazzo Vendramini, on the Grand Canal. He died February 13, 1883.

In manner incidental, that is, without attention formally being called to the subject, Wagner's reform of the lyric stage is set forth in the descriptive accounts of his music-dramas which follow, and in which the leading motives are quoted in musical notation. But something directly to the point must be said here.

Once again, like Gluck a century before, Wagner opposed the assumption of superiority on the part of the interpreter--the singer--over the composer. He opposed it in manner so thorough-going that he changed the whole face of opera. A far greater tribute to Wagner's genius than the lame attempts of some German composers at imitating him, is the frank adoption of certain phases of his method by modern French and Italian composers, beginning with Verdi in "Aïda." While by no means a Wagnerian work, since it contains not a trace of the theory of the leading motive, "Aïda," through the richness of its instrumentation, the significant accompaniment of its recitative, the lack of mere _bravura_ embellishment in its vocal score, and its sober reaching out for true dramatic effect in the treatment of the voices, substituting this for ostentatious brilliancy and ear-tickling fluency, plainly shows the influence of Wagner upon the greatest of Italian composers. And what is true of "Aïda," is equally applicable to the whole school of Italian _verismo_ that came after Verdi--Mascagni, Leoncavallo, Puccini.

Wagner's works are conceived and executed upon a gigantic scale. They are Shakespearian in their dimensions and in their tragic power; or, as in the "Meistersinger," in their comedy element. Each of his works is highly individual. The "Ring" dramas and "Tristan" are unmistakably Wagner. Yet how individually characteristic the music of each! That of the "Ring" is of elemental power. The "Tristan" music is molten passion. Equally characteristic and individual are his other scores.

The theory evolved by Wagner was that the lyric stage should present not a series of melodies for voice upon a mere framework of plot and versified story, but a serious work of dramatic art, the music to which should, both vocally and instrumentally, express the ever varying development of the drama. With this end in view he invented a melodious recitative which only at certain great crises in the progress of the action--such as the love-climax, the gathering at the Valkyr Rock, the "Farewell," and the "Magic Fire" scenes in "The Valkyr"; the meeting of _Siegfried_ and _Brünnhilde_ in "Siegfried"; the love duet and "Love-Death" in "Tristan"--swells into prolonged melody. Note that I say prolonged melody. For besides these prolonged melodies, there is almost constant melody, besides marvellous orchestral colour, in the weft and woof of the recitative. This is produced by the artistic use of leading motives, every leading motive being a brief, but expressive, melody--so brief that, to one coming to Wagner without previous study or experience, the melodious quality of his recitative is not appreciated at first. After a while, however, the hearer begins to recognize certain brief, but melodious and musically eloquent phrases--leading motives--as belonging to certain characters in the drama or to certain influences potent in its development, such as hate, love, jealousy, the desire for revenge, etc. Often to express a combination of circumstances, influences, passions, or personal actions, these leading motives, these brief melodious phrases, are combined with a skill that is unprecedented; or the voice may express one, while the orchestra combines with it in another.

To enable the orchestra to follow these constantly changing phases in the evolution and development of the drama, and often to give utterance to them separately, it was necessary for Wagner to have most intimate knowledge of the individual tone quality and characteristics of every instrument in the orchestra, and this mastery of what I may call instrumental personality he possessed to a hitherto undreamed-of degree. Nor has anyone since equalled him in it. The result is a choice and variety of instrumentation which in itself is almost an equivalent for dramatic action and enables the orchestra to adapt itself with unerring accuracy to the varying phases of the drama.

Consider that, when Wagner first projected his theory of the music-drama, singers were accustomed in opera to step into the limelight and, standing there, deliver themselves of set melodies, acknowledge applause and give as many encores as were called for, in fact were "it," while the real creative thing, the opera, was but secondary, and it is easy to comprehend the opposition which his works aroused among the personnel of the lyric stage; for music-drama demands a singer's absorption not only in the music but also in the action. A Wagner music-drama requires great singers, but the singers no longer absorb everything. They are part--a most important part, it is true--of a performance, in which the drama itself, the orchestra, and the stage pictures are also of great importance. A performance of a Wagner music-drama, to be effective, must be a well-rounded, eloquent whole. The drama must be well acted from a purely dramatic point of view. It must be well sung from a purely vocal point of view. It must be well interpreted from a purely orchestral point of view. It must be well produced from a purely stage point of view. For all these elements go hand in hand. It is, of course, well known that Wagner was the author of his own librettos and showed himself a dramatist of the highest order for the lyric stage.

While his music-dramas at first aroused great opposition among operatic artists, growing familiarity with them caused these artists to change their view. The interpretation of a Wagner character was discovered to be a combined intellectual and emotional task which slowly, but surely, appealed more and more to the great singers of the lyric stage. They derived a new dignity and satisfaction from their work, especially as audiences also began to realize that, instead of mere entertainment, performances of Wagner music-dramas were experiences that both stirred the emotions to their depths and appealed to the intellect as well. To this day Lilli Lehmann is regarded by all, who had the good fortune to hear her at the Metropolitan Opera House, as the greatest prima donna and the most dignified figure in the history of the lyric stage in this country; for on the lyric stage the interpretation of the great characters in Wagnerian music-drama already had come to be regarded as equal to the interpretation of the great Shakespearian characters on the dramatic.

Wagner's genius was so supreme that, although he has been dead thirty-four years, he is still without a successor. Through the force of his own genius he appears destined to remain the sole exponent of the art form of which he was the creator. But his influence is still potent. This we discover not only in the enrichment of the orchestral accompaniment in opera, but in the banishment of senseless vocal embellishment, in the search for true dramatic expression and, in general, in the greater seriousness with which opera is taken as an art. Even the minor point of lowering the lights in the auditorium during a performance, so as to concentrate attention upon the stage, is due to him; and even the older Italian operas are now given with an attention to detail, scenic setting, and an endeavour to bring out their dramatic effects, quite unheard of before his day. He was, indeed, a reformer of the lyric stage whose influence long will be potent "all along the line."

RIENZI, DER LETZTE DER TRIBUNEN

RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES

Opera in five acts. Words and music by Wagner. Produced, Dresden, October 20, 1842. London, Her Majesty's Theatre, April 16, 1869. New York, Academy of Music, 1878, with Charles R. Adams, as _Rienzi_, Pappenheim as _Adriano_; Metropolitan Opera House, February 5, 1886, with Sylva as _Rienzi_, Lehmann as _Irene_, Brandt as _Adriano_, Fischer as _Colonna_.

CHARACTERS

COLA RIENZI, Roman Tribune and Papal Notary _Tenor_ IRENE, his sister _Soprano_ STEFFANO COLONNA _Bass_ ADRIANO, his son _Mezzo-Soprano_ PAOLO ORSINO _Bass_ RAIMONDO, Papal Legate _Bass_ BARONCELLO } { _Tenor_ CECCO DEL VECCHIO } Roman citizens { _Bass_ MESSENGER OF PEACE _Soprano_

Ambassadors, Nobles, Priests, Monks, Soldiers, Messengers, and Populace in General.

_Time_--Middle of the Fourteenth Century.

_Place_--Rome.

