JUDITH GAUTIER IN HER GARDEN AT SAINT EUOGAT.
JUDITH GAUTIER IN HER GARDEN AT SAINT EUOGAT.
To-day they presented to me Siegfried,—familiarly called "Fidi." He is a splendid baby, who weighs down the arms of his nurse. He does not talk yet, but he understands what is said to him. They ask him:
"Fidi, wie gross bist du?"
("Fidi, how big are you?")
He holds up his arms and shows, with a laugh full of dimples, that he is as high as the ceiling.
"Here," said I, "is a little being who has a very exceptional origin: descendant of Wagner and Liszt! What plans of future glory have they already formed for him?"
"That is all very vague," said the mother, laughing. "I have the ambition, first of all, to assure him a modest income, so he may always be sheltered from those terrible material worries, those shameful 'little miseries' from which I have suffered so cruelly. Then I should like to have him know something of surgery, so he could give help to anyone who was wounded, make a first dressing. I have so often been grieved by my own helplessness, when an accident has happened near me, that I wish to spare him that pain. Otherwise I shall leave him quite free. I should be glad, however, if he were to develop a taste for architecture."
"While we are waiting," added Cosima to me, "for the future architect to declare himself, do you feel yourself worthy, dear friend, of fulfilling a mission of confidence on his behalf? The nurse is just going to her dinner, which is served before ours; as for me, I have a bath ready which the sun has warmed; water heated in that way is very hygienic; I should like to take my plunge right away, in order not to be late for dinner. Now, this is the hour when Fidi is in the-habit of sucking a biscuit soaked in madeira; and there is no one to give it to him but you."
"Madeira at his age?" I am very much surprised, but I make no objection, being also very conscious of my own incompetence.
So here I am installed in the garden, near a little iron table, on the other side of the curtain of shrubbery which conceals Cosima's bath. Fidi is on my knees. Penetrated by the importance of my task, I soak the biscuit in the madeira, neither too much nor too little, and I am very careful not to soil the pretty embroideries of the robe. The baby eagerly sucks the golden wine and swallows the biscuit, without coughing or choking. I am not able to see, but behind the leaves I hear the splashing of the water and Cosima's voice encouraging me. All goes well, as long as the madeira and the biscuit last. But when there is nothing more, Fidi gives manifest signs of impatience. He twists himself about, in order to escape and slide to the ground. Shall I let him go? Never! I am not authorised. I do not even know if he can walk by himself. But he is quite determined to get down, kicks vigorously, and looks at me with frowning brows, as though he were astonished that I do not understand.
"Do hurry, Cosima, Fidi detests me and wishes to get away."
"No indeed, he loves you very much," cried the bather, "hold him tight."
So I hold him tight, but he has incredible strength and a persevering will. The struggle is painful and long ... finally, when they come to my aid, it becomes evident, too late, that the baby had serious reasons for his determination to get down.
This morning, Richard Wagner received a letter from the celebrated Pasdeloup....
It will be remembered, perhaps, that at this time, Pasdeloup had been director of the Theatre Lyrique for rather more than a year. He had, as a matter of course, produced at his theatre, first of all, one of Wagner's operas, and as he intended to play them all in succession he had begun withRienzi, the first as to date. The work had been brilliantly mounted and well received, and the tenor, Monjauze, really remarkable in the rôle of the Tribune, had had a very decided success.
In his letter of to-day, Pasdeloup wrote thatRienziwas to be given again at the re-opening of the theatre, but without Monjauze, who had unfortunately broken his arm.
They begrudged Monjauze and regretted exceedingly that it was necessary to replace him, for he alone, in that work, was equal to his part. Pasdeloup did not say who would take his place.
It was on the occasion of that first representation ofRienziat Paris, that, urged by Pasdeloup, I had written again to Wagner,—after the sending of the famous articles which had brought me the beautiful response from the Master, in which he explained to me certain scenes from theMeistersinger—I wrote this time, to ask if he would not like to come to Paris to stage and direct this work. He replied to me with a second letter, equally beautiful and very dignified, intended for publication and which appeared inLa Liberté.
"Now that I know your writing," said I to Cosima, "I realise that the letter was by your own hand."
"That is true, Wagner wrote it first in German. I translated it into French, then we re-read it and corrected it together, and finally I copied it again."
"How wrong of us to have given you all that trouble! Pasdeloup was over-confident. If I had known about this retreat of Tribschen, how sacrilegious would have seemed to me the idea of asking the Master to leave it in order to please a Theatre Director!"
"You have seen by the affair of theRheingold, that it is much better for Wagner not to mingle with the theatrical world. His first duty is to keep his creative faculty intact, but he is a 'fighter,' and is always tempted to throw himself into the fray."
"Now that I have the joy of knowing him, he will never again be called to battle by me!"
"He will return of himself, only too soon, for repose is not for him," added Cosima, sighing:
"I am curious to read again that letter that you wrote, you two, when you believed me to be a very serious old lady.... Do you remember your surprise, the first time you saw me to find me so different from what you had imagined? You would not be able to write in the same tone now."
"Certainly, the style of your articles does not at all resemble you, and we did not in the least foresee thegaminthat you are ... sometimes!"
"Neither could I have known that Wagner climbed trees...."
"But in any case the letter had nothing private in it; it was written to be published."
Cosima had kept a copy of the text, which she found, and we read it together:—
"MADAME,
"You are kind enough to ask me for some details relating to the time of my first stay in France, with the kindly intention of writing an article by their aid, the publication of which shall coincide with my arrival in Paris, which you believe to be near. While thanking you for the interest which you are so kind as to feel for me, permit me to say, Madame, that it is not my intention to go to Paris. I know that I have excellent friends, indeed, even numerous friends there, and I hope I do not need to assure you that I am capable of appreciating the value and the importance of the testimonies of sympathy of which I am the object. Nevertheless my presence and my participation in the representation that is being prepared might very well give rise to a misunderstanding. It would appear as though I were putting myself at the head of a theatrical enterprise with the intention of regaining byRienzithat which I have lost byTannhäuser. At least it would undoubtedly be in this way that the Press would interpret my going. Whereas the stage setting ofRienziat the Théâtre Lyrique has only been an entirely personal question between M. Pasdeloup and me.
