IV.

The first element to be noted in Wagner's operatic forms is the

energetic protest against the artificial and conventional in music. The

utter want of dramatic symmetry and fitness in the operas we have been

accustomed to hear could only be overlooked by the force of habit, and

the tendency to submerge all else in the mere enjoyment of the music.

The utter variance of music and poetry was to Wagner the stumbling-block

which, first of all, must be removed. So he crushed at one stroke all

the hard, arid forms which existed in the lyrical drama as it had been

known. His opera, then, is no longer a congeries of separate musical

numbers, like duets, arias, chorals, and finales, set in a flimsy web

of formless recitative, without reference to dramatic economy. His great

purpose is lofty dramatic truth, and to this end he sacrifices the whole

framework of accepted musical forms, with the exception of the chorus,

and this he remodels. The musical energy is concentrated in the dialogue

as the main factor of the dramatic problem, and fashioned entirely

according to the requirements of the action. The continuous flow of

beautiful melody takes the place alike of the dry recitative and the set

musical forms which characterize the accepted school of opera. As

the dramatic _motif_ demands, this "continuous melody" rises into the

highest ecstasies of the lyrical fervor, or ebbs into a chant-like

swell of subdued feeling, like the ocean after the rush of the storm.

If Wagner has destroyed musical forms, he has also added a positive

element. In place of the aria we have the _logos_. This is the musical

expression of the principal passion underlying the action of the drama.

Whenever, in the course of the development of the story, this passion

comes into ascendency, the rich strains of the _logos_ are heard anew,

stilling all other sounds. Gounod has, in part, applied this principle

in "Faust." All opera-goers will remember the intense dramatic effect

arising from the recurrence of the same exquisite lyric outburst from

the lips of Marguerite.

The peculiar character of Wagner's word-drama next arouses critical

interest and attention. The composer is his own poet, and his creative

genius shines no less here than in the world of tone. The musical energy

flows entirely from the dramatic conditions, like the electrical current

from the cups of the battery; and the rhythmical structure of the

_melos_ (tune) is simply the transfiguration of the poetical basis. The

poetry, then, is all-important in the music-drama. Wagner has rejected

the forms of blank verse and rhyme as utterly unsuited to the lofty

purposes of music, and has gone to the metrical principle of all the

Teutonic and Slavonic poetry. This rhythmic element of alliteration,

or _staffrhyme_, we find magnificently illustrated in the Scandinavian

Eddas, and even in our own Anglo-Saxon fragments of the days of Cædmon

and Alcuin. By the use of this new form, verse and melody glide together

in one exquisite rhythm, in which it seems impossible to separate the

one from the other. The strong accents of the alliterating syllables

supply the music with firmness, while the low-toned syllables give

opportunity for the most varied _nuances_ of declamation.

The first radical development of Wagner's theories we see in "The Flying

Dutchman." In "Tanhhäser" and "Lohengrin" they find full sway. The utter

revolt of his mind from the trivial and commonplace sentimentalities of

Italian opera led him to believe that the most heroic and lofty motives

alone should furnish the dramatic foundation of opera. For a while he

oscillated between history and legend, as best adapted to furnish his

material. In his selection of the dream-land of myth and legend, we

may detect another example of the profound and _exigeant_ art-instincts

which have ruled the whole of Wagner's life. There could be no question

as to the utter incongruity of any dramatic picture of ordinary events,

or ordinary personages, finding expression in musical utterance. Genuine

and profound art must always be consistent with itself, and what we

recognize as general truth. Even characters set in the comparatively

near hack-ground of history are too closely related to our own familiar

surroundings of thought and mood to be regarded as artistically natural

in the use of music as the organ of the every-day life of emotion and

sentiment. But with the dim and heroic shapes that haunt the border-land

of the supernatural, which we call legend, the case is far different.

This is the drama of the demigods, living in a different atmosphere from

our own, however akin to ours may be their passions and purposes. For

these we are no longer compelled to regard the medium of music as a

forced and untruthful expression, for do they not dwell in the magic

lands of the imagination? All sense of dramatic inconsistency instantly

vanishes, and the conditions of artistic illusion are perfect.

"'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,

And clothes the mountains with their azure hue."

