and most difficult creations ever put upon the lyric stage. It is seldom
performed, merely because there are few artists who can adequately
render its astonishing music. There are other mad scenes in existence.
The one from "Lucia di Lammermoor" is very celebrated, but its music no
more expresses the vagaries of madness than does any other florid aria.
Of course, lavish colorature seems appropriate and is considered
imperative; but Donizetti's florid fancies are mere plumes and flounces
draped upon a melody, whereas with Thomas these form the texture of the
theme. The French composer well knows the worth of his mad music, and he
has taken pains to present it most advantageously. You are not ushered
at once from the grim and gruesome harmonies of the last act to this
wealth of inspiration, but are first entertained by a ballet of
shepherds and shepherdesses. During this dance we become accustomed to
the beautiful rural landscape, the gentle stream at the back and the
drooping willows. We are also brought under the spell of a different
kind of music; these pastoral ballet motifs are very charming. They are
light and fantastic, but at the same time suggest a midsummer peace and
tranquillity.
At last the dainty dance is ended, and then the rustic group perceive a
strange figure approaching--a beautiful maid, with her flowing hair
adorned with bits of straw and wild flowers. Her white dress is torn,
and her bare arms carry a straggling bunch of flowers which she plays
with and caresses. That exquisite inquiring little introduction which we
heard in the first act again announces the entrance of Ophelia. She
glances a moment at the pretty peasants, and then, with intuitive
politeness, asks permission to join in their sport. There is a subtle
pathos about this first little phrase, which is sung without
accompaniment, and is simple as a child's question. She goes on to tell
them how she left the palace at dawn and no one has followed. "The tears
of night were still on the ground and the lark poured forth its morning
song." A perfect bird-throat warble of trills and fluttering staccatos
follows this memory of the lark. But her thoughts are varied, and she
suddenly turns and asks: "Why do you whisper to each other? Don't you
know me? Hamlet is my betrothed, and I--I am Ophelia." Then she tells
them, in tones that rest upon the accompaniment like lilies on a lake,
how Hamlet vowed always to love her and that she has given him her heart
in exchange. "If any one should tell you that he will leave and forget
me, do not believe it. Believe nothing they tell you, for Hamlet is my
betrothed, and I--I am Ophelia." But in spite of this assertion of
Hamlet's faith, there is throughout all the music a ring of perpetual
pain. She clasps her hand to her head with terror, and exclaims: "If he
were false I think I should lose my reason!"
[Illustration: Copyright by Aime Dupont, N. Y.
Calve as Ophelia in "Hamlet."]
The flowers again hold her attention, and she plays with them as the
orchestra commences a ravishing waltz theme. She at first pays little
heed to the music, but its gay melody at last drifts to her soul and
finds immediate expression. The difficult phrases fall from her lips
like petals from a flower. Gleeful chromatics and happy trills are also
thrown in, and we would soon forget it was the sad Ophelia did she not
suddenly tire of this extravagant virtuosity. She turns to the
shepherds and bids them harken to the song she will sing. Then follows a
ballad whose moaning, minor harmonies sound like a sighing breeze. It is
about the sirens beneath the water who lure men to its glassy depths.
The wearied, worried mind of the mad girl now revels in a wild, merry
laugh, which is as quickly followed by passionate sobs; but she finally
remembers to finish her song about the siren. This strange, sad melody
possesses a weird charm that is irresistible. Again she breaks into
hilarious laughter and uncontrolled weeping. Grief without hope and joy
without memory alternate in rapid succession. The music of this portion
defies description. It is a perfect conflagration of impossible
staccatos and scales. With one last sweeping chromatic run, that rushes
like the whistling wind from low D to high E, Ophelia kneels down with
her flowers and thinks only of them. The peasants retire from the scene,
and the orchestra take up fragments of the waltz.
They play for some moments, while Ophelia contentedly rearranges her
bouquet. But presently a wonderful change comes over the music. We hear
only the string instruments and flute, and soon these, too, are hushed,
while out of the air a magical song arises. It is the siren's ballad,
faint as a vision but with full harmonies. Thomas has produced this
effect of dream-music by having the chorus sing behind the scenes with
closed mouth. This soft humming of a hidden chorus well resembles the
buried voices of water-nymphs. Ophelia at once recognizes the song, and
she is drawn by the music toward the stream, where she hopes to see the
sirens. All unconscious, she pushes her way through the rushes and reeds
on the bank. The chorus has ceased, and only the tender, liquid tones of
the harp now fill the air. Ophelia steps too far and soon falls into the
"weeping brook." Her dress bears her up for a time, and we hear her
sweetly singing as she floats down the stream. It is no longer the
ballad or the gay waltz, but quite another theme to which her memory now
clings. It is Hamlet's glorious vow--
"Doubt that the sun doth move.
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love."
Ophelia ends her song with a lingering high note of such silvery beauty
that it seems like a far-away star in the dark night of death.
A Talk with Lillian Nordica
[Illustration: Copyright by Aime Dupont, N. Y.
LILLIAN NORDICA.]
A TALK WITH LILLIAN NORDICA
It was during one of Patti's farewell seasons at the old Academy of
Music that a young American girl, by the name of Lillian Norton, first
appeared as a prima donna. She made a success, but not a sensation, for
she had not then the halo of a European glory, and people were in those
days too intent on the passing star to note any rising one.
But later on, when she Italianized her name, they applauded the same
voice more loudly, tho their attention was still more directed to the
foreign artists who appeared every year.
The American girl all this time never relaxed her determination, but
kept on working with a will, learning roles there was no prospect of
using, and studying all things in her line. At last she was engaged by
the Metropolitan Opera Company; but her name was not printed at the top
of the list, and she was not held out as the magnet to fill the house on
the opening night. In the end, tho, she sang oftener than any of the
other sopranos, for when they were indisposed she it was that always
came forward. _There was never a role she could not sing, and never a
time she was not ready._
The dormant appreciation of her countrymen became at last thoroughly
aroused. Since then her success has swept onward with unabating force.
