Stars of the Opera Part 8

When the two combatants face each other and all is ready, the herald again comes forward and solemnly proclaims the rules governing such contests. They are interesting to note: "No one shall interfere with the fight under penalty of losing his head or his hand;" and furthermore, no sorcery or witchcraft shall be exerted, for Heaven alone must decide who is right. After this preliminary the king arises and prays for the just judgment of Heaven to show clearly which side is true and which is false. Wagner always favored the ba.s.s voice when possible, and so he has given to the king this splendid and impressive composition, with its rich, full chords and stirring rhythm. The chorus takes up the prayer and finishes it with inspiring breadth and grandeur. The king strikes upon his s.h.i.+eld three times and the battle begins. It does not last long, for Frederick is soon disarmed and thrown down by Lohengrin, who, however, spares his life.

The victory has proven Elsa's innocence and Frederick's falsehood. The latter is disgraced utterly, while Lohengrin is regarded as Heaven's favorite. Elsa sings forth her joy and grat.i.tude in melodic phrases which would need no words. The music of Elsa and Lohengrin is like the music of day--it is so clear, so lucid and full of melody in contrast to the rugged, weird, and gloomy themes of Ortrud and Frederick.

The great chorus of victory is the last number of this act. It brings in with Wagner's inimitable modulations the martial theme of the previous chorus and also Elsa's song of praise. All excepting Ortrud and Frederick look happy and join in the singing right heartily as the curtain descends.

The second act comprises Ortrud's great scene. This role may be sung by a contralto, but is better adapted to a mezzo-soprano. Ortrud is often called the operatic Lady Macbeth. She is not only as wicked and ambitious as Shakespeare's heroine, but is also a sorceress of no mean ability, for it is she who made away with Elsa's brother; but this fact is not revealed until the last act. She also exerted her power upon Frederick with such effect that he believed her to be a prophetess. He was sincere in his accusation against Elsa, for Ortrud told him she had witnessed the crime herself. But he is now awakened to her wickedness, and the scene opens with his maledictions against her and his abject wretchedness over his own disgrace. The two are seated upon the church steps facing the palace, where jubilant preparations are going on for the wedding of Elsa and Lohengrin, which will take place at dawn. It is yet night, and the music is deep and ominous. The dark motif and a new one which seems to represent Ortrud are the musical heart and soul of this scene. They stalk about the orchestra like restless phantoms, and are heard in all sorts of keys and instruments. After Frederick's great harangue against his wife and fate and everything, she calmly inquires the cause of his anger. She declares that she never deceived him, and that the recent combat was unfairly influenced by Lohengrin's sorcery.

Such is her power over Frederick that he again believes and listens to her plans. She explains how Lohengrin may yet be robbed of his power and Frederick's honor vindicated. Elsa must be induced to ask the hero his name, or he must be wounded, be it ever so slightly. Either of these methods will annihilate his power. This remarkable scene closes with a duet about revenge, which the two voices sing in unison--a point indicative of their renewed unity of purpose.

The music now changes to harmonies that charm and soothe, and Elsa appears upon the balcony of her palace. The moonlight falls upon her as she clasps her hands in rapture and sings to the gentle zephyrs of her love. It is a song as peaceful as the night; and in contrast to the recent somber and spectral themes, it beams forth like a diamond against black velvet. This solo of Elsa's is one of the most difficult to sing because of its many sustained pianissimo tones. After the last sweet note has died away like a sigh, Ortrud, who is still seated on the steps beneath, calls to Elsa in a pleading voice. She appeals to the latter's sympathy by announcing herself as "that most unhappy woman, Ortrud,"

wife to the disgraced Frederick. "We are cursed by G.o.d and man, and welcomed nowhere." Thus speaks the sorceress; and Elsa, in the goodness of her heart, takes pity and impulsively offers to receive the outcast.

She retires from the balcony and presently opens the door below to welcome Ortrud, who in this short interim has sung some splendid phrases of gloating animosity. But she kneels like a humble slave before the unsuspecting Elsa, who invites her to the wedding and also promises to induce Lohengrin to pardon Frederick.

