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The Opera

by R. A. Streatfeild · English · Gutenberg #16248 · 578,251 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Opera

Author: R. A. Streatfeild

Commentator: J. A. Fuller-Maitland


        
Release date: July 9, 2005 [eBook #16248]
                Most recently updated: December 11, 2020

Language: English

Original publication: Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott Co.,, 1907

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16248

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OPERA ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net







THE OPERA

A Sketch of the Development of Opera. With full Descriptions of all
Works in the Modern Repertory.

BY R.A. STREATFEILD

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY J.A. FULLER-MAITLAND

_THIRD EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED_

LONDON

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, LIMITED

PHILADELPHIA: J.B. LIPPINCOTT CO.




CONTENTS

CHAP.      PAGE

INTRODUCTION      vii

I. THE BEGINNINGS OF OPERA      1

PERI--MONTEVERDE--CAVALLI--CESTI--CAMBERT--LULLI--PURCELL--
KEISER--SCARLATTI--HANDEL

II. THE REFORMS OF GLUCK      19

III. OPERA BUFFA, OPERA COMIQUE, AND SINGSPIEL      40

PERGOLESI--ROUSSEAU--MONSIGNY--GRÉTRY--CIMAROSA--HILLER

IV. MOZART      52

V. THE CLOSE OF THE CLASSICAL PERIOD      74

MÉHUL--CHERUBINI--SPONTINI--BEETHOVEN--BOIELDIEU

VI. WEBER AND THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL      87

WEBER--SPOHR--MARSCHNER--KREUTZER--LORTZING--NICOLAI--FLOTOW--
MENDELSSOHN--SCHUBERT--SCHUMANN

VII. ROSSINI, DONIZETTI, AND BELLINI      106

VIII. MEYERBEER AND FRENCH OPERA      126

HÉROLD--MEYERBEER--BERLIOZ--HALÉVY--AUBER

IX. WAGNER'S EARLY WORKS       151

X. WAGNER'S LATER WORKS      176

XL. MODERN FRANCE     214

GOUNOD--THOMAS--BIZET--SAINT SAËNS--REYER---MASSENET--BRUNEAU--
CHARPENTIER--DEBUSSY

XII. MODERN ITALY     262

VERDI--BOITO--PONCHIELLI--PUCCINI--MASCAGNI--LEONCAVALLO--GIORDANO

XIII. MODERN GERMAN AND SLAVONIC OPERA     302

CORNELIUS--GOETZ---GOLDMARK--HUMPERDINCK--STRAUSS--SMETANA--
GLINKA--PADEREWSKI

XIV. ENGLISH OPERA     323

BALFE--WALLACE--BENEDICT--GORING THOMAS--MACKENZIE--STANFORD--
SULLIVAN--SMYTH

INDEX OF OPERAS     351

INDEX OF COMPOSERS     361




INTRODUCTION


If Music be, among the arts, 'Heaven's youngest-teemed star', the
latest of the art-forms she herself has brought forth is
unquestionably Opera. Three hundred years does not at first seem a
very short time, but it is not long when it covers the whole period of
the inception, development, and what certainly looks like the
decadence, of an important branch of man's artistic industry. The art
of painting has taken at least twice as long to develop; yet the three
centuries from Monteverde to Debussy cover as great a distance as that
which separates Cimabue from Degas. In operatic history, revolutions,
which in other arts have not been accomplished in several generations,
have got themselves completed, and indeed almost forgotten, in the
course of a few years. Twenty-five years ago, for example, Wagner's
maturer works were regarded, by the more charitable of those who did
not admire them, as intelligible only to the few enthusiasts who had
devoted years of study to the unravelling of their mysteries; the
world in general looked askance at the 'Wagnerians', as they were
called, and professed to consider the shyly-confessed admiration of
the amateurs as a mere affectation. In that time we have seen the
tables turned, and now there is no more certain way for a manager to
secure a full house than by announcing one of these very works. An
even shorter period covers the latest Italian renaissance of music,
the feverish excitement into which the public was thrown by one of its
most blatant productions, and the collapse of a set of composers who
were at one time hailed as regenerators of their country's art.

But though artistic conditions in opera change quickly and continually,
though reputations are made and lost in a few years, and the real
reformers of music themselves alter their style and methods so radically
that the earlier compositions of a Gluck, a Wagner, or a Verdi present
scarcely any point of resemblance to those later masterpieces by which
each of these is immortalised, yet the attitude of audiences towards
opera in general changes curiously little from century to century; and
plenty of modern parallels might be found, in London and elsewhere, to
the story which tells of the delay in producing 'Don Giovanni' on
account of the extraordinary vogue of Martini's 'Una Cosa Rara', a work
which only survives because a certain tune from it is brought into the
supper-scene in Mozart's opera.

There is a good deal of fascination, and some truth, in the theory
that different nations enjoy opera in different ways. According to
this, the Italians consider it solely in relation to their sensuous
emotions; the French, as producing a titillating sensation more or
less akin to the pleasures of the table; the Spaniards, mainly as a
vehicle for dancing; the Germans, as an intellectual pleasure; and the
English, as an expensive but not unprofitable way of demonstrating
financial prosperity. The Italian might be said to hear through what
is euphemistically called his heart, the Frenchman through his palate,
the Spaniard through his toes, the German through his brain, and the
Englishman through his purse. But in truth this does not represent the
case at all fairly. For, to take only modern instances, Italy, on
whose congenial soil 'Cavalleria Rusticana' and the productions it
suggested met with such extraordinary success, saw also in 'Falstaff'
the wittiest and most brilliant musical comedy since 'Die
Meistersinger', and in 'Madama Butterfly' a lyric of infinite
delicacy, free from any suggestion of unworthy emotion. Among recent
French operas, works of tragic import, treated with all the intricacy
of the most advanced modern schools, have been received with far
greater favour than have been shown to works of the lighter class
which we associate with the genius of the French nation; and of late
years the vogue of such works as 'Louise' or 'Pelléas et Mélisande'
shows that the taste for music without any special form has conquered
the very nation in which form has generally ranked highest. In
Germany, on the other hand, some of the greatest successes with the
public at large have been won by productions which seem to touch the
lowest imaginable point of artistic imbecility; and the
ever-increasing interest in musical drama that is manifested year
after year by London audiences shows that higher motives than those
referred to weigh even with Englishmen. The theory above mentioned
will not hold water, for there are, as a matter of fact, only two ways
of looking at opera: either as a means, whether expensive or not, of
passing an evening with a very little intellectual trouble, some
social _éclat_, and a certain amount of pleasure, or as a form of art,
making serious and justifiable claims on the attention of rational
people. These claims of opera are perhaps more widely recognised in
England than they were some years ago; but there are still a certain
number of persons, and among them not a few musical people, who
hesitate to give opera a place beside what is usually called
'abstract' music. Music's highest dignity is, no doubt, reached when
it is self-sufficient, when its powers are exerted upon its own
creations, entirely without dependence upon predetermined emotions
calling for illustration, and when the interest of the composition as
well as the material is conveyed exclusively in terms of music. But
the function of music in expressing those sides of human emotion which
lie too deep for verbal utterance, a function of which the gradual
recognition led on to the invention of opera, is one that cannot be
slighted or ignored; in it lies a power of appeal to feeling that no
words can reach, and a very wonderful definiteness in conveying exact
shades of emotional sensation. Not that it can of itself suggest the
direction in which the emotions are to be worked upon; but this
direction once given from outside, whether by a 'programme' read by
the listener or by the action and accessories of the stage, the force
of feeling can be conveyed with overwhelming power, and the whole
gamut of emotion, from the subtlest hint or foreshadowing to the fury
of inevitable passion, is at the command of him who knows how to wield
the means by which expression is carried to the hearer's mind. And in
this fact--for a fact it is--lies the completest justification of
opera as an art-form. The old-fashioned criticism of opera as such,
based on the indisputable fact that, however excited people may be,
they do not in real life express themselves in song, but in
unmodulated speech, is not now very often heard. With the revival in
England of the dramatic instinct, the conventions of stage declamation
are readily accepted, and if it be conceded that the characters in a
drama may be allowed to speak blank verse, it is hardly more than a
step further to permit the action to be carried on by means of vocal
utterance in music. Until latterly, however, English people, though
taking pleasure in the opera, went to it rather to hear particular
singers than to enjoy the work as a whole, or with any consideration
for its dramatic significance. We should not expect a stern and
uncompromising nature like Carlyle's to regard the opera as anything
more than a trivial amusement, and that such was his attitude towards
it appears from his letters; but it is curious to see that a man of
such strongly pronounced dramatic tastes as Edward FitzGerald, though
devoted to the opera in his own way, yet took what can only be called
a superficial view of its possibilities.

The Englishman who said of the opera, 'At the first act I was
enchanted; the second I could just bear; and at the third I ran away',
is a fair illustration of an attitude common in the eighteenth
century; and in France things were not much better, even in days when
stage magnificence reached a point hardly surpassed in history. La
Bruyère's 'Je ne sais comment l'opéra avec une musique si parfaite, et
une dépense toute royale, a pu réussir à m'ennuyer', shows how little
he had realised the fatiguing effect of theatrical splendour too
persistently displayed. St. Evrémond finds juster cause for his bored
state of mind in the triviality of the subject-matter of operas, and
his words are worth quoting at some length: 'La langueur ordinaire où
je tombe aux opéras, vient de ce que je n'en ai jamais vu qui ne m'ait
paru méprisable dans la disposition du sujet, et dans les vers. Or,
c'est vainement que l'oreille est flattée, et que les yeux sont
charmés, si l'esprit ne se trouve pas satisfait; mon âme
d'intelligence avec mon esprit plus qu'avec mes sens, forme une
résistance aux impressions qu'elle peut recevoir, ou pour le moins
elle manque d'y prêter un consentement agréable, sans lequel les
objets les plus voluptueux même ne sauraient me donner un grand
plaisir. Une sottise chargée de musique, de danses, de machines, de
décorations, est une sottise magnifique; c'est un vilain fonds sous de
beaux dehors, où je pénètre avec beaucoup de désagrément.'

The cant phrase in use in FitzGerald's days, 'the lyric stage', might
have conveyed a hint of the truth to a man who cared for the forms of
literature as well as its essence. For, in its highest development,
opera is most nearly akin to lyrical utterances in poetry, and the most
important musical revolution of the present century has been in the
direction of increasing, not diminishing, the lyrical quality of
operatic work. The Elizabethan writers--not only the dramatists, but the
authors of romances--interspersed their blank verse or their prose
narration with short lyrical poems, just as in the days of Mozart the
airs and concerted pieces in an opera were connected by wastes of
recitative that were most aptly called 'dry'; and as it was left to a
modern poet to tell, in a series of lyrics succeeding one another
without interval, a dramatic story such as that of _Maud_, so was it a
modern composer who carried to completion, in 'Tristan und Isolde', the
dramatic expression of passion at the highest point of lyrical
utterance. It is no more unnatural for the raptures of Wagner's lovers,
or the swan-song of ecstasy, to be sung, than for the young man whose
character Tennyson assumes, to utter himself in measured verse,
sometimes of highly complex structure. The two works differ not in kind,
but in degree of intensity, and to those whose ears are open to the
appeal of music, the power of expression in such a case as this is
greater beyond all comparison than that of poetry, whether declaimed or
merely read. That so many people recognise the rational nature of opera
in the present day is in great measure due to Wagner, since whose
reforms the conventional and often idiotic libretti of former times have
entirely disappeared. In spite of the sneers of the professed
anti-Wagnerians, which were based as often as not upon some ineptitude
on the part of the translator, not upon any inherent defect in the
original, the plots invented by Wagner have won for themselves an
acceptance that may be called world-wide. And whatever be the verdict on
his own plots, there can be no question as to the superiority of the
average libretto since his day. No composer dare face the public of the
present day with one of the pointless, vapid sets of rhymes, strung
together with intervals of bald recitative, that pleased our
forefathers, and equally inconceivable is the re-setting of libretti
that have served before, in the manner of the eighteenth century
composers, a prodigious number of whom employed one specially admired
'book' by Metastasio.

Unfortunately those who take an intelligent interest in opera do not
even yet form a working majority of the operatic audience in any
country. While the supporters of orchestral, choral, or chamber music
consist wholly of persons, who, whatever their degree of musical
culture, take a serious view of the art so far as they can appreciate
it, and therefore are unhampered by the necessity of considering the
wishes of those who care nothing whatever about the music they perform.
In connection with every operatic enterprise the question arises of how
to cater for a great class who attend operatic performances for any
other reason rather than that of musical enjoyment, yet without whose
pecuniary support the undertaking must needs fail at once. Nor is it
only in England that the position is difficult. In countries where the
opera enjoys a Government subsidy, the influences that make against true
art are as many and as strong as they are elsewhere. The taste of the
Intendant in a German town, or that of the ladies of his family, may be
on such a level that the public of the town, over the operatic
arrangement of which he presides, may very well be compelled to hear
endless repetitions of flashy operas that have long passed out of every
respectable repertory; and in other countries the Government official
within whose jurisdiction the opera falls may, and very often does,
enforce the engagement of some musically incompetent prima donna in whom
he, or some scheming friend, takes a particular interest.

The moral conditions of the operatic stage are no doubt far more
satisfactory than they were, and in England the general deodorisation of
the theatre has not been unfelt in opera; but even without the unworthy
motives which too often drew the bucks and the dandies of a past day to
the opera-house, the influence of the unintelligent part of the
audience upon the performers is far from good in an artistic sense. It
is this which fosters that mental condition with which all who are
acquainted with the operatic world are only too familiar. Now, just as
in the days when Marcello wrote his _Teatro alla moda_, there is
scarcely a singer who does not hold, and extremely few who do not
express, the opinion that all the rest of the profession is in league
against them; and by this supposition, as well as by many other
circumstances, an atmosphere is created which is wholly antagonistic to
the attainment of artistic perfection. All honour is due to the purely
artistic singers who have reached their position without intrigue, and
whose influence on their colleagues is the best stimulus to wholesome
endeavour. It is beyond question that the greater the proportion of
intelligent hearers in any audience or set of subscribers, the higher
will the standard be, not only in vocalisation, but in that combination
which makes the artist as distinguished from the mere singer. For every
reason, too, it is desirable that opera should be given, as a general
rule, in the language of the country in which the performance takes
place, and although the system of giving each work with its own original
words is an ideally perfect one for trained hearers, yet the
difficulties in the way of its realisation, and the absurdities that
result from such expedients as a mixture of two or more languages in the
same piece, render it practically inexpedient for ordinary operatic
undertakings. The recognition of English as a possible medium of vocal
expression may be slow, but it is certainly making progress, and in the
last seasons at Covent Garden it was occasionally employed even before
the fashionable subscribers, who may be presumed to have tolerated it,
since they did not manifest any disapproval of its use. Since the first
edition of this book was published, the Utopian idea, as it then seemed,
of a national opera for London has advanced considerably towards
realisation, and it is certain that when it is set on foot, the English
language alone will be employed.

While opera is habitually performed in a foreign language, or, if in
English, by those who have not the art of making their words
intelligible, there will always be a demand for books that tell the
story more clearly than is to be found in the doggerel translations of
the libretti, unless audiences return with one accord to the attitude of
the amateurs of former days, who paid not the slightest attention to the
plot of the piece, provided only that their favourite singers were
taking part. Very often in that classic period the performers themselves
knew nothing and cared less about the dramatic meaning of the works in
which they appeared, and a venerable anecdote is current concerning a
certain supper party, the guests at which had all identified themselves
with one or other of the principal parts in 'Il Trovatore'. A question
being asked as to the plot of the then popular piece, it was found that
not one of the company had the vaguest notion what it was all about.
The old lady who, during the church scene in 'Faust', asked her
grand-daughter, in a spirit of humble inquiry, what the relationship was
between the two persons on the stage, is no figment of a diseased
imagination; the thing actually happened not long ago, and one is left
to wonder what impression the preceding scenes had made upon the hearer.

Of books that profess to tell the stories of the most popular operas
there is no lack, but, as a rule, the plots are related in a 'bald and
unconvincing' style, that leaves much to be desired, and sometimes in a
confused way that necessitates a visit to the opera itself in order to
clear up the explanation. There are useful dictionaries, too, notably
the excellent 'Opern-Handbuch' of Dr Riemann, which gives the names and
dates of production of every opera of any note; but the German scientist
does not always condescend to the detailed narration of the stories,
though he gives the sources from which they may have been derived. Mr
Streatfeild has hit upon the happy idea of combining the mere
story-telling part of his task with a survey of the history of opera
from its beginning early in the seventeenth century to the present day.
In the course of this historical narrative, the plots of all operas that
made a great mark in the past, or that have any chance of being revived
in the present, are related clearly and succinctly, and with a rare and
delightful absence of prejudice. The author finds much to praise in
every school; he is neither impatient of old opera nor intolerant of
new developments which have yet to prove their value; and he makes us
feel that he is not only an enthusiastic lover of opera as a whole, but
a cultivated musician. The historical plan adopted, in contradistinction
to the arrangement by which the operas are grouped under their titles in
alphabetical order, involves perhaps a little extra trouble to the
casual reader; but by the aid of the index, any opera concerning which
the casual reader desires to be informed can be found in its proper
place, and the chief facts regarding its origin and production are given
there as well as the story of its action.


J.A. FULLER-MAITLAND

_June 1907_




THE OPERA




CHAPTER I

THE BEGINNINGS OF OPERA


PERI--MONTEVERDE--CAVALLI--CESTI--CAMBERT--LULLI--PURCELL--
KEISER--SCARLATTI--HANDEL


The early history of many forms of art is wrapped in obscurity. Even in
music, the youngest of the arts, the precise origin of many modern
developments is largely a matter of conjecture. The history of opera,
fortunately for the historian, is an exception to the rule. All the
circumstances which combine to produce the idea of opera are known to
us, and every detail of its genesis is established beyond the
possibility of doubt.

The invention of opera partook largely of the nature of an accident.
Late in the sixteenth century a few Florentine amateurs, fired with the
enthusiasm for Greek art which was at that time the ruling passion of
every cultivated spirit in Italy, set themselves the task of
reconstructing the conditions of the Athenian drama. The result of their
labours, regarded as an attempted revival of the lost glories of Greek
tragedy, was a complete failure; but, unknown to themselves, they
produced the germ of that art-form which, as years passed on, was
destined, in their own country at least, to reign alone in the
affections of the people, and to take the place, so far as the altered
conditions permitted, of the national drama which they had fondly hoped
to recreate.

The foundations of the new art-form rested upon the theory that the
drama of the Greeks was throughout declaimed to a musical accompaniment.
The reformers, therefore, dismissed spoken dialogue from their drama,
and employed in its place a species of free declamation or recitative,
which they called _musica parlante_. The first work in which the new
style of composition was used was the 'Dafne' of Jacopo Peri, which was
privately performed in 1597. No trace of this work survives, nor of the
musical dramas by Emilio del Cavaliere and Vincenzo Galilei to which the
closing years of the sixteenth century gave birth. But it is best to
regard these privately performed works merely as experiments, and to
date the actual foundation of opera from the year 1600, when a public
performance of Peri's 'Euridice' was given at Florence in honour of the
marriage of Maria de' Medici and Henry IV. of France. A few years later
a printed edition of this work was published at Venice, a copy of which
is now in the library of the British Museum, and in recent times it has
been reprinted, so that those who are curious in these matters can study
this protoplasmic opera at their leisure. Expect for a few bars of
insignificant chorus, the whole work consists of the accompanied
recitative, which was the invention of these Florentine reformers. The
voices are accompanied by a violin, _chitarone_ (a large guitar), _lira
grande_, _liuto grosso_, and _gravicembalo_ or harpsichord, which filled
in the harmonies indicated by the figured bass. The instrumental
portions of the work are poor and thin, and the chief beauty lies in the
vocal part, which is often really pathetic and expressive. Peri
evidently tried to give musical form to the ordinary inflections of the
human voice, how successfully may be seen in the Lament of Orpheus which
Mr. Morton Latham has reprinted in his 'Renaissance of Music,' The
original edition of 'Euridice' contains an interesting preface, in which
the composer sets forth the theory upon which he worked, and the aims
which he had in view. It is too long to be reprinted here, but should be
read by all interested in the early history of opera.

