Richard Wagner, who has been somewhat ironically called the musician
of the future, and whose music has been relegated to posterity by a
considerable number of his contemporaries, was born at Leipsic, May
22, 1813. After his preliminary studies in Dresden and Leipsic, he
took his first lessons in music from Cantor Weinlig. In 1836 he was
appointed musical director in the theatre at Magdeburg, and later
occupied the same position at Koenigsberg. Thence he went to Riga,
where he began his opera "Rienzi." He then went to Paris by sea, was
nearly shipwrecked on his way thither, and landed without money or
friends. After two years of hard struggling he returned to Germany.
His shipwreck and forlorn condition inspired the theme of "The Flying
Dutchman," and while on his way to Dresden he passed near the castle
of Wartburg, in the valley of Thuringia, whose legends inspired his
well-known opera of "Tannhaeuser." He next removed to Zurich, and about
this time appeared "Lohengrin," one of his most favorite operas.
"Tristan and Isolde" was produced in 1856, and his comic opera, "Die
Meistersinger von Nuernberg," three years later. In 1864 he received
the patronage of King Louis of Bavaria, which enabled him to complete
and perform his great work, "Der Ring der Nibelungen." He laid the
foundation of the new theatre at Baireuth in 1872, and in 1875 the
work was produced, and created a profound sensation all over the
musical world. "Parsifal," his last opera, was first performed in
1882. His works have aroused great opposition, especially among
conservative musicians, for the reason that he has set at defiance the
conventional operatic forms, and in carrying out his theory of making
the musical and dramatic elements of equal importance, and employing
the former as the language of the latter in natural ways, has made
musical declamation take the place of set melody, and swept away the
customary arias, duets, quartets, and concerted numbers of the Italian
school, to suit the dramatic exigencies of the situations. Besides his
musical compositions, he enjoys almost equal fame as a litterateur,
having written not only his own librettos, but four important
works,—"Art and the Revolution," "The Art Work of the Future," "Opera
and Drama," and "Judaism in Music." His music has made steady progress
through the efforts of such advocates as Liszt, Von Buelow, and Richter
in Germany, Pasdeloup in France, Hueffer in England, and Theodore
Thomas in the United States. In 1870 he married Frau Cosima von Buelow,
the daughter of Liszt,—an event which provoked almost as much comment
in social circles as his operas have in musical. He died during a
visit to Venice, Feb. 13, 1883.
"Rienzi der letzte der Tribunen," a tragic opera in five acts, words
by the composer, the subject taken from Bulwer's novel, "The Last of
the Tribunes," was first produced at Dresden, Oct. 20, 1842, with Herr
Tichatscheck, Mme. Schroeder-Devrient, and Mlle. Wiest in the principal
roles. It was designed and partly completed during Wagner's stay in
Riga as orchestra leader. In his Autobiography the composer says that
he first read the story at Dresden in 1837, and was greatly impressed
with its adaptability for opera. He began it in the fall of the same
year at Riga, and says: "I had composed two numbers of it, when I
found, to my annoyance, that I was again fairly on the way to the
composition of music a la Adam. I put the work aside in disgust."
Later he projected the scheme of a great tragic opera in five acts,
and began upon it with fresh enthusiasm in the fall of 1838. By the
spring of 1839 the first two acts were completed. At that time his
engagement at Riga terminated, and he set out for Paris. He soon found
that it would be hopeless for him to bring out the opera in that city,
notwithstanding Meyerbeer had promised to assist him. He offered it to
the Grand Opera and to the Renaissance, but neither would accept it.
Nothing daunted, he resumed work upon it, intending it for Dresden. In
October, 1842, it was at last produced in that city, and met with such
success that it secured him the position of capellmeister at the
Dresden opera-house.
The action of the opera passes at Rome, towards the middle of the
fourteenth century. The first act opens at night, in a street near the
Church of St. John Lateran, and discovers Orsini, a Roman patrician,
accompanied by a crowd of nobles, attempting to abduct Irene, the
sister of Rienzi, a papal notary. The plot is interrupted by the
entrance of Colonna, the patrician leader of another faction, who
demands the girl. A quarrel ensues. Adriano, the son of Colonna, who
is in love with Irene, suddenly appears and rushes to her defence.
Gradually other patricians and plebeians are attracted by the tumult,
among the latter, Rienzi. When he becomes aware of the insult offered
his sister, he takes counsel with the Cardinal Raimondo, and they
agree to rouse the people in resistance to the outrages of the nobles.
Adriano is placed in an embarrassing position,—his relationship to
the Colonnas urging him to join the nobles, and his love for Irene
impelling him with still stronger force to make common cause with the
people. He finally decides to follow Rienzi, just as the trumpets are
heard calling the people to arms and Rienzi clad in full armor makes
his appearance to lead them.
The struggle is a short one. The nobles are overcome, and in the
second act they appear at the Capitol to acknowledge their submission
to Rienzi: but Adriano, who has been among them, warns Rienzi that
they have plotted to kill him. Festal dances, processions, and
gladiatorial combats follow, in the midst of which Orsini rushes at
Rienzi and strikes at him with his dagger. Rienzi is saved by a steel
breastplate under his robes. The nobles are at once seized and
condemned to death. Adriano pleads with Rienzi to spare his father,
and moved by his eloquence he renews the offer of pardon if they will
swear submission. They take the oath only to violate it. The people
rise and demand their extermination. Rienzi once more draws the sword,
and Adriano in vain appeals to him to avert the slaughter. He is again
successful, and on his return announces to Adriano that the Colonnas
and Orsinis are no more. The latter warns him of coming revenge, and
the act closes with the coronation of Rienzi.
The fourth act opens at night near the church. The popular tide has
now turned against Rienzi, upon the report that he is in league with
the German Emperor to restore the pontiff. A festive cortege
approaches, escorting him to the church. The nobles bar his way, but
disperse at his command; whereupon Adriano rushes at him with drawn
dagger, but the blow is averted as he hears the chant of malediction
in the church, and sees its dignitaries placing the ban of
excommunication against Rienzi upon its doors. He hurries to Irene,
warns her that her brother's life is no longer safe, and urges her to
fly with him. She repulses him, and seeks her brother, to share his
dangers or die with him. She finds him at prayer in the Capitol. He
counsels her to accept the offer of Adriano and save herself, but she
repeats her determination to die with him. The sounds of the
approaching crowd are heard outside. Rienzi makes a last appeal to
them from the balcony, but the infuriated people will not listen. They
set fire to the Capitol with their torches, and stone Rienzi and Irene
through the windows. As the flames spread from room to room and
Adriano beholds them enveloping the devoted pair, he throws away his
sword, rushes into the burning building, and perishes with them.
The overture of "Rienzi" is in the accepted form, for the opera was
written before Wagner had made his new departure in music, and takes
its principal themes, notably Rienzi's prayer for the people and the
finale to the first act, from the body of the work. The general style
of the whole work is vigorous and tumultuous. The first act opens with
a hurly-burly of tumult between the contending factions and the
people. The first scene contains a vigorous aria for the hero ("Wohl
an so moeg es sein"), which leads up to a fiery terzetto ("Adriano du?
Wie ein Colonna!") between Rienzi, Irene, and Adriano, followed by an
intensely passionate scene ("Er geht und laesst dich meinem Schutz")
between the last two. The finale is a tumultuous mass of sound,
through which are heard the tones of trumpets and cries of the people.
It opens with a massive double chorus ("Gegruesst, gegruesst"), shouted
by the people on the one side and the monks in the Lateran on the
other, accompanied by an andante movement on the organ. It is
interrupted for a brief space by the ringing appeal of Rienzi
"Erstehe, hohe Roma, neu," and then closes with an energetic andante,
a quartet joining the choruses. This finale is clearly Italian in
form, and much to Wagner's subsequent disgust was described by
Hanslick as a mixture of Donizetti and Meyerbeer, and a clear presage
of the coming Verdi.
The second act opens with a stately march, introducing the messengers
of peace, who join in a chorus of greeting, followed by a second
chorus of senators and the tender of submission made by the nobles. A
terzetto between Adriano, Orsini, and Colonna, set off against a
chorus of the nobles, leads up to the finale. It opens with a joyful
chorus ("Erschallet feier Klaenge"), followed by rapid dialogue between
Orsini and Colonna on the one hand and Adriano and Rienzi on the
other. A long and elaborate ballet intervenes, divided into several
numbers,—an Introduction, Pyrrhic Dance, Combat of Roman Gladiators
and Cavaliers, and the Dance of the Apotheosis, in which the Goddess
of Peace is transformed to the Goddess, protector of Rome. The scene
abruptly changes, and the act closes with a great ensemble in which
the defiance of the conspirators, the tolling of bells, the chants of
the monks, and the ferocious outcries of the people shouting for
revenge are mingled in strong contrasts.
The third act is full of tumult. After a brief prelude, amid the
ringing of bells and cries of alarm, the people gather and denounce
the treachery of the nobles, leading up to a spirited call to arms by
Rienzi ("Ihr Roemer, auf"). The people respond in furious chorus, and
as the sound of the bells and battle-cries dies away Adriano enters.
His scene opens with a prayer ("Gerechter Gott") for the aversion of
carnage, which changes to an agitated allegro ("Wo war ich?") as he
hears the great bell of the Capitol tolling the signal for slaughter.
The finale begins with a massive march, as the bells and sounds of
alarm are heard approaching again, and bands of citizens, priests and
monks, the high clergy, senators and nobles, pass and repass in quick
succession, at last followed by Rienzi, which is the signal for the
great battle-hymn, "Santo spirito cavaliere," which is to be sung with
great fire and energy, accompanied by great and small bells ringing
behind the scenes, the clash of swords upon shields, and full power of
chorus and orchestra. A dialogue follows between Adriano and Rienzi,
and then the various bands disappear singing the ritornelle of the
hymn. A great duet ("Lebwohl, Irene") ensues between Adriano and
Irene, which in its general outlines reminds one of the duet between
Raoul and Valentin in "The Huguenots." At its conclusion, after a
prayer by the chorus of women, the battle hymn is heard again in the
distance, gradually approaching, and the act closes with a jubilee
chorus ("Auf! im Triumpf zum Capitol"), welcoming the return of the
conquerors.
The fourth act is short, its principal numbers being the introduction,
terzetto and chorus ("Wer war's der euch hierher beschied?"), and the
finale, beginning with a somewhat sombre march of the cortege
accompanying Rienzi to the church, leading to the details of the
conspiracy scene, and closing with the malediction of the monks, "Vae,
vae tibi maledicto." The last act opens with an impressive prayer by
Rienzi ("Allmacht'ger Vater"), which leads to a tender duet ("Verlaesst
die Kirche mich") as Irene enters, closing with a passionate aria by
Rienzi ("Ich liebte gluehend"). The duet is then resumed, and leads to
a second and intensely passionate duet ("Du hier Irene!") between
Adriano and Irene. The finale is brief, but full of energy, and is
principally choral. The denouement hurries, and the tragedy is reached
amid a tumultuous outburst of voices and instruments. Unlike Wagner's
other operas, in "Rienzi" set melody dominates, and the orchestra, as
in the Italian school, furnishes the accompaniments. We have the
regular overture, aria, duet, trio, and concerted finale; but after
"Rienzi" we shall observe a change, at last becoming so radical that
the composer himself threw aside his first opera as unworthy of
performance.
"Der Fliegende Hollaender," a romantic opera in three acts, words by
the composer, the subject taken from Heinrich Heine's version of the
legend, was first produced at Dresden, Jan. 2, 1843, with Mme.
