HISTORY AND MYTHOLOGY IN OPERA
Oceans of ink have been spilled in discussing the question of whether
the subjects of operas should be taken from history or mythology, and
the question is still a mooted one. To my mind it would have been better
if the question had never been raised, for it is of little consequence
what the answer is. The only things worth while are whether the music is
good and the work interesting. But _Tannhauser_, _Lohengrin_, _Tristan_
and _Siegfried_ appeared and the question sprang up. The heroes of
mythology, we are told, are invested with a prestige which historical
characters can never have. Their deeds lose significance and in their
place we have their feelings, their emotions, to the great benefit of
the operas. After these works, however, _Hans Sachs_ (Die Meistersinger)
appeared, and although he is not mythical at all he is a fine figure
nevertheless. But in this case the plot is of little account, for the
interest lies mainly in the emotions--the only thing, it appears, which
music with its divine language ought to express.
It is true that music makes it possible to simplify dramatic action and
it gives a chance, as well, for the free expression and play of
sentiments, emotions and passions. In addition, music makes possible
pantomimic scenes which could not be done otherwise, and the music
itself flows more easily under such conditions. But that does not mean
that such conditions are indispensable for music. Music in its
flexibility and adaptability offers inexhaustible resources. Give Mozart
a fairy tale like the _Magic Flute_ or a lively comedy such as _Le Nozze
di Figaro_ and he creates without effort an immortal masterpiece.
It is a question whether there is any essential difference between
history and mythology. History is made up of what probably happened;
mythology of what probably did not happen. There are myths in history
and history in myths. Mythology is merely the old form of history.
Every myth is rooted in truth. And we have to seek for this truth in
the fable, just as we try to reconstruct extinct animals from the
remains Time has preserved to us. Behind the story of Prometheus we see
the invention of fire; behind the loves of Ceres and Triptolemus the
invention of the plow and the beginnings of agriculture. The adventures
of the Argonauts show us the first attempts at voyages of exploration
and the discovery of gold mines. Volumes have been written about the
truths behind the fables, and explanations have been found for the
strangest facts of mythology, even for the metamorphoses which Ovid
described so poetically.
Halfway between history and mythology come the sacred writings. Each
race has its own. Ours are the Old and New Testament. Many believe that
these books are myths; a larger number--the Believers--that they are
history, Sacred History, the only true history--the only one about which
it is not permitted to express a doubt. If you want a proof of this,
recall that not so many years ago a clergyman in the Church of England
was censured by his ecclesiastical superiors for daring to say in a
sermon that the Serpent in the Garden of Eden was symbolical and not a
real creature.
And the ecclesiastical authorities were right. The basis of Christianity
is the Redemption--the incarnation and sacrifice of God himself to blot
out the stain of the first great sin and also to open the Kingdom of
Heaven to men. That original sin was Adam's fall, when he followed the
example of Eve, a victim of the Serpent's treacherous counsels, and
disobeyed the command not to taste the Forbidden Fruit. Eliminate the
Garden of Eden, the Serpent, the Forbidden Fruit, and the entire fabric
of Christianity crumbles.
If we turn to profane history and take any historical work, we find that
the facts are told in such a way that they seem to us beyond dispute.
But if we see the same facts from the pen of another historian, we no
longer recognize them. The reason is that a writer almost never
undertakes the task of wrestling with the giant, History, unless he is
impelled to do so by a preconceived idea, by a general conception, or a
system he wants to establish. And whether he wants to or not, he sees
the facts in a light favorable to his preconceived idea, and observes
them through prisms which increase or diminish their importance at his
will. Then, however great his discernment and however strong his desire
to reach the truth, it is doubtful if he ever will. In history, as
elsewhere, absolute truth escapes mankind. Louis XIV, Louis XV, Madame
de Maintenon, Madame de Pompadour, Louis XVI, even Napoleon and
Josephine, so near our own times, are already quasi-mythical characters.
The Louis XIII of _Marion de Lorme_ seemed until very lately to be
accurate, but recent discoveries show us that he was quite different.
Napoleon III reigned only yesterday, but his picture is already painted
in different tints. My entire youth was passed in his reign and my
recollections represent him neither as the monster depicted by Victor
Hugo nor the kind sympathetic sovereign of present-day stories.
