WAGNER'S EARLY WORKS
Richard Wagner (1813-1883) is by far the most important figure in the
history of modern opera. With regard to the intrinsic beauty of his
works, and the artistic value of the theories upon which they are
constructed, there have been, and still are, two opinions; but his most
bigoted opponents can scarcely refuse to acknowledge the extent of the
influence which he has had upon contemporary and subsequent music--an
influence, in fact, which places him by the side of Monteverde and Gluck
among the great revolutionists of musical history. As in their case, the
importance of his work rests upon the fact that, although to a certain
extent an assimilation and development of the methods of his
predecessors, it embodied a deliberate revolt against existing musical
conditions.
From one point of view Wagner's revolt is even more important than that
of either of his forerunners, for they were men who, having failed to
win success under the existing conditions of music, revolted--so to
speak--in self-preservation, while he was an accomplished musician, and
the author of a successful work written in strict accordance with the
canons of art which then obtained. Had Wagner pleased, there was
nothing to hinder his writing a succession of 'Rienzis,' and ending his
days, like Spontini, rich and ennobled. To his eternal honour he
rejected the prospect, and chose the strait and narrow way which led,
through poverty and disgrace, to immortality. In spite of the
acknowledged success of 'Rienzi,' Wagner's enemies were never tired of
repeating that, like Monteverde, he had invented a new system because he
could not manipulate the old. It seems hardly possible to us that
musicians could ever have been found to deny that the composer of 'Die
Meistersinger' was a consummate master of counterpoint. Fortunately the
discovery of his Symphony in C finally put an end to all doubts relative
to the thoroughness of Wagner's musical education. In this work, which
was written at the age of eighteen, the composer showed a mastery of the
symphonic form which many of his detractors might have envied. The fact
is, that Wagner was a man of a singularly flexible habit of mind. He was
a careful student of both ancient and modern music, and a study of his
works shows us that, so far from despising what had been done by his
predecessors, he greedily assimilated all that was best in their
productions, only rejecting the narrow conventions in which so many of
them had contentedly acquiesced. His music is the logical development of
that of Gluck and Weber, purified by a closer study of the principles of
declamation, and enriched by a command of orchestral resource of which
they had never dreamed.
Wagner's first opera, 'Die Feen,' was written in 1833, when the
composer was twenty years old. Wagner always wrote his own libretti,
even in those days. The story of 'Die Feen' was taken from one of
Gozzi's fairy-tales, 'La Donna Serpente.' Wagner himself, in his
'Communication to my Friends,' written in 1851, has given us a _résume_
of the plot: 'A fairy, who renounces immortality for the sake of a human
lover, can only become a mortal through the fulfilment of certain hard
conditions, the non-compliance wherewith on the part of her earthly
swain threatens her with the direst penalties; her lover fails in the
test, which consists in this, that, however evil and repulsive she may
appear to him (in the metamorphosis which she has to undergo), he shall
not reject her in his unbelief. In Gozzi's tale the fairy is changed
into a snake; the remorseful lover frees her from the spell by kissing
the snake, and thus wins her for his wife. I altered this dénouement by
changing the fairy into a stone, and then releasing her from the spell
by her lover's passionate song; while the lover, instead of being
allowed to carry off his bride into his own country, is himself admitted
by the fairy king to the immortal bliss of fairyland, together with his
fairy wife.'
When Wagner wrote 'Die Feen' he was under the spell of Weber, whose
influence is perceptible in every page of the score. Marschner, too,
whose 'Vampyr' and 'Templer und Jüdin' had been recently produced at
Leipzig, which was then Wagner's headquarters, also appealed very
strongly to the young musician's plastic temperament. 'Die Feen'
consequently has little claim to originality, but the work is
nevertheless interesting to those who desire to trace the master's
development _ab ovo_. Both in the melodies and rhythms employed it is
possible to trace the germs of what afterwards became strongely marked
characteristics. Wagner himself never saw 'Die Feen' performed. In 1833
he could not persuade any German manager to produce it, and, in the
changes which soon came over his musical sympathies, 'Die Feen' was laid
upon the shelf and probably forgotten. It was not until 1888, five years
after the composer's death, that the general enthusiasm for everything
connected with Wagner induced the authorities at Munich to produce it.
