Wagner Without Fear

by William Berger

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  LOHENGRIN (tenor) The definitive knight in shining armor, the mysterious stranger who arrives to save the day on the condition that he never reveal his name or origin. We find out later that he is a knight of the Holy Grail and therefore a “higher being” (Wagner’s words). It is possible that we are meant to understand him, like Tannhäuser before him, as an artist, somewhat above the world but not above needing love.

  ELSA VON BRABANT (soprano) A strange but not unsympathetic woman who is given to trances and unusual dreams, some of which turn out to be prophetic. She is the Princess of Brabant (coastal Belgium) rather by default, since she has sort of misplaced her brother Gottfried, the rightful prince. The role is challenging to sopranos since they must portray a wide range of emotions while retaining an air of innocence, from misunderstood dreamer at the beginning to a real and earthy woman wanting to know who her husband is in Act III.

  ORTRUD (soprano or mezzo-soprano) A major diva role, and one of the truly great bitches of opera. The historical moment of Lohengrin looks at the Christianization process of Germany along with its nascent nationalism. Ortrud, who is a pagan, is seen as an opponent of both. She is relatively quiet and sneaky in the first act, conniving and ballistic in the second, and basically silent in the third until she lets out with some peel-the-wallpaper screams at the end. No peasant herself, she is a princess of the House of Frisia, which has claims on Brabant. Wagner never entirely reconciled himself to Christianity and always had a soft spot for pagans.

  COUNT FRIEDRICH VON TELRAMUND (baritone) Ortrud’s easily manipulated husband, and the one who accuses Elsa of murdering her brother and harboring a secret lover. He had, not incidentally, once asked Elsa to marry him. Telramund, as he is usually called, is generally thought of as weak rather than downright wicked, a distinction reserved for his pagan wife. The role contains much punishing music for relatively little reward, and it is hard to feel strongly about poor Friedrich one way or the other.

  KING HENRY THE FOWLER (bass) Borrowed from history, Henry the Fowler was the king of Saxony, a state in eastern Germany, from a.d. 919 to 936. Having negotiated a nine-year truce with invading Hungarians in 924, Henry set about training soldiers and fortifying the land. At the beginning of Lohengrin, he has come to Brabant to rally support for his cause. Although he is sympathetic to Elsa in our story, this role is more a symbol than a full human. The historical Henry was elected Holy Roman Emperor (Kaiser). The Encyclopaedia Brittanica informs us straightfacedly, “the story that he is called the Fowler because he was laying bird snares when informed of his election as Emperor may be regarded more as legend than fact.” We are very grateful for this information.

  THE HERALD (bass) A kind of narrator with a booming bass voice, usually accompanied by trumpets. The Herald stands in the center of the stage in the first two acts making heavy-sounding official pronouncements. The Herald was a standard feature of Romantic opera, serving to grab the audience’s attention at crucial points with lines like “Hear ye!” and “Mark well, O good people!” Although this device was eventually discarded by Wagner and others, it was an effective method of creating a certain formal structure for operas in which it was appropriate, such as Lohengrin.

  THE OPERA

  Prelude

  Beginning very softly in the strings and woodwinds, this famous prelude describes a vision of the Holy Grail, whose significance is not explained until the end of the opera, as it emerges from the heavens. The climax, at exactly two-thirds of the way through, uses the same theme, thundered out with horns and cymbals, signifying the Grail in full revelation. The music dies away to describe the Grail returning to the upper heavens after having bestowed its blessings on the people and the land.

