ACT I
The story takes place in eighteenth-century Germany, and after the popular overture, which features the most familiar tunes in the opera, the action opens gaily in the courtyard of an inn. A troupe of gypsies is there, led by a ruffian named Jarno. He tries to make a mysterious and lovely little gypsy girl dance. This is Mignon, the heroine; and when Jarno threatens to beat her, enter our hero, the tenor, Wilhelm Meister. He saves her from Jarno, and eventually he buys her freedom.
Meantime, there is also a company of traveling actors at the inn. The leading lady is Philine, a gay coloratura soprano who is perpetually either giggling or singing scales and roulades. Her friend and leading man is young Laerte, whose interest in her is strictly platonic. Therefore, he looks on amused as Philine proceeds to snare the interest of that solemn, handsome, and comfortably off young student, Wilhelm Meister. Philine also has an aristocratic young fool hanging about her—one Frédéric, nephew of the Baron Rosenberg. And when, toward the end of the act, Philine receives a letter from Frédéric’s uncle inviting the actors’ troupe to his castle, everyone accepts. Wilhelm is to go along as the poet of the troupe, and Mignon will be his servant, dressed as a boy. Thus the act ends, with everyone off to the Château Rosenberg. I have, however, deliberately omitted to mention one other important character. He is an old harper named Lothario, and he is a little touched from grief. Apparently he has a special interest in Mignon, and he does his best to protect her. Every time a harp is heard prominently in the orchestra, one also hears Lothario’s bass voice singing. At the end of the act he goes off by himself—but more of him later.
Mignon’s touching aria Connais-tu le pays occurs about the middle of the act. In it she tells Wilhelm of a country she remembers—one where she lived very well indeed. But, like Lothario, she is a bit vague about her past. There is also a very lovely duet between Mignon and Lothario (Légères hirondeles) that has some of the same quality.
ACT II
Scene 1 takes place in the castle of the Baron Rosenberg. The boudoir of the Baroness has been turned over to the actress, Philine, for the occasion. There is to be a performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that evening, and Philine is making herself up as her fellow-actor Laerte makes jokes with her. Mignon, now dressed as a page for Wilhelm Meister, is teased by Philine. Wilhelm defends the little girl again; but it is obvious that he is falling madly in love with Philine, and poor little Mignon is desperately jealous. When she is left alone, she starts to dress herself in some of Philine’s finery, and as she does so, she sings a charming little air, a Styrienne. But she is interrupted when the Baron’s nephew, Fred Rosenberg, quarrels with Wilhelm over Philine. And when Mignon interferes, Frédéric goes off laughing.
Now Wilhelm, seeing Mignon dressed like a woman, believes he can no longer keep her in his service. He sings her a sad aria of farewell (Adieu, Mignon, ne pleurez pas). He does not realize how deeply she loves him. Condescendingly he tells her that at her age she will soon forget. But before she leaves, Philine taunts her once more; and now Wilhelm, seeing that Mignon is genuinely jealous, begins to have his eyes open. But it is time to get ready for the play. Laerte summons Philine for the show, and they all go out as the orchestra murmurs the tune of the Gavotte. All, that is, but Mignon. She has one last line: “That Philine: I hate her!”
Scene 2 takes place outside the castle and by a lake. Poor Mignon has not been invited to the performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and she thinks of how her beloved Wilhelm seems to have fallen in love with the coquettish actress Philine. She sings her sad aria Elle est aimée and then is joined by her old and harmlessly crazy protector, Lothario. He, too, is suffering; and they tell us all about it in the duet As-tu souffert? Meantime, applause is heard from within the castle, and Mignon carelessly utters the wish that the place would burn down.
But now the performance is over. Philine has had a triumph, and to everyone’s approval she sings Je suis Titania. It is one of the gayest—and most popular—showpieces in the repertoire of any coloratura soprano.
