100 Great Operas and Their Stories
Page 31
PROLOGUE
As in Goethe, the prologue consists of a dialogue between Mephistopheles, who sticks his head through some stage clouds, and the hosts of Heaven, who don’t appear at all. Mephisto, with a kind of sardonic politeness, wagers that he will be able to tempt the renowned philosopher, Dr. Faustus, to sin. The mystic choirs, the cherubim, and others do not seem to be particularly concerned by this boast, but they sing some very impressive choruses.
ACT I
Scene 1 represents a lively Easter Sunday in medieval Frankfort am Main with students, burghers, children all joining in the merriment. The old philosopher, Johann Faustus, observes these goings-on with his favorite pupil, Wagner, and when the crowd disperses, they engage in brief philosophical colloquy. A strange Gray Friar passes, and Faust believes he sees something supernatural about him. As the philosopher leaves the stage, the stranger follows him.
Scene 2 Alone in his study, Faust sings his beautiful aria Dai campi, dai prati in praise of natural goodness; and yet he is troubled. The mysterious Gray Friar, who has followed him into his study, suddenly doffs his cloak to reveal himself as Mephistopheles—the Devil himself. He sings what is aptly called the Whistle Aria and describes his own evil nature. Faust is not frightened; yet, before the scene is over, he has signed a contract with Mephisto. On earth Mephisto must serve Faust and show him some beauty. But below, in Hell, Mephisto will have the soul of the learned old gentleman.
ACT II
Scene 1 is the famous Garden Scene. In the evening, in Margherite’s garden, Faust (now a handsome young man by grace of the Prince of Darkness) is wooing that innocent young German girl. To help him out, Mephistopheles is, at the same time, wooing her mother, Martha. Naturally, the two males are entirely successful in their nefarious scheme, which is carried on in a highly melodious series of duets and quartets.
Scene 2 is the Walpurgis Night scene. Mephisto takes his protégé to the heights of the Brocken Peak high up in the Harz Mountains. The Devil leads a fiendish chorus of male and female witches, and they enact their satanic rites. Suddenly Faust sees a vision of Margherite. She is bound in chains, and there is a bloody line around her throat. But the fiendish chorus only goes on, and on.
ACT III
Margherite has poisoned her mother and drowned her illegitimate child. She is now insane and is soon to be taken from her prison cell to be executed. Pitifully she sings an aria about it, the expressive L’altra notte. Mephistopheles brings Faust to her, ready to help her escape. But poor, demented Margherite does not understand. She is comforted in again seeing her old lover, and they sing a moving duet. But when Mephisto appears, she is frightened. She refuses to leave despite his urgings; she prays to Heaven; and in the last effort she dies. For a moment Mephisto thinks that he has won her soul for Hell, but from on high comes an angelic choir. È salva—“She is saved!” it sings; and both Mephisto and the executioner are cheated of their prey.
ACT IV
A complete change comes over the music in the final act. Hitherto we have been in medieval Germany; now we are in ancient Greece. Mephisto has transported Faust here—in time and space—in the philosopher’s search for beauty, and they have found the most beautiful woman of all—Helen of Troy. She sings ravishingly with her companion, Pantalis. Mephisto—strictly a medieval character—feels out of place here. He says so, and he retires before a ballet begins. The balance of the act is given over to a love duet between Faust and Helen while a chorus and a male attendant named Nereo comment admiringly on the high-class love affair that is going on before their eyes.
EPILOGUE
Faust, once again an aged philosopher, is seated in his study at night. Mephistopheles is still trying to win his soul, but Faust, repenting his ways, is no longer tempted. Even when the Devil fills the room with visions of sirens, the old philosopher only prays to God. From high above come the voices of the cherubim in answer. In vain Mephisto tries to work his magic. Faust now has a new idea of beauty: it is the vision of the celestial gates. And as, in an ecstasy, his earthly body expires, the cherubim send over it a shower of roses. He is forgiven forever—and the Devil has lost his wager.