_Orsino_, a Roman patrician, attempts to abduct _Irene_, the sister of _Rienzi_, a papal notary, but is opposed at the critical moment by _Colonna_, another patrician. A fight ensues between the two factions, in the midst of which _Adriano_, the son of _Colonna_, who is in love with _Irene_, appears to defend her. A crowd is attracted by the tumult, and among others _Rienzi_ comes upon the scene. Enraged at the insult offered his sister, and stirred on by _Cardinal Raimondo_, he urges the people to resist the outrages of the nobles. _Adriano_ is impelled by his love for _Irene_ to cast his lot with her brother. The nobles are overpowered, and appear at the capitol to swear allegiance to _Rienzi_, but during the festal proceedings _Adriano_ warns him that the nobles have plotted to kill him. An attempt which _Orsino_ makes upon him with a dagger is frustrated by a steel breastplate which _Rienzi_ wears under his robe.

The nobles are seized and condemned to death, but on _Adriano's_ pleading they are spared. They, however, violate their oath of submission, and the people again under _Rienzi's_ leadership rise and exterminate them, _Adriano_ having pleaded in vain. In the end the people prove fickle. The popular tide turns against _Rienzi_, especially in consequence of the report that he is in league with the German emperor, and intends to restore the Roman pontiff to power. As a festive procession is escorting him to church, _Adriano_ rushes upon him with a drawn dagger, being infuriated at the slaughter of his family, but the blow is averted. Instead of the "Te Deum," however, with which _Rienzi_ expected to be greeted on his entrance to the church, he hears the malediction and sees the ecclesiastical dignitaries placing the ban of excommunication against him upon the doors. _Adriano_ hurries to _Irene_ to warn her of her brother's danger, and urges her to seek safety with him in flight. She, however, repels him, and seeks her brother, determined to die with him, if need be. She finds him at prayer in the capitol, but rejects his counsel to save herself with _Adriano_. _Rienzi_ appeals to the infuriated populace which has gathered around the capitol, but they do not heed him. They fire the capitol with their torches, and hurl stones at _Rienzi_ and _Irene_. As _Adriano_ sees his beloved one and her brother doomed to death in the flames, he throws away his sword, rushes into the capitol, and perishes with them.

The overture of "Rienzi" gives a vivid idea of the action of the opera. Soon after the beginning there is heard the broad and stately melody of _Rienzi's_ prayer, and then the Rienzi Motive, a typical phrase, which is used with great effect later in the opera. It is followed in the overture by the lively melody heard in the concluding portion of the finale of the second act. These are the three most conspicuous portions of the overture, in which there are, however, numerous tumultuous passages reflecting the dramatic excitement which pervades many scenes.

The opening of the first act is full of animation, the orchestra depicting the tumult which prevails during the struggle between the nobles. _Rienzi's_ brief recitative is a masterpiece of declamatory music, and his call to arms is spirited. It is followed by a trio between _Irene_, _Rienzi_, and _Adriano_, and this in turn by a duet for the two last-named which is full of fire. The finale opens with a double chorus for the populace and the monks in the Lateran, accompanied by the organ. Then there is a broad and energetic appeal to the people from _Rienzi_, and amid the shouts of the populace and the ringing tones of the trumpets the act closes.

The insurrection of the people against the nobles is successful, and _Rienzi_, in the second act, awaits at the capitol the patricians who are to pledge him their submission. The act opens with a broad and stately march, to which the messengers of peace enter. They sing a graceful chorus. This is followed by a chorus for the senators, and the nobles then tender their submission. There is a terzetto, between _Adriano_, _Colonna_, and _Orsino_, in which the nobles express their contempt for the young patrician. The finale which then begins is highly spectacular. There is a march for the ambassadors, and a grand ballet, historical in character, and supposed to be symbolical of the triumphs of ancient Rome. In the midst of this occurs the assault upon _Rienzi_. _Rienzi's_ pardon of the nobles is conveyed in a broadly beautiful melody, and this is succeeded by the animated passage heard in the overture. With it are mingled the chants of the monks, the shouts of the people who are opposed to the cardinal and nobles, and the tolling of bells.

The third act opens tumultuously. The people have been aroused by fresh outrages on the part of the nobles. _Rienzi's_ emissaries disperse, after a furious chorus, to rouse the populace to vengeance. After they have left, _Adriano_ has his great air, a number which can never fail of effect when sung with all the expression of which it is capable. The rest of the act is a grand accumulation of martial music or noise, whichever one chooses to call it, and includes the stupendous battle hymn, which is accompanied by the clashing of sword and shields, the ringing of bells, and all the tumult incidental to a riot. After _Adriano_ has pleaded in vain with _Rienzi_ for the nobles, and the various bands of armed citizens have dispersed, there is a duet between _Adriano_ and _Irene_, in which _Adriano_ takes farewell of her. The victorious populace appears and the act closes with their triumphant shouts. The fourth act is brief, and beyond the description given in the synopsis of the plot, requires no further comment.

The fifth act opens with the beautiful prayer of _Rienzi_, already familiar from the overture. There is a tender duet between _Rienzi_ and _Irene_, an impassioned aria for _Rienzi_, a duet for _Irene_ and _Adriano_, and then the finale, which is chiefly choral.

DER FLIEGENDE HOLLÄNDER

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN

Opera in three acts, words and music by Richard Wagner. Produced, Royal Opera, Dresden, January 2, 1843. London, July 23, 1870, as "L'Olandese Dannato"; October 3, 1876, by Carl Rosa, in English. New York, Academy of Music, January 26, 1877, in English, with Clara Louise Kellogg; March 12, 1877, in German; in the spring of 1883, in Italian, with Albani, Galassi, and Ravelli.

CHARACTERS

DALAND, a Norwegian sea captain _Bass_ SENTA, his daughter _Soprano_ ERIC, a huntsman _Tenor_ MARY, SENTA'S nurse _Contralto_ DALAND'S Steersman _Tenor_ THE DUTCHMAN _Baritone_

Sailors, Maidens, Hunters, etc.

_Time_--Eighteenth Century.

_Place_--A Norwegian Fishing Village.

From "Rienzi" Wagner took a great stride to "The Flying Dutchman." This is the first milestone on the road from opera to music-drama. Of his "Rienzi" the composer was in after years ashamed, writing to Liszt: "I, as an artist and man, have not the heart for the reconstruction of that, to my taste, superannuated work, which in consequence of its immoderate dimensions, I have had to remodel more than once. I have no longer the heart for it, and desire from all my soul to do something new instead." He spoke of it as a youthful error, but in "The Flying Dutchman" there is little, if anything, which could have troubled his artistic conscience.

One can hardly imagine the legend more effective dramatically and musically than it is in Wagner's libretto and score. It is a work of wild and sombre beauty, relieved only occasionally by touches of light and grace, and has all the interest attaching to a work in which for the first time a genius feels himself conscious of his greatness. If it is not as impressive as "Tannhäuser" or "Lohengrin," nor as stupendous as the music-dramas, that is because the subject of the work is lighter. As his genius developed, his choice of subjects and his treatment of them passed through as complete an evolution as his musical theory, so that when he finally abandoned the operatic form and adopted his system of leading motives, he conceived, for the dramatic bases of his scores, dramas which it would be difficult to fancy set to any other music than that which is so characteristic in his music-dramas.