Unfortunately, Philine orders Mignon to go back to the castle to fetch a bouquet she had left. It happens to be a bouquet Mignon had picked for Wilhelm, who had lightheartedly handed it over to Philine; but, to be entirely fair, Philine did not know its origin when she sent Mignon to fetch it. Before the young girl can come back, the castle bursts into flames. Who had set fire to it? The half-demented Lothario, of course. The heroic young Wilhelm dashes back into the castle, rescues little Mignon, and comes back carrying her in his arms. In her hands are Philine’s withered flowers.
ACT II
The last act transports us from Germany to Italy. It begins with the familiar sound of Lothario’s harp as he sings a sweet lullaby for Mignon. He has brought her to this country she once knew—the country she sang of so sweetly in the aria Connais-tu le pays. Wilhelm is there too. He now knows that Mignon loves him, and he has decided he loves her, too. But it appears to be too late. Mignon, after her dreadful experiences, has not yet recovered her mind, and Wilhelm sings the aria C’est en vain que j’attends—“I wait in vain.” And when a pale, suffering Mignon appears, he tries to tell her he loves her, but she cannot believe him. Off-stage, comes the voice of Philine, singing Je suis Titania, and her presence is proof enough for poor little Mignon.
But now—wonder of wonders—the crazy old Lothario appears dressed like a noble lord. It turns out that he was a wealthy nobleman all the time, that he had temporarily lost his mind, and that Mignon is his own daughter. Naturally, everyone, including even Mignon, finds this a little difficult to believe. But Lothario shows her a child’s scarf she once owned, a coral bracelet, a prayerbook. He utters her old name, Sperata—and finally he shows her a portrait of her mother. Now everything comes back to the girl’s shaken mind. It is almost too much joy for her to bear. But Wilhelm takes her in his arms; she recovers quickly; and the opera closes with a trio of rejoicing.
NORMA
Opera in four acts (originally in two, but divided
into four scenes) by Vincenzo Bellini
with libretto in Italian by Felice Romani,
based on a French play of the same name by
Louis Alexandre Soumet
NORMA, High Priestess of the druidical temple Soprano
OROVESO, her father, the Archdruid Bass
CLOTILDA, her confidante Soprano
POLLIONE, Roman Proconsul in Gaul Tenor
ADALGISA. a virgin of the temple Soprano or Mezzo-soprano
FLAVIO, a centurion Tenor
Time: about 50 B.C.
Place: Gaul
First performance at Milan, December 26, 1831
Like the rest of the world, Bellini himself regarded Norma as his masterpiece. If on a shipwrecked boat, he once said, he had only one of his operas to rescue, that one would be Norma.
And though today it strikes most of us as a vehicle for a great soprano, with some very wonderful arias and concerted numbers but with the most unrealistic and formalized plot, it was not always so. “This opera among all the creations of Bellini,” wrote one nineteenth-century critic, “is the one which, with the most profound reality, joins to the richest vein of melody the most intimate passion.” The critic was Richard Wagner.
Whatever one may think of the way the composer took dramatic advantage of the genuinely dramatic situations offered him by the librettist, his score has always presented a worthy challenge to the greatest singers for more than a century and a quarter. The first Norma was Giuditta Pasta, who saved the first performances in both Milan and London through her magnificent performance. It later became one of her best-loved roles; and when she was too old to sing it, the most-admired Norma became Giulia Grisi, who had sung the role of Adalgisa at the premiere. María Malibran also liked to star in the role—so much so that the memorial statue erected to her by her husband at Laeken presents her in the costume of Norma. Jenny Lind often attempted the role, though one would hardly think that the Swedish nightingale
’s generally placid stage temperament would suit the passionate Druid priestess; and Lilli Lehmann sang it often but had so much respect for its difficulties that she said it took more out of her than singing all three of the Ring’s Brünnhildes.
In more recent times revivals of the opera have been especially staged for such outstanding sopranos as Rosa Raisa, Rosa Ponselle, and Zinka Milanov. And in 1956, after years of dickering with Maria Meneghini Callas, the Metropolitan finally secured her signature to a contract to open as Norma. She had a triumph.