  Comment: This is always called a prelude rather than an overture. since it does not rely on melodies from the opera itself in the manner of most overtures, including those of Tannhäuser and the Dutchman. Although there are thematic connections to the rest of the work, the Prelude aims to set a tone of reverence and holiness appropriate to a vision of the Grail without actually representing any of the subsequent story. Wagner scholars have made much of the revolutionary achievement of this independent prelude. Actually, Mozart and even Rossini might be said to have done the same in several of their operas. Furthermore, the Prelude really is quite narrative in that it is analogous to the story of Lohengrin, who comes from a heavenly place, does his magic, and leaves. The great achievement of the Prelude is in its sheer beauty, but don’t say that around any scholars. To call the Prelude “ethereal” is cliché but inevitable. In case we are too dull to appreciate its message, Wagner has left us detailed program notes explaining what we should do if we happen to have a vision of the Holy Grail, including the priceless instruction that “the beholder falls on his knees in adoring self-annihilation.” The blessings of salvation pouring forth from the Grail are a theme that would be explored by Wagner in greater depth, and much greater length, in Parsifal. This prelude has been famously described as “two squeakinesses with a brassiness between them.”

  Act I

  Setting: The banks of the River Scheldt (properly pronounced “Skelt,” but no one does) in Brabant, with Antwerp in the background.

  King Henry the Fowler has arrived from Saxony to rally support among the Brabantines for his upcoming war against invading Hungarians. While there, he has agreed, as king, to judge Count von Telramund’s suit against Elsa, the Princess of Brabant. Telramund explains that he had been made guardian of Elsa and her brother Gottfried by their dying father. One day, Elsa took Gottfried for a walk in the woods. She returned alone, asking Gottfried’s whereabouts with, as he says, “feigned concern.” Convinced of her guilt by her trembling, Telramund was seized with disgust at this maiden whom he had intended, by right, to marry. Instead he married Ortrud, from the line of Radbod. He now formally accuses Elsa of fratricide, and claims Brabant for himself and his heathen but noble wife. He adds that Elsa is delusional and, if all this isn’t enough, appears to have a secret lover.

  Comment: This long, formal trial sequence packs in a lot of information. Wagner intended to portray the medieval system of the liege lord (King Henry, in this case) traveling about to hear law cases. The stage instructions call for Henry to stand beneath a massive “Tree of Judgment,” as was the custom. Large trees are not currently fashionable for this scene.

  Telramund’s reference to Ortrud as a “child of Radbod” is gratuitous for the present story, but tells us something about Wagner and his sympathies. Radbod was a pagan lord of Frisia (northern coastal Holland), who at first said he would accept Christian baptism, but then jumped out of the baptismal font when it was explained to him that he wouldn’t meet his pagan father in Christian heaven. Wagner admired this story greatly. It appears in another form in Act II of Die Walküre.

  The shocked king calls for Elsa to be brought forth, and the herald issues the summons. Elsa enters, attended by her many ladies. The king asks her if she accepts him as her judge. She nods, but does not speak. When he repeats the accusation, she only replies, “My poor brother!” The onlookers comment on her pure expression, but wonder if she is entranced. Bidden by the king, she says she turned to God in her gloom, who granted her sleep. Then she saw a knight in “shining armor” come to her from heaven. “He shall be my champion!” she says twice.

  Comment: Elsa’s entrance and her “dream” narrative pose a challenge to the soprano. She must project innocence, piety, and a certain dreaminess without coming off like a total space case. It is best accomplished vocally, with as little attempt at acting, if we can call it that, as possible. The “dream” itself is often heard in recitals, where sopranos can revel in its otherworldliness without having to consider the operatic context.

  Telramund says he is not deterred by a maiden’s dreams. He is willing to put his just cause to the test of combat. Elsa agrees, saying her champion will be the knight whom heaven sends, who will receive her hand and her kingdom in gratitude.
With much formality, the king proclaims a trial by combat, and the herald calls Elsa’s champion forth. No one approaches. A second call goes unanswered until Elsa and her ladies fall to their knees in prayer. The men declare a strange marvel appearing on the river. A boat drawn by a swan is approaching. In the boat stands a knight in glistening armor whose radiance is dazzling. The women thank God. Elsa dares not open her eyes. The knight disembarks, Elsa looks and cries out in ecstasy.

  Comment: If Elsa’s entrance is tricky, Lohengrin’s is near-impossible for a mere mortal tenor to pull off. He must convince the audience, through his looks and demeanor, that he is literally God’s gift to women. Small wonder that King Ludwig once took a fit at the sight of a dumpy tenor Wagner had chosen for the role, and commanded his immediate replacement.