As an expression of grat.i.tude, Ortrud now offers to exert the power of prophecy for Elsa's benefit. Prophecy and sorcery are regarded in different lights: the latter is wicked and implies collusion with the evil one, while the "prophetic eye" is a gift to be coveted. Ortrud pretends to possess this power. She forewarns Elsa against too great confidence in her hero, and mysteriously hints that he may leave as suddenly as he came. These words are accompanied by the threatening dark motif, which hovers ever near like a lowering cloud. Elsa recoils at the thought--this first seed of suspicion,--but she soon smiles a.s.suredly and sings to Ortrud a lovely song about "the faith and trust that knows no doubt." Wagner's words are as beautiful as his music, and in this composition they seem to mount upward on the "wings of song" like the spontaneous utterance of a pure heart. Elsa puts her arms gently about Ortrud and leads her into the palace. Frederick, who has kept in the background, watches them disappear, and the scene closes with his final descant on revenge.

After his exit the orchestra has a solo, so to speak, while the stage is occupied in representing the dawn of day. Villagers stroll in one by one, garlands are hung in honor of the wedding, and the scene becomes constantly brighter and more active. The herald appears above the gates of the palace and makes three announcements in the name of the king: First, that Frederick of Telramund is banned and shall be befriended by no one; second, that the Heaven-favored stranger shall hereafter be called the guardian of Brabant; and, third, that this hero shall lead them soon to "victorious war." Then follows a chorus about the Heaven-sent guardian of Brabant, after which there is a momentary commotion caused by Frederick, who, in spite of the ban against him, comes forward and a.s.serts that he will defy their much-lauded hero and will open their eyes to his duplicity.

But this incident is forgotten in the gorgeous scene which now commences. The wedding-guests come slowly from the palace, and wend their way in stately procession toward the church. Their course is accompanied by a march of pontifical solemnity, which attains its grandest beauty when Elsa comes down the great stairway clad in robes of regal splendor. All voices join in praise for "Elsa of Brabant."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Copyright by Aime Dupont, N. Y.

Eames as Elsa in "Lohengrin."]

The procession proceeds to the church; the music increases in strength, when suddenly there is a discord. Elsa is confronted at the church entrance by Ortrud, who fiercely declares she will no longer follow like an attendant; that she is the one to whom people should bow instead of Elsa, whose future lord comes of a land and family which he dare not tell! Elsa is dumbfounded by this sudden onslaught from the woman she has befriended. But Ortrud maintains her position, and actually defies Elsa to ask the hero his name. This attack is diverted by the ceremonious entrance of the king and Lohengrin, to whom Elsa hastens with her grievance. Ortrud is promptly ordered aside, and the procession resumes its march. But again the solemn cathedral music crashes into a discord. Frederick, the despised one, dares to rush before the king and bar the way as he begs them to harken to his words.

There is great indignation over the interruption, but Frederick so intensely cries for justice that at last even the king listens as he charges Lohengrin with sorcery. He sustains the charge by demanding Lohengrin to tell his name, if he be an honest man; if he can not do this there must be some dark secret to hide. All turn to the hero expectantly, but he only defends himself by saying that he has proven his worth in mortal combat, according to ancient usage, and that he will not answer Frederick nor even the king--only Elsa shall be answered this question. He turns to her and finds her trembling with agitation. The orchestra tells us her thoughts, for we hear the Ortrud-theme and dark motif writhing in and out like venomous serpents. A murmuring sort of chorus about the strange secret which the hero so zealously guards is gradually resolved into a song of allegiance and belief. The king declares Frederick unworthy of consideration. But during the jubilant chorus which follows, that Miserable steals up to Elsa and casts his final poison-shaft. He tells her that if Lohengrin were once wounded, "merely p.r.i.c.ked in the finger," he would then bestow upon her full confidence and never leave. Frederick further says he will "linger near the coming night," and when she calls will enter and commit the deed without harm to Lohengrin. Elsa spurns the tempter away, and Lohengrin, who perceives him at her side, bids him forever begone. But finding Elsa even more agitated than before, he asks in the presence of all if she wishes to be told his name. She remembers her vow, and in tones of exultation declares that love is greater than doubt. The magnificent march music is again resumed, and they enter the minster without further incident, excepting the defiant gaze of Ortrud as Elsa pa.s.ses; and while the curtain descends we hear again, half hidden in the orchestra, the terrible dark motif.

