100 Great Operas and Their Stories: Act-By-Act Synopses (2 page)

LA TRAVIATA
,
Verdi

TRISTAN UND ISOLDE
,
Wagner

THE TROJANS
,
Berlioz

IL TROVATORE
,
Verdi

LES TROYENS
,
Berlioz

TURANDOT
,
Puccini

THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS
,
Wagner

DIE VERKAUFTE BRAUT
,
Smetana

THE VALKYRIE
,
Wagner

DIE WALKÜRE
,
Wagner

WILLIAM TELL
,
Rossini

WOZZECK
,
Berg

YEVGENY ONYEGIN
,
Tchaikovsky

DIE ZAUBERFLÖTE
,
Mozart

ZOLOTOY PYETUSHOK
,
Rimsky-Korsakoff

Chronology

About the Author

PREFACE
AN APOLOGY FOR SMILING

Every one of the stories in this book is—or, at least, once was—good. I say this with confidence because no composer who ever lived would take the time and trouble to write a score for a story he knew to be bad. In fact, most opera composers, today as in the past, spend a large part of their time and care looking for a good story to set—and composers are men with outsize I.Q.’s. If they weren’t, they could never master the intricacies of writing a score.

Why, then, should there be so prevalent a conviction among our literate population that practically the lowest form of literature is the opera libretto and that there is nothing quite so ludicrous as an opera story? For there is no getting away from the fact that many of the stories in this book include basic or incidental absurdities.

Here, then, is the explanation. There are, first of all, a number of opera stories, like
Pelleas and Melisande
or
Gianni Schicchi
, which not only were good to begin with but remain good in the operatic telling. Then there are great stories from mythology, like the Orpheus, the Electra, and the Trojan War legends; there are Bible stories, like Samson’s and Salome’s; there are historical stories like Godounoff’s and King Gustave’s; there are stories based on great plays like Goethe’s
Faust
and Shakespeare’s
Othello;
there are stories derived from stage hits like Sardou’s
Tosca
and Belasco’s
Butterfly;
and there are even a few entirely original tales written by the composers themselves, like Leoncavallo’s
Pagliacci
and Menotti’s
Amahl
.

But some operatic stories have, with time, come to seem hopelessly old-fashioned; others have been ruined for us by the vagaries of stage life and even of political life. Thus, the story of Camille
(La Traviata)
once seemed so violent and realistic an attack on sexual morals as to shock our British grand- or great-grandfathers a hundred years ago into banning it, whereas today it strikes us as a sentimental or at best a quietly touching romance; while the libretto of
A Masked Ball
struck Verdi’s original censors as so forceful a lesson in regicide that they fastened magnificent absurdities upon it even before the musical score was completed.

In retelling these stories for this book, I have tried, in my introductory notes and in the telling of the stories themselves, to explain some of these absurdities, even to highlight them when doing so might suggest to the reader a greater sympathy with the work of art he is asked to consider. For these operas are all works of art which (with a few exceptions) have had the vitality to survive on the stage whether or not a modern audience can take the story as seriously as the composer must have before he set the words to music. Under the spell of great music well performed, the willing suspension of disbelief that Coleridge demanded for poetry is more easily come by when whatever nonsense may occur on the stage has already been forgiven and when one can throw oneself under the spell of the words, the action, the scenery and the music in the way the composer could have wished.

H.W.S
.

THE ABDUCTION FROM THE SERAGLIO

(Die Entführung aus dem Serail)

Opera in three acts by Wolfgang Amadeus
Mozart with libretto in German by Gottlob
Stephanie based on a play by Christoph
Friedrich Bretzner

Time: 16th century

Place: Turkey

First performance at Vienna, July 16, 1782

Mozart composed
The Abduction from the Seraglio
at one of the happiest times in his short life. He was barely twenty-six; he was very much in love with Konstanze Weber; he was engaged to marry her and, in fact, he did so just a little over three weeks after the opera’s premiere. In addition, the first name of his fiancée was the name of the heroine of the story of the opera. All this delight, I like to think, is reflected in the music of the opera.

It isn’t really so much an opera as what the Viennese of the time called a
Singspiel
, that is, a gay play with music. All of the action is carried on with spoken dialogue, and the characters break into song only to express strong emotions, seldom to further the story. One important character, the Pasha, does not sing at all but only speaks.

Eighteenth-century Vienna was crazy about Turks. There were Turkish dress styles, Turkish hair-dos, Turkish stories, and a great deal of Turkish music—or what the Viennese thought was Turkish music. Some of the pianos even had tiny drum and bell attachments to make “Turkish effects.” The story and music of
The Abduction
were part of this Turkish fad. It concerns a high-minded Pasha of the sixteenth century, who captures a beautiful English maiden, Konstanze, and her maid Blondchen (meaning “little blonde”), and also Pedrillo, the servant of a young Spanish nobleman named Belmonte.

OVERTURE

The overture, a familiar piece in concert halls, reflects the contemporary Turkish fad: it makes prominent use of both the triangle and the bass drum. Gay in mood, as the overture to any
Singspiel
should be, it offers a moment of sweet sadness by including, in a minor key, the young hero’s opening aria.

