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AFTER a period of mediocrity in the history of German music, Wagner's work stands out as a notable and original achievement, but the school of music founded by him suffered from more than the usual number of weaknesses. The success of the master, and the failure of his disciples, are explained by the exceptionally dominating nature of Wagner's egocentric genius. An unusual combination of talents made him an epitome of the worthy and less worthy tendencies of his period and rendered him--despite the rarified atmosphere in which he sometimes moved--in the best sense of the word, democratic. His work appealed to all sections of the public, to the intellectuals for its thought-provoking qualities, to the romantics for its abundant beauty, to the homme moyen sensuel for the deliberate eroticism which permeates the music, and lastly, also to the confraternity of musicians who were subjugated by the perfect workmanship of the Meistersinger.
The sensual appeal was undoubtedly the most persuasive. But Richard Wagner had power to invest work, the originally deeply ethical conception of which was distinctly touched with sensuality, with a kind of halo; and this halo Wagnerians have considered it their duty to preserve at all costs. Any hint at the undeniably sensual stimulus of his work was taken as an insult; his poetic spirit was constantly belauded; he alone had done great things, through the inspiration of the primitive German spirit. The historical and cultural sources which inspired Wagner's work were obvious and incontrovertible, but the qualities of charm, brilliance and sensitiveness in the music - dramas suggested doubts as to the undiluted Teutonism of the blood which ran in the master's veins.
The stage-craft which envelops Wagner's work is so overpowering that the work itself is in danger of being overlooked; and this may in part account for the fact that, as our distance from him increases, criticism of him and revolt against him become more open. This, however, arises mainly from the operation of the natural law by which a sense of satiety must follow an art which stimulates so many powers of the mind, excites so many instincts, and tyrannises indeed over life. Exhaustion follows on extreme nervous tension; but the real worth of the work is proved in that much still retains validity in the changed thought of a new age.
The striking effects and staging of Wagner's work proved very attractive to the average man and extended his popularity far beyond German frontiers. To speak of Wagnerian stage-craft is to speak of Bayreuth, a state within a state, the imperial city of opera, where art tyrannised over man, creating for people of all races a unique atmosphere, full of charm and the magicof association. After the political collapse of Germany, Bayreuth may hold Wagner Festivals, but can never become what it was formerly. What will be the fate of Wagnerian opera, exiled from Bayreuth? It will certainly have to withstand more searching criticism, and establish again and again its right to survive, unsupported by the glamour of a dominating stage-tradition.
Bayreuth represented the ideal of a theatre in which the typical German community-feeling--" team-work"--was intensified to its utmost by the force of dominating personalities; but a satisfactory ensemble did not suffice, as it had done perhaps for Mozart Marriage of Figaro. The new musicdrama demanded the complete surrender of the personality of the interpreters to give it expression, and only an intensified devotion to the whole from each dramatic singer could produce the unique impression at which it aimed. Pilgrims to Bayreuth found there the perfection of the democratic theatre, a masterpiece of organisation, a new tradition of the German music-drama, as opposed to the "star" system of Italian opera. In Germany, and in all countries which sent singers to study there, the charm of Bayreuth was perpetuated by a succession of enthusiasts who embodied the ideas they received at Bayreuth with all the force of intense loyalty. Such were the Wagnerian conductors, Levi, Richter, Mottl and Toscanini. As time passed, however, Wagner's work necessarily became to some extent subdued to the limitations of the ordinary stage; a mediocre working level of presentation was found, a tradition of conventional pathos and prescribed gesture, which the less gifted performer might learn, but from which the spirit had departed. The performers no longer attempted to interpret the work, but became mechanical, and the second-rate conductor relied on stereotyped orchestral effects. When thus cheapened and then contrasted with less seriously conceived works of French or Italian character, the weaknesses of the music-drama stand revealed. What, one asks, can have been the magic which gave such power to this mixture of philosophy, philology, psychology and Northern mythology? One finds the strained alliteration and the prolix speeches intolerable; yet, despite this, the skill of the orchestration, the brooding magic of the leitmotiv, the erotically inspired lyricism are undeniable. These qualities are, however, too obtrusive, too obvious; their purpose is frustrated by a commonplace outlook and by want of atmosphere. Common daylight has disclosed the weakness of Wagner's work, and it is now often underestimated, probably because of intermingled bourgeois elements in his style and lack of spiritual unity. But his greatness, though diminished, is not dethroned.
