ROMANTIC OPERA AND THE DEVELOPMENT OF CHORAL SONG
The rise of German opera; Weber and the romantic opera; Weber’s
followers--Berlioz as opera composer--The _drame lyrique_ from
Gounod to Bizet--_Opéra comique_ in the romantic period; the _opéra
bouffe_--Choral and sacred music of the romantic period.
I
If vivid imagery was one of the chief lusts of the romantic school it
would seem that opera should have proved one of its most typical and
effective art forms. And, throughout the time, opera flourished in the
theatres of Germany, and in Paris as a matter of course. Yet we cannot
say that the artistic output was as excellent as we might expect. Of
the works to be described in this chapter not more than eight are
to-day thoroughly alive, and two of these are overestimated choral
works. Yet in the most real sense the opera of the romantic period
prepared the way for Wagner, who would no doubt be called a romanticist
if he were not too great for any labels. And much of the music of the
period, though it has been displaced by modern works (styles change
more quickly in opera than in any other form) has a decided interest
and value if we do not take too high an attitude toward it.
Modern opera can be dated from _Der Freischütz_. Yet it goes without
saying (since nothing is quite new under the sun) that the work was
not as novel in its day as it seems to us after the lapse of nearly a
century. The elements of romanticism had existed in opera long before
Weber’s time. In Gluck’s ‘Armide’ the voluptuous adventures of Rinaldo
in the enchantress’s garden had breathed the spirit of the German
folk-lore awakening, though treated in Gluck’s style of classical
purity. Mozart, especially, must be counted among the romanticists of
opera. The final scene of _Don Giovanni_, with its imaginative playing
with the supernatural, to the accompaniment of most impressive music,
seems to be a sketch in preparation for _Freischütz_. And the spirit
of German song had already entered into opera in ‘The Magic Flute,’
which is in great part as truly German as Weber, except for its Italian
grace and delicacy of treatment. Moreover, ‘The Magic Flute’ was a
_singspiel_, or dramatic work with music interspersed with spoken
text--the form in which _Der Freischütz_ was written. Mozart’s opera
might have founded the German school, had conditions been different,
but beyond the fact that the story is obscure and distinctly not
national, the German national movement had not yet begun. We have seen
in a previous chapter how it took repeated invasions and insults from
Napoleon to arouse patriotism throughout the disjointed German lands,
and how the patriotic spirit had to fight the repression of the courts
at every turn. We have seen how it was hounded from the streets to the
cellars and how from beneath ground it cried for some work of art which
should symbolize and express its aspiration while it was in hiding.
It was this conjunction of conditions which gave _Freischütz_ such
peculiar popularity at the time--a popularity, however, which was fully
justified by its artistic value and could not have been achieved in
such overwhelming degree without it.
The Italian opera, before Weber’s time, had carried everything its own
way. Those patriots who longed for the creation of a German operatic
art had no sort of tradition to turn to except the _singspiel_. This
was never regarded highly, and was considered quite beneath the
dignity of the aristocracy and of those who prided themselves on being
artistically _comme il faut_. And it was frequently as cheap and thin
(not to say coarse) as a second-rate vaudeville ‘skit’ to-day. But it
had in it elements of good old German humor, together with occasional
doses of German pathos, and cultivated a German type of song, such as
then existed. At any rate, it was all there was. Weber had no turn
for the Italian ways of doing things, and little knowledge of them.
So when he sought to write serious German opera that should appeal to
a great mass of the people--the desire for national popularity had
already been stirred in him by the success of his _Leyer und Schwert_
songs--he was obliged to write in a tongue that was understood by his
fellow men. It is doubtful whether _Der Freischütz_ could have gained
its wide popularity had its few pages of spoken dialogue been replaced
by musical recitative in the Italian style. Such is the influence of
tradition.
But he had no need to be ashamed of the true German tradition to which
he attached himself. The _singspiel_, which represented all there
was of German opera, frequently cultivated a style of music which,
if simple, was genuinely musical and highly refined. Reichardt’s
singspiel, _Erwin und Elmire_, to Goethe’s text, has been mentioned
in the chapter on Romantic Song, and its Mozart-like charm of melody
referred to. The singspiel was a repository for German song, and
frequently drew upon German folk-lore or ‘house’ lore for its subject
matter. It needed only the right genius at the right time to raise it
into a supreme art form.
As early as 1810, when Weber was still sowing his wild oats and
flirting with a literary career, he had run across the story of the
_Freischütz_ in Apel’s newly published book of German ‘ghost-tales.’
The subject stirred his imagination and he planned to make an opera
of it. But he found other things to turn his hand to, and was unable
to hit upon a satisfactory librettist until in 1817 he met Friedrich
Kind, who had already become popular with his play, _Das Nachtlager von
Granada_. Kind took up with the idea, and in ten days completed his
libretto. Weber worked at it slowly, but with great zest. Four years
later, on the anniversary of the battle of Waterloo, it was performed
for the first time, at the opening of the new Royal Theatre in Berlin.
Its electric success, as it went through the length and breadth of
Germany, has been described in a previous chapter.
Kind deserves a large share of the credit for the success of the work,
though it must be confessed that he did not wear his laurels with
much dignity. He protested rather childishly against the excision of
two superfluous scenes from his libretto, and was forever trying to
exaggerate his share in the artistic partnership. It seems to have been
pique which prevented him from writing more librettos for Weber--and
what a series of operas might have come out of that union! In 1843,
long after Weber’s death, he published a book, _Das Freischützbuch_, in
which he aired his griefs. The volume would have little significance
except for one or two remarkable statements in it. ‘Every opera,’ he
says, ‘must be a complete whole, not only from the musical, but also
from the poetical point of view.’ And again: ‘I convinced myself that
through the union of all arts, as poetry, music, action, painting, and
dance, a great whole could be formed.’ How striking these statements
sound in view of the art theories which Wagner was evolving for himself
five and ten years later! And it must be said, to Kind’s justice,
that he had worked consistently on this theory in the writing of the
_Freischütz_ libretto. He had insisted that Weber set his work as he
had written it, and his insistence seems to have been due to more than
a petty pride.