Schroeder-Devrient and Herr Wechter in the two principal roles. It was
also produced in London in 1870 at Drury Lane as "L'Ollandose
dannato," by Signor Arditi, with Mlle. Di Murska, Signors Foli,
Perotti, and Rinaldini, and Mr. Santley in the leading parts; in 1876,
by Carl Rosa as "The Flying Dutchman," an English version; and again
in 1877 as "Il Vascello fantasma." In this country the opera was
introduced in its English form by Miss Clara Louise Kellogg.
Wagner conceived the idea of writing "The Flying Dutchman" during the
storm which overtook him on his voyage from Riga to Paris. He says in
his Autobiography: "'The Flying Dutchman,' whose intimate acquaintance
I had made at sea, continually enchained my fancy. I had become
acquainted, too, with Heinrich Heine's peculiar treatment of the
legend in one portion of his 'Salon.' Especially the treatment of the
delivery of this Ahasuerus of the ocean (taken by Heine from a Dutch
drama of the same title) gave me everything ready to use the legend as
the libretto of an opera. I came to an understanding about it with
Heine himself, drew up the scheme, and gave it to M. Leon Pillet
[manager of the Grand Opera], with the proposition that he should have
a French libretto made from it for me." Subsequently M. Pillet
purchased the libretto direct from Wagner, who consented to the
transaction, as he saw no opportunity of producing the opera in Paris.
It was then set by Dietsch as "Le Vaisseau fantome," and brought out
in Paris in 1842. In the mean time, not discouraged by his bad
fortune, Wagner set to work, wrote the German verse, and completed the
opera in seven weeks for Dresden, where it was finally performed, as
already stated. Unlike "Rienzi," it met with failure both in Dresden
and Berlin; but its merits were recognized by Spohr, who encouraged
him to persevere in the course he had marked out.
The plot of the opera is very simple. A Norwegian vessel, commanded by
Daland, compelled by stress of weather, enters a port not far from her
destination. At the same time a mysterious vessel, with red sails and
black hull, commanded by the wandering Flying Dutchman, who is
destined to sail the seas without rest until he finds a maiden who
will be faithful until death, puts into the same port. The two
captains meet, and Daland invites the stranger to his home. The two at
last progress so rapidly in mutual favor that a marriage is agreed
upon between the stranger and Senta, Daland's daughter. The latter is
a dreamy, imaginative girl, who, though she has an accepted lover,
Eric, is so fascinated with the legend of the stranger that she
becomes convinced she is destined to save him from perdition. When he
arrives with her father she recognizes him at once, and vows eternal
constancy to him. In the last act, however, Eric appears and
reproaches Senta with her faithlessness. The stranger overhears them,
and concludes that as she has been recreant to her former lover, so
too she will be untrue to him. He decides to leave her; for if he
should remain, her penalty would be eternal death. As his mysterious
vessel sails away Senta rushes to a cliff, and crying out that her
life will be the price of his release, hurls herself into the sea,
vowing to be constant to him even in death. The phantom vessel sinks,
the sea grows calm, and in the distance the two figures are seen
rising in the sunlight never to be parted.
The overture characterizes the persons and situations of the drama,
and introduces the motives which Wagner ever after used so
freely,—among them the curse resting upon the Dutchman, the restless
motion of the sea, the message of the Angel of Mercy personified in
Senta, the personification of the Dutchman, and the song of Daland's
crew. The first act opens with an introduction representing a storm,
and a characteristic sailors' chorus, followed by an exquisite
love-song for tenor ("Mit Gewitter und Sturm"), and a grand scena of
the Dutchman ("Die Frist ist um"), which lead up to a melodious duet
between the Dutchman and Daland. The act closes with the sailors'
chorus as the two vessels sail away.
After a brief instrumental prelude, the second act opens in Daland's
home, where the melancholy Senta sits surrounded by her companions,
who are spinning. To the whirring accompaniment of the violins they
sing a very realistic spinning song ("Summ' und brumm du gutes
Maedchen"), interrupted at intervals by the laughter of the girls as
they rally Senta upon her melancholy looks. Senta replies with a weird
and exquisitely melodious ballad ("Johohae! traefft ihr das Schiff im
Meere an"), in which she tells the story of the Flying Dutchman, and
anticipates her own destiny. The song is full of intense feelings and
is characterized by a motive which frequently recurs in the opera, and
is the key to the whole work. A duet follows between Eric and Senta,
the melodious character of which shows that Wagner was not yet
entirely freed from Italian influences. A short duet ensues between
Senta and her father, and then the Dutchman appears. As they stand and
gaze at each other for a long time, the orchestra meanwhile supplying
the supposed emotions of each, we have a clew to the method Wagner was
afterwards to employ so successfully. A duet between Senta and the
Dutchman ("Wie aus der Ferne") and a terzetto with Daland close the
act.
The third act opens with another sailors' chorus ("Steuermann, lass'
die Wacht"), and a brisk dialogue between them and the women who are
bringing them provisions. The latter also hail the crew of the
Dutchman's vessel, but get no reply until the wind suddenly rises,
when they man the vessel and sing the refrain with which the Dutchman
is continually identified. A double chorus of the two crews follows.
Senta then appears accompanied by Eric, who seeks to restrain her from
following the stranger in a very dramatic duet ("Was muss ich
hoeren?"). The finale is made up of sailors' and female choruses, and a
trio between Senta, Daland, and the Dutchman, which are woven together
with consummate skill, and make a very effective termination to the
weird story. There are no points in common between "The Flying
Dutchman" and "Rienzi," except that in the former Wagner had not yet
clearly freed himself from conventional melody. It is interesting as
marking his first step towards the music of the future in his use of
motives, his wonderful treatment of the orchestra in enforcing the
expression of the text, and his combination of the voices and
instrumentation in what he so aptly calls "The Music-Drama."
"Tannhaeuser und der Singerkrieg auf Wartburg" ("Tannhaeuser and the
singers' contest at the Wartburg"), a romantic opera in three acts,
words by the composer, was first produced at the Royal Opera, Dresden,
Oct. 20, 1845, with Mme. Schroeder-Devrient and Herr Niemann as
Elizabeth and Tannhaeuser. Its first performance in Paris was on March
13, 1861; but it was a failure after three representations, and was
made the butt of Parisian ridicule, even Berlioz joining in the
tirade. In England it was brought out in Italian at Covent Garden, May
6, 1876, though its overture was played by the London Philharmonic
orchestra in 1855, Wagner himself leading.
In the spring of 1842 Wagner returned from Paris to Germany, and on
his way to Dresden visited the castle of Wartburg, in the Thuringian
Valley, where he first conceived the idea of writing "Tannhaeuser." The
plot was taken from an old German tradition, which centres about the
castle where the landgraves of the thirteenth century instituted
peaceful contests between the Minnesingers and knightly poets. Near
this castle towers the Venusberg, a dreary elevation, which, according
to popular tradition, was inhabited by Holda, the goddess of Spring.
Proscribed by Christianity, she took refuge in its caverns, where she
was afterwards confounded with the Grecian Venus. Her court was filled
with nymphs and sirens, who enticed those whose impure desires led
them to its vicinity, and lured them into the caverns, from which they
were supposed never to return. The first act opens in this court, and
reveals Tannhaeuser, the knight and minstrel, under the sway of Venus.
In spite of her fascinations he succeeds in tearing himself away, and
we next find him at the castle of Wartburg, the home of Hermann the
Landgrave, whose daughter Elizabeth is in love with him. At the
minstrel contest he enters into the lists with the other Minnesingers,
and, impelled by a reckless audacity and the subtle influence of
Venus, sings of the attractions of sensual pleasures. Walter, of the
Vogelweide, replies with a song to virtue. Tannhaeuser breaks out in
renewed sensual strains, and a quarrel ensues. The knights rush upon
him with their swords, but Elizabeth interposes and saves his life. He
expresses his penitence, makes a pilgrimage to Rome and confesses to
the Pope, who replies that, having tasted the pleasures of hell, he is
forever damned, and, raising his crosier, adds: "Even as this wood
cannot blossom again, so there is no pardon for thee." Elizabeth prays
for him in her solitude, but her prayers apparently are of no avail.
At last he returns dejected and hopeless, and in his wanderings meets
Wolfram, another minstrel, also in love with Elizabeth, to whom he
tells the sad story of his pilgrimage. He determines to return to the
Venusberg. He hears the voices of the sirens luring him back. Wolfram
seeks to detain him, but is powerless until he mentions the name of
Elizabeth, when the sirens vanish and their spells lose their
attraction. A funeral procession approaches in the distance, and on
the bier is the form of the saintly Elizabeth. He sinks down upon the
coffin and dies. As his spirit passes away his pilgrim's staff
miraculously bursts out into leaf and blossom, showing that his sins
have been forgiven.
The overture to the opera is well known by its frequent performances
as a concert number. It begins with the pilgrim's song, which, as it
dies away, is succeeded by the seductive spells of the Venusberg and
the voices of the sirens calling to Tannhaeuser. As the whirring sounds
grow fainter and fainter, the pilgrim's song is again heard gradually
approaching, and at last closing the overture in a joyous burst of
harmony. The first act opens with the scene in the Venusberg,
accompanied by the Bacchanale music, which was written in Paris by
Wagner after the opera was finished and had been performed. It is now
known as "the Parisian Bacchanale." It is followed by a voluptuous
scene between Tannhaeuser and Venus, a long dialogue, during which the
hero, seizing his harp, trolls out a song ("Doch sterblich, ach!"),
the theme of which has already been given out by the overture,
expressing his weariness of her companionship. The second scene
transports us to a valley, above which towers the castle of Wartburg.
A young shepherd, perched upon a rock, sings a pastoral invocation to
Holda ("Frau Holda kam aus dem Berg hervor"), the strains of his pipe
(an oboe obligato) weaving about the stately chorus of the elder
pilgrims ("Zu dir wall' ich, mein Herr und Gott") as they come along
the mountain paths from the castle. The scene, which is one of great
beauty, closes with the lament of Tannhaeuser ("Ach! schwer drueckt mich
der Suenden Last"), intermingled with the receding song of the
pilgrims, the ringing of church-bells in the distance, and the merry
notes of hunters' horns as the Landgrave and his followers approach.
The meeting with Tannhaeuser leads to an expressive septet, in which
Wolfram has a very impressive solo ("Als du in kuehnem Sange").
The second act opens in the singers' hall of the Wartburg. Elizabeth,
entering joyfully, greets it in a recitation ("Froh gruess ich dich,
geliebter Raum"), if we may so term it, which is characterized by a
joyous but dignified dramatic appeal, recalling the scenes of her
youth. The interview between Tannhaeuser and Elizabeth, which follows,
gives rise to a long dialogue, closing with a union of the two voices
in the charming duet, "Gepriesen sei die Macht." Then follows the
grand march and chorus, "Freudig begruessen wir die edle Halle,"
announcing the beginning of the song contest. The stirring rhythm and
bold, broad outlines of this march are so well known that it is
needless to dwell upon it. The scene of the contest is declamatory
throughout, and full of animation and spirit; its most salient points
being the hymn of Wolfram ("O Himmel lasst dich jetzt erflehen") in
honor of ideal love, and Elizabeth's appeal to the knights to spare
Tannhaeuser ("Zurueck von ihm"), which leads up to a spirited septet and
choral ensemble closing the act.