OVERTURE
The overture used to occupy a fairly prominent place in the standard repertoire of popular concerts. As the opera deals in conflicts between martial and amatory sentiments, the music of the overture presents a similar contrast, and it also makes use of the opening chorus of the Druid priests.
ACT I
The story takes us back to approximately 50 B.C., when, as you may recall from your high-school Caesar, the Roman legions were busy occupying Gaul. It is nighttime, and the Druids, to martial music, gather in their sacred forest, before the sacred tree of their god, Irminsul. They are led by their high priest, Oroveso, who expects them to rise against the Romans. He tells them that Norma, the High Priestess and his own daughter, will, at the right moment, perform the rite of cutting the sacred mistletoe, and this shall be the signal for the rising.
When the Druids have departed, the Roman proconsul, Pollione, enters with his friend, the centurion Flavio. From their conversation we learn that Pollione is, secretly, the father of Norma’s two children, but he is now in love with the vestal virgin Adalgisa. In the aria Meco all’altar di Venere he relates how his dream of being with Adalgisa in Rome bothers his conscience. At its close we hear the sacred bronze shield sounding to summon the Druids once more, and the two Romans depart.
The familiar March from Norma is now played, as the Druids gather once more to listen to their priestess. In a noble recitative, Norma tells them that the time to rise has not yet come, for Rome is to be defeated by its own vices. Then follows the famous aria Casta Diva, which Bellini is said to have rewritten eight times before he was satisfied with it. She begins by invoking the moon and calling for peace. Then, as the chorus cries out against the Romans, she sings—for herself alone—of the love she bears the Roman proconsul, Pollione.
When the priests have again departed, Adalgisa, Pollione’s new love, is left alone, and she prays for help from the gods. There Pollione finds her; and in the eloquent duet that closes the act (Va, crudele) he persuades her to follow him to Rome.
ACT II
Norma has raised the Roman Pollione’s two children in a secret home with the aid of her confidante, Clotilda. As the second act opens, she tells Clotilda that she both loves and hates these children, for she fears that Pollione will leave for Rome and desert her. Now the young priestess, Adalgisa, sworn to chastity, enters. She confides in Norma, saying that she is in love. Norma, commiserating, promises to release her from her vows, but Adalgisa mentions that her lover is about to depart for Rome. At once Norma is suspicious. Who can this lover be? “There he is,” says Adalgisa as Pollione enters. An exciting trio develops, as Norma curses Pollione for his faithlessness, Pollione, conscience-stricken, begs Norma not to reproach him before Adalgisa, and Adalgisa herself is filled with remorse. The sacred bronze shield is heard once more, as it is struck to summon Norma to her priestly duties, and the act closes.
ACT III
It is nighttime in Norma’s secret home, and after a prelude she enters carrying a lamp in one hand and a dagger in the other. To revenge herself on the faithless Pollione, the High Priestess has decided to murder their two children as they sleep. But as she bends over them, she cannot bring herself to do the horrid deed, for they are not only Pollione’s children, they are her own as well. Quickly she sends Clotilda for Adalgisa. Norma has decided to die, and she commands Adalgisa to marry Pollione and take the children with her. Moved by Normals nobility, Adalgisa refuses. In the great duet Mira, O Norma, she begs for pity on the two children, and she offers to bring Pollione back to Norma. The act closes as the two priestesses embrace.
ACT IV
The last, dramatic act takes place, like the first, in the sacred forest of the Druids, before the altar of the great god Irminsul. The assembled warriors of Gaul cry for war against the Romans. Oroveso, the High Priest and father of Norma, alone advises patience. They leave; and then, at the altar itself, Norma awaits Pollione’s return. But her confidante, Clotilda, brings news that Adalgisa has failed—that Pollione refuses to return to Norma. In great anger Norma now summons the priests and soldiers by striking the sacred shield. She calls for war—Guerra, guerra!—and for blood—Sangue, sangue!