Since then it has been performed with comparative frequency, and formed
a part of the cycles of Wagner's works which were given in 1894 and
1895. Wagner's next work was of a very different nature. 'Das
Liebesverbot' was a frank imitation of the Italian school. He himself
confesses that 'if any one should compare this score with that of "Die
Feen" he would find it difficult to understand how such a complete
change in my tendencies could have been brought about in so short a
time.' The incident which turned his thoughts into this new channel was
a performance of Bellini's 'Capuletti e Montecchi,' in which Madame
Schroeder-Devrient sang the part of Romeo. This remarkable woman
exercised in those days an almost hypnotic influence upon Wagner, and
the beauty and force of this particular impersonation impressed him so
vividly that he relinquished his admiration of Weber and the Teutonic
school and plunged headlong into the meretricious sensuousness of Italy.
The libretto of 'Das Liebesverbot' is founded upon Shakespeare's
'Measure for Measure,' It was performed for the first and only time at
Magdeburg in 1836, and failed completely; but it is only just to say
that its failure seems to have been due more to insufficient rehearsal
than to the weakness of the score. After the success of 'Die Feen' at
Munich, it naturally occurred to the authorities there to revive
Wagner's one other juvenile opera. The score of 'Das Liebesverbot' was
accordingly unearthed, and the parts were allotted. The first rehearsal,
however, decided its fate. The opera was so ludicrous and unblushing an
imitation of Donizetti and Bellini, that the artists could scarcely sing
for laughter. Herr Vogl, the eminent tenor, and one or two others were
still in favour of giving it as a curiosity, but in the end it was
thought better to drop it altogether, less on account of the music than
because of the licentious character of the libretto.
'Rienzi,' the next in order of Wagner's operas, was written on the lines
of French opera. Wagner hoped to see it performed in Paris, and
throughout the score he kept the methods of Meyerbeer and Spontini
consistently in his mind's eye. There is very little attempt at
characterisation, but the opportunities for spectacular display are many
and various. In later years Meyerbeer paid Wagner the compliment of
saying that the libretto of 'Rienzi' was the best he had ever read.
'Rienzi' was produced at Dresden in 1842.
The opera opens at night. The scene is laid in a street near the Lateran
Church in Rome. Orsini, a Roman nobleman, and his friends are attempting
to abduct Irene, the sister of Rienzi, a Papal notary. They are
disturbed by the entrance of Colonna, another Roman noble, and his
adherents. The two ruffians quarrel over the unfortunate girl; their
followers eagerly join in the fray; and in a moment, as it seems, the
quiet street is alive with the _cliquetis_ of steel and the flash of
sword-blades. Adriano, Colonna's son, loves Irene, and when he discovers
who the trembling victim of patrician lust really is, he hastens to
protect her. The tumult soon attracts a crowd to the spot. Last comes
Rienzi, indignant at the insult offered to his sister, and bent upon
revenge. Adriano, torn by conflicting emotions, decides to throw in his
lot with Rienzi, and the act ends with the appointment of the latter to
the post of Tribune--- he refuses the title of King--and the marshalling
of the plebeians against the recreant aristocracy. The arms of the
people carry the day, and in the second act the nobles appear at the
Capitol to sue for pardon. Rienzi, though warned of their treachery by
Adriano, accepts their promise of submission. During the festivities
which celebrate the reconciliation Orsini attempts to assassinate
Rienzi, who is only saved by the steel breastplate which he wears
beneath his robes. For this outrage the nobles are condemned to death.
Adriano begs for his father's life, and Rienzi weakly relents, and
grants his prayer on condition of the nobles taking an oath of
submission.
In the third act the struggle between the nobles and the people advances
another stage. The nobles have once more broken their oath, and are
drawn up in battle array at the gates of Rome. Rienzi marshals his
forces and prepares to march forth against them. In vain Adriano pleads
once more for pardon. The fortune of war goes in favour of the
plebeians. The nobles are routed, Colonna is slain, and the scene closes
as Adriano vows vengeance over his father's body upon his murderer.