Wagner's present libretto is based upon the weirdly picturesque legend of "The Flying Dutchman"--the Wandering Jew of the ocean. A Dutch sea captain, who, we are told, tried to double the Cape of Good Hope in the teeth of a furious gale, swore that he would accomplish his purpose even if he kept on sailing forever. The devil, hearing the oath, condemned the captain to sail the sea until Judgment Day, without hope of release, unless he should find a woman who would love him faithfully unto death. Once in every seven years he is allowed to go ashore in search of a woman who will redeem him through her faithful love.

The opera opens just as a term of seven years has elapsed. The _Dutchman's_ ship comes to anchor in a bay of the coast of Norway, in which the ship of _Daland_, a Norwegian sea captain, has sought shelter from the storm. _Daland's_ home is not far from the bay, and the _Dutchman_, learning he has a daughter, asks permission to woo her, offering him in return all his treasures. _Daland_ readily consents. His daughter, _Senta_, is a romantic maiden upon whom the legend of "The Flying Dutchman" has made a deep impression. As _Daland_ ushers the _Dutchman_ into his home _Senta_ is gazing dreamily upon a picture representing the unhappy hero of the legend. The resemblance of the stranger to the face in this picture is so striking that the emotional girl is at once attracted to him, and pledges him her faith, deeming it her mission to save him. Later on, _Eric_, a young huntsman, who is in love with her, pleads his cause with her, and the _Dutchman_, overhearing them, and thinking himself again forsaken, rushes off to his vessel. _Senta_ cries out that she is faithful to him, but is held back by _Eric_, _Daland_, and her friends. The _Dutchman_, who really loves _Senta_, then proclaims who he is, thinking to terrify her, and at once puts to sea. But she, undismayed by his words, and truly faithful unto death, breaks away from those who are holding her, and rushing to the edge of a cliff casts herself into the ocean, with her arms outstretched toward him. The phantom ship sinks, the sea rises high and falls back into a seething whirlpool. In the sunset glow the forms of _Senta_ and the _Dutchman_ are seen rising in each other's embrace from the sea and floating upward.

In "The Flying Dutchman" Wagner employs several leading motives, not, indeed, with the skill which he displays in his music-dramas, but with considerably greater freedom of treatment than in "Rienzi." There we had but one leading motive, which never varied in form. The overture, which may be said to be an eloquent and beautiful musical narrative of the whole opera, contains all these leading motives. It opens with a stormy passage, out of which there bursts the strong but sombre Motive of the Flying Dutchman himself, the dark hero of the legend. The orchestra fairly seethes and rages like the sea roaring under the lash of a terrific storm. And through all this furious orchestration there is heard again and again the motive of the _Dutchman_, as if his figure could be seen amid all the gloom and fury of the elements. There he stands, hoping for death, yet indestructible. As the excited music gradually dies away, there is heard a calm, somewhat undulating phrase which occurs in the opera when the _Dutchman's_ vessel puts into the quiet Norwegian harbour. Then, also, there occurs again the motive of the _Dutchman_, but this time played softly, as if the storm-driven wretch had at last found a moment's peace.

We at once recognize to whom it is due that he has found this moment of repose, for we hear like prophetic measures the strains of the beautiful ballad which is sung by _Senta_ in the second act of the opera, in which she relates the legend of "The Flying Dutchman" and tells of his unhappy fate. She is the one whom he is to meet when he goes ashore. The entire ballad is not heard at this point, only the opening of the second part, which may be taken as indicating in this overture the simplicity and beauty of _Senta's_ character. In fact, it would not be too much to call this opening phrase the Senta Motive. It is followed by the phrase which indicates the coming to anchor of the _Dutchman's_ vessel; then we hear the Motive of the Dutchman himself, dying away with the faintest possible effect. With sudden energy the orchestra dashes into the surging ocean music, introducing this time the wild, pathetic plaint sung by the _Dutchman_ in the first act of the opera. Again we hear his motive, and again the music seems to represent the surging, swirling ocean when aroused by a furious tempest. Even when we hear the measures of the sailors' chorus the orchestra continues its furious pace, making it appear as if the sailors were shouting above the storm.

Characteristic in this overture, and also throughout the opera, especially in _Senta's_ ballad, is what may be called the Ocean Motive, which most graphically depicts the wild and terrible aspect of the ocean during a storm. It is varied from time to time, but never loses its characteristic force and weirdness. The overture ends with an impassioned burst of melody based upon a portion of the concluding phrases of _Senta's_ ballad; phrases which we hear once more at the end of the opera when she sacrifices herself in order to save her lover.

A wild and stormy scene is disclosed when the curtain rises upon the first act. The sea occupies the greater part of the scene, and stretches itself out far toward the horizon. A storm is raging. _Daland's_ ship has sought shelter in a little cove formed by the cliffs. Sailors are employed in furling sails and coiling ropes. _Daland_ is standing on a rock, looking about him to discover in what place they are. The orchestra, chiefly with the wild ocean music heard in the overture, depicts the raging of the storm, and above it are heard the shouts of the sailors at work: "Ho-jo-he! Hal-lo-jo!"

_Daland_ discovers that they have missed their port by seven miles on account of the storm, and deplores his bad luck that when so near his home and his beloved child, he should have been driven out of his course. As the storm seems to be abating the sailors descend into the hold and _Daland_ goes down into the cabin to rest, leaving his steersman in charge of the deck. The steersman walks the deck once or twice and then sits down near the rudder, yawning, and then rousing himself as if sleep were coming over him. As if to force himself to remain awake he intones a sailor song, an exquisite little melody, with a dash of the sea in its undulating measures. He intones the second verse, but sleep overcomes him and the phrases become more and more detached, until at last he falls asleep.

The storm begins to rage again and it grows darker. Suddenly the ship of the _Flying Dutchman_, with blood-red sails and black mast, looms up in the distance. She glides over the waves as if she did not feel the storm at all, and quickly enters the harbour over against the ship of the Norwegian; then silently and without the least noise the spectral crew furl the sails. The _Dutchman_ goes on shore.

Here now occur the weird, dramatic recitative and aria: "The term is passed, and once again are ended seven long years." As the _Dutchman_ leans in brooding silence against a rock in the foreground, _Daland_ comes out of the cabin and observes the ship. He rouses the steersman, who begins singing again a phrase of his song, until _Daland_ points out the strange vessel to him, when he springs up and hails her through a speaking trumpet. _Daland_, however, perceives the _Dutchman_ and going ashore questions him. It is then that the _Dutchman_, after relating a mariner's story of ill luck and disaster, asks _Daland_ to take him to his home and allow him to woo his daughter, offering him his treasures. At this point we have a graceful and pretty duet, _Daland_ readily consenting that the _Dutchman_ accompany him. The storm having subsided and the wind being fair, the crews of the vessels hoist sail to leave port, _Daland's_ vessel disappearing just as the _Dutchman_ goes on board his ship.

After an introduction in which we hear a portion of the steersman's song, and also that phrase which denotes the appearance of the _Dutchman's_ vessel in the harbour, the curtain rises upon a room in _Daland's_ house. On the walls are pictures of vessels, charts, and on the farther wall the portrait of a pale man with a dark beard. _Senta_, leaning back in an armchair, is absorbed in dreamy contemplation of the portrait. Her old nurse, _Mary_, and her young friends are sitting in various parts of the room, spinning. Here we have that charming musical number famous all the musical world over, perhaps largely through Liszt's admirable piano arrangement of it, the "Spinning Chorus." For graceful and engaging beauty it cannot be surpassed, and may be cited as a striking instance of Wagner's gift of melody, should anybody at this late day be foolish enough to require proof of his genius in that respect. The girls tease _Senta_ for gazing so dreamily at the portrait of the _Flying Dutchman_, and finally ask her if she will not sing his ballad.