The following season in New York the enthusiasm she inspired was so
great that one large club of opera-goers presented her with a diamond
tiara, and the people that year had to stand in line when buying seats
to hear Madame Lillian Nordica.
The Waldorf-Astoria, where she lives when in New York, is quite a
contrast to the humble New England home in Farmington, Me., where she
was born. This hotel is a city in itself, and the visitor who inquires
for some distinguished resident is conducted personally along the marble
avenues and carpeted byways and through the beautiful "palm-garden." The
door of Madame Nordica's apartment was opened by a white-capped maid,
who seated the caller and then left the room. It was the day of a
blizzard, and from this sixth-floor elevation the snow-storm without was
of superb fury. It battered against the window as tho maddened by the
sight within of the prima donna's cosy parlor, of the shaded electric
lights, the wide-open grand piano, and the numerous long-stemmed roses,
in various tall jars, fragrant and peaceful as a summer's day. Through
the silken draperies of a doorway could be heard the sound of voices, of
occasional laughter, and then--a scale, a trill, and a soft high note.
It was an exquisite grand-opera effect with the whistling storm by way
of orchestral accompaniment.
Soon the curtains were parted and Madame Nordica entered--a woman of
regal height and figure, but with manners thoroughly American and
democratic.
"Do you mean to say you came through all this storm to see me! You are
certainly very brave." These were her first words; then she drew up a
comfortable chair, and added: "Well, it's just the sort of day to talk
and take things easy."
Madame Nordica's tones convey even more than her words, for her voice is
noticeably beautiful in conversation. It is fascinating in its variety,
its softness, and its purity. Her face is also very expressive, as well
as beautiful, with a complexion remarkably fine, teeth of absolute
perfection, and thoughtful blue eyes set well apart.
She wore a house-gown of pale, clinging blue silk, and, with the
exception of her wedding ring, had on no jewelry.
She told first of her birthplace and home.
"I was the sixth girl, and I think my parents were rather tired out by
the time I came. I wasn't even baptized!" Then she talked of her work.
"I studied first in Boston, and sang there in church; but I made my
concert debut here in New York with Gilmore at the old Madison Square
Garden. He took me with him afterward to Europe. When I returned to
America I sang in all the Italian operas, especially Verdi's."
Madame Nordica still holds to-day a supreme place as a singer of the
Italian school, altho her greatest fame has been won in the Wagner
roles.
When asked if she had ever met Verdi, the singer replied in the
affirmative.
"I met him in Italy, but only once. I was much better acquainted with
Gounod, and also the modern composers, Leoncavallo, Mascagni, etc., but
now I devote my chief time to Wagner."
This led to inquiries about Madame Cosima Wagner.
"Ah, I lived right with her for three months, and it was a great
privilege for me. Her husband's music is to her like her very eyes. She
taught me the German and helped me in every way. 'Lohengrin' had never
been sung in Baireuth, and I was to create there the role of Elsa."
A remarkable honor this was, indeed: to be the first Elsa in Wagner's
own temple, under the guidance of his own wife, with the grave of the
great composer fairly in sight, and memories of the "Mad King" on all
sides--the king whose ears were deaf to the functions of state, but open
to the art of heaven.
"It was a great opportunity for me, but I sometimes thought I would have
to give it up. Oh! I have been so discouraged! I have wept _barrels of
tears_!"
This is a kind message for the great singer to send to the many
struggling aspirants who may to-day be working under discouragement.
Madame Nordica insists that "work is everything. The voice is but the
material; it is the stone from which the cathedral is built."
After her great success in Baireuth, the American prima donna sang Elsa
in New York.
"But I had to sing again in Italian, for the rest of the company had not
learned the German. It was through my efforts that they have since
studied these roles in the original, and we now sing all the Wagner
operas in German."
It was a great musical event when Jean de Reszke and Madame Nordica
appeared as Tristan and Isolde. This love-tragedy done in music is
perhaps the most profound of all operas. It is somber with sorrow
throughout; even the great love-duet in the second act is too intense
and grand in its motifs ever to be called happy. It is not the joyous
emotion of youth, but the fervor of maturity, where life itself is
staked for a mighty love. This second act is a wondrous musical scene.
It is in the moonlit gardens of the Cornish castle where Tristan and
Isolde meet clandestinely, while Bragaende, the faithful attendant,
keeps watch in the tower above. She is not seen, but the calm sustained
tones of her watch-tower song soar out in contrast to the intense
love-music like a beacon-light on a turbulent sea.
Another very popular role of Madame Nordica's, tho altogether different
in style, is Valentine in "The Huguenots." Her sustained and crescendoed
high C in the third act of this opera is worth a long journey to hear.
Madame Fursch-Madi in years agone used to sing this role very grandly,
but she was plain of feature; whereas with Madame Nordica her Valentine
is so beautiful to behold that the audience is aroused to greatest
sympathy with the hero's struggle between love and duty.
"Our art is so very legitimate," Madame Nordica thoughtfully remarked.
"The painter or the writer can take advice, can be assisted, and has
time to consider his work; but we must face the music alone, at the
point of the bayonet as it were, for every tone must come at the right
moment and on the right pitch. The actress has neither of these
requirements to meet. It is very trying, also, to sing one night in
German and the next time in some other language. Indeed, every
performance is a creation. No wonder we are so insistent on the
applause. A painter or writer can say to himself, if his work is not at
first well received, 'Just wait till I am dead!' But our fate and fame
are decided on the spot."
Madame Nordica grew enthusiastic as she talked, and her face was all
animation.