There is a brilliant orchestral introduction to the third act, which represents the marriage fete. Its tempo and rhythm are positively gay, tho this is an adjective seldom appropriate to Wagner. But the hilarity has subsided by the time the curtain rises: the trumpets and cymbals are hushed, and the gentlest of music greets our ears as we look upon the bridal chamber. The voices are at first distant, but gradually approach, and the effect of their song steals over us like a potent charm. It is the wedding-march--the "Lohengrin Wedding-March"! We all know the power of that music. There are some compositions which become absorbed, as it were, by the world like important inventions or discoveries. People require certain musical forms of expression as they do artificial light, and we pity those who did without this "Wedding-March," or Chopin's "Funeral March," or the Schubert "Serenade," as we pity our ancestors who made s.h.i.+ft with tallow candles instead of incandescent lamps. The charm of the "Wedding-March" is not diminished because we know it so well. With Wagner as with Beethoven, every hearing reveals new beauties.

When the chorus at last leaves Elsa and Lohengrin alone, we echo his first words: "The sweet song now is ended."

But our regrets are quickly appeased by the delicious love-duet which follows. It is a scene of rapt delight--of happiness too great to last.

Not in vain did we have the dark motif jangled in our ears when the curtain last descended; it meant trouble in the coming act, as we soon perceive. Elsa wishes she knew his name--just to speak it lovingly as he does hers. Then Lohengrin points to the open window through which the moonlight streams upon them, and he sings of the perfumed air which they enjoy without questioning its cause or source; thus, he says, should they love. The exquisite melody of this song seems to exhale from his heart like fragrance from a flower. It is redolent of tenderest love.

The n.o.bility and beauty of Lohengrin's character so impress themselves, that Elsa feels oppressed with her own unworthiness. She wishes she might do something heroic to prove her love. For instance, if he would confide to her his secret, she would guard it so faithfully that death itself could not wrest it from her! Very sweetly and beautifully does she coax for this token of trust on his part. Lohengrin replies most gently that he has trusted her already by believing that she would keep her vow. Then he says she little knows how much she is to him; that no earthly honor--not the king's kingdom--could replace what he has left.

Only Elsa, his bride, can recompense the sacrifice; for not from night and grief does he come, but from a home of joy and pride.

Like a flash does this remind Elsa of Ortrud's prophecy that he may leave her. The Ortrud-theme swoops down upon the orchestra and settles there like an ill-omened bird. The director's baton may send it away for a moment, but down it comes again, and the dark motif with it. Poor Elsa becomes almost frenzied. She believes Lohengrin will long for his beautiful home, which even now he can not forget. She sees in her mind's eye the swan-boat approaching to take him away. Lohengrin speaks rea.s.suringly; but the spell is upon her, and nothing--nothing can give her peace but to know the truth. With mounting tones, the last one of which is like an outcry, she asks the fatal question. Lohengrin gives an exclamation of grief.

At this moment the door is burst open by Frederick, who with drawn sword has come to wound the hero, or, more probably, to kill him. Elsa at once recognizes his intention, and frantically bids Lohengrin defend himself.

With a single thrust he kills his would-be a.s.sa.s.sin.

This intense and tragic climax is followed by a lull. Elsa has fallen half-swooning on the couch, and Lohengrin stands sorrowfully to one side. He at last exclaims slowly and sadly: "Now is our sweet joy fled;"

and then we hear in the orchestra, faint and beautiful as a memory, that first love-duet. It is only a fragment, a fleeting thought, but so touching and pathetic that we could weep with Lohengrin for the harmony that is gone.