In the third act we are once more in the valley of the Wartburg. After
a plaintive song by Wolfram ("Wohl wusst ich hier sie im Gebet zu
finden"), the chorus of the returning pilgrims is heard in the
distance, working up to a magnificent crescendo as they approach and
cross the stage. Elizabeth, who has been earnestly watching them to
find if Tannhaeuser be of their number, disappointed, sinks upon her
knees and sings the touching prayer, "Allmaecht'ge Jungfrau, hoer mein
Flehen." As she leaves the scene, Wolfram takes his harp and sings the
enchanting fantasy to the evening star, "O, du mein holder
Abendstern,"—a love-song to the saintly Elizabeth. Tannhaeuser makes
his appearance. A long declamatory dialogue ensues between himself and
Wolfram, in which he recites the story of his pilgrimage. The scene is
one of extraordinary power, and calls for the highest vocal and
dramatic qualities in order to make it effective. From this point on,
the tragedy hastens. There is the struggle once more with the sirens,
and amid Wolfram's touching appeals and Tannhaeuser's exclamations is
heard the enticement of the Venus music. But at the name "Elizabeth"
it dies away. The mists grow denser as the magic crew disappears, and
through them is seen a light upon the Wartburg. The tolling of bells
and the songs of mourners are heard as the cortege approaches. As
Tannhaeuser dies, the pilgrims' chorus again rises in ecstasy, closing
with a mighty shout of "Hallelujah!" and the curtain falls.
"Lohengrin," a romantic opera in three acts, words by the composer,
was first produced at Weimar, Aug. 28, 1850, the anniversary of
Goethe's birthday, under the direction of Franz Liszt, and with the
following cast of the leading parts:—
LOHENGRIN Herr BECK.
TELRAMUND Herr MILDE.
KING Herr HOFER.
ELSA Frau AGATHE.
ORTRUD Frauelein FASTLINGER.
"Lohengrin" was begun in Paris, and finished in Switzerland during the
period in which Wagner was director of the musical society as well as
of the orchestra at the city theatre of Zurich, whither he had fled to
escape the penalties for taking part in the political agitations and
subsequent insurrection of 1849. Though it manifests a still further
advancement in the development of his system, it was far from being
composed according to the abstract rules he had laid down. He says
explicitly on this point, in his "Music of the Future:" "The first
three of these poems—'The Flying Dutchman,' 'Tannhaeuser,' and
'Lohengrin'—were written by me, their music composed, and all (with
the exception of 'Lohengrin') performed upon the stage, before the
composition of my theoretical writings."
The story of Lohengrin, the son of Parsifal, upon which Wagner has
based his drama, is taken from many sources, the old Celtic legend of
King Arthur, his knights, and the Holy Grail being mixed with the
distinctively German legend of a knight who arrives in his boat drawn
by a swan. The version used by Wagner is supposed to be told by
Wolfram von Eschenbach, the Minnesinger, at one of the Wartburg
contests, and is in substance as follows: Henry I., King of Germany,
known as "the Fowler," arrives at Antwerp for the purpose of raising a
force to help him expel the Hungarians, who are threatening his
dominions. He finds Brabant in a condition of anarchy. Gottfried, the
young son of the late Duke, has mysteriously disappeared, and
Telramund, the husband of Ortrud, daughter of the Prince of Friesland,
claims the dukedom. The claimant openly charges Elsa, sister of
Gottfried, with having murdered him to obtain the sovereignty, and she
is summoned before the King to submit her cause to the ordeal of
battle between Telramund and any knight whom she may name. She
describes a champion whom she has seen in a vision, and conjures him
to appear in her behalf. After a triple summons by the heralds, he is
seen approaching on the Scheldt, in a boat drawn by a swan. Before the
combat Lohengrin betroths himself to Elsa, naming only the condition
that she shall never question him as to his name or race. She assents,
and the combat results in Telramund's defeat and public disgrace.
In the second act occur the bridal ceremonies, prior to which, moved
by Ortrud's entreaties, Elsa promises to obtain a reprieve for
Telramund from the sentence which has been pronounced against him. At
the same time Ortrud takes advantage of her success to instil doubts
into Elsa's mind as to her future happiness and the faithfulness of
Lohengrin.
In the next scene, as the bridal cortege is about to enter the
minster, Ortrud claims the right of precedence by virtue of her rank,
and Telramund publicly accuses Lohengrin of sorcery. The faith of
Elsa, however, is not shaken. The two conspirators are ordered to
stand aside, the train enters the church, and Elsa and Lohengrin are
united.
The third act opens in the bridal chamber. The seeds of curiosity and
distrust which Ortrud has sown in Elsa's mind have ripened, and in
spite of her conviction that it will end her happiness, she questions
Lohengrin with increasing vehemence, at last openly demanding to know
his secret. At this juncture Telramund breaks into the apartment with
four followers, intending to take the life of Lohengrin. A single blow
of the knight's sword stretches him lifeless. He then places Elsa in
the charge of her ladies and orders them to take her to the presence
of the King, whither he also repairs. Compelled by his wife's
unfortunate rashness, he discloses himself as the son of Parsifal,
Knight of the Holy Grail, and announces that he must now return to its
guardianship. His swan once more appears, and as he steps into the
boat he bids Elsa an eternal farewell. Before he sails away, however,
Ortrud declares to the wondering crowd that the swan is Elsa's
brother, who has been bewitched by herself into this form, and would
have been released but for Elsa's curiosity. Lohengrin at once
disenchants the swan, and Gottfried appears and rushes into his
sister's arms. A white dove flies through the air and takes the place
of the swan, and Lohengrin sails away as Elsa dies in the embrace of
her newly found brother.
The Vorspiel, or prelude, to the opera takes for its subject the
descent of the Holy Grail, the mysterious symbol of the Christian
faith, and the Grail motive is the key to the whole work. The
delicious harmonies which accompany its descent increase in warmth and
power until the sacred mystery is revealed to human eyes, and then die
away to a pianissimo, and gradually disappear as the angels bearing
the holy vessel return to their celestial abode. The curtain rises
upon a meadow on the banks of the Scheldt, showing King Henry
surrounded by his vassals and retainers. After their choral
declaration of allegiance, Telramund, in a long declamatory scena of
great power ("Zum Sterben kam der Herzog von Brabant"), tells the
story of the troubles in Brabant, and impeaches Elsa. At the King's
command, Elsa appears, and in a melodious utterance of extreme
simplicity and sweetness, which is called the dream motive ("Einsam in
trueben Tagen"), relates the vision of the knight who is to come to her
assistance. The summons of the heralds preludes the climax of the act.
Amid natural outcries of popular wonderment Lohengrin appears, and, as
he leaves his boat, bids farewell to his swan in a strain of delicate
beauty ("Nun sei gedankt, mein lieber Schwan"). The preparations for
the combat are made, but before it begins, the motive of warning is
sounded by Lohengrin ("Nie sollst du mich befragen"). The finale of
the act takes the form of a powerful ensemble, composed of sextet and
chorus, and beginning with the prayer of the King, "Mein Herr und
Gott, nun ruf ich Dich."
The second act opens upon a night scene near the palace, which is
merry with the wedding festivities, while the discomfited Telramund
and Ortrud are plotting their conspiracy without in a long duet
("Erhebe dich, Genossin meiner Schmach"), which introduces new motives
of hatred and revenge, as opposed to the Grail motive. In the second
scene Elsa appears upon the balcony and sings a love-song ("Euch
Lueften, die mein Klagen"), whose tenderness and confidence are in
marked contrast with the doubts sown in her mind by Ortrud before the
scene closes. The third scene is preluded with descriptive sunrise
music by the orchestra, followed by the herald's proclamations,
interspersed by choral responses, leading up to the bridal-procession
music as the train moves on from the palace to the cathedral,
accompanied by a stately march and choral strains, and all the
artistic surroundings of a beautiful stage pageant. The progress is
twice interrupted; first by Ortrud, who asserts her precedence, and
second by Telramund, who, in the scena "Den dort im Glanz," accuses
Lohengrin of sorcery. When Elsa still expresses her faith, the train
moves on, and reaches its destination amid the acclamations of the
chorus ("Heil, Elsa von Brabant!").
The third act opens in the bridal chamber with the graceful bridal
song by Elsa's ladies, "Treulich gefuhrt, ziehet dahin," whose
melodious strains have accompanied many unions, the world over,
besides those of Elsa and Lohengrin. The second scene is an exquisite
picture of the mutual outpouring of love, at first full of beauty and
tenderness, but gradually darkening as Ortrud's insinuations produce
their effect in Elsa's mind. Tenderly Lohengrin appeals to her, but in
vain; and at last the motive of warning is heard. The fatal questions
are asked, the tragedy of Telramund follows, and all is over. The last
scene introduces us once more to the meadow on the Scheldt, where
Lohengrin appears before the King and his vassals. In their presence
he reveals himself as the son of Parsifal, in a scena of consummate
power ("In fernem Land, unnahbar euren Schritten"), wherein the Grail
motive reaches its fullest development. It is followed by his touching
farewell, "O Elsa! nur ein Jahr an deiner Seite," the melody of which
can hardly be surpassed in dignity and impressiveness. The denouement
now hastens, and Lohengrin disappears, to the accompaniment of the
Grail motive.
"Tristan und Isolde," an opera in three acts, words by the composer,
was first produced at Munich, June 10, 1865, under the direction of
Hans von Buelow, with the following cast of characters:—
TRISTAN Herr LUDWIG SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD.
KURWENAL Herr MITTERWURZER.
KING MARK Herr ZOTTMAYER.
ISOLDE Mme. SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD.
BRANGOENA Mlle. DEINET.
"Tristan and Isolde" was commenced in 1857 and finished in 1859,
during the period in which Wagner was engaged upon his colossal work,
"The Ring of the Nibelung." As early as the middle of 1852 he had
finished the four dramatic poems which comprise the cyclus of the
latter, and during the next three years he finished the music to "Das
Rheingold" and "Die Walkuere." In one of his letters he says: "In the
summer of 1857 I determined to interrupt the execution of my work on
the Nibelungen and begin something shorter, which should renew my
connection with the stage." The legend of Tristan was selected. It is
derived from the old Celtic story of "Tristram and Iseult," the
version adopted by Wagner being that of Gottfried of Strasburg, a bard
of the thirteenth century, though it must be said he uses it in his
own manner, and at times widely departs both from the original and the
mediaeval poem.
In "Tristan and Isolde" Wagner broke completely loose from all the
conventional forms of opera. It has nothing in common with the old
style of lyric entertainment. As Hueffer says, in his recent Life of
Wagner: "Here is heard for the first time the unimpaired language of
dramatic passion intensified by an uninterrupted flow of expressive
melody. Here also the orchestra obtains that wide range of emotional
expression which enables it, like the chorus of the antique tragedy,
to discharge the dialogue of an overplus of lyrical elements without
weakening the intensity of the situation, which it accompanies like an
unceasing passionate undercurrent." In an opera like this, which is
intended to commingle dramatic action, intensity of verse, and the
power and charm of the music in one homogeneous whole, the reader will
at once observe the difficulty of doing much more than the telling of
its story, leaving the musical declamation and effects to be inferred
from the text. Even Wagner himself in the original title is careful to
designate the work "Ein Handlung" (an action).
The vorspiel to the drama is based upon a single motive, which is
worked up with consummate skill into various melodic forms, and
frequently appears throughout the work. It might well be termed the
motive of restless, irresistible passion. The drama opens on board a
ship in which the Cornish knight, Tristan, is bearing Isolde, the
unwilling Irish bride, to King Mark of Cornwall. As the vessel is
nearing the land, Isolde sends Brangoena to the Knight, who is also in
love with her, but holds himself aloof by reason of a blood-feud, and
orders him to appear at her side. His refusal turns Isolde's affection
to bitterness, and she resolves that he shall die, and that she will
share death with him. She once more calls Tristan, and tells him that
the time has come for him to make atonement for slaying her kinsman,
Morold.
She directs Brangoena to mix a death-potion and invites him to drink
with her, but without her knowledge Brangoena has prepared a
love-potion, which inflames their passions beyond power of restraint.