ACT I

Without waiting for a conclusion to the overture, the curtain rises on Belmonte, the noble young Spanish hero of the story. He has reached a seaside plaza outside the palace of the Pasha, and he sings of his hope of finding Konstanze there
(Hier soll ich dich denn sehen, Konstanze
—“Here may I hope to find you, Konstanze”). An unpleasant old fellow named Osmin appears. He is picking figs in the garden and singing a ditty about unreliable sweethearts
(Wer ein Liebschen hat gefunden
—“Whoever has found a sweetheart”). Now, Osmin is the Pasha’s overseer, and when Belmonte asks about his friend Pedrillo, he receives a very scurvy welcome. Osmin, it seems, is in love with Blondchen, but so is Pedrillo, and the girl favors the young Spaniard. When Osmin has disappeared, Pedrillo himself comes out and tells his old master that he is a favorite of the Pasha. Immediately they begin to scheme to get the two girls away.

A chorus of Janissaries, welcoming the Pasha, interrupts them, and a scene between the Pasha and the lovely Konstanze tells us how things are going. The high-minded Turk loves the lady, but he will not force his suit on her. She, for her part, still pines for her old love, Belmonte, and frankly tells her captor so. It is a fine, brilliant coloratura aria she has there (
Ach, ich liebte
—“Ah, I was in love”). When she has left, Pedrillo introduces Belmonte to the Pasha as a visiting architect. The Pasha is most cordial, but when he has left, old Osmin tries to keep the two friends from entering the palace. An amusing trio follows
(Marsch, marsch, marsch–
“March!”); and as the act ends, the two men push Osmin aside and rush in.

ACT II

So far we have not met the most engaging lady in the cast—Blondchen; but in the very opening of Act II, which takes place within the palace, she really tells old Osmin off. English girls can’t be ordered around, she says, not even in Turkey; and before she gets rid of him, she offers to scratch the fellow’s eyes out and to get him beaten. It’s quite a scene. But Konstanze is more tragically disposed. Belmonte has (she thinks) failed to rescue her, and now the Pasha demands that she love him tomorrow. This state of affairs she reveals to Blondchen in the aria
Durch Zärtlichkeit
—“Through tenderness.” The Pasha enters at this point and demands her love at once—even threatening torture. This is the occasion for her wonderful aria of defiance called
Martern aller Arten
—“All kinds of martyrs.” Then there follows a scene between little Blondchen and Pedrillo. He tells his girl the great news: Belmonte has arrived. In fact, he is in the palace as an architect; he has a ship anchored in the bay; and they will all elope at midnight! As for the ever-suspicious Osmin, he will have to be taken care of by a well-prepared drink.

Almost at once Pedrillo has his chance. Osmin comes in and it does not take a long argument for Pedrillo to overcome his Mohammedan scruples about alcohol. The old fellow drinks
himself silly and is dragged off sound asleep. The act ends with a perfectly delightful quartet by the four lovers. The Spanish men are at first a little suspicious about the faithfulness of the two girls; but they are quickly convinced, and the plans to elope that night are confirmed.

ACT III

Scene 1
begins at midnight. Belmonte and Pedrillo, outside the palace, are ready to abduct Konstanze and Blondchen in the approved romantic fashion—that is, with ladders and serenades. They begin properly enough, and Belmonte gets away with his Konstanze. Unfortunately, it is a rather noisy business, and the jealous Osmin recovers from his drunken stupor just in time to catch the runaways. They are all brought in under guard; the Pasha is summoned; and the culprits are condemned to an immediate and hideous death. Yet there is time for a lovely duet, of farewell and of courage, between Belmonte and Konstanze, and also for a rather fiendish aria of revenge by Osmin
(Ha! wie will ich triumphiren
—“Ha! how I shall triumph o’er you”).

Scene 2
Then, within the palace, comes the surprise ending. It turns out that Belmonte’s father had been the Pasha’s worst enemy and had treated him most harshly. The high-minded Turk wishes to teach the Europeans a lesson in forbearance. He pardons Belmonte and presents him with his own beloved Konstanze, and he forgives Pedrillo and Blondchen even over the protests of Osmin. Naturally, everyone except Osmin is thoroughly delighted, and the opera ends with a concerted number in which all join in praising the Selim Pasha.

As you see, the enthusiasm for things Turkish extended even to the character of the Mohammedan nobility. Variations on this theme may be found further on in this book, both in Rossini’s
Italian in Algiers
and in Weber’s
Oberon
.

L’AFRICAINE

(The African Maid)

Opera in five acts by Giacomo Meyerbeer with
libretto in French by Eugène Scribe. Often
sung in Italian as
L’Africana
.

Time: about 1500

Places: Lisbon, Hindustan, and the oceans between

First performance at Paris, April 28, 1865

Every once in a while in the history of opera there comes a composer whose work seems to dominate the whole repertoire. So it was with Handel in England; so it was with Spontini in Germany; so it was with Meyerbeer in all Western Europe and in America. Then, virtually in one season, as with Handel and Spontini, their works disappear from the stage, seldom if ever to be resurrected. Meyerbeer’s work has disappeared more slowly. It was at its height in popularity when the composer died (his last opera,
L’Africaine
, having its premiere a year after his death); and a season without
Les Huguenots
,
Le prophète, Dinorah
, or
L’Africaine
was still all but unthinkable for a great opera house in the time of our grandparents. By the middle thirties, however, he had completely disappeared from the stage of the Metropolitan and many other houses; and while he still is performed in the French opera museums and given an occasional revival in Germany, his vogue is long past. The operas of many far more obscure composers have been accorded semi-permanent immortality by grace of complete recordings; but as of this writing, not a single one of Meyerbeer’s once extremely popular works can be purchased in this form.