Chapter XV: Act III: In a rocky mountain gorge Adolar draws his sword and is (2)

Characteristic in this overture, and also throughout the opera, especially in _Senta's_ ballad, is what may be called the Ocean Motive, which most graphically depicts the wild and terrible aspect of the ocean during a storm. It is varied from time to time, but never loses its characteristic force and weirdness. The overture ends with an impassioned burst of melody based upon a portion of the concluding phrases of _Senta's_ ballad; phrases which we hear once more at the end of the opera when she sacrifices herself in order to save her lover.

A wild and stormy scene is disclosed when the curtain rises upon the first act. The sea occupies the greater part of the scene, and stretches itself out far toward the horizon. A storm is raging. _Daland's_ ship has sought shelter in a little cove formed by the cliffs. Sailors are employed in furling sails and coiling ropes. _Daland_ is standing on a rock, looking about him to discover in what place they are. The orchestra, chiefly with the wild ocean music heard in the overture, depicts the raging of the storm, and above it are heard the shouts of the sailors at work: "Ho-jo-he! Hal-lo-jo!"

_Daland_ discovers that they have missed their port by seven miles on account of the storm, and deplores his bad luck that when so near his home and his beloved child, he should have been driven out of his course. As the storm seems to be abating the sailors descend into the hold and _Daland_ goes down into the cabin to rest, leaving his steersman in charge of the deck. The steersman walks the deck once or twice and then sits down near the rudder, yawning, and then rousing himself as if sleep were coming over him. As if to force himself to remain awake he intones a sailor song, an exquisite little melody, with a dash of the sea in its undulating measures. He intones the second verse, but sleep overcomes him and the phrases become more and more detached, until at last he falls asleep.

The storm begins to rage again and it grows darker. Suddenly the ship of the _Flying Dutchman_, with blood-red sails and black mast, looms up in the distance. She glides over the waves as if she did not feel the storm at all, and quickly enters the harbour over against the ship of the Norwegian; then silently and without the least noise the spectral crew furl the sails. The _Dutchman_ goes on shore.

Here now occur the weird, dramatic recitative and aria: "The term is passed, and once again are ended seven long years." As the _Dutchman_ leans in brooding silence against a rock in the foreground, _Daland_ comes out of the cabin and observes the ship. He rouses the steersman, who begins singing again a phrase of his song, until _Daland_ points out the strange vessel to him, when he springs up and hails her through a speaking trumpet. _Daland_, however, perceives the _Dutchman_ and going ashore questions him. It is then that the _Dutchman_, after relating a mariner's story of ill luck and disaster, asks _Daland_ to take him to his home and allow him to woo his daughter, offering him his treasures. At this point we have a graceful and pretty duet, _Daland_ readily consenting that the _Dutchman_ accompany him. The storm having subsided and the wind being fair, the crews of the vessels hoist sail to leave port, _Daland's_ vessel disappearing just as the _Dutchman_ goes on board his ship.

After an introduction in which we hear a portion of the steersman's song, and also that phrase which denotes the appearance of the _Dutchman's_ vessel in the harbour, the curtain rises upon a room in _Daland's_ house. On the walls are pictures of vessels, charts, and on the farther wall the portrait of a pale man with a dark beard. _Senta_, leaning back in an armchair, is absorbed in dreamy contemplation of the portrait. Her old nurse, _Mary_, and her young friends are sitting in various parts of the room, spinning. Here we have that charming musical number famous all the musical world over, perhaps largely through Liszt's admirable piano arrangement of it, the "Spinning Chorus." For graceful and engaging beauty it cannot be surpassed, and may be cited as a striking instance of Wagner's gift of melody, should anybody at this late day be foolish enough to require proof of his genius in that respect. The girls tease _Senta_ for gazing so dreamily at the portrait of the _Flying Dutchman_, and finally ask her if she will not sing his ballad.

This ballad is a masterpiece of composition, vocally and instrumentally, being melodious as well as descriptive. It begins with the storm music familiar from the overture, and with the weird measures of the Flying Dutchman's Motive, which sound like a voice calling in distress across the sea.

[Music]

_Senta_ repeats the measures of this motive, and then we have the simple phrases beginning: "A ship the restless ocean sweeps." Throughout this portion of the ballad the orchestra depicts the surging and heaving of the ocean, _Senta's_ voice ringing out dramatically above the accompaniment. She then tells how he can be delivered from his curse, this portion being set to the measures which were heard in the overture, _Senta_ finally proclaiming, in the broadly delivered, yet rapturous phrases with which the overture ends,

[Music]

that she is the woman who will save him by being faithful to him unto death. The girls about her spring up in terror and _Eric_, who has just entered the door and heard her outcry, hastens to her side. He brings news of the arrival of _Daland's_ vessel, and _Mary_ and the girls hasten forth to meet the sailors. _Senta_ wishes to follow, but _Eric_ restrains her and pleads his love for her in melodious measures. _Senta_, however, will not give him an answer at this time. He then tells her of a dream he has had, in which he saw a weird vessel from which two men, one her father, the other a ghastly-looking stranger, made their way. Her he saw going to the stranger and entreating him for his regard.