DIE MEISTERSINGER VON NÜRNBERG
(The Mastersingers of Nuremberg)
Opera in three acts by Richard Wagner with
libretto in German by the composer
WALTHER VON STOLZING, a young Franconian knight Tenor
EVA, daughter of Pogner Soprano
MAGDALENA, her nurse Mezzo-soprano
DAVID, apprentice to Hans Sachs Tenor
mastersingers
HANS SACHS, cobbler Bass or Baritone
VEIT POGNER, goldsmith Bass
KUNZ VOGELGESANG, furrier Tenor
CONRAD NACHTIGALL, buckle-maker Bass
SIXTUS BECKMESSER, town clerk Bass
FRITZ KOTHNER, baker Bass
BALTHASAR ZORN, pewterer Tenor
ULRICH EISSLINGER, grocer Tenor
AUGUSTIN MOSER, tailor Tenor
HERMAN ORTEL, soap boiler Bass
HANS SCHWARZ, stocking weaver Bass
HANS FOLTZ, coppersmith Bass
A NIGHT WATCHMAN Bass
Time: middle of the 16th century
Place: Nuremberg
First performance at Munich, June 21, 1868
Played without any intermission, a complete performance of Die Meistersinger would take just about four and a half hours. Yet when, prompted by his reading of a history of German literature, Wagner first considered the subject of the mastersingers of Nuremberg, he planned a one-act comedy—a half-hour afterpiece to Tannhäuser. It was sixteen years before he again took up the subject and another six before he completed it. By that time the original plan had succumbed to Wagner’s penchant for giganticism, and the most endearing of his operas was produced. Paderewski called it “the greatest work of genius ever achieved by any artist in any field of human activity.” Very few other musicians would rate it quite that high, and even the most rabid Wagnerians might prefer to give the palm to the Ring or to Tristan. Yet there is little question that it ranks, along with Verdi’s Falstaff and Richard Strauss’s Der Rosenkavalier, as the best of the operatic comedies since Mozart; and in popularity it outranks the two later works.
PRELUDE
Wagner seems unwontedly modest in calling his introductory thoughts merely Vorspiel, or Prelude, equating it with, say, one of Chopin’s one-page poems. The very opening theme is that of the mastersingers, the sixteenth-century guild of vocalists, Nuremberg chapter. It is followed by each of the other principal themes of the opera—Longing, Prize Song, Love Confessed, The Art of Brotherhood, Ridicule, and others, which have been so labeled by leitmotiv detectives. In the development, two, three, and one time even four of these are juggled together with consummate skill. A tremendous climax is achieved with the reiteration of the opening theme; and (excepting in Wagner’s own concert arrangement) the Prelude leads directly into
ACT I
In the church of St. Catherine, in Nuremberg, services are going on, the chorale to St. John being sturdily intoned. A handsome young knight of Franconia, Walther von Stolzing, Stands by a pillar ogling Eva, daughter of the wealthy goldsmith Pogner; and between the stately lines sung by the choir she and the orchestra register a happy amorous confusion. At its close, as the congregation leaves, Walther, who has never met the girl, manages to learn from her attending nurse, Magdalena, that Eva is not betrothed. She is, however, to be bestowed the next day on the winner of a song contest. Wasting little time on the oddity of this circumstance, he resolves to enter the contest himself.
With the church emptied, a bustling group of apprentices prepares the place for a hearing of would-be members of the guild of mastersingers. David, who is affianced to Magdalena, is the leader of the group; and as they work, he gives a confused and confusing account to Walther of the guild’s technical rules—all about modes and tablatures which neither Walther nor a modern audience manages to understand very well but which, neve
rtheless, bear some relationship to the actual rules of the time as Wagner had found them in a book.
The apprentices make fun of Walther’s pretensions, but they scatter when the august members of the guild enter in their Sunday best. Beckmesser, the town clerk, feels confident of winning the contest, but there is one little thing that bothers him. Pogner has stated that he will bestow his daughter on the winner only if she approves of the choice. With good reason the nasty little clerk feels that this may stand in the way of his getting the girl of his dreams. Pogner, however, refuses to alter the ruling; and in a long Address, he moralizes on the charges of commercialism that have been leveled against the burghers of Nuremberg. To show his devotion to art, therefore, he promises not only Eva but his own worldly wealth to the winner; and should Eva refuse the man’s hand, she may marry no one else.