The last act is short and almost entirely taken up by Lohengrin's story and farewell. The scenery is the same as in the first act, and the entire chorus of n.o.blemen and soldiers again a.s.semble before the king.

They have not yet heard of the tragic event which ended the last act, and are therefore surprised when a bier is carried in and placed solemnly before them. It bears the body of Frederick. They are still more surprised when Elsa enters, pale and dejected, and then their hero, who appears equally sad. But surprise reaches its climax when they hear him announce that he can not be their leader.

Lohengrin wastes no words. After the first a.s.sertion he informs them of Frederick's death; whereupon all voices declare his fate to be most just, and the body is removed. Lohengrin then announces that Elsa, his wife, has broken the vow which they all heard her make, and he has come before them to answer her question and dispel the mad suspicion which a wily tempter implanted in her heart. They shall all learn his name and heritage, and may then judge whether he was worthy of their trust. The people wonder with awe-hushed voices what revelation is in store, and then there floats in the orchestra the soft tremolo of the swan-music, as Lohengrin tells them of a distant land called Montsalvat, where is a radiant temple. And in this temple is guarded a sacred vessel which possesses wonder-powers. A dove descends from heaven once every year to renew its marvelous strength. This treasure-blessing is called the "Grail," and to its chosen votaries a matchless power is given. These knights of the Grail are sent abroad as champions of innocence and truth, and they may tarry so long as their name is unknown. But the Grail's blessing is too pure and holy to be regarded by common eyes, and if disclosed its champion must leave at once. Lohengrin adds that this penalty now falls on him, for he is a knight of the Grail: his father, great Parsifal, wears its crown, and "I am Lohengrin."

As in the first prelude and swan-song, the harmonies of this last great recital seem not of earth but from another sphere; they linger and abide with us like a beautiful blessing. This silver-clad knight of the Grail has been singing of a hallowed mystery whose purity and spirituality are revealed more in the music than by the words. After bidding farewell to the hapless Elsa, from whom he must part in spite of her piteous appeals, there comes gliding upon the river the swan-boat. He sings a sad welcome to the swan, and then announces to Elsa that could he have remained one year, through the mercy of the Grail her brother would have returned. He hands her his sword and horn and ring to give this brother if ever he comes back. The sword and horn will impart strength and victory, and the ring shall remind him of "Lohengrin who loved Elsa and was her champion."

A jarring interruption is now created by Ortrud, who cries out with reckless triumph that the swan who serves Lohengrin is the bewitched brother, and that Elsa has herself to thank for causing the hero's departure, which forever prevents the young Duke's return. On hearing this mocking invection from the sorceress, Lohengrin clasps his hands in a fervent prayer, which is at once answered. A dove descends from heaven and touches the swan, which is immediately changed into the young heir.

He rushes forward to embrace his sister, while Lohengrin steps into the boat, which is drawn away by the dove. It floats silently down the beautiful river, and the hero stands sorrowfully leaning upon his silver s.h.i.+eld. This is our last glimpse of Lohengrin, the Knight of the Grail.

"Aida"

"AIDA"

Madame Nordica's "Aida" is an unsurpa.s.sed performance and always draws crowded houses, for the strange pathos of the music displays her wonderful voice to its fullest beauty.

As in "Carmen" every measure scintillates with the suns.h.i.+ne of Spain, so in "Aida" every phrase seems shadowed by the mysteries of Egypt. A comparative study of these two operas will forcibly impress one with the power of music to express nationality. "Aida" carries one to a distant land and centuries back; but this power of breathing the musical life of ancient Egypt into the still form of a libretto is the culmination of modern art. Giuseppe Verdi, the greatest modern Italian composer, had written twenty-six operas before he wrote "Aida."

