WHETHER or not the English owe a grudge to their Lord Chamberlain for depriving them of the pleasure of seeing operas based on Biblical stories I do not know. If they do, the grudge cannot be a deep one, for it is a long time since Biblical operas were in vogue, and in the case of the very few survivals it has been easy to solve the difficulty and salve the conscience of the public censor by the simple device of changing the names of the characters and the scene of action if the works are to be presented on the stage, or omitting scenery, costumes and action and performing them as oratorios. In either case, when-ever this has been done, however, it has been the habit of critics to make merry at the expense of my Lord Chamberlain and the puritanicalness of the popular spirit of which he is supposed to be the official embodiment, and to discourse lugubriously and mayhap profoundly on the perversion of composers’ purposes and the loss of things essential to the lyric drama.
It may be heretical to say so, but is it not possible that Lord Chamberlain and Critic have both taken too serious a view of the matter ? There is a vast amount of admirable material in the Bible (historical, legendary or mythical, as one happens to regard it), which would not necessarily be degraded by dramatic treatment, and which might be made entertaining as well as edifying, as it has been made in the past, by stage representation. Reverence for this material is neither inculcated nor preserved by shifting the scene and throwing a veil over names too transparent to effect a disguise. Moreover, when this is done, there is always danger that the process may involve a sacrifice of the respect to which a work of art is entitled on its merits as such. Gounod, in collaboration with Barbier and Carré, wrote an opera entitled “La Reine de Saba.” The plot had nothing to do with the Bible beyond the name of Sheba’s Queen and King Solomon. Mr. Farnie, who used to make comic operetta books in London, adapted the French libretto for performance in English and called the opera “Irene.” What a title for a grand opera ! Why not “Blanche” or “Arabella” ? No doubt such a thought flitted through many a careless mind unconscious that an Irene was a Byzantine Empress of the eighth century, who, by her devotion to its tenets, won beatification after death from the Greek Church. The opera failed on the Continent as well as in London, but if it had not been given a comic operetta flavor by its title and association with the name of the excellent Mr. Farnie, would the change in supposed time, place and people have harmed it ?
A few years ago I read (with amusement, of course) of the metamorphosis to which Massenet’s “Hérodiade” was subjected so that it might masquerade for a brief space on the London stage ; but when I saw the opera in New York “in the original package” (to speak commercially), I could well believe that the music sounded the same in London, though John the Baptist sang under an alias and the painted scenes were supposed to delineate Ethiopia instead of Palestine.
There is a good deal of nonsensical affectation in the talk about the intimate association in the minds of composers of music, text, incident, and original purpose. “Un Ballo in Maschera,” as we see it most often nowadays, plays in Nomansland ; but I fancy that its music would sound pretty much the same if the theatre of action were transplanted back to Sweden, whence it came originally, or left in Naples, whither it emigrated, or in Boston, to which highly inappropriate place it was banished to oblige the Neapolitan censor. So long as composers have the habit of plucking feathers out of their dead birds to make wings for their new, we are likely to remain in happy and contented ignorance of mésalliances between music and score, until they are pointed out by too curious critics or confessed by the author. What is present habit was former custom to which no kind or degree of stigma attached. Bach did it ; Handel did it ; nor was either of these worthies always scrupulous in distinguishing between meum and tuum when it came to appropriating existing thematic material. In their day the merit of individuality and the right of property lay more in the manner in which ideas were presented than in the ideas themselves.
In 1886 I spent a delightful day with Dr. Chrysander at his home in Bergedorf, near Hamburg, and he told me the story of how on one occasion, when Keiser was incapacitated by the vice to which he was habitually prone, Handel, who sat in his orchestra, was asked by him to write the necessary opera. Handel complied, and his success was too great to leave Keiser’s mind in peace. So he reset the book. Before Keiser’s setting was ready for production Handel had gone to Italy. Hearing of Keiser’s act, he secured a copy of the new setting from a member of the orchestra and sent back to Hamburg a composition based on Keiser’s melodies “to show how such themes ought to be treated.” Dr. Chrysander, also, when he gave me a copy of Bertati’s “Don Giovanni” libretto, for which Gazzaniga composed the music, told me that Mozart had been only a little less free than the poet in appropriating ideas from the older work.