Oblivious of the landing, the approach of the royal train, and all
that is going on about them, they remain folded in mutual embrace.
The second act opens in Cornwall, in a garden which leads to Isolde's
chamber, she being already wedded to King Mark. With Brangoena she is
waiting for Tristan. The King goes out upon a night hunt, and no
sooner has he disappeared than Isolde gives the signal for his
approach, while Brangoena goes to her station to watch. The second
scene is a most elaborate love-duet between the guilty pair, the two
voices at first joining ("Bist du mein? Hab'ich dich wieder?"). A
passionate dialogue ensues, and then the two voices join again ("O
sink' hernieder, Nacht der Liebe"). After a brief dialogue Brangoena's
warning voice is heard. Absorbed in each other, they pay no heed, and
once more they join in the very ecstasy of passion, so far as it can
be given musical form, in the finale of the duet, "O suesse Nacht!
Ew'ge Nacht! Hehr erhabne Liebes-Nacht." The treachery of Sir Melot,
Tristan's pretended friend, betrays the lovers to the King. Tristan
offers no explanations, but touched by the King's bitter reproaches
provokes Sir Melot to combat and allows himself to be mortally
wounded.
The third act opens in Brittany, whither Kurwenal, Tristan's faithful
henchman, has taken him. A shepherd lad watches from a neighboring
height to announce the appearance of a vessel, for Kurwenal has sent
for Isolde to heal his master's wound. At last the stirring strains of
the shepherd's pipe signal her coming. In his delirious joy Tristan
tears the bandages from his wounds, and has only strength enough left
to call Isolde by name and die in her arms. Now a second vessel is
seen approaching, bearing King Mark and his men. Thinking that his
design is hostile, Kurwenal attempts to defend the castle, but is soon
forced to yield, and dies at the feet of his master. The King exclaims
against his rashness, for since he had heard Brangoena's story of the
love-potion he had come to give his consent to the union of the
lovers. Isolde, transfigured with grief, sings her last farewell to
her lover ("Mild und leise wie er laechelt"), and expires on his body.
The dying song is one of great beauty and pathos, and sadly recalls
the passion of the duet in the second act, as Isolde's mournful
strains are accompanied in the orchestra by the sweetly melodious
motives which had been heard in it, the interweaving of the two also
suggesting that in death the lovers have been reunited.
"Die Meistersinger von Nuernberg," a comic opera in three acts, words
by the composer, was first produced at Munich, June 21, 1868, under
the direction of Hans von Buelow, with the following cast:
HANS SACHS Herr BETZ.
WALTER Herr NACHBAUER.
BECKMESSER Herr HOELZEL.
DAVID Herr SCHLOSSER.
EVA Mlle. MALLINGER.
MAGDALENA Mme. DIETZ.
The plan of "The Mastersingers" was conceived about the same time as
that of "Lohengrin," during the composer's stay at Marienbad, and
occupied his attention at intervals for twenty years, as it was not
finished until 1867. As is clearly apparent both from its music and
text, it was intended as a satire upon the composer's critics, who had
charged that he was incapable of writing melody. It is easy to see
that these critics are symbolized by the old pedant Beckmesser, and
that in Walter we have Wagner himself. When he is first brought in
contact with the Mastersingers, and one of their number, Kothner, asks
him if he gained his knowledge in any school, he replies, "The wood
before the Vogelweid', 'twas there I learnt my singing;" and again he
answers:—
"What winter night.
What wood so bright,
What book and nature brought me,
What poet songs of magic might
Mysteriously have taught me,
On horses' tramp,
On field and camp,
On knights arrayed
For war parade
My mind its powers exerted."
The story is not only one of love as between Walter and Eva, but of
satirical protest as between Walter and Beckmesser, and the two
subjects are illustrated not only with delicate fancy but with the
liveliest of humor. The work is replete with melody. It has chorales,
marches, folk-songs, duets, quintets, ensembles, and choruses, and yet
the composer does not lose sight of his theories; for here we observe
as characteristic a use of motives and as skilful a combination of
them as can be found in any of his works. To thoroughly comprehend the
story, it is necessary to understand the conditions one had to fulfil
before he could be a mastersinger. First of all he must master the
"Tabulatur," which included the rules and prohibitions. Then he must
have the requisite acquaintance with the various methods of rhyming
verse, and with the manner of fitting appropriate music to it. One who
had partially mastered the Tabulatur was termed a "scholar;" the one
who had thoroughly learned it, a "schoolman;" the one who could
improvise verses, a "poet;" and the one who could set music to his
verses, a "mastersinger." In the test there were thirty-three faults
to be guarded against; and whenever the marker had chalked up seven
against the candidate, he was declared to have oversung himself and
lost the coveted honor.
The vorspiel is a vivid delineation of mediaeval German life, full of
festive pomp, stirring action, glowing passion, and exuberant humor.
The first act opens in the Church of St. Katherine, at Nuremberg, with
the singing of a chorale to organ accompaniment. During the chorale
and its interludes a quiet love-scene is being enacted between Eva,
daughter of the wealthy goldsmith Veit Pogner, and Walter von
Stolzing, a noble young knight. The attraction is mutual. Eva is ready
to become his bride, but it is necessary that her husband should be a
mastersinger. Rather than give up the hand of the fair Eva, Walter,
short as the time is, determines to master the precepts and enter the
lists. As Eva and her attendant, Magdalena, leave the church, the
apprentices enter to arrange for the trial, among them David, the
friskiest of them all, who is in love with Magdalena. He volunteers to
give Walter some instructions, but they do not avail him much in the
end, for the lesson is sadly disturbed by the gibes of the boys, in a
scene full of musical humor. At last Pogner and Beckmesser, the
marker, who is also a competitor for Eva's hand, enter from the
sacristy. After a long dialogue between them the other masters
assemble, Hans Sachs, the cobbler-bard, coming in last. After calling
the roll, the ceremonies open with a pompous address by Pogner ("Das
schoene Fest, Johannis-Tag"), in which he promises the hand of Eva,
"with my gold and goods beside," to the successful singer on the
morrow, which is John the Baptist's Day. After a long parley among the
gossiping masters, Pogner introduces Walter as a candidate for
election. He sings a charming song ("So rief der Lenz in den Wald"),
and as he sings, the marker, concealed behind a screen, is heard
scoring down the faults. When he displays the slate it is found to be
covered with them. The masters declare him outsung and rejected, but
Hans Sachs befriends him, and demands he shall have a chance for the
prize.
The second act discloses Pogner's house and Sachs's shop. The
apprentices are busy putting up the shutters, and are singing as they
work. Walter meets Eva and plots an elopement with her, but Sachs
prevents them from carrying out their rash plan. Meanwhile Beckmesser
makes his appearance with his lute for the purpose of serenading Eva
and rehearsing the song he is to sing for the prize on the morrow. As
he is about to sing, Sachs breaks out into a rollicking folk-song
("Jerum, jerum, halla, halla, he!"), in which he sings of Mother Eve
and the troubles she had after she left Paradise, for want of shoes.
At last he allows Beckmesser a hearing, provided he will permit him to
mark the faults with his hammer upon the shoe he is making. The marker
consents, and sings his song, "Den Tag seh' ich erscheinen,"
accompanied with excruciating roulades of the old-fashioned
conventional sort; but Sachs knocks so often that his shoe is finished
long before Beckmesser's song. This is his first humiliation. Before
the act finishes he is plunged into still further trouble, for David
suspects him of designs upon Magdalena, and a general quarrel ensues.
The third act opens upon a peaceful Sunday-morning scene in the sleepy
old town, and shows us Sachs sitting in his arm-chair at the window
reading his Bible, and now and then expressing his hopes for Walter's
success, as the great contest is soon to take place. At last he leans
back, and after a brief meditation commences a characteristic song
("Wahn! wahn! Ueberall wahn!"). A long dialogue ensues between him and
Walter, and then as Eva, David, Magdalena, and Beckmesser successively
enter, the scene develops into a magnificent quintet, which is one of
the most charming numbers in the opera. The situation then suddenly
changes. The stage-setting represents an open meadow on the banks of
the Pegnitz. The river is crowded with boats. The plain is covered
with tents full of merrymakers. The different guilds are continually
arriving. A livelier or more stirring scene can hardly be imagined
than Wagner has here pictured, with its accompaniment of choruses by
the various handicraftsmen, their pompous marches, and the rural
strains of town pipers. At last the contest begins. Beckmesser
attempts to get through his song and dismally fails. Walter follows
him with the beautiful prize-song, "Morgenlich leuchtend in rosigem
Schein." He wins the day and the hand of Eva. Exultant Sachs trolls
out a lusty lay ("Verachtet mir der Meister nicht"), and the stirring
scene ends with the acclamations of the people ("Heil Sachs! Hans
Sachs! Heil Nuernberg's theurem Sachs!").
"Der Ring des Nibelungen," a trilogy, the subject taken from the
Nibelungen Lied and adapted by the composer, was first conceived by
Wagner during the composition of "Lohengrin." The four dramatic poems
which constitute its cyclus were written as early as 1852, which will
correct a very general impression that this colossal work was
projected during the closing years of his life. On the contrary, it
was the product of his prime. Hueffer, in his biographical sketch of
Wagner, says that he hesitated between the historical and mythical
principles as the subjects of his work,—Frederick the First
representing the former, and Siegfried, the hero of Teutonic
mythology, the latter. Siegfried was finally selected. "Wagner began
at once sketching the subject, but gradually the immense breadth and
grandeur of the old types began to expand under his hands, and the
result was a trilogy, or rather tetralogy, of enormous dimensions,
perhaps the most colossal attempt upon which the dramatic muse has
ventured since the times of AEschylus." The trilogy is really in four
parts,—"Das Rheingold" (the Rhinegold); "Die Walkuere" (the Valkyrie);
"Siegfried"; and "Die Goetterdaemmerung" (the Twilight of the Gods),
"The Rhinegold" being in the nature of an introduction to the trilogy
proper, though occupying an evening for its performance. Between the
years 1852 and 1856 the composer wrote the music of the "Rhinegold"
and the whole of "The Valkyrie;" and then, as he says himself, wishing
to keep up his active connection with the stage, he interrupted the
progress of the main scheme, and wrote "Tristan and Isolde," which
occupied him from 1856 to 1859. During its composition, however, he
did not entirely forsake the trilogy. In the autumn of 1856 he began
"Siegfried," the composition of which was not finished until 1869,
owing to many other objects which engaged his attention during this
period, one of which was the composition of "The Mastersingers," which
he wrote at intervals between 1861 and 1867. From the latter year
until 1876, when the trilogy was produced at Baireuth, he gave himself
wholly to the work of completing it and preparing it for the stage.
Prior to the production of the completed work, separate parts of it
were given, though Wagner strongly opposed it. "The Rhinegold," or
introduction, came to a public dress-rehearsal at Munich Aug. 25,
1869, and "The Valkyrie" was performed in a similar manner in the same
city, June 24, 1870, with the following cast:—
WOTAN Herr KINDERMANN.
SIEGMUND Herr VOGL.
HUNDING Herr BAUSERWEIN.
BRUENNHILDE Frl. STEHLE.
SIEGLINDE Frau VOGL.
FRICKA Frl. KAUFFMANN.