The opera tells a story which had long been told, in one form or
another, in German homes. Max, a young hunter, aspires to the position
of chief huntsman on Prince Ottokar’s domains. If he gains it he will
have the hand of the retiring chief huntsman’s daughter, Agathe, whom
he loves. His success depends upon overcoming all rivals in a shooting
contest. In the preliminary contest he has made a poor showing. In fear
of failure he listens to the temptation of one Caspar, and sells his
soul to the devil, Samiel, in return for six magic bullets, guaranteed
by infernal charms to hit their mark. A seventh, in Max’s possession,
Samiel retains for his own use. The bullets are charmed and the price
of the soul stipulated upon in dark Wolf’s Glen at midnight. In this
transaction Caspar acts as middleman in the affair in order to induce
Samiel to extend the earthly life of his soul, which has similarly been
sold. On the day of the shooting match Agathe experiences evil omens;
instead of a bridal wreath a funeral wreath has been prepared for her.
She decides to wear sacred roses instead. Max enters the contest and
his six bullets hit the mark. Then, at the prince’s commands, he shoots
at a passing dove--with the seventh bullet. Agathe falls with a shriek,
but she is protected by her sacred wreath and the bullet pierces
Caspar’s heart. Overcome with remorse Max confesses his sin. He is
about to be banished in disgrace when a passing hermit pleads for him,
urging his extreme temptation in extenuation, and he is restored by the
prince to all his happiness, on condition that he pass successfully
through a year’s probation.
This story may stand as a type of the romantic opera plots of the
time. Of first importance was its use of purely German materials--the
national element which gave it its political significance. Only second
in importance was the fact that it was drawn from folk-lore and hence
was material intelligible and interesting to everybody, as contrasted
with the classic stories of the operas and plays of eighteenth century
France, which were intelligible only to the upper class educated in the
classics, and which was specifically intended to exclude the vulgar
rabble from participation and so serve as a sort of test of gentility.
Third was the incidental fact of the form which this democratic and
national spirit took--an interest in the element of the bizarre, the
fanciful, and the supernatural. It was wholly suited to the tastes
of the romantic age that the devil Samiel should come upon the stage
in person and charm the seven bullets before the gaping eyes of the
audience.
The music shows Weber supreme in two important qualities, the folk
sense and the dramatic sense. No one before him had been able to
put into opera so well the very spirit of German folk-song, as he
did in Agathe’s famous moonlight scene, or in the impressive male
chorus, accompanied by the brass, in the first act. In power of
characterization Weber is second only to Mozart. The opening duet of
the second act, sung by the dreamy Agathe and the sprightly Ännchen,
gives to each character a melody which expresses her state of soul,
yet the two combine with utmost grace. In his characterization of the
supernatural Weber had no adequate prototype save the Mozart of the
cemetery and supper scenes in _Don Giovanni_, for Spohr’s operatic
setting of the Faust legend was classic in tone and method. The verve
of the music of Wolf’s Glen is exhilarating to the imagination. Samiel,
whose speeches are accompanied by rolls or taps on the kettle-drums,
seems to live to our ears and eyes, and as the bullets, one after
another, are charmed, the music rises until it bursts in a stormy fury.
Many of the tunes of _Der Freischütz_ have become folk-songs among
the German people, and the bridal chorus and Agathe’s scene may be
heard among the very children on their way home from school, while the
vigorous huntsmen’s chorus is a staple of German singing societies
wherever the German language is spoken.
From the earliest years of his creative activity Weber had been
composing operas. And they grew steadily better. The one just preceding
_Freischütz_ was _Abu Hassan_, a comic opera in one act telling the
difficulties of Hassan and his wife Fatima to escape their debts. The
dainty and bustling music has helped to keep the piece alive. But the
piece which Weber intended should be his _magnum opus_ was _Euryanthe_,
which followed _Freischütz_. The critics, differing with the public in
their opinion concerning the latter work, admitted Weber’s power of
writing in simple style, but asserted that he could not master longer
concerted forms. Weber accepted the challenge and wrote _Euryanthe_
as a work of pure romanticism, separated from the national element,
conceived on the broadest musical scale. It is a true opera, without
spoken dialogue. The music is in parts the finest Weber ever wrote,
and in more than one way suggests _Lohengrin_, which seems to have
germinated in Wagner’s mind in part from the study of _Euryanthe_.
Weber’s last opera, written on commission from Covent Garden, London,
and completed only a few months before his death, was ‘Oberon,’ a
return to the singspiel type, with much of the other-worldly in its
story. _Euryanthe_ had failed of popular success, chiefly through
its impossibly crude and involved libretto. ‘Oberon’ was better, but
far from ideal. It has, like ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ Oberon,
Titania, Puck, and the host of fairies, together with mortal lovers
whose destinies become involved with those of the elves. The music
is often charming, revealing a delicacy of imagination not found in
_Freischütz_, but it is lacking in characterizing power, and reveals
its composer’s lessening bodily and mental vigor.
Weber had established German opera on a par with Italian, and there
stood men ready to take up his mantle. Chief of these was Heinrich
Marschner.[100] He is best known by his opera _Hans Heiling_, which
tells the adventurer of the king of the elves who takes human form as
the schoolmaster, Hans Heiling, in order to win a mortal maiden. The
music is full of romantic imagination and is generally supposed to have
influenced Wagner in the writing of ‘The Flying Dutchman.’ Marschner’s
other important operas are _Templer und Jüdin_, founded upon ‘Ivanhoe,’
and ‘The Vampire.’