One of the best pieces in the final scene of “Fidelio” was taken from a cantata on the death of the emperor of Austria, composed by Beethoven before he left Bonn. The melody originally conceived for the last movement of the Symphony in D minor was developed into the finale of one of the last string quartets. In fact the instances in which composers have put their pieces to widely divergent purposes are innumerable and sometimes amusing, in view of the fantastic belief that they are guided by plenary inspiration. The overture which Rossini wrote for his “Barber of Seville” was lost soon after the first production of the opera. The composer did not take the trouble to write another, but appropriated one which had served its purpose in an earlier work. Persons ignorant of that fact, but with lively imaginations, as I have said in one of my books,’ have rhapsodized on its appositeness, and professed to hear in it the whispered plottings of the lovers and the merry raillery of Rosina contrasted with the futile ragings of her grouty guardian ; but when Rossini composed this piece of music its mission was to introduce an adventure of the Emperor Aurelianus in Palmyra in the third century of the Christian era. Having served that purpose it became the prelude to another opera which dealt with Queen Elizabeth of England, a monarch who reigned some twelve hundred years after Aurelianus. Again, before the melody now known as that of Almaviva’s cavatina had burst into the efflorescence which now distinguishes it, it came as a chorus from the mouths of Cyrus and his Persians in ancient Babylon.
When Mr. Lumley desired to produce Verdi’s “Nabucodonosor” (called “Nabucco” for short) in London in 1846 he deferred to English tradition and brought out the opera as “Nino, Rè d’Assyria.” I confess that I cannot conceive how changing a king of Babylon to a king of Assyria could possibly have brought about a change one way or the other in the effectiveness of Verdi’s Italian music, but Mr. Lumley professed to have found in the trans-formation reason for the English failure. At any rate, he commented, in his “Reminiscences of the Opera,” “That the opera thus lost much of its original character, especially in the scene where the captive Israelites became very uninteresting Babylonians, and was thereby shorn of one element of success present on the Continent, is undeniable.”
There is another case even more to the purpose of this present discussion. In 1818 Rossini produced his opera “Mosè in Egitto” in Naples. The strength of the work lay in its choruses ; yet two of them were borrowed from the composer’s “Armida.” In 1822 Bochsa performed it as an oratorio at Covent Garden, but, says John Ebers in his “Seven Years of the King’s Theatre,” published in 1828, “the audience accustomed to the weighty metal and pearls of price of Handel’s compositions found the `Moses’ as dust in the balance in comparison.” “The oratorio having failed as completely as erst did Pharaoh’s host,” Ebers continues, “the ashes of `Mosè in Egitto’ revived in the form of an opera entitled `Pietro l’Eremita.’ Moses was transformed into Peter. In this form the opera was as successful as it had been unfortunate as an oratorio. . . . ` Mosè in Egitto’ was condemned as cold, dull, and heavy. `Pietro l’Eremita,’ Lord Sefton, one of the most competent judges of the day, pronounced to be the most effective opera produced within his recollection ; and the public confirmed the justice of the remark, for no opera during my management had such unequivocal success.” 1 This was not the end of the opera’s vicissitudes, to some of which I shall recur presently ; let this suffice now :
Rossini rewrote it in 1827, adding some new music for the Académie Royal in Paris, and called it “Moïse” ; when it was revived for the Covent Garden oratorios, London, in 1833, it was not only performed with scenery and dresses, but recruited with music from Handel’s oratorio and renamed “The Israelites in Egypt ; or the Passage of the Red Sea” ; when the French “Moïse” reached the Royal Italian Opera, Covent Garden, in April, 1850, it had still another name, “Zora,” though Chorley does not mention the fact in his “Thirty Years’ Musical Recollections,” probably because the failure of the opera which he loved grieved him too deeply. For a long time “Moses” occupied a prominent place among oratorios. The Handel and Haydn Society of Boston adopted it in 1845, and between then and 1878 performed it forty-five times.