There has been a great deal of discussion of the causes which brought on
the War of 1870. We know all that was said and done during the last days
of that crisis, but will anyone ever know what was hidden in the minds
of the sovereigns, the ministers, and the ambassadors? Will it ever be
known whether the Emperor provoked Gramont or Gramont the Emperor? Did
they even know themselves? There is one thing the most discerning
historian can never reach--the depths of the human soul.
We may, however, learn the secrets of the tomb. It was asserted for a
long time that the remains of Voltaire and Rousseau had been exhumed,
desecrated, and thrown into the sewers. Victor Hugo wrote a wonderful
account of this--an account such as only he could write. One fine day
doubt about this occurrence popped up unexpectedly. After waiting a long
time it was decided to get to the heart of the matter, and they finally
opened the coffins of the two great men. They were peacefully sleeping
their last sleep. The deed never took place; its history was a myth.
In this connection Victor Hugo's credulity may be mentioned, for it was
astonishing in a man of such colossal genius. He believed in the most
incredible things, as the "Man in the Iron Mask," the twin brother of
Louis XIV; in the octopus that has no mouth and feeds itself through its
arms; and in the reality of the Japanese sirens which the Japanese were
said to make out of an ape and a fish. He had some excuse for the sirens
as the Académie des Sciences believed in them for a short time.
If what is called history is so near mythology as, many times, to be
confounded with it, what about romance and the historical drama in which
events, entirely imaginative, must of necessity find a place? What about
the long-drawn-out conversations in books and on the stage that are
attributed to historical persons? What about the actions attributed to
them, which need not be true but only seem to be so? The supernatural
element is the only thing lacking to make such works mythological in
every way.
Now the supernatural lends itself admirably to expression in music and
music finds in the supernatural a wealth of resources. But these
resources are by no means indispensable. What music must have above all
are emotions and passions laid bare and set in action by what we term
the situation. And where can one find more or better situations than in
history?
* * * * *
From the time of Lulli until the end of the Eighteenth Century French
opera was legendary, that is to say, it was mythological in character
and was not, as has been pretended, limited to the depiction of emotion
and the inner feelings in order to avoid contingencies. The real motive
was to find in fables material for a spectacle. Tragedy, as we know,
does not do this, for it can be developed only with considerable
difficulty when the stage is crowded with actors. On the contrary,
opera, which is free in its movements and can fill a vast stage, seeks
for pomp, display and haloes in which gods and goddesses appear, in fact
all that can be put into a stage-setting. If they did not use local
color, it was because local color had not been invented. Finally, as we
all get tired of everything, so they tired of mythology. Then the
historical work was adopted and appeared on the stage with success, as
is well known. The historical method had no rival until _Robert le
Diable_ rather timidly brought back the legendary element which
triumphed later in the work of Richard Wagner.
In the meantime _Les Huguenots_ succeeded _Robert le Diable_ and for
half a century this was the bright particular star of historical opera.
Even now, although its traditions have largely been forgotten and
although its workmanship is rather inferior to that of a later time,
this memorable work nevertheless shines, like the setting sun,
surprisingly brilliantly. The several generations who admired this work
were not altogether wrong. There is no necessity to class this brilliant
success as a failure, because Robert Schumann, who knew nothing about
the stage, denied its worth. It is surprising that Berlioz's judgment
has not been set against Schumann's. Berlioz showed his enthusiasm for
_Les Huguenots_ in his famous treatise on instrumentation.
The great public is little interested in technical polemics and is
faithful to the old successes. Although little by little success has
come to operas based on legends, there still remains a taste for operas
with a historical background. This is not without a reason for as an
authoritative critic has said: "A historical drama may contain lyric
possibilities far greater than most of the poor, weak mythological
librettos on which composers waste their strength, fully persuaded that
by doing so they cause 'the holy spirit of Bayreuth to descend upon
them.'"
And they never would have dreamed of being mythological, if their god,
instead of turning to Scandinavian mythology, had followed his original
intention of dramatizing the exploits of Frederick Barbarossa. In his
youth he was not opposed to historical opera, for he eulogized _La
Musette de Portici_, _La Juive_, and _La Reine de Chypre_. He made some
justifiable criticisms of the libretto of the last work, although he
admitted that the composer had contrived to write beautiful passages.
"We cannot praise Halévy too highly," he wrote, "for the firmness with
which he resists every temptation, to which many of his contemporaries
succumb, to steal easy applause by relying blindly on the talent of the
singers. On the contrary, he demands that his _virtuosi_, even the most
famous of them, shall subordinate themselves to the lofty inspiration
of his Muse. He attains this result by the simplicity and truth he knows
how to stamp on dramatic melodies."