"It is easy to criticize us, but hard for an outsider to appreciate the
difficulties of our art. No one is in a place he does not deserve--at
least not for any length of time. And I believe, too, that no one lacks
for opportunity. When people say, So-and-so has a beautiful voice, and
ought to be on the Metropolitan stage, just inquire what that person can
do. Very likely she only knows one language, and probably can not sing a
single act of one opera straight through. Why should she be on the
Metropolitan stage? A girl came to me not long ago who had been singing
with some English opera company. She had a beautiful voice and said she
could sing everything, which I found to be true. I asked why she did not
go to Mr. Grau, and she replied, quite disheartened, that he would do
nothing for her. Then I asked, 'Are you ready for _anything_? I feel
quite sure he could use you now as the page in "Romeo and Juliet."' 'Oh,
I wouldn't sing a secondary role!' she quickly exclaimed. Now that girl
makes a great mistake. To sing well one beautiful aria on the same stage
with such artists as the two De Reszkes and Madame Melba would do her
more good than to sing the first roles in a poor company."
Madame Nordica spoke very earnestly as she related this story of a lost
opportunity, which so plainly points its own moral. Another incident she
told gives the reverse side of the same idea:
"I remember one day some singers were discussing another member of their
company, and claiming that he did not deserve his high position; but I
protested, and said: 'Just consider what that man can do. He knows
every language, has a fine stage presence, a good voice, and can sing
every role in the repertoire. Now where will you get another to fill his
place?'
"Our art to-day is very different from what it used to be. People wonder
who will replace Patti or some other retiring singer; but if one should
appear who adequately filled the vacant place, we would at once hear
people saying, 'She only sings coloratura roles and nothing but
Italian!' No, the great artist to-day is the one who has mastered all,
who does the work of three in former years, and not one who shines forth
temporarily in a few special roles."
Madame Nordica can certainly speak with authority on this point, for she
is one whom we may truly say has "mastered all." Her repertoire is
astonishing in its scope and variety; and when we consider that out of
eighty-seven million people, which is our present population, including
the colonies, she is the only one to-day who sings the three
"Bruenhildes" of Wagner and also his "Isolde," we can then better
appreciate Madame Nordica's achievement. It needs a very great mind to
grasp and portray these Wagnerian creations. Bruenhilde, the war goddess,
must be both tender and heroic--as it were, divinely human. No composer
but Wagner could have imparted these qualities; but he was himself a
sort of musical Jove, who wielded the scale like a thunderbolt. If any
one doubt this, let him hear and behold the wonderful "Ride of the
Walkuere," those five war maidens, daughters of Wotan, who chase through
the clouds on their armored steeds, and call one another in tones
unearthly, to an accompaniment of whizzing strings, and clanging brass,
and a torrent of intricate chords. The music depicts the fierce clash of
the elements, the war gods in battle, the clamor of shields, and the
furious dash of wild horses. Above it all there rings out on the air the
weird, far-reaching cry of Bruenhilde, the leader of the Walkuere
maidens, and her call is repeated from the East, from the West, from the
uttermost mountain-peaks, by her sister spirits, who are sometimes
hidden and sometimes revealed by the fast-rushing clouds, through which
their steeds gallop and plunge.
[Illustration: Copyright by Aime Dupont, N. Y.
Nordica as Bruenhilde in "Siegfried."]
Whoever can hear this wonder-work and not bow to Wagner's greatness is
surely a musical degenerate.
"My progress has not been by leaps and bounds," Madame Nordica presently
announced; "it has been more tortoise-like; and I have sometimes seen
others sweep past me with apparently little effort. But in the end
justice comes around to all. What is it Mrs. Carter says in 'Zaza' about
success? 'It comes from much misery.' Yes, there is very much of that.
'And much work,'--ah, a _great deal_ of that. 'And a little luck,'--yes,
a _very_ little of that; it is not good to have much luck."
As I arose to go, Madame Nordica added with a smile: "You see I could
talk on this subject all day. The sum of it is, success comes from
steady daily work. You must work well in the morning, and then work some
more in the afternoon--and it is well to practise between times too!"
"Lohengrin"
"LOHENGRIN"
There seems a very magic about the name of Lohengrin--a mythical
strength and beauty that at once characterize the whole opera. The fault
is occasionally found that Wagner's operas are long and at times
tedious; but this term is never applied to "Lohengrin." One is disarmed
of this suspicion in the very first prelude. Ah, what a prelude is that!
It is like the gradual drawing together from empty space all the music
of the spheres. The two first measures are so pianissimo that we
scarcely hear them, but the vague and far-away voices come slowly
nearer. They mingle with each other and weave in and out, until there is
a crescendo mighty and overpowering. We are now prepared for the
legendary character of the opera; such music could not represent things
earthly.
The curtain rises upon a scene of medieval coloring. It is a woodland
upon the banks of the Scheldt in the province of Brabant. A throne is
erected on one side, and here the king of Germany is holding court. He
is visiting this province of his realm to solicit aid in a coming war.
After this fact is announced by the herald, the king arises and in
stately phrases greets the people and explains more fully the object of
his visit. He closes with the observation that it grieves him to find
this province in a state of discord, and he requests Frederick of
Telramund, an esteemed nobleman of Brabant, to recount the situation.
Frederick, which is the baritone role, tells a strange and interesting
story. The province is at present without any ducal ruler, owing to the
recent mysterious disappearance of the young heir. He was last seen in
company with his sister Elsa. The two were walking in the forest, but
she returned alone and declared she had lost her brother. Frederick now
charges Elsa with murder, and furthermore lays claim to the ducal
throne in the name of himself and also his wife Ortrud, who bears some
kinship to the late duke.
On hearing this charge the king summons Elsa, who presently comes
forward with bowed head and sorrowful mien. This must have been a
thrilling moment at that first performance in Baireuth when Lillian
Nordica stepped before the audience. It was not only Elsa challenging
her accusers, but an American girl challenging German critics under the
dome of their most hallowed shrine, with their own music and in their
own language. But whatever a singer's emotions may be, she must give no
evidence of them. It is wonderful how smoothly these great performances
always run. Come what may, the play goes on.