This ballad is a masterpiece of composition, vocally and instrumentally, being melodious as well as descriptive. It begins with the storm music familiar from the overture, and with the weird measures of the Flying Dutchman's Motive, which sound like a voice calling in distress across the sea.

[Music]

_Senta_ repeats the measures of this motive, and then we have the simple phrases beginning: "A ship the restless ocean sweeps." Throughout this portion of the ballad the orchestra depicts the surging and heaving of the ocean, _Senta's_ voice ringing out dramatically above the accompaniment. She then tells how he can be delivered from his curse, this portion being set to the measures which were heard in the overture, _Senta_ finally proclaiming, in the broadly delivered, yet rapturous phrases with which the overture ends,

[Music]

that she is the woman who will save him by being faithful to him unto death. The girls about her spring up in terror and _Eric_, who has just entered the door and heard her outcry, hastens to her side. He brings news of the arrival of _Daland's_ vessel, and _Mary_ and the girls hasten forth to meet the sailors. _Senta_ wishes to follow, but _Eric_ restrains her and pleads his love for her in melodious measures. _Senta_, however, will not give him an answer at this time. He then tells her of a dream he has had, in which he saw a weird vessel from which two men, one her father, the other a ghastly-looking stranger, made their way. Her he saw going to the stranger and entreating him for his regard.

_Senta_, worked up to the highest pitch of excitement by _Eric's_ words, now exclaims: "He seeks for me and I for him," and _Eric_, full of despair and horror, rushes away. _Senta_, after her outburst of excitement, remains again sunk in contemplation of the picture, softly repeating the measures of her romance. The door opens and the _Dutchman_ and _Daland_ appear. The _Dutchman_ is the first to enter. _Senta_ turns from the picture to him, and, uttering a loud cry of wonder, remains standing as if transfixed without removing her eyes from the _Dutchman_. _Daland_, seeing that she does not greet him, comes up to her. She seizes his hand and after a hasty greeting asks him who the stranger is. _Daland_ tells her of the stranger's request, and leaves them alone. Then follows a duet for _Senta_ and the _Dutchman_, with its broad, smoothly-flowing melody and its many phrases of dramatic power, in which _Senta_ gives herself up unreservedly to the hero of her romantic attachment, _Daland_ finally entering and adding his congratulations to their betrothal. This scene closes the act.

The music of it re-echoes through the introduction of the next act and goes over into a vigorous sailors' chorus and dance. The scene shows a bay with a rocky shore. _Daland's_ house is in the foreground on one side, the background is occupied by his and the _Dutchman's_ ships, which lie near one another. The Norwegian ship is lighted up, and all the sailors are making merry on the deck. In strange contrast is the _Flying Dutchman's_ vessel. An unnatural darkness hangs over it and the stillness of death reigns aboard. The sailors and the girls in their merry-making call loudly toward the Dutch ship to join them, but no reply is heard from the weird vessel. Finally the sailors call louder and louder and taunt the crew of the other ship. Then suddenly the sea, which has been quite calm, begins to rise. The storm wind whistles through the cordage of the strange vessel, and as dark bluish flames flare up in the rigging, the weird crew show themselves, and sing a wild chorus, which strikes terror into all the merrymakers. The girls have fled, and the Norwegian sailors quit their deck, making the sign of the cross. The crew of the Flying Dutchman observing this, disappear with shrill laughter. Over their ship comes the stillness of death. Thick darkness is spread over it and the air and the sea become calm as before.

_Senta_ now comes with trembling steps out of the house. She is followed by _Eric_. He pleads with her and entreats her to remember his love for her, and speaks also of the encouragement which she once gave him. The _Dutchman_ has entered unperceived and has been listening. _Eric_ seeing him, at once recognizes the man of ghastly mien whom he saw in his vision. When the _Flying Dutchman_ bids her farewell, because he deems himself abandoned, and _Senta_ endeavours to follow him, _Eric_ holds her and summons others to his aid. But, in spite of all resistance, _Senta_ seeks to tear herself loose. Then it is that the _Flying Dutchman_ proclaims who he is and puts to sea. _Senta_, however, freeing herself, rushes to a cliff overhanging the sea, and calling out,

"Praise thou thine angel for what he saith; Here stand I faithful, yea, to death,"

casts herself into the sea. Then occurs the concluding tableau, the work ending with the portion of the ballad which brought the overture and spinning scene to a close.

TANNHÄUSER

UND DER SÄNGERKRIEG AUF DEM WARTBURG

(AND THE SONG CONTEST AT THE WARTBURG)

Opera in three acts, words and music by Richard Wagner. Produced, Royal Opera, Dresden, October 19, 1845. Paris, Grand Opéra, March 13, 1861. London, Covent Garden, May 6, 1876, in Italian; Her Majesty's Theatre, February 14, 1882, in English; Drury Lane, May 23, 1882, in German, under Hans Richter. New York, Stadt Theatre, April 4, 1859, and July, 1861, conducted by Carl Bergmann; under Adolff Neuendorff's direction, 1870, and, Academy of Music, 1877; Metropolitan Opera House, opening night of German Opera, under Dr. Leopold Damrosch, November 17, 1884, with Seidl-Kraus as _Elizabeth_, Anna Slach as _Venus_, Schott as _Tannhäuser_, Adolf Robinson as _Wolfram_, Josef Kögel as the _Landgrave_.

CHARACTERS

HERMANN, Landgrave of Thuringia _Bass_ TANNHÄUSER } _Tenor_ WOLFRAM VON ESCHENBACH } _Baritone_ WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE } Knights and _Tenor_ BITEROLF } Minnesinger _Bass_ HEINRICH DER SCHREIBER } _Tenor_ REINMAR VON ZWETER } _Bass_ ELIZABETH, niece of the Landgrave _Soprano_ VENUS _Soprano_ A YOUNG SHEPHERD _Soprano_ FOUR NOBLE PAGES _Soprano and Alto_

Nobles, Knights, Ladies, elder and younger Pilgrims, Sirens, Naiads, Nymphs, Bacchantes.

_Time_--Early Thirteenth Century.

_Place_--Near Eisenach.

The story of "Tannhäuser" is laid in and near the Wartburg, where, during the thirteenth century, the Landgraves of the Thuringian Valley held sway. They were lovers of art, especially of poetry and music, and at the Wartburg many peaceful contests between the famous minnesingers took place. Near this castle rises the Venusberg. According to tradition the interior of this mountain was inhabited by Holda, the Goddess of Spring, who, however, in time became identified with the Goddess of Love. Her court was filled with nymphs and sirens, and it was her greatest joy to entice into the mountain the knights of the Wartburg and hold them captive to her beauty.

Among those whom she has thus lured into the rosy recesses of the Venusberg is _Tannhäuser_.

In spite of her beauty, however, he is weary of her charms and longs for a glimpse of the world. He seems to have heard the tolling of bells and other earthly sounds, and these stimulate his yearning to be set free from the magic charms of the goddess.