With the production of 'Euridice' the history of opera may be said to
begin; but if the new art-form had depended only upon the efforts of
Peri and his friends, it must soon have languished and died. With all
their enthusiasm, the little band of Florentines had too slight an
acquaintance with the science of music to give proper effect to the
ideas which they originated. Peri built the ship, but it was reserved
for the genius of Claudio Monteverde to launch it upon a wider ocean
than his predecessor could have dreamed of. Monteverde had been trained
in the polyphonic school of Palestrina, but his genius had never
acquiesced in the rules and restrictions in which the older masters
delighted. He was a poor contrapuntist, and his madrigals are chiefly
interesting as a proof of how ill the novel harmonies of which he was
the discoverer accorded with the severe purity of the older school But
in the new art he found the field his genius required. What had been
weakness and license in the madrigal became strength and beauty in the
opera. The new wine was put into new bottles, and both were preserved.
Monteverde produced his 'Arianna' in 1607, and his 'Orfeo' in 1608, and
with these two works started opera upon the path of development which
was to culminate in the works of Wagner. 'Arianna,' which, according to
Marco da Gagliano, himself a rival composer of high ability, 'visibly
moved all the theatre to tears,' is lost to us save for a few
quotations; but 'Orfeo' is in existence, and has recently been reprinted
in Germany. A glance at the score shows what a gulf separates this work
from Peri's treatment of the same story. Monteverde, with his orchestra
of thirty-nine instruments--brass, wood, and strings complete--his rich
and brilliant harmonies, sounding so strangely beautiful to ears
accustomed only to the severity of the polyphonic school, and his
delicious and affecting melodies, sometimes rising almost to the dignity
of an aria, must have seemed something more than human to the eager
Venetians as they listened for the first time to music as rich in colour
as the gleaming marbles of the Cà d'Oro or the radiant canvases of
Titian and Giorgione.

The success of Monteverde had its natural result. He soon had pupils
and imitators by the score. The Venetians speedily discovered that they
had an inherent taste for opera, and the musicians of the day delighted
to cater for it. Monteverde's most famous pupil was Cavalli, to whom may
with some certainty be attributed an innovation which was destined to
affect the future of opera very deeply. In his time, to quote Mr.
Latham's 'Renaissance of Music,' 'the _musica parlante_ of the earliest
days of opera was broken up into recitative, which was less eloquent,
and aria, which was more ornamental. The first appearance of this change
is to be found in Cavalli's operas, in which certain rhythmical
movements called "arias" which are quite distinct from the _musica
parlante_, make their appearance. The music assigned by Monteverde to
Orpheus when he is leading Eurydice back from the Shades is undoubtedly
an air, but the situation is one to which an air is appropriate, and
_musica parlante_ would be inappropriate. If the drama had been a play
to be spoken and not sung, there would not have been any incongruity in
allotting a song to Orpheus, to enable Eurydice to trace him through the
dark abodes of Hades. But the arias of Cavalli are not confined to such
special situations, and recur frequently,' Cavalli had the true Venetian
love of colour. In his hands the orchestra began to assume a new
importance. His attempts to give musical expression to the sights and
sounds of nature--the murmur of the sea, the rippling of the brook and
the tempestuous fury of the winds--mark an interesting step in the
history of orchestral development. With Marcantonio Cesti appears
another innovation of scarcely less importance to the history of opera
than the invention of the aria itself--the _da capo_ or the repetition
of the first part of the aria in its entirety after the conclusion of
the second part. However much the _da capo_ may have contributed to the
settlement of form in composition, it must be admitted that it struck at
the root of all real dramatic effect, and in process of time degraded
opera to the level of a concert. Cesti was a pupil of Carissimi, who is
famous chiefly for his sacred works, and from him he learnt to prefer
mere musical beauty to dramatic truth. Those of his operas which remain
to us show a far greater command of orchestral and vocal resource than
Monteverde or Cavalli could boast, but so far as real expression and
sincerity are concerned, they are inferior to the less cultured efforts
of the earlier musicians. It would be idle to attempt an enumeration of
the Venetian composers of the seventeenth century and their works. Some
idea of the musical activity which prevailed may be gathered from the
fact that while the first public theatre was opened in 1637, before the
close of the century there were no less than eleven theatres in the city
devoted to the performance of opera alone.

Meanwhile the enthusiasm for the new art-form spread through the cities
of Italy. According to an extant letter of Salvator Rosa's, opera was in
full swing in Rome during the Carnival of 1652. The first opera of
Provenzale, the founder of the Neapolitan school, was produced in 1658.
Bologna, Milan, Parma, and other cities soon followed suit. France, too,
was not behindhand, but there the development of the art soon deserved
the name a new school of opera, distinct in many important particulars
from its parent in Italy. The French nobles who saw the performance of
Peri's 'Euridice' at the marriage of Henry IV. may have carried back
tales of its splendour and beauty to their own country, but Paris was
not as yet ripe for opera. Not until 1647 did the French Court make the
acquaintance of the new art which was afterwards to win some of its most
brilliant triumphs in their city. In that year a performance of Peri's
'Euridice' (which, in spite of newer developments, had not lost its
popularity) was given in Paris under the patronage of Cadinal Mazarin.
This was followed by Cavalli's 'Serse,' conducted by the composer
himself. These performances quickened the latent genius of the French
people, and Robert Cambert, the founder of their school, hastened to
produce operas, which, though bearing traces of Italian influence, were
nevertheless distinctively French in manner and method. His works, two
of which are known to us, 'Pomone' and 'Les Peines et les Plaisirs de
l'Amour,' were to a certain extent a development of the masques which
had been popular in Paris for many years. They are pastoral and
allegorical in subject, and are often merely a vehicle for fulsome
adulation of the 'Roi Soleil.' But in construction they are operas pure
and simple. There is no spoken dialogue, and the music is continuous
from first to last. Cambert's operas were very successful, and in
conjunction with his librettist Perrin he received a charter from the
King in 1669, giving him the sole right of establishing opera-houses in
the kingdom. Quarrels, however, ensued. Cambert and Perrin separated.
The charter was revoked, or rather granted to a new-comer, Giovanni
Battista Lulli, and Cambert, in disgrace, retired to England, where he
died. Lulli (1633-1687) left Italy too young to be much influenced by
the developments of opera in that country, and was besides too good a
man of business to allow his artistic instinct to interfere with his
chance of success. He found Cambert's operas popular in Paris, and
instead of attempting any radical reforms, he adhered to the form which
he found ready made, only developing the orchestra to an extent which
was then unknown, and adding dignity and passion to the airs and
recitatives. Lulli's industry was extraordinary. During the space of
fourteen years he wrote no fewer than twenty operas, conceived upon a
grand scale, and produced with great magnificence. His treatment of
recitative is perhaps his strongest point, for in spite of the beauty of
one or two isolated songs, such as the famous 'Bois épais' in 'Amadis'
and Charon's wonderful air in 'Alceste,' his melodic gift was not great,
and his choral writing is generally of the most unpretentious
description. But his recitative is always solid and dignified, and often
impassioned and pathetic. Music, too, owes him a great debt for his
invention of what is known as the French form of overture, consisting
of a prelude, fugue, and dance movement, which was afterwards carried to
the highest conceivable pitch of perfection by Handel.

Meanwhile an offshoot of the French school, transplanted to the banks of
the Thames, had blossomed into a brief but brilliant life under the
fostering care of the greatest musical genius our island has ever
produced, Henry Purcell. Charles II. was not a profound musician, but he
knew what sort of music he liked, and on one point his mind was made
up--that he did not like the music of the elderly composers who had
survived the Protectorate, and came forward at his restoration to claim
the posts which they had held at his father's court. Christopher
Gibbons, Child, and other relics of the dead polyphonic school were
quietly dismissed to provincial organ-lofts, and Pelham Humphreys, the
most promising of the 'Children of the Chapel Royal,' was sent over to
Paris to learn all that was newest in music at the feet of Lulli.
Humphreys came back, in the words of Pepys, 'an absolute Monsieur,' full
of the latest theories concerning opera and music generally, and with a
sublime contempt for the efforts of his stay-at-home colleagues. His own
music shows the French influence very strongly, and in that of his pupil
Henry Purcell (1658-1695) it may also be perceived, although coloured
and transmuted by the intensely English character of Purcell's own
genius. For many years it was supposed that Purcell's first and,
strictly speaking, his only opera, 'Dido and Æneas,' was written by him
at the age of seventeen and produced in 1675. Mr. Barclay Squire has now
proved that it was not produced until much later, but this scarcely
lessens the wonder of it, for Purcell can never have seen an opera
performed, and his acquaintance with the new art-form must have been
based upon Pelham Humphrey's account of the performances which he had
seen in Paris. Possibly, too, he may have had opportunities of studying
the engraved scores of some of Lulli's operas, which, considering the
close intercourse between the courts of France and England, may have
found their way across the Channel. 'Dido and Æneas' is now universally
spoken of as the first English opera. Masques had been popular from the
time of Queen Elizabeth onwards, which the greatest living poets and
musicians had not disdained to produce, and Sir William Davenant had
given performances of musical dramas 'after the manner of the Ancients'
during the closing years of the Commonwealth, but it is probable that
spoken dialogue occurred in all these entertainments, as it certainly
did in Locke's 'Psyche,' Banister's 'Circe,' in fact, in all the
dramatic works of this period which were wrongly described as operas. In
'Dido and Æneas,' on the contrary, the music is continuous throughout.
Airs and recitatives, choruses and instrumental pieces succeed each
other, as in the operas of the Italian and French schools. 'Dido and
Æneas' was written for performance at a young ladies' school kept by
one Josias Priest in Leicester Fields and afterwards at Chelsea. The
libretto was the work of Nahum Tate, the Poet Laureate of the time. The
opera is in three short acts, and Virgil's version of the story is
followed pretty closely save for the intrusion of a sorceress and a
chorus of witches who have sworn Dido's destruction and send a messenger
to Æneas, disguised as Mercury, to hasten his departure. Dido's death
song, which is followed by a chorus of mourning Cupids, is one of the
most pathetic scenes ever written, and illustrates in a forcible manner
Purcell's beautiful and ingenious use of a ground-bass. The gloomy
chromatic passage constantly repeated by the bass instruments, with
ever-varying harmonies in the violins, paints such a picture of the
blank despair of a broken heart as Wagner himself, with his immense
orchestral resources, never surpassed. In the general construction of
his opera Purcell followed the French model, but his treatment of
recitative is bolder and more various than that of Lulli, while as a
melodist he is incomparably superior. Purcell never repeated the
experiment of 'Dido and Æneas.' Musical taste in England was presumably
not cultivated enough to appreciate a work of so advanced a style. At
any rate, for the rest of his life, Purcell wrote nothing for the
theatre but incidental music. Much of this, notably the scores of 'Timon
of Athens,' 'Bonduca,' and 'King Arthur,' is wonderfully beautiful, but
in all of these works the spoken dialogue forms the basis of the piece,
and the music is merely an adjunct, often with little reference to the
main interest of the play. In 'King Arthur' occurs the famous 'Frost
Scene,' the close resemblance of which to the 'Choeur de Peuples des
Climats Glacés' in Lulli's 'Isis' would alone make it certain that
Purcell was a careful student of the French school of opera.

Opera did not take long to cross the Alps, and early in the seventeenth
century the works of Italian composers found a warm welcome at the
courts of southern Germany. But Germany was not as yet ripe for a
national opera. During the first half of the century there are records
of one or two isolated attempts to found a school of German opera, but
the iron heel of the Thirty Years' War was on the neck of the country,
and art struggled in vain against overwhelming odds. The first German
opera, strictly so called, was the 'Dafne' of Heinrich Schütz, the words
of which were a translation of the libretto already used by Peri. Of
this work, which was produced in 1627, all trace has been lost.
'Seelewig,' by Sigmund Staden, which is described as a 'Gesangweis auf
italienische Art gesetzet,' was printed at Nuremberg in 1644, but there
is no record of its ever having been performed. To Hamburg belongs the
honour of establishing German opera upon a permanent basis. There, in
1678, some years before the production of Purcell's 'Dido and Æneas,' an
opera-house was opened with a performance of a Singspiel entitled 'Der
erschaffene, gefallene und aufgerichtete Mensch,' the music of which was
composed by Johannn Theile. Three other works, all of them secular,
were produced in the same year. The new form of entertainment speedily
became popular among the rich burghers of the Free City, and composers
were easily found to cater for their taste.

For many years Hamburg was the only German town where opera found a
permanent home, but there the musical activity must have been
remarkable. Reinhard Keiser (1673-1739), the composer whose name stands
for what was best in the school, is said alone to have produced no fewer
than a hundred and sixteen operas. Nearly all of these works have
disappeared, and those that remain are for the most part disfigured by
the barbarous mixture of Italian and German which was fashionable at
Hamburg and in London too at that time. The singers were possibly for
the most part Italians, who insisted upon singing their airs in their
native language, though they had no objection to using German for the
recitatives, in which there was no opportunity for vocal display.
Keiser's music lacks the suavity of the Italian school, but his
recitatives are vigorous and powerful, and seem to foreshadow the
triumphs which the German school was afterwards to win in declamatory
music. The earliest operas of Handel (1685-1759) were written for
Hamburg, and in the one of them which Fate has preserved for us,
'Almira' (1704), we see the Hamburg school at its finest. In spite of
the ludicrous mixture of German and Italian there is a good deal of
dramatic power in the music, and the airs show how early Handel's
wonderful gift of melody had developed. The chorus has very little to
do, but a delightful feature of the work is to be found in the series of
beautiful dance-tunes lavishly scattered throughout it. One of these, a
Sarabande, was afterwards worked up into the famous air, 'Lascia ch' io
pianga,' in 'Rinaldo.' When the new Hamburg Opera-House was opened in
1874, it was inaugurated by a performance of 'Almira,' which gave
musicians a unique opportunity of realising to some extent what opera
was like at the beginning of the eighteenth century. In 1706 Handel left
Hamburg for the purpose of prosecuting his studies in Italy. There he
found the world at the feet of Alessandro Scarlatti (1659-1725), a
composer whose importance to the history of opera can scarcely be
over-estimated. He is said, like Cesti, to have been a pupil of
Carissimi, though, as the latter died in 1674, at the age of seventy, he
cannot have done much more than lay the foundation of his pupil's
greatness. The invention of the _da capo_ is generally attributed to
Scarlatti, wrongly, as has already been shown, since it appears in
Cesti's opera 'La Dori,' which was performed in 1663. But it seems
almost certain that Scarlatti was the first to use accompanied
recitative, a powerful means of dramatic expression in the hands of all
who followed him, while his genius advanced the science of
instrumentation to a point hitherto unknown.

Nevertheless, Scarlatti's efforts were almost exclusively addressed to
the development of the musical rather than the dramatic side of opera,
and he is largely responsible for the strait-jacket of convention in
which opera was confined during the greater part of the eighteenth
century, in fact until it was released by the genius of Gluck.

Handel's conquest of Italy was speedy and decisive. 'Rodrigo,' produced
at Florence in 1707, made him famous, and 'Agrippina' (Venice, 1708)
raised him almost to the rank of a god. At every pause in the
performance the theatre rang with shouts of 'Viva il caro Sassone,' and
the opera had an unbroken run of twenty-seven nights, a thing till then
unheard of. It did not take Handel long to learn all that Italy could
teach him. With his inexhaustible fertility of melody and his complete
command of every musical resource then known, he only needed to have his
German vigour tempered by Italian suppleness and grace to stand forth as
the foremost operatic composer of the age. His Italian training and his
theatrical experience gave him a thorough knowledge of the capabilities
of the human voice, and the practical common-sense which was always one
of his most striking characteristics prevented him from ever treating it
from the merely instrumental point of view, a pitfall into which many of
the great composers have fallen. He left Italy for London in 1710, and
produced his 'Rinaldo' at the Queen's Theatre in the Haymarket the
following year. It was put upon the stage with unexampled magnificence,
and its success was prodigious. 'Rinaldo' was quickly followed by such
succession of masterpieces as put the ancient glories of the Italian
stage to shame. Most of them were produced at the Haymarket Theatre,
either under Handel's own management or under the auspices of a company
known as the Royal Academy of Music. Handel's success made him many
enemies, and he was throughout his career the object of innumerable
plots on the part of disappointed and envious rivals. The most active of
these was Buononcini, himself a composer of no mean ability, though
eclipsed by the genius of Handel. Buononcini's machinations were so far
successful--though he himself was compelled to leave England in disgrace
for different reasons--that in 1741, after the production of his
'Deidamia,' Handel succumbed to bankruptcy and a severe attack of
paralysis. After this he wrote no more for the stage, but devoted
himself to the production of those oratorios which have made his name
famous wherever the English language is spoken.

In spite of their transcendent beauties, the form of Handel's operas has
long banished them from the stage. Handel, with all his genius, was not
one of the great revolutionists of the history of music. He was content
to bring existing forms to the highest possible point of perfection,
without seeking to embark upon new oceans of discovery. Opera in his day
consisted of a string of airs connected by recitative, with an
occasional duet, and a chorus to bring down the curtain at the end of
the work. The airs were, as a rule, fully accompanied. Strings,
hautboys, and bassoons formed the groundwork of the orchestra. If
distinctive colouring or sonority were required, the composer used
flutes, horns, harps, and trumpets, while to gain an effect of a special
nature, he would call in the assistance of lutes and mandolins, or
archaic instruments such as the viola da gamba, violetta marina,
cornetto and theorbo. The _recitativo secco_ was accompanied by the
harpsichord, at which the composer himself presided. The _recitativo
stromentato_, or accompanied recitative, was only used to emphasise
situations of special importance. Handel's incomparable genius infused
so much dramatic power into this meagre form, that even now the truth
and sincerity of his songs charm us no less than their extraordinary
melodic beauty. But it is easy to see that in the hands of composers
less richly endowed, this form was fated to degenerate into a mere
concert upon the stage. The science of vocalisation was cultivated to
such a pitch of perfection that composers were tempted, and even
compelled, to consult the tastes of singers rather than dramatic truth.
Handel's successors, such as Porpora and Hasse, without a tithe of his
genius, used such talent as they possessed merely to exhibit the vocal
dexterity of popular singers in the most agreeable light. The favourite
form of entertainment in these degraded times was the pasticcio, a
hybrid production composed of a selection of songs from various popular
operas, often by three or four different composers, strung together
regardless of rhyme or reason. Even in Handel's lifetime the older
school of opera was tottering to its fall. Only the man was needed who
should sweep the mass of insincerity from the stage and replace it by
the purer ideal which had been the guiding spirit of Peri and
Monteverde.




CHAPTER II

THE REFORMS OF GLUCK


The death of Lulli left French opera established upon a sure foundation.
The form which he perfected seemed, with all its faults, to commend
itself to the genius of the nation, and for many years a succession of
his followers and imitators, such as Campra and Destouches, continued to
produce works which differed little in scope and execution from the
model he had established. The French drama of the seventeenth century
had reached such a high point of development that its influence over the
sister art was all-powerful. The composers of the French court willingly
sacrificed musical to declamatory interest, and thus, while they steered
clear of the mere tunefulness which was the rock on which Italian
composers made shipwreck, they fell into the opposite extreme and wrote
works which seem to us arid and jejune. Paris at this time was curiously
isolated from the world of music, and it is strange to find how little
the development of Italian opera affected the French school. Marais
(1650-1718) was more alive to Southern influences than most of his
contemporaries, and in his treatment of the aria there is a perceptible
approach to Italian methods; but Rameau (1683-1764) brought back French
opera once more to its distinctive national style. Though he followed
the general lines of Lulli's school, he brought to bear upon it a richer
sense of beauty and a completer musical organisation than Lulli ever
possessed. In his treatment of declamation pure and simple, he was
perhaps Lulli's inferior, but in all other respects he showed a decided
advance upon his predecessor. He infused new life into the monotonous
harmony and well-worn modulations which had done duty for so many years.
His rhythms were novel and suggestive, and the originality and resource
of his orchestration opened the eyes of Frenchmen to new worlds of
beauty and expression. Not the least important part of Rameau's work lay
in the influence which his music exerted upon the genius of the man to
whom the regeneration of opera is mainly due. Christoph Willibald Gluck
(1714-1787) was the son of a forester. Such musical education as he
received he acquired in Italy, and his earlier works are written in the
Italian style which was fashionable at the time. There are few
indications in his youthful operas of the power which was destined later
to work such changes in the world of opera. He was at first
whole-hearted in his devotion to the school of Porpora, Hasse and the
others who did so much to degrade Italian opera. 'Artaserse,' his first
work, was produced in 1741, the year in which Handel bade farewell for
ever to the stage. It was successful, and was promptly followed by
others no less fortunate. In 1745 Gluck visited England where he
produced 'La Caduta de' Giganti,' a work which excited the contempt of
Handel. In the following year he produced 'Piramo e Tisbe,' a pasticcio,
which failed completely. Its production, however, was by no means labour
lost, if it be true, as the story goes, that it was by its means that
Gluck's eyes were opened to the degradation to which opera had been
reduced. It was about this time that Gluck first heard Rameau's music,
and the power and simplicity of it compared with the empty sensuousness
of Italian opera, must have materially strengthened him in the desire to
do something to reform and purify his art. Yet, in spite of good
resolutions, Gluck's progress was slow. In 1755 he settled at Vienna,
and there, under the shadow of the court, he produced a series of works
in which the attempt to realise dramatic truth is often distinctly
perceptible, though the composer had as yet not mastered the means for
its attainment. But in 1762 came 'Orfeo ed Euridice,' a work which
placed Gluck at the head of all living operatic composers, and laid the
foundation of the modern school of opera.