_Senta_, worked up to the highest pitch of excitement by _Eric's_ words, now exclaims: "He seeks for me and I for him," and _Eric_, full of despair and horror, rushes away. _Senta_, after her outburst of excitement, remains again sunk in contemplation of the picture, softly repeating the measures of her romance. The door opens and the _Dutchman_ and _Daland_ appear. The _Dutchman_ is the first to enter. _Senta_ turns from the picture to him, and, uttering a loud cry of wonder, remains standing as if transfixed without removing her eyes from the _Dutchman_. _Daland_, seeing that she does not greet him, comes up to her. She seizes his hand and after a hasty greeting asks him who the stranger is. _Daland_ tells her of the stranger's request, and leaves them alone. Then follows a duet for _Senta_ and the _Dutchman_, with its broad, smoothly-flowing melody and its many phrases of dramatic power, in which _Senta_ gives herself up unreservedly to the hero of her romantic attachment, _Daland_ finally entering and adding his congratulations to their betrothal. This scene closes the act.

The music of it re-echoes through the introduction of the next act and goes over into a vigorous sailors' chorus and dance. The scene shows a bay with a rocky shore. _Daland's_ house is in the foreground on one side, the background is occupied by his and the _Dutchman's_ ships, which lie near one another. The Norwegian ship is lighted up, and all the sailors are making merry on the deck. In strange contrast is the _Flying Dutchman's_ vessel. An unnatural darkness hangs over it and the stillness of death reigns aboard. The sailors and the girls in their merry-making call loudly toward the Dutch ship to join them, but no reply is heard from the weird vessel. Finally the sailors call louder and louder and taunt the crew of the other ship. Then suddenly the sea, which has been quite calm, begins to rise. The storm wind whistles through the cordage of the strange vessel, and as dark bluish flames flare up in the rigging, the weird crew show themselves, and sing a wild chorus, which strikes terror into all the merrymakers. The girls have fled, and the Norwegian sailors quit their deck, making the sign of the cross. The crew of the Flying Dutchman observing this, disappear with shrill laughter. Over their ship comes the stillness of death. Thick darkness is spread over it and the air and the sea become calm as before.

_Senta_ now comes with trembling steps out of the house. She is followed by _Eric_. He pleads with her and entreats her to remember his love for her, and speaks also of the encouragement which she once gave him. The _Dutchman_ has entered unperceived and has been listening. _Eric_ seeing him, at once recognizes the man of ghastly mien whom he saw in his vision. When the _Flying Dutchman_ bids her farewell, because he deems himself abandoned, and _Senta_ endeavours to follow him, _Eric_ holds her and summons others to his aid. But, in spite of all resistance, _Senta_ seeks to tear herself loose. Then it is that the _Flying Dutchman_ proclaims who he is and puts to sea. _Senta_, however, freeing herself, rushes to a cliff overhanging the sea, and calling out,

"Praise thou thine angel for what he saith;
Here stand I faithful, yea, to death,"

casts herself into the sea. Then occurs the concluding tableau, the work ending with the portion of the ballad which brought the overture and spinning scene to a close.

TANNHÄUSER

UND DER SÄNGERKRIEG AUF DEM WARTBURG

(AND THE SONG CONTEST AT THE WARTBURG)

Opera in three acts, words and music by Richard Wagner.
Produced, Royal Opera, Dresden, October 19, 1845. Paris,
Grand Opéra, March 13, 1861. London, Covent Garden, May 6,
1876, in Italian; Her Majesty's Theatre, February 14, 1882,
in English; Drury Lane, May 23, 1882, in German, under Hans
Richter. New York, Stadt Theatre, April 4, 1859, and July,
1861, conducted by Carl Bergmann; under Adolff Neuendorff's
direction, 1870, and, Academy of Music, 1877; Metropolitan
Opera House, opening night of German Opera, under Dr.
Leopold Damrosch, November 17, 1884, with Seidl-Kraus as
_Elizabeth_, Anna Slach as _Venus_, Schott as _Tannhäuser_,
Adolf Robinson as _Wolfram_, Josef Kögel as the _Landgrave_.

CHARACTERS

HERMANN, Landgrave of Thuringia _Bass_
TANNHÄUSER } _Tenor_
WOLFRAM VON ESCHENBACH } _Baritone_
WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE } Knights and _Tenor_
BITEROLF } Minnesinger _Bass_
HEINRICH DER SCHREIBER } _Tenor_
REINMAR VON ZWETER } _Bass_
ELIZABETH, niece of the Landgrave _Soprano_
VENUS _Soprano_
A YOUNG SHEPHERD _Soprano_
FOUR NOBLE PAGES _Soprano and Alto_

Nobles, Knights, Ladies, elder and younger Pilgrims, Sirens,
Naiads, Nymphs, Bacchantes.

_Time_--Early Thirteenth Century.

_Place_--Near Eisenach.