"After the production of theMeistersingerat Munich, and the attention it attracted, many propositions were made to me. At first they spoke of sending a German troupe, to give my six operas, one after another, in Paris; then some one wished to attemptLohengrinin Italian, then againLohengrinin French, and so on. In short, there were no less than five projects that summer, concerning the representations of my works in Paris. Yet I did not encourage any one of them. When M. Pasdeloup told me that he had accepted the directorship of the Théâtre Lyrique with the intention of giving several of my works, I did not feel that I could refuse to this zealous and capable friend, the authorisation for bringing them out; and, as he desired to begin withRienzi, I said to him that, in fact, of all my operas, that one had always seemed to me best adapted to the French stage. Written, thirty years ago, with a view to Grand Opera,Rienzidoes not present so many difficulties to the singers, nor will it offer to the Parisian public so much that is unusual as the works which have followed it. Both in subject and in musical form, it is closely related to the operas that have been popular in Paris for a long time, and I still believe that, if it is richly mounted and given with spirit, it has a chance of success. That success I wish for it with all my heart, and still more success to my friend M. Pasdeloup, who, of his own free will, has valiantly and energetically upheld my cause for a number of years. But I should be unwise to wish to contribute to that success by my presence. My nature as well as my destiny have decreed for me the concentration and the solitude of work, and I feel myself to be absolutely unfit for any exterior enterprise. EitherRienziwill make its way without me, or, if it is not capable of doing so, my assistance cannot help it and we can only suppose that the conditions are unfavourable.
"Such is, in a few words, my point of view and the line of conduct which I have decided, or rather, which I am called upon to follow, with regard to the representation of my works in Paris, whichever they may be. And please, Madame, do not see in this reserve any sign of unreasonable disdain, which could be assumed to mask a deeper feeling of rancour. I am very far from pooh-poohing a Paris success, and I even assure you that I have always considered it one of the numerous ironies of my fate thatRienzi, composed within sight of Paris, was not given there long ago, when that work of my youth still held for me all its freshness. But, since you speak of the renown that I have acquired in Germany, permit me to tell you, Madame, that all such renown has come without my personal participation, with the help only of a few friends, in the midst of the howls of the entire Press of the North and of the South. It has come because of my works alone, and in spite of the obstacles that my political situation opposed to the extended knowledge of my operas. It is in the same way that I wish to succeed in Paris, where I have found very devoted friends, who are too intelligent for me to fear to leave the fate of my works in their hands. If you were to say to me, Madame, that a representation ought to conform to my intentions, and therefore my presence at the rehearsals would be above all necessary to the success of the enterprise, I should reply to you thatTannhäuserandLohengrinhave been mutilated by the greater number of German Capellmeisters, in a way that could not be exceeded upon the worst French stage, and that is only since the King of Bavaria has accorded me his protection that it has been possible for me to make my dramatic and musical intentions known in an important theatre.
"Believe me, Madame, things being as they are, there is nothing for me to do but devote myself entirely to the writing of my operas, and as to their fate, in my own country as well as abroad, to leave it to their guiding star and to my friends. I am not the man for compromises, and yet these compromises are sometimes indispensable.
"I keep out, then, in order not to render more difficult to my French friends the rugged path they have chosen in attempting to naturalise in France an essentially Germanic individuality. If this naturalisation is possible, it will be accomplished by them without my help; if it is not possible, I shall deplore their pains, at the same time consoling myself in the thought that they as well as I have drawn their forces elsewhere than from the idea of a success, and that their conviction, like mine, renders them independent of good or of bad fortune.
"Pray, Madame, pardon the length of this explanation, and believe me gratefully and respectfully yours,
"RICHARD WAGNER."
"The Master was nevertheless, very well satisfied with the success of the piece," said Cosima, "and above all, with the expressions of appreciation that it won for him from unknown friends. Then too, in order to celebrate his birthday, the 22nd May—inspired by one of the most popular scenes in the opera—I dressed the children as 'Messengers of Peace' and while an invisible choir sang for them, the little girls, all four of them, marched, keeping step with one another, into the drawing-room with travelling staffs in their hands. Wagner thought it a very pretty idea."
"Eva as a messenger of peace must have been delicious...."
"I also preserved your father's article aboutRienzi,[1] which was very good," said Cosima. "Wagner ought to have written to thank him."
"If they representRienziagain," said I, "we shall also faithfully renew our pilgrimage to the theatre. Think of us then, two and a half weeks from now, as going every day from the heart of Neuilly to the Théâtre Lyrique, and never failing to be in our places in time for the Overture!"