In all the years of my intimate association with the lyric drama (considerably more than the number of which Mr. Chorley has left us a record) I have seen but one opera in which the plot adheres to the Biblical story indicated by its title. That opera is Saint-Saëns’s “Samson et Dalila.” I have seen others whose titles and dramatis personce suggested narratives found in Holy Writ, but in nearly all these cases it would be a profanation of the Book to call them Biblical operas. Those which come to mind are Goldmark’s “Konigin von Saba,” Massenet’s “Hérodiade” and Richard Strauss’s “Salome.” I have heard, in whole or part, but not seen, three of the works which Rubinstein would fain have us believe are operas, but which are not “Das verlorene Paradies,” “Der Thurmbau zu Babel” and “Moses” ; and I have a study acquaintance with the books and scores of his “Maccabaer,” which is an opera ; his “Sulamith,” which tries to be one, and his “Christus,” which marks the culmination of the vainest effort that a contemporary composer made to parallel Wagner’s achievement on a different line. There are other works which are sufficiently known to me through library communion or concert-room contact to enable me to claim enough acquaintanceship to justify converse about them and which must perforce occupy attention in this study. Chiefest and noblest of these are Rossini’s “Moses” and Méhul’s “Joseph.” Finally, there are a few with which I have only a passing or speaking acquaintance ; whose faces I can recognize, fragments of whose speech I know, and whose repute is such that I can contrive to guess at their hearts such as Verdi’s “Nabucodonosor” and Gounod’s “Reine de Saba.”
Rossini’s “Moses” was the last of the Italian operas (the last by a significant composer, at least) which used to be composed to ease the Lenten conscience in pleasure-loving Italy. Though written to be played with the adjuncts of scenery and costumes, it has less of action than might easily be infused into a performance of Mendelssohn’s “Elijah,” and the epical element which finds its ex-position in the choruses is far greater than that in any opera of its time with which I am acquainted. In both its aspects, as oratorio and as opera, it harks back to a time when the two forms were essentially the same save in respect of subject matter. It is a convenient working hypothesis to take the classic tragedy of Hellas as the progenitor of the opera. It can also be taken as the prototype of the Festival of the Ass, which was celebrated as long ago as the twelfth century in France ; of the miracle plays which were performed in England at the same time ; the Commedia spirituale of thirteenth-century Italy and the Geistliche Schauspiele of fourteenth-century Germany. These mummeries, with their admixture of church song, pointed the way as media of edification to the dramatic representations of Biblical scenes which Saint Philip Neri used to attract audiences to hear his sermons in the Church of St. Mary in Vallicella, in Rome, and the sacred musical dramas came to be called oratorios. While the camerata were seeking to revive the classic drama in Florence, Carissimi was experimenting with sacred material in Rome, and his epoch-making allegory, “La Rappresentazione dell’ Anima e del Corpo,” was brought out, almost simultaneously with Peri’s “Euridice,” in 1600. Putting off the fetters of plainsong, music became beautiful for its own sake, and as an agent of dramatic expression. His excursions into Biblical story were followed for a century or more by the authors of sacra azione, written to take the place of secular operas in Lent. The stories of Jephtha and his daughter, Hezekiah, Belshazzar, Abraham and Isaac, Jonah, Job, the Judgment of Solomon, and the Last Judgment became the staple of opera composers in Italy and Germany for more than a century. Alessandro Scarlatti, whose name looms large in the history of opera, also composed oratorios ; and Mr. E. J. Dent, his biographer, has pointed out that “except that the operas are in three acts and the oratorios in two, the only difference is in the absence of professedly comic characters and of the formal statement in which the author protests that the words fato, dio, dieta, etc., are only scherzi poetici and imply nothing contrary to the Catholic faith.” Zeno and Metastasio wrote texts for sacred operas as well as profane, with Tobias, Absalom, Joseph, David, Daniel, and Sisera as subjects.