The story of "Tannhäuser" is laid in and near the Wartburg, where, during the thirteenth century, the Landgraves of the Thuringian Valley held sway. They were lovers of art, especially of poetry and music, and at the Wartburg many peaceful contests between the famous minnesingers took place. Near this castle rises the Venusberg. According to tradition the interior of this mountain was inhabited by Holda, the Goddess of Spring, who, however, in time became identified with the Goddess of Love. Her court was filled with nymphs and sirens, and it was her greatest joy to entice into the mountain the knights of the Wartburg and hold them captive to her beauty.

Among those whom she has thus lured into the rosy recesses of the Venusberg is _Tannhäuser_.

In spite of her beauty, however, he is weary of her charms and longs for a glimpse of the world. He seems to have heard the tolling of bells and other earthly sounds, and these stimulate his yearning to be set free from the magic charms of the goddess.

In vain she prophesies evil to him should he return to the world. With the cry that his hope rests in the Virgin, he tears himself away from her. In one of the swiftest and most effective of scenic changes the court of _Venus_ disappears and in a moment we see _Tannhäuser_ prostrate before a cross in a valley upon which the Wartburg peacefully looks down. _Pilgrims_ on their way to Rome pass him by and _Tannhäuser_ thinks of joining them in order that at Rome he may obtain forgiveness for his crime in allowing himself to be enticed into the Venusberg. But at that moment the _Landgrave_ and a number of minnesingers on their return from the chase come upon him and, recognizing him, endeavour to persuade him to return to the Wartburg with them. Their pleas, however, are vain, until one of them, _Wolfram von Eschenbach_, tells him that since he has left the Wartburg a great sadness has come over the niece of the _Landgrave_, _Elizabeth_. It is evident that _Tannhäuser_ has been in love with her, and that it is because of her beauty and virtue that he regrets so deeply having been lured into the Venusberg. For _Wolfram's_ words stir him profoundly. To the great joy of all, he agrees to return to the Wartburg, the scene of his many triumphs as a minnesinger in the contests of song.

Farrar as Elizabeth in "Tannhäuser"]

"Tannhäuser," Finale, Act II

Tannhäuser (Maclennan), Elizabeth (Fornia), Wolfram (Dean)

The Landgrave (Cranston)]

The _Landgrave_, feeling sure that _Tannhäuser_ will win the prize at the contest of song soon to be held, offers the hand of his niece to the winner. The minnesingers sing tamely of the beauty of virtuous love, but _Tannhäuser_, suddenly remembering the seductive and magical beauties of the Venusberg, cannot control himself, and bursts out into a reckless hymn in praise of _Venus_. Horrified at his words, the knights draw their swords and would slay him, but _Elizabeth_ throws herself between him and them. Crushed and penitent, _Tannhäuser_ stands behind her, and the _Landgrave_, moved by her willingness to sacrifice herself for her sinful lover, announces that he will be allowed to join a second band of pilgrims who are going to Rome and to plead with the Pope for forgiveness.

_Elizabeth_ prayerfully awaits his return; but, as she is kneeling by the crucifix in front of the Wartburg, the _Pilgrims_ pass her by and in the band she does not see her lover. Slowly and sadly she returns to the castle to die. When the _Pilgrims'_ voices have died away, and _Elizabeth_ has returned to the castle, leaving only _Wolfram_, who is also deeply enamoured of her, upon the scene, _Tannhäuser_ appears, weary and dejected. He has sought to obtain forgiveness in vain. The Pope has cast him out forever, proclaiming that no more than that his staff can put forth leaves can he expect forgiveness. He has come back to re-enter the Venusberg. _Wolfram_ seeks to restrain him, but it is not until he invokes the name of _Elizabeth_ that _Tannhäuser_ is saved. A cortège approaches, and, as _Tannhäuser_ recognizes the form of _Elizabeth_ on the bier, he sinks down on her coffin and dies. Just then the second band of pilgrims arrive, bearing _Tannhäuser's_ staff, which has put forth blossoms, thus showing that his sins have been forgiven.

From "The Flying Dutchman" to "Tannhäuser," dramatically and musically, is, if anything, a greater stride than from "Rienzi" to "The Flying Dutchman." In each of his successive works Wagner demonstrates greater and deeper powers as a dramatic poet and composer. True it is that in nearly every one of them woman appears as the redeeming angel of sinful man, but the circumstances differ so that this beautiful tribute always interests us anew.

The overture of the opera has long been a favorite piece on concert programs. Like that of "The Flying Dutchman" it is the story of the whole opera told in music. It certainly is one of the most brilliant and effective pieces of orchestral music and its popularity is easily understood. It opens with the melody of the _Pilgrims'_ chorus, beginning softly as if coming from a distance and gradually increasing in power until it is heard in all its grandeur. At this point it is joined by a violently agitated accompaniment on the violins. This passage evoked great criticism when it was first produced and for many years thereafter. It was thought to mar the beauty of the pilgrims' chorus. But without doing so at all it conveys additional dramatic meaning, for these agitated phrases depict the restlessness of the world as compared with the grateful tranquillity of religious faith as set forth in the melody of the _Pilgrims'_ chorus.