Now Hans Sachs, the real hero of the opera, speaks up. He is the local cobbler and very popular with the ordinary people of Nuremberg. Suppose, he suggests, that Eva herself and the people make the judgment. Perhaps he is not wholly disinterested in this proposal, for he, too, is in love with Eva, and, as Beckmesser points out, he has composed some songs that are dangerously popular. At any rate, his proposal, too, is turned down by the members of the guild.
The examination of Walther, as a candidate, then begins. He has learned his art, he says, from the teachings of Walther von der Vogelweide, a real historical character, who, having been dead for more than three centuries, could not be a member of the guild. The more narrow-minded members object to this training, but Sachs’s liberality wins the day. Kothner, the baker, thereupon reads out the formal rules; Beckmesser, as “marker,” takes his place behind a curtain with a slate and piece of chalk; and Walther starts his trial song—a handsome tune about love and spring, beginning Am stillen Herd. Almost at once the scratching of Beckmesser marking down mistakes sounds furiously from behind the screen; and when Walther commits the blunder of rising from his chair as he sings, the outraged masters unanimously decide that he has been “outsung.” Unanimously, that is, excepting for Sachs. The cobbler’s pleas on behalf of the young man’s gifts go unheard. Walther and the others leave the church in various degrees of disgust, and the curtain descends on Sachs alone, who regards the matter with a wry humor.
ACT II
That evening the apprentices are putting up the shutters on the houses in a street where Pogner’s showy dwelling stands on one side and Sachs’s more humble one on the other. Tomorrow is the festival of St. John, and they are anticipating the fun. They are also making fun of David, who has come into the bad graces of Magdalena on account of Walther’s failure to benefit by his instructions. Sachs, however, chases all the boys home, seats himself at his cobbler’s bench outside his door, and has a nice long think—the brooding monologue Wie duftet doch der Flieder. The summer breezes lead to thoughts of Walther’s song, which still haunts him. Even if it broke many rules, yet it was full of magic and beauty. (Sachs, you see, was, in Wagner’s mind, one of the rarest of phenomena—a broad-minded music critic.)
Eva shyly crosses the street, and in the ensuing dialogue it becomes clear that she is in love with Walther but, despairing now of having him, would not find the highly respected, middle-aged Sachs entirely unacceptable. But Sachs, though he has loved the girl since she was so high, is too wise to take advantage of this, and he quietly resumes his work, within the door of his house, when she leaves. A moment later, however, he observes Eva and Walther across the way. They are making plans to elope but are interrupted first by the light from Sachs’s window and then by the entrance of Beckmesser carrying a lute. The town clerk makes believe he has come to inquire about a pair of shoes, but his real purpose is to serenade Eva. Sachs agrees to act as “marker” for him, and Beckmesser begins. Meantime, however, Magdalena has appeared at Eva’s window, and so it is the maid who receives her mistress’s compliments. They are not very lyrical in nature, however, and Sachs unmercifully hammers away at his shoes to mark each of Beckmesser’s anti-musical mistakes. The noise arouses many of the neighbors, who appear at their windows; and David, seeing the town clerk serenading his fiancée, rushes out and starts trouncing the intruder unmercifully. This is the signal for a general melee of the men of the town, dressed mostly in nightgowns. Walther and Eva take advantage of the confusion by trying to elope, but Sachs pushes the girl back into her father’s house, draws Walther into his own, and kicks David back in as well. By this time the women of the town have put an end to the midsummer madness by pouring water from the windows (though this detail is omitted in many performances). With quiet descended again upon the street, the night watchman appears, sings a quaint old ditty, blows somewhat discordantly on his horn, and wanders off as the curtain falls.
ACT III
Scene 1 Act III has an exceptionally beautiful prelude made up partly from the long soliloquy Sachs sings in the first scene and partly from the magnificent chorale sung in the second.
The action takes place next day—St. John’s Day—June 24—the day of the Song Contest. Sachs is sitting at home, reading, and he barely notices David, his apprentice, when he comes in. David is quite embarrassed on account of his bad behavior the night before. But the good-natured Sachs bears him no ill will and asks him to sing the carol of St. John in honor of the day. Now, the familiar name for John (or Johannes) in German is “Hans,” and suddenly David realizes that if this is the day that honors St. John, why, it must honor his master too, whose name is Hans. And—as we shall see in the second scene—Hans Sachs is the honored figure on that day.