A tender, wistful strain high up in the violins forms the opening of the prelude. With this first faint phrase the composer seems to awaken from her long sleep the muse of Egyptian music. Like the hero of fairy lore, Verdi, the prince of melody, has penetrated a realm of slumbering harmonies. They are at first subdued, dazed, and bewildered with themes mingled and woven together like exquisite cobwebs. The conductor's wand gently disperses these clinging meshes of sound, the curtain is lifted, and we are ushered into the musical life of an ancient civilization.

We see a hall in the palace at Memphis, and Ramphis, the high priest, converses with Rhadames, a distinguished soldier. They talk of the impending war against Ethiopia, and it is intimated that Rhadames may be chosen to lead the Egyptians. But the words and song are of little interest compared to the orchestral accompaniment. This is somber and subdued; the notes are of equal length, and the intervals seem of geometric exact.i.tude like the diagram of an astrologer.

Ramphis goes out leaving Rhadames joyous over the prospect of becoming a general. He thinks of his beloved Aida, to whom he will return laden with laurels. "Celeste Aida!" is the t.i.tle of this great romanza. Like all love-songs it is legato, andante, and pianissimo, but at the same time noticeably original and characteristic. The harmonies are constructed with rigid grandeur, but softened and beautified by a tender melody that rests upon them like moonlight on the pyramids. While he is lost in thoughts of Aida, the Princess Amneris enters. She inquires the cause of his radiant expression, and insinuatingly wonders if it is some dream of love. Rhadames only replies that he has hopes of martial honors, and is therefore happy. The Princess secretly loves Rhadames, and her questions are based on jealousy, which is revealed in the nervous, agitated theme that accompanies this duet. Her suspicions are further aroused by the entrance of Aida. As the heroine approaches we hear again the pensive theme that opened the prelude. It takes on a new and greater meaning, for Aida is a captive slave, an exile, and the music reminds us of some great longing that vainly strives to express itself. This effect is due to the fact that the musical cadence is left unresolved.

Aida must have the dark complexion of the Ethiopian, and very few prima donnas look well under coffee-colored cosmetic; but Madame Nordica's appearance does not suffer from the application. This Aida is beautiful, and Rhadames can scarce conceal the joy of her presence. The captive also looks down to hide her emotion. But Amneris has detected every glance, and again that jealous theme sweeps like a flame over the orchestra.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Copyright by Aime Dupont, N. Y.

Nordica as Aida.]

The princess addresses her slave by sisterly names, and asks the cause of her downcast looks. Aida says she grieves because of the war against her native land. There follows a trio wherein Amneris fosters her jealousy, while Aida and Rhadames tremble lest their secret be discovered.

Sounds of martial music prelude the entrance of the king and his suite.

When they are a.s.sembled a messenger comes forward to announce that the Ethiopians are marching toward Egypt's capital under the leaders.h.i.+p of their king, Amonasro. Upon hearing this name Aida exclaims to herself, "My father!" and we thereby learn that she is a princess, but has concealed the fact from her captors. The Egyptians impulsively shout "To war!" and Rhadames is proclaimed their leader. They sing a war-hymn which is so inspiring that even Aida joins in this prayer for victory to Rhadames. After a grand climax all go out excepting the heroine.

"Return victorious!" She repeats this last sweeping phrase, and shudders at the words, for success to Rhadames implies defeat to her father. This distressing thought agitates the music like the pa.s.sing of a great s.h.i.+p over tranquil waters. The ensuing melody rises and falls like waves in the wake of a vessel. Aida realizes that she can not pray for either lover or father. "Was there ever a heart so oppressed!" Her song is like a wail, and the accompaniment introduces a pagan use of the monotone that gives startling effects. "Pieta, pieta!" are the final words of Aida's great solo.

She goes off, and the scene changes to an interior view of the temple of Vulcan. It is a brilliant setting, with solid columns and golden statues, mysterious colored lights and fuming incense, priests and priestesses in glittering costumes; but the music of this consecration-scene reveals more barbaric splendor than the surroundings.