[Music]

Having reached a climax, this chorus gradually dies away, and suddenly, and with intense dramatic contrast, we have all the seductive spells of the Venusberg displayed before us--that is, musically displayed; but then the music is so wonderfully vivid, it depicts with such marvellous clearness the many-coloured alluring scene at the court of the unholy goddess, it gives vent so freely to the sinful excitement which pervades the Venusberg, that we actually seem to see what we hear. This passes over in turn to the impassioned burst of song in which _Tannhäuser_ hymns Venus's praise, and immediately after we have the boisterous and vigorous music which accompanies the threatening action of the _Landgrave_ and minnesingers when they draw their swords upon _Tannhäuser_ in order to take vengeance upon him for his crimes. Upon these three episodes of the drama, which so characteristically give insight into its plot and action, the overture is based, and it very naturally concludes with the _Pilgrims'_ chorus which seems to voice the final forgiveness of _Tannhäuser_.

The curtain rises, disclosing all the seductive spells of the Venusberg. _Tannhäuser_ lies in the arms of _Venus_, who reclines upon a flowery couch. Nymphs, sirens, and satyrs are dancing about them and in the distance are grottoes alive with amorous figures. Various mythological amours, such as that of Leda and the swan, are supposed to be in progress, but fortunately at a mitigating distance.

[Music]

Much of the music familiar from the overture is heard during this scene, but it gains in effect from the distant voices of the sirens and, of course, from artistic scenery and grouping and well-executed dances of the denizens of _Venus's_ court. Very dramatic, too, is the scene between _Venus_ and _Tannhäuser_, when the latter sings his hymn in her praise, but at the same time proclaims that he desires to return to the world. In alluring strains she endeavours to tempt him to remain with her, but when she discovers that he is bound upon going, she vehemently warns him of the misfortunes which await him upon earth and prophesies that he will some day return to her and penitently ask to be taken back into her realm.

Dramatic and effective as this scene is in the original score, it has gained immensely in power by the additions which Wagner made for the production of the work in Paris, in 1861. The overture does not, in this version, come to a formal close, but after the manner of Wagner's later works, the transition is made directly from it to the scene of the Venusberg. The dances have been elaborated and laid out upon a more careful allegorical basis and the music of _Venus_ has been greatly strengthened from a dramatic point of view, so that now the scene in which she pleads with him to remain and afterwards warns him against the sorrows to which he will be exposed, are among the finest of Wagner's compositions, rivalling in dramatic power the ripest work in his music-dramas.

Wagner's knowledge of the stage is shown in the wonderfully dramatic effect in the change of scene from the Venusberg to the landscape in the valley of the Wartburg. One moment we have the variegated allures of the court of the Goddess of Love, with its dancing nymphs, sirens, and satyrs, its beautiful grottoes and groups; the next all this has disappeared and from the heated atmosphere of _Venus's_ unholy rites we are suddenly transported to a peaceful scene whose influence upon us is deepened by the crucifix in the foreground, before which _Tannhäuser_ kneels in penitence. The peacefulness of the scene is further enhanced by the appearance upon a rocky eminence to the left of a young _Shepherd_ who pipes a pastoral strain, while in the background are heard the tinkling of bells, as though his sheep were there grazing upon some upland meadow. Before he has finished piping his lay the voices of the _Pilgrims_ are heard in the distance, their solemn measures being interrupted by little phrases piped by the _Shepherd_. As the _Pilgrims_ approach, the chorus becomes louder, and as they pass over the stage and bow before the crucifix, their praise swells into an eloquent psalm of devotion.

_Tannhäuser_ is deeply affected and gives way to his feelings in a lament, against which are heard the voices of the _Pilgrims_ as they recede in the distance. This whole scene is one of marvellous beauty, the contrast between it and the preceding episode being enhanced by the religiously tranquil nature of what transpires and of the accompanying music. Upon this peaceful scene the notes of hunting-horns now break in, and gradually the _Landgrave_ and his hunters gather about _Tannhäuser_. _Wolfram_ recognizes him and tells the others who he is. They greet him in an expressive septette, and _Wolfram_, finding he is bent upon following the _Pilgrims_ to Rome, asks permission of the _Landgrave_ to inform him of the impression which he seems to have made upon _Elizabeth_. This he does in a melodious solo, and _Tannhäuser_, overcome by his love for _Elizabeth_, consents to return to the halls which have missed him so long. Exclamations of joy greet his decision, and the act closes with an enthusiastic _ensemble_, which is a glorious piece of concerted music, and never fails of brilliant effect when it is well executed, especially if the representative of _Tannhäuser_ has a voice that can soar above the others, which, unfortunately, is not always the case. The accompanying scenic grouping should also be in keeping with the composer's instructions. The _Landgrave's_ suite should gradually arrive, bearing the game which has been slain, and horses and hunting-hounds should be led on the stage. Finally, the _Landgrave_ and minnesingers mount their steeds and ride away toward the castle.