Conradin Kreutzer (1780-1849) was a prolific contemporary of
Marschner’s, but little of his music has remained to our time outside
of _Das Nachtlager von Granada_ and a few songs. The music of the
opera is often thin, but now and then Kreutzer could catch the
German folk-spirit as scarcely any others could save Weber. Lortzing
(1801-1851) was a more gifted musician, and several of his operas are
occasionally performed now. Chief of these is _Czar und Zimmermann_,
which tells the adventures of Peter the Great of Russia working among
his shipbuilders. In more farcical vein is _Der Wildschütz_. The music
admirably suits the bustling comedy of peasant intrigue. E. T. A.
Hoffmann, who so deeply influenced Schumann, was a talented composer,
and a number of his operas, thoroughly in the romantic spirit, were
popular at the time. Nicolai’s[101] setting of Shakespeare’s ‘Merry
Wives of Windsor,’ dating from about this time, is a comic opera
classic, and Friedrich von Flotow’s ‘Martha’ is everywhere known. Its
composer (1812-1883) wrote numerous operas, German and French, and at
least one besides ‘Martha’ is still popular in Germany--‘Stradella.’
His music is, however, more French than German, though its rhythmic
grace and piquancy, its easy, simple melody are universal in their
appeal.
Two more important figures, musically considered, are Schumann, with
his one opera, ‘Genoveva,’ and Peter Cornelius, with several works
which deserve more frequent performance than they receive. Schumann had
well-defined longings toward dramatic activity, but had the customary
difficulties of discriminating musicians in finding a libretto. He hit
upon an adaptation of Hebbel’s _Genoveva_, a play drawn from a mediæval
legend, rather diffuse and uneven in workmanship, but suffused with
a noble poetic spirit that is only beginning to be appreciated. The
play lacks the dramatic elements necessary for successful operas, and
Schumann’s music, though filled with beauties, is not fully successful
in characterization, and hence tends to become monotonous. The
overture, however, is a permanent part of our concert programs. We feel
about Schumann as about Schubert (whose several operas, _Fierrabras_,
_Alfonso und Estrella_ and others, need be no more than mentioned),
that they might have produced great dramatic works had they been
permitted to live a little longer.
A man of ample musical stature and far too little reputation is
Cornelius.[102] He was an actor and painter before turning to music.
For some years he served Liszt as secretary and confidant at Weimar,
working hard at music while acting as a sort of literary press agent
for the more radical tendencies in music. He was one of the earliest
to understand and believe in Wagner’s music and theories (see Chapter
XI). As early as 1855 he was attempting to apply them to comic opera.
The result was the two-act opera ‘The Barber of Bagdad,’ which Liszt
thought highly of and brought to performance under his own direction
at the Weimar Court Theatre. But the denizens of Weimar were by this
time tired of the fad of being radical, and laughed the piece off the
stage. It was in disgust at this fiasco that Liszt decided to give up
his directorship in Weimar, and, after a few more months of gradually
slipping away from his duties, he left the town for Italy, returning
thereafter only for occasional visits. ‘The Barber of Bagdad’ (the
libretto by Cornelius himself) carries out Wagner’s theories concerning
the close union of text and music, the dramatic and meaty character of
the libretto, the fusion of recitative and cantilena style, and the
use of the leit-motif. It is full-bodied music, excellent in technique
and, moreover, filled with delightful musical humor and beautiful
melodies. But it insists on treating its sparkling plot with high
artistic seriousness, and this mystified the Weimar audience, who, no
doubt, failed to see why one should take a comic opera so in earnest.
Cornelius’ later opera, ‘The Cid,’ was a serious work in the Wagnerian
style and necessarily was overshadowed by Wagner’s great works, then
just becoming known. It is diffuse and uneven. But the last opera,
_Gunlöd_, left unfinished at the composer’s death and completed by
friends, contains much to justify frequent revival.
II
The movement which we have just discussed had its parallel in France,
though there the nationalistic element was lacking--conditions did not
call for it; the fight had long since been fought (cf. Chapter I). But
in France, like in Germany, the romantic opera, the _drame lyrique_,
was to grow out of the lighter type, the _opéra comique_, the French
equivalent of the _singspiel_. Before discussing that development,
however, we must consider for a moment the work of a composer who has
already engaged our attention and who cannot be classed with any of his
compatriots.
Hector Berlioz stood apart from the course of French opera. Fashionable
people in his day applauded the pomposity of Meyerbeer and Halévy, the
facility of Auber, but made short work of Berlioz’s operas, when these
were fortunate enough to reach performance. Berlioz might conceivably
have adapted himself to the popular taste, but he was too sincere an
artist and too impetuous an egotist. He continued to the end of his
life writing the best he was capable of--and contracting debts. His
operas were much in advance of his day, and are in many respects in
advance of ours. They continue to be appreciated by connoisseurs, but
the public has little use for the high seriousness of their music. A
daring French impresario recently brought himself to a huge financial
failure by attempting a series of excellent operas on the best possible
scale, and in his list was _Benvenuto Cellini_, which had no small
part in swinging the scale of fortune against him. The second part of
_Les Troyens_ was performed near the end of Berlioz’s life, and was
a flat failure; it did not even succeed in stirring up discussion;
the public was simply indifferent. The first part of ‘The Capture of
Troy’ did not reach the stage until Felix Mottl organized his Berlioz
cycle at Carlsruhe in 1893. Doubtless the chief factor which led to
the failure of these excellent works was their lack of balanced and
readily intelligible melody. Berlioz’s melodic writing was always a
little dry, and one must be something of a gourmet to get beneath the
surface to the rare beauty within. But on the whole it is fair to say
that the music fails of its effect simply because opera publics are too
superficial and stupid. Yet it is possible to see signs of improvement
in this respect, and we may hope for the day when Berlioz’s operas will
have some established place on the lyric stage.
‘Beatrice and Benedict,’ the libretto adapted by Berlioz from
Shakespeare’s ‘Much Ado about Nothing,’ is a work filled to the brim
with romantic loveliness and animal life. It is one of that small class
of comic operas (of which ‘The Barber of Bagdad’ is a distinguished
member), which are of the finest musical quality throughout, yet
thoroughly in accord with the gaiety of their subjects. The thrice
lovely scene and duet which opens the opera has a pervading perfume
of romanticism not often equalled in opera, and the rollicking chorus
of drunken servants in the second act is that rarest of musical
achievements, solid and scholarly counterpoint used to express
boisterous humor. Shakespeare has rarely had the collaboration of a
better poet-musician.