Elsa can say no more in her behalf than has already been given; but when
urged by the king to speak freely all that is on her heart, she tells of
a wonderful vision which came in her hour of distress. An armored
knight, more grand than any she had seen, appeared to her and promised
to be her deliverer and champion. This dream-song of Elsa's is like a
musical apparition, so ethereal and spirituelle; but one must not seek
for these wonderful beauties in the voice-part alone. With Wagner the
orchestra is never a mere accompaniment, but more often the principal
part. A theme is sometimes begun in the orchestra and finished by the
voice, or it may be altogether with the instruments. Wagner handles the
voice like a noble metal which can be fashioned into useful vessels to
carry and convey the emotions, in contrast to the Italian composers, who
look upon the voice as a jewel to be displayed and admired for its own
sake.
To return to Elsa's song. It should be understood from the first that
each theme in the opera expresses some emotion or idea which is
consistently adhered to throughout. For instance, when Elsa describes
the knight in her dream, there is heard in the orchestra a few bars of
the Lohengrin--or swan-song, a theme which is constantly revealing
itself in this great kaleidoscope of sound whenever the hero appears or
is mentioned. Again, when she speaks of his glittering armor, the
splendid warlike motif which asserts itself is the same one that is
worked up in the crescendo preceding Lohengrin's arrival.
After this strange recital of Elsa's, Frederick still maintains his
charge against her, and states as her motive for the crime that she
hoped to gain the throne. The king decides to settle the question by
single combat. Frederick must defend himself against whomever may come
forward as Elsa's champion. This custom is according to the ancient
belief that "might is right," and that Heaven itself is the awarder of
victory and defeat. The herald of the king announces, with a
trumpet-call, the impending combat, and bids "him who will fight for
Elsa of Brabant to come forth at once." The call dies away, but no one
presents himself as her defender, and it appears as tho Heaven already
indicates which side is right. Elsa piteously begs them to call again.
Her wish is granted, and once more the cry rings forth. She falls on her
knees, and in tones that vibrate with intense despair prays Heaven to
send her the hero of her dream. "Elsa's prayer" and "Elsa's dream" are
two of the most beautiful soprano solos in the opera. The prayer is
short, but it accomplishes a thrilling crescendo. The final climax is
such a passionate outcry that we are not surprised to see an immediate
answer granted.
Wagner is a master of crescendos, and he now commences one for the
chorus which is truly wonderful in effect. Instead of starting all the
voices pianissimo, or even part of the chorus, he starts with a single
voice. One man has perceived a knight floating down the river in a boat
drawn by a swan. He whispers it to his neighbor, who in turn says,
"Look!" and then another and another in quick succession join in
exclamations, until all are singing of the strange sight. They rush to
the bank, and still the wonder grows. The knight of the swan draws
nearer, the orchestra crashes out its stupendous theme, the sopranos
ring out above everything, and the whole chorus seems to have doubled
its capacity. It is a greeting worthy of the subject, who is Lohengrin
himself.
No wonder the people subside and look at him with awe as he steps upon
the bank. He is clad in shining silver, with a helmet, shield, and
sword. His face is fair and his hair is blonde. Before noticing the
people, he turns to the swan and sings it a farewell. This song is only
two lines long, and for the most part without accompaniment. It is
apparently simple, and differs little from the form of a recitative, and
yet so rare and strange is this melody that it portrays the legendary
character of the opera more than any other phrase. It seems as tho
Lohengrin is still singing in the mystical language and music of that
other world from which he has come. Every one knows this song by its
German name, "Mein lieber Schwan," and it is so much admired and so
famous that it is actually paraphrased. A man must be great indeed to be
caricatured; how much more is this true of classical music!
Lohengrin soon comes forward and bows before the king, after which he
announces that he has been sent as champion "for a noble maid who is
falsely accused." But before entering the combat he speaks to Elsa, who
has previously offered to bestow her hand and heart upon whomever would
fight for her. She now reiterates this vow most gladly, and also makes
another promise which the strange knight requests--she must never ask
from whence he came, nor what his name. Lest there be any
misunderstanding, he repeats the impressive phrase in a higher key, and
Elsa again promises. This short theme is most important. It might be
described as the dark motif. It is the one most often heard when Ortrud
and Frederick do their evil plotting, for it is by means of this
interdiction of Lohengrin's that they eventually succeed in
accomplishing Elsa's unhappiness.
When the two combatants face each other and all is ready, the herald
again comes forward and solemnly proclaims the rules governing such
contests. They are interesting to note: "No one shall interfere with the
fight under penalty of losing his head or his hand;" and furthermore, no
sorcery or witchcraft shall be exerted, for Heaven alone must decide who
is right. After this preliminary the king arises and prays for the just
judgment of Heaven to show clearly which side is true and which is
false. Wagner always favored the bass voice when possible, and so he has
given to the king this splendid and impressive composition, with its
rich, full chords and stirring rhythm. The chorus takes up the prayer
and finishes it with inspiring breadth and grandeur. The king strikes
upon his shield three times and the battle begins. It does not last
long, for Frederick is soon disarmed and thrown down by Lohengrin, who,
however, spares his life.
The victory has proven Elsa's innocence and Frederick's falsehood. The
latter is disgraced utterly, while Lohengrin is regarded as Heaven's
favorite. Elsa sings forth her joy and gratitude in melodic phrases
which would need no words. The music of Elsa and Lohengrin is like the
music of day--it is so clear, so lucid and full of melody in contrast to
the rugged, weird, and gloomy themes of Ortrud and Frederick.
The great chorus of victory is the last number of this act. It brings in
with Wagner's inimitable modulations the martial theme of the previous
chorus and also Elsa's song of praise. All excepting Ortrud and
Frederick look happy and join in the singing right heartily as the
curtain descends.