This is what Richard Wagner said about _La Juive_ in 1842.
Fortunately we no longer demand that operas be mythological, for if we
did we should have to condemn the famous Russian operas and that is out
of the question. However, the method of treatment is still in dispute
and this question is involved. One method of treatment is admitted and
another is not and it is extremely difficult to tell what is what.
I am now going to do a little special pleading for my _Henri VIII_,
which, it would seem, is not in the proper manner. Not that I want to
defend the music or to protest against the criticisms it has inspired,
for that is not done. But I may, perhaps, be permitted to speak of the
piece itself and to tell how the music was adapted to it.
According to the critics it would seem that the whole of _Henri VIII_ is
superficial and without depth, _en façade_; that the souls of the
characters are not revealed, and that the King, at first all sugary
sweetness, suddenly becomes a monster without any preparation for, or
explanation of, the change.
In this connection let us consider _Boris Godounof_, for there is a
historical drama suited to its music. I saw _Boris Godounof_ with
considerable interest. I heard pleasant and impressive passages, and
others less so. In one scene I saw an insignificant friar who suddenly
becomes the Emperor in the next scene. One entire act is made up of
processions, the ringing of bells, popular songs, and dazzling costumes.
In another scene a nurse tells pretty stories to the children in her
charge. Then there is a love duet, which is neither introduced nor has
any relationship to the development of the work; an incomprehensible
evening entertainment, and, finally, funeral scenes in which Chaliapine
was admirable. It was not my fault if I did not discover in all that the
inner life, the psychology, the introductions, and the explanations
which they complain they do not find in _Henri VIII_.
"To Henry VIII," it is stated at the beginning of the work, "nothing is
sacred, neither friendship, love nor his word--ill are playthings of
his mad whims. He knows neither law nor justice." And when, a little
later, smiling, the King hands the holy water to the ambassador he is
receiving, the orchestra reveals the working of his mind by repeating
the music of the preceding scene. From beginning to end the work is
written in this way. But dissertations on such details have not been
given the public; the themes of felony, cruelty, and duplicity, and of
this and that, have not, as is the fashion of the day, been underlined,
so that the critics are excusable for not seeing them.
Not a scene, not a word, they say, shows the soul of Henry VIII. I would
like to ask if it is not revealed in the great scene between Henry and
Catharine, where he plays with her as a cat with a mouse, where he veils
his desire to be rid of her under his religious scruples, and where he
heaps on her constantly vile and cruel insinuations, or even in the last
scene with its cruel hypocrisies. It is difficult to see why all his
passions and all his feelings are not brought into play here. The
Russian librettos do no more, nor the operas based on mythology.
But to continue. From the point of view of opera mythology offers one
advantage in the use of the miraculous. But the rest of the mythical
element offers, rather, difficulties. Characters who never existed and
in whom no one believes cannot be made interesting in themselves. They
do not sustain, as is sometimes supposed, the music and poetry. On the
contrary, the music and poetry give them such reality as they possess.
We could not endure the interminable utterances of the mournful Wotan,
if it were not for the wonderful music that accompanies them. Orpheus
weeping over Eurydice would not move us greatly, if Gluck had not known
how to captivate us by his first notes. If it were not for Mozart's
music, the puppets of the _Magic Flute_ would amount to nothing.
Musicians should, as a matter of fact, be allowed to choose both the
subject and motives for their operas according to their temperaments and
their feelings. Much youthful talent is lost to-day because the young
composers believe that they must obey set rules instead of obeying their
own inspiration. All great artists, the illustrious Richard more than
any other, mocked the critics.
As I have spoken of Richard Wagner's youth, I will take advantage of the
opportunity to reveal a secret of one of his own works which is known to
me alone. When Wagner was young, I was a child and I attended constantly
the sessions of the Société des Concerts. The kettledrummer of that day
had a peculiar habit of breaking in before the rest of the orchestra.
When the others began, it produced an effect which the authors had
hardly foreseen and which was certain to be condemned. But the effect
had a rather distinctive character and I thought it might be possible to
use it. Richard Wagner lived in Paris at the time and frequented the
famous concerts. There is no doubt that he noted this effect and used it
in his overture to _Faust_.