The scene of the second act is laid in the singers' hall of the Wartburg. The introduction depicts _Elizabeth's_ joy at _Tannhäuser's_ return, and when the curtain rises she at once enters and joyfully greets the scenes of _Tannhäuser's_ former triumphs in broadly dramatic melodious phrases. _Wolfram_ then appears, conducting _Tannhäuser_ to her. _Elizabeth_ seems overjoyed to see him, but then checks herself, and her maidenly modesty, which veils her transport at meeting him, again finds expression in a number of hesitating but exceedingly beautiful phrases. She asks _Tannhäuser_ where he has been, but he, of course, gives misleading answers. Finally, however, he tells her she is the one who has attracted him back to the castle. Their love finds expression in a swift and rapidly flowing dramatic duet, which unfortunately is rarely given in its entirety, although as a glorious outburst of emotional music it certainly deserves to be heard in the exact form and length in which the composer wrote it.

There is then a scene of much tender feeling between the _Landgrave_ and _Elizabeth_, in which the former tells her that he will offer her hand as prize to the singer whom she shall crown as winner. The first strains of the grand march are then heard. This is one of Wagner's most brilliant and effective orchestral and vocal pieces. Though in perfect march rhythm, it is not intended that the guests who assembled at the Wartburg shall enter like a company of soldiers. On the contrary, they arrive in irregular detachments, stride across the floor, and make their obeisance in a perfectly natural manner. After an address by the _Landgrave_, which can hardly be called remarkably interesting, the singers draw lots to decide who among them shall begin. This prize singing is, unfortunately, not so great in musical value as the rest of the score, and, unless a person understands the words, it is decidedly long drawn out. What, however, redeems it is a gradually growing dramatic excitement as _Tannhäuser_ voices his contempt for what seem to him the tame tributes paid to love by the minnesingers, an excitement which reaches its climax when, no longer able to restrain himself, he bursts forth into his hymn in praise of the unholy charms of _Venus_.

[Music]

The women cry out in horror and rush from the hall as if the very atmosphere were tainted by his presence, and the men, drawing their swords, rush upon him. This brings us to the great dramatic moment, when, with a shriek, _Elizabeth_, in spite of his betrayal of her love, throws herself protectingly before him, and thus appears a second time as his saving angel. In short and excited phrases the men pour forth their wrath at _Tannhäuser's_ crime in having sojourned with _Venus_, and he, realizing its enormity, seems crushed with a consciousness of his guilt. Of wondrous beauty is the septette, "An angel has from heaven descended," which rises to a magnificent climax and is one of the finest pieces of dramatic writing in Wagner's scores, although often execrably sung and rarely receiving complete justice. The voices of young _Pilgrims_ are heard in the valley. The _Landgrave_ then announces the conditions upon which _Tannhäuser_ can again obtain forgiveness, and _Tannhäuser_ joins the pilgrims on their way to Rome.

The third act displays once more the valley of the Wartburg, the same scene as that to which the Venusberg changed in the first act. _Elizabeth_, arrayed in white, is kneeling, in deep prayer, before the crucifix. At one side, and watching her tenderly, stands _Wolfram_. After a sad recitative from _Wolfram_, the chorus of returning _Pilgrims_ is heard in the distance. They sing the melody heard in the overture and in the first act; and the same effect of gradual approach is produced by a superb crescendo as they reach and cross the scene. With almost piteous anxiety and grief _Elizabeth_ scans them closely as they go by, to see if _Tannhäuser_ be among them, and when the last one has passed and she realizes that he has not returned, she sinks again upon her knees before the crucifix and sings the prayer, "Almighty Virgin, hear my sorrow," music in which there is most beautifully combined the expression of poignant grief with trust in the will of the Almighty. As she rises and turns toward the castle, _Wolfram_, by his gesture, seems to ask her if he cannot accompany her, but she declines his offer and slowly goes her way up the mountain.

Meanwhile night has fallen upon the scene and the evening star glows softly above the castle. It is then that _Wolfram_, accompanying himself on his lyre, intones the wondrously tender and beautiful "Song to the Evening Star," confessing therein his love for the saintly _Elizabeth_.

[Music]

Then _Tannhäuser_, dejected, footsore, and weary, appears, and in broken accents asks _Wolfram_ to show him the way back to the Venusberg. _Wolfram_ bids him stay his steps and persuades him to tell him the story of his pilgrimage. In fierce, dramatic accents, _Tannhäuser_ relates all that he has suffered on his way to Rome and the terrible judgment pronounced upon him by the Pope. This is a highly impressive episode, clearly foreshadowing Wagner's dramatic use of musical recitative in his later music-dramas. Only a singer of the highest rank can do justice to it.

_Tannhäuser_ proclaims that, having lost all chance of salvation, he will once more give himself up to the delights of the Venusberg. A roseate light illumines the recesses of the mountain and the unholy company of the Venusberg again is seen, _Venus_ stretching out her arms for _Tannhäuser_, to welcome him. But at last, when _Tannhäuser_ seems unable to resist _Venus'_ enticing voice any longer, _Wolfram_ conjures him by the memory of the sainted _Elizabeth_. Then _Venus_ knows that all is lost. The light dies away and the magic charms of the Venusberg disappear. Amid tolling of bells and mournful voices a funeral procession comes down the mountain. Recognizing the features of _Elizabeth_, the dying _Tannhäuser_ falls upon her corpse. The younger pilgrims arrive with the staff, which has again put forth leaves, and amid the hallelujahs of the pilgrims the opera closes.