At this point Clotilda reports that a Roman has been found in the cloister of the Druid virgins. Pollione turns out to be the transgressor, and the Gauls demand his death. But Norma desires first to question him alone. She offers her former lover either death or his life—if he will leave Gaul without Adalgisa. Pollione scorns this offer: he is not afraid to die. But when Norma threatens to take the life of Adalgisa as well, he attempts to seize her sword. Norma thereupon summons the soldiers and priests once more. She tells them that a priestess has violated her vows, and that she must be burned to death. Pollione, believing her to be about to name Adalgisa as the erring priestess, tries to stop her. But with a great gesture Norma announces that she herself is the offending priestess, and that she must die—and she commends the care of her children to her father, Oroveso.
Only then does Pollione understand the greatness of the woman’s spirit, and he says that he will die with her. The funeral pyre is prepared, and—united again—the lovers, Norma and Pollione, mount to their death.
Postscript for the historically curious: “About 50 B.C.” a distinguished Roman politician and poet, still in his twenties, was appointed by Mark Antony as proconsul for a portion of Gaul. The young man’s name was Gaius Asinius Pollio (“Pollione” in French); he survived his term of office among the Druids; he became a consul of Rome ten years later; and he died peacefully in his Italian villa at the age of eighty-one, full of honors, mostly literary.
OBERON
Opera in three acts by Carl Maria von Weber
with libretto in English by James Robinson
Planché based on a medieval French tale entitled
Huon de Bordeaux
SIR HUON OF BORDEAUX Tenor
SHERASMIN, his squire Baritone
OBERON, King of the Fairies Tenor
PUCK Contralto
REZIA, daughter of Haroun el Rashid Soprano
FATIMA, her attendant Mezzo-soprano
CHARLEMAGNE, Emperor of the Franks Bass
HAROUN EL RASHID, Caliph of Bagdad Bass
BABEKAN, a Saracen prince, fiancé of Rezia Baritone
ALMANZOR, Emir of Tunis Baritone
ROSHANA, wife of Almanzor
TITANIA, Oberon’s wife Speaking parts
NAMOUNA, Fatima’s grandmother
Time: 9th century, if any
Places: Fairyland, Bagdad, Tunis, the court of Charlemagne
First performance at London, April 12, 1826
James Robinson Planché, who concocted the dreamlike, romantic semi-drama which forms the libretto of Oberon, was an antiquary of some distinction, a successful playwright, and an important innovator in the London theater. He was the first man in the history of the English stage to costume a historical play in something like the clothes the characters might actually have worn. (The play was Shakespeare’s King John, the producer Charles Kemble.) He also developed a form of theatrical entertainment, part music, part dancing, part acting, all romantic, which is now known as “the pantomime,” a peculiarly British institution to which English mamas in huge numbers still take their children in still larger numbers every Christmas.
Oberon is very much like a pantomime: most of its characters sing, but others don’t; there is opportunity for spectacle and ballet; there is magic; th
ere is a joyful ending. Yet its nature is not so different from that of Der Freischütz as to have caused Weber any feeling of oddness when he received the book. Kemble, who had been much impressed by that opera, traveled to Germany to persuade Weber to compose an opera especially for Covent Garden, and the subject of Oberon was one of the two he suggested, the other being Faust. Weber chose Oberon, and Kemble chose Planché to write the book.
Both librettist and composer were highly conscientious men. When Planché had written it in English (he was an Englishman, despite his name), he translated it into French especially for Weber and sent it to him. But Weber had, in the meantime, gone to the trouble of learning English, and wrote his collaborator the following charming acknowledgment: “I thank you obligingly for your goodness of having translated the verses in French; but it was not so necessary, because I am, though yet a weak, however, a diligent student of the English language.”
It was this very conscientiousness of Weber’s which puts a sad ending to our story. Not yet forty, he was a very sick man when he undertook Kemble’s commission. Nevertheless, he wrote the music in six weeks, went to London to supervise every one of the fifteen rehearsals, conducted a round dozen performances of it as well as several concerts, and then quietly died. He knew perfectly well that he stood little chance of surviving, but he forced himself to the effort. The $5355 he earned from his three months in London were a godsend to his impoverished wife and children.
100 Great Operas and Their Stories Page 32