In the fourth act the tide has turned against Rienzi. The citizens
suspect him of treachery to their cause. Adriano joins the ranks of
malcontents, and does all in his power to fire them to vengeance. Rienzi
appears, and is at once surrounded by the conspirators, but in a speech
of noble patriotism he convinces them of their mistakes, and wins them
once more to allegiance. Suddenly the doors of the Lateran Church are
thrown open; the Papal Legate appears, and reads aloud the Bull of
Rienzi's excommunication. Horror-stricken at the awful sentence, the
Tribune's friends forsake him and fly, all save Irene, who, deaf to the
wild entreaties of Adriano, clings to her brother in passionate
devotion.
In the fifth act, Rienzi, after a last vain attempt to arouse the
patriotism of the people, seeks refuge in the Capitol, which is fired by
the enraged mob. The Tribune and Irene perish in the flames, together
with Adriano, whose love for Irene proves stronger than death.
Wagner himself has described the frame of mind in which he began to work
at 'Rienzi': "To do something grand, to write an opera for whose
production only the most exceptional means should suffice...this is
what resolved me to resume, and carry out with all my might, my former
plan of 'Rienzi.' In the preparation of this text I took no thought for
anything but the writing of an effective operatic libretto." In the
light of this confession, it is best to look upon 'Rienzi' merely as a
brilliant exercise in the Grand Opéra manner. Much of the music is showy
and effective; there is a masculine vigour about the melodies, and the
concerted pieces are skilfully treated, but, except to the student of
Wagner's development, its intrinsic value is very small.
Appropriately enough, the idea of writing an opera upon the legend of
the Flying Dutchman first occurred to Wagner during his passage from
Riga to London in the year 1839. The voyage was long and stormy, and the
tempestuous weather which he encountered, together with the fantastic
tales which he heard from the lips of the sailors, made so deep an
impression upon his mind, that he determined to make his experiences the
groundwork of an opera dealing with the fortunes of the 'Wandering Jew
of the Ocean.' When he was in Paris, the stress of poverty compelled him
to treat the sketch, which he had made for a libretto, as a marketable
asset. This he sold to a now forgotten composer named Dietsch, who wrote
an opera upon the subject, which failed completely. The disappearance of
this work left Wagner's hands free once more, and some years later he
returned _con amore_ to his original idea. 'Der Fliegende Holländer' was
produced at Dresden in 1843.
The legend of the Flying Dutchman is, of course, an old one. The idea of
the world-wearied wanderer driven from shore to shore in the vain search
for peace and rest dates from Homer. Heine was the first to introduce
the motive of the sinner's redemption through the love of a faithful
woman, which was still further elaborated by Wagner, and really forms
the basis of his drama. The opera opens in storm and tempest. The ship
of Daland, a Norwegian mariner, has just cast anchor at a wild and
rugged spot upon the coast not far from his own home, where his daughter
Senta is awaiting him. He can do nothing but wait for fair weather, and
goes below, leaving his steersman to keep watch. The lad drops asleep,
singing of his home, and through the darkness the gloomy vessel of the
Dutchman is seen approaching with its blood-red sails. The Dutchman
anchors his ship close to the Norwegian barque, and steps ashore. Seven
years have passed since he last set foot upon earth, and he comes once
more in search of a true woman who will sacrifice herself for his
salvation, for this alone can free him from the curse under which he
suffers. But hope of mortal aid is dead within his breast. In wild and
broken accents he tells of his passionate longing for death, and calls
upon the Judgment Day to put an end to his pilgrimage. 'Annihilation be
my lot,' he cries in his madness, and from the depths of the black
vessel the weird crew echoes his despairing cry. Daland issues from his
own vessel and gives the stranger a hearty greeting. The name of Senta
arrests the Dutchman's attention, and after a short colloquy and a
glimpse of the untold wealth which crams the coffers of the Dutchman,
the old miser consents to give his daughter to the stranger. The wind
meanwhile has shifted, and the two captains hasten their departure for
the port.