The libretto of 'Orfeo' was by Calzabigi, a prominent man of letters,
but it seems probable that Gluck's own share in it was not a small one.
The careful study which he had given to the proper conditions of opera
was not likely to exclude so important a question as that of the
construction and diction of the libretto, and the poem of 'Orfeo' shows
so marked an inclination to break away from the conventionality and sham
sentiment of the time that we can confidently attribute much of its
originality to the influence of the composer himself. The opening scene
shows the tomb of Eurydice erected in a grassy valley. Orpheus stands
beside it plunged in the deepest grief, while a troop of shepherds and
maidens bring flowers to adorn it. His despairing cry of 'Eurydice'
breaks passionately upon their mournful chorus, and the whole scene,
though drawn in simple lines, is instinct with genuine pathos. When the
rustic mourners have laid their gifts upon the tomb and departed,
Orpheus calls upon the shade of his lost wife in an air of exquisite
beauty, broken by expressive recitative. He declares his resolution of
following her to the underworld, when Eros enters and tells him of the
condition which the gods impose on him if he should attempt to rescue
Eurydice from the shades. Left to himself, Orpheus discusses the
question of the rescue in a recitative of great intrinsic power, which
shows at a glance how far Gluck had already distanced his predecessors
in variety and dramatic strength. The second act takes place in the
underworld. The chorus of Furies is both picturesque and effective, and
the barking of Cerberus which sounds through it is a touch, which though
its _naïveté_ may provoke a smile, is characteristic of Gluck's
strenuous struggle for realism. Orpheus appears and pleads his cause in
accents of touching entreaty. Time after time his pathetic song is
broken by a sternly decisive 'No,' but in the end he triumphs, and the
Furies grant him passage. The next scene is in the Elysian fields.
After an introduction of charming grace, the spirits of the blessed are
discovered disporting themselves after their kind. Orpheus appears, lost
in wonder at the magical beauty of all around him. Here again is a
remarkable instance of Gluck's pictorial power. Simple as are the means
he employs, the effect is extraordinary. The murmuring of streams, the
singing of birds, and the placid beauty of the landscape are depicted
with a touch which, if light, is infallibly sure. Then follows the
famous scene in which Orpheus, forbidden to look at the face of his
beloved, tries to find her by touch and instinct among the crowd of
happy spirits who pass him by. At last she approaches, and he clasps her
in his arms, while a chorus of perfect beauty bids him farewell as he
leads her in triumph to the world above. The third act shows the two
wandering in a cavern on their way to the light of day. Eurydice is
grieved that her husband should never look into her eyes, and her faith
is growing cold. After a scene in which passionate beauty goes side by
side with strange relapses into conventionality, Orpheus gives way to
her prayers and reproaches, and turns to embrace her. In a moment she
sinks back lifeless, and he pours forth his despair in the immortal
strains of 'Che farò senza Euridice.' Eros then appears, and tells him
that the gods have had pity upon his sorrow. He transports him to the
Temple of Love, where Eurydice, restored to life, is awaiting him, and
the opera ends with conventional rejoicings.

Beautiful as 'Orfeo' is--and the best proof of its enduring beauty is
that, after nearly a hundred and fifty years of change and development,
it has lost none of its power to charm--we must not be blind to the fact
that it is a strange combination of strength and weakness. Strickly
speaking, Gluck was by no means a first-rate musician, and in 1762 he
had not mastered his new gospel of sincerity and truth so fully as to
disguise the poverty of his technical equipment. Much of the orchestral
part of the work is weak and thin. Berlioz even went so far as to
describe the overture as _une niaiserie incroyable_, and the vocal part
sometimes shows the influence of the empty formulas from which Gluck was
trying to escape. Throughout the opera there are unmistakable traces of
Rameau's influence, indeed it is plain that Gluck frankly took Rameau's
'Castor et Pollux' as his model when he sat down to compose 'Orfeo.' The
plot of the earlier work, the rescue of Pollux by Castor from the
infernal regions, has of course much in common with that of 'Orfeo' and
it is obvious that Gluck took many hints from Rameau's musical treatment
of the various scenes which the two works have in common.

In spite, however, of occasional weaknesses, 'Orfeo' is a work of
consummate loveliness. Compared to the tortured complexity of our modern
operas, it stands in its dignified simplicity like the Parthenon beside
the bewildering beauty of a Gothic cathedral; and its truth and grandeur
are perhaps the more conspicuous because allied to one of those classic
stories which even in Gluck's time had become almost synonymous with
emptiness and formality.

Five years elapsed between the production of 'Orfeo' and of Gluck's next
great opera, 'Alceste'; but that these years were not wasted is proved
by the great advance which is perceptible in the score of the later
work. The libretto of 'Alceste' is in many ways superior to that of
'Orfeo,' and Gluck's share of the work shows an incontestable
improvement upon anything he had yet done. His touch is firmer, and he
rarely shows that inclination to drop back into the old conventional
style, which occasionally mars the beauty of 'Orfeo.' Gluck wrote a
preface to the published score of 'Alceste,' which is one of the most
interesting documents in the history of music. It proves
conclusively--not that any proof is necessary--that the composer had
thought long and seriously about the scope of his art, and that the
reforms which he introduced were a deliberate attempt to reconstruct
opera upon a new basis of ideal beauty. If he sometimes failed to act up
to his own theories, it must be remembered in what school he had been
trained, and how difficult must have been the attempt to cast off in a
moment the style which had been habitual to him for so many years.

When 'Alceste' was produced in Paris in 1776, Gluck made some
alterations in the score, some of which were scarcely improvements. In
his later years he became so completely identified with the French
school that the later version is now the more familiar.

The opera opens before the palace at Pheræ, where the people are
gathered to pray Heaven to spare the life of Admetus, who lies at the
point of death. Alcestis appears, and, after an air of great dignity and
beauty, bids the people follow her to the temple, there to renew their
supplications. The next scene shows the temple of Apollo. The high
priest and the people make passionate appeal to the god for the life of
their king, and the oracle replies that Admetus must perish, if no other
will die in his place. The people, seized with terror, fly from the
place, and Alcestis, left alone, determines to give up her own life for
that of her husband. The high priest accepts her devotion, and in the
famous air 'Divinités du Styx,' she offers herself a willing sacrifice
to the gods below. In the original version the second act opened with a
scene in a gloomy forest, in which Alcestis interviews the spirits of
Death, and, after renewing her vow, obtains leave to return and bid
farewell to her husband. The music of this scene is exceedingly
impressive, and intrinsically it must have been one of the finest in the
opera, but it does not advance the action in the least, and its omission
sensibly increases the tragic effect of the drama. In the later version
the act begins with the rejoicings of the people at the recovery of
Admetus. Alcestis appears, and after vainly endeavouring to conceal her
anguish from the eyes of Admetus is forced to admit that she is the
victim whose death is to restore him to life. Admetus passionately
refuses the sacrifice, and declares that he will rather die with her
than allow her to immolate herself on his account. He rushes wildly into
the palace, and Alcestis bids farewell to life in an air of
extraordinary pathos and beauty. The third act opens with the
lamentations of the people for their departed queen. Hercules, released
for a moment from his labours, enters and asks for Admetus. He is
horrified at the news of the calamity which has befallen his friend, and
announces his resolve of rescuing Alcestis from the clutches of Death.
Meanwhile Alcestis has reached the portals of the underworld, and is
about to surrender herself to the powers of Hell. Admetus, who has not
yet given up hope of persuading her to relinquish her purpose, appears,
and pleads passionately with her to leave him to his doom. His prayers
are vain, and Alcestis is tearing herself for the last time from his
arms, when Hercules rushes in. After a short struggle he defeats the
powers of Death and restores Alcestis to her husband. The character of
Hercules did not appear in the earlier version of the opera, and in fact
was not introduced until after Gluck had left Paris, a few days after
the production of 'Alceste.' Most of the music allotted to him is
probably not by Gluck at all, but seems to have been written by Gossec,
who was at that time one of the rising musicians in Paris. The close of
the opera is certainly inferior to the earlier parts, but the
introduction of Hercules is a great improvement upon the original
version of the last act, in which the rescue of Alcestis is effected by
Apollo. The French librettist did not treat the episode cleverly, and
indeed all the last scene is terribly prosaic, and lacking in poetical
atmosphere. To see how the appearance of the lusty hero in the halls of
woe can heighten the tragic interest by the sheer force of contrast, we
must turn to the 'Alcestis' of Euripides, where the death of Alcestis
and the strange conflict of Hercules with Death is treated with just
that touch of mystery and unearthliness which is absent from the
libretto which Gluck was called upon to set. Of the music of 'Alceste,'
its passion and intensity, it is impossible to speak too highly. It has
pages of miraculous power, in which the deepest tragedy and the most
poignant pathos are depicted with unfaltering certainty. It is strange
to think by what simple means Gluck scaled the loftiest heights.
Compared with our modern orchestra the poverty of the resources upon
which he depended seems almost ludicrous. Even in the vocal part of
'Alceste' he was so careful to avoid anything like the sensuous beauty
of the Italian style, that sometimes he fell into the opposite extreme
and wrote merely arid rhetoric. Yet he held so consistently before him
his ideal of dramatic truth, that his music has survived all changes of
taste and fashion, and still delights connoisseurs as fully as on the
day it was produced. 'Paride ed Elena,' Gluck's next great work, shows
his genius under a more lyrical aspect. Here he gives freer reign to the
romanticism which he had designedly checked in 'Alceste,' and much of
the music seems in a measure to anticipate the new influences which
Mozart was afterwards to infuse into German music. Unfortunately the
libretto of 'Paride ed Elena,' though possessing great poetical merit,
is monotonous and deficient in incident, so that the opera has never won
the success which it deserves, and is now almost completely forgotten.

The admiration for the French school of opera which had been aroused in
Gluck by hearing the works of Rameau was not by any means a passing
fancy. His music proves that the French school had more influence upon
his development than the Italian, so it was only natural that he should
wish to have an opportunity of introducing his works to Paris. That
opportunity came in 1774, when, after weary months of intrigue and
disappointment, his 'Iphigéne en Aulide' was produced at the Académie
Royale de Musique. After that time Gluck wrote all his greatest works
for the French stage, and became so completely identified with the
country of his adoption, that nowadays we are far more apt to think of
him as a French than as a German composer. 'Iphigénie en Aulide' is
founded upon Racine's play, which in its turn had been derived from the
tragedy of Euripides. The scene of the opera is laid at Aulis, where the
Greek fleet is prevented by contrary winds from starting for Troy.
Diana, who has been unwittingly insulted by Agamemnon, demands a human
sacrifice, and Iphigenia, the guiltless daughter of Agamemnon, has been
named by the high priest Calchas as the victim. Iphigenia and her mother
Clytemnestra are on their way to join the fleet at Aulis, and Agamemnon
has sent a despairing message to bid them return home, hoping thus to
avoid the necessity of sacrificing his child. Meanwhile the Greek hosts,
impatient of delay, clamour for the victim, and are only appeased by the
assurance of Calchas that the sacrifice shall take place that very day.
Left alone with Agamemnon, Calchas entreats him to submit to the will of
the gods. Agamemnon, torn by conflicting emotions, at first refuses, but
afterwards, relying upon the message which he has sent to his wife and
daughter, promises that if Iphigenia sets foot in Aulis he will give her
up to death. He has hardly spoken the words when shouts of joy announce
the arrival of Clytemnestra and Iphigenia. The message has miscarried,
and they are already in the camp. As a last resource Agamemnon now tells
Clytemnestra that Achilles, the lover of her daughter, is false, hoping
that this will drive her from the camp. Clytemnestra calls upon
Iphigenia to thrust her betrayer from her bosom, and Iphigenia replies
so heroically that it seems as though Agamemnon's plot to save his
daughter's life might actually succeed. Unfortunately Achilles himself
appears, and, after a scene of reproach and recrimination, succeeds in
dispelling Iphigenia's doubts and winning her to complete
reconciliation.

The second act begins with the rejoicings over the marriage of
Iphigenia. The general joy is turned to lamentation by the discovery of
Agamemnon's vow and the impending doom of Iphigenia. Clytemnestra
passionately entreats Achilles to save her daughter, which he promises
to do, though Iphigenia professes herself ready to obey her father. In
the following scene Achilles meets Agamemnon, and, after a long
altercation, swears to defend Iphigenia with the last drop of his blood.
He rushes off, and Agamemnon is left in anguish to weigh his love for
his daughter against his dread of the angry gods, Love triumphs and he
sends Areas, his attendant, to bid Clytemnestra fly with Iphigenia home
to Mycenae.

In the third act the Greeks are angrily demanding their victim. Achilles
prays Iphigenia to fly with him, but she is constant to her idea of
duty, and bids him a pathetic farewell. Achilles, however, is not to be
persuaded, and in an access of noble rage swears to slay the priest upon
the steps of the altar rather than submit to the sacrifice of his love.
After another farewell scene with her mother Iphigenia is led off, while
Clytemnestra, seeing in imagination her daughter under the knife of the
priest, bursts forth into passionate blasphemy. Achilles and his
Thessalian followers rush in to save Iphigenia, and for a time the
contest rages fiercely, but eighteenth-century convention steps in.
Calchas stops the combat, saying that the gods are at length appeased;
Iphigenia is restored to Achilles, and the opera ends with general
rejoicings.

'Iphigénie en Aulide' gave Gluck a finer opportunity than he had yet
had. The canvas is broader than in 'Alceste' or 'Orfeo,' and the
emotions are more varied. The human interest, too, is more evenly
sustained, and the supernatural element, which played so important a
part in the two earlier works, is almost entirely absent. Nevertheless,
fine as much of the music is, the restraint which Gluck exercised over
himself is too plainly perceptible, and the result is that many of the
scenes are stiff and frigid. There is scarcely a trace of the delightful
lyricism which rushes through 'Paride ed Elena' like a flood of
resistless delight. Gluck had set his ideal of perfect declamatory truth
firmly before him, and he resisted every temptation to swerve into the
paths of mere musical beauty. He had not yet learnt how to combine the
two styles. He had not yet grasped the fact that in the noblest music
truth and beauty are one and the same thing.

In 'Armide,' produced in 1777, he made another step forward. The
libretto was the same as that used by Lulli nearly a hundred years
before. The legend, already immortalised by Tasso, was strangely
different from the classical stories which had hitherto inspired his
greatest works. The opening scene strikes the note of romanticism which
echoes through the whole opera. Armida, a princess deeply versed in
magic arts, laments that one knight, and one only, in the army of the
Crusaders has proved blind to her charms. All the rest are at her feet,
but Rinaldo alone is obdurate. She has had a boding dream, moreover, in
which Rinaldo has vanquished her, and all the consolations of her
maidens cannot restore her peace of mind. Hidraot, her uncle, entreats
her to choose a husband, but she declares that she will bestow her hand
upon no one but the conqueror of Rinaldo. While the chorus is
celebrating her charms, Arontes, a Paynim warrior, enters bleeding and
wounded, and tells how the prowess of a single knight has robbed him of
his captives. Armida at once recognises the hand of the recalcitrant
Rinaldo, and the act ends with her vows of vengeance against the
invincible hero.

The second act shows Rinaldo in quest of adventures which may win him
the favour of Godfrey of Bouillon, whose wrath he has incurred. Armida's
enchantments lead him to her magic gardens, where, amidst scenes of
voluptuous beauty, he yields to the fascinations of the place, lays down
his arms, and sinks into sleep. Armida rushes in, dagger in hand, but
the sight of the sleeping hero is too potent for her, and overcome by
passion, she bids the spirits of the air transport them to the bounds of
the universe. In the third act we find that Rinaldo has rejected the
love of the enchantress. Armida is inconsolable; she is ashamed of her
weakness, and will not listen to the well-meaning consolations of her
attendants. She calls upon the spirit of Hate, but when he appears she
rejects his aid, and still clings desperately to her fatal passion. The
fourth act, which is entirely superfluous, is devoted to the adventures
in the enchanted garden of Ubaldo and a Danish knight, two Crusaders who
have set forth with the intention of rescuing Rinaldo from the clutches
of the sorceress. The fifth act takes place in Armida's palace.
Rinaldo's proud spirit has at length been subdued, and he is completely
the slave of the enchantress. The duet between the lovers is of the most
bewitching loveliness, and much of it curiously anticipates the romantic
element which was to burst forth in a future generation. Armida tears
herself from Rinaldo's arms, and leaves him to be entertained by a
ballet of spirits, while she transacts some business with the powers
below. Ubaldo and the Danish knight now burst in, and soon bring Rinaldo
to a proper frame of mind. He takes a polite farewell of Armida, who in
vain attempts to prevent his going, and is walked off by his two
Mentors. Left alone, Armida calls on her demons to destroy the palace,
and the opera ends in wild confusion and tumult.

To say that 'Armide' recalls the romantic grace of 'Paride ed Elena,' is
but half the truth. The lyrical grace of the earlier work is as it were
concentrated and condensed in a series of pictures which for voluptuous
beauty surpass anything that had been written before Gluck's day.
Against the background formed by the magical splendour of the enchanted
garden, the figure of Armida stands out in striking relief. The mingled
pride and passion of the imperious princess are drawn with wonderful
art. Even while her passion brings her to the feet of her conqueror, her
haughty spirit rebels against her fate. Such weaknesses as the opera
contains are principally attributable to the libretto, which is
ill-constructed, and cold and formal in diction. Rinaldo is rather a
colourless person, and the other characters are for the most part merely
lay-figures, though the grim figure of Hate is drawn with extraordinary
power. But upon Armida the composer concentrated the full lens of his
genius, and for her he wrote music which satisfies every requirement of
dramatic truth, without losing touch of the lyrical beauty and
persuasive passion which breathes life into soulless clay.

In 'Iphigénie en Tauride,' the last of his great works, which was
produced in 1778, Gluck reached his highest point. Here he seems for the
first time thoroughly to fuse and combine the two elements which are for
ever at war in his earlier operas, musical beauty and dramatic truth.
Throughout the score of 'Iphigénie en Tauride' the declamation is as
vivid and true as in 'Alceste,' while the intrinsic loveliness of the
music yields not a jot to the passion-charged strains of 'Armide.' The
overture paints the gradual awakening of a tempest, and when the storm
is at its height the curtain rises upon the temple of Diana at Tauris,
where Iphigenia, snatched by the goddess from the knife of the
executioner at Aulis, has been placed as high priestess. The priestesses
in chorus beseech the gods to be propitious, and when the fury of the
storm is allayed, Iphigenia recounts her dream of Agamemnon's death, and
laments the woes of her house. She calls upon Diana to put an end to her
life, which already has lasted too long. Thoas, the king of the country,
now enters, alarmed by the outcries of the priestesses. He is a prey to
superstitious fears, and willingly listens to the advice of his
followers, that the gods can only be appeased by human blood. A message
is now brought that two young strangers have been cast upon the
rock-bound coast, and Thoas at once decides that they shall be the
victims. Orestes and Pylades are now brought in. They refuse to make
themselves known, and are bidden to prepare for death, while the act
closes with the savage delight of the Scythians.

The second act is in the prison. Orestes bewails his destiny, and
refuses the consolation which Pylades offers in a noble and famous song.
Pylades is torn from his friend's arms by the officers of the guard, and
Orestes, left to himself, after a paroxysm of madness sinks to sleep
upon the prison floor. His eyes are closed, but his brain is a prey to
frightful visions. The Furies surround him with horrible cries and
menaces, singing a chorus of indescribable weirdness. Lastly, the shade
of the murdered Clytemnestra passes before him, and he awakes with a
shriek to find his cell empty save for the mournful form of Iphigenia,
who has come to question the stranger as to his origin and the purpose
of his visit to Tauris. In broken accents he tells her--what is new to
her ears--the tale of the murder of Agamemnon, and the vengeance taken
upon Clytemnestra by himself; adding, in order to conceal his own
identity, that Orestes is also dead, and that Electra is the sole
remnant of the house of Atreus. Iphigenia bursts into a passionate
lament, and the act ends with her offering a solemn libation to the
shade of her brother.

In the third act Iphigenia resolves to free one of the victims, and to
send him with a message to Electra. A sentiment which she cannot explain
bids her choose Orestes, but the latter refuses to save his life at the
expense of that of his friend. A contention arises between the two,
which is only decided by Orestes swearing to take his own life if
Pylades is sacrificed. The precious scroll is thereupon entrusted to
Pylades, who departs, vowing to return and save his friend.