ARTICLE PUBLISHED IN THE "JOURNAL OFFICIEL"
Rarely has Parisian curiosity been more vividly excited than by the following simple words inscribed upon the placards of the "Théâtre-Lyrique."Tuesday, first representation of Rienzi,Opera in five Acts, by Richard Wagner.In an age when the general interest is certainly not with works of art, Wagner has the gift of stimulating the public, of calling forth frantic enthusiasms and provoking violent repulsions.The mere mention of his name assembles clouds in the most serene heavens, clouds which soon grow into a storm, lightning breaks out in intermittent flashes, thunder mutters and growls above the sound of the rain, the wind and the hail. In all this tumult no one remains indifferent, the universe seems about to collapse and each person hurries toward the altar of his own menaced deity.The rival choruses of detractors and admirers insult each other as at the taking of Messina and are ready to tear each other to pieces. There is an excitement,—a tumult—a fury, which recalls the great romantic struggles of 1830, when the young followers of Hernani broke into the theatre with their password, and tore away the classic masks and headgear—proclaiming the liberty and independence of art.If we had never heard a note of Richard Wagner, all this uproar would have assured us of his superiority. He troubled all the musical world too profoundly not to be a genius, a hero, in accordance with the meaning of Emerson and Carlyle. From whatever point of view one considers him, he always produces a new sensation, it may be a little prematurely, but one is conscious even now that he will become the sovereign master and that nothing can prevent his future greatness. Very soon his victorious banner will float from the highest turret of the citadel, gilded by the sun and caressed by the very wind which before had twisted and torn it.Young musicians, not yet established, regard Wagner either as a God or as a tempting demon. It is Wagner who preoccupies the thoughts of the older masters already secure in their own glory, and in every contemporaneous work it is not difficult to find some reflections, or at least traces of the secret study of this powerful originator.A chance of travel led to my being present at a production ofTannhäuserin the theatre at Wiesbaden, at a time, already long past, when the name of Richard Wagner was hardly mentioned in France. This music, strikingly novel to us who knew absolutely nothing of the composer, made an impression upon us at the same time strange and delicious. We had heard for the first time the true music of romance, such as poets might conceive it. The opera reproduced, with most unaffected fidelity, the legend of the good knight Tannhäuser and Madame Venus, living happily together on the heights of Venusberg —until at last the noble German, who was a good Catholic at heart, became suspicious of some witchcraft and said to his mythological companion:"Venus, my beautiful Goddess,Thou art in truth a demon."That which most impressed us in the score of the Teutonic Master was the extreme dearness of the musical manner of translating the spoken phrase by means of a continuous melody, without elaboration, without superfluous flourish, the orchestra providing the commentary, and, sustaining with its own fulness the simplicity of the vocal design. We sent from Wiesbaden either to the "Moniteur" or the "Artiste," we no longer remember which, an appreciative article which ended in expressing astonishment that an opera so original and unusual had not yet passed beyond the limits of the Rhine. Our astonishment was also great when, some years later, this same Tannhäuser—so easily given at the theatre of Wiesbaden, by singers and an orchestra which were probably not the first in Germany—having been produced here at the Opera, was declared impossible, foolish, absurd, outside all the possibilities of the theatre, and was smothered under a storm of hisses. They muffled Wagner's music in derisive purple, under the pleasantry "Music of the Future," but the wag who invented the phrase had no idea that he spoke so truly. In fact its time has come, and the music of the future is very near to being the music of to-day. The fall of Tannhäuser in no way unsettled our convictions. Critics are stubborn, and even though they are not dealing with the old romantic poets, they know very well that hisses do not kill a work of genius.They said of the dramatic verses of Victor Hugo precisely what they say of the musical phrases of Wagner. Accusing them conclusively of not being verse at all, yet to-day it is a common argument of advance that the author of "Ruy-Blas" and the "Légende des Siècles" is the greatest master of metrical form of our time.But to return to Rienzi, the production of which at the Théâtre-Lyrique accomplished an old-time project of the Master's. One of Wagner's letters makes that clear—"Written about thirty years ago, with a view to grand opera, Rienzi presents no difficulties for the singers to overcome, and offers to the Parisian public none of the problems of my later works. Both in subject and in musical form it is closely related to the operas that have long been popular in Paris, and I still believe that if it is brilliantly mounted and given with spirit it has a chance of success."For serious works, time is required in which to bring them a full acknowledgment, but it comes at last, and the Master's own judgment of his work was most triumphantly confirmed the other evening. Rienzi has not literally arrived at the Grand Opera, but at the Théâtre-Lyrique it met with a zeal, an ardour of conviction and a passionate devotion which ought to banish from his mind any possible regret. Pasdeloup has splendidly welcomed the illustrious guest that he endeavours to introduce and to naturalize in France.A few words upon the libretto translated from Wagner's poem by Messrs Mutter and Guillaume. One need not seek there for the learned complications of our own lyric dramas. It is the history of Rienzi very simply told just as it happened in reality. Cola Gabrino, called "Rienzi" or "Rienzo," was the son of an Innkeeper. He received a good education, bound himself in friendship with Petrarch and, in studying antiquity, became enamoured of the ideas of liberty and a republic. The sojourn of the Popes at Avignon delivered Rome over to the most troublesome disorders. Rienzi harangued the people, succeeded in making himself Tribune, drove out the Barons and re-established the old and good government. His rule at first was wise, but intoxicated by too great power after having been liberator he became the oppressor of Rome. Driven out of the city once, he returned and was killed in a riot, by a servitor of the house of Colonna. Beginning like Brutus, he ended like Masaniello or Jean de Leyde.Rienzi, Wagner's first lyric drama, shows already an immense talent. Here is not yet revealed the Wagner of the Flying Dutchman, but a man, nevertheless, untrammelled by precedent. Excepting the Cavatinas in the Italian style, inserted here and there to please the public, the opera resembles no other, the impression is unique. It is all a great tumult, a rising of the people. There are in fact only two characters, Rienzi and the populace. It is more like a magnificent symphony with choruses than like an opera as ordinarily heard. The orchestra has become the great power, the science of which the composer fully understands and controls.In the first act, the call to arms—"When the trumpet shall have sounded thrice,"is marked by a proud enthusiasm which extends to the chorus, whose voices carry on the theme swelling and augmenting it to a superb crescendo. The trio which follows is intermingled with an adorable accompaniment. In the second act the aria sung by the first of the messengers of peace, felicitating