The "Siegfried" and "Goetterdaemmerung," however, were not given until
the entire work was performed in 1876. Upon the completion of his
colossal task Wagner began to look about him for the locality,
theatre, artists, and materials suitable for a successful
representation. In the circular which he issued, narrating the
circumstances which led up to the building of the Baireuth
opera-house, he says: "As early as the spring of 1871 I had, quietly
and unnoticed, had my eye upon Baireuth, the place I had chosen for my
purpose. The idea of using the Margravian Opera-House was abandoned so
soon as I saw its interior construction. But yet the peculiar
character of that kindly town and its site so answered my
requirements, that during the wintry latter part of the autumn of the
same year I repeated my visit,—this time, however, to treat with the
city authorities…. An unsurpassably beautiful and eligible plot of
ground at no great distance from the town was given me on which to
erect the proposed theatre. Having come to an understanding as to its
erection with a man of approved inventive genius, and of rare
experience in the interior arrangement of theatres, we could then
intrust to an architect of equal acquaintance with theatrical building
the further planning and the erection of the provisional structure.
And despite the great difficulties which attended the arrangements for
putting under way so unusual an undertaking, we made such progress
that the laying of the corner-stone could be announced to our patrons
and friends for May 22, 1872." The ceremony took place as announced,
and was made still further memorable by a magnificent performance of
Beethoven's Ninth or Choral Symphony, the chorus of which, set to
Schiller's "Ode to Joy," was sung by hundreds of lusty German throats.
In addition to the other contents of the stone, Wagner deposited the
following mystic verse of his own:
"I bury here a secret deep,
For centuries long to lie concealed;
Yet while this stone its trust shall keep,
To all the secret stands revealed."
He also made an eloquent address, setting forth the details of the
plans and the purposes of the new temple of art. The undertaking was
now fairly inaugurated. The erratic King of Bavaria had from the first
been Wagner's steadfast friend and munificent patron; but not to him
alone belongs the credit of the colossal project and its remarkable
success. When Wagner first made known his views, other friends, among
them Tausig, the eminent pianist, at once devoted themselves to his
cause. In connection with a lady of high rank, Baroness von
Schleinitz, he proposed to raise the sum of three hundred thousand
thalers by the sale of patronage shares at three hundred thalers each,
and had already entered upon the work when his death for the time
dashed Wagner's hopes. Other friends, however, now came forward. An
organization for the promotion of the scheme, called the "Richard
Wagner Society," was started at Mannheim. Notwithstanding the ridicule
which it excited, another society was formed at Vienna. Like societies
began to appear in all the principal cities of Germany, and they found
imitators in Milan, Pesth, Brussels, London, and New York. Shares were
taken so rapidly that the success of the undertaking was no longer
doubtful. Meanwhile the theatre itself was under construction. It
combined several peculiarities, one of the most novel of which was the
concealment of the orchestra by the sinking of the floor, so that the
view of the audience could not be interrupted by the musicians and
their movements. Private boxes were done away with, the arrangement of
the seats being like that of an ancient amphitheatre, all of them
facing the stage. Two prosceniums were constructed which gave an
indefinable sense of distance to the stage-picture. To relieve the
bare side walls, a row of pillars was planned, gradually widening
outward and forming the end of the rows of seats, thus having the
effect of a third proscenium. The stage portion of the theatre was
twice as high as the rest of the building, for all the scenery was
both raised and lowered, the incongruity between the two parts being
concealed by a facade in front. "Whoever has rightly understood me,"
says Wagner, "will readily perceive that architecture itself had to
acquire a new significance under the inspiration of the genius of
Music, and thus that the myth of Amphion building the walls of Thebes
by the notes of his lyre has yet a meaning."
The theatre was completed in 1876, and in the month of August (13-16)
Wagner saw the dream of his life take the form of reality. He had
everything at his command,—a theatre specially constructed for his
purpose; a stage which in size, scenery, mechanical arrangements, and
general equipment, has not its equal in the world; an array of artists
the best that Europe could produce; an orchestra almost literally
composed of virtuosi. The audience which gathered at these
performances—composed of princes, illustrious men in every department
of science and culture, and prominent musicians from all parts of the
world—was one of which any composer might have been proud, while the
representation itself marked an epoch in musical history, and
promulgated a new system of laws destined to affect operatic
composition ever after.
The casts of the various portions of the trilogy upon this memorable
occasion were as follows:
DAS RHEINGOLD. (PRELUDE.)
WOTAN | (Herr BETZ.
DONNER | (Herr GURA.
| Gods
FROH | (Herr UNGER.
LOGE | (Herr VOGL.
FASOLT | (Herr EILERS.
| Giants
FAFNER | (Herr VON REICHENBERG.
ALBERICH | (Herr HILL.
| Nibelungs
MIME | (Herr SCHLOSSER.
FRICKA | (Frau VON GRUEN-SADLER.
FREIA |Goddesses (Frl. HAUPT.
ERDA | (Frau JAEIDA.
Woglinde ) ( Frl. Lilly Lehmann.
Wellgunde ) Rhine daughters ( Frl. Marie Lehmann.
Flosshilde ) ( Frl. Lammert.
SIEGMUND Herr NIEMANN.
HUNDING Herr NIERING.
WOTAN Herr BETZ.
SIEGLINDE Frl. SCHEFZKY.
BRUENNHILDE Frau FRIEDRICH-MATERNA.
FRICKA Frau VON GRUEN-SADLER.
SIEGFRIED Herr UNGER.
MIME Herr SCHLOSSER.
DER WANDERER Herr BETZ.
ALBERICH Herr HILL.
FAFNER Herr VON REICHENBERG.
ERDA Frau JAEIDA.
BRUENNHILDE Frau FRIEDRICH-MATERNA
SIEGFRIED Herr UNGER.
GUNTHER Herr GURA.
HAGEN Herr VON REICHENBERG.
ALBERICH Herr HILL.
BRUENNHILDE Frau FRIEDRICH-MATERNA.
GUTRUNE Frl. WECKERLIN.
WALTRAUTE Frau JAEIDA.
The motive of the drama turns upon the possession of a ring of magic
qualities, made of gold stolen from the Rhine daughters by Alberich,
one of the Nibelungen, who dwelt in Nebelheim, the place of mists.
This ring, the symbol of all earthly power, was at the same time to
bring a curse upon all who possessed it. Wotan, of the race of the
gods, covetous of power and heedless of the curse which follows it,
obtained the ring from Alberich by force and cunning, and soon found
himself involved in calamity from which there was no apparent escape.
He himself could not expiate the wrong he had done, nor could he avert
the impending doom, the "twilight" of the gods, which was slowly and
surely approaching. Only a free will, independent of the gods, and
able to take upon itself the fault, could make reparation for the
deed. At last he yields to despair. His will is broken, and instead of
fearing the inevitable doom he courts it. In this sore emergency the
hero appears. He belongs to an heroic race of men, the Volsungs. The
unnatural union of the twins, Siegmund and Sieglinde, born of this
race, produces the real hero, Siegfried. The parents pay the penalty
of incest with their lives; but Siegfried remains, and Wotan watches
his growth and magnificent development with eager interest. Siegfried
recovers the ring from the giants, to whom Wotan had given it, by
slaying a dragon which guarded the fatal treasure. Bruennhilde, the
Valkyr, Wotan's daughter, contrary to his instructions, had protected
Siegmund in a quarrel which resulted in his death, and was condemned
by the irate god to fall into a deep sleep upon a rock surrounded by
flames, where she was to remain until a hero should appear bold enough
to break through the wall of fire and awaken her. Siegfried rescues
her. She wakens into the full consciousness of passionate love, and
yields herself to the hero, who presents her with the ring, but not
before it has worked its curse upon him, so that he, faithless even in
his faithfulness, wounds her whom he deeply loves, and drives her from
him. Meanwhile Gunther, Gutrune, and their half-brother Hagen conspire
to obtain the ring from Bruennhilde and to kill Siegfried. Through the
agency of a magic draught he is induced to desert her, after once more
getting the ring. He then marries Gutrune. The curse soon reaches its
consummation. One day, while traversing his favorite forests on a
hunting expedition, he is killed by Hagen, with Gunther's connivance.
The two murderers then quarrel for the possession of the ring, and
Gunther is slain. Hagen attempts to wrest it from the dead hero's
finger, but shrinks back terrified as the hand is raised in warning.
Bruennhilde now appears, takes the ring, and proclaims herself his true
wife. She mounts her steed, and dashes into the funeral pyre of
Siegfried after returning the ring to the Rhine-daughters. This
supreme act of immolation breaks forever the power of the gods, as is
shown by the blazing Walhalla in the sky; but at the same time justice
has been satisfied, reparation has been made for the original wrong,
and the free will of man becomes established as a human principle.
Such are the outlines of this great story, which will be told more in
detail when we come to examine the component parts of the trilogy. Dr.
Ludwig Nohl, in his admirable sketch of the Nibelungen poem, as Wagner
adapted it, gives us a hint of some of its inner meanings in the
following extract: "Temporal power is not the highest destiny of a
civilizing people. That our ancestors were conscious of this is shown
in the fact that the treasure, or gold and its power, was transformed
into the Holy Grail. Worldly aims give place to spiritual desires.
With this interpretation of the Nibelungen myth, Wagner acknowledged
the grand and eternal truth that this life is tragic throughout, and
that the will which would mould a world to accord with one's desires
can finally lead to no greater satisfaction than to break itself in a
noble death…. It is this conquering of the world through the victory
of self which Wagner conveys as the highest interpretation of our
national myths. As Bruennhilde approaches the funeral pyre to sacrifice
her life, the only tie still uniting her with the earth, to Siegfried,
the beloved dead, she says:—
"'To the world I will give now my holiest wisdom;
Not goods, nor gold, nor godlike pomp,
Not house, nor lands, nor lordly state,
Not wicked plottings of crafty men,
Not base deceits of cunning law,—
But, blest in joy and sorrow, let only love remain.'"
We now proceed to the analysis of the four divisions of the work, in
which task, for obvious reasons, it will be hardly possible to do more
than sketch the progress of the action, with allusions to its most
striking musical features. There are no set numbers, as in the Italian
opera; and merely to designate the leading motives and trace their
relation to each other, to the action of the dramatis personae, and
to the progress of the four movements, not alone towards their own
climaxes but towards the ultimate denouement, would necessitate far
more space than can be had in a work of this kind.
The orchestral prelude to "The Rhinegold" is based upon a single
figure, the Rhine motive, which in its changing developments pictures
the calm at the bottom of the Rhine and the undulating movement of the
water. The curtain rises and discloses the depths of the river, from
which rise rugged ridges of rock. Around one of these, upon the summit
of which glistens the Rhinegold, Woglinde, a Rhine-daughter, is
swimming. Two others, Wellgunde and Flosshilde, join her; and as they
play about the gleaming gold, Alberich, a dwarf, suddenly appears from
a dark recess and passionately watches them. As they are making sport
of him, his eye falls upon the gold and he determines to possess it.
They make light of his threat, informing him that whoever shall forge
a ring of this gold will have secured universal power, but before he
can obtain that power he will have to renounce love. The disclosure of
the secret follows a most exultant song of the Undines ("Rheingold!
leuchtende Lust! wie lachst du so hell und hehr!"). In the
announcement made by them also occurs the motive of the ring. The
Rhine-daughters, who have fancied that Alberich will never steal the
gold because he is in love with them, are soon undeceived, for he
curses love, and snatches the gold and makes off with it, pursued by
the disconsolate maidens, whose song changes into a sad minor leading
up to the next scene. As they follow him into the dark depths the
stream sinks with them and gives place to an open district with a
mountain in the background, upon which is the glistening Walhalla,
which the giants have just built for the gods. Wotan and Fricka are
discovered awakening from sleep and joyfully contemplating it, the
latter, however, filled with apprehension lest the giants shall claim
Freia, the goddess of love, whom Wotan has promised to them as the
reward for their work. Loge, the god of fire, however, has agreed to
obtain a ransom for her. He has searched the world over, but has been
unable to find anything that can excel in value or attraction the
charm of love. As the gods are contemplating their castle Loge
appears, and in a scene of great power, accompanied by music which
vividly describes the element he dominates ("Immer ist Undank Loge's
Lohn"), he narrates the tidings of his failure. The giants, however,
have heard the story of the Rhinegold, and as they carry off the
weeping Freia agree to release her whenever the gods will give to them
the precious and all-powerful metal. As love departs, the heavens
become dark and sadness overcomes the gods. They grow suddenly old and
decrepit. Fricka totters and Wotan yields to despair. Darkness and
decay settle down upon them. The divine wills are broken, and they are
about to surrender to what seems approaching dissolution, when Wotan
suddenly arouses himself and determines to go in quest of the
all-powerful gold. Loge accompanies him, and the two enter the dark
kingdom of the gnomes, who are constantly at work forging the metals.