  The knight (whose name is Lohengrin, but—remember?—we must pretend we don’t know that) sings a sweet farewell to his beloved swan who had drawn his boat across the waters. The onlookers comment on his noble magnificence, which holds them spellbound. He salutes the king, who asks if he was sent by God, as he appears to be. Not denying it, he explains that he was sent to defend a falsely accused maid, and asks Elsa (by name—how does he know it?) if she accepts him as her champion. She immediately offers him everything she has, agreeing to be his wife. He says Elsa must promise him one thing: that she will never ask him his name, his lineage, or where he comes from. She says she will never ask. He asks if she has understood him well, and repeats the question. She insists she will never ask. He immediately exclaims, “Elsa, I love you!” and formally accuses Telramund of false charges.

  The knights of Brabant urge Telramund in vain to recant, since his sword will be useless against this Godsend. The Herald announces the combat, which is arranged with much brass fanfare while the various factions pray. The king commences the combat with three strikes of his sword against his shield. Lohengrin effortlessly vanquishes Telramund, granting him his life and commending him to penance. All express joy and wonder except the dejected Ortrud and Telramund.

  Comment: The entire first act has the pace and feel of a formal court function, complete with trumpet fanfares and heraldic pronouncements. This is relieved only by Elsa’s dreaminess and Lohengrin’s otherworldliness, which seem to suspend the action. The combat itself is usually anticlimactic. Either we are treated to the spectacle of a tenor and a baritone duking it out with the huge swords typical of the early Middle Ages, or the whole affair is carried out in the symbolic realm (for example, the old stage trick of turning the sword upside down to form a cross, causing the evil Telramund to shrink in terror). Either way, it’s all merely a set-up for the elaborate ensemble that ends the act.

  Act II

  Setting: The courtyard of Antwerp Castle, with the knights’ abode in the background, the Kemenate (the women’s hall) on one side, and the Münster, or church, on the other.

  Telramund and Ortrud, dejected and alone, slink about the shadows of the courtyard, while sounds of revelry are heard from inside the knights’ hall. Telramund blames Ortrud for dishonoring him, since she told him she had actually seen Elsa kill her brother. Now he is a victim of God’s judgment. Ortrud cries out “God?” and laughs horribly. Her husband notes that His name sounds horrible on her lips. Ortrud questions whether “God” is Telramund’s name for his own cowardice. He could have vanquished the mysterious knight. Even if he had succeeded in only severing a piece of the knight’s finger, he would have lost his power. But there is yet hope for them. In her witchy way, she has learned that the Godsent knight would lose his power if he revealed his name. She herself will vanquish the stranger through Elsa. The two sing of vengeance.

  Comment: The scene between the bad guys Ortrud and Telramund is painted in the darkest orchestral tones and is quite effective after the pomp of the first act, although their little “oath duet,” rounded off by bass clarinet and trombone chords, borders on the corny. George Martin’s Opera Companion says it could come from any Italian opera—“even a bad one.”

  Elsa appears at the window, ecstatic in her new happiness. Telramund hides. Ortrud smarmily calls up to her, blaming the debacle on Telramund and asking Elsa (four times) what had she ever done to offend Elsa. The supremely gullible Elsa falls for it, and leaves the window to come down and comfort the supposed penitent. This leaves Ortrud momentarily alone on stage, and she calls upon her pagan gods Wodan and Freia to aid her trickery. Elsa appears, forgiving Ortrud and generally being chummy. Ortrud uses the opportunity to plant the first doubts in her, saying she is concerned that Elsa might be too trusting of this stranger knight. Elsa laughs off Ortrud’s warnings. What could this unfortunate woman know about such a creature as the knight? Elsa and Ortrud enter the Kemenate together.

  Comment: High woodwinds accompany Elsa’s appearance on the balcony above, driving home the contrast to the previous “evil doings” scene. Ortrud’s invocation of the pagan gods Wodan and Freia is the mezzo’s first opportunity to chew up the scenery. Do not expect subtlety.