Rienzi, was warmly and insistently applauded. Nothing could be more sweet, more tender or more delicate than this melody, admirably sung by Mlle. Priolat, from whom the entire audience demanded its repetition.The chorus of conspiring patricians is also very fine; under the dull murmurs one divines the revolt of injured pride and the muttering of an, as yet, powerless hatred. The entrance and the grief of Adriano, are expressed in the orchestra by two notes of the hautboys which are like the sigh of a broken heart. This pure and charming detail foretells the later Wagner whose orchestra is able to reveal all things and to make one experience all emotion. The septet and the final chorus are fragments of such power and grandeur that you feel as though you were floating upon wings. In the third act, we especially noted the military march with its firm and warlike rhythm; and the prayer of the women, augmented in its fervour and its terror by the intermittent sounds of battle. In the fourth act, the march of peace and the magnificently dramatic situation of Rienzi, accursed, excommunicated, deserted, alone upon the steps of the church. In the fifth act, the prayer of Rienzi, admirable in its sadness and its fervour."Rise, O Sun, and make the light of liberty to shineupon the world."In this part one again sees the powerful Wagner of to-day, and the entrance of the Sister of the Tribune, who consoles him by her devoted love, is like a vista through which one catches a brief glimpse of the angels with fluttering wings of the prelude to Lohengrin. One must congratulate M. Pasdeloup, the new director of the Théâtre-Lyrique, who has already done so much for art by means of his popular concerts, for having pro-produced Rienzi. The notable success of the first representation, a success which will, undoubtedly, continue, allows us to hope that we may also have before very long, The Flying Dutchman, Tannhäuser, Lohengrin, Tristan and Isolde, Die Meistersinger, and all that unknown repertory, rich casket of new treasure.Rienzi is sumptuously mounted, the costumes and decorations are rich and appropriate; the choruses well arranged and the whole forms a splendid spectacle. The final tableau of the death of Rienzi on his balcony is presented in a highly dramatic manner.Montjauze, in his impersonation of Rienzi, surpasses all one's expectations, he is transfigured into a singer and an actor of the first rank. This role is for him what William Tell was for Duprez. He sustains with wonderful ease the continuous dialogue with the chorus. His voice dominates those great, those formidable crowds, and with a gesture he restrains the flood of people pressing about him in a transport of eagerness and joy. He wears with artistic grace and majesty the splendid white draperies, richly embroidered in gold, with which the Tribune clothed himself in his vanity as a parvenu whose head was turned at the summit of his grandeur. One could not imagine a more perfect incarnation of the type of Rienzi.Mme. Borghese sings with warmth the rather thin arias of Adriano, lover of the Tribune's sister, who is herself very gracefully represented by Mdlle. Steinberg. But this poor little love episode is tossed about, in all senses, like a drowned flower by the tumultuous foaming upheaval of this great tragic drama, which begins with a battle and ends with a riot.The choruses are excellent, and the orchestra executes with splendid spirit that overture of Rienzi, already popular long before the opera itself was known.THÉOPHILE GAUTIER.
Rarely has Parisian curiosity been more vividly excited than by the following simple words inscribed upon the placards of the "Théâtre-Lyrique."
In an age when the general interest is certainly not with works of art, Wagner has the gift of stimulating the public, of calling forth frantic enthusiasms and provoking violent repulsions.
The mere mention of his name assembles clouds in the most serene heavens, clouds which soon grow into a storm, lightning breaks out in intermittent flashes, thunder mutters and growls above the sound of the rain, the wind and the hail. In all this tumult no one remains indifferent, the universe seems about to collapse and each person hurries toward the altar of his own menaced deity.
The rival choruses of detractors and admirers insult each other as at the taking of Messina and are ready to tear each other to pieces. There is an excitement,—a tumult—a fury, which recalls the great romantic struggles of 1830, when the young followers of Hernani broke into the theatre with their password, and tore away the classic masks and headgear—proclaiming the liberty and independence of art.
If we had never heard a note of Richard Wagner, all this uproar would have assured us of his superiority. He troubled all the musical world too profoundly not to be a genius, a hero, in accordance with the meaning of Emerson and Carlyle. From whatever point of view one considers him, he always produces a new sensation, it may be a little prematurely, but one is conscious even now that he will become the sovereign master and that nothing can prevent his future greatness. Very soon his victorious banner will float from the highest turret of the citadel, gilded by the sun and caressed by the very wind which before had twisted and torn it.
Young musicians, not yet established, regard Wagner either as a God or as a tempting demon. It is Wagner who preoccupies the thoughts of the older masters already secure in their own glory, and in every contemporaneous work it is not difficult to find some reflections, or at least traces of the secret study of this powerful originator.
A chance of travel led to my being present at a production ofTannhäuserin the theatre at Wiesbaden, at a time, already long past, when the name of Richard Wagner was hardly mentioned in France. This music, strikingly novel to us who knew absolutely nothing of the composer, made an impression upon us at the same time strange and delicious. We had heard for the first time the true music of romance, such as poets might conceive it. The opera reproduced, with most unaffected fidelity, the legend of the good knight Tannhäuser and Madame Venus, living happily together on the heights of Venusberg —until at last the noble German, who was a good Catholic at heart, became suspicious of some witchcraft and said to his mythological companion:
"Venus, my beautiful Goddess,Thou art in truth a demon."
That which most impressed us in the score of the Teutonic Master was the extreme dearness of the musical manner of translating the spoken phrase by means of a continuous melody, without elaboration, without superfluous flourish, the orchestra providing the commentary, and, sustaining with its own fulness the simplicity of the vocal design. We sent from Wiesbaden either to the "Moniteur" or the "Artiste," we no longer remember which, an appreciative article which ended in expressing astonishment that an opera so original and unusual had not yet passed beyond the limits of the Rhine. Our astonishment was also great when, some years later, this same Tannhäuser—so easily given at the theatre of Wiesbaden, by singers and an orchestra which were probably not the first in Germany—having been produced here at the Opera, was declared impossible, foolish, absurd, outside all the possibilities of the theatre, and was smothered under a storm of hisses. They muffled Wagner's music in derisive purple, under the pleasantry "Music of the Future," but the wag who invented the phrase had no idea that he spoke so truly. In fact its time has come, and the music of the future is very near to being the music of to-day. The fall of Tannhäuser in no way unsettled our convictions. Critics are stubborn, and even though they are not dealing with the old romantic poets, they know very well that hisses do not kill a work of genius.
