100 Great Operas and Their Stories: Act-By-Act Synopses (65 page)

OVERTURE

This is one of the most popular pieces ever written for “pops” concerts. It is based partly on the
Pilgrims’ Chorus
, with which it opens and closes, and partly on the contrasting music of the orgies in the court of Venus. It thus summarizes the theme of the whole story—the battle of sacred and profane love for the soul of the hero, Tannhäuser.

ACT I

In the original, or “Dresden,” version of the opera, the overture comes to a full close. In the “Paris” version, which was mounted sixteen years later, the curtain rises without interruption
for applause, on a scene of great voluptuousness in the court of Venus—a scene that Wagner revised extensively for the occasion, bringing to it the musical powers greatly matured through the composition, in the intervening years, of
Lohengrin
, over half of the Ring cycle, and
Tristan und Isolde
. This court of Venus had its being in the Thuringian mountains, where the spring goddess, Holda, was supposed to reign. The poetry of mythology, however, quite rightly disregards the mundane logic of historians, and Holda is easily equated with Venus, the goddess of love.

At the moment, with the amiably distracting assistance of sirens, naiads, nymphs and bacchantes, she is trying to make things attractive for Heinrich Tannhäuser, a more or less historical German knight who was also a singer and composer, Henry has deserted the court of Landgrave Hermann, ruler of Thuringia, to spend some time at the more glamorous spot he is inhabiting now. But he has grown tired of the pagan rites and tells the goddess so. Despite all her pleadings, Tannhäuser calls on Mary, and the whole wicked court vanishes.

The scene is transformed at once into the valley of the Wartburg. Tannhäuser listens to a shepherd boy sing sweetly and innocently (oddly enough, about the goddess Holda, who, in
his
mythology, is a good girl), and he greets a group of pilgrims chanting on their way to Rome. From the distance, then, comes the sound of hunting horns, and presently Tannhäuser is cordially welcomed by the Landgrave himself and a party of hunters, all old friends. They urge him to return, for they miss his singing. At first he refuses. Then his particular old friend and comrade-in-arms-and-song Wolfram tells him that the Landgrave’s daughter Elisabeth has been brokenhearted since his departure. In a noble melody Wolfram urges Tannhäuser to return, and he is joined in these hospitable sentiments by the Landgrave himself and all the knights. Warmed by this reception—and by the thought of the beloved Elisabeth—Tannhäuser is won over, and the act closes with hunting calls as the whole party leaves for the castle of the Wartburg.

ACT II

The second act takes place in the magnificent Hall of the Minstrels, in the Wartburg. Elisabeth has long kept away from the festivals of song held here. After a short prelude, she returns to the hall and rapturously greets it in a brilliant aria
(Dich, theure Hall’)
. The reason she has returned is that Tannhäuser, the greatest of the singers, is once more in the court. Soon he is brought in by Wolfram, who discreetly retires. She tells Tannhäuser modestly but frankly how he has been missed, and the two unite in a rapturous duet over their reunion.

Then, enter the Landgrave. He informs Elisabeth that there will be a tournament of song, that she shall crown the winner, and that her hand will go with the prize. Trumpet calls are heard off-stage, and to the familiar
“March from Tannhäuser”
the entire court assembles for the tournament of song. It turns out to be a rather more exciting event than most singing contests. Wolfram begins, conservatively praising a pure and holy love. Tannhäuser—recently returned from that great expert on love, Venus—rashly tells Wolfram he does not know what he is talking about. Biterolf, another contestant, takes up the argument on Wolfram’s side. Thereupon Tannhäuser becomes even more violent. To the consternation of everyone, he takes up his harp and sings frankly and vigorously in praise of carnal love. Everyone is deeply shocked. The knights take out their swords to attack the profaner of the Hall; the women start to leave in disorder; and suddenly Elisabeth intervenes. Throwing herself before her beloved, she begs for his forgiveness. The Landgrave consents, provided Tannhäuser makes a pilgrimage to Rome to get a pardon from the Pope. Just at that moment a group of pilgrims conveniently passes by. Filled with contrition, Tannhäuser rushes out to join them.