In vain she prophesies evil to him should he return to the world. With the cry that his hope rests in the Virgin, he tears himself away from her. In one of the swiftest and most effective of scenic changes the court of _Venus_ disappears and in a moment we see _Tannhäuser_ prostrate before a cross in a valley upon which the Wartburg peacefully looks down. _Pilgrims_ on their way to Rome pass him by and _Tannhäuser_ thinks of joining them in order that at Rome he may obtain forgiveness for his crime in allowing himself to be enticed into the Venusberg. But at that moment the _Landgrave_ and a number of minnesingers on their return from the chase come upon him and, recognizing him, endeavour to persuade him to return to the Wartburg with them. Their pleas, however, are vain, until one of them, _Wolfram von Eschenbach_, tells him that since he has left the Wartburg a great sadness has come over the niece of the _Landgrave_, _Elizabeth_. It is evident that _Tannhäuser_ has been in love with her, and that it is because of her beauty and virtue that he regrets so deeply having been lured into the Venusberg. For _Wolfram's_ words stir him profoundly. To the great joy of all, he agrees to return to the Wartburg, the scene of his many triumphs as a minnesinger in the contests of song.

The _Landgrave_, feeling sure that _Tannhäuser_ will win the prize at the contest of song soon to be held, offers the hand of his niece to the winner. The minnesingers sing tamely of the beauty of virtuous love, but _Tannhäuser_, suddenly remembering the seductive and magical beauties of the Venusberg, cannot control himself, and bursts out into a reckless hymn in praise of _Venus_. Horrified at his words, the knights draw their swords and would slay him, but _Elizabeth_ throws herself between him and them. Crushed and penitent, _Tannhäuser_ stands behind her, and the _Landgrave_, moved by her willingness to sacrifice herself for her sinful lover, announces that he will be allowed to join a second band of pilgrims who are going to Rome and to plead with the Pope for forgiveness.

_Elizabeth_ prayerfully awaits his return; but, as she is kneeling by the crucifix in front of the Wartburg, the _Pilgrims_ pass her by and in the band she does not see her lover. Slowly and sadly she returns to the castle to die. When the _Pilgrims'_ voices have died away, and _Elizabeth_ has returned to the castle, leaving only _Wolfram_, who is also deeply enamoured of her, upon the scene, _Tannhäuser_ appears, weary and dejected. He has sought to obtain forgiveness in vain. The Pope has cast him out forever, proclaiming that no more than that his staff can put forth leaves can he expect forgiveness. He has come back to re-enter the Venusberg. _Wolfram_ seeks to restrain him, but it is not until he invokes the name of _Elizabeth_ that _Tannhäuser_ is saved. A cortège approaches, and, as _Tannhäuser_ recognizes the form of _Elizabeth_ on the bier, he sinks down on her coffin and dies. Just then the second band of pilgrims arrive, bearing _Tannhäuser's_ staff, which has put forth blossoms, thus showing that his sins have been forgiven.

From "The Flying Dutchman" to "Tannhäuser," dramatically and musically, is, if anything, a greater stride than from "Rienzi" to "The Flying Dutchman." In each of his successive works Wagner demonstrates greater and deeper powers as a dramatic poet and composer. True it is that in nearly every one of them woman appears as the redeeming angel of sinful man, but the circumstances differ so that this beautiful tribute always interests us anew.

The overture of the opera has long been a favorite piece on concert programs. Like that of "The Flying Dutchman" it is the story of the whole opera told in music. It certainly is one of the most brilliant and effective pieces of orchestral music and its popularity is easily understood. It opens with the melody of the _Pilgrims'_ chorus, beginning softly as if coming from a distance and gradually increasing in power until it is heard in all its grandeur. At this point it is joined by a violently agitated accompaniment on the violins. This passage evoked great criticism when it was first produced and for many years thereafter. It was thought to mar the beauty of the pilgrims' chorus. But without doing so at all it conveys additional dramatic meaning, for these agitated phrases depict the restlessness of the world as compared with the grateful tranquillity of religious faith as set forth in the melody of the _Pilgrims'_ chorus.

[Music]

Having reached a climax, this chorus gradually dies away, and suddenly, and with intense dramatic contrast, we have all the seductive spells of the Venusberg displayed before us--that is, musically displayed; but then the music is so wonderfully vivid, it depicts with such marvellous clearness the many-coloured alluring scene at the court of the unholy goddess, it gives vent so freely to the sinful excitement which pervades the Venusberg, that we actually seem to see what we hear. This passes over in turn to the impassioned burst of song in which _Tannhäuser_ hymns Venus's praise, and immediately after we have the boisterous and vigorous music which accompanies the threatening action of the _Landgrave_ and minnesingers when they draw their swords upon _Tannhäuser_ in order to take vengeance upon him for his crimes. Upon these three episodes of the drama, which so characteristically give insight into its plot and action, the overture is based, and it very naturally concludes with the _Pilgrims'_ chorus which seems to voice the final forgiveness of _Tannhäuser_.

The curtain rises, disclosing all the seductive spells of the Venusberg. _Tannhäuser_ lies in the arms of _Venus_, who reclines upon a flowery couch. Nymphs, sirens, and satyrs are dancing about them and in the distance are grottoes alive with amorous figures. Various mythological amours, such as that of Leda and the swan, are supposed to be in progress, but fortunately at a mitigating distance.

[Music]

Much of the music familiar from the overture is heard during this scene, but it gains in effect from the distant voices of the sirens and, of course, from artistic scenery and grouping and well-executed dances of the denizens of _Venus's_ court. Very dramatic, too, is the scene between _Venus_ and _Tannhäuser_, when the latter sings his hymn in her praise, but at the same time proclaims that he desires to return to the world. In alluring strains she endeavours to tempt him to remain with her, but when she discovers that he is bound upon going, she vehemently warns him of the misfortunes which await him upon earth and prophesies that he will some day return to her and penitently ask to be taken back into her realm.

Dramatic and effective as this scene is in the original score, it has gained immensely in power by the additions which Wagner made for the production of the work in Paris, in 1861. The overture does not, in this version, come to a formal close, but after the manner of Wagner's later works, the transition is made directly from it to the scene of the Venusberg. The dances have been elaborated and laid out upon a more careful allegorical basis and the music of _Venus_ has been greatly strengthened from a dramatic point of view, so that now the scene in which she pleads with him to remain and afterwards warns him against the sorrows to which he will be exposed, are among the finest of Wagner's compositions, rivalling in dramatic power the ripest work in his music-dramas.

Wagner's knowledge of the stage is shown in the wonderfully dramatic effect in the change of scene from the Venusberg to the landscape in the valley of the Wartburg. One moment we have the variegated allures of the court of the Goddess of Love, with its dancing nymphs, sirens, and satyrs, its beautiful grottoes and groups; the next all this has disappeared and from the heated atmosphere of _Venus's_ unholy rites we are suddenly transported to a peaceful scene whose influence upon us is deepened by the crucifix in the foreground, before which _Tannhäuser_ kneels in penitence. The peacefulness of the scene is further enhanced by the appearance upon a rocky eminence to the left of a young _Shepherd_ who pipes a pastoral strain, while in the background are heard the tinkling of bells, as though his sheep were there grazing upon some upland meadow. Before he has finished piping his lay the voices of the _Pilgrims_ are heard in the distance, their solemn measures being interrupted by little phrases piped by the _Shepherd_. As the _Pilgrims_ approach, the chorus becomes louder, and as they pass over the stage and bow before the crucifix, their praise swells into an eloquent psalm of devotion.