Besides the character of _Elizabeth_ that of _Wolfram_ stands out for its tender, manly beauty. In love with _Elizabeth_, he is yet the means of bringing back her lover to her, and in the end saves that lover from perdition, so that they may be united in death.

LOHENGRIN

Opera in three acts, by Richard Wagner. Produced, Weimar,
Germany, August 28, 1850, under the direction of Franz
Liszt; London, Covent Garden, May 8, 1875; New York, Stadt
Theater, in German, April 3, 1871; Academy of Music, in
Italian, March 23, 1874, with Nilsson, Cary, Campanini, and
Del Puente; Metropolitan Opera House, in German, November
23, 1885, with Seidl-Kraus, Brandt, Stritt, Robinson, and
Fischer, American début of Anton Seidl as conductor.

CHARACTERS

HENRY THE FOWLER, King of Germany _Bass_
LOHENGRIN _Tenor_
ELSA OF BRABANT _Soprano_
DUKE GODFREY, her brother _Mute_
FREDERICK OF TELRAMUND, Count of Brabant _Baritone_
ORTRUD, his wife _Mezzo-Soprano_
THE KING'S HERALD _Bass_

Saxon, Thuringian, and Brabantian Counts and Nobles, Ladies
of Honour, Pages, Attendants.

_Time_--First half of the Tenth Century.

_Scene_--Antwerp.

The circumstances attending the creation and first production of "Lohengrin" are most interesting.

Prior to and for more than a decade after he wrote and composed the work Wagner suffered many vicissitudes. In Paris, where he lived from hand to mouth before "Rienzi" was accepted by the Royal Opera House at Dresden, he was absolutely poverty-stricken and often at a loss how to procure the next meal.

"Rienzi" was produced at the Dresden Opera in 1842. It was brilliantly successful. "The Flying Dutchman," which followed, was less so, and "Tannhäuser" seemed even less attractive to its early audiences. Therefore it is no wonder that, although Wagner was royal conductor in Dresden, he could not succeed in having "Lohengrin" accepted there for performance. Today "Rienzi" hardly can be said to hold its own in the repertoire outside of its composer's native country. The sombre beauty of "The Flying Dutchman," though recognized by musicians and serious music lovers, has prevented its becoming popular. But "Tannhäuser," looked at so askance at first, and "Lohengrin," absolutely rejected, are standard operas and, when well given, among the most popular works of the lyric stage. Especially is this true of "Lohengrin."

This opera, at the time of its composition so novel and so strange, yet filled with beauties of orchestration and harmony that are now quoted as leading examples in books on these subjects, was composed in less than a year. The acts were finished almost, if not quite, in reversed order. For Wagner wrote the third act first, beginning it in September, 1846, and completing it March 5, 1847. The first act occupied him from May 12th to June 8th, less than a month; the second act from June 18th to August 2d. Fresh and beautiful as "Lohengrin" still sounds today, it is, in fact, a classic.

Wagner's music, however, was so little understood at the time, that even before "Lohengrin" was produced and not a note of it had been heard, people made fun of it. A lithographer named Meser had issued Wagner's previous three scores, but the enterprise had not been a success. People said that before publishing "Rienzi," Meser had lived on the first floor. "Rienzi" had driven him to the second; "The Flying Dutchman" and "Tannhäuser" to the third; and now "Lohengrin" would drive him to the garret--a prophecy that didn't come true, because he refused to publish it.

In 1849, "Lohengrin" still not having been accepted by the Dresden Opera, Wagner, as already has been stated, took part in the May revolution, which, apparently successful for a very short time, was quickly suppressed by the military. The composer of "Lohengrin" and the future composer of the "Ring of the Nibelung," "Tristan und Isolde," "Meistersinger," and "Parsifal," is said to have made his escape from Dresden in the disguise of a coachman. Occasionally there turns up in sales as a great rarity a copy of the warrant for Wagner's arrest issued by the Dresden police. As it gives a description of him at the time when he had but recently composed "Lohengrin," I will quote it:

"Wagner is thirty-seven to thirty-eight years of age, of
medium stature, has brown hair, an open forehead; eyebrows,
brown; eyes, greyish blue; nose and mouth, proportioned;
chin, round, and wears spectacles. Special characteristics:
rapid in movements and speech. Dress: coat of dark green
buckskin, trousers of black cloth, velvet vest, silk
neckerchief, ordinary felt hat and boots."

Much fun has been made of the expression "chin, round, and wears spectacles." Wagner got out of Dresden on the pass of a Dr. Widmann, whom he resembled. It has been suggested that he made the resemblance still closer by discontinuing the habit of wearing spectacles on his chin.