By virtue of his gold Alberich has already made himself master of all
the gnomes, but Wotan easily overpowers him and carries him off to the
mountain. The Nibelung, however, clings to his precious gold, and a
struggle ensues for it. In spite of his strength and the power the
ring gives to him it is wrenched from him, and the victorious Wotan
leaves him free to return to his gloomy kingdom. Infuriated with
disappointment over his loss and rage at his defeat, Alberich curses
the ring and invokes misfortune upon him who possesses it. "May he who
has it not, covet it with rage," cries the dwarf, "and may he who has
it, retain it with the anguish of fear;" and with curse upon curse he
disappears. Now that he has the ring, Wotan is unwilling to give it
up. The other gods implore him to do so, and the giants demand their
ransom. He remains inflexible; but at last Erda, the ancient divinity,
to whom all things are known, past, present and future, appears to
Wotan and warns him to surrender the ring. She declares that all which
exists will have an end, and that a night of gloom will come upon the
gods. So long as he retains the ring a curse will follow it. Her
sinister foreboding so alarms him that at last he abandons the gold.
Youth, pride, and strength once more return to the gods.
The grand closing scene of the prelude now begins. Wotan attempts to
enter Walhalla, but all is veiled in oppressive mist and heavy clouds.
The mighty Donner, accompanied by Froh, climbs a high rock in the
valley's slope and brandishes his hammer, summoning the clouds about
him. From out their darkness its blows are heard descending upon the
rock. Lightning leaps from them, and thunder-crashes follow each other
with deafening sounds. The rain falls in heavy drops. Then the clouds
part, and reveal the two in the midst of their storm-spell. In the
distance appears Walhalla bathed in the glow of the setting sun. From
their feet stretches a luminous rainbow across the valley to the
castle, while out from the disappearing storm comes the sweet rainbow
melody. Froh sings, "Though built lightly it looks, fast and fit is
the bridge." The gods are filled with delight, but Wotan gloomily
contemplates the castle as the curse of the ring recurs to him. At
last a new thought comes in his mind. The hero who will make
reparation is to come from the new race of mortals of his own
begetting. The thought appears in the sword motive, and as its stately
melody dies away, Wotan rouses from his contemplation and hails
Walhalla with joy as "a shelter from shame and harm." He takes Fricka
by the hand, and leading the way, followed by Froh, Freia, Donner, and
Loge, the last somewhat reluctantly, the gods pass over the rainbow
bridge and enter Walhalla bathed in the light of the setting sun and
accompanied by the strains of a majestic march. During their passage
the plaintive song of the Rhine-daughters mourning their gold comes up
from the depths. Wotan pauses a moment and inquires the meaning of the
sounds, and bids Loge send a message to them that the treasure shall
"gleam no more for the maids." Then they pass laughingly and mockingly
on through the splendor to Walhalla. The sad song still rises from the
depths of the Rhine, but it is overpowered by the strains of the
march, and pealing music from the castle. The curtain falls upon their
laments, and the triumphant entrance of the gods into their new home.
In "The Valkyrie," properly the first part of the cyclus, the human
drama begins. Strong races of men have come into existence, and
Wotan's Valkyres watch over them, leading those who fall in battle to
Walhalla, where, in the gods' companionship, they are to pass a
glorious life. According to the original legend, Wotan blessed an
unfruitful marriage of this race by giving the pair an apple of Hulda
to eat, and the twins, Siegmund and Sieglinde, were the result of the
union. When the first act opens, Siegmund has already taken a wife and
Sieglinde has married the savage warrior Hunding, but neither marriage
has been fruitful. It is introduced with an orchestral prelude
representing a storm. The pouring of the rain is audible among the
violins and the rumbling of the thunder in the deep basses. The
curtain rises, disclosing the interior of a rude hut, its roof
supported by the branches of an ash-tree whose trunk rises through the
centre of the apartment. As the tempest rages without, Siegmund rushes
in and falls exhausted by the fire. Attracted by the noise, Sieglinde
appears, and observing the fallen stranger bends compassionately over
him and offers him a horn of mead. As their eyes meet they watch each
other with strange interest and growing emotion. While thus mutually
fascinated, Hunding enters and turns an inquiring look upon Sieglinde.
She explains that he is a guest worn out with fatigue and seeking
shelter. Hunding orders a repast and Siegmund tells his story.
Vanquished in combat by a neighboring tribe, some of whose adherents
he had slain, and stripped of his arms, he fled through the storm for
refuge. Hunding promises him hospitality, but challenges him to combat
on the morrow, for the victims of Siegmund's wrath were Hunding's
friends. As Sieglinde retires at Hunding's bidding, she casts a
despairing, passionate look at Siegmund, and tries to direct his
attention to a sword sticking in the ash-tree, but in vain. Hunding
warns her away with a significant look, and then taking his weapons
from the tree leaves Siegmund alone. The latter, sitting by the fire,
falls into dejection, but is soon roused by the thought that his sire
had promised he should find the sword Nothung in his time of direst
need. The dying fire shoots out a sudden flame, and his eye lights
upon its handle, illuminated by the blaze. The magnificent
sword-melody is sounded, and in a scene of great power he hails it and
sings his love for Sieglinde, whom now he can rescue. As the fire and
the song die away together, Sieglinde reappears. She has drugged
Hunding into a deep sleep, and in an exultant song tells Siegmund the
story of the sword. They can be saved if he is strong enough to wrench
it from the trunk of the ash. He recognizes his sister and folds her
passionately in his arms. The storm has passed, and as the moonlight
floods the room he breaks out in one of the loveliest melodies Wagner
has ever written, the spring song ("Winterstuerme wichen dem
Wonnemond"), a song of love leading to the delights of spring; and
Sieglinde in passionate response declares, "Thou art the spring for
which I longed in winter's frosty embrace." The recognition is mutual,
not alone of brother and sister but of lover and mistress,—the union
which is destined to beget Siegfried, the hero. Seizing her in his
arms, Siegmund disappears with her into the depths of the forest, and
the curtain falls.
The second act opens in the mountains of the gods, and discloses Wotan
with spear in hand in earnest converse with Bruennhilde, his daughter,
who is arrayed in the armor of a Valkyr. He tells her of the
approaching combat, and bids her award the victory to Siegmund the
Volsung, beloved of the gods. As she disappears among the rocks,
shouting the weird cry of the Valkyres, the jealous Fricka, protector
of marriage vows, comes upon the scene in a chariot drawn by rams. A
stormy dialogue occurs between them, Fricka demanding the death of
Siegmund as compensation for the wrong done to Hunding. Wotan at last
is overcome, and consents that the Valkyres shall conduct him to
Walhalla. As he yields, Bruennhilde's jubilant song is heard on the
heights, and Wotan summons her and announces his changed decision.
Siegmund must perish. As he stalks gloomily away among the rocks,
Bruennhilde falls into deep dejection, and turns away moaning: "Alas!
my Volsung! Has it come to this,—that faithless the faithful must
fail thee?" As she enters a cave for her horse, the fugitives Siegmund
and Sieglinde hurriedly approach, pursued by the infuriated Hunding.
They stop to rest, and Sieglinde falls exhausted in his arms. The
scene is marked by alternations of passionate love and fear, hope on
the one side, despair on the other, vividly portrayed in the
instrumentation. As the music dies away and Sieglinde rests insensible
in his arms, Bruennhilde, with deep melancholy in her visage, shows
herself to Siegmund. In reply to his question, "Who art thou?" she
answers, "He who beholds me, to death in the battle is doomed. I shall
lead thee to Walhalla." Eagerly he asks, "Shall I find in Walhalla my
own father Waelse?" and she answers, "The Volsung shall find his father
there." With passionate earnestness he asks, "Shall Siegmund there
embrace Sieglinde?" The Valkyre replies, "The air of earth she still
must breathe. Sieglinde shall not see Siegmund there." Then furiously
answers Siegmund, "Then farewell to Walhalla! Where Sieglinde lives,
in bliss or blight, there Siegmund will also tarry," and he raises his
sword over his unconscious sister. Moved by his great love and sorrow,
Bruennhilde for the first time is swayed by human emotions, and
exultantly declares, "I will protect thee." Hunding's horn sounds in
the distance, and soon is heard his defiant challenge to battle.
Siegmund rushes to the top of one of the cloudy summits, and the clash
of their arms resounds in the mists. A sudden gleam of light shows
Bruennhilde hovering over Siegmund, and protecting him with her shield.
As he prepares himself to deal a deadly thrust at Hunding, the angry
Wotan appears in a storm-cloud and interposes his spear. Siegmund's
sword is shivered to pieces. Hunding pierces his disarmed enemy, and
he falls mortally wounded. Bruennhilde lifts the insensible Sieglinde
upon her steed and rides away with her. Wotan, leaning upon his spear,
gazes sorrowfully at the dying Volsung, and then turning to Hunding,
so overcomes him with his contemptuous glance that he falls dead at
his feet. "But Bruennhilde, woe to the traitor. Punishment dire is due
to her treason. To horse, then. Let vengeance speed swiftly." And
mounting his steed he disappears amid thunder and lightning.
The last act opens in a rocky glen filled with the Valkyres calling to
each other from summit to summit with wild cries as they come riding
through the clouds after the combat, bearing the dead bodies of the
warriors on their saddles. The scene is preluded with an orchestral
number, well known in the concert-room as the "Ride of the Valkyres,"
which is based upon two motives, the Valkyre's call and the Valkyre
melody. In picturesque description of the rush and dash of steeds,
amid which are heard the wild cries of the sisters, "The Ride" is one
of the most powerful numbers ever written. Bruennhilde arrives among
the exultant throng in tears, bearing Sieglinde with her. She gives
her the fragments of Siegmund's sword, and appeals to the other
Valkyres to save her. She bids Sieglinde live, for "thou art to give
birth to a Volsung," and to keep the fragments of the sword. "He that
once brandishes the sword, newly welded, let him be named Siegfried,
the winner of victory." Wotan's voice is now heard angrily shouting
through the storm-clouds, and calling upon Bruennhilde, who vainly
seeks to conceal herself among her sisters. He summons her forth from
the group, and she comes forward meekly but firmly and awaits her
punishment. He taxes her with violating his commands; to which she
replies, "I obeyed not thy order, but thy secret wish." The answer
does not avail, and he condemns her to sleep by the wayside, the
victim of the first who passes. She passionately pleads for protection
against dishonor, and the god consents. Placing her upon a rocky couch
and kissing her brow, he takes his farewell of her in a scene which
for majestic pathos has never been excelled. One forgets Wotan and the
Valkyre. It is the last parting of an earthly father and daughter,
illustrated with music which is the very apotheosis of grief. He then
conjures Loge, the god of fire; and as he strikes his spear upon the
rock, flames spring up all about her. Proudly he sings in the midst of
the glare:—
"Who fears the spike
Of my spear to face,
He will not pierce the planted fire,"—
a melody which is to form the motive of the hero Siegfried in the next
division of the work—and the curtain falls upon a scene which for
power, beauty, and majesty has not its equal on the lyric stage.