_Benvenuto Cellini_ takes an episode in the artist’s life and narrates
it against the brilliant background of fashionable Rome in carnival
time. The music is picturesque and the carnival scenes are brilliant
and effective. But a far greater interest attaches to Berlioz’s double
opera ‘The Trojans.’ It was the work on which Berlioz lavished the
affection and inspiration of his last years, the failure of which
broke his heart. In it a remarkable change has come over the frenzied
revolutionist of the thirties. It is a work of the utmost restraint,
of the finest sense of form and proportion, of truly classical purity.
Romain Rolland has pointed out the classical nature of Berlioz’s
personality, and the paradox is amply justified by this last opera. In
Rolland’s view Berlioz was a Mozart born out of his time. His sensitive
soul, ‘eternally in need of loving or being loved,’ was seared by
the noise and bustle of the age, and reflected it in his music until
disappointment and failure had forced him to withdraw into his own
personality and write for himself and the muses. Berlioz’s admiration
for Gluck’s theories, music, and artistic personality is vividly
recorded in the earlier pages of the Memoirs. But in his student days
there was no opportunity for such an influence to show itself. In his
last years it came back--all Gluck’s refinement, high artistic aim and
classic self-control, but deepened by a wealth of technical mastery
that Gluck knew nothing of. We are amazed, as we look over the choruses
of ‘The Trojans,’ to see the utter simplicity of the writing, which is
never for a moment routine or commonplace--the simplicity of high and
rigid selection. The first division of the opera tells the story told
in the Iliad, of the finding of the wooden horse, the entrance into
Troy, the night sally, and the sack of the city. Cassandra, priestess
of woe, warns her people, but is received with deaf ears. Over the work
there hangs the tragic earnestness of the Iliad, which Berlioz loved
and studied. In the second division the Trojans are at Carthage, and,
instead of war we have the voluptuous lovemakings of Dido and Æneas,
and the final tragedy of the Trojan queen, all told with such emotional
intensity that the music is almost worthy to stand beside that of
Wagner.
‘The Damnation of Faust,’ which follows the course of Goethe’s
play with special emphasis on the supernatural elements (freely
interpolated), is best known as a concert work, being hardly fitted for
the stage at all. It is picturesque in the highest degree. Berlioz’s
mastery of counterpoint and orchestration is here at its highest. The
interpolated ‘Rackozcy March’ is universally known, and the ‘Dance
of the Sylphs’ is one of the stock examples of Berlioz’s use of the
orchestra for eerie effects. The chorus of demons is sung, for the
sake of linguistic accuracy, to the words which Swedenborg gives as the
authentic language of Hell.
Berlioz’s music admits of no compromise. Either it must come to us or
we must come to it. We have been trying ever since his death to patch
up some kind of middle course.
H. K. M.
III
As we have seen in an earlier chapter, the _opéra comique_ had
developed after Boildieu into a new type, of which Auber, Hérold,
Halévy, and Adam were the principal exponents. These were the men who
prepared the way for the new lyric drama which grew out of the _opéra
comique_--for the romantic opera of Gounod and Thomas. The romantic
movement in French literature had, we may recall, received its impulse
by Victor Hugo, whose _Hernani_ appeared in 1829. Its influence on
French music was most powerful from 1840 on. Composers of all schools
yielded to it in one way or another, from Berlioz, who followed the
ideals of Gluck, to Halévy, whose _Jaguarita l’Indienne_ pictures
romance in the tropics.
The direct result of this influence of literary romanticism was the
creation of the _drame lyrique_. Yet it must not be thought that Thomas
and Gounod deliberately created the _drame lyrique_ as a distinct
operatic form. Auber and others of his school had already produced
operas which may justly lay claim to the titles of lyric dramas. And
the earlier works of both Thomas and Gounod themselves were light in
character. In fact, Thomas’ _La double échelle_ and _Le Perruquier de
la Régence_ are _opéras comique_ of the accepted type; and _Le Caïd_
has received the somewhat doubtful compliment of being considered ‘a
precursor of the Offenbach torrent of _opéra bouffe_.’ In Gounod’s
_Médecin malgré lui_, wherein he anticipated Richard Strauss and
Wolf-Ferrari in choosing a Molière comedy for operatic treatment, the
composer achieved a success. Yet this opera, as well as that charming
modernization of a classic legend, _Philemon et Baucis_, both adhere
strictly to the conventional lines of _opéra comique_.
Gounod’s _Faust_ remains the epochal work of his career. His _Sapho_
(1851) never achieved popularity, but is of interest because it
foreshadows his later style in its departure from tradition; in the
final scene he ‘struck a note of sensuous melancholy new to French
opera.’ Adam (in his capacity as a music critic) even claimed that
in _Sapho_ Gounod was trying to revive Gluck’s system of musical
declamation.
In March, 1859, the first performance of _Faust_ took place at
the Théâtre Lyrique in Paris. In a manner it represents the ideal
combination of the brilliant fancy, dreamy mysticism, and picturesque
description that is the stuff of which romanticism is made. Goethe’s
masterpiece, which had already been used operatically by Spohr, and, to
mention a few among many, had also inspired Schumann, Berlioz, Liszt,
and Wagner, achieved as great a success in the land of Goethe as it did
in France. It was well received at its debut by the critics of the day,
but its success in Paris was gradual, notwithstanding the fact that the
_Révue des Deux Mondes_ spoke of ‘the sustained distinction of style,
the perfect good taste shown in every least detail of the long score,
the color, supreme elegance and discreet sobriety of instrumentation
which reveal the hand of a master.’ But it must be remembered that at
the time of its production Rossini and Meyerbeer were still regarded as
the very incarnation of music.