In the fourth act Iphigenia is a prey to conflicting emotions. A
mysterious sympathy forbids her to slay the prisoner, yet she tries to
steel her heart for the performance of her terrible task, and calls upon
Diana to aid her. Orestes is brought on by the priestesses, and while
urging Iphigenia to deal the blow, blesses her for the pity which stays
her hand. Just as the knife is about to descend, the dying words of
Orestes, 'Was it thus thou didst perish in Aulis, Iphigenia my sister?'
bring about the inevitable recognition, and the brother and sister rush
into each other's arms. But Thoas has yet to be reckoned with. He is
furious at the interruption of the sacrifice, and is about to execute
summary vengeance upon both Iphigenia and Orestes, when Pylades returns
with an army of Greek youths--whence he obtained them is not
explained--and despatches the tyrant in the nick of time. The opera
ends with the appearance of Pallas Athene, the patroness of Argos, who
bids Orestes and his sister return to Greece, carrying with them the
image of Diana, too long disgraced by the barbarous rites of the
Scythians.

'Echo et Narcisse,' an opera cast in a somewhat lighter mould, which was
produced in 1779, seems to have failed to please, and 'Iphigénie en
Tauride' may be safely taken as the climax of Gluck's career. It is the
happiest example of his peculiar power, and shows more convincingly than
any of its predecessors where the secret of his greatness really lay. He
was the first composer who treated an opera as an integral whole. He was
inferior to many of his predecessors, notably to Handel, in musical
science, and even in power of characterisation. But while their works
were often hardly more than strings of detached scenes from which the
airs might often be dissociated without much loss of effect, his operas
were constructed upon a principle of dramatic unity which forbade one
link to be taken from the chain without injuring the continuity of the
whole. In purely technical matters, too, his reforms were far-reaching
and important. He was first to make the overture in some sort a
reflection of the drama which it preceded, and he used orchestral
effects as a means of expressing the passion of his characters in a way
that had not been dreamed of before. He dismissed the harpsichord from
the orchestra, and strengthened his band with clarinets, an instrument
unknown to Handel. His banishment of _recitativo secco_, and his
restoration of the chorus to its proper place in the drama, were
innovations of vast importance to the history of opera, but the chief
strength of the influence which he exerted upon subsequent music lay in
his power of suffusing each of his operas in an atmosphere special to
itself.




CHAPTER III

OPERA BUFFA, OPÉRA COMIQUE, AND SINGSPIEL

PERGOLESI--ROUSSEAU--MONSIGNY--GRÉTRY--

CIMAROSA--HILLER


While Gluck was altering the course of musical history in Vienna,
another revolution, less grand in scope and more gradually accomplished,
but scarcely less important in its results, was being effected in Italy.
This was the development of opera buffa, a form of art which was
destined, in Italy at any rate, to become a serious rival to the older
institution of opera seria, and, in the hands of Mozart, to produce
masterpieces such as the world had certainly not known before his day,
nor is ever likely to see surpassed. There is some uncertainty about the
actual origin of opera buffa. A musical comedy by Vergilio Mazzocchi and
Mario Marazzoli, entitled 'Chi sofre speri,' was produced in Florence
under the patronage of Cardinal Barberini as early as 1639. The poet
Milton was present at this performance, and refers to it in one of his
_Epistolae Familiares_. In 1657 a theatre was actually built in Florence
for the performance of musical comedies. For some reason, however, it
did not prove a success, and after a few years was compelled to close
its doors. After these first experiments there seems to have been no
attempt made to resuscitate opera buffa until the rise of the Neapolitan
school in the following century. The genesis of the southern branch of
opera buffa may with certainty be traced to the intermezzi, or musical
interludes, which were introduced into the course of operas and dramas,
probably with the object of relieving the mental strain induced by the
effort of following a long serious performance. The popularity of these
intermezzi throws a curious light upon the character of Italian
audiences at that time. We should think it strange if an audience
nowadays refused to sit through 'Hamlet' unless it were diversified by
occasional scenes from 'Box and Cox.' As time went on, the proportions
and general character of these intermezzi acquired greater importance,
but it was not until the eighteenth century was well advanced that one
of them was promoted to the rank of an independent opera, and, instead
of being performed in scraps between the acts of a tragedy, was given
for the first time as a separate work. This honour was accorded to
Pergolesi's 'La Serva Padrona,' in 1734, and the great success which it
met with everywhere soon caused numberless imitations to spring up, so
that in a few years opera buffa in Italy was launched upon a career of
triumph.

Founded as it was in avowed imitation of the tragedy of the Greeks,
opera had never deigned to touch modern life at any point. For a long
time the subjects of Italian operas were taken solely from classical
legend, and though in time librettists were compelled to have recourse
to the medieval romances, they never ventured out of an antiquity more
or less remote. Thus it is easy to conceive the delight of the
music-loving people of Naples when they found that the opera which they
adored could be enjoyed in combination with a mirthful and even farcical
story, interpreted by characters who might have stepped out of one of
their own market-places. But, apart from the freedom and variety of the
subjects with which it dealt, the development of opera buffa gave rise
to an art-form which is of the utmost importance to the history of
opera--the concerted finale. Nicolo Logroscino (1700-1763) seems to have
been the first composer who conceived the idea of working up the end of
an act to a musical climax by bringing all his characters together and
blending their voices into a musical texture of some elaboration.
Logroscino wrote only in the Neapolitan dialect, and his works had
little success beyond the limits of his own province; but his invention
was quickly adopted by all writers of opera buffa, and soon became an
important factor in the development of the art. Later composers
elaborated his idea by extending the finale to more than one movement,
and by varying the key-colour. Finally, but not until after many years,
it was introduced into opera seria, when it gave birth to the idea of
elaborate trios and quartets, which were afterwards to play so important
a part in its development. Logroscino's reputation was chiefly local,
but the works of Pergolesi (1710-1736) and Jomelli (1714-1774) made the
Neapolitan school famous throughout Europe. Both these composers are now
best known by their sacred works, but during their lives their operas
attained an extraordinary degree of popularity. Both succeeded equally
in comedy and tragedy, but Jomelli's operas are now forgotten, while
Pergolesi is known only by his delightful intermezzo 'La Serva Padrona,'
This diverting little piece tells of the schemes of the chambermaid,
Serpina, to win the hand of her master, Pandolfo. She is helped by
Scapin, the valet, who, disguised as a captain, makes violent love to
her, and piques the old gentleman into proposing, almost against his
will. 'La Serva Padrona' made the tour of Europe, and was received
everywhere with tumultuous applause. In Paris it was performed in 1750,
and may be said at once to have founded the school of French opéra
comique. Rousseau extolled its beauty as a protest against the arid
declamation of the school of Lulli, and it was the subject of one of the
bitterest dissensions ever known in the history of music. But the
'Guerre des Bouffons,' as the struggle was called, proved one thing,
which had already been satisfactorily decided in Italy, namely, that
there was plenty of room in the world for serious and comic opera at the
same time.

There had been a kind of opéra comique in France for many years, a
species of musical pantomime which was very popular at the fairs of St.
Laurent and St. Gervais. This form of entertainment scarcely came
within the province of art, but it served as a starting-point for the
history of opéra comique, which was afterwards so brilliant. The success
of the Italian company which performed the comic operas of Pergolesi,
Jomelli, and others, fired the French composers to emulation, and in
1753 the first French opéra comique, in the strict sense of the word,
'Le Devin du Village,' by the great Rousseau, was performed at the
Académie de Musique. Musically the work is feeble and characterless, but
the contrast which it offered to the stiff and serious works of the
tragic composers made it popular. Whatever its faults may be, it is
simple and natural, and its tender little melodies fell pleasantly upon
ears too well accustomed to the pomposities of Rameau and his school. At
first lovers of opéra comique in Paris had to subsist chiefly upon
translations from the Italian; but in 1755 'Ninette à la Cour,' a dainty
little work written by a Neapolitan composer, Duni, to a French
libretto, gained a great success. Soon afterwards, Monsigny, a composer
who may well be called the father of opéra comique, produced his first
work, and started upon a career of success which extended into the next
century.

The early days of opéra comique in Paris were distracted by the jealousy
existing between the French and Italian schools, but in 1762 peace was
made between the rival factions, and by process of fusion the two became
one. With the opening of the new Théâtre de l'Opéra Comique--the Salle
Favart, as it was then called--there began a new and brilliant period
for the history of French art. It is a significant fact, and one which
goes far to prove how closely the foundation of opéra comique was
connected with a revolt against the boredom of grand opera, that the
most successful composers in the new _genre_ were those who were
actually innocent of any musical training whatsoever. Monsigny
(1729-1817) is a particularly striking instance of natural genius
triumphing in spite of a defective education. Nothing can exceed the
thinness and poverty of his scores, or their lack of all real musical
interest; yet, by the sureness of his natural instinct for the stage, he
succeeded in writing music which still moves us as much by its brilliant
gaiety as by its tender pathos. 'Le Déserteur,' his most famous work, is
a touching little story of a soldier who deserts in a fit of jealousy,
and is condemned to be shot, but is saved by his sweetheart, who begs
his pardon from the king. Much of the music is almost childish in its
_naïveté_, but there is real pathos in the famous air 'Adieu, Louise,'
and some of the lighter scenes in the opera are touched off very
happily.

The musical education of Grétry (1741-1831) was perhaps more elaborate
than that of Monsigny, but it fell very far short of profundity. His
music excels in grace and humour, and he rarely treated serious subjects
with success. Such works as 'Le Tableau Parlant,' 'Les Deux Avares,' and
'L'Amant Jaloux' are models of lightness and brilliancy, whatever may be
thought of their musicianship. 'Richard Coeur de Lion' is the one
instance of Grétry having successfully attempted a loftier theme, and
it remains his masterpiece. The scene is laid at the castle of
Dürrenstein in Austria, where Richard lies imprisoned, and deals with
the efforts of his faithful minstrel Blondel to rescue him. In this work
Grétry adapted his style to his subject with wonderful versatility. Much
of the music is noble and dignified in style, and Blondel's air in
particular, 'O Richard, O mon roi,' has a masculine vigour which is
rarely found in the composer's work. But as a rule Grétry is happiest in
his delicate little pastorals and fantastic comedies, and, for all their
slightness, his works bear the test of revival better than those of many
of his more learned contemporaries. Philidor (1726-1797) was almost more
famous as a chess-player than as a composer. He had the advantage of a
sound musical education under Campra, one of the predecessors of Rameau,
and his music has far more solid qualities than that of Grétry or
Monsigny. His treatment of the orchestra, too, was more scientific than
that of his contemporaries, but he had little gift of melody, and he was
deficient in dramatic instinct. He often visited England, and ended by
dying in London. One of the best of his works, 'Tom Jones,' was written
upon an English subject. Philidor was popular in his day, but his works
have rarely been heard by the present generation.

With Grétry the first period of opéra comique may be said to close;
indeed, the taste of French audiences had begun to change some years
before the close of the eighteenth century. The mighty wave of the
Revolution swept away the idle gallantries of the sham pastoral, while
Ossian newly discovered and Shakespeare newly translated opened the eyes
of cultivated Frenchmen to the possibilities of poetry and romance. At
the same time, the works of Haydn and Mozart, which had already crossed
the frontier, disturbed preconceived notions about the limits of
orchestral colouring, and made the thin little scores of Grétry and his
contemporaries seem doubly jejune. The change in public taste was
gradual, but none the less certain. The opening years of the nineteenth
century saw a singular evolution, if not revolution, in the history of
opéra comique.

Meanwhile opera in Italy was pursuing its triumphant course. The
introduction of the finale brought the two great divisions of opera into
closer connection, and most of the great composers of this period
succeeded as well in opera buffa as in opera seria. The impetus given to
the progress of the art by the brilliant Neapolitan school was ably
sustained by such composers as Nicolo Piccinni (1728-1800), a composer
who is now known principally to fame as the unsuccessful rival brought
forward by the Italian party in Paris in the year 1776 in the vain hope
of crushing Gluck. Piccinni sinks into insignificance by the side of
Gluck, but he was nevertheless an able composer, and certainly the
leading representative of the Italian school at the time. He did much to
develop the concerted finale, which before his day had been used with
caution, not to say timidity, and was so constant in his devotion to
the loftiest ideal of art that he died in poverty and starvation.
Cimarosa (1749-1801) is the brightest name of the next generation. He
shone particularly in comedy. His 'Gli Orazi e Curiazi,' which moved his
contemporaries to tears, is now forgotten, but 'Il Matrimonio Segreto'
still delights us with its racy humour and delicate melody. The story is
simplicity itself, but the situations are amusing in themselves, and are
led up to with no little adroitness, Paolino, a young lawyer, has
secretly married Carolina, the daughter of Geronimo, a rich and
avaricious merchant. In order to smooth away the difficulties which must
arise when the inevitable discovery of the marriage takes place, he
tries to secure a rich friend of his own, Count Robinson, for Geronimo's
other daughter, Elisetta. Unfortunately Robinson prefers Carolina, and
proposes himself as son-in-law to Geronimo, who is of course delighted
that his daughter should have secured so unexceptionable a _parti_,
while the horrified Paolino discovers to his great dissatisfaction that
the elderly Fidalma, Geronimo's sister, has cast languishing eyes upon
himself. There is nothing for the young couple but flight, but
unfortunately as they are making their escape they are discovered, and
their secret is soon extorted. Geronimo's wrath is tremendous, but in
the end matters are satisfactorily arranged, and the amiable Robinson
after all expresses himself content with the charms of Elisetta. 'Il
Matrimonio Segreto' was produced at Vienna in 1792, and proved so very
much to the taste of the Emperor Leopold, who was present at the
performance, that he gave all the singers and musicians a magnificent
supper, and then insisted upon their performing the opera again from
beginning to end. Cimarosa was a prolific writer, the number of his
operas reaching the formidable total of seventy-six; but, save for 'Il
Matrimonio Segreto,' they have all been consigned to oblivion. Although
he was born only seven years before Mozart, and actually survived him
for ten years, he belongs entirely to the earlier school of opera buffa.
His talent is thoroughly Italian, untouched by German influence, and he
excels in portraying the gay superficiality of the Italian character
without attempting to dive far below the surface.

Even more prolific than Cimarosa was Paisiello (1741-1815), a composer
whose works, though immensely popular in their day, did not possess
individuality enough to defy the ravages of time. Paisiello deserves to
be remembered as the first man to write an opera on the tale of 'Il
Barbiere di Siviglia.' This work, though coldly received when it was
first performed, ended by establishing so firm a hold upon the
affections of the Italian public, that when Rossini tried to produce his
opera on the same subject, the Romans refused to give it a hearing.

Paer (1771-1839) belongs chronologically to the next generation, but
musically he has more in common with Paisiello than with Rossini. His
principal claim to immortality rests upon the fact that a performance
of his opera 'Eleonora' inspired Beethoven with the idea of writing
'Fidelio'; but although his serious efforts are comparatively worthless,
many of his comic operas are exceedingly bright and attractive. 'Le
Maître de Chapelle,' which was written to a French libretto, is still
performed with tolerable frequency in Paris.

It is hardly likely that the whirligig of time will ever bring Paisiello
and his contemporaries into popularity again in England, but in Italy
there has been of late years a remarkable revival of interest in the
works of the eighteenth century. Some years ago the Argentina Theatre in
Rome devoted its winter season almost entirely to reproductions of the
works of this school. Many of these old-world little operas, whose very
names had been forgotten, were received most cordially, some of
them--Paisiello's 'Scuffiara raggiratrice,' for instance--with genuine
enthusiasm.

Wars and rumours of wars stunted musical development of all kinds in
Germany during the earlier years of the eighteenth century. After the
death of Keiser in 1739, the glory departed from Hamburg, and opera
seems to have lain under a cloud until the advent of Johann Adam Hiller
(1728-1804), the inventor of the Singspiel. Miller's Singspiele were
vaudevilles of a simple and humorous description interspersed with
music, occasionally concerted numbers of a very simple description, but
more often songs derived directly from the traditions of the German
Lied. These operettas were very popular, as the frequent editions of
them which were called for, prove. Yet, in spite of their success, it
was felt by many of the composers who imitated him that the combination
of dialogue and music was inartistic, and Johann Friedrich Reichardt
(1752-1814) attempted to solve the difficulty by relegating the music to
a merely incidental position and conducting all the action of the piece
by means of the dialogue. Nevertheless the older form of the Singspiel
retained its popularity, and, although founded upon incorrect æsthetic
principles--for no art, however ingenious, can fuse the convention of
speech and the convention of song into an harmonious whole--was the
means in later times of giving to the world, in 'Die Zauberflöte' and
'Fidelio,' nobler music than had yet been consecrated to the service of
the stage.




CHAPTER IV

MOZART


Although Mozart's (1756-1791) earliest years were passed at Salzburg,
the musical influences which surrounded his cradle were mainly Italian.
Salzburg imitated Vienna, and Vienna, in spite of Gluck, was still
Italian in its sympathies, so far at any rate as opera seria was
concerned. Mozart wrote his first opera, 'La Finta Semplice,' for
Vienna, when he was twelve years old. It would have been performed in
1768 but for the intrigues of jealous rivals and the knavery of an
impresario. It was not actually produced until the following year, when
the Archbishop of Salzburg arranged a performance of it in his own city
to console his little _protégé_ for his disappointment at Vienna. It is
of course an extraordinary work when the composer's age is taken into
account, but intrinsically differs little from the thousand and one
comic operas of the period, Mozart's first German opera, 'Bastien und
Bastienne,' though written after 'La Finta Semplice,' was performed
before it. It was given in 1768 in a private theatre belonging to Dr.
Anton Meszmer, a rich Viennese bourgeois. It follows the lines of
Miller's Singspiele closely, but shows more originality, especially in
the orchestration, than 'La Finta Semplice.' The plot of the little work
is an imitation of Rousseau's 'Devin du Village,' telling of the
quarrels of a rustic couple, and their reconciliation through the good
offices of a travelling conjurer. It was significant that the Italian
and German schools should be respectively represented in the two infant
works of the man who was afterwards to fuse the special beauties of each
in works of immortal loveliness. Mozart's next four operas were, for the
most part, hastily written--'Mitridate, Re di Ponto' (1770) and 'Lucio
Silla' (1775) for Milan, "La Finta Giardiniera' (1775) for Munich, and
'Il Re Pastore' (1775) for Salzburg. They adhere pretty closely to the
conventional forms of the day, and, in spite of the beauty of many of
the airs, can scarcely be said to contain much evidence of Mozart's
incomparable genius. In 1778 the young composer visited Paris, where he
stayed for several months. This period may be looked upon as the
turning-point in his operatic career. In Paris he heard the operas of
Gluck and Grétry, besides those of the Italian composers, such as
Piccinni and Sacchini, whose best works were written for the French
stage. He studied their scores carefully, and from them he learnt the
principles of orchestration, which he was afterwards to turn to such
account in 'Don Giovanni' and 'Die Zauberflöte,' The result of his
studies was plainly visible in the first work which he produced after
his return to Germany, 'Idomeneo.' This was written for the Court
Theatre at Munich, and was performed for the first time on the 29th of
January, 1781. The libretto, by the Abbé Giambattista Varesco, was
modelled upon an earlier French work which had already been set to music
by Campra. Idomeneo, King of Crete, on his way home from the siege of
Troy, is overtaken by a terrific storm. In despair of his life, he vows
that, should he reach the shore alive, he will sacrifice the first human
being he meets to Neptune. This proves to be his son Idamante, who has
been reigning in his stead during his absence. When he finds out who the
victim is--for at first he does not recognise him--he tries to evade
his vow by sending Idamante away to foreign lands. Electra the daughter
of Agamemnon, driven from her country after the murder of her mother,
has taken refuge in Crete, and Idomeneo bids his son return with her to
Argos, and ascend the throne of the Atreidæ. Idamante loves Ilia, the
daughter of Priam, who has been sent to Crete some time before as a
prisoner from Troy, and is loved by her in return. Nevertheless he bows
to his father's will, and is preparing to embark with Electra, when a
storm arises, and a frightful sea monster issues from the waves and
proceeds to devastate the land. The terror-stricken people demand that
the victim shall be produced, and Idomeneo is compelled to confess that
he has doomed his son to destruction. All are overcome with horror, but
the priests begin to prepare for the sacrifice. Suddenly cries of joy
are heard, and Idamante, who has slain the monster single-handed, is
brought in by the priests and people. He is ready to die, and his father
is preparing to strike the fatal blow, when Ilia rushes in and entreats
to be allowed to die in his place. The lovers are still pleading
anxiously with each other when a subterranean noise is heard, the statue
of Neptune rocks, and a solemn voice pronounces the will of the gods in
majestic accents. Idomeneo is to renounce the throne, and Idamante is to
marry Ilia and reign in his stead. Every one except Electra is vastly
relieved, and the opera ends with dances and rejoicings.