The second act comprises Ortrud's great scene. This role may be sung by
a contralto, but is better adapted to a mezzo-soprano. Ortrud is often
called the operatic Lady Macbeth. She is not only as wicked and
ambitious as Shakespeare's heroine, but is also a sorceress of no mean
ability, for it is she who made away with Elsa's brother; but this fact
is not revealed until the last act. She also exerted her power upon
Frederick with such effect that he believed her to be a prophetess. He
was sincere in his accusation against Elsa, for Ortrud told him she had
witnessed the crime herself. But he is now awakened to her wickedness,
and the scene opens with his maledictions against her and his abject
wretchedness over his own disgrace. The two are seated upon the church
steps facing the palace, where jubilant preparations are going on for
the wedding of Elsa and Lohengrin, which will take place at dawn. It is
yet night, and the music is deep and ominous. The dark motif and a new
one which seems to represent Ortrud are the musical heart and soul of
this scene. They stalk about the orchestra like restless phantoms, and
are heard in all sorts of keys and instruments. After Frederick's great
harangue against his wife and fate and everything, she calmly inquires
the cause of his anger. She declares that she never deceived him, and
that the recent combat was unfairly influenced by Lohengrin's sorcery.
Such is her power over Frederick that he again believes and listens to
her plans. She explains how Lohengrin may yet be robbed of his power and
Frederick's honor vindicated. Elsa must be induced to ask the hero his
name, or he must be wounded, be it ever so slightly. Either of these
methods will annihilate his power. This remarkable scene closes with a
duet about revenge, which the two voices sing in unison--a point
indicative of their renewed unity of purpose.
The music now changes to harmonies that charm and soothe, and Elsa
appears upon the balcony of her palace. The moonlight falls upon her as
she clasps her hands in rapture and sings to the gentle zephyrs of her
love. It is a song as peaceful as the night; and in contrast to the
recent somber and spectral themes, it beams forth like a diamond against
black velvet. This solo of Elsa's is one of the most difficult to sing
because of its many sustained pianissimo tones. After the last sweet
note has died away like a sigh, Ortrud, who is still seated on the steps
beneath, calls to Elsa in a pleading voice. She appeals to the latter's
sympathy by announcing herself as "that most unhappy woman, Ortrud,"
wife to the disgraced Frederick. "We are cursed by God and man, and
welcomed nowhere." Thus speaks the sorceress; and Elsa, in the goodness
of her heart, takes pity and impulsively offers to receive the outcast.
She retires from the balcony and presently opens the door below to
welcome Ortrud, who in this short interim has sung some splendid phrases
of gloating animosity. But she kneels like a humble slave before the
unsuspecting Elsa, who invites her to the wedding and also promises to
induce Lohengrin to pardon Frederick.
As an expression of gratitude, Ortrud now offers to exert the power of
prophecy for Elsa's benefit. Prophecy and sorcery are regarded in
different lights: the latter is wicked and implies collusion with the
evil one, while the "prophetic eye" is a gift to be coveted. Ortrud
pretends to possess this power. She forewarns Elsa against too great
confidence in her hero, and mysteriously hints that he may leave as
suddenly as he came. These words are accompanied by the threatening dark
motif, which hovers ever near like a lowering cloud. Elsa recoils at the
thought--this first seed of suspicion,--but she soon smiles assuredly
and sings to Ortrud a lovely song about "the faith and trust that knows
no doubt." Wagner's words are as beautiful as his music, and in this
composition they seem to mount upward on the "wings of song" like the
spontaneous utterance of a pure heart. Elsa puts her arms gently about
Ortrud and leads her into the palace. Frederick, who has kept in the
background, watches them disappear, and the scene closes with his final
descant on revenge.
After his exit the orchestra has a solo, so to speak, while the stage is
occupied in representing the dawn of day. Villagers stroll in one by
one, garlands are hung in honor of the wedding, and the scene becomes
constantly brighter and more active. The herald appears above the gates
of the palace and makes three announcements in the name of the king:
First, that Frederick of Telramund is banned and shall be befriended by
no one; second, that the Heaven-favored stranger shall hereafter be
called the guardian of Brabant; and, third, that this hero shall lead
them soon to "victorious war." Then follows a chorus about the
Heaven-sent guardian of Brabant, after which there is a momentary
commotion caused by Frederick, who, in spite of the ban against him,
comes forward and asserts that he will defy their much-lauded hero and
will open their eyes to his duplicity.
But this incident is forgotten in the gorgeous scene which now
commences. The wedding-guests come slowly from the palace, and wend
their way in stately procession toward the church. Their course is
accompanied by a march of pontifical solemnity, which attains its
grandest beauty when Elsa comes down the great stairway clad in robes of
regal splendor. All voices join in praise for "Elsa of Brabant."
[Illustration: Copyright by Aime Dupont, N. Y.
Eames as Elsa in "Lohengrin."]
The procession proceeds to the church; the music increases in strength,
when suddenly there is a discord. Elsa is confronted at the church
entrance by Ortrud, who fiercely declares she will no longer follow like
an attendant; that she is the one to whom people should bow instead of
Elsa, whose future lord comes of a land and family which he dare not
tell! Elsa is dumbfounded by this sudden onslaught from the woman she
has befriended. But Ortrud maintains her position, and actually defies
Elsa to ask the hero his name. This attack is diverted by the
ceremonious entrance of the king and Lohengrin, to whom Elsa hastens
with her grievance. Ortrud is promptly ordered aside, and the
procession resumes its march. But again the solemn cathedral music
crashes into a discord. Frederick, the despised one, dares to rush
before the king and bar the way as he begs them to harken to his words.