They said of the dramatic verses of Victor Hugo precisely what they say of the musical phrases of Wagner. Accusing them conclusively of not being verse at all, yet to-day it is a common argument of advance that the author of "Ruy-Blas" and the "Légende des Siècles" is the greatest master of metrical form of our time.
But to return to Rienzi, the production of which at the Théâtre-Lyrique accomplished an old-time project of the Master's. One of Wagner's letters makes that clear—"Written about thirty years ago, with a view to grand opera, Rienzi presents no difficulties for the singers to overcome, and offers to the Parisian public none of the problems of my later works. Both in subject and in musical form it is closely related to the operas that have long been popular in Paris, and I still believe that if it is brilliantly mounted and given with spirit it has a chance of success."
For serious works, time is required in which to bring them a full acknowledgment, but it comes at last, and the Master's own judgment of his work was most triumphantly confirmed the other evening. Rienzi has not literally arrived at the Grand Opera, but at the Théâtre-Lyrique it met with a zeal, an ardour of conviction and a passionate devotion which ought to banish from his mind any possible regret. Pasdeloup has splendidly welcomed the illustrious guest that he endeavours to introduce and to naturalize in France.
A few words upon the libretto translated from Wagner's poem by Messrs Mutter and Guillaume. One need not seek there for the learned complications of our own lyric dramas. It is the history of Rienzi very simply told just as it happened in reality. Cola Gabrino, called "Rienzi" or "Rienzo," was the son of an Innkeeper. He received a good education, bound himself in friendship with Petrarch and, in studying antiquity, became enamoured of the ideas of liberty and a republic. The sojourn of the Popes at Avignon delivered Rome over to the most troublesome disorders. Rienzi harangued the people, succeeded in making himself Tribune, drove out the Barons and re-established the old and good government. His rule at first was wise, but intoxicated by too great power after having been liberator he became the oppressor of Rome. Driven out of the city once, he returned and was killed in a riot, by a servitor of the house of Colonna. Beginning like Brutus, he ended like Masaniello or Jean de Leyde.
Rienzi, Wagner's first lyric drama, shows already an immense talent. Here is not yet revealed the Wagner of the Flying Dutchman, but a man, nevertheless, untrammelled by precedent. Excepting the Cavatinas in the Italian style, inserted here and there to please the public, the opera resembles no other, the impression is unique. It is all a great tumult, a rising of the people. There are in fact only two characters, Rienzi and the populace. It is more like a magnificent symphony with choruses than like an opera as ordinarily heard. The orchestra has become the great power, the science of which the composer fully understands and controls.
In the first act, the call to arms—
"When the trumpet shall have sounded thrice,"
is marked by a proud enthusiasm which extends to the chorus, whose voices carry on the theme swelling and augmenting it to a superb crescendo. The trio which follows is intermingled with an adorable accompaniment. In the second act the aria sung by the first of the messengers of peace, felicitating Rienzi, was warmly and insistently applauded. Nothing could be more sweet, more tender or more delicate than this melody, admirably sung by Mlle. Priolat, from whom the entire audience demanded its repetition.
The chorus of conspiring patricians is also very fine; under the dull murmurs one divines the revolt of injured pride and the muttering of an, as yet, powerless hatred. The entrance and the grief of Adriano, are expressed in the orchestra by two notes of the hautboys which are like the sigh of a broken heart. This pure and charming detail foretells the later Wagner whose orchestra is able to reveal all things and to make one experience all emotion. The septet and the final chorus are fragments of such power and grandeur that you feel as though you were floating upon wings. In the third act, we especially noted the military march with its firm and warlike rhythm; and the prayer of the women, augmented in its fervour and its terror by the intermittent sounds of battle. In the fourth act, the march of peace and the magnificently dramatic situation of Rienzi, accursed, excommunicated, deserted, alone upon the steps of the church. In the fifth act, the prayer of Rienzi, admirable in its sadness and its fervour.
"Rise, O Sun, and make the light of liberty to shineupon the world."
In this part one again sees the powerful Wagner of to-day, and the entrance of the Sister of the Tribune, who consoles him by her devoted love, is like a vista through which one catches a brief glimpse of the angels with fluttering wings of the prelude to Lohengrin. One must congratulate M. Pasdeloup, the new director of the Théâtre-Lyrique, who has already done so much for art by means of his popular concerts, for having pro-produced Rienzi. The notable success of the first representation, a success which will, undoubtedly, continue, allows us to hope that we may also have before very long, The Flying Dutchman, Tannhäuser, Lohengrin, Tristan and Isolde, Die Meistersinger, and all that unknown repertory, rich casket of new treasure.
Rienzi is sumptuously mounted, the costumes and decorations are rich and appropriate; the choruses well arranged and the whole forms a splendid spectacle. The final tableau of the death of Rienzi on his balcony is presented in a highly dramatic manner.
Montjauze, in his impersonation of Rienzi, surpasses all one's expectations, he is transfigured into a singer and an actor of the first rank. This role is for him what William Tell was for Duprez. He sustains with wonderful ease the continuous dialogue with the chorus. His voice dominates those great, those formidable crowds, and with a gesture he restrains the flood of people pressing about him in a transport of eagerness and joy. He wears with artistic grace and majesty the splendid white draperies, richly embroidered in gold, with which the Tribune clothed himself in his vanity as a parvenu whose head was turned at the summit of his grandeur. One could not imagine a more perfect incarnation of the type of Rienzi.
