This article was probably published around the fall of 1892
after the Rome performances of I Rantzau. The author's name and
exact date of publication are unknown.
That Mascagni should persist in concerning himself with the mild
idylls of MM. Erckmann-Chatrian is a fact which can be explained
in one of two ways. Either he has not yet realized the true
limitations and tendency of his own genius, and so does not perceive
the absurdity of wasting the dramatic power that is certainly his on
subjects that do not call for its exhibition, or, with a cunning
rare in men of his temperament, he is wandering in foreign fields
that he may return to his proper work of melodrama better equipped
for the task of producing a musical drama even more poignant than
Cavalleria Rusticana. The latter is probably the true
explanation. Mascagni is employing in a larger way the device which
is apparent on every page of his music - the trick of sudden dynamic
contrasts. Whatever its faults, the first work was, from the
theatrical point of view, marvellously effective; it kept the
spectators' nerves at a tension never loosened; and certainly it
could hardly be expected that it would be followed immediately by an
opera of larger design but of similar genre - and merit. To
reculer pour mieux sauter, then, is his probable intention;
and if Nerone, the opera on which he is at present engaged
(for William Radcliffe has been completed for some years),
should prove to be the long-expected masterpiece of the new
generation of composers, the young Italian's wisdom will be amply
justified. But these matters are, after all, for speculation only;
and I Rantzau must be juged by its own merits.
It is hardly possible, however, to lose sight entirely of these side
issues, or, rather, of what they lead to. All that has to do with
the artistic intentions of such a man as Mascagni is of interest,
and where some may choose to blame the composer of I Rantzau
for having chosen an uninteresting subject, others may endeavour to
prove that by his choice he has shown a willingness - an ambition,
even - to enlarge the scope of the musical drama, and to prove to
the world at large that a successful opera may be made out of
elements other than the old ones of seduction and murder. For
ourselves, we are willing to take this more hopeful view of the
matter; although it is not easy to believe that many of the ordinary
operatic public will be brought to interest themselves in a story of
which the two most prominent figures are old men. There is the
inherent weakness of this story, which centres entirely around the
quarrel of the two brothers, Gianni and Giacomo Rantzau. The
librettists, we think, have done their work badly. Given a previous
acquaintance with the details of the novel, the spectator might
perhaps leave a performance of the opera with an approximately
complete notion of the plot; but far too much is left to the
imagination, and the progress of Giorgio's love for Luisa is shown
very inadequately. An opera without superfluous love-making is no
doubt a welcome novelty; yet, since it is the love of the two
cousins that bring about the utlimate reconciliation of the two
fathers, a fuller exposition of it would have helped the opera to
make a more direct appeal for popular sympathy without the least
sacrifice of artistic propriety. There is something almost cynical
in the treatment of the two lovers, who are not allowed to exchange
a single word until the fourth and last act; there is not even a
hint of stolen interviews or smuggled letters. In L'Amico
Fritz we had at least I the dainty Cherry-tree duet;
here the love-making is all imagined - a somewhat too austere piece
of realism. These are undeniably grave flaws, which seriously impair
the chances of the opera's popularity; but when they are admitted,
the worst has been said. The story is much more dramatic than that
of L'Amico Fritz, in which, if there was love, there was
absolutely no situation of interest. Here we are set face to face
with several such situations. The first act is dramatically the
weakest, for the sale of the meadow, which brings the family feud to
a climax, is not romantic, even in the operatic sense; and the
concerted finale - the first, it may be noted, ever written
by Mascagni - though it is very cleverly handled, brings at once the
sense of unreality. In the second act there is more of interest, for
it is here that we have the commencement of the dispute between
Gianni and his daughter about her marriage. She, he says, is to
marry Lebel, the inspector of forests; and when Gianni overhears a
conversation between Luisa and Fiorenzo, the schoolmaster, in which
she declares that she will never marry Lebel, an intensely effective
scene ensues. Luisa is resolute, though she is more touched by her
father's entreaties than fearful of his anger. Exasperated by her
repeated refusals, he flings her to the ground in fury and raises
his hand to strike her; then, overcome by remorse, he rushes from
the room as Luisa sinks back in a swoon. It is easy to see that the
materials are here for a powerful scene; and, though Mascagni was
hardly fortunate in his interpreters, a very great effect was
produced by it at the first performance on Thursday last.