There is great indignation over the interruption, but Frederick so
intensely cries for justice that at last even the king listens as he
charges Lohengrin with sorcery. He sustains the charge by demanding
Lohengrin to tell his name, if he be an honest man; if he can not do
this there must be some dark secret to hide. All turn to the hero
expectantly, but he only defends himself by saying that he has proven
his worth in mortal combat, according to ancient usage, and that he will
not answer Frederick nor even the king--only Elsa shall be answered this
question. He turns to her and finds her trembling with agitation. The
orchestra tells us her thoughts, for we hear the Ortrud-theme and dark
motif writhing in and out like venomous serpents. A murmuring sort of
chorus about the strange secret which the hero so zealously guards is
gradually resolved into a song of allegiance and belief. The king
declares Frederick unworthy of consideration. But during the jubilant
chorus which follows, that Miserable steals up to Elsa and casts his
final poison-shaft. He tells her that if Lohengrin were once wounded,
"merely pricked in the finger," he would then bestow upon her full
confidence and never leave. Frederick further says he will "linger near
the coming night," and when she calls will enter and commit the deed
without harm to Lohengrin. Elsa spurns the tempter away, and Lohengrin,
who perceives him at her side, bids him forever begone. But finding Elsa
even more agitated than before, he asks in the presence of all if she
wishes to be told his name. She remembers her vow, and in tones of
exultation declares that love is greater than doubt. The magnificent
march music is again resumed, and they enter the minster without further
incident, excepting the defiant gaze of Ortrud as Elsa passes; and
while the curtain descends we hear again, half hidden in the orchestra,
the terrible dark motif.
There is a brilliant orchestral introduction to the third act, which
represents the marriage fete. Its tempo and rhythm are positively gay,
tho this is an adjective seldom appropriate to Wagner. But the hilarity
has subsided by the time the curtain rises: the trumpets and cymbals are
hushed, and the gentlest of music greets our ears as we look upon the
bridal chamber. The voices are at first distant, but gradually approach,
and the effect of their song steals over us like a potent charm. It is
the wedding-march--the "Lohengrin Wedding-March"! We all know the power
of that music. There are some compositions which become absorbed, as it
were, by the world like important inventions or discoveries. People
require certain musical forms of expression as they do artificial light,
and we pity those who did without this "Wedding-March," or Chopin's
"Funeral March," or the Schubert "Serenade," as we pity our ancestors
who made shift with tallow candles instead of incandescent lamps. The
charm of the "Wedding-March" is not diminished because we know it so
well. With Wagner as with Beethoven, every hearing reveals new beauties.
When the chorus at last leaves Elsa and Lohengrin alone, we echo his
first words: "The sweet song now is ended."
But our regrets are quickly appeased by the delicious love-duet which
follows. It is a scene of rapt delight--of happiness too great to last.
Not in vain did we have the dark motif jangled in our ears when the
curtain last descended; it meant trouble in the coming act, as we soon
perceive. Elsa wishes she knew his name--just to speak it lovingly as he
does hers. Then Lohengrin points to the open window through which the
moonlight streams upon them, and he sings of the perfumed air which they
enjoy without questioning its cause or source; thus, he says, should
they love. The exquisite melody of this song seems to exhale from his
heart like fragrance from a flower. It is redolent of tenderest love.
The nobility and beauty of Lohengrin's character so impress themselves,
that Elsa feels oppressed with her own unworthiness. She wishes she
might do something heroic to prove her love. For instance, if he would
confide to her his secret, she would guard it so faithfully that death
itself could not wrest it from her! Very sweetly and beautifully does
she coax for this token of trust on his part. Lohengrin replies most
gently that he has trusted her already by believing that she would keep
her vow. Then he says she little knows how much she is to him; that no
earthly honor--not the king's kingdom--could replace what he has left.
Only Elsa, his bride, can recompense the sacrifice; for not from night
and grief does he come, but from a home of joy and pride.
Like a flash does this remind Elsa of Ortrud's prophecy that he may
leave her. The Ortrud-theme swoops down upon the orchestra and settles
there like an ill-omened bird. The director's baton may send it away for
a moment, but down it comes again, and the dark motif with it. Poor Elsa
becomes almost frenzied. She believes Lohengrin will long for his
beautiful home, which even now he can not forget. She sees in her mind's
eye the swan-boat approaching to take him away. Lohengrin speaks
reassuringly; but the spell is upon her, and nothing--nothing can give
her peace but to know the truth. With mounting tones, the last one of
which is like an outcry, she asks the fatal question. Lohengrin gives an
exclamation of grief.
At this moment the door is burst open by Frederick, who with drawn sword
has come to wound the hero, or, more probably, to kill him. Elsa at once
recognizes his intention, and frantically bids Lohengrin defend himself.
With a single thrust he kills his would-be assassin.
This intense and tragic climax is followed by a lull. Elsa has fallen
half-swooning on the couch, and Lohengrin stands sorrowfully to one
side. He at last exclaims slowly and sadly: "Now is our sweet joy fled;"
and then we hear in the orchestra, faint and beautiful as a memory, that
first love-duet. It is only a fragment, a fleeting thought, but so
touching and pathetic that we could weep with Lohengrin for the harmony
that is gone.
The last act is short and almost entirely taken up by Lohengrin's story
and farewell. The scenery is the same as in the first act, and the
entire chorus of noblemen and soldiers again assemble before the king.
They have not yet heard of the tragic event which ended the last act,
and are therefore surprised when a bier is carried in and placed
solemnly before them. It bears the body of Frederick. They are still
more surprised when Elsa enters, pale and dejected, and then their hero,
who appears equally sad. But surprise reaches its climax when they hear
him announce that he can not be their leader.
Lohengrin wastes no words. After the first assertion he informs them of
Frederick's death; whereupon all voices declare his fate to be most
just, and the body is removed. Lohengrin then announces that Elsa, his
wife, has broken the vow which they all heard her make, and he has come
before them to answer her question and dispel the mad suspicion which a
wily tempter implanted in her heart. They shall all learn his name and
heritage, and may then judge whether he was worthy of their trust. The
people wonder with awe-hushed voices what revelation is in store, and
then there floats in the orchestra the soft tremolo of the swan-music,
as Lohengrin tells them of a distant land called Montsalvat, where is a
radiant temple. And in this temple is guarded a sacred vessel which
possesses wonder-powers. A dove descends from heaven once every year to
renew its marvelous strength. This treasure-blessing is called the
"Grail," and to its chosen votaries a matchless power is given. These
knights of the Grail are sent abroad as champions of innocence and
truth, and they may tarry so long as their name is unknown. But the
Grail's blessing is too pure and holy to be regarded by common eyes, and
if disclosed its champion must leave at once. Lohengrin adds that this
penalty now falls on him, for he is a knight of the Grail: his father,
great Parsifal, wears its crown, and "I am Lohengrin."