Mme. Borghese sings with warmth the rather thin arias of Adriano, lover of the Tribune's sister, who is herself very gracefully represented by Mdlle. Steinberg. But this poor little love episode is tossed about, in all senses, like a drowned flower by the tumultuous foaming upheaval of this great tragic drama, which begins with a battle and ends with a riot.
The choruses are excellent, and the orchestra executes with splendid spirit that overture of Rienzi, already popular long before the opera itself was known.
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER.
As Cosima and I, seated on a garden bench, were peacefully talking, Jacob came to us bearing a telegram.
One always trembles before opening a message of this kind.
"It is nothing! Only rather a bore!" said Cosima, after reading it. "Two elderly people, named Schott, husband and wife, announce that they will visit us this evening after supper. They are very worthy people, but he, at one time, did Wagner a serious wrong, and Wagner, without exactly holding resentment, yet has not been able to forget. Moreover, these good people are very narrow and stiff, not at all talkative: we shall not know what to do, it will be dull, and all our pleasant, sympathetic atmosphere will be disturbed."
"It might be possible," said I, "to think of something collective that would lessen the necessity for talking during this evening."
"True enough, but what?"
"You might have some music."
"Wagner would not feel like it, I know him: under such circumstances he does not know at all how to dominate, but he grows listless and loses his good humour."
"That mustn't be!" I exclaimed. "It is absolutely necessary to think of something!"
"Ah yes! Do help us out of it if possible, but do not count upon me, I feel utterly incapable of an idea that would be in the least amusing."
I saw Servais in the distance with Richter, they were by the edge of the lake, under the little landing shed, and were throwing bits of wood into the water, to induce Russ and Cos to take their bath.
"I believe a light is dawning in my mind," said I to Cosima. "Wait for me where you are." And I ran down to join the two young men at the edge of the lake.
"My friends," I said to them, "in the face of a delicate situation do you feel the moral force to do something unusual, grand, heroic?"
"Not at all, not at all," replied Servais. "I don't feel equal to anything of the kind."
"Not in the service of the Master?"
"One can always try," said Richter.
"That is something like! Now you see, Servais, you can't get out of it. We must improvise a first class charade for this evening."
"A charade! Before Wagner, we two alone?"
"With Richter at the piano."
"But we shall be absurd! We shall be speechless, like idiots."
"On the other hand the presence of the Master will inspire us. Moreover, we have had experience at your house in Munich, and it is very certain that only we two (you especially) have shown any talent of this kind."
"It is foolish, impossible, abominable," groaned Servais, in the depths of dismay. "I would rather throw myself into the lake."
"It is not a drama that they want of us, but a farce.. .. Oh, come, they will not be critical, and perhaps we shall have the glory of amusing the Master."
He raised his head abruptly, tucking his pale yellow locks behind his ears:
"Very well, so be it. Let us play a charade!"
"Ah, good! We must have everything arranged before supper. Let me tell the good news to Madam Cosima, and then we must get to work!"
"I see that you have thought of something," said Cosima, when I returned to her.
"Yes, we will play a charade."
"A charade? Splendid! I do not know exactly what that is, but I am sure that it is something good."
"As to that, you must risk the pillage of your wardrobe."
"I risk it. They shall open the cupboards and the drawers for you. Take anything you like, except, perhaps, my India shawl, which I cherish very much.... But you must tell me exactly what you are going to do, so I can explain it all to Wagner; otherwise he would torture his mind in the effort to comprehend.... I am sure that he hasn't the slightest idea what a charade may be!"
The drawing-room was deserted, so it was possible for Richter, Servais and me to gather round the piano, and with the greatest secrecy to think out, to discuss and to arrange our foolishness.
The music would be a great help to us in representing characters, crowds, uproars and riots. Therefore Richter's rôle was very important, and as, once the charade had commenced, he would be separated from us, we agreed upon certain signals that we should all recognise.
The gallery, with its large opening into the drawing-room, was chosen for our stage: its heavy portières, drawn back or dropped, formed the curtain. All was arranged, the lamps disposed in the right places, the accessories gathered together. Our greatest difficulty was to induce the servants to let us have a kettle and a broom from the kitchen, two objects that were indispensable to our stage setting. The cook, throwing up her arms, cried that it was not at all suitable to take such things to the drawingroom, so we were obliged to take them by main force.
We had hardly finished supper and were still at table when Herr and Frau Schott were announced.
Wagner made a droll face, got up, and offered me his arm to pass to the drawing-room.
But just outside the door I slipped away, and with Servais I climbed to the first floor, where Cosima's maid was waiting to help us do the best we could with our costumes.
When we were ready Jacob lighted the stage lamps; and drawing the curtains a little, we peeped into the drawing-room.
There they are, seated in rows, the two new guests in the front row. They appear to us very solemn and terrifying: two portraits by Franz Hals—a Franz Hals who would have lived under Louis Philippe—tall, straight, all clothed in black; he, in a frock coat and high satin cravat; she, in a dull, lifeless frock, with hardly a line of white at the neck; thin figures and sallow skins; nothing playful about them. We are a little disconcerted. Pshaw! The Master's voice sounds laughingly: he is in a good humour, all goes well. Courage!
Dum! Dum! Dum!
Richter at the piano begins a fanciful overture where the motifs ofTristan and Isoldemingle with foreign airs. The curtain is drawn.
A young Chinese lady embroiders under the lamp; but this virtuous occupation and tranquil appearance are deceitful: violent passions agitate her soul. She is married to a man whom she detests, first, just because she detests him, and then because he belongs to a conquering race. He is a Tartar. She waits for her lover, whom she adores, and who himself is a true Chinaman.
The husband is asleep, the night dark; the lover watches in the shadow. Now the hour has come for the signal: she opens the window and waves her scarf. From the piano comes the second act ofTristan.
The lover enters impetuously.
"My beloved?"
"My darling, art thou truly mine?"
"Dost thou still belong to me?"