Gounod’s own style was essentially French, yet he had studied
Mendelssohn and Schumann, and the charm of the poetic sentimentality
that permeated his music was novel in French composition. For several
decades _Faust_ remained the recognized type of modern French opera,
of the _drame lyrique_, embodying the poesy of an entire generation.
The dictum ‘sensuous but not sensual,’ which applies in general to all
Gounod’s work, is especially appropriate to _Faust_. It shows at its
best his lyric genius, his ability to produce powerful effects without
effort, and that languorous seduction which has been deprecated as
an enervating influence in French dramatic art. In spite of elements
unsympathetic to the modern musician, _Faust_, taken as a whole, is a
work of a high order of beauty, shaped by the hand of a master. ‘Every
page of the music tells of a striving after a lofty ideal.’
In _Faust_ Gounod’s work as a creator culminates. His remaining operas
repeat, more or less, the ideas of his masterpiece. The four-act _Reine
de Saba_, given in England under the name of ‘Irene,’ contains noble
pages, but was unsuccessful. Neither did _Mireille_ (1864), founded
on a libretto by the Provençal poet Mistral, nor _Colombe_, a light
two-act operetta, win popular favor. _Romeo et Juliette_ (1867) ranks
as his second-best opera. The composer himself enigmatically expressed
his opinion of the relative values of the two operas in the words:
‘“Faust” is the oldest, but I was younger; “Romeo” is the youngest, but
I was older.’ _Romeo et Juliette_ was an instant success in Paris, and
was eventually transferred to the repertory of the Grand Opera, after
having for some time formed part of that of the Opéra Comique. Gounod’s
last operas _Cinq Mars_ and _Le Tribut de Zamora_, which is in the
style of Meyerbeer, were alike unsuccessful.
Gounod struck a strong personal note, and he may well be considered
the strongest artistic influence in French music up to the death of
César Franck. His art is eclectic, a curious mixture of naïve and
refined sincerity, of real and assumed tenderness, of voluptuousness
and worldly mysticism, and profound religious sentiment. The influence
of ‘Faust’ was at once apparent, and its new and fascinating idiom was
soon taken up by other composers, who responded to its romantic appeal.
Among these was Charles-Louis-Ambroise Thomas (1811-1896), who had
already produced five ambitious operas with varying success before the
appearance of _Faust_. But _Mignon_ (1866) is the opera in which after
_Faust_ the transition from the _opéra comique_ to the romantic poetry
of the lyric drama is most marked. Gounod’s influence acted on Thomas
like a charm. _Mignon_ is an opera of great dramatic truth and beauty,
one which according to Hanslick is ‘the work of a sensitive and refined
artist,’ characterized by ‘rare knowledge of stage effects, skill in
orchestral treatment, and purity of style and sentiment.’ Like Gounod,
Thomas had chosen a subject by Goethe on which to write the opera which
was to raise him among the foremost operatic composers of his day. Mme.
Galti Marie, the creator of the title rôle, had modelled her conception
of the part of the poor orphan girl upon the well-known picture by Ary
Scheffer, and _Mignon_ at once captivated the public, and remained
one of the most popular operas of the second half of the nineteenth
century.[103]
Again, like Gounod, Thomas turned to Shakespeare after having set
Goethe. His ‘Hamlet’ (1868) was successful in Paris for a long time.
And, though the music cannot match its subject, it contains some of
the composer’s best work. The vocal parts are richly ornamented; the
poetically conceived part of Ophelia is a coloratura rôle, such as
modern opera, with the possible exception of Delibes’ _Lakmé_, has not
produced, and the ballet music is brilliant. _Françoise de Rimini_
(1882) and the ballet _La Tempête_ were his last and least popular
dramatic works.
Léo Delibes (1836-1891), a pupil of Adam, is widely known by his
charming ballets. The ballet, which had played so important a part
in eighteenth century opera, was quite as popular in the nineteenth
century. If Vestris, the god of dance, had passed with the passing of
the Bourbon monarchy, there were Taglioni (who danced the Tyrolienne
in _Guillaume Tell_ and the _pas de fascination_ in Meyerbeer’s
_Robert le Diable_), Fanny Elssler, and Carlotta Grisi, full of grace
and gentility, to give lustre to the art of dancing. The ballet as
an individual entertainment apart from opera was popular during the
greater part of the nineteenth century, and was brought to a high
perfection, best typified by the famous Giselle, written for Carlotta
Grisi, on subject taken from Heinrich Heine, arranged by Théophile
Gautier, and set to music by Adam. To this kind of composition Delibes
contributed music of unusual charm and distinction. _La Source_ shows
a wealth of ravishing melody and made such an impression that the
composer was asked to write a divertissement, the famous _Pas des
Fleurs_ to be introduced in the ballet _Le Corsaire_, by his old master
Adam, for its revival in 1867. His ‘Coppelia’ ballet, written to
accompany a pretty comedy of the same name, and the grand mythological
ballet ‘Sylvia’ are considered his best and established his superiority
as a composer of artistic dance music.
The music of Delibes’ operas is unfailingly tender and graceful, and
his scores remain charming specimens of the lyric style. _Le roi l’a
dit_ (1873) is a dainty little work upon an old French subject, ‘as
graceful and fragile as a piece of Sèvres porcelain.’ _Jean de Nivelle_
has passed from the operatic repertory, but _Lakmé_ is a work of
exquisite charm, its music dreamy and sensuous as befits its oriental
subject, and full of local color. In _Lakmé_ and the unfinished
_Kassaya_[104] Delibes shows an awakening to the possibilities of
oriental color. Ernest Reyer’s (1823-1909) _Salammbo_ is in the same
direction; but it is Félicien David (1810-1876) who must be credited
with first drawing attention to Eastern subjects as being admirably
adapted to operatic treatment. He was a pupil of Cherubini, Reber[105]
and Fétis, and he was for a time associated with the activity of the
Saint-Simonian Socialists. Later he made a tour of the Orient from
1833 to 1835; then, returning to Paris with an imagination powerfully
stimulated by his long stay in the East, he set himself to express the
spirit of the Orient in music. The first performance of his symphonic
ode _Le Désert_ (1844) made him suddenly famous. It was followed by the
operas _Christophe Colomb_, _Eden_, and _La Perle du Brésil_, which
was brilliantly successful. Another great operatic triumph was the
delightful _Lalla Roukh_ which had a run of one hundred nights from May
in less than a year (1862-1863). At a time when the works of Berlioz
were still unappreciated by the majority of people, David succeeded
in making the public take an interest in music of a picturesque and
descriptive kind, and in this connection may be considered one of the
pioneers of the French _drame lyrique_. _Le Désert_ founded the school
which counts not only _Lakmé_ and _Salammbo_ but also Massenet’s _Le
Roi de Lahore_ and many others among its representatives.