As in the first prelude and swan-song, the harmonies of this last great
recital seem not of earth but from another sphere; they linger and abide
with us like a beautiful blessing. This silver-clad knight of the Grail
has been singing of a hallowed mystery whose purity and spirituality are
revealed more in the music than by the words. After bidding farewell to
the hapless Elsa, from whom he must part in spite of her piteous
appeals, there comes gliding upon the river the swan-boat. He sings a
sad welcome to the swan, and then announces to Elsa that could he have
remained one year, through the mercy of the Grail her brother would have
returned. He hands her his sword and horn and ring to give this brother
if ever he comes back. The sword and horn will impart strength and
victory, and the ring shall remind him of "Lohengrin who loved Elsa and
was her champion."
A jarring interruption is now created by Ortrud, who cries out with
reckless triumph that the swan who serves Lohengrin is the bewitched
brother, and that Elsa has herself to thank for causing the hero's
departure, which forever prevents the young Duke's return. On hearing
this mocking invection from the sorceress, Lohengrin clasps his hands in
a fervent prayer, which is at once answered. A dove descends from heaven
and touches the swan, which is immediately changed into the young heir.
He rushes forward to embrace his sister, while Lohengrin steps into the
boat, which is drawn away by the dove. It floats silently down the
beautiful river, and the hero stands sorrowfully leaning upon his silver
shield. This is our last glimpse of Lohengrin, the Knight of the
Grail.
"Aida"
"AIDA"
Madame Nordica's "Aida" is an unsurpassed performance and always draws
crowded houses, for the strange pathos of the music displays her
wonderful voice to its fullest beauty.
As in "Carmen" every measure scintillates with the sunshine of Spain, so
in "Aida" every phrase seems shadowed by the mysteries of Egypt. A
comparative study of these two operas will forcibly impress one with the
power of music to express nationality. "Aida" carries one to a distant
land and centuries back; but this power of breathing the musical life of
ancient Egypt into the still form of a libretto is the culmination of
modern art. Giuseppe Verdi, the greatest modern Italian composer, had
written twenty-six operas before he wrote "Aida."
A tender, wistful strain high up in the violins forms the opening of the
prelude. With this first faint phrase the composer seems to awaken from
her long sleep the muse of Egyptian music. Like the hero of fairy lore,
Verdi, the prince of melody, has penetrated a realm of slumbering
harmonies. They are at first subdued, dazed, and bewildered with themes
mingled and woven together like exquisite cobwebs. The conductor's wand
gently disperses these clinging meshes of sound, the curtain is lifted,
and we are ushered into the musical life of an ancient civilization.
We see a hall in the palace at Memphis, and Ramphis, the high priest,
converses with Rhadames, a distinguished soldier. They talk of the
impending war against Ethiopia, and it is intimated that Rhadames may be
chosen to lead the Egyptians. But the words and song are of little
interest compared to the orchestral accompaniment. This is somber and
subdued; the notes are of equal length, and the intervals seem of
geometric exactitude like the diagram of an astrologer.
Ramphis goes out leaving Rhadames joyous over the prospect of becoming a
general. He thinks of his beloved Aida, to whom he will return laden
with laurels. "Celeste Aida!" is the title of this great romanza. Like
all love-songs it is legato, andante, and pianissimo, but at the same
time noticeably original and characteristic. The harmonies are
constructed with rigid grandeur, but softened and beautified by a tender
melody that rests upon them like moonlight on the pyramids. While he is
lost in thoughts of Aida, the Princess Amneris enters. She inquires the
cause of his radiant expression, and insinuatingly wonders if it is some
dream of love. Rhadames only replies that he has hopes of martial
honors, and is therefore happy. The Princess secretly loves Rhadames,
and her questions are based on jealousy, which is revealed in the
nervous, agitated theme that accompanies this duet. Her suspicions are
further aroused by the entrance of Aida. As the heroine approaches we
hear again the pensive theme that opened the prelude. It takes on a new
and greater meaning, for Aida is a captive slave, an exile, and the
music reminds us of some great longing that vainly strives to express
itself. This effect is due to the fact that the musical cadence is left
unresolved.
Aida must have the dark complexion of the Ethiopian, and very few prima
donnas look well under coffee-colored cosmetic; but Madame Nordica's
appearance does not suffer from the application. This Aida is beautiful,
and Rhadames can scarce conceal the joy of her presence. The captive
also looks down to hide her emotion. But Amneris has detected every
glance, and again that jealous theme sweeps like a flame over the
orchestra.
[Illustration: Copyright by Aime Dupont, N. Y.
Nordica as Aida.]
The princess addresses her slave by sisterly names, and asks the cause
of her downcast looks. Aida says she grieves because of the war against
her native land. There follows a trio wherein Amneris fosters her
jealousy, while Aida and Rhadames tremble lest their secret be
discovered.
Sounds of martial music prelude the entrance of the king and his suite.
When they are assembled a messenger comes forward to announce that the
Ethiopians are marching toward Egypt's capital under the leadership of
their king, Amonasro. Upon hearing this name Aida exclaims to herself,
"My father!" and we thereby learn that she is a princess, but has
concealed the fact from her captors. The Egyptians impulsively shout "To
war!" and Rhadames is proclaimed their leader. They sing a war-hymn
which is so inspiring that even Aida joins in this prayer for victory to
Rhadames. After a grand climax all go out excepting the heroine.
"Return victorious!" She repeats this last sweeping phrase, and shudders
at the words, for success to Rhadames implies defeat to her father. This
distressing thought agitates the music like the passing of a great ship
over tranquil waters. The ensuing melody rises and falls like waves in
the wake of a vessel. Aida realizes that she can not pray for either
lover or father. "Was there ever a heart so oppressed!" Her song is like
a wail, and the accompaniment introduces a pagan use of the monotone
that gives startling effects. "Pieta, pieta!" are the final words of
Aida's great solo.