In the second act we are at Daland's house. Mary, the old housekeeper,
and a bevy of chattering girls are spinning by the fireside, while
Senta, lost in gloomy reverie, sits apart gazing at a mysterious picture
on the wall, the portrait of a pale man clad in black, the hero of the
mysterious legend of the Flying Dutchman. The girls rally Senta upon her
abstraction, and as a reply to their idle prattle she sings them the
ballad of the doomed mariner. Throughout the song her enthusiasm has
been waxing, and at its close, like one inspired, she cries aloud that
she will be the woman to save him, that through her the accursed wretch
shall find eternal peace. Erik, her betrothed lover, who enters to
announce the approach of Daland, hears her wild words, and in vain
reminds her of vows and promises made long ago. When Daland brings the
Dutchman in, and Senta sees before her the hero of her romance, the
living embodiment of the mysterious picture, she gazes spell-bound at
the weird stranger, and seems scarcely to hear her father's hasty
recommendation of the new suitor's pretensions. Left alone with the
Dutchman, Senta rapturously vows her life to his salvation, and the
scene ends with the plighting of their troth.
In the last act we are once more on the seashore. The Dutch and
Norwegian vessels are moored side by side, but while the crew of the
latter is feasting and making merry, the former is gloomy and silent as
the grave. A troop of damsels runs on with baskets of food and wine;
they join with the Norwegian sailors in calling upon the Dutchmen to
come out and share their festivities, but not a sound proceeds from the
phantom vessel. Suddenly the weird mariners appear upon the deck, and
while blue flames hover upon the spars and masts of their fated vessel,
they sing an uncanny song taunting their captain with his failure as a
lover. The Norwegian sailors in terror hurry below, the girls beat a
hasty retreat, and silence descends once more upon the two vessels.
Senta issues from Daland's house, followed by Erik. In spite of his
importunity, her steadfast purpose remains unmoved; but the Dutchman
overhears Erik's passionate appeal and, believing Senta to be untrue to
himself, rushes on board his ship and hastily puts out to sea. Senta's
courage rises to the occasion. Though the Dutchman has cast her off,
she remains true to her vows. She hastens to the edge of the cliff hard
by, and with a wild cry hurls herself into the sea. Her solemn act of
renunciation fulfils the promise of her lips. The gloomy vessel of the
Dutchman, its mission accomplished, sinks into the waves, while the
forms of Senta and the Dutchman transfigured with unearthly light are
seen rising from the bosom of the ocean.
The music of 'Der Fliegende Holländer' may be looked at from two points
of view. As a link in the chain of Wagner's artistic development, it is
of the highest interest. In it we see the germs of those theories which
were afterwards to effect so formidable a revolution in the world of
opera. In 'Der Fliegende Holländer' Wagner first puts to the proof the
_Leit-Motiv_, or guiding theme, the use of which forms, as it were, the
base upon which the entire structure of his later works rests. In those
early days he employed it with timidity, it is true, and with but a
half-hearted appreciation of the poetical effect which it commands; but
from that day forth each of his works shows a more complete command of
its resources, and a subtler instinct as to its employment. The
intrinsic musical interest of 'Der Fliegende Holländer' is unequal.
Wagner had made great strides since the days of 'Rienzi,' but he had
still a vast amount to unlearn. Side by side with passages of vital
force and persuasive beauty there are dreary wastes of commonplace and
the most arid conventionality. The strange mixture of styles which
prevails in 'Der Fliegende Holländer' makes it in some ways even less
satisfactory as a work of art than 'Rienzi,' which at any rate has the
merit of homogeneity. Wagner is most happily inspired by the sea. The
overture, as fresh and picturesque a piece of tone-painting as anything
he ever wrote, is familiar to all concert-goers, and the opening of the
first act is no less original. But perhaps the most striking part of the
opera, certainly the most characteristic, is the opening of the third
act, with its chain of choruses between the girls and the sailors. A
great deal of 'Der Fliegende Holländer' might have been written by any
operatic composer of the time, but this scene bears upon it the
hall-mark of genius.
If 'Der Fliegende Holländer' proved that the descriptive side of
Wagner's genius had developed more rapidly than the psychological, the
balance was promptly re-established in 'Tannhäuser,' his next work. Much
of the music is picturesque and effective, even in the lowest sense, but
its strength lies in the extraordinary power which the composer displays
of individualising his characters--a power of which in 'Der Fliegende
Holländer' there was scarcely a suggestion.