The music of 'Idomeneo' is cast for the most part in Italian form,
though the influence of Gluck is obvious in many points, particularly in
the scene of the oracle. Here we find Mozart in his maturity for the
first time; he has become a man, and put away childish things. In two
points 'Idomeneo' is superior to any opera that had previously been
written--in the concerted music (the choruses as well as the trios and
quartets), and in the instrumentation. The chorus is promoted from the
part which it usually plays in Gluck, that of a passive spectator. It
joins in the drama, and takes an active part in the development of the
plot, and the music which it is called upon to sing is often finer and
more truly dramatic than that allotted to the solo singers. But the
chorus had already been used effectively by Gluck and other composers;
it is in his solo concerted music that Mozart forges ahead of all
possible rivals. The power which he shows of contrasting the conflicting
emotions of his characters in elaborate concerted movements was
something really new to the stage. The one quartet in Handel's
'Radamisto' and the one trio in his 'Alcina,' magnificent as they are,
are too exceptional in their occurrence to be quoted as instances, while
the attempts of Rameau and his followers to impose dramatic significance
into their concerted music, though technically interesting, do but
faintly foreshadow the glory of Mozart. The orchestration of 'Idomeneo,'
too, is something of the nature of a revelation. At Munich, Mozart had
at his disposal an excellent and well-trained band, and this may go far
to explain the elaborate care which he bestowed upon the instrumental
side of his opera. The colouring of the score is sublime in conception
and brilliant in detail. Even now it well repays the closest and most
intimate study. 'Idomeneo' is practically the foundation of all modern
orchestration.

Mozart's next work was very different both in scope and execution. It
has already been pointed out that the two first works which the
composer, as a child, wrote for the stage, followed respectively the
Italian and German models. Similarly, he signalised his arrival at the
full maturity of his powers by producing an Italian and German
masterpiece side by side. 'Die Entführung aus dem Serail' was written
for the Court Theatre at Vienna, in response to a special command of the
Emperor Joseph II. It was produced on July 13, 1782. The original
libretto was the work of C.F. Bretzner, but Mozart introduced so many
alterations and improvements into the fabric of the story that, as it
stands, much of it is practically his own work.

The Pasha Selim has carried off a Christian damsel named Constanze, whom
he keeps in close confinement in his seraglio, in the hope that she may
consent to be his wife. Belmont, Constanze's lover, has traced her to
the Pasha's country house with the assistance of Pedrillo, a former
servant of his own, now the Pasha's slave and chief gardener. Belmont's
attempts to enter the house are frustrated by Osmin, the surly
major-domo. At last, however, through the good offices of Pedrillo, he
contrives to gain admission in the character of an architect. Osmin has
a special motive for disliking Pedrillo, who has forestalled him in the
affections of Blondchen, Constanze's maid; nevertheless he is beguiled
by the wily servant into a drinking bout, and quieted with a harmless
narcotic. This gives the lovers an opportunity for an interview, in
which the details of their flight are arranged. The next night they make
their escape. Belmont gets off safely with Constanze, but Pedrillo and
Blondchen are seen by Osmin before they are clear of the house. The hue
and cry is raised, and both couples are caught and brought back. They
are all condemned to death, but the soft-hearted Pasha is so much
overcome by their fidelity and self-sacrifice that he pardons them and
sends them away in happiness.

Much of 'Die Entführung' is so thoroughly and characteristically
German, that at first sight it may be thought surprising that it should
have succeeded so well in a city like Vienna, which was inclined to look
upon the Singspiel as a barbarian product of Northern Germany. But there
is a reason for this, and it is one which goes to the root of the whole
question of comic opera. Mozart saw that Italian comic operas often
succeeded in spite of miserable libretti, because the entire interest
was concentrated upon the music, and all the rest was forgotten. The
German Singspiel writers made the mistake of letting their music be, for
the most part, purely incidental, and conducting all the dramatic part
of their plots by dialogue. Mozart borrowed the underlying idea of the
opera buffa, applied it to the form of the Singspiel, which he kept
intact, and produced a work which succeeded in revolutionising the
history of German opera. But, apart from the question of form, the music
of 'Die Entführung' is in itself fine enough to be the foundation even
of so imposing a structure as modern German music. The orchestral forces
at Mozart's disposal were on a smaller scale than at Munich; but though
less elaborate than that of 'Idomeneo,' the score of 'Die Entführung' is
full of the tenderest and purest imagination. But the real importance of
the work lies in the vivid power of characterisation, which Mozart here
reveals for the first time in full maturity. It is by the extraordinary
development of this quality that he transcends all other writers for
the stage before or since. It is no exaggeration to say that Mozart's
music reveals the inmost soul of the characters of his opera as plainly
as if they were discussed upon a printed page. In his later works the
opportunities given him of proving this magical power were more frequent
and better. The libretto of 'Die Entführung' is a poor affair at best,
but, considering the materials with which he had to work, Mozart never
accomplished truer or more delicate work than in the music of Belmont
and Constanze, of Pedrillo, and greatest of all, of Osmin.

In 1786 Mozart wrote the music to a foolish little one-act comedy
entitled 'Der Schauspieldirektor,' describing the struggles of two rival
singers for an engagement. A sparkling overture and a genuinely comic
trio are the best numbers of the score; but the libretto gave Mozart
little opportunity of exercising his peculiar talents. Since his
original production various attempts have been made to fit 'Der
Schauspieldirektor' with new and more effective libretti, but in no case
has its performance attained any real success.

For the sake of completeness it may be well to mention the existence of
a comic opera entitled 'L'Oie du Caïre,' which is an exceedingly clever
combination of the fragments left by Mozart of two unfinished operas,
'L'Oca del Cairo' and 'Lo Sposo Deluso,' fitted to a new and original
libretto by the late M. Victor Wilder. In its modern form, this little
opera, in which a lover is introduced into his mistress's garden inside
an enormous goose, has been successfully performed both in France and
England.

Not even the success of 'Die Entführung' could permanently establish
German opera in Vienna. The musical sympathies of the aristocracy were
entirely Italian, and Mozart had to bow to expediency. His next work,
'Le Nozze de Figaro' (1786), was written to an adaptation of
Beaumarchais's famous comedy 'Le Mariage de Figaro,' which had been
produced in Paris a few years before. Da Ponte, the librettist, wisely
omitted all the political references, which contributed so much to the
popularity of the original play, and left only a bustling comedy of
intrigue, not perhaps very moral in tendency, but full of amusing
incident and unflagging in spirit. It speaks volumes for the ingenuity
of the librettist that though the imbroglio is often exceedingly
complicated, no one feels the least difficulty in following every detail
of it on the stage, though it is by no means easy to give a clear and
comprehensive account of all the ramifications of the plot.

The scene is laid at the country-house of Count Almaviva. Figaro, the
Count's valet, and Susanna, the Countess's maid, are to be married that
day; but Figaro, who is well aware that the Count has a penchant for his
_fiancée_, is on his guard against machinations in that quarter. Enter
the page Cherubino, an ardent youth who is devotedly attached to his
mistress. He has been caught by the Count flirting with Barberina, the
gardener's daughter, and promptly dismissed from his service, and now
he comes to Susanna to entreat her to intercede for him with the
Countess. While the two are talking they hear the Count approaching, and
Susanna hastily hides Cherubino behind a large arm-chair. The Count
comes to offer Susanna a dowry if she will consent to meet him that
evening, but she will have nothing to say to him. Basilio, the
music-master, now enters, and the Count has only just time to slip
behind Cherubino's arm-chair, while the page creeps round to the front
of it, and is covered by Susanna with a cloak. Basilio, while repeating
the Count's proposals, refers to Cherubino's passion for the Countess.
This arouses the Count, who comes forward in a fury, orders the
immediate dismissal of the page, and by the merest accident discovers
the unlucky youth ensconced in the arm-chair. As Cherubino has heard
every word of the interview, the first thing to do is to get him out of
the way. The Count therefore presents him with a commission in his own
regiment, and bids him pack off to Seville post-haste. Figaro now
appears with all the villagers in holiday attire to ask the Count to
honour his marriage by giving the bride away. The Count cannot refuse,
but postpones the ceremony for a few hours in the hope of gaining time
to prosecute his suit. Meanwhile the Countess, Susanna, and Figaro are
maturing a plot of their own to discomfit the Count and bring him back
to the feet of his wife. Figaro writes an anonymous letter to the Count,
telling him that the Countess has made an assignation with a stranger
for that evening in the garden, hoping by this means to arouse his
jealousy and divert his mind from the wedding. He assures him also of
Susanna's intention to keep her appointment in the garden, intending
that Cherubino, who has been allowed to put off his departure, shall be
dressed up as a girl and take Susanna's place at the interview. The page
comes to the Countess's room to be dressed, when suddenly the
conspirators hear the Count approaching. Cherubino is hastily locked in
an inner room, while Susanna slips Into an alcove. While the Count is
plying his wife with angry questions, Cherubino clumsily knocks over a
chair. The Count hears the noise, and quickly jumps to the conclusion
that the page is hiding in the inner room. The Countess denies
everything and refuses to give up the key, whereupon the Count drags her
off with him to get an axe to break in the door. Meanwhile Susanna
liberates Cherubino, and takes his place in the inner room, while the
latter escapes by jumping down into the garden. When the Count finally
opens the door and discovers only Susanna within, his rage is turned to
mortification, and he is forced to sue for pardon. The Countess is
triumphant, but a change is given to the position of affairs by the
appearance of Antonio, the gardener, who comes to complain that his
flowers have been destroyed by someone jumping on them from the window.
The Count's jealous fears are returning, but Figaro allays them by
declaring that he is the culprit, and that he made his escape by the
window in order to avoid the Count's anger. Antonio then produces a
paper which he found dropped among the flowers. This proves to be
Cherubino's commission. Once more the secret is nearly out, but Figaro
saves the situation by declaring that the page gave it to him to get the
seal affixed. The Countess and Susanna are beginning to congratulate
themselves on their escape, when another diversion is created by the
entrance of Marcellina, the Countess's old duenna, and Bartolo, her
ex-guardian. Marcellina has received a promise in writing from Figaro
that he will marry her if he fails to pay a sum of money which he owes
her by a certain date, and she comes to claim her bridegroom. The Count
is delighted at this new development, and promises Marcellina that she
shall get her rights.

The second act (according to the original arrangement) is mainly devoted
to clearing up the various difficulties. Figaro turns out to be the
long-lost son of Marcellina and Bartolo, so the great impediment to his
marriage is effectually removed, and by the happy plan of a disguise the
Countess takes Susanna's place at the assignation, and receives the
ardent declarations of her husband. When the Count discovers his mistake
he is thoroughly ashamed of himself, and his vows of amendment bring the
piece to a happy conclusion.

It seems hardly possible to write critically of the music of 'Le Nozze
di Figaro,' Mozart had in a superabundant degree that power which is
characteristic of our greatest novelists, of infusing the breath of life
into his characters. We rise from seeing a performance of 'Le Nozze,'
with no consciousness of the art employed, but with a feeling of having
assisted in an actual scene in real life. It is not until afterwards
that the knowledge is forced upon us that this convincing presentment of
nature is the result of a combination of the purest inspiration of
genius with the highest development of art. Mozart knew everything that
was to be known about music, and 'Le Nozze di Figaro,' in spite of its
supreme and unapproachable beauty, is really only the legitimate outcome
of two centuries of steady development. Perhaps the most striking
feature of the work is the absolute consistency of the whole. In spite
of the art with which the composer has Individualised his characters,
there is no clashing between the different types of music allotted to
each. As for the music itself, if the exuberant youthfulness of 'Die
Entführung' has been toned down to a serener flow of courtliness, we are
compensated for the loss by the absence of the mere _bravura_ which
disfigures many of the airs in the earlier work. The dominant
characteristic of the music is that wise and tender sympathy with the
follies and frailties of mankind, which moves us with a deeper pathos
than the most terrific tragedy ever penned. It is perhaps the highest
achievement of the all-embracing genius of Mozart that he made an
artificial comedy of intrigue, which is trivial when it is not squalid,
into one of the great music dramas of the world.

Mozart's next work, 'Don Giovanni' (October 29, 1787), was written for
Prague, a city which had always shown him more real appreciation than
Vienna. It was adapted by Da Ponte from a Spanish tale which had already
been utilised by Molière. Although, so far as incident goes, it is not
perhaps an ideal libretto, it certainly contains many of the elements of
success. The characters are strongly marked and distinct, and the
supernatural part of the story, which appealed particularly to Mozart's
imagination and indeed determined him to undertake the opera, is managed
with consummate skill.

Don Giovanni, a licentious Spanish nobleman, who is attracted by the
charms of Donna Anna, the daughter of the Commandant of Seville, breaks
into her palace under cover of night, in the hope of making her his own.
She resists him and calls for help. In the struggle which ensues the
Commandant is killed by Don Giovanni, who escapes unrecognised. Donna
Elvira, his deserted wife, has pursued him to Seville, but he employs
his servant Leporello to occupy her attention while he pays court to
Zerlina, a peasant girl, who is about to marry an honest clodhopper
named Masetto. Donna Anna now recognises Don Giovanni as her father's
assassin, and communicates her discovery to her lover, Don Ottavio;
Elvira joins them, and the three vow vengeance against the libertine.
Don Giovanni gives a ball in honour of Zerlina's marriage, and in the
course of the festivities seizes an opportunity of trying to seduce her.
He is only stopped by the interference of Anna, Elvira, and Ottavio, who
have made their way into his palace in masks and dominoes. In the next
act the vengeance of the three conspirators appears to hang fire a
little, for Don Giovanni is still pursuing his vicious courses, and
employing Leporello to beguile the too trustful Elvira. After various
escapades he finds himself before the statue of the murdered Commandant.
He jokingly invites his old antagonist to sup with him, an invitation
which the statue, to his intense surprise, hastens to accept. Leporello
and his master return to prepare for the entertainment of the evening.
When the merriment is at its height, a heavy step is heard in the
corridor, and the marble man enters. Don Giovanni is still undaunted,
and even when his terrible visitor offers him the choice between
repentance and damnation, yields not a jot of his pride and insolence.
Finally the statue grasps him by the hand and drags him down, amid
flames and earthquakes, to eternal torment.

The taste of Mozart's time would not permit the drama to finish here.
All the other characters have to assemble once more. Leporello gives
them an animated description of his master's destruction, and they
proceed to draw a most edifying moral from the doom of the sinner. The
music to this finale is of matchless beauty and interest, but modern
sentiment will not hear of so grievous an anti-climax, and the opera now
usually ends with Don Giovanni's disappearance.

The music of 'Don Giovanni' has so often been discussed, that brief
reference to its more salient features will be all that is necessary.
Gounod has written of it: 'The score of "Don Giovanni" has influenced
my life like a revelation. It stands in my thoughts as an incarnation of
dramatic and musical impeccability,' and lesser men will be content to
echo his words. The plot is less dramatically coherent than that of 'Le
Nozze di Figaro,' but it ranges over a far wider gamut of human feeling.
From the comic rascality of Leporello to the unearthly terrors of the
closing scene is a vast step, but Mozart is equally at home in both. His
incomparable art of characterisation is here displayed in even more
consummate perfection than in the earlier work. The masterly way in
which he differentiates the natures of his three soprani--Anna, a type
of noble purity; Elvira, a loving and long-suffering woman, alternating
between jealous indignation and voluptuous tenderness; and Zerlina, a
model of rustic coquetry--may especially be remarked, but all the
characters are treated with the same profound knowledge of life and
human nature. Even in his most complicated concerted pieces he never
loses grip of the idiosyncrasies of his characters, and in the most
piteous and tragic situations he never relinquishes for a moment his
pure ideal of intrinsic musical beauty. If there be such a thing as
immortality for any work of art, it must surely be conceded to 'Don
Giovanni.'

'Così fan tutte,' his next work, was produced at Vienna in January,
1790. It has never been so successful as its two predecessors, chiefly
on account of its libretto, which, though a brisk little comedy of
intrigue, is almost too slight to bear a musical setting. The plot
turns upon a wager laid by two young officers with an old cynic of their
acquaintance to prove the constancy of their respective sweethearts.
After a touching leave-taking they return disguised as Albanians and
proceed to make violent love each one to the other's _fiancée_. The
ladies at first resist the ardent strangers, but end by giving way, and
the last scene shows their repentance and humiliation when they discover
that the too attractive foreigners are their own lovers after all. There
is much delightful music in the work, and it is greatly to be regretted
that it should have been so completely cast into the shade by 'Le Nozze
di Figaro,'

Mozart's next opera, 'La Clemenza di Tito,' was hastily written, while
he was suffering from the illness which in the end proved fatal. The
libretto was an adaptation of an earlier work by Metastasio. Cold and
formal, and almost totally devoid of dramatic interest, it naturally
failed to inspire the composer. The form in which it was cast compelled
him to return to the conventions of opera seria, from which he had long
escaped, and altogether, as an able critic remarked at the time, the
work might rather be taken for the first attempt of budding talent than
for the product of a mature mind. The story deals with the plotting of
Vitellia, the daughter of the deposed Vitellius, to overthrow the
Emperor Titus. She persuades her lover Sextus to conspire against his
friend, and he succeeds in setting the Capitol on fire. Titus, however,
escapes by means of a disguise, and not only pardons all the
conspirators, but rewards Vitellia with his hand. The opera was produced
at Prague on the 6th of September, 1791, and the cold reception which it
experienced did much to embitter the closing years of Mozart's life.

'Die Zauberflöte,' his last work, was written before 'La Clemenza di
Tito,' though not actually produced until September 30, 1791. The
libretto, which was the work of Emanuel Schikaneder, is surely the most
extraordinary that ever mortal composer was called upon to set.

At the opening of the opera, the Prince Tamino rushes in, pursued by a
monstrous serpent, and sinks exhausted on the steps of a temple, from
which three ladies issue in the nick of time and despatch the serpent
with their silver spears. They give Tamino a portrait of Pamina, the
daughter of their mistress, the Queen of Night, which immediately
inspires him with passionate devotion. He is informed that Pamina has
been stolen by Sarastro, the high-priest of Isis, and imprisoned by him
in his palace. He vows to rescue her, and for that purpose is presented
by the ladies with a magic flute, which will keep him safe in every
danger, while Papageno, a bird-catcher, who has been assigned to him as
companion, receives a glockenspiel. Three genii are summoned to guide
them, and the two champions thereupon proceed to Sarastro's palace.
Tamino is refused admittance by the doorkeeper, but Papageno in some
unexplained way contrives to get in, and persuades Pamina to escape with
him. They fly, but are recaptured by Monostatos, a Moor, who has been
appointed to keep watch over Pamina. Sarastro now appears, condemns
Monostatos to the bastinado, and decrees that the two lovers shall
undergo a period of probation in the sanctuary. In the second act the
ordeal of silence is imposed upon Tamino. Pamina cannot understand his
apparent coldness, and is inclined to listen to the counsels of her
mother, who tries to induce her to murder Sarastro. The priest, however,
convinces her of his beneficent intentions. The lovers go through the
ordeals of fire and water successfully, and are happily married. The
Queen of Night and her dark kingdom perish everlastingly, and the reign
of peace and wisdom is universally established. The humours of Papageno
in his search for a wife have nothing to do with the principal interest
of the plot, but they serve as an acceptable contrast to the more
serious scenes of the opera.

The libretto of the 'Die Zauberflöte' is usually spoken of as the climax
of conceivable inanity, but the explanation of many of its absurdities
seems to lie in the fact that it is an allegorical illustration of the
struggles and final triumph of Freemasonry. Both Mozart and Schikaneder
were Freemasons, and 'Die Zauberflöte' is in a sense a manifesto of
their belief. Freemasonry in the opera is represented by the mysteries
of Isis, over which the high-priest Sarastro presides. The Queen of
Night is Maria Theresa, a sworn opponent of Freemasonry, who interdicted
its practice throughout her dominions, and broke up the Lodges with
armed force. Tamino may be intended for the Emperor Joseph II., who,
though not a Freemason himself as his father was, openly protected the
brotherhood; and we may look upon Pamina as the representative of the
Austrian people. The name of Monostatos seems to be connected with
monasticism, and may be intended to typify the clerical party, which,
though outwardly on friendly terms with Freemasonry, seems in reality to
have been bent upon its destruction. Papageno and his wife Papagena are
excellent representatives of the light-hearted and pleasure-loving
population of Vienna. It is difficult to make any explanation fit the
story very perfectly, but the suggestion of Freemasonry is enough to
acquit Mozart of having allied his music to mere balderdash; while,
behind the Masonic business, the discerning hearer will have no
difficulty in distinguishing the shadowy outlines of another and a far
nobler allegory, the ascent of the human soul, purified by suffering and
love, to the highest wisdom. It was this, no doubt, that compelled
Goethe's often expressed admiration, and even tempted him to write a
sequel to Schikaneder's libretto. 'Die Zauberflöte' is in form a
Singsgiel--that is to say, the music is interspersed with spoken
dialogue--but there the resemblance to Hiller's creations ceases. From
the magnificent fugue in the overture to the majestic choral finale, the
music is an astonishing combination of divinely beautiful melody with
marvels of contrapuntal skill. Perhaps the most surprising part of 'Die
Zauberflöte' is the extraordinary ease and certainty with which Mozart
manipulates what is practically a new form of art. Nursed as he had been
in the traditions of Italian opera, it would not have been strange if he
had not been able to shake off the influences of his youth. Yet 'Die
Zauberflöte' owes but little to any Italian predecessor. It is German to
the core. We may be able to point to passages which are a development of
something occurring in the composer's earlier works, such as 'Die
Entführung,' but there is hardly anything in the score of 'Die
Zauberflöte' which suggests an external influence. Its position in the
world of music is ably summarised by Jahn: 'If in his Italian operas
Mozart assimilated the traditions of a long period of development and in
some sense put the finishing stroke to it, with "Die Zauberflöte" he
treads on the threshold of the future, and unlocks for his country the
sacred treasure of national art.'