The first sounds are the full, pulsating chords of a harp, and from an inner sanctum the grand priestess sings with rich soprano tones a weird refrain that is weighted with mystery. The priests in front answer in subdued, awe-hushed voices. Three times the wondrous song and answer are repeated, after which the priestesses perform a sacred dance around the altar. The music of this dreamy dance has the most astonis.h.i.+ng progressions, but at the same time maintains an imposing solemnity.

During the dance Rhadames is led to the altar, where a silver veil is placed over his head. Ramphis, the high priest, charges him with the welfare of the Egyptian army; and then follows a splendid prayer that Ramphis starts like a sacred fire. It reaches Rhadames, who sings in a higher key, and then it spreads and fills the great temple; ba.s.sos, tenors, soloists, and chorus take it up in turn and form one mighty rondo. Like a response from heaven comes the chant of the grand priestess from within. Her inspired refrain with its harp accompaniment alternates with the exalted prayer in front. This consecration-scene has little to do with the plot of the story, but it contains some of Verdi's finest music.

Several months are supposed to elapse before the second act, which opens with a scene in the apartment of Amneris. Maids are robing the princess for a festive occasion, and we learn by their chorus that Rhadames will to-day return from victorious war. This scene is monopolized by the stringed instruments and female voices. A tropical indolence characterizes the choruses, with their abundant harp accompaniment. Amneris ever and anon breaks forth with an expansive theme expressing her unconquered love for Rhadames. To divert their mistress a group of Moorish slaves perform a lively, grotesque dance, for which Verdi has written music of intoxicating witchery. It is crisp as the snapping of fingers and uncivilized as the beating of bamboo reeds--a veritable savage revel that is nevertheless graceful and delicate. The chorus resume their dreamy praise of the hero, and Amneris continues her moody thoughts of love.

Like an electric flash from a sultry sky does the entrance of Aida affect the musical atmosphere. At sight of the beautiful captive, Amneris again rages with jealousy, as is plainly indicated by the conflicting themes in the orchestra. With subtle devices the princess seeks to entrap her rival. She pretends a deep sympathy for Aida's grief over the vanquished Ethiopians, and adds that "Egypt also has cause to mourn, for our brave leader Rhadames is among the slain." This treacherous falsehood is foisted so suddenly that Aida loses caution and reveals her emotion. Amneris cries out in fury: "Tremble, slave! thy secret is discovered!" She informs Aida that Rhadames lives, and that she, Pharaoh's daughter, loves the hero and "will not brook the rivalry of a slave!" Amneris threatens death as the punishment for such audacious love. The proud captive stands for a moment in defiance; but realizing the futility of such action, she humbly pleads for pardon. In this song the composer admirably simulates a savage dearth of compa.s.s and harmony--an effect of crude simplicity that is charming and touching. The scene is interrupted by a song of victory from the streets, a signal for the festivities to begin. After commanding the Ethiopian to follow as a menial in the celebration, Amneris goes out.

Aida closes the scene with the same prayer to Heaven "Pieta!" that ended the first act.

A noisy march introduces the next scene, which represents a grand avenue in Egypt's capital. At the back of the stage is a triumphal arch and at one side a throne. The greater part of this act is spectacular, and after an opening chorus the orchestra has for some time entire charge of the music. The March from "Aida" is almost as popular as the Faust March. Its harmonies never swerve from the Egyptian type, being always stately and substantial as their architecture.

While the bra.s.s instruments are playing with full force, we witness the ceremonial entrance of the court, with innumerable priests and soldiers, trumpeters, fan-bearers, standard-bearers, train-bearers, white slaves, black slaves, flower girls, and dancing girls. There follows an elaborate ballet divertiss.e.m.e.nt, clothed in music of gay pattern and gaudy design, but light in substance. Five lines of continuous staccatos, like so many strings of beads, form the opening of this dance music. The salient points that impart an unmistakable Egyptian atmosphere to this composition are as follows: A savage repet.i.tion of every musical phrase, a wild predilection for the monotone, a limited variety of keys, and a preponderant accenting of the rhythm.