Appreciation of Wagner's work has probably suffered severely through a cult of Naturalism on the stage in the time of his greatest imitators. Opera is widely differentiated from other dramatic art by the magic of music, but the theatre of Ibsen and Gerhardt Hauptmann has nevertheless thrown a light on musical drama. A new stage-craft, which revivified Shakespeare on the boards, was bound to influence emotional music-drama also, and the novel histrionic art of such as the Stanislavsky troupe had somehow or other to win recognition in opera. A certain amount of naturalism was demanded even there, and the mixed art of Verism in Italy was an attempt to embody this idea. The old operatic stageconvention, a misbegotten, ramshackle offshoot of the theatre, was, nevertheless, very powerful, and was prepared to measure its strength against any claim of the human or natural to a part in musical drama. Bayreuth stands firmly, its festival tradition indifferent to the average theatre, and any attempt on the German stage to modify the accepted Wagnerian sentiment is apparently foredoomed to failure, obvious though the present intellectual bankruptcy of the music-drama may be.
Faith in the immortal greatness of the Ring is shattered, matter and treatment being alike too foreign to the ideals of the new age. It is like the casting-down of a great idol. In the near future, parts of the Ring will either be forgotten or --because there is music in them stronger than any critical theory--will be heard only on the concert platform. The heyday of music-drama is past, and even now there is a marked decline of interest in the Tetralogy among the general public (which has been deprived of it during the last few years), although in previous decades a pure Wagner programme was eagerly demanded.
Tristan remains sacred, but parts of the Meistersinger are challenged, though the glorious polyphony of the score, a certain melancholy yet characteristic humour, and its general popularity, gave it a high place that seemed unassailable. It exercised a wonderful influence in its time. The masterly combination of ordinary speech with great music in the Meistersinger was of the greatest consequence for the future of opera, and not of that art only. The main structure of this incomparable work can never be prejudiced by a refusal to consider every note as absolutely sacred.
As to Tristan, there can be but one opinion. Here even the pessimism of Oswald Spengler hesitates. Its historic value remains unshaken; it is still the supreme expression of ecstatic human love. It strikes a note of intense solemnity, gripping performers and audience with irresistible power, raising them above their normal selves. Such an incomparable musical expression of humanity makes one forget any lapse in text, prosody or analysis--these become merely accessory. We turn to Tristan for music only, and we turn to it again and again with renewed wonder while the world seems to hold its breath and Tristan is for us the only reality. It is beloved by young and old, musical and unmusical. The young are moved, not only by its intense emotional appeal, but by the sense that it is the source of all, or nearly all, later appeals of like nature. Its lyric quality and its echo of romanticism stand out in an age of mechanism and commercialism, and when such a singer as Helene Wildbrunn sighs Isolde's last love-confession, the curtain falls on a perfectly-accomplished work.
Parsifal, on the contrary, is lost. Separation from Bayreuth, now perhaps itself lost, proved fatal to it. The weaknesses of Parsifal, Gurnemanz's endless dreary speeches, outworn climaxes, spring from its half-hearted conception. It falls between truth and theatricality, between acceptance and rejection of life, between Schopenhauerism and rebellion; it finds no fulfilment. The concert platform would have provided it with a more favourable milieu than the stage. We may pass over such work as the Flying Dutchman, Tannhäuser and Lohengrin, which still live on the boards, to consider Wagner's phenomenal effect 6n the world of music. It is strange that one who began as a revolutionary, even in political matters, should have become a kind of apotheosis of the bourgeois. In the recent world crisis he throws much light on the equally critical condition of art.
Opera is not dead, but depending, as it does, more than other forms of art, on an ordered public life, it has become submerged in the great social upheaval, and creative energy has been diverted from it. It is a mixed art, obtaining strong sensuous effects by the union of seeming incompatibles, and it appears always to have depended on an aristocracy or a plutocracy. Born of a desire to resuscitate classical drama, it became the entertainment of princes and retains to this day a certain courtly magnificence. Wagner in his music-drama attempted to clothe the immaterial in the sensuous; and, although he brought the elements of purpose, personality and ensemble to a very perfect working unity, he also disclosed certain vulnerable points of the art.
A law to himself, Wagner's object in art was neither more nor less than the creation of a people's opera, but in this he did not succeed. The too exacting standards of his work would in themselves have defeated such a scheme. It is a question now whether, after many experiments, the new age of turmoil and social upheaval will re-create opera, or whether the art which arose so suddenly will survive its crisis only to drag on a miserable existence, till replaced gradually by new artistic forms.