No French composer responded more delightfully to the orientalism
of David than Georges Bizet (1838-1875) in his earlier works. His
_Pêcheurs de Perles_ (1863) tells the loves of two Cingalese pearl
fishers for the priestess Leila. It had but a short run, though its
dreamy melodies are enchanting. Several of its forceful dramatic scenes
foreshadow the power and variety of _Carmen_. His second opera _La
jolie fille de Perth_ (1867), a tuneful and effective work, was based
upon one of Sir Walter Scott’s novels; but in _Djamileh_ (1872), his
third opera, he returned to an Eastern subject. This was the most
original effort he had thus far made, and it was thought so advanced at
the time of its production, that accusations of Wagnerism--at that time
anything but praise in Paris--were hurled at the composer. He was more
fortunate in the incidental music he wrote for Alphonse Daudet’s drama
_L’Arlésienne_, which is still a favorite in the concert hall.
It has been said that the quality of Bizet’s operatic work, like that
of Gluck, depended in a measure on the value of his book. He was indeed
fortunate in the libretto of _Carmen_, adapted from Prosper Merimée’s
celebrated study of Spanish gypsy character, by Meilhac and Ludovic
Halévy, the best librettists of their day. The dramatic element in
the story as written was hidden by much descriptive analysis, but by
discarding this the authors produced one of the most famous libretti
in the whole range of opera. _Carmen_ was brought out at the Opéra
Comique in 1875. Bizet’s occasional use of the Wagnerian leading motive
was perhaps responsible for some of the coldness with which the work
was originally received. Its passionate force was dubbed brutality,
though we now know that it is a most fine artistic feeling which makes
the score of _Carmen_ what it is. _Carmen_ was to Bizet what _Der
Freischütz_ was to Weber. It represents the absolute harmony of the
composer with his work. In modern opera of real artistic importance
it is the perfect model of the lyric song-play type, and as such it
has exercised a great influence on dramatic music. It is in every way
a masterpiece. The libretto is admirably concise and well balanced,
the music full of a lasting vitality, the orchestration brilliant.
Unhappily, only three months after its production in Paris the genial
composer died suddenly of heart trouble. His early death--he was
no more than thirty-seven--robbed the French school of one of its
brightest ornaments, one who had infused in the _drame lyrique_ of
Gounod and Thomas the vivifying breath of dramatic truth. The later
development of French operatic romanticism in Massenet and others,
as well as Saint-Saëns’ revival of the classic model, are more fitly
reserved for future consideration. Our present object has been to
describe the development of the _drame lyrique_ out of the older comic
opera, and in a manner this culminates in _Carmen_.
IV
We have still to give an account of the development of the _opéra
comique_ in another direction--that of farcical comedy, a task which
falls well within the chronological limits of this chapter. One
reason for the gradual approximation of the _opéra comique_ to the
_drame lyrique_ and grand opera, quite aside from the influence of
romanticism, lay in the appearance of the _opéra bouffe_, representing
parody, not sentiment. For if the _opéra comique_ and _drame lyrique_
of the first three quarters of the nineteenth century represented the
advance of artistic taste and the preference of the musically educated
for the essentially romantic rather than the merely entertaining; the
_opéra bouffe_ or farcical operetta, a small and trivial form, was the
delight of the musical groundlings of the second empire, at a time when
the pursuit of pleasure and the satisfaction of material wants were
the great preoccupations of society; Jacques Offenbach (1819-1880) was
in a sense the creator of this Parisian novelty. Though Offenbach was
born of German-Jewish parents in Cologne, the greater part of his life
was spent in Paris, and his music was more typically French than that
of any of his French rivals. The tone of French society during the
period of the Second Empire was set by the court. The court organized
innumerable entertainments, banquets, reviews, and gorgeous official
ceremonies which succeeded one another without interruption. Music
hall songs and _opéras bouffes_, races and public festivals, evening
restaurants and the amusements they provided, made the fame of this new
Paris. And the music of the music halls and _opéras bouffes_ was the
music of Offenbach, the offspring of ‘an eccentric, rather short-kilted
and disheveled Muse,’ who later assumed a soberer garb in the hands of
Lecocq, Audran, and Hervé.
In conjunction with Offenbach the librettists Meilhac and Ludovic
Halévy were the authors of these _operettes_ and _farces_ which
made the prosperity of the minor Parisian theatres of the period.
The libretto of the _opéra bouffe_ was usually one of intrigue,
witty, if coarse, and into the texture of which the representation
of contemporary whims and social oddities was cleverly interwoven.
Although the _opéras bouffes_ were broad and lively libels of the
society of the time, ‘they savored strongly of the vices and the
follies they were supposed to satirize.’ Offenbach was peculiarly
happy in developing in musical burlesque the extravagant character of
his situations. His melodic vein, though often trivial and vulgar,
was facile and spontaneous, and he was master of an ironical musical
humor.[106] The theatre which he opened as the ‘Bouffes Parisiens’
in 1855 was crowded night after night by those who came to hear his
brilliant, humorous trifles. _La grande duchesse de Gerolstein_, in
which the triumph of the Bouffes Parisiens culminated, is perhaps
the most popular burlesque operetta ever written, and it marked
the acceptance of _opéra bouffe_ as a new form worth cultivating.