Presently I shall attempt a discussion of the gigantic attempt made by Rubinstein to enrich the stage with an art-form to which he gave a distinctive name, but which was little else than an inflated type of the old sacra azione, employing the larger apparatus which modern invention and enterprise have placed at the command of the playwright, stage manager, and composer. I am compelled to see in his project chiefly a jealous ambition to rival the great and triumphant accomplishment of Richard Wagner, but it is possible that he had a prescient eye on a coming time. The desire to combine pictures with oratorio has survived the practice which prevailed down to the beginning of the nineteenth century. Handel used scenes and costumes when he produced his “Esther,” as well as his “Acis and Galatea,” in London. Dittersdorf has left for us a description of the stage decorations prepared for his oratorios when they were performed in the palace of the Bishop of Groswardein. Of late years there have been a number of theatrical representations of Mendelssohn’s “Elijah.” I have witnessed as well as heard a performance of “Acis and Galatea” and been entertained with the spectacle of Polyphemus crushing the head of presumptuous Acis with a stave like another Fafner while singing “Fly, thou massy ruin, fly” to the bludgeon which was playing under-study for the fatal rock.
This diverting incident brings me to a consideration of one of the difficulties which stand in the way of effective stage pictures combined with action in the case of some of the most admired of the subjects for oratorios or sacred opera. It was not the Lord Chamberlain who stood in the way of Saint-Saëns’s “Samson et Dalila” in the United States for many years, but the worldly wisdom of opera managers who shrank from attempting to stage the spectacle of the falling Temple of Dagon, and found in the work itself a plentiful lack of that dramatic movement which is to-day considered more essential to success than beautiful and inspiriting music. “Samson et Dalila” was well known in its concert form when the management of the Metropolitan Opera House first at-tempted to introduce it as an opera. It had a single performance in the season of 18941895 and then sought seclusion from the stage lamps for twenty years. It was, perhaps, fortunate for the work that no attempt was made to repeat it, for, though well sung and satisfactorily acted, the toppling of the pillars of the temple, discreetly sup-ported by too visible wires, at the conclusion made a stronger appeal to the popular sense of the ridiculous than even Saint-Saëns’s music could with stand. It is easy to inveigh against the notion that frivolous fribbles and trumpery trappings should receive more attention than the fine music which ought to be recognized as the soul of the work, the vital spark which irradiates an inconsequential material body ; but human nature has not yet freed itself sufficiently from gross clogs to attain so ideal an attitude.
It is to a danger similar to that which threatened the original New York “Samson” that the world owes the most popular melody in Rossini’s “Mosè.” The story is old and familiar to the students of operatic history, but will bear retelling. The plague of darkness opens the opera, the passage of the Red Sea concludes it. Rossini’s stage manager had no difficulty with the former, which demanded nothing more than the lowering of the stage lights. But he could evolve no device which could save the final miracle from laughter. A hilarious ending to so solemn a work disturbed the management and the librettist, Totola, who, just before a projected revival in Naples, a year or two after the first production, came to the composer with a project for saving the third act. Rossini was in bed, as usual, and the poet showed him the text of the prayer, ” Dal tuo stellato,” which he said he had written in an hour. “I will get up and write the music,” said Rossini ; “you shall have it in a quarter of an hour. And he kept his word, whether liter-ally or not in respect of time does not matter. When the opera was again performed it contained the chorus with its melody which provided Paganini with material for one of his sensational performances on the G-string.