Of Mozart's work as a whole, it is impossible to speak save in terms
which seem exaggerated. His influence upon subsequent composers cannot
be over-estimated. Without him, Rossini and modern Italian opera, Weber
and modern German, Gounod and modern French, would have been impossible.
It may be conceded that the form of his operas, with the alternation of
airs, concerted pieces and _recitativo secco_, may conceivably strike
the ears of the uneducated as old-fashioned, but the feelings of
musicians may best be summed up in the word of Gounod: 'O Mozart, divin
Mozart! Qu'il faut peu te comprendre pour ne pas t'adorer! Toi, la
vérité constante! Toi, la beauté parfaite! Toi, le charme inépuisable!
Toi, toujours profond et toujours limpide! Toi, l'humanité complète et
la simplicité de l'enfant! Toi, qui as tout ressenti, et tout exprimé
dans une langue musicale qu'on n'a jamais surpassée et qu'on ne
surpassera jamais.'




CHAPTER V

THE CLOSE OF THE CLASSICAL PERIOD

MÉHUL--CHERUBINI--SPONTINI--BEETHOVEN--BOIELDIEU


Mozart and Gluck, each in his respective sphere, carried opera to a
point which seemed scarcely to admit of further development. But before
the advent of Weber and the romantic revolution there was a vast amount
of good work done by a lesser order of musicians, who worked on the
lines laid down by their great predecessors, and did much to familiarise
the world with the new beauties of their masters' work. The history of
art often repeats itself in this way. First comes the genius burning
with celestial fire. He sweeps away the time-worn formulas, and founds
his new art upon their ruins. Then follows the crowd of disciples, men
of talent and imagination, though without the crowning impulse that
moves the world. They repeat and amplify their leader's maxims, until
the world, which at first had stood aghast at teaching so novel, in time
grows accustomed to it, and finally accepts it without question. Next
comes the final stage, when what has been caviare to one generation is
become the daily bread of the next. The innovations of the master,
caught up and reproduced by his disciples, in the third generation
become the conventional formulas of the art, and the world is ripe once
more for a revolution!

Deeply as Gluck's work affected the history of music, his immediate
disciples were few. Salieri (1750-1825), an Italian by birth, was
chiefly associated with the Viennese court, but wrote his best work,
'Les Danaïdes,' for Paris. He caught the trick of Gluck's grand style
cleverly, but was hardly more than an imitator. Sacchini (1734-1786) had
a more original vein, though he too was essentially a composer of the
second class. He was not actually a pupil of Gluck, though his later
works, written for the Paris stage, show the influence of the composer
of 'Alceste' very strongly. The greatest of Gluck's immediate
followers--the greatest, because he imbibed the principles of his
master's art without slavishly reproducing his form--was Méhul
(1763-1817), a composer who is so little known in England that it is
difficult to speak of him in terms which shall not sound exaggerated to
those who are not familiar with his works. How highly he is ranked by
French critics may be gathered from the fact that when 'Israel in Egypt'
was performed for the first time in Paris some years ago, M. Julien
Tiersot, one of the sanest and most clear-headed of contemporary writers
on music, gave it as his opinion that Handel's work was less conspicuous
for the qualities of dignity and sonority than Méhul's 'Joseph.'
Englishmen can scarcely be expected to echo this opinion, but as to the
intrinsic greatness of Méhul's work there cannot be any question. He
was far more of a scientific musician than Gluck, and his scores have
nothing of his master's jejuneness. His melody, too, is dignified and
expressive, but he is sensibly inferior to Gluck in what may be called
dramatic instinct, and this, coupled with the fact that the libretti of
his operas are almost uniformly uninteresting, whereas Gluck's are drawn
from the immortal legends of the past, is perhaps enough to explain why
the one has been taken and the other left. Méhul's last and greatest
work, 'Joseph,' is still performed in France and Germany, though our
national prejudices forbid the hope that it can ever be heard in this
country except in a mutilated concert version. The opera follows the
Biblical story closely, and Méhul has reproduced the large simplicity of
the Old Testament with rare felicity. From the magnificent opening air,
'Champs paternels,' to the sonorous final chorus, the work is rich in
beauty of a very high order. Of his other serious works few have
remained in the current repertory, chiefly owing to their stupid
libretti, for there is not one of them that does not contain music of
rare excellence. 'Stratonice,' a dignified setting of the pathetic old
story of the prince who loves his father's betrothed, deserves to live
if only for the sake of the noble air, 'Versez tous vos chagrins,' a
masterpiece of sublime tenderness as fine as anything in Gluck. 'Uthal,'
a work upon an Ossianic legend, has recently been revived with success
in Germany. It embodies a curious experiment in orchestration, the
violins being entirely absent from the score. The composer's idea, no
doubt, was to represent by this means the grey colouring and misty
atmosphere of the scene in which his opera was laid, but the originality
of the idea scarcely atones for the monotony in which it resulted.
Although his genius was naturally of a serious and dignified cast, Méhul
wrote many works in a lighter vein, partly no doubt in emulation of
Grétry, the prince of opéra comique. Méhul's comic operas are often
deficient in sparkle, but their musical force and the enchanting
melodies with which they are begemmed have kept them alive, and several
of them--'Une Folie,' for instance, and 'Le Trésor Supposé'--have been
performed in Germany during the last decade, while 'L'Irato,' a
brilliant imitation of Italian opera buffa, has recently been given at
Brussels with great success.

Although born in Florence and educated in the traditions of the
Neapolitan school, Cherubini (1760-1842) belongs by right to the French
school. His 'Lodoiska,' which was produced in Paris in 1791, established
his reputation; and 'Les Deux Journées' (1800), known in England as 'The
Water-Carrier,' placed him, in the estimation of Beethoven, at the head
of all living composers of opera. Posterity has scarcely endorsed
Beethoven's dictum, but it is impossible to ignore the beauty of
Cherubini's work. The solidity of his concerted pieces and the
picturesqueness of his orchestration go far to explain the enthusiasm
which his works aroused in a society which as yet knew little, if
anything, of Mozart. Cherubini's finest works suffer from a frigidity
and formality strangely in contrast with the grace of Grétry or the
melody of Méhul, but the infinite resources of his musicianship make
amends for lack of inspiration, and 'Les Deux Journées' may still be
listened to with pleasure, if not with enthusiasm. The scene of the
opera is laid in Paris, under the rule of Cardinal Mazarin, who has been
defied by Armand, the hero of the story. The gates of Paris are strictly
guarded, and every precaution is taken to prevent Armand's escape; but
he is saved by Mikeli, a water-carrier, whose son he had once
befriended, and who now repays the favour by conveying him out of Paris
in his empty water-cart. Armand escapes to a village near Paris, but is
captured by the Cardinal's troops while protecting his wife Constance,
who has followed him, from the insults of two soldiers. In the end a
pardon arrives from the Queen, and all ends happily. In spite of the
serious and even tragic cast of the plot, the use of spoken dialogue
compels us to class 'Les Deux Journées' as an opéra comique; and the
same rule applies to 'Médée,' Cherubini's finest work, an opera which
for dignity of thought and grandeur of expression deserves to rank high
among the productions of the period. Lesueur (1763-1837) may fitly be
mentioned by the side of Méhul and Cherubini. His opera 'Les Bardes,'
though now forgotten, has qualities of undeniable excellence. Its faults
as well as its beauties are those of the period which produced it. It is
declamatory rather than lyrical, and decorative rather than dramatic,
but in the midst of its conventions and formality there is much that is
true as well as picturesque.

During the closing years of the eighteenth and at the beginning of the
nineteenth century the activity of the French school of opera is in
remarkable contrast with the stagnation which prevailed in Italy and
Germany. Italy, a slave to the facile graces of the Neapolitan school,
still awaited the composer who should strike off her chains and renew
the youth of her national art; while Germany, among the crowds of
imitators who clung to the skirts of Mozart's mantle, could not produce
one worthy to follow in his steps. Yet though French opera embodied the
finest thought and aspiration of the day, it is only just to observe
that the impetus which impelled her composers upon new paths of progress
came largely from external sources. It is curious to note how large a
share foreigners have had in building up the fabric of French opera.
Lulli, Gluck, and Cherubini in turn devoted their genius to its service.
They were followed by Spontini (1774-1851), who in spite of chauvinistic
prejudice, became, on the production of 'La Vestale' in 1807, the most
popular composer of the day. Spontini's training was Neapolitan, but his
first visit to Paris showed him that there was no place upon the French
stage for the trivialities which still delighted Italian audiences. He
devoted himself to careful study, and his one-act opera 'Milton,' the
first-fruits of his musicianship, showed a remarkable advance upon his
youthful efforts. Spontini professed an adoration for Mozart which
bordered upon idolatry, but his music shows rather the influence of
Gluck. He is the last of what may be called the classical school of
operatic composers, and he shows little trace of the romanticism which
was beginning to lay its hand upon music. He was accused during his
lifetime of overloading his operas with orchestration, and of writing
music which it was impossible to sing--accusations which sound strangely
familiar to those who are old enough to remember the reception of Wagner
in the seventies and eighties. His scores would not sound very elaborate
nowadays, nor do his melodies appear unusually tortuous or exacting, but
he insisted upon violent contrasts from his singers as well as from his
orchestra, and the great length of his operas, a point in which he
anticipated Meyerbeer and Wagner, probably reduced to exhaustion the
artists who were trained on Gluck and Mozart. 'La Vestale' was followed
in 1809 by 'Fernand Cortez,' and in 1819 by 'Olympie,' both of which
were extremely successful, the latter in a revised form which was
produced at Berlin in 1821. Spontini's operas are now no longer
performed, but the influence which his music exercised upon men so
different as Wagner and Meyerbeer makes his name important in the
history of opera.

Although Paris was the nursery of all that was best in opera at this
period, to Germany belongs the credit of producing the one work dating
from the beginning of the nineteenth century which deserves to rank with
the masterpieces of the previous generation--Beethoven's 'Fidelio.'
Beethoven's (1770-1827) one contribution to the lyric stage was written
in 1804 and 1805, and was produced at Vienna in the latter year, during
the French occupation. The libretto is a translation from the French,
and the story had already formed the basis of more than one opera;
indeed, it was a performance of Paer's 'Eleonora' which originally led
Beethoven to think of writing his work. Simple as it is, the plot has
true nobility of design, and the purity of its motive contrasts
favourably with the tendency of the vast majority of lyric dramas.
Florestan, a Spanish nobleman, has fallen into the power of his
bitterest enemy, Pizarro, the governor of a state prison near Madrid.
There the unfortunate Florestan is confined in a loathsome dungeon
without light or air, dependent upon the mercy of Pizarro for the merest
crust of bread. Leonore, the unhappy prisoner's wife, has discovered his
place of confinement, and, in the hope of rescuing him, disguises
herself in male attire and hires herself as servant to Rocco, the head
gaoler, under the name of Fidelio. In this condition she has to endure
the advances of Marcelline, the daughter of Rocco, who neglects her
lover Jaquino for the sake of the attractive new-comer. Before Leonore
has had time to mature her plans, news comes to the prison of the
approaching visit of the Minister Fernando on a tour of inspection.
Pizarro's only chance of escaping the detection of his crime is to put
an end to Florestan's existence, and he orders Rocco to dig a grave in
the prisoner's cell. Leonore obtains leave to help the gaoler in his
task, and together they descend to the dungeon, where the unfortunate
Florestan is lying in a half inanimate condition. When their task is
finished Pizarro himself comes down, and is on the point of stabbing
Florestan, when Leonore throws herself between him and his victim, a
pistol in her hand, and threatens the assassin with instant death if he
advance a step. At that moment a flourish of trumpets announces the
arrival of Fernando. Pizarro is forced to hurry off to receive his
guest, and the husband and wife rush into each other's arms. The closing
scene shows the discomfiture and disgrace of Pizarro, and the
restoration of Florestan to his lost honours and dignity.

The form of 'Fidelio,' like that of "Die Zauberflöte," is that of the
Singspiel. In the earlier and lighter portions of the work the
construction of the drama does not differ materially from that of the
generality of Singspiele, but in the more tragic scenes the spoken
dialogue is employed with novel and extraordinary force. So far from
suggesting any feeling of anti-climax, the sudden relapse into agitated
speech often gives an effect more thrilling than any music
could command. At two points in the drama this is especially
remarkable--firstly, in the prison quartet, after the flourish of
trumpets, when Jaquino comes in breathless haste to announce the arrival
of the Minister; and secondly, in the brief dialogue between the husband
and wife which separates the quartet from the following duet. Leonore's
famous words, 'Nichts, nichts, mein Florestan,' in particular, if
spoken with a proper sense of their exquisite truth and beauty, sum up
the passionate devotion of the true-hearted wife, and her overflowing
happiness at the realisation of her dearest hopes, in a manner which for
genuine pathos can scarcely be paralleled upon the operatic stage.

It is hardly necessary to point out to the student of opera the steady
influence which Mozart's music exercised upon Beethoven's development.
Yet although Beethoven learnt much from the composer of 'Don Giovanni,'
there is a great deal in 'Fidelio' with which Mozart had nothing to do.
The attitude of Beethoven towards opera--to go no deeper than questions
of form--was radically different from that of Mozart. Beethoven's talent
was essentially symphonic rather than dramatic, and magnificent as
'Fidelio' is, it has many passages in which it is impossible to avoid
feeling that the composer is forcing his talent into an unfamiliar if
not uncongenial channel. This is especially noticeable in the concerted
pieces, in which Beethoven sometimes seems to forget all about opera,
characters, dramatic situation and everything else in the sheer delight
of writing music. No one with an ounce of musical taste in his
composition would wish the canon-quartet, the two trios or the two
finales, to take a few instances at random, any shorter or less
developed than they are, but one can imagine how Mozart would have
smiled at the lack of dramatic feeling displayed in their construction.

'Fidelio,' as has already been said, is the only opera produced in
Germany at this period which is deserving of special mention. Mozart's
success had raised up a crop of imitators, of whom the most meritorious
were Süssmayer, his own pupil; Winter, who had the audacity to write a
sequel to 'Die Zauberflöte'; Weigl, the composer of the popular
'Schweizerfamilie' the Abbé Vogler, who, though now known chiefly by his
organ music, was a prolific writer for the stage; and Dittersdorf, a
writer of genuine humour, whose spirited Singspiel, 'Doktor und
Apotheker,' carried on the traditions of Hiller successfully. But though
the lighter school of opera in Germany produced nothing of importance,
upon the more congenial soil of France opéra comique, in the hands of a
school of earnest and gifted composers, was acquiring a musical
distinction which it was far from possessing in the days of Grétry and
Monsigny. Strictly speaking, the operas of Méhul and Cherubini should be
ranked as opéras comiques, by reason of the spoken dialogue which takes
the place of the recitative; but the high seriousness which continually
animates the music of these masters makes it impossible to class their
works with operas so different in aim and execution as those of Grétry.
Of the many writers of opéra comique at the beginning of this century,
it will be enough to mention two of the most prominent, Nicolo and
Boieldieu. Nicolo Isouard (1777-1818), to give him his full name, shone
less by musical science or dramatic instinct than by a delicate and
pathetic grace which endeared his music to the hearts of his
contemporaries. He had little originality, and his facility often
descends to commonplace, but much of the music in 'Joconde' and
'Cendrillon' lives by grace of its inimitable tenderness and charm.
Nicolo is the Greuze of music. Boieldieu (1775-1834) stands upon a very
different plane. Although he worked within restricted limits, his
originality and resource place him among the great masters of French
music. His earlier works are, for the most, light and delicate trifles;
but in 'Jean de Paris' (1812) and 'La Dame Blanche' (1825), to name only
two of his many successful works, he shows real solidity of style and no
little command of musical invention, combined with the delicate melody
and pathetic grace which rarely deserted him. The real strength and
distinction of 'La Dame Blanche' have sufficed to keep it alive until
the present day, although it has never, in spite of the Scottish origin
of the libretto, won in this country a tithe of the popularity which it
enjoys in France. The story is a combination of incidents taken from
Scott's 'Monastery' and 'Guy Mannering.' The Laird of Avenel, who was
obliged to fly from Scotland after the battle of Culloden, entrusted his
estates to his steward Gaveston. Many years having passed without
tidings of the absentee, Gaveston determines to put the castle and lands
up for sale. He has sedulously fostered a tradition which is current
among the villagers, that the castle is haunted by a White Lady, hoping
by this means to deter any of the neighbouring farmers from competing
with him for the estate. The day before the sale takes place, Dickson,
one of the farmers, is summoned to the castle by Anna, an orphan girl
who had been befriended by the Laird. Dickson is too superstitious to
venture, but his place is taken by George Brown, a young soldier, who
arrived at the village that day. George has an interview with the White
Lady, who is of course Anna in disguise. She recognises George as the
man whose life she saved after a battle, and knowing him to be the
rightful heir of Avenel, promises to help him in recovering his
property. She has discovered that treasure is concealed in a statue of
the White Lady, and with this she empowers George to buy back his
ancestral lands and castle. Gaveston is outbidden at the sale, and
George weds Anna. Boieldieu's music has much melodic beauty, though its
tenderness is apt to degenerate into sentimentality. In its original
form the opera would nowadays be unbearably tiresome, and only a
judicious shortening of the interminable duets and trios can make them
tolerable to a modern audience. In spite of much that is conventional
and old-fashioned, the alternate vigour and grace of 'La Dame Blanche'
and the genuine musical interest of the score make it the most
favourable specimen of this period of French opéra comique. It is the
last offspring of the older school. After Boieldieu's time the influence
of Rossini became paramount, and opéra comique, unable to resist a spell
so formidable, began to lose its distinctively national characteristics.




CHAPTER VI

WEBER AND THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL


WEBER--SPOHR--MARSCHNER--KREUTZER--LORTZING--
NICOLAI--FLOTOW--MENDELSSOHN--SCHUBERT--SCHUMANN


Although, for the sake of convenience, it is customary to speak of Weber
as the founder of the romantic school in music, it must not be imagined
that the new school sprang into being at the production of 'Der
Freischütz.' For many years the subtle influence of the romantic school
in literature--the circle which gathered round Tieck, Fichte, and the
Schlegels--had been felt in music. We have seen how the voluptuous
delights of Armida's garden affected even the stately muse of Gluck; and
in the generation which succeeded him, though opera still followed
classic lines of form, in subject and treatment it was tinged with the
prismatic colours of romance. Méhul's curious experiments in
orchestration, and the solemn splendour of Mozart's Egyptian mysteries,
alike show the influence of the romantic spirit as surely as the
weirdest piece of _diablerie_ ever devised by Weber or his followers.
Yet though intimations of the approaching change had for long been
perceptible to the discerning eye, it was not until the days of Weber
that the classical forms and methods which had ruled the world of opera
since the days of Gluck gave way before the newer and more vivid passion
of romance. Even then it must not be forgotten that the romantic school
differed from the classic more in view of life and treatment of subject
than in actual subject itself. The word romance conjures up weird
visions of the supernatural or glowing pictures of chivalry; but
although it is true that Weber and his followers loved best to treat of
such themes as these, they had by no means been excluded from the
repertory of their classical predecessors. The supernatural terrors of
'Der Freischütz' must not make us forget the terrific finale to 'Don
Giovanni,' nor can the most glowing picture from 'Euryanthe' erase
memories of Rinaldo and the Crusaders in 'Armide.' The romantic
movement, however, as interpreted by Weber, aimed definitely at certain
things, which had not previously come within the scope of music, though
for many years they had been the common property of art and literature.
The romantic movement was primarily a revolt against the tyranny of man
and his emotions. It claimed a wider stage and an ampler air. Nature was
not henceforth to be merely the background against which man played his
part. The beauty of landscape, the glory of the setting sun, the
splendour of the sea, the mystery of the forest--all these the romantic
movement taught men to regard not merely as the accessories of a scene
in which man was the predominant figure, but as subjects in themselves
worthy of artistic treatment. The genius of Weber (1786-1826) was a
curious compound of two differing types. In essence it was thoroughly
German--sane in inspiration, and drawing its strength from the homely
old Volkslieder, so dear to every true German heart. Yet over this solid
foundation there soared an imagination surely more delicate and ethereal
than has ever been allotted to mortal musician before or since, by the
aid of which Weber was enabled to treat all subjects beneath heaven with
equal success. He is equally at home in the eerie horrors of the Wolf's
Glen, in the moonlit revels of Oberon, and in the knightly pomp and
circumstance of the Provençal court.