Left alone, Sachs sings his second monologue, Wahn, wahn! All the world is mad, he says, and one thinks (though he does not mention it) that perhaps his sadness may be inspired by his hopeless love for Eva. Suddenly Walther, his overnight guest, comes in. He has just wakened from a wonderful dream, and he proceeds to tell it to Sachs. This is the familiar Prize Song, and Sachs, struck with its beauty, writes down the words as Walther sings.
When the two men have left the room, Beckmesser steals in, still limping from his beating of the night before. He finds Walther’s song and puts it into his pocket. Then, when Sachs re-enters, he scolds him for wanting to enter the contest himself. Sachs at once sees that Beckmesser takes the song to be his own and, without telling him who the real author is, makes him a present of it. For Sachs knows that Beckmesser is so bad a musician he will never get a good tune for it. Delighted, Beckmesser leaves.
The next visitor at the Sachs house is Eva. She is beautifully dressed, ready for the contest. She says, however, that her shoe pinches. Sachs begins to fuss with her foot, at which point enter Walther, also dressed, like a knight, for the contest. Struck with Eva’s beauty, he repeats the last stanza of his Prize Song. Eva, now deeply in love with Walther, tries to hide her emotion. Even Sachs is a little perturbed, and, to cover up, he sings a stanza of a sturdy cobbler’s song.
Now David and Magdalena are called in. The apprentice is told his days of service are over: he has been graduated in his trade, and he may now marry Magdalena. The scene ends with the great quintet in which each expresses his own emotions. It is, I think, one of the loveliest passages Wagner ever composed.
Scene 2 On an open meadow, beside the river Pegnitz, the good folk of Nuremberg are gathered. In come all the guilds in procession—the tailors, the shoemakers, the bakers. The apprentices come too, and dance to a delightful little waltz tune. Finally, the mastersingers come in, to the melody that opens the prelude to the opera. At their head is the revered Hans Sachs, and the people honor him with a beautiful chorale, the second melody heard in the prelude to Act III.
The first contestant is the comic villain—Beckmesser. Accompanying himself, he tries to sing the poem he had practically stolen. But his voice is so bad, and his tune is so tuneless, that he is simply laughed at. Enraged, he accuses Sachs of having written the poem. But Sachs says it is really a very good poem, if well sung, and so Walther is allowed to sing it. The people are so much enchan
ted with his Prize Song that they join in in wonder. Of course, Walther is awarded the prize. However, he is angry with the mastersingers because they had not admitted him to the contest in the first act. He at first refuses the prize, and it takes some very eloquent pleading on the part of Sachs to make him change his mind. Even then Sachs might have failed had not Eva been the great stake that was being played—or sung—for. And so the opera ends, with the people proclaiming their love of the art of music—and of Hans Sachs.
MIGNON
Opera in three acts by Ambroise Thomas with
libretto in French by Michel Carré and Jules
Barbier, based on Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister
MIGNON, a girl stolen by the gypsies Mezzo-soprano
WILHELM MEISTER, a Student Tenor
PHILINE, an actress Soprano
FRÉDÉRIC, a young nobleman Tenor or Contralto
LAERTE, an actor Tenor
LOTHARIO, a wandering harper Bass
JARNO, leader of the gypsies Bass
Time: 18th century
Places: Germany and Italy
First performance at Paris, November 17, 1866
Once upon a time there were a couple of literary hacks named Michel Carré and Jules Barbier. In the middle of the nineteenth century they took great works of literature and made French opera librettos out of them. Many of these mutilated works became famous French operas. One was Romeo and Juliet, another was Hamlet, a third was Faust, a fourth was Wilhelm Meister. This last was Goethe’s novel—very philosophical, very tragic. But when our friends the librettists were through with it, it was very unphilosophical and quite gay. Its name as well as its nature was changed: it was called Mignon. It was set to music by Ambroise Thomas, and it became one of the most popular operas France ever produced. Since its premiere in 1866 it has had over 2000 performances at the Opéra Comique alone. That’s an even longer run than South Pacific had on Broadway.