_Tannhäuser_ is deeply affected and gives way to his feelings in a lament, against which are heard the voices of the _Pilgrims_ as they recede in the distance. This whole scene is one of marvellous beauty, the contrast between it and the preceding episode being enhanced by the religiously tranquil nature of what transpires and of the accompanying music. Upon this peaceful scene the notes of hunting-horns now break in, and gradually the _Landgrave_ and his hunters gather about _Tannhäuser_. _Wolfram_ recognizes him and tells the others who he is. They greet him in an expressive septette, and _Wolfram_, finding he is bent upon following the _Pilgrims_ to Rome, asks permission of the _Landgrave_ to inform him of the impression which he seems to have made upon _Elizabeth_. This he does in a melodious solo, and _Tannhäuser_, overcome by his love for _Elizabeth_, consents to return to the halls which have missed him so long. Exclamations of joy greet his decision, and the act closes with an enthusiastic _ensemble_, which is a glorious piece of concerted music, and never fails of brilliant effect when it is well executed, especially if the representative of _Tannhäuser_ has a voice that can soar above the others, which, unfortunately, is not always the case. The accompanying scenic grouping should also be in keeping with the composer's instructions. The _Landgrave's_ suite should gradually arrive, bearing the game which has been slain, and horses and hunting-hounds should be led on the stage. Finally, the _Landgrave_ and minnesingers mount their steeds and ride away toward the castle.

The scene of the second act is laid in the singers' hall of the Wartburg. The introduction depicts _Elizabeth's_ joy at _Tannhäuser's_ return, and when the curtain rises she at once enters and joyfully greets the scenes of _Tannhäuser's_ former triumphs in broadly dramatic melodious phrases. _Wolfram_ then appears, conducting _Tannhäuser_ to her. _Elizabeth_ seems overjoyed to see him, but then checks herself, and her maidenly modesty, which veils her transport at meeting him, again finds expression in a number of hesitating but exceedingly beautiful phrases. She asks _Tannhäuser_ where he has been, but he, of course, gives misleading answers. Finally, however, he tells her she is the one who has attracted him back to the castle. Their love finds expression in a swift and rapidly flowing dramatic duet, which unfortunately is rarely given in its entirety, although as a glorious outburst of emotional music it certainly deserves to be heard in the exact form and length in which the composer wrote it.

There is then a scene of much tender feeling between the _Landgrave_ and _Elizabeth_, in which the former tells her that he will offer her hand as prize to the singer whom she shall crown as winner. The first strains of the grand march are then heard. This is one of Wagner's most brilliant and effective orchestral and vocal pieces. Though in perfect march rhythm, it is not intended that the guests who assembled at the Wartburg shall enter like a company of soldiers. On the contrary, they arrive in irregular detachments, stride across the floor, and make their obeisance in a perfectly natural manner. After an address by the _Landgrave_, which can hardly be called remarkably interesting, the singers draw lots to decide who among them shall begin. This prize singing is, unfortunately, not so great in musical value as the rest of the score, and, unless a person understands the words, it is decidedly long drawn out. What, however, redeems it is a gradually growing dramatic excitement as _Tannhäuser_ voices his contempt for what seem to him the tame tributes paid to love by the minnesingers, an excitement which reaches its climax when, no longer able to restrain himself, he bursts forth into his hymn in praise of the unholy charms of _Venus_.

[Music]

The women cry out in horror and rush from the hall as if the very atmosphere were tainted by his presence, and the men, drawing their swords, rush upon him. This brings us to the great dramatic moment, when, with a shriek, _Elizabeth_, in spite of his betrayal of her love, throws herself protectingly before him, and thus appears a second time as his saving angel. In short and excited phrases the men pour forth their wrath at _Tannhäuser's_ crime in having sojourned with _Venus_, and he, realizing its enormity, seems crushed with a consciousness of his guilt. Of wondrous beauty is the septette, "An angel has from heaven descended," which rises to a magnificent climax and is one of the finest pieces of dramatic writing in Wagner's scores, although often execrably sung and rarely receiving complete justice. The voices of young _Pilgrims_ are heard in the valley. The _Landgrave_ then announces the conditions upon which _Tannhäuser_ can again obtain forgiveness, and _Tannhäuser_ joins the pilgrims on their way to Rome.

The third act displays once more the valley of the Wartburg, the same scene as that to which the Venusberg changed in the first act. _Elizabeth_, arrayed in white, is kneeling, in deep prayer, before the crucifix. At one side, and watching her tenderly, stands _Wolfram_. After a sad recitative from _Wolfram_, the chorus of returning _Pilgrims_ is heard in the distance. They sing the melody heard in the overture and in the first act; and the same effect of gradual approach is produced by a superb crescendo as they reach and cross the scene. With almost piteous anxiety and grief _Elizabeth_ scans them closely as they go by, to see if _Tannhäuser_ be among them, and when the last one has passed and she realizes that he has not returned, she sinks again upon her knees before the crucifix and sings the prayer, "Almighty Virgin, hear my sorrow," music in which there is most beautifully combined the expression of poignant grief with trust in the will of the Almighty. As she rises and turns toward the castle, _Wolfram_, by his gesture, seems to ask her if he cannot accompany her, but she declines his offer and slowly goes her way up the mountain.

Meanwhile night has fallen upon the scene and the evening star glows softly above the castle. It is then that _Wolfram_, accompanying himself on his lyre, intones the wondrously tender and beautiful "Song to the Evening Star," confessing therein his love for the saintly _Elizabeth_.

[Music]

Then _Tannhäuser_, dejected, footsore, and weary, appears, and in broken accents asks _Wolfram_ to show him the way back to the Venusberg. _Wolfram_ bids him stay his steps and persuades him to tell him the story of his pilgrimage. In fierce, dramatic accents, _Tannhäuser_ relates all that he has suffered on his way to Rome and the terrible judgment pronounced upon him by the Pope. This is a highly impressive episode, clearly foreshadowing Wagner's dramatic use of musical recitative in his later music-dramas. Only a singer of the highest rank can do justice to it.

_Tannhäuser_ proclaims that, having lost all chance of salvation, he will once more give himself up to the delights of the Venusberg. A roseate light illumines the recesses of the mountain and the unholy company of the Venusberg again is seen, _Venus_ stretching out her arms for _Tannhäuser_, to welcome him. But at last, when _Tannhäuser_ seems unable to resist _Venus'_ enticing voice any longer, _Wolfram_ conjures him by the memory of the sainted _Elizabeth_. Then _Venus_ knows that all is lost. The light dies away and the magic charms of the Venusberg disappear. Amid tolling of bells and mournful voices a funeral procession comes down the mountain. Recognizing the features of _Elizabeth_, the dying _Tannhäuser_ falls upon her corpse. The younger pilgrims arrive with the staff, which has again put forth leaves, and amid the hallelujahs of the pilgrims the opera closes.

Besides the character of _Elizabeth_ that of _Wolfram_ stands out for its tender, manly beauty. In love with _Elizabeth_, he is yet the means of bringing back her lover to her, and in the end saves that lover from perdition, so that they may be united in death.