So far as mere form is concerned, 'Tannhäuser' (1845) is far freer from
the conventionalities of the Italian school than 'Der Fliegende
Holländer,' but this would not have availed much if Wagner's
constructive powers had not matured in so remarkable a way. It would
have been useless to sweep away the old conventions if he had had
nothing to set in their place. Apart from the strictly musical side of
the question, Wagner had in 'Tannhäuser' a story of far deeper human
interest than the weird legend of the Dutchman, the tale which never
grows old of the struggle of good and evil for a human soul, the tale of
a remorseful sinner won from the powers of hell by the might of a pure
woman's love.
There is a legend which tells that when the gods and goddesses fled from
their palace on Olympus before the advance of Christianity, Venus betook
herself to the North, and established her court in the bowels of the
earth, beneath the hill of Hörselberg in Thuringia. There we find the
minstrel Tannhäuser at the opening of the opera. He has left the world
above, its strifes and its duties, for the wicked delights of the grotto
of Venus. There he lies in the embraces of the siren goddess, while life
passes in a ceaseless orgy of sinful pleasure. But the poet wearies of
his amorous captivity, and would fain return to the earth once more. In
vain the goddess pleads, in vain she calls up new scenes of ravishing
delight, he still prays to be gone. Finally he calls on the sainted name
of Mary, and Venus with her nymphs, grotto, palace and all, sink into
the earth with a thunder-clap, while Tannhäuser, when he comes to his
senses once more, finds himself kneeling upon the green grass on the
slope of a sequestered valley, lulled by the tinkling bells of the flock
and the piping of a shepherd from a rock hard by. The pious chant of
pilgrims, passing on their way to Rome, wakens his slumbering
conscience, and bids him expiate his guilt by a life of abstinence and
humiliation. His meditations are interrupted by the appearance of the
Landgrave of Thuringia, his liege lord, who is hunting with Wolfram von
Eschinbach, Walther von der Vogelweide, and other minstrel-knights of
the Wartburg; but his newly awakened sense of remorse forbids him to
return with them to the castle, until Wolfram breathes the name of the
Landgrave's niece Elisabeth, the saintly maiden who has drooped and
pined since Tannhäuser disappeared from the singing contests at the
Wartburg. The thought of human love touches his heart with warm
sympathy, and he gladly hastens to the castle with his newly found
friends.
In the second act we are at the Wartburg, in the Hall of Song in which
those tournaments of minstrelsy were held, for which the castle was
celebrated in the middle ages. Elisabeth enters, bringing a greeting to
the hall, whose threshold she has not crossed since Tannhäuser's
mysterious departure. Her joyous tones have scarcely ceased when
Tannhäuser, led by Wolfram, appears and falls at the feet of the
youthful Princess. Her pure spirit cannot conceive aught of dishonour in
his absence, and she welcomes him back to her heart with girlish trust.
Now the guests assemble and, marshalled in order, take their places for
the singers' tourney. The Landgrave announces the subject of the
contest--the power Of love--and more than hints that the hand of
Elisabeth is to be the victor's prize. The singers in turn take their
harps and pour forth their improvisations; Wolfram sings of the chaste
ideal which he worships from afar, Walther of the pure fount of virtue
from which he draws his inspiration, and the warrior Biterolf praises
the chivalrous passion of the soldier.
Each in turn is interrupted by Tannhäuser, who, with ever-growing
vehemence, scoffs at the pale raptures of his friends. A kind of madness
possesses him, and as the hymns in praise of love recall to his memory
the amorous orgies of the Venusberg, he gradually loses all
self-control, and ends by bursting out with a wild hymn in praise of the
goddess herself. The horror-stricken women rush from the hall, and the
men, sword in hand, prepare to execute summary justice upon the
self-convicted sinner; but Elisabeth dashes in before the points of
their swords, and in broken accents begs pardon for her recreant lover
in the name of the Saviour of them all. Touched by her agonised pleading
the angry knights let fall their weapons, while Tannhäuser, as his
madness slips from him and he realises all that he has lost, falls
repentant and prostrate upon the earth. The Landgrave bids him hasten to
Rome, where alone he may find pardon for a sin so heinous. Far below in
the valley a band of young pilgrims is passing, and the sound of their
solemn hymn rises to the castle windows; the pious strains put new life
into the despairing Tannhäuser, and crying 'To Rome, to Rome,' he
staggers from the hall.