I saw Wagner several times in Bayreuth in the summer of 1882, when I attended the first performance of "Parsifal," as correspondent by cable and letter for one of the large New York dailies. Except that his hair was grey (and that he no longer wore his spectacles on his chin) the description in the warrant still held good, especially as regards his rapidity of movement and speech, to which I may add a marked vivacity of gesture. There, too, I saw the friend, who had helped him over so many rough places in his early career, Franz Liszt, his hair white with age, but framing a face as strong and keen as an eagle's. I saw them seated at a banquet, and with them Cosima, Liszt's daughter, who was Wagner's second wife, and their son, Siegfried Wagner; Cosima the image of her father, and Siegfried a miniature replica of the composer to whom we owe "Lohengrin" and the music-dramas that followed it. The following summer one of the four was missing. I have the "Parsifal" program with mourning border signifying that the performances of the work were in memory of its creator.

In April, 1850, Wagner, then an exile in Zurich, wrote to Liszt: "Bring out my 'Lohengrin!' You are the only one to whom I would put this request; to no one but you would I entrust the production of this opera; but to you I surrender it with the fullest, most joyous confidence."

Wagner himself describes the appeal and the result, by saying that at a time when he was ill, unhappy, and in despair, his eye fell on the score of "Lohengrin" which he had almost forgotten. "A pitiful feeling overcame me that these tones would never resound from the deathly-pale paper; two words I wrote to Liszt, the answer to which was nothing else than the information that, as far as the resources of the Weimar Opera permitted, the most elaborate preparations were being made for the production of 'Lohengrin.'"

Liszt's reply to which Wagner refers, and which gives some details regarding "the elaborate preparations," while testifying to his full comprehension of Wagner's genius and the importance of his new score as a work of art, may well cause us to smile today at the small scale on which things were done in 1850.

"Your 'Lohengrin,'" he wrote, "will be given under conditions that are most unusual and most favourable for its success. The direction will spend on this occasion almost 2000 thalers [about $1500]--a sum unprecedented at Weimar within memory of man ... the bass clarinet has been bought," etc. Ten times fifteen hundred dollars might well be required today for a properly elaborate production of "Lohengrin," and the opera orchestra that had to send out and buy a bass clarinet would be a curiosity. But Weimar had what no other opera house could boast of--Franz Liszt as conductor.

Under his brilliant direction "Lohengrin" had at Weimar its first performance on any stage, August 28, 1850. This was the anniversary of Goethe's birth, the date of the dedication of the Weimar monument to the poet, Herder, and, by a coincidence that does not appear to have struck either Wagner or Liszt, the third anniversary of the completion of "Lohengrin." The work was performed without cuts and before an audience which included some of the leading musical and literary men of Germany. The performance made a deep impression. The circumstance that Liszt added the charm of his personality to it and that the weight of his influence had been thrown in its favour alone gave vast importance to the event. Indeed, through Liszt's production of Wagner's early operas Weimar became, as Henry T. Finck has said in _Wagner and His Works_, a sort of preliminary Bayreuth. Occasionally special opera trains were put on for the accommodation of visitors to the Wagner performances. In January, 1853, Liszt writes to Wagner that "the public interest in 'Lohengrin' is rapidly increasing. You are already very popular at the various Weimar hotels, where it is not easy to get a room on the days when your operas are given." The Liszt production of "Lohengrin" was a turning point in his career, the determining influence that led him to throw himself heart and soul into the composition of the "Ring of the Nibelung."

On May 15, 1861, when, through the intervention of Princess Metternich, he had been permitted to return to Germany, fourteen years after he had finished "Lohengrin" and eleven years after its production at Weimar, he himself heard it for the first time at Vienna. A tragedy of fourteen years--to create a masterpiece of the lyric stage, and be forced to wait that long to hear it!

Before proceeding to a complete descriptive account of the "Lohengrin" story and music I will give a brief summary of the plot and a similar characterization of the score.

Wagner appears to have become so saturated with the subject of his dramas that he transported himself in mind and temperament to the very time in which his scenes are laid. So vividly does he portray the mythological occurrences told in "Lohengrin" that one can almost imagine he had been an eye-witness of them. This capacity of artistic reproduction of a remote period would alone entitle him to rank as a great dramatist. But he has done much more; he has taken unpromising material, which in the original is strung out over a period of years, and, by condensing the action to two days, has converted it into a swiftly moving drama.

Sembach as Lohengrin]

Schumann-Heink as Ortrud in "Lohengrin"]

The story of "Lohengrin" is briefly as follows: The Hungarians have invaded Germany, and _King Henry I._ visits Antwerp for the purpose of raising a force to combat them. He finds the country in a condition of anarchy. The dukedom is claimed by _Frederick_, who has married _Ortrud_, a daughter of the Prince of Friesland. The legitimate heir, _Godfrey_, has mysteriously disappeared, and his sister, _Elsa_, is charged by _Frederick_ and _Ortrud_ with having done away with him in order that she might obtain the sovereignty. The _King_ summons her before him so that the cause may be tried by the ordeal of single combat between _Frederick_ and a champion who may be willing to appear for _Elsa_. None of the knights will defend her cause. She then describes a champion whose form has appeared to her in a vision, and she proclaims that he shall be her champion. Her pretence is derided by _Frederick_ and his followers, who think that she is out of her mind; but after a triple summons by the _Herald_, there is seen in the distance on the river, a boat drawn by a swan, and in it a knight clad in silver armour. He comes to champion _Elsa's_ cause, and before the combat betroths himself to her, but makes a strict condition that she shall never question him as to his name or birthplace, for should she, he would be obliged to depart. She assents to the conditions, and the combat which ensues results in _Frederick's_ ignominious defeat. Judgment of exile is pronounced on him.