Weber's early years were a continual struggle against defeat and
disappointment. His musical education was somewhat superficial, and his
first works, 'Sylvana' and 'Peter Schmoll,' gave little promise of his
later glory. 'Abu Hassan,' a one-act comic opera, which was produced in
1811, at Munich, was his first real success. Slight as the story is, it
is by no means unamusing, and the music, which is a piece of the
daintiest filagree-work imaginable, has helped to keep the little work
alive to the present day. Such plot as there is describes the shifts of
Hassan and Fatima, his wife, to avoid paying their creditors, who are
unduly pressing in their demands. Finally they both pretend to be dead,
and by this means excite the regret of their master and mistress, the
Sultan and Sultana, a regret which takes the practical form of
releasing them from their embarrassments.

In 'Der Freischütz' Weber was at last in his true element. The plot of
the opera is founded upon an old forest legend of a demon who persuades
huntsmen to sell their souls in exchange for magic bullets which never
miss their mark. Caspar, who is a ranger in the service of Prince
Ottokar of Bohemia, had sold himself to the demon Samiel. The day is
approaching when his soul will become forfeit to the powers of evil,
unless he can bring a fresh victim in his place. He looks around him for
a possible substitute, and his choice falls upon Max, another ranger,
who had been unlucky in the preliminary contest for the post of chief
huntsman, and is only too ready to listen to Caspar's promise of
unerring bullets. Max loves Agathe, the daughter of Kuno, the retiring
huntsman, and unless he can secure the vacant post, he has little hope
of being able to marry her. He agrees eagerly to Caspar's proposal, and
promises to meet him at midnight in the haunted Wolf's Glen, there to go
through the ceremony of casting the magic bullets. Meanwhile Agathe is
oppressed by forebodings of coming evil. The fall of an old picture
seems to her a presage of woe, and her lively cousin Aennchen can do
little to console her. The appearance of Max on his way to the Wolf's
Glen, cheers her but little. He too has been troubled by strange
visions, and as the moment of the rendezvous approaches his courage
begins to fail. Nevertheless he betakes himself to the Glen, and there,
amidst scenes of the wildest supernatural horror, the bullets are cast
in the presence of the terrible Samiel himself. Six of them are for Max,
to be used by him in the approaching contest, while the seventh will be
at the disposal of the demon. In the third act Agathe is discovered
preparing for her wedding. She has dreamed that, in the shape of a dove,
she was shot by Max, and she cannot shake off a sense of approaching
trouble. Her melancholy is not dissipated by the discovery that, instead
of a bridal crown, a funeral wreath has been prepared for her; however,
to console herself, she determines to wear a wreath of sacred roses,
which had been given her by the hermit of the forest. The last scene
shows the shooting contest on which the future of Max and Agathe
depends. Max makes six shots in succession, all of which hit the mark.
At last, at the Prince's command, he fires at a dove which is flying
past. Agathe falls with a shriek, but is protected by her wreath, while
Samiel directs the bullet to Caspar's heart. At the sight of his
associate's fate Max is stricken with remorse, and tells the story of
his unholy compact. The Prince is about to banish him from his service,
when the hermit appears and intercedes for the unfortunate youth. The
Prince is mollified, and it is decided that Max shall have a year's
probation, after which he shall be permitted to take the post of chief
huntsman and marry Agathe.

'Der Freischütz' is, upon the whole, the most thoroughly characteristic
of Weber's works. The famous passage for the horns, with which the
overture opens, strikes the note of mystery and romance which echoes
through the work. The overture itself is a notable example of that new
beauty which Weber infused into the time-honoured form. If he was not
actually the first--for Beethoven had already written his 'Leonore'
overtures--to make the overture a picture in brief of the incidents of
the opera, he developed the idea with so much picturesque power and
imagination that the preludes to his operas remain the envy and despair
of modern theatrical composers. The inspiration of 'Der Freischütz' is
drawn so directly from the German Volkslied, that at its production
Weber was roundly accused of plagiarism by many critics. Time has shown
the folly of such charges. 'Der Freischütz' is German to the core, and
every page of it bears the impress of German inspiration, but the
glamour of Weber's genius transmuted the rough material he employed into
a fabric of the richest art. Of the imaginative power of such scenes as
the famous incantation it is unnecessary to speak. It introduced a new
element into music, and one which was destined to have an almost
immeasurable influence upon modern music. Weber's power of
characterisation was remarkable, as shown particularly in the music
assigned to Agathe and Aennchen, but in this respect he was certainly
inferior to some of his predecessors, notably to Mozart. But in
imaginative power and in the minute knowledge of orchestral detail,
which enabled him to translate his conceptions into music, he has never
been surpassed among writers for the stage. Modern opera, if we may
speak in general terms, may be said to date from the production of 'Der
Freischütz.'

Operatic composers are too often dogged by a fate which seems to compel
them to wed their noblest inspirations to libretti of incorrigible
dulness, and Weber was even more unfortunate in this respect than his
brethren of the craft. After 'Der Freischütz,' the libretti which he
took in hand were of the most unworthy description, and even his genius
has not been able to give them immortality. 'Euryanthe' was the work of
Helmine von Chezy, the authoress of 'Rosamunde,' for which Schubert
wrote his entrancing incidental music. Weber was probably attracted by
the romantic elements of the story, the chivalry of mediæval France, the
marches and processions, the pomp and glitter of the court, and
overlooked the weak points of the plot. To tell the truth, much of the
libretto of 'Euryanthe' borders upon the incomprehensible. The main
outline of the story is as follows. At a festival given by the King of
France, Count Adolar praises the beauty and virtue of his betrothed
Euryanthe, and Lysiart, who also loves her, offers to wager all he
possesses that he will contrive to gain her love. Adolar accepts the
challenge, and Lysiart departs for Nevers, where Euryanthe is living.
The second act discovers Euryanthe and Eglantine, an outcast damsel whom
she has befriended. Eglantine secretly loves Adolar, but extracts a
promise from Lysiart, who has arrived at Nevers, that he will marry
her. In return for this she gives him a ring belonging to Euryanthe,
which she has stolen, and tells him a secret relating to a mysterious
Emma, a sister of Adolar, which Euryanthe has incautiously revealed to
her. Armed with these Lysiart returns to the court, and quickly
persuades Adolar and the King that he has won Euryanthe's affection. No
one listens to her denials; she is condemned to death, and Adolar's
lands and titles are given to Lysiart. Euryanthe is led into the desert
to be killed by Adolar. On the way he is attacked by a serpent, which he
kills, though not before Euryanthe has proved her devotion by offering
to die in her lover's place. Adolar then leaves Euryanthe to perish,
declaring that he has not the heart to kill her. She is found in a dying
condition by the King, whom she speedily convinces of her innocence.
Meanwhile Adolar has returned to Nevers, to encounter the bridal
procession of Eglantine and Lysiart. Eglantine confesses that she helped
to ruin Euryanthe in the hope of winning Adolar, and is promptly stabbed
by Lysiart. Everything being satisfactorily cleared up, Euryanthe
conveniently awakes from a trance into which she had fallen, and the
lovers are finally united. Puerile as the libretto is, it inspired Weber
with some of the finest music he ever wrote. The spectacular portions of
the opera are animated by the true spirit of chivalry, while all that is
connected with the incomprehensible Emma and her secret is unspeakably
eerie. The characters of the drama are such veritable puppets, that no
expenditure of talent could make them interesting; but the resemblance
between the general scheme of the plot of 'Euryanthe' and that of
'Lohengrin' should not be passed over, nor the remarkable way in which
Weber had anticipated some of Wagner's most brilliant triumphs, notably
in the characters of Eglantine and Lysiart, who often seem curiously to
foreshadow Ortrud and Telramund, and in the finale to the second act, in
which the single voice of Euryanthe, like that of Elisabeth in
'Tannhäuser,' is contrasted with the male chorus.

Weber's last opera, 'Oberon,' is one of the few works written in recent
times by a foreign composer of the first rank for the English stage. The
libretto, which was the work of Planché, is founded upon an old French
romance, 'Huon of Bordeaux,' and though by no means a model of lucidity,
it contains many scenes both powerful and picturesque, which must have
captivated the imagination of a musician so impressionable as Weber. The
opera opens in fairyland, where a bevy of fairies is watching the
slumbers of Oberon. The fairy king has quarrelled with Titania, and has
vowed never to be reconciled to her until he shall find two lovers
constant to each other through trial and temptation. Puck, who has been
despatched to search for such a pair, enters with the news that Sir Huon
of Bordeaux, who had accidentally slain the son of Charlemagne, has been
commanded, in expiation of his crime, to journey to Bagdad, to claim the
Caliph's daughter as his bride, and slay the man who sits at his right
hand. Oberon forthwith throws Huon into a deep sleep, and in a vision
shows him Rezia, the daughter of the Caliph, of whom the ardent knight
instantly becomes enamoured. He then conveys him to the banks of the
Tigris, and giving him a magic horn, starts him upon his dangerous
enterprise. In the Caliph's palace Huon fights with Babekan, Rezia's
suitor, rescues the maiden, and with the aid of the magic horn carries
her off from the palace, while his esquire Sherasmin performs the same
kind office for Fatima, Rezia's attendant. On their way home they
encounter a terrific storm, raised by the power of Oberon to try their
constancy. They are ship-wrecked, and Rezia is carried off by pirates to
Tunis, whilst Huon is left for dead upon the beach. At Tunis more
troubles are in store for the hapless pair. Huon, who has been
transported by the fairies across the sea, finds his way into the house
of the Emir, where Rezia is in slavery. There he is unlucky enough to
win the favour of Roshana, the Emir's wife, and before he can escape
from her embraces he is discovered by the Emir himself, and condemned to
be burned alive. Rezia proclaims herself his wife, and she also is
condemned to the stake; but at this crisis Oberon intervenes. The lovers
have been tried enough, and their constancy is rewarded. They are
transported to the court of Charlemagne, where a royal welcome awaits
them.

Although written for England, 'Oberon' has never achieved much
popularity in this, or indeed in any country. The fairy music is
exquisite throughout, but the human interest of the story is after all
slight, and Weber, on whom the hand of death was heavy as he wrote the
score, failed to infuse much individuality into his characters. 'Oberon'
was his last work, and he died in London soon after it was produced.
During the last few years of his life he had been engaged in a desultory
way upon the composition of a comic opera, 'Die drei Pintos,' founded
upon a Spanish subject. He left this in an unfinished state, but some
time after his death it was found that the manuscript sketches and notes
for the work were on a scale sufficiently elaborate to give a proper
idea of what the composer's intentions with regard to the work really
were. The work of arrangement was entrusted to Herr G. Mahler, and under
his auspices 'Die drei Pintos' was actually produced, though with little
success.

At the present time the only opera of Weber which can truthfully be said
to belong to the current repertory is 'Der Freischütz,' and even this is
rarely performed out of Germany. The small amount of favour which
'Euryanthe' and 'Oberon' enjoy is due, as has been already pointed out,
chiefly to the weakness of their libretti, yet it seems strange that the
man to whom the whole tendency of modern opera is due should hold so
small a place in our affections. The changes which Weber and his
followers effected, though less drastic, were in their results fully as
important as those of Gluck. In the orchestra as well as on the stage
he introduced a new spirit, a new point of view. What modern music owes
to him may be summed up in a word. Without Weber, Wagner would have been
impossible.

Louis Spohr (1784-1859) is now almost forgotten as an operatic composer,
but at one time his popularity was only second to that of Weber. Many
competent critics have constantly affirmed that a day will come when
Spohr's operas, now neglected, will return to favour once more; but
years pass, and there seems no sign of a revival of interest in his
work. Yet he has a certain importance in the history of opera; for, so
far as chronology is concerned, he ought perhaps to be termed the
founder of the romantic school rather than Weber, since his 'Faust' was
produced in 1818, and 'Der Freischütz' did not appear until 1821. But
the question seems to turn not so much upon whether Spohr or Weber were
first in the field, as whether Spohr is actually a romantic composer at
all. If the subjects which he treated were all that need be taken into
account, the matter could easily be decided. No composer ever dealt more
freely in the supernatural than Spohr. His operas are peopled with
elves, ghosts, and goblins. Ruined castles, midnight assassins, and
distressed damsels greet us on every page. But if we go somewhat deeper,
we find that the real qualities of romanticism are strangely absent from
his music. His form differs little from that of his classical
predecessors, and his orchestration is curiously arid and unsuggestive;
in a word, the breath of imagination rarely animates his pages. Yet the
workmanship of his operas is so admirable, and his vein of melody is so
delicate and refined, that it is difficult to help thinking that Spohr
has been unjustly neglected. His 'Faust,' which has nothing to do with
Goethe's drama, was popular in England fifty years ago; and 'Jessonda,'
which contains the best of his music, is still occasionally performed in
Germany. The rest of his works, with the exception of a few scattered
airs, such as 'Rose softly blooming,' from 'Zemire und Azor,' seem to be
completely forgotten.

Heinrich Marschner (1796-1861), though not a pupil of Weber, was
strongly influenced by his music, and carried on the traditions of the
romantic school worthily and well. He was a man of vivid imagination,
and revelled in uncanny legends of the supernatural. His works are
performed with tolerable frequency in Germany, and still please by
reason of their inexhaustible flow of melody and their brilliant and
elaborate orchestration. 'Hans Heiling,' his masterpiece, is founded
upon a sombre old legend of the Erzgebirge. The king of the gnomes has
seen and loved a Saxon maiden, Anna by name, and to win her heart he
leaves his palace in the bowels of the earth and masquerades as a
village schoolmaster under the name of Hans Heiling. Anna is flattered
by his attentions, and promises to be his wife; but she soon tires of
her gloomy lover, and ends by openly admitting her preference for the
hunter Conrad. Her resolution to break with Hans is confirmed by an
apparition of the queen of the gnomes, Hans Heiling's mother, surrounded
by her attendant sprites, who warns her under fearful penalties to
forswear the love of an immortal. Hans Heiling is furious at the perfidy
of Anna, and vows terrible vengeance upon her and Conrad, which he is
about to put into execution with the aid of his gnomes. At the last
moment, however, his mother appears, and persuades him to relinquish all
hopes of earthly love and to return with her to their subterranean home.
There is much in this strange story which suggests the legend of the
Flying Dutchman, and, bearing in mind the admiration which in his early
days Wagner felt for the works of Marschner, it is interesting to trace
in 'Hans Heiling' the source of much that is familiar to us in the score
of 'Der Fliegende Holländer.' Of Marschner's other operas, the most
familiar are 'Templer und Jüdin,' founded upon Sir Walter Scott's
'Ivanhoe,' a fine work, suffering from a confused and disconnected
libretto; and 'Der Vampyr,' a tale of unmitigated gloom and horror.

Weber and Marschner show the German romantic school at its best; for the
lesser men, such as Hoffmann and Lindpaintner, did little but reproduce
the salient features of their predecessors more or less faithfully. The
romantic school is principally associated with the sombre dramas, in
which the taste of that time delighted; but there was another side to
the movement which must not be neglected. The Singspiel, established by
Hiller and perfected by Mozart, had languished during the early years
of the century, or rather had fallen into the hands of composers who
were entirely unable to do justice to its possibilities. The romantic
movement touched it into new life, and a school arose which contrived by
dint of graceful melody and ingenious orchestral device to invest with
real musical interest the simple stories in which the German
middle-class delights. The most successful of these composers were
Kreutzer and Lortzing.

Conradin Kreutzer (1782-1849) was a prolific composer, but the only one
of his operas which can honestly be said to have survived to our times
is 'Das Nachtlager von Granada.' This tells the tale of an adventure
which befell the Prince Regent of Spain. While hunting in the mountains
he falls in with Gabriela, a pretty peasant maiden who is in deep
distress. She confides to him that her affairs of the heart have gone
awry. Her lover, Gomez the shepherd, is too poor to marry, and her
father wishes her to accept the Croesus of the village, a man whom she
detests. The handsome huntsman--for such she supposes him to
be--promises to intercede for her with his patron the Prince, and when
her friends and relations, a band of arrant smugglers and thieves,
appear, he tries to buy their consent to her union with Gomez by means
of a gold chain which he happens to be wearing. The sight of so much
wealth arouses the cupidity of the knaves, and they at once brew a plot
to murder the huntsman in his sleep. Luckily Gabriela overhears their
scheming, and puts the Prince upon his guard. The assassins find him
prepared for their assault, and ready to defend himself to the last
drop of blood. Fortunately matters do not come to a climax. A body of
the Prince's attendants arrive in time to prevent any bloodshed, and the
opera ends with the discomfiture of the villains and the happy
settlement of Gabriela's love affairs. Kreutzer's music is for the most
part slight, and occasionally borders upon the trivial, but several
scenes are treated in the true romantic spirit, and some of the
concerted pieces are admirably written. Lortzing (1803-1852) was a more
gifted musician than Kreutzer, and several of his operas are still
exceedingly popular in Germany. The scene of 'Czar und Zimmermann,'
which is fairly well known in England as 'Peter the Shipwright,' is laid
at Saardam, where Peter the Great is working in a shipyard under the
name of Michaelhoff. There is another Russian employed in the same yard,
a deserter named Peter Ivanhoff, and the very slight incidents upon
which the action of the opera hinges arise from the mistakes of a
blundering burgomaster who confuses the identity of the two men. The
music is exceedingly bright and tuneful, and much of it is capitally
written. Scarcely less popular in Germany than 'Czar und Zimmermann' is
'Der Wildschütz' (The Poacher), a bustling comedy of intrigue and
disguise, which owes its name to the mistake of a foolish old village
schoolmaster, who fancies that he has shot a stag in the baronial
preserves. The chief incidents in the piece arise from the humours of a
vivacious baroness, who disguises herself as a servant in order to make
the acquaintance of her _fiancé_, unknown to him. The music of 'Der
Wildschütz' is no less bright and unpretentious than that of 'Czar und
Zimmermann'; in fact, these two works may be taken as good specimens of
Lortzing's engaging talent. His strongest points are a clever knack of
treating the voices contrapuntally in concerted pieces, and a humorous
trick of orchestration, two features with which English audiences have
become pleasantly familiar in Sir Arthur Sullivan's operettas, which
works indeed owe not a little to the influence of Lortzing and Kreutzer.

Inferior even to the slightest of the minor composers of the romantic
school was Flotow, whose 'Martha' nevertheless has survived to our time,
while hundreds of works far superior in every way have perished
irretrievably. Flotow (1812-1883) was a German by birth, but his music
is merely a feeble imitation of the popular Italianisms of the day.
'Martha' tells the story of a freakish English lady who, with her maid,
disguises herself as a servant and goes to the hiring fair at Richmond.
There they fall in with an honest farmer of the neighbourhood named
Plunket, and his friend Lionel, who promptly engage them. The two
couples soon fall in love with each other, but various hindrances arise
which serve to prolong the story into four weary acts. Flotow had a
certain gift of melody, and the music of 'Martha' has the merit of a
rather trivial tunefulness, but the score is absolutely devoid of any
real musical interest, and the fact that performances of such a work as
'Martha' are still possible in London gives an unfortunate impression of
the standard of musical taste prevailing in England. Otto Nicolai
(1810-1849) began by imitating Italian music, but in 'Die lustigen
Weiber von Windsor,' a capital adaptation of Shakespeare's 'Merry Wives
of Windsor,' which was only produced a few months before his death, he
returned to the type of comic opera which was popular at that time in
Germany. He was an excellent musician, and the captivating melody of
this genial little work is supplemented by excellent concerted writing
and thoroughly sound orchestration.

To this period belong the operas written by three composers who in other
branches of music have won immortality, although their dramatic works
have failed to win lasting favour.

Mendelssohn's (1809-1847) boyish opera 'Die Hochzeit des Camacho' is too
inexperienced a work to need more than a passing word, and his
Liederspiel 'Heimkehr aus der Fremde' is little more than a collection
of songs; but the finale to his unfinished 'Lorelei' shows that he
possessed genuine dramatic power, and it must be a matter for regret
that his difficulties in fixing on a libretto prevented his giving
anything to the permanent repertory of the stage.

Schubert (1797-1828) wrote many works for the stage--romantic operas
like 'Fierrabras' and 'Alfonso und Estrella,' operettas like 'Der
häusliche Krieg,' and farces like 'Die Zwillingsbrüder.' Most of them
were saddled by inane libretti, and though occasionally revived by
enthusiastic admirers of the composer, only prove that Schubert's talent
was essentially not dramatic, however interesting his music may be to
musicians.