Thus all of Wagner's works, from "Der fliegende Hollander" to the "Ring

der Nibelungen," have been located in the world of myth, in obedience

to a profound art-principle. The opera of "Tristan and Iseult," first

performed in 1865, announced Wagner's absolute emancipation, both in

the construction of music and poetry, from the time-honored and

time-corrupted canons, and, aside from the last great work, it may be

received as the most perfect representation of his school.

The third main feature in the Wagner music is the wonderful use of the

orchestra as a factor in the solution of the art-problem. This is no

longer a mere accompaniment to the singer, but translates the passion

of the play into a grand symphony, running parallel and commingling with

the vocal music. Wagner, as a great master of orchestration, has had

few equals since Beethoven; and he uses his power with marked effect to

heighten the dramatic intensity of the action, and at the same time

to convey certain meanings which can only find vent in the vague and

indistinct forms of pure music. The romantic conception of the mediæval

love, the shudderings and raptures of Christian revelation, have certain

phases that absolute music alone can express. The orchestra, then,

becomes as much an integral part of the music-drama, in its actual

current movement, as the chorus or the leading performers. Placed on the

stage, yet out of sight, its strains might almost be fancied the sound

of the sympathetic communion of good and evil spirits, with whose

presence mystics formerly claimed man was constantly surrounded.

Wagner's use of the orchestra may be illustrated from the opera of

"Lohengrin."

The ideal background, from which the emotions of the human actors in the

drama are reflected with supernatural light, is the conception of the

"Holy Graal," the mystic symbol of the Christian faith, and its descent

from the skies, guarded by hosts of seraphim. This is the subject of the

orchestral prelude, and never have the sweetnesses and terrors of the

Christian ecstasy been more potently expressed. The prelude opens with

long-drawn chords of the violins, in the highest octaves, in the most

exquisite _pianissimo_. The inner eye of the spirit discerns in this the

suggestion of shapeless white clouds, hardly discernible from the aerial

blue of the sky. Suddenly the strings seem to sound from the farthest

distance, in continued _pianissimo_, and the melody, the Graal-motive,

takes shape. Gradually, to the fancy, a group of angels seem to reveal

themselves, slowly descending from the heavenly heights, and bearing

in their midst the _Sangréal_. The modulations throb through the air,

augmenting in richness and sweetness, till the _fortissimo_ of the full

orchestra reveals the sacred mystery. With this climax of spiritual

ecstasy the harmonious waves gradually recede and ebb away in dying

sweetness, as the angels return to their heavenly abode. This orchestral

movement recurs in the opera, according to the laws of dramatic fitness,

and its melody is heard also in the _logos_ of Lohengrin, the knight of

the Graal, to express certain phases of his action. The immense power

which music is thus made to have in dramatic effect can easily be

fancied.

A fourth prominent characteristic of the Wagner music-drama is that, to

develop its full splendor, there must be a cooperation of all the arts,

painting, sculpture, and architecture, as well as poetry and music.

Therefore, in realizing its effects, much importance rests in the

visible beauties of action, as they may be expressed by the painting

of scenery and the grouping of human figures. Well may such a grand

conception be called the "Art-work of the Future."

Wagner for a long time despaired of the visible execution of his

ideas. At last the celebrated pianist Tausig suggested an appeal to the

admirers of the new music throughout the world for means to carry

out the composer's great idea, viz., to perform the "Nibelungen" at a

theatre to be erected for the purpose, and by a select company, in the

manner of a national festival, and before an audience entirely removed

from the atmosphere of vulgar theatrical shows. After many delays

Wagner's hopes were attained, and in the summer of 1876 a gathering of

the principal celebrities of Europe was present to criticise the fully

perfected fruit of the composer's theories and genius. This festival

was so recent, and its events have been the subject of such elaborate

comment, that further description will be out of place here.

As a great musical poet, rather epic than dramatic in his powers,

there can be no question as to Wagner's rank. The performance of the

"Nibelungenring," covering "Rheingold," "Die Walküren," "Siegfried," and

"Götterdämmerung," was one of the epochs of musical Germany. However

deficient Wagner's skill in writing for the human voice, the power and

symmetry of his conceptions, and his genius in embodying them in

massive operatic forms, are such as to storm even the prejudices of his

opponents. The poet-musician rightfully claims that in his music-drama

is found that wedding of two of the noblest of the arts, pregnantly

suggested by Shakespeare:

"If Music and sweet Poetry both agree,

As they must needs, the sister and the brother;

One God is God of both, as poets feign."