The scene of the third act is the same as that of the first, a wooded
valley beneath the towers of the Wartburg; but the fresh beauty of
spring has given place to the tender melancholy of autumn. No tidings of
the pilgrim have reached the castle, and Elisabeth waits on in patient
hope, praying that her lost lover may be given back to her arms free and
forgiven. While she pours forth her agony at the foot of a rustic cross,
the faithful Wolfram watches silently hard by. Suddenly the distant
chant of the pilgrims is heard. Elisabeth rises from her knees in an
agony of suspense. As the pilgrims file past one by one, she eagerly
scans their faces, but Tannhäuser is not among them. With the failure of
her hopes she feels that the last link which binds her to earth is
broken. Committing her soul to the Virgin, she takes her way slowly back
to the castle, the hand of death already heavy upon her, after bidding
farewell to Wolfram in a passage which, though not a word is spoken, is
perhaps more poignantly pathetic than anything Wagner ever wrote. Alone
amid the gathering shades of evening, Wolfram sings the exquisite song
to the evening star which is the most famous passage in the opera. The
last strains have scarcely died away when a gloomy figure slowly enters
upon the path lately trodden by the rejoicing pilgrims. It is Tannhäuser
returning from Rome, disappointed and despairing. His pilgrimage has
availed him nothing. The Pope bade him hope for no pardon for his sin
till the staff which he held in his hand should put forth leaves and
blossom. With these awful words ringing in his ears, Tannhäuser has
retraced his weary steps. He has had enough of earth, and thinks only of
returning to the embraces of Venus. In response to his cries Venus
appears, in the midst of a wild whirl of nymphs and sirens. In vain
Wolfram urges and appeals; Tannhäuser will not yield his purpose. He
breaks from his friend, and is rushing to meet the extended arms of the
goddess, when Wolfram adjures him once more by the sainted memory of
Elisabeth. At the sound of that sinless name Venus and her unhallowed
crew sink with a wild shriek into the earth. The morning breaks, and the
solemn hymn of the procession bearing the corpse of Elisabeth sounds
sweetly through the forest. As the bier is carried forward Tannhäuser
sinks lifeless by the dead body of his departed saint, while a band of
young pilgrims comes swiftly in, bearing the Pope's staff, which has put
forth leaves and blossomed--the symbol of redemption and pardon for the
repentant sinner.
It will generally be admitted that the story of 'Tannhäuser' is better
suited for dramatic purposes than that of 'Der Fliegende Holländer,'
apart from the lofty symbolism which gives it so deeply human an
interest. This would go far to account for the manifest superiority of
the later work, but throughout the score it is easy to note the enhanced
power and certainty of the composer in dealing even with the less
interesting parts of the story. Much of 'Tannhäuser' is conventional,
but it nevertheless shows a great advance on 'Der Fliegende Holländer,'
in the disposal of the scenes as much as in the mere treatment of the
voices. But in the orchestra the advance is even more manifest. The
guiding theme, which in 'Der Fliegende Holländer' only makes fitful and
timid appearances, is used with greater boldness, and with increased
knowledge of its effect. Wagner had as yet, it is true, but little
conception of the importance which this flexible instrument would assume
in his later works; but such passages as the orchestral introduction to
the third act, and Tannhäuser's narration, give a foretaste of what the
composer was afterwards to achieve by this means. So far as orchestral
colour is concerned, too, the score of Tannhäuser is deeply interesting
to the student of Wagner's development. Here we find Wagner for the
first time consistently associating a certain instrument or group of
instruments with one of the characters, as, for instance, the trombones
with the pilgrims, and the wood-wind with Elisabeth. This plan--which is
in a certain sense the outcome of the guiding theme system--he was
afterwards to develop elaborately. It had of course been employed
before, notably by Gluck, but Wagner with characteristic boldness
carried it at once to a point of which his predecessor can scarcely have
dreamed. As an illustration, the opening of the third act may be quoted,
in which Elisabeth is represented by the wood-wind--by the clarinets and
bassoons in the hour of her deep affliction and abasement, and by the
flutes and hautboys when her soul has finally cast off all the trammels
of earth--and Wolfram by the violoncello. The feelings of the two are so
exquisitely portrayed by the orchestra, that the scene would be easily
comprehensible if it were carried on--as indeed much of it is--without
any words at all.