The second division of the tragedy, "Siegfried," might well be called
an idyl, of the forest. Its music is full of joyousness and delight.
In place of the struggles of gods and combats of fierce warriors, the
wild cries of Valkyres and the blendings of human passions with divine
angers, we have the repose and serenity of nature, and in the midst of
it all appears the hero Siegfried, true child of the woods, and as
full of wild joyousness and exultant strength as one of their fauns or
satyrs. It is a wonderful picture of nature, closing with an ecstatic,
vision of love.
After the death of Siegmund, Sieglinde takes refuge in the depths of
the forest, where she gives birth to Siegfried. In her dying moments
she intrusts him to Mime, who forged the ring for Alberich when he
obtained possession of the Rhinegold. The young hero has developed
into a handsome, manly stripling, who dominates the forests and holds
its wild animals subject to his will. He calls to the birds and they
answer him. He chases the deer with leaps as swift as their own. He
seizes the bear and drags him into Mime's hut, much to the Nibelung's
alarm. But while pursuing the wild, free life in the forest, he has
dreams of greater conquests than those over nature. Heroic deeds shape
themselves in his mind, and sometimes they are illuminated with dim
and mysterious visions of a deeper passion. In his interviews with
Mime he questions him about the world outside of the forest, its
people and their actions. He tires of the woods, and longs to get away
from them. Mime then shows him the fragments of his father's sword,
which had been shattered upon Wotan's spear, the only legacy left her
son by Sieglinde, and tells him that he who can weld them together
again will have power to conquer all before him. Mime had long tried
to forge a sword for Siegfried, but they were all too brittle, nor had
he the skill to weld together the fragments of Siegmund's sword,
Nothung. The only one who can perform that task is the hero without
fear. One day Siegfried returns from a hunting expedition and
undertakes it himself. He files the fragments into dust and throws it
into the crucible, which he places on the fire of the forge. Then
while blowing the bellows he sings a triumphant song ("Nothung!
Nothung! neidliches Schwert"), which anticipates the climax towards
which all the previous scenes have led. As he sings at his work Mime
cogitates how he shall thwart his plans and get possession of the
sword. He plots to have him kill Fafner, the giant, who has changed
himself into a dragon, for the more effectual custody of the
Rhine-treasure and the ring. Then when Siegfried has captured the
treasure he will drug him with a poisoned broth, kill him with the
sword, and seize the gold. Siegfried pours the melted steel into a
mould, thrusts it into the water to cool, and then bursts out into a
new song, accompanied by anvil blows, as he forges and tempers it, the
motive of which has already been heard in the "Rhinegold" prelude,
when Alberich made his threat. While Mime quietly mixes his potion,
Siegfried fastens the hilt to his blade and polishes the sword. Then
breaking out in a new song, in which are heard the motives of the
fire-god and the sword, he swings it through the air, and bringing it
down with force splits the anvil in twain. The music accompanying this
great scene, imitating the various sounds of the forge, the flutter of
the fire, the hissing of the water, the filing of the sword, and the
blows upon the anvil, is realism carried to the very extreme of
possibilities.
The great exploit has been successful, and Siegfried at last has
Siegmund's sword. Mime takes him to the cave where Fafner, the
giant-dragon, guards the gold. Siegfried slays the monster, and laughs
over the ease of the task. His finger is heated with the dragon's
blood, and as he puts it to his lips to cool it he tastes the blood,
and thus learns the language of the birds. He cares nought for the
treasure, and takes only the ring and a magic helmet, which enables
the wearer to assume any form. After the contest he throws himself at
the foot of a tree in the forest and dreamily listens to the
"Waldweben," the rustle and mysterious stirrings of the woods. Amid
all these subtle, soothing sounds, pierced now and then with the songs
of the birds, and distant cries in far-away sylvan recesses, he
realizes that he is alone, while his old companions of the woods are
together. He thinks of the mother whom he has never known, and of that
mysterious being whom he has never seen, who should make the
companionship he observes among the birds. The passion of love begins
to assert itself vaguely and strangely, but full soon it will glow out
with ardent flame. A bird flying over his head sings to him. He can
understand its song and fancies it his mother's voice coming to him in
the bird-notes. It tells him now he has the treasure, he should save
the most beautiful of women and win her to himself. "She sleeps upon a
rock, encircled with flames; but shouldst thou dare to break through
them, the warrior-virgin is thine." The bird wings its flight through
the forest, and Siegfried, joyously seizing his sword, follows it with
swift foot, for he knows it is guiding him to Bruennhilde. The time for
great deeds has come. The wild, free life of the forest is over.
The third act once more shows us the god Wotan still plunged in gloom.
Gazing into a deep abyss, he summons Erda, who knows the destiny of
all the world, to question her again as to the twilight of the gods.
The mysterious figure appears at his bidding, but has nothing further
to communicate. Their doom is certain. The fearless race of men is
destined to efface the gods, and Walhalla must disappear. The hero is
at hand, and coming rapidly. The despairing Wotan, who appears in this
scene as "Der Wanderer" (the wanderer), cries out, "So be it. It is to
this end I aspire." He turns gloomily away, and confronts Siegfried
bounding from rock to rock like a deer, still following his airy
guide. The god angrily tries to bar his way, but in vain. His lance is
shattered at a single blow of the sword Nothung, which he himself had
once so easily shivered. It is the first catastrophe of the final fate
which is approaching. The hero without fear has come, the free will of
man has begun to manifest itself. The power of the gods is breaking.
Joyously Siegfried rushes on over the rocks. He is soon bathed in the
glow of the fire, which casts weird shadows through the wild glen. Now
the burning wall of red flames is before him. With a ringing cry of
exultation he dashes through them, and before him lies the sleeping
maiden in her glistening armor. Mad with her beauty and his own
overpowering passion, he springs to her side and wakes her with a
kiss. The Volsung and the Valkyr gaze at each other a long time in
silence. Bruennhilde strives to comprehend her situation, and to recall
the events that led up to her penalty, while love grows within her for
the hero who has rescued her, and Siegfried is transfixed by the
majesty of the maiden. As she comes to herself and fully realizes who
is the hero before her and foresees the approaching doom, she
earnestly appeals to him:—
"Leave, ah, leave,
Leave me unlost,
Force on me not
Thy fiery nearness.
Shiver me not
With thy shattering will,
And lay me not waste in thy love."
What is preordained cannot be changed. Siegfried replies with growing
passion, and Bruennhilde at last yields, and the two join in an
outburst of exultant song:—
"Away, Walhalla,
In dust crumble
Thy myriad towers.
Farewell, greatness,
And gift of the gods.
You, Norns, unravel
The rope of runes.
Darken upwards,
Dusk of the gods.
Night of annulment,
Draw near with thy cloud.
I stand in sight
Of Siegfried's star.
For me he was,
And for me he will ever be."
With this great duet, which is one of the most extraordinary numbers
in the trilogy for dramatic power and musical expression of human
emotion, this division closes.
The last division of the tragedy opens under the shade of a huge
ash-tree where the three Fates sit spinning and weaving out human
destinies. As they toss their thread from one to the other,—the
thread they have been spinning since time began,—they foresee the
gloom which is coming. Suddenly it snaps in their fingers, whereupon
the dark sisters crowding closely together descend to the depths of
the earth to consult with the ancient Erda and seek shelter near her.
Meanwhile as day breaks Siegfried and Bruennhilde emerge from the glen
where they have been reposing in mutual happiness. Bruennhilde has told
her lover the story of the gods and the secrets of the mystic runes,
but he is still unsatisfied. His mission is not yet fulfilled. He must
away to perform new deeds. Before he leaves her he gives her the ring
as his pledge of fidelity, and they part, after exchanging mutual vows
of love and constancy.
In his search for further exploits, Siegfried arrives at the dwelling
of Gunter, a powerful Rhenish chief, head of the Gibichungen, another
race of heroes, where also resides Gutrune, his fascinating sister,
and the evil Hagen, begotten by Alberich of Crimhilda, Gunter's
mother, who was the victim of his gold. Alberich's hatred of the gods
and all connected with them is shared by his son, who has been charged
by the Nibelung to recover the gold. From this point the tragic
denouement rapidly progresses. Siegfried's horn is heard in the
distance, and he soon crosses Gunter's threshold, where his ruin is
being plotted by the sinister Hagen. He is hospitably received, and at
Hagen's bidding Gutrune pours out and offers him a draught so
cunningly mixed that it will efface all past remembrances. He is
completely infatuated with the girl's beauty, and as the potion takes
effect, the love for Bruennhilde disappears. He demands Gutrune in
marriage, and Hagen promises her upon condition that he will bring
Bruennhilde as a bride for Gunter. Siegfried departs upon the fatal
errand, and after taking from her the ring drags her by force to
deliver her to Gunter. The Valkyr rises to a sublime height of anger
over her betrayal, and dooms Siegfried to death in the approaching
hunt, for by death alone she knows that she can regain his love.
The last act opens in a rocky glen on the banks of the Rhine, the
ripple of whose waters is repeated in the melody of "The Rhinegold."
Siegfried is separated from his companion, and while alone, the song
of the Rhine-daughters is heard. They rise to the surface of the
gleaming water and demand their gold, but Siegfried refuses to restore
it. They warn him again to fly from the curse, but he proudly exclaims
that his sword is invincible and can crush the Norns. Sadly they float
away to the sound of harps shimmering over the water. Gunter's horn is
heard among the hills, and Siegfried exultantly answers it. The
huntsmen assemble and prepare for a feast. Siegfried relates his
adventure with the Rhine-daughters, and when Hagen asks him if it is
true that he can understand the language of the birds, he tells the
whole story of his life in the "Rheinfahrt," a song built up of all
the motives which have been heard in the "Siegfried" division,—the
melody of the sword, the stir of the woods, the song of the mysterious
bird, Mime's enticement, the love of Bruennhilde, and the flaming fire
following each other in rapid and brilliant succession through the
measures of the picturesque description. As the song dies away, two
ravens, messengers of ill-omen, fly across the stage. The curse motive
sounds gloomily through the orchestra. Hagen springs to his feet and
suddenly and treacherously plunges his spear into Siegfried's back,
then sullenly leaves and disappears among the rocks. The hero falls to
the earth and dies, breathing Bruennhilde's name, for in the last
supreme moment the spell of Hagen's draught passes away. With his last
breath he breaks out in a death-song of surpassing beauty and majesty,
in which the motives are those of the Volsung and the Valkyr, as well
as of the destiny which is to reunite them in death. Once more he
murmurs the name of Bruennhilde, and then his companions tenderly place
him upon his shield, and lifting him upon their shoulders carry him to
the misty summits and disappear in the cloud, to the mighty and
impressive strains of a funeral march, built up on the motives of
Siegmund, the love-duet of Siegmund and Sieglinde, the sword and
Volsung motives, and Siegfried's great theme. In the interweaving of
these motives and their sombre coloring, in massive fortissimo and
crescendo effects, in expressive musical delineation, and in majestic
solemnity, the Siegfried funeral march must take precedence of all
other dirges. In truth it is a colossal and heroic funeral poem fit to
celebrate the death of a demigod. In the last scene Siegfried's body
is borne back to the hall of the Gibichungs amid loud lamenting. When
Gutrune learns what has occurred, she bitterly curses Hagen and throws
herself on Siegfried's corpse. Hagen and Gunter quarrel for the
possession of the ring, and Gunter is slain; but when Hagen tries to
take the ring, the hand of the dead hero is raised in warning. Then
Bruennhilde solemnly and proudly advances in the light of the torches
and bids the empty clamor cease, for "this is no lamenting worthy of a
hero." She orders a funeral pyre to be built, and Siegfried is laid
thereon. She contemplates the dead hero with passionate love and
sadness, and then solemnly turning to those about her, exclaims:
"Those who efface the fault of the gods are predestined to suffering
and death. Let one sacrifice end the curse. Let the Ring be purified
by fire, the waters dissolve it forever. The end of the gods is at
hand. But though I leave the world masterless, I give it this precious
treasure. In joy or in suffering, happiness can alone come from love."
