‘RIENZI’ AND ‘THE FLYING DUTCHMAN’

I

Were Rienzi an opera of the highest artistic importance, I suppose I should have read ere now Bulwer Lytton’s novel of that name.  As it is, I must confess my utter inability to wade through that pretentious and dreary achievement.  And it does not matter.  Skimming over the novel, I have gathered enough of the plot to see that Wagner took only the plot and nothing else from Lytton.  What else he could have taken I cannot guess, unless it was a copious stream of high-falutin’, and at this period Wagner’s own resources of the sort were ample.  What he wanted was a plot that would afford him an opportunity of planning a spectacular opera on the largest possible scale, and this he found in Lytton.

Two claims, or rather, a claim and a counter-claim, have been, and constantly are, made with regard to Rienzi.  The first is that it was inspired by Meyerbeer and a copy of one of his works—­which one I do not know; the counter-claim is that Meyerbeer had no part in the business, and that on the contrary he learnt more from Wagner than Wagner could possibly have learnt from him.  Now the notion, I take it, of composing a grand work for the Paris stage was suggested by Meyerbeer’s stupendous success—­of that, indeed, I cannot admit there is the faintest shadow of a doubt.  Starting from Paris, where they were concocted together with Scribe, Meyerbeer’s operas went the round of the opera-houses of Europe, and save in one or two quarters Meyerbeer lorded it over the opera-houses of Europe.  It may be true enough that some of his mighty works had not been played at Riga—­it may even be true that Wagner had not seen the scores.  But that I feel less sure about; and, anyhow, if he had not seen them he was bound to have heard of them.  The talk of musical Europe was not likely to be unknown to a man who both read and wrote in the musical papers.  As soon as Wagner conceived the idea he wrote to Scribe concerning it; and, as we know, Scribe quite naturally left his communication unanswered.  We find, then, that this, not more than this, though certainly not less, is the extent of Wagner’s indebtedness to Meyerbeer:  that Meyerbeer, by writing clap-trap for a large stage, with showy, tawdry effects, had gained enormous popularity and corresponding wealth, and thus unconsciously had thrown out a hint that budded and blossomed into Rienzi.  How little beyond this bare hint Wagner got from Meyerbeer we shall see when we examine the music.  A word must be said about the counter-claim.  In his age Wagner at Bayreuth, although he had fine musicians as his friends, had round him many gentry who told him—­greatly daring, to his face—­not only that he owed no artistic debt to any one, but that, on the whole, most other composers owed him a good deal.  One can excuse the weary old man, sorely battered in life’s battles, lapping up a little of this sweet flattery;