  Morning. People gather in the courtyard. The ubiquitous herald appears, full of news. Telramund is banished, King Henry confers the crown of Brabant on the stranger knight (who refuses all titles but Protector), the knight will marry Elsa that day, and the next day he shall lead the Brabantines in the king’s campaign against the Hungarians in the East. The people cheer and disperse, except for four grumbling nobles who gather and mutter. Who is this unknown knight to embroil Brabant in a distant war? Is their own land threatened? But who will stop these events? Telramund, who apparently has been hiding in the bushes all night, steps forward, shocking the nobles. He says the knight is a sorcerer, bent on ruining the land. He will set things right. The nobles follow him away.

  Comment: This short scene is more important for plot development than for any inherent musical interest. The four kvetchy nobles are important. Apparently, doubts about Lohengrin are latent among the Brabantines amidst all the cheering, depicting a macroscopic projection of Elsa’s dilemma. The personal and the political overlap throughout this opera.

  The courtyard fills with people, while Elsa’s elaborate bridal procession makes its way from the Kemenate. Just as she is about to enter the Münster, Ortrud jumps out of line and screams bloody murder, insisting she will not defer to Elsa. Elsa realizes she has been duped. How could Ortrud have changed so completely from the contrite woman she had been the night before? Ortrud replies that for one brief hour she had forgotten her noble blood, but now she demands to know the name and lineage of the stranger knight who claims leadership of the country. The king and the knight appear from the rear, magnificently attended. The knight comforts Elsa, and contemptuously dismisses Ortrud’s ravings. Suddenly, Telramund appears. The crowd is shocked to see the banished count, but before he can be apprehended, he charges the knight with sorcery. He, too, demands to know the knight’s name and lineage to make sure he is worthy to be Protector of Brabant. If he won’t tell the disgraced Telramund, he must tell the king. “Not even the king may know,” replies the knight, ordering Telramund and Ortrud back. The knight asks Elsa if she demands to know. Elsa says she does not, but before they enter the Münster, she catches sight of Ortrud and momentarily hesitates. Rallying, she accompanies the knight and the procession into the church.

  Comment: This scene is not Wagner’s most successful marriage, pardon the expression, of music and action. The action, such as it is, consists of Elsa taking forty minutes to cross from stage right to stage left. Smart productions incorporate the formality and stasis of the scene into a sort of ritual representation of the action. Attempts at realism here bog everything down. Wagner paints this scene in rich ensemble harmonies and choral intricacies, which went against his later theories of opera and are therefore a rare opportunity to hear what magnificent things he could do with the genre.

  Whenever anybody mentions the idea of the knight’s name, we hear an instantly recognizable theme in the orchestra. This was the music Lohengrin sang when he warned Elsa that she
must never ask “the question.” It thunders again in the orchestra at the end of Act II, when Elsa looks back at Ortrud and hesitates to enter the church. Clearly, she is beginning to have her doubts.

  Act III

  The joyous spirits of the wedding are depicted in an orchestral prelude. With no break in the music, the curtain rises on the bridal chamber of Elsa and the knight, who enter serenaded by their numerous attendants.

  Comment: The thrilling Prelude to Act III, with its shimmering strings supporting a thundering brass and cello melody, sounds to the modern ear more martial than marital. It is familiar from the concert stage, where it generally uses the “Name” motif as a makeshift ending. It is also familiar from movies, where it inevitably accompanies scenes of war and destruction (cf. “HELP!”). Most people who could whistle the tune would be shocked to know this is a wedding theme. Of course, Lohengrin is very much about the intersection of love and war, with some God and some Deutschland thrown in, so perhaps once again the music makes more sense than the program notes.

  As for the subsequent Bridal Chorus, yes, it is that Bridal Chorus, as in “Here Comes the Bride.” All that need be said about this most hackneyed piece of music in history is that it sounds better sung here in soft choral harmonies than it does in the local church, endlessly repeated on the reedy organ while the bride tries to disentangle the train of her gown from the door jamb. Wagner would have agreed that it has absolutely no place in a church.