'Lohengrin' (1850) was the first of Wagner's operas which won general
acceptance, and still remains the most popular. The story lacks the deep
human interest of 'Tannhäuser,' but it has both power and
picturesqueness, while the prominence of the love-interest, which in the
earlier work is thrust into the background, is sufficient to explain the
preference given to it. Elsa of Brabant is charged by Frederick of
Telramund, at the instigation of his wife Ortrud, with the murder of her
brother Godfrey, who has disappeared. King Henry the Fowler, who is
judging the case, allows Elsa a champion; but the signal trumpets have
sounded twice, and no one comes forward to do battle on her behalf.
Suddenly there appears, in a distant bend of the river Scheldt, a boat
drawn by a swan, in which is standing a knight clad in silver armour.
Amidst the greatest excitement the knight gradually approaches, and
finally disembarks beneath the shadow of the king's oak. He is accepted
by Elsa as her champion and lover on the condition that she shall never
attempt to ask his name. If she should violate her promise,
Lohengrin--for it is he--must return at once to his father's kingdom.
Telramund is worsted in the fight, having no power to fight against
Lohengrin's sacred sword, and the act ends with rejoicings over the
approaching marriage of Lohengrin and Elsa.
In the second act it is night; Telramund and Ortrud are crouching upon
the steps of the Minster, opposite the palace, plotting revenge.
Suddenly Elsa steps out upon the balcony of the Kemenate, or women's
quarters, and breathes out the tale of her happiness to the breezes of
night. Ortrud accosts her with affected humility, and soon succeeds in
establishing herself once more in the good graces of the credulous
damsel. She passes into the Kemenate with Elsa, first promising to use
her magic powers so as to secure for ever for Elsa the love of her
unknown lord. Elsa rejects the offer with scorn, but it is evident that
the suggestion has sown the first seeds of doubt in her foolish heart.
As the day dawns the nobles assemble at the Minster gate, and soon the
long bridal procession begins to issue from the Kemenate. But before
Elsa has had time to set foot upon the Minster steps, Ortrud dashes
forward and claims precedence, taunting the hapless bride with ignorance
of her bridegroom's name and rank. Elsa has scarcely time to reply in
passionate vindication of her love, when the King and Lohengrin approach
from the Pallas, the quarters of the knights. Lohengrin soothes the
terror of his bride, and the procession starts once more. Once more it
is interrupted. Telramund appears upon the threshold of the cathedral
and publicly accuses Lohengrin of sorcery. The King, however, will not
harbour a suspicion of his spotless knight. Telramund is thrust aside,
though not before he has had time to whisper fresh doubts and suspicions
to the shuddering Elsa, and the procession files slowly into the
Minster.
A solemn bridal march opens the next act, while the maids of honour
conduct Elsa and Lohengrin to the bridal chamber. There, after a love
scene of enchanting beauty, her doubts break forth once more. 'How is
she to know,' she cries, 'that the swan will not come some day as
mysteriously as before and take her beloved from her arms?' In vain
Lohengrin tries to soothe her; she will not be appeased, and in frenzied
excitement puts to him the fatal question, 'Who art thou?' At that
moment the door is burst open, and Telramund rushes in followed by four
knights with swords drawn. Lohengrin lifts his sacred sword, and the
false knight falls dead at his feet. The last scene takes us back to the
banks of the Scheldt. Before the assembled army Lohengrin answers Elsa's
question. He is the son of Parsifal, the lord of Monsalvat, the keeper
of the Holy Grail. His mission is to succour the distressed, but his
mystic power vanishes if the secret of its origin be known. Even as he
speaks the swan appears once more, drawing the boat which is to bear him
away. Lohengrin bids a last farewell to the weeping Elsa, and turns once
more to the river. Now is the moment of Ortrud's triumph. She rushes
forward and proclaims that the swan is none other than Godfrey, Elsa's
brother, imprisoned in this shape by her magic arts. But Lohengrin's
power is not exhausted; he kneels upon the river bank, and in answer to
his prayer the white dove of the Grail wheels down from the sky,
releases the swan, and, while Elsa clasps her restored brother to her
breast, bears Lohengrin swiftly away over the waters of the Scheldt.