Offenbach’s works were given all over Europe, were imitated by
Lecocq, Audran, Planquette, and others; and, being gay, tuneful, and
exhilarating, were not hindered in becoming popular by their want
of refinement. But after 1870 the vogue of parody largely declined,
and, though Offenbach composed industriously till the time of his
death and though his _opéras bouffes_ are still given here and there
at intervals, the form he created has practically passed away. As a
species akin in verbal texture to the _comédie grivoise_ of Collet,
adapted to the idiom of a later generation, and as a return of
the _opéra comique_ to the burlesque and extravagance of the old
vaudeville, the _opéra bouffe_ has a genuine historic interest.
But it must not be forgotten that Offenbach created at least one work
which is still a favorite number of the modern grand opera repertory.
This is _Les Contes d’Hoffmann_, a fantastic opera in three acts. It
appeared after his death. It is genuine _opéra comique_ of the romantic
type, rich in pleasing grace of expression, in variety of melodic
development, and grotesque fancy; and, though the music lacks depth, it
is descriptive and imaginatively interesting, wonderfully charming and
melodious, and has survived when the hundred or more _opéras bouffes_
which Offenbach composed are practically forgotten.
F. H. M.
V
Having described the trend of operatic development in various
directions, there remains only one class of composition which, though
partially allied to it in form, is usually so different in spirit as
to appear at first sight antagonistic--namely, choral song. Choral
song has had, especially in recent times, a distinct development
independent of the church, and in this broader field it has assumed
a new importance. The Romantic influence made itself felt even in the
church, though perhaps secondarily--for, like the Renaissance, it was
a purely secular movement. For purposes of convenience, however, the
secular and sacred works are here treated together.
[Illustration: Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy]
Of the choral church music of the German romantic period only two works
are frequently heard in these days--the ‘Elijah’ and ‘St. Paul’ of
Mendelssohn. The church had largely lost its hold over great composers,
and when it did succeed in attracting them it did so spasmodically and
by the romantic stimulus of its ritual rather than by direct patronage.
And the spirit of the time was not favorable to the oratorio form.
Mendelssohn’s great success in this field is due to his rare power of
revivifying classical procedure with romantic coloring. And his success
was far greater in pious and unoperatic England than in his native
land. The oratorio form did exercise some attraction for composers of
the period, but their activity took rather a secular form. Schumann,
who composed scarcely any music for the church, worked hard at secular
choral music.
Schubert, as a remnant of the classic age, wrote masses as a matter of
course. They are beautiful yet, and their lovely melodies rank beside
those of Mozart’s, though far below Mozart in mastery of the polyphonic
manner. Schubert’s cantata, ‘Miriam’s Song of Victory,’ written toward
the end of his life, is a charming work for chorus and soprano solo,
full of color and energy, conquering by its triumphantly expressive
melody.
In Byron’s ‘Manfred’ Schumann found a work which took his fancy, in
the morbid years of the decline of his mental powers. Byron’s hero
fell in love with his beautiful sister and locked himself up in a
lonely castle and communed with demons in his effort to live down his
incestuous affection. The soul of the man is shown in the well known
overture, and many of the emotional scenes have a tremendous power.
Perhaps best of all are the delicate choruses of the spirits. The great
vitality and beauty of the music make one wish that this work could
have been a music drama instead of disjointed scenes for concert use.
In ‘Paradise and the Peri’ Schumann found a subject dear to his heart,
but his creative power was failing and the musical result is uneven.
In the scenes from Goethe’s ‘Faust,’ especially in the mystical third
part, he rose higher, occasionally approaching his best level. The
spirit of these works, so intense, so genuine, so broad in conception,
so much more profound than that of his early piano pieces and songs,
make us want to protest against the fate that robbed him of his mental
balance, and robbed the world of what might have been a ‘third period’
analogous to Beethoven’s.
Mendelssohn was canny enough (whether consciously or not) to use the
thunder of romanticism in a modified form for his own profit. The
intensity of the romanticists had in his time achieved a little success
with the general public--to the extent of a love for flowing, sensuous
melody and a taste for pictorial music. This, and no more, Mendelssohn
adopted in his music. Hence he was the ‘sane’ romanticist of his time.
We can say this without depreciating his sound musicianship, which was
based on all that was greatest and best in German music. At times in
the ‘Elijah’ one can imagine one’s self in the atmosphere of Bach and
Handel. But not for long. Mendelssohn was writing pseudo-dramatic music
for the concert hall, and was tickling people’s love for the theatrical
while gratifying their weakness for respectable piety. At least this
characterization will hold for England, which took Mendelssohn with
a seriousness that seems quite absurd in our day. The ‘Elijah,’ in
fact, can be acted on the stage as an opera, and has been so acted
more than once. The wind and the rain which overtake the sacrifices
to Baal are vividly pictured in the music and throughout the work the
theatrical exploits of the holy man of God are made the most of. Yet
the choruses in ‘Elijah’ often attain a high nobility, and the deep
and sound musicianship, the mastery of counterpoint, and the sense of
formal balance which the work shows compel our respect. ‘St. Paul,’
written several years earlier, is in all ways an inferior work. There
is little in it of the high seriousness of Handel, and it could hardly
hold the place it still holds except for the melodic grace of some of
its arias. In all that makes oratorio dignified and compelling, Spohr’s
half-forgotten ‘Last Judgment,’ highly rated in its day, would have the
preference.