Instead, however, of leaving the country he lingers in the neighbourhood of Brabant, plotting with _Ortrud_ how they may compass the ruin of _Lohengrin_ and _Elsa_. _Ortrud_ by her entreaties moves _Elsa_ to pity, and persuades her to seek a reprieve for _Frederick_, at the same time, however, using every opportunity to instil doubts in _Elsa's_ mind regarding her champion, and rousing her to such a pitch of nervous curiosity that she is on the point of asking him the forbidden question. After the bridal ceremonies, and in the bridal chamber, the distrust which _Ortrud_ and _Frederick_ have engendered in _Elsa's_ mind so overcomes her faith that she vehemently puts the forbidden question to her champion. Almost at the same moment _Frederick_ and four of his followers force their way into the apartment, intending to take the knight's life. A single blow of his sword, however, stretches _Frederick_ lifeless, and his followers bear his corpse away. Placing _Elsa_ in the charge of her ladies-in-waiting, and ordering them to take her to the presence of the _King_, he repairs thither himself.

The Brabantian hosts are gathering, and he is expected to lead them to battle, but owing to _Elsa's_ question he is now obliged to disclose who he is and to take his departure. He proclaims that he is _Lohengrin_, son of Parsifal, Knight of the Holy Grail, and that he can linger no longer in Brabant, but must return to the place of his coming. The swan has once more appeared, drawing the boat down the river, and bidding _Elsa_ farewell he steps into the little shell-like craft. Then _Ortrud_, with malicious glee, declares that the swan is none other than _Elsa's_ brother, whom she (_Ortrud_) bewitched into this form, and that he would have been changed back again to his human shape had it not been for _Elsa's_ rashness. But _Lohengrin_, through his supernatural powers, is able to undo _Ortrud's_ work, and at a word from him the swan disappears and _Godfrey_ stands in its place. A dove now descends, and, hovering in front of the boat, draws it away with _Lohengrin_, while _Elsa_ expires in her brother's arms.

Owing to the lyric character of the story upon which "Lohengrin" is based, the opera, while not at all lacking in strong dramatic situations is characterized by a subtler and more subdued melodiousness than "Tannhäuser," is more exquisitely lyrical in fact than any Wagnerian work except "Parsifal."

There are typical themes in the score, but they are hardly handled with the varied effect that entitles them to be called leading motives. On the other hand there are fascinating details of orchestration. These are important because the composer has given significant clang-tints to the music that is heard in connection with the different characters in the story. He uses the brass chiefly to accompany the _King_, and, of course, the martial choruses; the plaintive, yet spiritual high wood-wind for _Elsa_; the English horn and sombre bass clarinet--the instrument that had to be bought--for _Ortrud_; the violins, especially in high harmonic positions, to indicate the Grail and its representative, for _Lohengrin_ is a Knight of the Holy Grail. Even the keys employed are distinctive. The _Herald's_ trumpeters blow in C and greet the _King's_ arrival in that bright key. F-sharp minor is the dark, threatful key that indicates _Ortrud's_ appearance. The key of A, which is the purest for strings and the most ethereal in effect, on account of the greater ease of using "harmonics," announces the approach of _Lohengrin_ and the subtle influence of the Grail.

Moreover Wagner was the first composer to discover that celestial effects of tone colour are produced by the prolonged notes of the combined violins and wood-wind in the highest positions more truly than by the harp. It is the association of ideas with the Scriptures, wherein the harp frequently is mentioned, because it was the most perfected instrument of the period, that has led other composers to employ it for celestial tone-painting. But while no one appreciated the beauty of the harp more than Wagner, or has employed it with finer effect than he, his celestial tone-pictures with high-violins and wood-wind are distinctly more ecstatic than those of other composers.

The music clothes the drama most admirably. The Vorspiel or Prelude immediately places the listener in the proper mood for the story which is to unfold itself, and for the score, vocal and instrumental, whose strains are to fall upon his ear.

The Prelude is based entirely upon one theme, a beautiful one and expressive of the sanctity of the Grail, of which _Lohengrin_ is one of the knights. Violins and flutes with long-drawn-out, ethereal chords open the Prelude. Then is heard on the violins, so divided as to heighten the delicacy of the effect, the Motive of the Grail, the cup in which the Saviour's blood is supposed to have been caught as it flowed from the wound in His side, while he was on the Cross. No modern book on orchestration is considered complete unless it quotes this passage from the score, which is at once the earliest and, after seventy years, still the most perfect example of the effect of celestial harmony produced on the high notes of the divided violin choir. This interesting passage in the score is as follows:

[Music]

Although this is the only motive that occurs in the Prelude, the ear never wearies of it. Its effectiveness is due to the wonderful skill with which Wagner handles the theme, working it up through a superb crescendo to a magnificent climax, with all the splendours of Wagnerian orchestration, after which it dies away again to the ethereal harmonies with which it first greeted the listener.