ACT III

The prelude describes, mournfully enough, our hero’s unhappy pilgrimage to Rome. Elisabeth has been sadly awaiting
his return; and at a roadside shrine in the valley of the Wartburg, she silently prays for him as the faithful Wolfram watches and muses over her. In the distance we hear a band of pilgrims approaching. They sing the famous
Pilgrims’ Chorus
, and as they pass by the shrine, Elisabeth eagerly searches for her beloved Tannhäuser. He is not to be found among them; and when the pilgrims have departed, she kneels once more to pray to the Virgin Mary that Tannhäuser may yet be saved—and that she herself may leave this unhappy earth. When she arises, Wolfram wishes to accompany her home, but Elisabeth quietly refuses the kind offer: she hopes, now, only to die.

Dusk is gathering; the evening star comes out; and Wolfram sings the famous aria to that heavenly body, accompanying himself on his harp. Now, in the semi-darkness, appears the wretched figure of Tannhäuser. Bitterly he says that he is on his way again to the Venusburg. He recites to Wolfram the long narrative of his journey to Rome. The hardships had been almost incredible; and when he reached the Pope, he had been told there was no forgiveness—not till the staff the Pope held in his hand should burst into bloom. Reasonably enough, Tannhäuser considers this unnatural phenomenon very unlikely. He calls upon the goddess Venus, who appears in the distance, singing seductive music and surrounded by her court of bacchantes. Desperately Wolfram tries to restrain his friend and finally succeeds only through telling him that one angel prays for his soul. Her name is “Elisabeth” Just as Tannhäuser is at last won over again, a cortege passes by bearing the body of Elisabeth, who has at last found the rest she so earnestly desired. Completely broken, Tannhäuser sinks down beside her bier.

The opera closes ironically, but on a joyous tone. A chorus of young pilgrims enters bringing with them the latest miracle from Rome. It is the Pope’s staff, which has burst into bloom. God has forgiven the errant Tannhäuser.

THE TELEPHONE
or L’amour à trois

Opera in one act by Gian-Carlo Menotti with libretto
in English by the composer

Time: the present

Place: practically any country with telephones

First performance at New York, February 18, 1947

    Mr. Menotti’s
The Medium
is a grim and powerful tragedy but too short for a full bill at the opera house. Therefore, when it was first produced by the Ballet Society at the Heckscher Theater in New York, the composer supplied this short curtain-raiser most admirably contrasted in tone.

The opening measures of the prelude have the tempo marking
Allegro vivace
. Translated literally, this musickese for “fast and lively” means “vivaciously happy”—as good a description of the entire score as anyone could find.

In her apartment Lucy unwraps a present that Ben has just handed her, a bit of crazy sculpture. “Oh! Just what I wanted,” she giggles even before she has looked at it. Ben, obviously smitten with the pretty bird-brain and even more obviously shy, manages to say that he is going away by train in an hour, but when he returns he hopes, he hopes … He has not yet nerved himself to the proposal, when the telephone rings. It is one of her girl-friends, and for several pages she goes on with the typical inane chatter of girls on the telephone: “Jane and Paul are to get married next July. Don’t you think it is the funniest thing? … And how are you? And how is John? And
how is Jean? … And how is Ursula? And how is Natalie? And how is Rosalie? I hope she’s gotten over her cold …” And so on, including the most
delicious
peals of merry girlish coloratura laughter, till poor Ben begins to show his desperation.

Finally the conversation is through; Ben begins his embarrassed proposal once more; and there is another ring. Wrong number. Oh, but she must dial for the time. It is four-fifteen and three and a half seconds. Once more Ben begins. Once more the telephone. This time it is a friend named George. Apparently Lucy has been repeating some gossip about him, and she tries in vain to defend herself against his tirade. George hangs up on her; Lucy bursts into tears; and Ben tries awkwardly to soothe her. When she goes into the next room to get a handkerchief, Ben seriously considers cutting the telephone wire-but once more it rings, “desperately,” says the score. Lucy, running back and taking it from Ben, pouts that he “must have hit it first.” Now she must ring Pamela and tell her all about George. This is another real long call, and Ben, first muttering to himself, finally becomes desperate. Lucy barely notices when he leaves: “I have a feeling he had something on his mind,” she murmurs after hanging up.