Richard Wagner stated almost every problem of opera and even, impossible as it might seem, disturbed the serenity of Italy, that home of bel canto and the temporary operatic season. There, however, inherited operatic traditions and popular delight in sheer song were too strong for Wagner, and although he made a few vivid individual impressions, his influence was not lasting. Certain composers, particularly Verdi, were impelled to attempt a closer interdependence of music and book, thereby limiting the freedom of the voice, with the result that we get a passionate Othello, a battle-ground of bel canto, past tradition and dramatic present; and Falstaff, which despite a certain reticence that gives it almost the quality of chamber-music, still, shows the irrepressible individuality of the venerable composer who knew no problems.
Wagner fought for a significant libretto against the idea which made his art a mere pastime and a means of display for "star-singers." He strove to replace secco recitative by "spoken song," and to give new birth to the drama through the spirit of music. It was a mighty and, on the whole, successful effort; but immediately after, perhaps on that very account, every problem of opera arose once more. To mention one of the chief, a text full of meaning tends to be swallowed up in the music, particularly when that music, as in Wagner's work, is highly expressive; the question arises whether a strong emotional situation, powerfully expressed in music, needs the additional poetry of words. If, however, the words are to be ignored, the power of the orchestra must be limited and the work of expression must be left in a greater measure to the voice. Wagner, however, was too powerful to be bound by ordinary laws. He dominated all in his circle, and those who were inclined to accept his work at all were compelled to accept it almost whole. The sense-intoxicating quality of his music, the irresistible charm of his atmosphere, and his imperious personality, exercised a siren-like charm, enslaving the life, thought and emotions of men, inducing not only a certain response to music, but a certain outlook on life as well. He stood for an entire culture which had to be proved a failure before it could lose its power. Wagner's period now seems remote and, but for him and his influence, would have little meaning for us to-day. In his time almost every would-be composer was burdened with the impedimenta of the German symphony writer who attempted drama without the dramatic spirit. It was an inheritance, a taint in the blood. Wagner drew his inspiration from many sources, and though he was in a sense very German, he was independent of national barriers. His followers who had none of the master's passionate inspiration, little guessed that his success was made by some qualities that were German and others that were very un-German indeed.
There is no life left in the work of August Bungert, who tried to call up the spirit of Greece by means of Wagnerian gestures, and with a few devoted followers plan a Bayreuth of his own on the Rhine; nor in the work of Alexander Ritter, who dandled the new Germany as a sentimental and family affair. The Barber of Bagdad, the work of an unfortunate, lyrically-gifted poet, Peter Cornelius, later swallowed up in Wagner's charmed circle, still has life in it and is a pearl of that German humour to which, it is complained, so little attention is paid; but it has its limitations, and in spite of occasional beauties, German method weighs upon it heavy as lead.
The purer air of the Meistersinger blows through the work of Hermann Goetz, who composed an opera on Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew in romantic style, and Engelbert Humperdinck charmed the German world with a combined echo of the fairy-tale and of the Meistersinger, orchestration in Hänsel und Gretel, Heirat wider Willen and Königskinder. Hermann Kienzl, an Austrian, expressed the spirit of folklore from Evangelimann to Kuhreigen. Leo Blech wrote the Alpenkönig und Menschenfeind, Das war ich, and Versiegelt with unvarying facility. The genius of Bayreuth influenced all these composers but, as it were, from a greater distance.
The tyranny of the leitmotiv is very apparent in the spiritless work of Max von Schillings, whose Ingwelde, Pfeifertag and Moloch, pledges of a more or less genuine devotion to Wagner, were born to an early death. He is a prohfic composer for the stage. As a sympathiser with Verism, but with the soul of an unquestioning new German, he obtained great success with Monna Lisa, on a very effective libretto by Beatrice Dovsky; but it is a work created from no inner impulse, only written in a kind of musical convulsion.