"Are these thine eyes?"
"Is this thy mouth?"
"Thy heart?"
"Sweetheart!"
"Stem of the Lotus!"
"Duck of a Mandarin!"
The music changes. It is now from the fifth scene ofDie Walküre; enter Sieglinde and Siegmund.
"Is he asleep?"
"Ah, he sleeps profoundly. I prepared for him an intoxicating drink."
"His sleep is not yet profound enough. Let us finish what thou hast begun: that he may never waken again."
They decide then to assassinate the Tartar, and to conceal his body.
The lover steals into the next room, from which cries are very soon heard, and the sound of a struggle; then the murderer returns, dragging after him an inanimate body.
They must dispose of it, throw it into the river, and the lover tries to pull the dead man onto his back. But this Tartar, who was a man of importance with the rank of Mandarin, had been altogether too well fed and he is horribly heavy, so that the Chinaman is doubled up under his great bulk, and try as he may he cannot carry the unwieldy corpse.
"Ah well, cut him in two!"
Then, by the aid of a great sabre and their own tremendous efforts, they hack the Tartar in two—not very difficult really, considering the cushions of which he is formed. When this has been accomplished the lover wraps one of the halves in a rug and carries it off. He will come back for the remainder the next night.... Villiers, in the drawing-room, has already guessed that this first syllable which we have acted ought to be "Tar"—the half of a Tartar!
The next thing to do is to make them recognise the illustrious Pasdeloup directing a "popular concert" and that difficult task falls to my lot. I have made myself a beard with skeins of yellow silk, and donned an evening coat of Wagner's. Servais has to multiply himself to represent the public, the police, etc., while Richter in the distance is the orchestra.
All join in giving the "la"[1]with especial significance: then they begin the prelude toLohengrin. Pasdeloup, according to his custom, rounds his back, wrinkles his good-natured face, extends his arms with gestures half supplicating, half soothing, in order to secure "Pianissimi" full of mystery, and the orchestra does his best to obey. But all is not in harmony in the audience. Murmurs arise, are hushed down, then an altercation follows, with a sound of slaps, and swells to an uproar—as it had so often done during those days at "The Cirque d'Hiver."[2]—
The orchestra stops, the guard drags out the roysterers, and Pasdeloup makes a speech to the public.
And that, both good and bad, represents the syllable "La."
All the servants at Tribschen are crowded at the doors, and they watch this unprecedented sight with devout amazement. At the third scene their attention redoubles, for the kettle and the broom are about to play their part, to the great horror of the cook.
"If it had only been a nice hair broom! But that ugly old one used to sweep the court!"
In reality the broom is not exactly the right thing, but as there is only one of me to personate the three witches of Macbeth, I feel that this classic mount will aid the illusion. With my hair concealed under a grey veil, I bestride the diabolical steed, which then proceeds to prance.
"Round about the cauldron go;In the poison'd entrails throwToad, that under cold stone,Days and nights hast thirty-oneSwelter'd venom sleeping got,Boil thou first i' the charméd pot.Double, double, toil and trouble;Fire, burn: and, cauldron, bubble.Fillet of a fenny snake,In the cauldron boil and bake;Eye of newt, and toe of frog,Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,For a charm of powerful trouble,Like a hell-broth boil and bubble."
Then comes Macbeth: he is welcomed by the prophetic words:
"All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee thane of Glamis!"
"Hail to thee, thane of Cawdor!"
"All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter." And the audience is supposed to understand that the third syllable is "Tane."
We are very successful up to this point. Wagner, who is standing behind an easy chair, leaning his elbows on the back, looks and listens with extreme attention, he is greatly interested and laughs heartily.
Now we must give the entire word: "Tarlatane." The public approbation encourages us, so we are no longer nervous about our effects.
Richter plays a waltz.
A lady comes home at midnight from a ball, in a tarlatan frock. Standing before her mirror she begins to remove her jewels, to take the flowers from her hair, meanwhile thinking over the incidents of the evening, the compliments, the scandals, the toilettes more or less pretty, the little absurdities of her friends, which are still amusing her.
As she has danced all the evening, she is very tired, and rejoices at the idea of retiring.
But suddenly there is a ring at the bell. The lady starts:
"Who can be ringing at my house at such an hour?"
The domestics are in bed. At first she dares not open the door: but she must, for perhaps some one of her neighbours is ill and in need of her.
On the threshold appears a strange young man, tall, thin, with weeping willow locks, and an awkward and conceited air.
"You are no doubt mistaken in the floor, sir, as I have not the honour of your acquaintance."
"How, Madam, you do not remember me! You know me very well, nevertheless. We have met in society, and I came here once to a Soirée at your house. Let me give you my card!"
"Ah, yes, I do seem to remember, you are not altogether a stranger.... But what serious thing can have happened to bring you to my house so late?"
"Oh, do not be disturbed, there is nothing serious, nothing at all. I was passing your house by chance; happening to look up, I saw a light in your window. I said to myself: 'Stay! I owe this lady a visit, a very much delayed visit, which must not be put off any longer.... What a good opportunity! Certainly, I am not sleepy, and, since she is awake she is not sleepy either. She will be pleased to see me and to pass a few hours in intellectual conversation with me.'"
"A few hours!"
"But, I beg you, do not inconvenience yourself for me! do not remain standing; let us be seated; one can talk so much better sitting down."
"But don't you understand, sir, it is very late!"
"Oh! do not be disturbed about that, I am not in the slightest hurry."
And the intruder enters upon a trifling and endless gabble in spite of the impatience of the lady, who does not attempt to conceal her ill-humour, and replies ironically and as briefly as possible. Finally she declares:
"I truly believe that you have lost your common-sense."
"What, do you imagine that I am intoxicated? Ah well, you will see that is quite impossible when I tell you that I have dined at home: a plain and frugal dinner, of which I retain a very unpleasant memory, and while we are on that subject, I beg of you to be good enough to give me a tooth-pick."