Carpani tells the story and describes the effect upon the audience which heard it for the first time. Laughter was just beginning in the pit when the public was surprised to note that Moses was about to sing. The people stopped laughing and pre-pared to listen. They were awed by the beauty of the minor strain which was echoed by Aaron and then by the chorus of Israelites. The host marched across the mimic sea and fell on its knees, and the music burst forth again, but now in the major mode. And now the audience joined in the jubilation. The people in the boxes, says Carpani, stood up they leaned over the railings ; applauded ; they shouted : “Bello ! bello ! O che bello !” Carpani adds : “I am almost in tears when I think of this prayer.” An impressionable folk, those Italians of less than a century ago. “Among other things that can be said in praise of our hero,” remarked a physician to Carpani, amidst the enthusiasm caused by the revamped opera, “do not forget that he is an assassin. I can cite to you more than forty attacks of nervous fever or violent convulsions on the part of young women, fond to excess of music, which have no other origin than the prayer of the Hebrews in the third act with its superb change of key 1”
Thus music saved the scene in Naples. When the opera was rewritten for London and made to tell a story about Peter the Hermit, the corresponding scene had to be elided after the first performance. Ebers tells the story : ” A body of troops was sup-posed to pass over a bridge which, breaking, was to precipitate them into the water. The troops being made of basketwork and pulled over the bridge by ropes, unfortunately became refractory on their passage, and very sensibly refused, when the bridge was about to give way, to proceed any further; consequently when the downfall of the arches took place the basket men remained very quietly on that part of the bridge which was left standing, and instead of being consigned to the waves had nearly been set on fire. The audience, not giving the troops due credit for their prudence, found no little fault with their compliance with the law of self-preservation. In the following representations of the opera the bridge and basket men which, en passant (or en restant rather), had cost fifty pounds, were omitted.” When “Moïse” was prepared in Paris 45,000 francs were sunk in the Red Sea.
I shall recur in a moment to the famous preghiera but, having Ebers’ book before me, I see an anecdote so delightfully illustrative of the proverbial spirit of the lyric theatre that I cannot resist the temptation to repeat it. In the revised “Moses” made for Paris there occurs a quartet beginning “Mi manca la voce” (” I lack voice”) which Chorley describes as “a delicious round.” Camporese had to utter the words first and no sooner had she done so than Ronzi di Begnis, in a whisper, loud enough to be heard by her companion, made the comment “E vero !” (“True !”) “a remark,” says Mr. Ebers, “which produced a retort courteous some-what more than verging on the limit of decorum, though not proceeding to the extremity asserted by rumor, which would have been as inconsistent with propriety as with the habitual dignity and self-possession of Camporese’s demeanor.”
Somebody, I cannot recall who, has said that the success of “Dal tuo stellato” set the fashion of introducing prayers into operas. Whether this be true or not, it is a fact that a prayer occurs in four of the operas which Rossini composed for the Paris Grand Opéra and that the formula is become so common that it may be set down as an operatic convention, a convention, moreover, which even the iconoclast Wagner left undisturbed. One might think that the propriety of prayer in a religious drama would have been enforced upon the mind of a classicist like Goethe by his admiration for the antique, but it was the fact that Rossini’s opera showed the Israelites upon their knees in supplication to God that set the great German poet against “Mosè.” In a conversation recorded by Eckermann as taking place in 1828, we hear him uttering his objection to the work : “I do not understand how you can separate and enjoy separately the subject and the music. You pretend here that the subject is worthless, but you are consoled for it by a feast of excellent music. I wonder that your nature is thus organized that your ear can listen to charming sounds while your sight, the most perfect of your senses, is tormented by absurd objects. You will not deny that your ‘Moses’ is in effect very absurd. The curtain is raised and people are praying. This is all wrong. The Bible says that when you pray you should go into your chamber and close the door. Therefore, there should be no praying in the theatre. As for me, I should have arranged a wholly different `Moses.’ At first I should have shown the children of Israel bowed down by countless odious burdens and suffering from the tyranny of the Egyptian rulers. Then you would have appreciated more easily what Moses deserved from his race, which he had de-livered from a shameful oppression.” “Then,” says Mr. Philip Hale, who directed my attention to this interesting passage, “Goethe went on to reconstruct the whole opera. He introduced, for instance, a dance of the Egyptians after the plague of darkness was dispelled.”
May not one criticise Goethe ? If he so greatly reverenced prayer, according to its institution under the New Dispensation, why did he not show regard also for the Old and respect the verities of history sufficiently to reserve his ballet till after the passage of the Red Sea, when Moses celebrated the miracle with a song and “Miriam, the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand ; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances”?