LOHENGRIN

Opera in three acts, by Richard Wagner. Produced, Weimar, Germany, August 28, 1850, under the direction of Franz Liszt; London, Covent Garden, May 8, 1875; New York, Stadt Theater, in German, April 3, 1871; Academy of Music, in Italian, March 23, 1874, with Nilsson, Cary, Campanini, and Del Puente; Metropolitan Opera House, in German, November 23, 1885, with Seidl-Kraus, Brandt, Stritt, Robinson, and Fischer, American début of Anton Seidl as conductor.

CHARACTERS

HENRY THE FOWLER, King of Germany _Bass_ LOHENGRIN _Tenor_ ELSA OF BRABANT _Soprano_ DUKE GODFREY, her brother _Mute_ FREDERICK OF TELRAMUND, Count of Brabant _Baritone_ ORTRUD, his wife _Mezzo-Soprano_ THE KING'S HERALD _Bass_

Saxon, Thuringian, and Brabantian Counts and Nobles, Ladies of Honour, Pages, Attendants.

_Time_--First half of the Tenth Century.

_Scene_--Antwerp.

The circumstances attending the creation and first production of "Lohengrin" are most interesting.

Prior to and for more than a decade after he wrote and composed the work Wagner suffered many vicissitudes. In Paris, where he lived from hand to mouth before "Rienzi" was accepted by the Royal Opera House at Dresden, he was absolutely poverty-stricken and often at a loss how to procure the next meal.

"Rienzi" was produced at the Dresden Opera in 1842. It was brilliantly successful. "The Flying Dutchman," which followed, was less so, and "Tannhäuser" seemed even less attractive to its early audiences. Therefore it is no wonder that, although Wagner was royal conductor in Dresden, he could not succeed in having "Lohengrin" accepted there for performance. Today "Rienzi" hardly can be said to hold its own in the repertoire outside of its composer's native country. The sombre beauty of "The Flying Dutchman," though recognized by musicians and serious music lovers, has prevented its becoming popular. But "Tannhäuser," looked at so askance at first, and "Lohengrin," absolutely rejected, are standard operas and, when well given, among the most popular works of the lyric stage. Especially is this true of "Lohengrin."

This opera, at the time of its composition so novel and so strange, yet filled with beauties of orchestration and harmony that are now quoted as leading examples in books on these subjects, was composed in less than a year. The acts were finished almost, if not quite, in reversed order. For Wagner wrote the third act first, beginning it in September, 1846, and completing it March 5, 1847. The first act occupied him from May 12th to June 8th, less than a month; the second act from June 18th to August 2d. Fresh and beautiful as "Lohengrin" still sounds today, it is, in fact, a classic.

Wagner's music, however, was so little understood at the time, that even before "Lohengrin" was produced and not a note of it had been heard, people made fun of it. A lithographer named Meser had issued Wagner's previous three scores, but the enterprise had not been a success. People said that before publishing "Rienzi," Meser had lived on the first floor. "Rienzi" had driven him to the second; "The Flying Dutchman" and "Tannhäuser" to the third; and now "Lohengrin" would drive him to the garret--a prophecy that didn't come true, because he refused to publish it.

In 1849, "Lohengrin" still not having been accepted by the Dresden Opera, Wagner, as already has been stated, took part in the May revolution, which, apparently successful for a very short time, was quickly suppressed by the military. The composer of "Lohengrin" and the future composer of the "Ring of the Nibelung," "Tristan und Isolde," "Meistersinger," and "Parsifal," is said to have made his escape from Dresden in the disguise of a coachman. Occasionally there turns up in sales as a great rarity a copy of the warrant for Wagner's arrest issued by the Dresden police. As it gives a description of him at the time when he had but recently composed "Lohengrin," I will quote it:

"Wagner is thirty-seven to thirty-eight years of age, of medium stature, has brown hair, an open forehead; eyebrows, brown; eyes, greyish blue; nose and mouth, proportioned; chin, round, and wears spectacles. Special characteristics: rapid in movements and speech. Dress: coat of dark green buckskin, trousers of black cloth, velvet vest, silk neckerchief, ordinary felt hat and boots."

Much fun has been made of the expression "chin, round, and wears spectacles." Wagner got out of Dresden on the pass of a Dr. Widmann, whom he resembled. It has been suggested that he made the resemblance still closer by discontinuing the habit of wearing spectacles on his chin.

I saw Wagner several times in Bayreuth in the summer of 1882, when I attended the first performance of "Parsifal," as correspondent by cable and letter for one of the large New York dailies. Except that his hair was grey (and that he no longer wore his spectacles on his chin) the description in the warrant still held good, especially as regards his rapidity of movement and speech, to which I may add a marked vivacity of gesture. There, too, I saw the friend, who had helped him over so many rough places in his early career, Franz Liszt, his hair white with age, but framing a face as strong and keen as an eagle's. I saw them seated at a banquet, and with them Cosima, Liszt's daughter, who was Wagner's second wife, and their son, Siegfried Wagner; Cosima the image of her father, and Siegfried a miniature replica of the composer to whom we owe "Lohengrin" and the music-dramas that followed it. The following summer one of the four was missing. I have the "Parsifal" program with mourning border signifying that the performances of the work were in memory of its creator.

In April, 1850, Wagner, then an exile in Zurich, wrote to Liszt: "Bring out my 'Lohengrin!' You are the only one to whom I would put this request; to no one but you would I entrust the production of this opera; but to you I surrender it with the fullest, most joyous confidence."

Wagner himself describes the appeal and the result, by saying that at a time when he was ill, unhappy, and in despair, his eye fell on the score of "Lohengrin" which he had almost forgotten. "A pitiful feeling overcame me that these tones would never resound from the deathly-pale paper; two words I wrote to Liszt, the answer to which was nothing else than the information that, as far as the resources of the Weimar Opera permitted, the most elaborate preparations were being made for the production of 'Lohengrin.'"

Liszt's reply to which Wagner refers, and which gives some details regarding "the elaborate preparations," while testifying to his full comprehension of Wagner's genius and the importance of his new score as a work of art, may well cause us to smile today at the small scale on which things were done in 1850.

"Your 'Lohengrin,'" he wrote, "will be given under conditions that are most unusual and most favourable for its success. The direction will spend on this occasion almost 2000 thalers [about $1500]--a sum unprecedented at Weimar within memory of man ... the bass clarinet has been bought," etc. Ten times fifteen hundred dollars might well be required today for a properly elaborate production of "Lohengrin," and the opera orchestra that had to send out and buy a bass clarinet would be a curiosity. But Weimar had what no other opera house could boast of--Franz Liszt as conductor.

Under his brilliant direction "Lohengrin" had at Weimar its first performance on any stage, August 28, 1850. This was the anniversary of Goethe's birth, the date of the dedication of the Weimar monument to the poet, Herder, and, by a coincidence that does not appear to have struck either Wagner or Liszt, the third anniversary of the completion of "Lohengrin." The work was performed without cuts and before an audience which included some of the leading musical and literary men of Germany. The performance made a deep impression. The circumstance that Liszt added the charm of his personality to it and that the weight of his influence had been thrown in its favour alone gave vast importance to the event. Indeed, through Liszt's production of Wagner's early operas Weimar became, as Henry T. Finck has said in _Wagner and His Works_, a sort of preliminary Bayreuth. Occasionally special opera trains were put on for the accommodation of visitors to the Wagner performances. In January, 1853, Liszt writes to Wagner that "the public interest in 'Lohengrin' is rapidly increasing. You are already very popular at the various Weimar hotels, where it is not easy to get a room on the days when your operas are given." The Liszt production of "Lohengrin" was a turning point in his career, the determining influence that led him to throw himself heart and soul into the composition of the "Ring of the Nibelung."