"A tooth-pick!"
"Yes, exactly, you will in that way do me a favour, because, at that dinner, I partook of veal, and I should very much like a tooth-pick. You see it was paternal veal, stringy, tough and salted.... Ah, so salt that I am dying of thirst, and it would be so kind of you if you would have some drinks served."
During the last intermission, some champagne had been uncorked. Wagner, who was as amused as a child, interrupted the scene at this point, crying out:
"Here it is! Here it is!"
And he poured the sparkling wine for us himself!
Then Servais became epic.
"It is very curious, Madam, but you have a butler who has a marvellous resemblance to a composer of whom they have been talking very much of late, a certain Richard Wagner. He is an extravagant person, a madman, who makes terrible music, full of discords that are worthy of cannibals and calls it 'the music of the future.'"
And he retailed, without trembling, all the venomous imbecilities that were current, and finally:...
"And it appears that this music has no airs, yet, apropos of this, something surprises me very much: this composer has brought out in Paris a so-called opera, which naturally was finely hissed, and which furnished a subject for endless witticisms: one, among others, you might, perhaps, be able to explain to me. Some one said, 'He bores me with his recitatives and wearies me with his airs'—(il metanne aux airs).[3]But since there are no airs? and then 'tanne.' What can that word mean?"
Then the lady's wrath broke forth:
"Sir,'tanner'is a slang word, which means 'to annoy, to bore, to exasperate' in polite speech. It is, for example, what you are doing here at this moment. I have given proof of extraordinary patience because I am a gentlewoman, but now that you dare to speak offensively of a man whom I believe to be the greatest genius that ever existed, that I will not endure. You have wounded my dearest convictions. You are an idiot and a ruffian, and I have the pleasure of showing you the door, and of charging you never to come to my house again."
Wagner laughed till he cried.
It was necessary to explain, in the midst of the bravos and the recalls, that the word of the charade was "Tarlatane": A lady in a tarlatane dress ... a man who "tard la tanne," "stays late and bores."
[1]"La" A, given for the tuning of the instruments.
[1]"La" A, given for the tuning of the instruments.
[2]A well-known place of entertainment in Paris.
[2]A well-known place of entertainment in Paris.
[3]Allusion of that time to "Tannhäuser." "Il m'ennuie aux récitatifs et il me tanne aux airs."
[3]Allusion of that time to "Tannhäuser." "Il m'ennuie aux récitatifs et il me tanne aux airs."
After having resumed our usual clothing, we went down again to the drawing-room. The Master came to meet us, and pretending not to have recognised us through our disguises, he cried:
"Heavens! where have you been? Why are you so late? We had here a troupe of wonderful comedians, who played the drollest possible piece.... How unfortunate that you missed them! You will never see anything like it again!"
As to the worthy visitors, the prime cause of this unique representation, sober, imperturbable, upright in their chairs, in their severe costumes, they sat without moving, listening intently, watching with all their eyes, but probably understanding very little.
I feel sure that they remained forever convinced that it was all from some new work of the Master—some unpublished fragment, perhaps from theRing of the Nibelung!
And now again it was the farewell evening.
In order to soften the bitterness, Wagner took a score and went to the piano.
"To-day," said he, "let us make peace with theMeistersinger."
The Master believed, in spite of my efforts to convince him to the contrary, that I did not care for theMeistersinger. The truth is, that all I had heard of the opera was a few fragments played at the popular concerts or at the piano. All that I knew delighted me, but Wagner would not believe it.
"I do not want you to misunderstand this work," said he, as he opened the book.
And, for several hours he went through the score, playing, explaining, commenting with wonderful kindness.
The music of theMeistersingeris especially difficult to render at the piano and Wagner was not a very skilful performer—Richter knew that, so he was very restless and followed the Master's playing, note by note, with the greatest anxiety. He knew it all, even the most uninteresting passages; he touched the notes that the hand of the Master was too small to include. From time to time he was carried out of himself, and struck the piano hurriedly, saving an effect which was in danger of being lost, completing a harmony, or striking a chord between the Master's hesitating fingers.
I am not sure that Wagner was not a little irritated by this infringement upon his territory. It was quite useless, moreover, for no virtuoso could have been able to render the deep meaning and secret tenderness of the work as well as its author. How grateful we were! How completely theMeistersingerwas absolved. On that point Wagner had no longer any doubts.
Then they sketched out some new projects. Servais was in friendly relations with the director of the "Theâtre de la Monnaie" at Brussels, and also with Brassin, director of the Conservatory, who was a Wagnerian fanatic: they wished, with the Master's permission, to try to arrange for the production ofLohengrinat Brussels, with Richter as chief of the orchestra.
"If Richter is able to make any money out of the affair, and in that way to repay himself for what he has lost through me, I agree to it," said Wagner, "but only on that condition."
They gave us some commissions for Paris. Cosima wanted some preserves "such as one finds in the Paris grocers' shops." She also wished me to take a subscription to the journal calledLa Poupée Modèle, for Senta.
Wagner had been for a long time searching for a particularly delicious snuff, which could, no doubt, be found at "La Civette."
"For," said he, "while it is true that I smoke, I also take snuff sometimes, from a beautiful golden snuff box, like an ancient Marquis.... So you see, I have all the vices, but in moderation."
We tried not to be sad. We had gathered a bountiful harvest of memories, and we were consoled by our just pride in such a wonderful friendship.
Moreover they promised us frequent news. Cosima, "who writes letters like Madame de Sévigné," would be punctual and faithful, "provided always that one replied to her as faithfully." We would continue then to hold firmly on high the banner of Art, to fight the good fight, up to the final triumph of our cause.
And, after the farewell kiss, we went away, stoical, bearing with us much happiness:
Aux pèlerins d'amourLa vision du dieu parfume le retour!