Schumann's (1810-1856) one contribution to the history of opera,
'Genoveva,' is decidedly more important, and indeed it seems possible
that after many years of neglect it may at last take a place in the
modern repertory. It is founded upon a tragedy by Hebbel, and tells of
the passion of Golo for Genoveva, the wife of his patron Siegfried, his
plot to compromise her, and the final triumph of the constant wife. The
music cannot be said to be undramatic; on the contrary, Schumann often
realises the situations with considerable success: but he had little
power of characterisation, and all the characters sing very much the
same kind of music. This gives a feeling of monotony to the score, which
is hardly dispelled even by the many beauties with which it is adorned.
Nevertheless 'Genoveva' has been revived in several German towns of late
years, and its music has always met with much applause from
connoisseurs, though it is never likely to be generally popular.




CHAPTER VII

ROSSINI, DONIZETTI, AND BELLINI


While Weber was reconstructing opera in Germany and laying the
foundations upon which the vast structure of modern lyrical drama was
afterwards reared by the composers of our own day, reforms, or at any
rate innovations, were being introduced into Italian opera by a musician
scarcely less gifted even than the founder of the romantic school
himself. Rossini (1792-1868) owed but little of his fame to instruction
or study. As soon as he had been assured by his master that he knew
enough of the grammar of music to write an opera, he relinquished his
studies once for all, and started life as a composer. In this perhaps he
showed his wisdom, for his natural gifts were of such a nature as could
scarcely have been enhanced by erudition, and the mission which he so
amply fulfilled in freeing his national art from eighteenth-century
convention was certainly not one which depended upon a profound
knowledge of counterpoint. Nature had fortunately endowed him with
precisely the equipment necessary for the man who was to reform Italian
opera. The school of Paisiello, notwithstanding its many merits, had
several grievous weaknesses, of which the most prominent were
uniformity of melodic type, nerveless and conventional orchestration,
and intolerable prolixity. Rossini brought to his task a vein of melody
as inexhaustible in inspiration as it was novel in form, a natural
instinct for instrumental colour, and a firm conviction that brevity was
the soul of wit. He leapt into fame with 'Tancredi,' which was produced
in 1813 and established his reputation as a composer of opera seria. In
opera buffa, a field in which his talents shone even more brilliantly,
his earliest success was made with 'L'Italiana in Algeri' (1813), which
was followed in 1815 by the world-famous 'Barbiere di Siviglia.' This
was originally produced in Rome under the name of 'Almaviva,' and
strangely enough, proved an emphatic failure. For this, however, the
music was scarcely responsible. The people of Rome were at that time
devotees of the music of Paisiello, and resented the impertinence of the
upstart Rossini in venturing to borrow a subject which had already been
treated by the older master. 'Il Barbiere' soon recovered from the shock
of its unfriendly reception, and is now one of the very few of Rossini's
works which have survived to the present day. The story is bright and
amusing and the music brilliant and exhilarating, but it is to be feared
that the real explanation of the continued success of the little opera
lies in the opportunity which it offers to the prima donna of
introducing her favourite _cheval de bataille_ in the lesson scene. The
scene of the opera is laid at Seville. Count Almaviva has fallen in
love with Rosina, a fascinating damsel, whose guardian, Bartolo, keeps
her under lock and key, in the hope of persuading her to marry himself.
Figaro, a ubiquitous barber, who is in everybody's confidence, takes the
Count under his protection, and contrives to smuggle him into the house
in the disguise of a drunken soldier. Unfortunately this scheme is
frustrated by the arrival of the guard, who arrest the refractory hero
and carry him off to gaol. In the second act the Count succeeds in
getting into the house as a music-master, but in order to gain the
suspicious Bartolo's confidence he has to show him one of Rosina's
letters to himself, pretending that it was given him by a mistress of
Almaviva. Bartolo is delighted with the news of the Count's infidelity
and hastens to tell the scandal to Rosina, whose jealousy and
disappointment nearly bring Almaviva's deep-laid schemes to destruction.
Happily he finds an opportunity of persuading her of his constancy while
her guardian's back is turned, and induces her to elope before Bartolo
has discovered the fraud practised upon him. The music is a delightful
example of Rossini in his gayest and merriest mood. It sparkles with wit
and fancy, and is happily free from those concessions to the vanity or
idiosyncrasy of individual singers which do so much to render his music
tedious to modern ears. Of Rossini's lighter works, 'Il Barbiere' is
certainly the most popular, though, musically speaking, it is perhaps
not superior to 'La Gazza Ladra,' which, however, is saddled with an
idiotic libretto. None of his tragic operas except 'Guillaume Tell,'
which belongs to a later period, have retained their hold upon the
affections of the public. Nevertheless there is so much excellent music
in the best of them, that it would not be strange if the course of time
should bring them once more into favour, provided always that singers
were forthcoming capable of singing the elaborate _fioriture_ with which
they abound. Perhaps the finest of the serious operas of Rossini's
Italian period is 'Semiramide' a work which is especially interesting as
a proof of the strong influence which Mozart exercised upon him. The
plot is a Babylonian version of the story of Agamemnon, telling of the
vengeance taken by Arsaces, the son of Ninus and Semiramis, upon his
guilty mother, who, with the help of her paramour Assur, had slain her
husband. Much of the music is exceedingly powerful, notably that which
accompanies the apparition of the ghost of Ninus (although this is
evidently inspired by 'Don Giovanni'), and the passionate scene in which
the conscience-stricken Assur pours forth his soul in tempest. More
thoroughly Italian in type is 'Mosé in Egitto,' a curious though
effective version of the Biblical story, which is still occasionally
performed as an oratorio in this country, a proceeding which naturally
gives little idea of its real merits. In 1833 it was actually given
under the proper conditions, as a sacred opera, strengthened by a
generous infusion of Handel's 'Israel in Egypt,' under the direction of
Mr. Rophino Lacy. It would be an idle task to give even the names of
Rossini's many operas. Suffice it to say that between 1810 and 1828 he
produced upwards of forty distinct works. In 1829 came his last and
greatest work, 'Guillaume Tell,' which was written for the Grand Opéra
in Paris. The libretto was the work of many hands, and Rossini's own
share in it was not a small one. It follows Schiller with tolerable
closeness. In the first act Tell saves the life of Leuthold, who is
being pursued by Gessler's soldiers; and Melchthal, the patriarch of the
village, is put to death on a charge of insubordination. His son Arnold
loves Matilda, the sister of Gessler, and hesitates between love and
duty. Finally, however, he joins Tell, who assembles the men of the
three forest cantons, and binds them with an oath to exterminate their
oppressors or perish in the attempt. In the third act comes the famous
archery scene. Tell refuses to bow to Gessler's hat, and is condemned to
shoot the apple from his son's head. This he successfully accomplishes,
but the presence of a second arrow in his quiver arouses Gessler's
suspicions. Tell confesses that had he killed his son, the second arrow
would have despatched the tyrant, and is at once thrown into prison. In
the last act we find Arnold raising a band of followers and himself
accomplishing the rescue of Tell; Gessler is slain, and Matilda is
united to her lover.

'Guillaume Tell' is not only indisputably Rossini's finest work, but it
also give convincing proof of the plasticity of the composer's genius.
Accustomed as he had been for many years to turning out Italian operas
by the score--graceful trifles enough, but too often flimsy and
conventional--it says much for the character of the man that, when the
occasion arrived, he could attack such a subject as that of Tell with
the proper seriousness and reserve. He took what was best in the style
and tradition of French opera and welded it to the thoroughly Italian
fabric with which he was familiar. He put aside the excessive
ornamentation with which his earlier works had been overladen, and
treated the voices with a simplicity and dignity thoroughly in keeping
with the subject. The choral and instrumental parts of the opera are
particularly important; the latter especially have a colour and variety
which may be considered to have had a large share in forming the taste
for delicate orchestral effects for which modern French composers are
famous. 'Guillaume Tell' was to have been the first of a series of five
operas written for the Paris Opera by special arrangement with the
government of Charles X. The revolution of 1830 put an end to this
scheme, and a few years later, finding himself displaced by Meyerbeer in
the affections of the fickle Parisian public, Rossini made up his mind
to write no more for the stage. He lived for nearly forty years after
the production of 'Guillaume Tell,' but preferred a life of ease and
leisure to entering the lists once more as a candidate for fame. What
the world lost by this decision, it is difficult to say; but if we
remember the extraordinary development which took place in the style and
methods of Wagner and Verdi, we cannot think without regret of the
composer of 'Guillaume Tell' making up his mind while still a young man
to abandon the stage for ever. Nevertheless, although much of his music
soon became old-fashioned, Rossini's work was not unimportant. The
invention of the cabaletta, or quick movement, following the cavatina or
slow movement, must be ascribed to him, an innovation which has affected
the form of opera, German and French, as well as Italian, throughout
this century. Even more important was the change which he introduced
into the manner of singing _fioriture_ or florid music. Before his day
singers had been accustomed to introduce cadenzas of their own, to a
great extent when they liked. Rossini insisted upon their singing
nothing but what was set down for them. Naturally he was compelled to
write cadenzas for them as elaborate and effective as those which they
had been in the habit of improvising, so that much of his Italian music
sounds empty and meaningless to our ears. But he introduced the thin
edge of the wedge, and although even to the days of Jenny Lind singers
were occasionally permitted to interpolate cadenzas of their own, the
old tradition that an opera was merely an opportunity for the display of
individual vanity was doomed.

The music of Donizetti (1798-1848) is now paying the price of a long
career of popularity by enduring a season of neglect. His tragic operas,
which were the delight of opera-goers in the fifties and sixties, sound
cold and thin to modern ears. There is far more genuine life in his
lighter works, many of which still delight us by their unaffected
tunefulness and vivacity. Donizetti had little musical education, and
his spirit rebelled so strongly against the rules of counterpoint that
he preferred to go into the army rather than to devote himself to church
music. His first opera, 'Enrico di Borgogna,' was produced in 1818, and
for the next five-and-twenty years he worked assiduously, producing in
all no fewer than sixty-five operas.

'Lucia di Lammermoor' (1835), which was for many years one of the most
popular works in the Covent Garden repertory, has now sunk to the level
of a mere prima donna's opera, to be revived once or twice a year in
order to give a popular singer an opportunity for vocal display. Yet
there are passages in it of considerable dramatic power, and many of the
melodies are fresh and expressive. The plot is founded upon 'The Bride
of Lammermoor,' but it is Scott's tragic romance seen through very
Italian spectacles indeed. Henry Ashton has promised the hand of his
sister Lucy to Lord Arthur Bucklaw, hoping by means of this marriage to
recruit the fallen fortunes of his house. Lucy loves Edgar Ravenswood,
the hereditary foe of her family, and vows to be true to him while he is
away on an embassy in France. During his absence Ashton contrives to
intercept Ravenswood's letters to his sister, and finally produces a
forged paper, which Lucy accepts as the proof of her lover's infidelity.
She yields to the pressure of her brother's entreaties, and consents to
marry Lord Arthur. No sooner has she set her name to the contract than
the door opens and Edgar appears. Confronted with the proof of Lucy's
inconstancy, he curses the house of Lammermoor and rushes away. Ashton
follows him, and, after a stormy interview, challenges him to mortal
combat. Meanwhile, on her bridal night Lucy has lost her reason and in
her frenzy stabbed her unfortunate bridegroom. On coming once more to
her senses, she puts an end to her own life; while Edgar, on hearing of
the tragedy, betakes himself to the tombs of his ancestors and there
commits suicide. Much of the music suffers from the conventionality to
which Donizetti was a slave, notably the ridiculous mad scene, a
delightfully suave melody ending with an elaborate cadenza divided
between the voice and flute; but there are passages of real power, such
as the fine sextet in the contract scene, and the gloomy air in which
the hero calls upon the spirits of his forefathers.

Less sombre than 'Lucia,' and quite as tuneful, is 'Lucrezia Borgia,'
once a prime favourite at Covent Garden, but now rarely heard. Lucrezia
Borgia, the wife of Alfonso of Ferrara, has recognised Gennaro, a young
Venetian, as an illegitimate son of her own, and watches over him with
tender interest, though she will not disclose the real relation in which
they stand to one another. Gennaro, taunted by his friends with being a
victim of Lucrezia's fascinations, publicly insults her, and is
thereupon condemned to death by the Duke, who is glad of the opportunity
of taking vengeance upon the man whom he believes to be his wife's
paramour. Gennaro is poisoned in the presence of his mother, who,
however, directly the Duke's back is turned, gives him an antidote which
restores him to health. In the last act Lucrezia takes comprehensive
vengeance upon the friends of Gennaro, whose taunts still rankle in her
bosom, by poisoning all the wine at a supper party. Unfortunately
Gennaro happens to be present, and as this time he refuses to take an
antidote, even though Lucrezia reveals herself as his mother, he expires
in her arms.

There is little attempt at dramatic significance in the music of
'Lucrezia Borgia,' but the score bubbles over with delicious and wholly
inappropriate melodies. Occasionally, as in the final scene, there is a
touch of pathos, and sometimes some rather effective concerted music;
but, for the most part, Donizetti was content to write his charming
tunes, and to leave all expression to the singers. The orchestration of
his Italian operas is primitive in the extreme, and amply justifies
Wagner's taunt about the 'big guitar.' In works written for foreign
theatres Donizetti took more pains, and 'La Favorite,' produced in Paris
in 1840, is in many ways the strongest of his tragic works. The story is
more than usually repulsive. Fernando, a novice at the convent of St.
James of Compostella, is about to take monastic vows, when he catches
sight of a fair penitent, and bids farewell to the Church in order to
follow her to court. She turns out to be Leonora, the mistress of the
King, for whose _beaux yeux_ the latter is prepared to repudiate the
Queen and to brave all the terrors of Rome. Fernando finds Leonora
ready to reciprocate his passion, and by her means he obtains a
commission in the army. He returns covered with glory, and is rewarded
by the King, who has discovered his connection with Leonora, with the
hand of his cast-off mistress. After the marriage ceremony is over,
Fernando hears for the first time of Leonora's past. He flies to the
convent for consolation, followed by his unfortunate wife, who dies in
his arms after she has obtained forgiveness. 'La Favorite' is more
carefully written than was Donizetti's wont, and some of the concerted
music is really dramatic. There is a tradition that the last act, which
was an after-thought, was written in an incredibly short space of time,
but it is significant that the beautiful romanza 'Spirto gentil,' to
which the act and indeed the whole opera owes most of its popularity,
was transferred from an earlier and unperformed work, 'Le Duc d'Albe.'
It would be waste of time to describe the plots of any other serious
works by this composer. Many of them, such as 'Betly,' 'Linda di
Chamonix,' and 'Anna Bolena,' were successful when produced; but
Donizetti aimed merely at satisfying the prevailing taste of the day,
and when a new generation sprang up with different sympathies from that
which had preceded it, the operas which had seemed the most secure of
popularity were soon consigned to oblivion. It is a significant fact
that Donizetti's lighter works have stood the test of time more
successfully than his more serious efforts. Though the grandiose airs
and sham tragedy of 'Lucia' have long since ceased to impress us, we can
still take pleasure in the unaffected gaiety of 'La Fille du Régiment'
and 'Don Pasquale.' These and many similar works were written _currente
calamo_, and though their intrinsic musical interest is of course very
slight, they are totally free from the ponderous affectations of the
composer's serious operas. Here we see Donizetti at his best, because
here he writes according to the natural dictates of his imagination, not
in accordance with the foolish or depraved taste of fashionable
connoisseurs.

The scene of 'La Fille du Régiment' is laid in the Tyrol, where Tonio, a
peasant, has had the good fortune to save the life of Marie, the
vivandière of a French regiment. Many years before the opening of the
story, Marie had been found upon the battle-field by Sergeant Sulpice,
and adopted by the regiment whose name she bears. The regiment, as a
body, has the right of disposing of her hand in marriage, and when Tonio
presses his claim, which is not disallowed by the heroine, it is decided
that he shall be allowed to marry her if he will consent to join the
regiment. Everything goes well, when a local grandee in the shape of the
Marchioness Berkenfeld suddenly appears, identifies Marie as her niece
by means of a letter which was found upon her by the Sergeant, and
carries her off to her castle hard by, leaving the unfortunate Tonio to
the bitterest reflections. In the second act Marie is at the castle of
Berkenfeld though by no means at ease in her unaccustomed surroundings.
Her efforts to imbibe the principles of etiquette are pleasantly
interrupted by the unexpected arrival of the regiment, with Tonio now as
Colonel at its head. But even his promotion will not soften the
Marchioness's heart. She discloses the fact that she is in reality
Marie's mother, and adjures her by her filial respect to give up the
thought of her low-born lover. Marie consents in an agony of grief. The
lovers part with many tears, and at the psychological moment the
Marchioness relents, and all ends happily.

Even slighter in scope is 'Don Pasquale,' a brilliant trifle, written
for the Théâtre des Italiens in Paris, and there sung for the first time
in 1843, by Grisi, Mario, Tamburini, and Lablache. The story turns upon
a trick played by Ernesto and Norina, two young lovers, upon the uncle
and guardian of the former, Don Pasquale. Ernesto will not marry to
please his uncle, so the old gentleman determines to marry himself.
Norina is introduced to Don Pasquale as his sister by a certain Dr.
Malatesta, a friend of Ernesto, and the amorous old gentleman at once
succumbs to her charms. No sooner is the marriage contract signed than
Norina, acting upon her instructions, launches forth upon a career of
unexampled shrewishness, extravagance, and flirtation. Her poor old
lover is distracted by her wild vagaries, and in the end is only too
thankful to hand her over bag and baggage to his nephew, who generously
consents to relieve his uncle of his unlucky bargain.

The music of 'L'Elisir d'Amore' is not inferior to that of 'Don
Pasquale' in sparkle and brilliancy, but the plot is tame and childish
compared to the bustle and intrigue of the latter work. It turns upon a
sham love potion sold by a travelling quack to Nemorino, a country lout
who is in love with Adina, the local beauty. Adina is divided between
the attractions of Nemorino and those of the Sergeant Belcore, who is
quartered in the village. In order to get money to pay for the potion
Nemorino joins the army, and this proof of his devotion has so
convincing an effect upon the affections of Adina that she discards the
soldier and bestows her hand upon Nemorino. To this silly plot is allied
some of the most delightful music Donizetti ever wrote. Fresh, graceful,
and occasionally tender, it forms the happiest contrast to the grandiose
nonsense which the composer was in the habit of turning out to suit the
vitiated taste of the day, and is a convincing proof that if he had been
permitted to exercise his talent in a congenial sphere, Donizetti would
be entitled to rank with the most successful followers of Cimarosa and
Paisiello, instead of being degraded to the rank of a mere purveyor to
the manufacturers of barrel-organs.

Different as was the talent of Bellini (1802-1835) from that of
Donizetti, his fate has been the same. After holding the ear of Europe
for many years, he has fallen at the present time completely into the
background, and outside the frontiers of Italy his works are rarely
heard. Bellini had no pretensions to dramatic power. His genius was
purely elegiac in tone, and he relied entirely for the effect which he
intended to produce upon the luscious beauty of his melodies, into
which, it must be admitted, the great singers of his time contrived to
infuse a surprising amount of dramatic force.

The story of 'La Sonnambula' is rather foolish, but it suited Bellini's
idyllic style, and the work is perhaps the happiest example of his
_naïf_ charm. Amina, a rustic damsel, betrothed to Elvino, is a
confirmed somnambulist, and her nocturnal peregrinations have given the
village in which she dwells the reputation of being haunted by a
spectre. One night, Amina, while walking in her sleep, enters the
chamber in the inn where Rodolfo, the young lord of the village, happens
to be located. There she is discovered by Lisa, the landlady, to the
scandal of the neighbourhood and the shame of her lover Elvino, who
casts her from him and at once makes over his affections to the
landlady. Amina's sorrow and despair make her more restless than ever,
and the following night she is seen walking out of a window of the mill
in which she lives, and crossing the stream by a frail bridge which
totters beneath her weight. Providence guards her steps, and she reaches
solid earth in safety, where Elvino is waiting to receive her, fully
convinced of her innocence. Bellini's music is quite the reverse of
dramatic, but the melodies throughout 'La Sonnambula' are graceful and
tender, and in the closing scene he rises to real pathos.

In 'Norma' Bellini had the advantage of treating a libretto of great
power and beauty, the work of the poet Romani, a tragedy which, both in
sentiment and diction, contrasts very strongly with the ungrammatical
balderdash which composers are so often called upon to set to music.
Norma, the high priestess of the Druids, forgetting her faith and the
traditions of her race, has secretly wedded Pollio, a Roman general, and
borne him two children. In spite of the sacrifices which she has made
for his sake, he proves faithless, and seduces Adalgisa, one of the
virgins of the temple, who has consented to abandon her people and her
country and to fly with him to Rome. Before leaving her home, Adalgisa,
ignorant of the connection between Norma and Pollio, reveals her secret
to the priestess, and begs for absolution from her vows. At the news of
her husband's faithlessness Norma's fury breaks forth, and her
indignation is eq

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