The interest of 'Lohengrin' lies rather in the subtle treatment of the
characters than in the intrinsic beauty of the story itself. Lohengrin's
love for Elsa, and his apparent intention of settling in Brabant for
life, seem scarcely consistent with his duties as knight of the Grail,
and, save for their mutual love, neither hero nor heroine have much
claim upon our sympathies. But the grouping of the characters is
admirable; the truculent witch Ortrud is a fine foil to the ingenuous
Elsa, and Lohengrin's spotless knighthood is cast into brilliant relief
by the dastardly treachery of Telramund. The story of 'Lohengrin' lacks
the deep human interest of 'Tannhäuser,' and the music never reaches the
heights to which the earlier work sometimes soars. But in both respects
'Lohengrin' has the merit of homogeneity; the libretto is laid out by a
master hand, and the music, though occasionally monotonous in rhythm,
has none of those strange relapses into conventionality which mar the
beauty of 'Tannhäuser.' Musically 'Lohengrin' marks the culminating
point of Wagner's earlier manner. All the links with the Italian school
are broken save one, the concerted finale. Here alone he adheres to the
old tradition of cavatina and cabaletta--the slow movement followed by
the quick. The aria in set form has completely disappeared, while the
orchestra, though still often used merely as an accompaniment, is never
degraded, as occasionally happens in 'Tannhäuser,' to the rank of a 'big
guitar.'
The opening notes of 'Lohengrin' indeed prove incontestably the
increased power and facility with which Wagner had learnt to wield his
orchestra since the days of 'Tannhäuser.' The prelude to 'Lohengrin'--a
mighty web of sound woven of one single theme--is, besides being a
miracle of contrapuntal ingenuity, one of the most poetical of Wagner's
many exquisite conceptions. In it he depicts the bringing to earth by
the hands of angels of the Holy Grail, the vessel in which Joseph of
Arimathea caught the last drops of Christ's blood upon the cross. With
the opening chords we seem to see the clear blue expanse of heaven
spread before us in spotless radiance. As the Grail motive sounds for
the first time _pianissimo_ in the topmost register of the violins, a
tiny white cloud, scarcely perceptible at first, but increasing every
moment, forms in the zenith. Ever descending as the music gradually
increases in volume, the cloud resolves itself into a choir of angels
clad in white, the bearers of the sacred cup. Nearer and still nearer
they come, until, as the Grail motive reaches a passionate _fortissimo_,
they touch the earth, and deliver the Holy Grail to the band of faithful
men who are consecrated to be its earthly champions. Their mission
accomplished the angels swiftly return. As they soar up, the music
grows fainter. Soon they appear once more only as a snowy cloud on the
bosom of the blue. The Grail motive fades away into faint chords, and
the heaven is left once more in cloudless radiance.
A noticeable point in the score of 'Lohengrin' is the further
development of the beautiful idea which appears in 'Tannhäuser,' of
associating a certain instrument or group of instruments with one
particular character. The idea itself, it may be noticed in passing,
dates from the time of Bach, who used the strings of the orchestra to
accompany the words of Christ in the Matthew Passion, much as the old
Italian painters surrounded his head with a halo. In 'Lohengrin' Wagner
used this beautiful idea more systematically than in 'Tannhäuser';
Lohengrin's utterances are almost always accompanied by the strings of
the orchestra, while the wood-wind is specially devoted to Elsa. This
plan emphasises very happily the contrast, which is the root of the
whole drama, between spiritual and earthly love, typified in the persons
of Lohengrin and Elsa, which the poem symbolises in allegorical fashion.