Verismo is the reaction from Wagnerism in Italy. Innate love of theatrical effect made it altogether too melodramatic; the emotional situation and the leitmotiv were over-exploited at the expense of symphonic value. A closer connection was achieved between action and music; "spoken song" was married to recitative; the voice not deprived of leadership, but its sensuous effect strengthened by every device. Among composers of this school, Pietro Mascagni and Umberto Giordano are noteworthy, but Giacomo Puccini is outstanding. It is clear that Puccini began as a Wagnerian, but the Latin spirit prevailed. In the cantilena are combined the French chanson and the Italian aria; other artistic influences, also, are obvious. From the appearance of La Bohème with its tenderly lyrical quality, Puccini has been greeted as the saviour of opera in a time of dearth, but desire for effect seems to lead him inevitably, and, as it were, against his better nature, to such work as Tosca, Madame Butterfly and The Girl of the Golden West. Carefully chosen libretti, and skilful musical setting, account for Puccini's world-wide influence and power to please. Compared with Verdi, whose most renowned successor he is in the operatic world, his work seems thin, theatrical rather than truly passionate, full of opportunities, as in Tosca, for the self-display of a primadonna, but a stone of offence to musicians who see the ethos of music trodden underfoot. Puccini, however, came to a better frame of mind, and although the middle part of his trilogy, Sister Angelica, arouses the most painful feelings, the last, Gianni Schicchi, is a brilliant apology. It is without the genius of Falstaff, which it somewhat resembles, but it has grace; and the dialogue, which goes with a flourish suitable to the story, is handled in a light and masterly fashion. Altogether, the work is a real contribution to musical comedy, and has the true spirit of the commedia dell' arte.
German musical comedy expected great things of Eugen d'Albert, whose delicately impersonal Abreise (The Departure) seemed to be constructed on the lines of true comic opera; but hi~, unfortunately, saw clearly enough that sensationalism was a quicker way to theatrical success. Bizet Carmen is, indeed, sensational, but it is also very human, very genuine, and deserves its lasting popularity for these reasons and for the fine libretto and skilful presentation. D'Albert, on the contrary, cared neither for honesty nor conscientious workmanship, and one seeks vainly for any connection between the fine exponent of Beethoven's piano works and the composer of Tiefland and other still less reputable works. It is strange also that a composer who began under the inspiration of Wagner Meistersinger should have ended by imitating Puccini at his worst.
Puccini is peculiarly open to criticism and is freely criticised everywhere, even in his own country; but he is, nevertheless, a force to be reckoned with, an evil influence on recent opera --evil because it makes, not for the honour of a great and true individuality in the world of music, but for the debased imitation of a manner which in the imitators becomes grotesquemere emptiness.
We have travelled far from Wagnerism, but indeed the reaction took many forms. Pathos and humour were both discarded, metaphysics and ethics flung to the four winds, leaving a mere caricature of opera. D'Albert, a clever, artificial trickster, degraded Wagner's art to the'level of operetta, forced it into the s~rvice of a sordid industry. It is the nemesis of high endeavour that not only does relaxation follow effort, but that a pursuit of big profits spoils the capacity for appreciating finer values.
Any particularly arresting situation in opera nowadays at once suggests the cinematograph, and the association of the two is certainly not unthinkable. The film gives the obvious to the eye, the music to the ear, and it is scarcely realised yet how much a sentimental tune contributes to the emotional tension. A combination of film, song and orchestra is a distinct possibility, but the present method of using music symphonically with the film is an attempt to join striking pantomime with epic.
To return to serious music, it is clear that Wagnerism, not as an idea, but through certain essential characteristics, has exercised a world-wide influence, which may be traced to-day to the remotest circles, not merely in reminiscent themes, but as unavoidable experience in form, colour and mood. The leitmotiv idea, when no longer used mechanically, is full of inspiration. The chromatic element of Tristan, on the other hand, has been taken from its proper sphere and spoiled by misuse. Wagner's palette is recognisable in the most unlikely places where Ms spirit is otherwise entirely changed.
The symphonic poetry of Siegmund von Hausegger is full of Wagner. His work originates in a resolute will to truth and honesty, but outworn theory cripples his imagination. The orchestration of Max von Schillings adopts Wagnerian gestures naturally enough, but they express nothing, having nothing to express.
It is noteworthy that Wagner, who would have nothing to do with chamber-music, has strongly affected that branch of art, for example, in the work of the Norwegian, Christian Sinding.
There is little indeed in orchestral music, programme-music or otherwise, in which his influence is not to be traced. For the moderns, as we shall see, he, at the very least, opened the door.
The modern dramatic song can also be traced to Wagner, and Hugo Wolf, whose opera Corregidor is the one failure of a lyric writer of genius, shows again and again how much he owes him. He presents the interesting phenomenon of a songwriter who felt the charm of the romantic songs of Schubert, Schumann and Brahms, and added power to the romantic spirit by use of the leitmotiv and by faithfulness to the words. He composes both the song of lyrical sentiment and the song which depends on its words, cantilena and recitative, and employs an individual style for each, but the accompanying instrument rather overpowers the song.
All this came from Wagner. He built up and he cut down, he gave life and destroyed it, until he himself was swept away by the onward surge of humanity in its eternal search for new values.
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