The bulk of the sacred music of the romantic period must be sought
for on the shelves of the musical libraries. Many a fine idea went
into this music. But it has never succeeded in permanently finding
a home in the church or in the concert hall. The Roman church, the
finest institution ever organized for the using of musical genius, has
steadily drawn away from the life of the world about it in the last
century. The Italian revolution of 1871, which resulted in the loss
of the Pope’s temporal power, was a symbol of the separation that had
been going on since the French Revolution. The church, drawing away
from contact whenever it felt its principles to be at stake, lost the
services of the distinguished men of art which it had had so absolutely
at its disposal during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Liszt,
pious Catholic throughout his later life, would have liked nothing
better than to become the Palestrina of the nineteenth century church,
but, though he had the personal friendship and admiration of the pope,
his music was always too theatrical to be quite acceptable to the
ecclesiastical powers. Since the distinguished men of secular music
have consistently failed to make permanent connections with the church
in these later days, it is a pity that the quality of scholarly and
excellent music which is written for it by the composers it retains
in its service is not known to the outside world. For the church has
a whole line of musicians of its own, but so far as the history of
European music is concerned they might as well never have existed.
Berlioz’s gigantic ‘Requiem,’ which is known to all music students,
is rarely performed. The reason is obvious; its vast demands on
orchestral and choral resources, described in the succeeding chapter,
make its adequate performance almost a physical as well as a financial
impossibility. The work is theatrical in the highest degree. Its four
separated orchestras, its excessive use of the brass, its effort after
vast masses of tone have no connection with a church service--nor were
they meant to have. On the whole, Berlioz was more interested in his
orchestra than in his music in this work. If reduced to the piano score
the ‘Requiem’ would seem flat and uninspired music. At the same time,
its apologists are right in claiming that outside of its orchestral and
choral dress it is not itself and cannot be judged. Given as it was
intended to be given, it is in the highest degree effective. Some of
the church music which Berlioz wrote in his earlier years has little
interest now except to the Berlioz student, but the oratorio ‘The
Childhood of Christ’ (for which the composer wrote the text) is a fine
work in his later chastened manner.
While Gounod is most usually known as a composer of opera, we must not
forget that he wrote for the church throughout his life, and that, in
the opinion of Saint-Saëns, his ‘St. Cecilia Mass,’ and the oratorios
‘The Redemption’ and _Mors et Vita_ will survive all his operas. In
all his sacred music Gounod has struck the happy medium between the
popularity which easy melodious and inoffensive harmony secure and the
solidity and strength due to a discreet following of the classic models.
Liszt wrote two pretentious choral works of uneven quality. The
‘Christus’ is obscured by the involved symbolism which the composer
took very seriously. But its use of Gregorian and traditional motives
is an idea worthy of Liszt, which becomes effective in establishing the
tone of religious grandeur. The ‘Legend of Saint Elizabeth’ is purely
secular, written to celebrate the dedication of the restored Wartburg,
the castle where Martin Luther was housed for some months, and the
scene of Wagner’s opera ‘Tannhäuser.’ This work is chiefly interesting
for its consistent and thorough use of the leit-motif principle. The
chief theme is a hymn sung in the sixteenth century on the festival of
St. Elizabeth--quite the best thing in the work. This appears in every
possible guise and transformation, corresponding with the progress of
the story. The scene which narrates the miracle of the roses is famous
for its mystic atmosphere, but on the whole the ‘legend’ has far too
much pomp and circumstance and far too little music.
In his masses Liszt touched the level of greatness. The Graner mass,
written during the Weimar period, is ambitious in the extreme, using an
orchestra of large proportions and a wealth of Lisztian technique. Here
the imagination of the man becomes truly stirred by the grandeur of the
church. But the most interesting of Liszt’s religious works, from the
point of view of the æsthetic theorist, is the ‘Hungarian Coronation
Mass,’ written for performance in Buda-Pesth. Here Liszt, returning
under triumphal auspices to his native land, tried an astonishing
experiment. He used for his themes the dance rhythms and the national
scales of his people. In the _Kyrie_ it is the Lassan--the dance which
forms the first movement to nearly all the Rhapsodies. It is there,
unmistakable, but ennobled and dignified without being distorted. The
well known cadence, with its firm accent and its subsequent ‘twist,’
continues, with more and more emphasis to an impressive climax, then
dies away in supplication. In the _Qui tollis_ section of the _Gloria_
Liszt uses a Hungarian scale, with its interval of the minor third,
utterly removed from the spirit of the Gregorian mass. Again, in the
_Benedictus_, the solo violin fiddles a tune with accents and grace
notes in the spirit of the extemporization which Liszt heard so often
among the gypsies in the fields. We are aghast at these experiments.
They have met with disfavor; the church naturally will have none of
such a tendency, and most hearers will pronounce it sacrilegious and go
their way without listening.
So we may perhaps hear no more from Liszt’s experiment of introducing
folk elements into sacred music. But it was done in the music of this
same Roman church in the fifteenth century. It was done in the Lutheran
church in the sixteenth century. The attitude of the church in regard
to this is an ecclesiastical matter. But it is impossible for an
open-minded music lover to hear the Hungarian Mass and pronounce it
sacrilegious.
H. K. M.
FOOTNOTES:
[100] Born, Zittau, Saxony, 1795; died, Hanover, 1861. Like Schumann,
he went to Leipzig to study law but abandoned it for music. A patron
took him to Vienna. He secured a tutorship in Pressburg and there wrote
three operas, the last of which Weber performed in Dresden in 1820.
There Marschner secured employment as musical director at the opera,
but after Weber’s death (1826) went to Leipzig as conductor at the
theatre. From 1831 till 1859 he was court kapellmeister in Hanover.
[101] Otto Nicolai, born Königsberg, 1810; died, Berlin, 1849.
[102] Born, Mainz, 1824; died there 1874.
[103] In 1894 Thomas’ _Mignon_ was given for the thousandth time in
Paris.
[104] Orchestrated by Massenet and produced in 1893.
[105] See Vol. XI.
[106] His best works are: _Orphée aux Enfers_ (1858), _La belle Hélène_
(1864), _Barbe-Bleue_ and _La vie parisienne_ (1866), _La grande
duchesse de Gerolstein_ (1867), _La Périchole_ (1868), and _Madame
Favart_ (1879).