She goes off, and the scene changes to an interior view of the temple of
Vulcan. It is a brilliant setting, with solid columns and golden
statues, mysterious colored lights and fuming incense, priests and
priestesses in glittering costumes; but the music of this
consecration-scene reveals more barbaric splendor than the surroundings.
The first sounds are the full, pulsating chords of a harp, and from an
inner sanctum the grand priestess sings with rich soprano tones a weird
refrain that is weighted with mystery. The priests in front answer in
subdued, awe-hushed voices. Three times the wondrous song and answer
are repeated, after which the priestesses perform a sacred dance around
the altar. The music of this dreamy dance has the most astonishing
progressions, but at the same time maintains an imposing solemnity.
During the dance Rhadames is led to the altar, where a silver veil is
placed over his head. Ramphis, the high priest, charges him with the
welfare of the Egyptian army; and then follows a splendid prayer that
Ramphis starts like a sacred fire. It reaches Rhadames, who sings in a
higher key, and then it spreads and fills the great temple; bassos,
tenors, soloists, and chorus take it up in turn and form one mighty
rondo. Like a response from heaven comes the chant of the grand
priestess from within. Her inspired refrain with its harp accompaniment
alternates with the exalted prayer in front. This consecration-scene has
little to do with the plot of the story, but it contains some of Verdi's
finest music.
Several months are supposed to elapse before the second act, which
opens with a scene in the apartment of Amneris. Maids are robing the
princess for a festive occasion, and we learn by their chorus that
Rhadames will to-day return from victorious war. This scene is
monopolized by the stringed instruments and female voices. A tropical
indolence characterizes the choruses, with their abundant harp
accompaniment. Amneris ever and anon breaks forth with an expansive
theme expressing her unconquered love for Rhadames. To divert their
mistress a group of Moorish slaves perform a lively, grotesque dance,
for which Verdi has written music of intoxicating witchery. It is crisp
as the snapping of fingers and uncivilized as the beating of bamboo
reeds--a veritable savage revel that is nevertheless graceful and
delicate. The chorus resume their dreamy praise of the hero, and Amneris
continues her moody thoughts of love.
Like an electric flash from a sultry sky does the entrance of Aida
affect the musical atmosphere. At sight of the beautiful captive,
Amneris again rages with jealousy, as is plainly indicated by the
conflicting themes in the orchestra. With subtle devices the princess
seeks to entrap her rival. She pretends a deep sympathy for Aida's grief
over the vanquished Ethiopians, and adds that "Egypt also has cause to
mourn, for our brave leader Rhadames is among the slain." This
treacherous falsehood is foisted so suddenly that Aida loses caution and
reveals her emotion. Amneris cries out in fury: "Tremble, slave! thy
secret is discovered!" She informs Aida that Rhadames lives, and that
she, Pharaoh's daughter, loves the hero and "will not brook the rivalry
of a slave!" Amneris threatens death as the punishment for such
audacious love. The proud captive stands for a moment in defiance; but
realizing the futility of such action, she humbly pleads for pardon. In
this song the composer admirably simulates a savage dearth of compass
and harmony--an effect of crude simplicity that is charming and
touching. The scene is interrupted by a song of victory from the
streets, a signal for the festivities to begin. After commanding the
Ethiopian to follow as a menial in the celebration, Amneris goes out.
Aida closes the scene with the same prayer to Heaven "Pieta!" that ended
the first act.
A noisy march introduces the next scene, which represents a grand avenue
in Egypt's capital. At the back of the stage is a triumphal arch and at
one side a throne. The greater part of this act is spectacular, and
after an opening chorus the orchestra has for some time entire charge of
the music. The March from "Aida" is almost as popular as the Faust
March. Its harmonies never swerve from the Egyptian type, being always
stately and substantial as their architecture.
While the brass instruments are playing with full force, we witness the
ceremonial entrance of the court, with innumerable priests and soldiers,
trumpeters, fan-bearers, standard-bearers, train-bearers, white slaves,
black slaves, flower girls, and dancing girls. There follows an
elaborate ballet divertissement, clothed in music of gay pattern and
gaudy design, but light in substance. Five lines of continuous
staccatos, like so many strings of beads, form the opening of this dance
music. The salient points that impart an unmistakable Egyptian
atmosphere to this composition are as follows: A savage repetition of
every musical phrase, a wild predilection for the monotone, a limited
variety of keys, and a preponderant accenting of the rhythm.
After the dance more soldiers enter, some more slaves, more banners,
chariots, and sacred images. A chorus of welcome to the conquering hero
is struck up, and it increases in strength and grandeur with the
pageantry on the stage. It is not merely the crescendo, but the glorious
swing and rhythm of the melody that so inspires enthusiasm. When at last
Rhadames is borne in on a golden palanquin, the climax is stupendous.
With a final "Gloria!" shouted by every voice the hero comes forward to
be embraced by the king. A group of Ethiopian prisoners are led forward,
and Aida with a cry of joy recognizes her father. He has disguised
himself as a common soldier, and does not wish it known that he is the
defeated king Amonasro. Every one is interested in this reunion of Aida
with her father, and the princess secretly rejoices to have them both in
her power. Amonasro makes a noble plea for mercy, and his words are set
to music that "droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven." It is like a
tone-translation of Shakespeare's ode to the quality of mercy. Aida and
the other captives lend their voices to the entreaty. Rhadames, who has
been observing Aida but dare not address her, is moved by his love to
ask for the prisoner's release. The king feels bound to grant the hero's
request, but finally decides to retain Aida and her father as hostages
of peace. As a final honor the king presents his daughter to Rhadames,
and adds that by her side he shall some day reign over Egypt. The act
closes with another grand ensemble. Amneris gloats over her rival's
subjection, Rhadames longs for Aida but dare not oppose the king, and
the heroine bemoans her fate. The priests, people, soldiers, and
prisoners praise the king, the trumpets blare forth the Aida March, and
the curtain descends.