She seizes a burning brand, and invoking Loge, god of fire, flings it
into the pyre. Her horse is brought to her, and she proudly mounts
it:—
"Grane, my horse,
Hail to thee here!
Knowest thou, friend,
How far I shall need thee?
Heiaho! Grane!
Greeting to him.
Siegfried! See, Bruennhilde
Joyously hails thee, thy bride."
She swings herself upon her steed and dashes into the furious flames.
At last they die away, and the Rhine rushes forward from its banks and
covers the pyre. The exultant Rhine-daughters are swimming in the
flood, for Bruennhilde has thrown them the ring. Hagen makes a last
desperate effort to clutch it, but Woglinde and Wellgunde wind their
arms about him, and as they drag him into the depths Flosshilde holds
the ring above the waters, and the exultant song of the
Rhine-daughters is heard above the swelling tide, while far in the
distance a red flame spreads among the clouds. Walhalla is blazing in
the sky. The Dusk of the Gods has come. Reparation has been made. The
hero without fear is victorious. Free will, independent of the gods,
will rule the world, and the gods themselves are lost in the human
creation. Love is given to men, and conquers death.
"Parsifal," a "Buehnenweihfestspiel" (festival acting-drama), words by
Wagner, was concluded in 1879, and first produced at Baireuth, July
22, 1882, only about seven months before the distinguished composer's
death, with Mme. Friedrich-Materna as Kundry, Herr Winckelmann as
Parsifal, and Herr Scaria as Gurnemanz.
The theme of the opera is taken from the cycle of Holy Grail myths to
which "Lohengrin" also belongs. The reader will remember that
Lohengrin in his final address declares himself son of Parsifal, the
King of the Grail; and it is with this Parsifal that Wagner's last
work is concerned. Parsifal, like Siegfried, represents free human
nature in its spontaneous, impulsive action. He is styled in the text,
"Der reine Thor" (the guileless fool), who, in consonance with the old
mythological idea, overcomes the evil principle and gains the crown by
dint of pure natural impulse. The opera differs widely from "The
Nibelung Ring." The composer has used the free instead of the
alliterative form of verse, which he then contended was best adapted
to musical setting. In "The Ring" the chorus is not introduced at all
until the last division is reached, while in "Parsifal" it plays an
important part in every act, in the second scene of the first act
there being three choirs on the stage at a time. Still there is no
trace of the aria, the duet, or the recitative, of the Italian style,
though there is plenty of concerted music, which grows out of the
dramatic necessities of the situations. When these necessities do not
urge themselves, the music flows on in dialogue form, as in "The
Ring."
The vorspiel is based upon three motives connected with the mystery of
the Grail, which forms the key-note of the opera, though in a
different aspect from that which the Grail assumes in "Lohengrin,"
where it can only be visible to the eye of faith, while in "Parsifal"
it distinctly performs its wonders. Let it be remembered that the
Grail is the chalice from which Christ drank with his disciples at the
Last Supper, and in which his blood was received at the cross. The
first of these motives is of the same general character as the Grail
motive in the "Lohengrin" vorspiel; the second is an impressive phrase
for trumpets and trombones, which will be heard again when the Knights
of the Grail are summoned to their duties; and the third is a broad,
dignified melody in the chorale form.
The action of the drama occurs in the north of Spain, and in the
vicinity of Monsalvat, the Castle of the Holy Grail, where this
chalice was brought by angels when Christianity was in danger. The
curtain rises upon a lovely forest glade on the borders of a lake, at
daybreak, and discovers the Grail Knight, Gurnemanz, and two young
shield-bearers, guardians of the castle, sleeping at the foot of a
tree. Trumpet-calls, repeating the motive first heard in the prelude,
arouse them from their sleep; and as they offer up their morning
prayer the chorale is heard again. As they wend their way to the
castle, they meet two knights preceding the litter upon which the
wounded Amfortas, King of the Grail, is carried. In the subsequent
dialogue Gurnemanz tells the story of the King's mishap. He is
suffering from a wound which refuses to close, and which has been
inflicted by the sacred spear,—the spear, according to the legend,
with which our Saviour's side was pierced. Klingsor, a magician, had
aspired to become a knight of the Grail, but his application was
refused; for only those of holy lives could watch the sacred vessel
and perform its ministrations. In revenge, Klingsor studied the magic
arts and created for himself a fairy palace, which he peopled with
beautiful women, whose sole duty it was to seduce the Knights of the
Grail. One of these women, a mysterious creature of wonderful
fascinations, Kundry by name, had beguiled Amfortas, who thus fell
into the power of Klingsor. He lost his spear, and received from it a
wound which will never heal so long as it remains in the hands of the
magician. In a vision he has been told to wait for the one who has
been appointed to cure him. A voice from the Grail tells him the
following mystery:—
"Durch Mitleid wissend,
Der reine Thor,
Harre sein'
Den ich erkor."
["Let a guileless fool only, knowing by compassion, await him whom I
have chosen."]
Meanwhile, as the shield-bearers are carrying Amfortas towards the
lake, the savage, mysterious Kundry is seen flying over the fields.
She overtakes Gurnemanz and gives him a balm, saying that if it will
not help the King, nothing in Arabia can, and then, refusing to accept
thanks or reveal her identity, sinks to the ground in weariness. The
King takes the drug with gratitude; but she scorns thanks, and sneers
at those about her with savage irony. Gurnemanz's companions are about
to seize her, but the old Knight warns them that she is living
incarnate to expiate the sins of a former life, and that in serving
the Order of the Grail she is purchasing back her own redemption. As
Gurnemanz concludes, cries are heard in the wood, and two knights,
approaching, announce that a swan, the bird sacred to the Grail, which
was winging its way over the lake, and which the King had hailed as a
happy omen, has been shot. Parsifal, the murderer, is dragged in, and
when questioned by Gurnemanz, is unaware that he has committed any
offence. To every question he only answers he does not know. When
asked who is his mother, Kundry answers for him: "His mother brought
him an orphan into the world, and kept him like a fool in the forest,
a stranger to arms, so that he should escape a premature death; but he
fled from her and followed the wild life of nature. Her grief is over,
for she is dead." Whereupon Parsifal flies at her and seizes her by
the throat; but Gurnemanz holds him back, and Kundry sinks down
exhausted. Parsifal answers to the "Thor," but it remains to be seen
whether he is the "reine Thor." Gurnemanz conducts him to the temple
where the holy rites of the Grail are to be performed, hoping he is
the redeemer whom the Grail will disclose when the love-feast of the
Saviour is celebrated.
The scene changes to the great hall of the castle and the celebration
of the feast of the Grail. The scene is introduced with a solemn march
by full orchestra, including trombones on the stage, accompanied by
the clanging of bells as the knights enter in stately procession. They
sing a pious chant in unison, the march theme still sounding. As the
younger squires and pages enter, a new melody is taken in three-part
harmony, and finally an unseen chorus of boys from the extreme height
of the dome sing the chorale from the introduction, without
accompaniment, in imitation of angel voices. The shield-bearers bring
in Amfortas upon his litter, when suddenly from a vaulted niche is
heard the voice of Titurel, Amfortas's aged father, and the founder of
Monsalvat, now too feeble to perform the holy offices, bidding the
Grail to be uncovered. Amfortas, mourning that he, the unholiest of
them, should be called, opens a golden shrine and takes out the
crystal vessel. Darkness falls upon the hall, but the Grail is
illuminated with constantly increasing brilliancy, while from the dome
the children's voices sing, "Take My blood in the name of our love,
and take My body in remembrance of me." Parsifal watches the scene
with bewildered eyes, but upon saying in reply that he does not
understand the holy rite, he is contemptuously ejected from the place.
The second act reveals Klingsor's enchanted palace. The magician
gazing into a mirror sees Parsifal approaching, and knows he is the
redeemer who has been promised. He summons Kundry before him, and
commands her to tempt him with her spells. She struggles against the
task, for in her soul the powers of good and evil are always
contending for the mastery. She longs for eternal sleep, and rest from
her evil passions, but Klingsor holds her in his power. Parsifal
enters, and the scene changes to a delightful garden filled with girls
of ravishing beauty in garments of flowers. They crowd about him, and
by their fascinating blandishments seek to gain his love, but in vain.
He is still the "guileless fool." Then Kundry appears in all her
loveliness, and calls him by name, the name he had heard his mother
speak. He sorrowfully sinks at Kundry's feet. The enchantress bends
over him, appeals to him through his longing for his mother, and
kisses him. Instantly he comprehends all that he has seen, and he
cries, "The wound burns in my heart, oh, torment of love!" Then
quickly rising he spurns her from him. He has gained the
world-knowledge. She flies to him again, and passionately exclaims,
"The gift of my love would make thee divine. If this hour has made
thee the redeemer, let me suffer forever, but give me thy love." He
spurns her again, and cries, "To all eternity thou wouldst be damned
with me, if for one hour I should forget my mission," but says he will
save her too, and demands to know the way to Amfortas. In rage she
declares he shall never find it, and summons the help of Klingsor, who
hurls the sacred lance at Parsifal. The weapon remains suspended over
his head. He seizes it and makes the sign of the Cross. The gardens
and castle disappear. Parsifal and Kundry are alone in a desert. She
sinks to the ground with a mournful cry, and turning from her, his
last words are, "Thou knowest where only thou canst see me again."
In the third act we are again in the land of the Grail. Parsifal has
wandered for years trying to find Monsalvat, and at last encounters
Gurnemanz, now a very old man, living as a hermit near a forest
spring, and the saddened Kundry is serving him. It is the Good Friday
morning, and forests and fields are bright with flowers and the
verdure of spring. Gurnemanz recognizes him, and in reply to his
question what makes the world so beautiful, the aged knight makes
answer:—
"The sad repentant tears of sinners
Have here with holy rain
Besprinkled field and plain,
And made them glow with beauty.
All earthly creatures in delight
At the Redeemer's trace so bright,
Uplift their prayers of duty.
And now perceive each blade and meadow flower,
That mortal foot to-day it need not dread."
Kundry washes "the dust of his long wanderings" from his feet, and
looks up at him with earnest and beseeching gaze. Gurnemanz recognizes
the sacred spear, hails him as the King of the Grail and offers to
conduct him to the great hall where the holy rites are once more to be
performed. Before they leave, Parsifal's first act as the redeemer is
to baptize Kundry with water from the spring. The sound of tolling
bells in the distance announces the funeral of Titurel, and the scene
changes to the hall where the knights are carrying the litter upon
which Amfortas lies, awaiting the funeral procession approaching to
the strains of a solemn march. The knights demand he shall again
uncover the Grail, but he refuses, and calls upon them to destroy him
and then the Grail will shine brightly for them again. Unobserved by
them, Parsifal steps forward, touches the king's wound with the spear,
and it is immediately healed. Then he proclaims himself King of the
Grail, and orders it to be uncovered. As Amfortas and Gurnemanz kneel
to do him homage, Kundry dies at his feet in the joy of repentance.
Titurel rises from his coffin and bestows a benediction. Parsifal
ascends to the altar and raises the Grail in all its resplendent
beauty. A white dove flies down from the dome of the hall and hovers
over his head, while the knights chant their praise to God, re-echoed
by the singers in the dome, whose strains sound like celestial
voices:—
"Miracle of supreme blessing,
Redemption to the Redeemer."