On May 15, 1861, when, through the intervention of Princess Metternich, he had been permitted to return to Germany, fourteen years after he had finished "Lohengrin" and eleven years after its production at Weimar, he himself heard it for the first time at Vienna. A tragedy of fourteen years--to create a masterpiece of the lyric stage, and be forced to wait that long to hear it!

Before proceeding to a complete descriptive account of the "Lohengrin" story and music I will give a brief summary of the plot and a similar characterization of the score.

Wagner appears to have become so saturated with the subject of his dramas that he transported himself in mind and temperament to the very time in which his scenes are laid. So vividly does he portray the mythological occurrences told in "Lohengrin" that one can almost imagine he had been an eye-witness of them. This capacity of artistic reproduction of a remote period would alone entitle him to rank as a great dramatist. But he has done much more; he has taken unpromising material, which in the original is strung out over a period of years, and, by condensing the action to two days, has converted it into a swiftly moving drama.

The story of "Lohengrin" is briefly as follows: The Hungarians have invaded Germany, and _King Henry I._ visits Antwerp for the purpose of raising a force to combat them. He finds the country in a condition of anarchy. The dukedom is claimed by _Frederick_, who has married _Ortrud_, a daughter of the Prince of Friesland. The legitimate heir, _Godfrey_, has mysteriously disappeared, and his sister, _Elsa_, is charged by _Frederick_ and _Ortrud_ with having done away with him in order that she might obtain the sovereignty. The _King_ summons her before him so that the cause may be tried by the ordeal of single combat between _Frederick_ and a champion who may be willing to appear for _Elsa_. None of the knights will defend her cause. She then describes a champion whose form has appeared to her in a vision, and she proclaims that he shall be her champion. Her pretence is derided by _Frederick_ and his followers, who think that she is out of her mind; but after a triple summons by the _Herald_, there is seen in the distance on the river, a boat drawn by a swan, and in it a knight clad in silver armour. He comes to champion _Elsa's_ cause, and before the combat betroths himself to her, but makes a strict condition that she shall never question him as to his name or birthplace, for should she, he would be obliged to depart. She assents to the conditions, and the combat which ensues results in _Frederick's_ ignominious defeat. Judgment of exile is pronounced on him.

Instead, however, of leaving the country he lingers in the neighbourhood of Brabant, plotting with _Ortrud_ how they may compass the ruin of _Lohengrin_ and _Elsa_. _Ortrud_ by her entreaties moves _Elsa_ to pity, and persuades her to seek a reprieve for _Frederick_, at the same time, however, using every opportunity to instil doubts in _Elsa's_ mind regarding her champion, and rousing her to such a pitch of nervous curiosity that she is on the point of asking him the forbidden question. After the bridal ceremonies, and in the bridal chamber, the distrust which _Ortrud_ and _Frederick_ have engendered in _Elsa's_ mind so overcomes her faith that she vehemently puts the forbidden question to her champion. Almost at the same moment _Frederick_ and four of his followers force their way into the apartment, intending to take the knight's life. A single blow of his sword, however, stretches _Frederick_ lifeless, and his followers bear his corpse away. Placing _Elsa_ in the charge of her ladies-in-waiting, and ordering them to take her to the presence of the _King_, he repairs thither himself.

The Brabantian hosts are gathering, and he is expected to lead them to battle, but owing to _Elsa's_ question he is now obliged to disclose who he is and to take his departure. He proclaims that he is _Lohengrin_, son of Parsifal, Knight of the Holy Grail, and that he can linger no longer in Brabant, but must return to the place of his coming. The swan has once more appeared, drawing the boat down the river, and bidding _Elsa_ farewell he steps into the little shell-like craft. Then _Ortrud_, with malicious glee, declares that the swan is none other than _Elsa's_ brother, whom she (_Ortrud_) bewitched into this form, and that he would have been changed back again to his human shape had it not been for _Elsa's_ rashness. But _Lohengrin_, through his supernatural powers, is able to undo _Ortrud's_ work, and at a word from him the swan disappears and _Godfrey_ stands in its place. A dove now descends, and, hovering in front of the boat, draws it away with _Lohengrin_, while _Elsa_ expires in her brother's arms.

Owing to the lyric character of the story upon which "Lohengrin" is based, the opera, while not at all lacking in strong dramatic situations is characterized by a subtler and more subdued melodiousness than "Tannhäuser," is more exquisitely lyrical in fact than any Wagnerian work except "Parsifal."

There are typical themes in the score, but they are hardly handled with the varied effect that entitles them to be called leading motives. On the other hand there are fascinating details of orchestration. These are important because the composer has given significant clang-tints to the music that is heard in connection with the different characters in the story. He uses the brass chiefly to accompany the _King_, and, of course, the martial choruses; the plaintive, yet spiritual high wood-wind for _Elsa_; the English horn and sombre bass clarinet--the instrument that had to be bought--for _Ortrud_; the violins, especially in high harmonic positions, to indicate the Grail and its representative, for _Lohengrin_ is a Knight of the Holy Grail. Even the keys employed are distinctive. The _Herald's_ trumpeters blow in C and greet the _King's_ arrival in that bright key. F-sharp minor is the dark, threatful key that indicates _Ortrud's_ appearance. The key of A, which is the purest for strings and the most ethereal in effect, on account of the greater ease of using "harmonics," announces the approach of _Lohengrin_ and the subtle influence of the Grail.

Moreover Wagner was the first composer to discover that celestial effects of tone colour are produced by the prolonged notes of the combined violins and wood-wind in the highest positions more truly than by the harp. It is the association of ideas with the Scriptures, wherein the harp frequently is mentioned, because it was the most perfected instrument of the period, that has led other composers to employ it for celestial tone-painting. But while no one appreciated the beauty of the harp more than Wagner, or has employed it with finer effect than he, his celestial tone-pictures with high-violins and wood-wind are distinctly more ecstatic than those of other composers.

The music clothes the drama most admirably. The Vorspiel or Prelude immediately places the listener in the proper mood for the story which is to unfold itself, and for the score, vocal and instrumental, whose strains are to fall upon his ear.

The Prelude is based entirely upon one theme, a beautiful one and expressive of the sanctity of the Grail, of which _Lohengrin_ is one of the knights. Violins and flutes with long-drawn-out, ethereal chords open the Prelude. Then is heard on the violins, so divided as to heighten the delicacy of the effect, the Motive of the Grail, the cup in which the Saviour's blood is supposed to have been caught as it flowed from the wound in His side, while he was on the Cross. No modern book on orchestration is considered complete unless it quotes this passage from the score, which is at once the earliest and, after seventy years, still the most perfect example of the effect of celestial harmony produced on the high notes of the divided violin choir. This interesting passage in the score is as follows:

[Music]

Although this is the only motive that occurs in the Prelude, the ear never wearies of it. Its effectiveness is due to the wonderful skill with which Wagner handles the theme, working it up through a superb crescendo to a magnificent climax, with all the splendours of Wagnerian orchestration, after which it dies away again to the ethereal harmonies with which it first greeted the listener.