But a moment later one corner of the stage lights up, showing Ben in a telephone booth. He dials Lucy’s number, gets an answer, and finally comes through with the proposal. Will she marry him? Of course! And the opera ends with a telephoned duet in which Ben promises never, never to forget her telephone number.

THAÏS

Opera in three acts by Jules Massenet with libretto
in French by Louis Gallet based on the
novel of the same name by Anatole France

Time: fourth century
A.D
.

Place: Alexandria and surrounding desert country

First performance at Paris, March 16, 1894

    
Thaïs
has always been what is called a vehicle opera; that is, it has been most successful when sung by a spectacular soprano in the leading role. Massenet composed it for the glamorous Sybil Sanderson, the American toast of Paris, while in the United States (and in France, too) the role was practically identified, for many years, with that glorious singing-actress, Mary Garden.

The story of the opera is based on the novel of the same name by Anatole France, the great French ironist. It should not be confused, by the way, with the story of that other Thaïs, the one for whom Alexander the Great burned Persepolis. Alexander’s Thaïs died as the Queen of Egypt; Anatole France’s heroine had a very different fate.

The original tale was written by France two different times, both in prose; but when Louis Gallet came to build a libretto on it, he decided to experiment with something new, something he called
poésie mélique—a
sort of rhythmical prose or unmetered and unrhymed poetry which might fall gracefully into musical phrases. This sounds like a good idea, and it worked out well in this case; yet it inspired no imitations at the time, and it is only recently that librettists have been trying similar ideas once more.

ACT I

Scene 1
takes place in the desert near Thebes, on the banks of the Nile, some time in the fourth century. A group of monks—“cenobites,” they were called—is having an evening meal of bread, salt, hyssop leaves, and honey, and their leader, Palemon, is praying. Athanaël, one of their members, comes back, dusty and exhausted, from a trip to Alexandria, his birthplace. There he has seen the corruption amid which he himself was raised. But it is worse now, he reports. The courtesan and actress, Thaïs, has inspired even greater vice, and Athanaël wishes to return and try to save her. Palemon gently tries to tell him he would be doing better to mind his own business; but when everyone leaves the young monk, he sees Thaïs once more in a vision, acting, half naked, before a crowd, as he had seen her in Alexandria.

Terribly excited, he calls back his fellow monks. He tells them he must go at once; and though Palemon repeats his gentle warning, Athanaël sets out on his trip. As the scene closes, he is on his way, and one hears the monks praying for him from ever and ever greater distances.

Scene 2
finds Athanaël once more in Alexandria, and the graceful music of the prelude suggests how much pleasanter this place is than the desert. He stands before the splendid home of his old friend Nicias, but he finds nothing pleasant in the sight of all this cursed wealth. Nicias greets him with complete cordiality, and when Athanaël tells him the reason for his visit, Nicias says: Fine! It happens that Thaïs is his own
mistress for the time being, and, in fact, he is giving her a big farewell party that night. Athanaël must come—only he must be dressed properly for the festivities, not like a dirty old monk. And so he summons two pretty slave girls, Crobyle and Myrtale, to bathe and dress him in the highest Alexandrian fashion. The girls are delighted, for they find this monk a most handsome and attractive fellow. In a charming duet, full of laughter, they effect a startling change, finishing just before the guests, in very high spirits, come rushing in. Among them is Thaïs, beloved of all of them as the most glamorous and beautiful girl in town. She is left for a short while alone w
ith
Nicias, and in a good-natured but slightly sentimental fashion she tells him it is his last time with her, for he has no more money. Not a cynical note creeps into the expression of this basically cynical attitude, for these are the rules of the game, and Nicias does not question them.