The third act, though somewhat incoherent in structure, is of
scarcely smaller interest. Luisa has resorted to serious illness
- that unfailing refuge for girls crossed in love. The doctor
thinks she is dying; at any rate, nothing can save her but the
fulfilment of her desires. All this is set forth at the opening of
the act in a chorus of girls, who besiege Giulia and her father
Fiorenzo with anxious questions. Then follow three short scenes -
the first between Fiorenzo and Giacomo, who is furious that his son
should wish to marry his brother's daughter; the second between
Fiorenzo and Giorgio, in which the schoolmaster - a person of
exemplary patience - has to listen to a lengthy declaration of
Giorgio's love; the third between Giorgio and Lebel, who is provoked
to a quarrel ending in a challenge to fight. History is silent as
to this duel, which probably came to nothing. The departure of the
two rivals is followed by what we cannot but consider the greatest
scene of the whole opera. Gianni, bowed down with grief at his
daughter's state, comes to sit in the square alone in the deepening
night. One one side he can see the light in Luisa's sick room, on
the other the lights of the brother's house. The thought of her
suffering and possible death is intolerable to him, and he is torn
by love for her and the old hatred for his brother. At last the
higher passion prevails. Trembling with excitement, he rushes to his
brother's house and knocks. Giacomo appears at the door, and Gianni
breaks out with a few stammered phrases of appeal - "Lassu mia
figlia muore; il tuo figliuolo faresti morir tu, Giacomo ?" There is
a moment's silence, and at last Giacomo almost sobs the simple word
"Entra !" What follows the strange interview is wisely left untold,
except by implication; for in the last act we find that the marriage
between Giorgio and Luisa is arranged, on the condition that Gianni
is to leave the neighbourhood for ever. When Giorgio discovers the
terms of this contract, he pleads passionately with his father and
uncle for a fuller reconciliation. At last they yield and rush into
each other's arms, and the curtain falls on a scene of general
happiness.
Of the music itself it is less easy to speak in detail, since the
score is not yet accessible, and in its absence the most that can be
done is to describe its general effect, in doing which it is
necessary to return to the standpoint from which we have started. A
story like this of I Rantzau is not Mascagni's affair at all.
It is with difficulty that he reduces to the proper level of
quietness his turbulent genius, and the obvious joy with which he
seizes any opportunity of writing music of the most theatrical sort
is sufficient evidence of the artistic unfitness of his subject. The
true quality of his genius is no longer in doubt - if, indeed, there
were ever any who doubted that he is a composer for the theatre
alone. Nothing in the realm of pure music need ever be expected from
him. His business, his delight, is to discern everywhere the
possibility of making a dramatic effect. Of his power to do this
there has never been question, and if I Rantzau must be held
to rank below Cavalleria in the sum total of its
achievements it is not because Mascagni has treated the one less
brilliantly than the other, but because he is here wasting his
strength on an improper subject. Samson bound in the withes of the
Philistines is not the less Samson, but his strength is of little
use to him. Will not Mascagni break from the fetters in which he has
allowed himself to be bound ?
The chief significance of this music lies, to our thinking, in the
proof it affords that Mascagni has at last developed a style. He
started his career with a dangerous aptitude for assimilating the
ideas, and the modes of uttering them, of his predecessors. In I
Rantzau there is little that is derivative. Here and there is a
mere touch of, for instance, Berlioz and Gounod; the influence of
the first being discernible in the theme which illustrates the
family feud; that of the second in some of the love-music, and in
the charming ballad, "Cera un volta un re," with which Luisa opens
the second act. But these matters are scarcely worth mentioning; the
real point of interest is that Mascagni is bringing to perfection an
entirely personal mode of artistic expression. Tricks he has, it is
true, and he will do well not to carry too far his love of
constantly-varying rhythms. It is a device which is very apt to fail
of its result. His use of representative themes is noticeably
discreet, and it is certainly pleasant to find a young composer who
makes no foolish attempt to handle the great weapons of the
Wagnerian armoury. For the rest, it is hard to name more than one
essential quality of greatness that is not represented in this
score. Dignity is to seek in most of Mascagni's work; but melody
beauty, power, breadth are all here. If merits of a lighter sort are
asked for, they may be found in the delicious chorus, "Acqua limpida
che brilli," at the opening of the third act, and the still more
piquant Cicaleccio, or gossiping chorus, which immediately
follows. This latter, by the way, which is written in canon form,
would gain immensely in effect if each part were sung by two or
three voices, instead of one. The love-duet and the inevitable
intermezzo are, though clever, of no very distinctive merit, and
there are too few fitting moments for the introduction of those
tremendous stretto passages for strings in unison, with a
thick under-accompaniment of wind, which are so exclusively
Mascagni's own. The highest level is touched in the last sections of
the second and third acts. The quarrel between Luisa and her father
finds admirably adequate expression; each nuance of emotion
is emphasized in the orchestra with consummate skill. And the great
scene outside Giacomo's house is treated with absolute mastery. The
intense excitement of the two brothers is reflected in the sombre
chords of the bassoons and 'cellos, and as Gianni staggers up the
steps, and the door closes, there is a tumultuously triumphant
outbreak of the whole resources of the orchestra, sinking suddenly
to a quiet pianissimo as the curtain falls. The general
impression, then, left after a first hearing, may be briefly
indicated. I Rantzau is in all respects an advance on
L'Amico Fritz, and may therefore be expected to achieve an
even greater popularity than its predecessor; but, even if this
tentative prophecy remains unfulfilled, and the public taste will
not interest itself in the quarrel of two old men, musicians in
general will certainly hold that, in virtue of this opera, Mascagni
must be now considered a permanent aud potent factor in European
art.
Of the performance it is not necessary to speak very fully. Mme.
Darclée (Luisa) and Signor De Lucia (Giorgio) do not deserve the
enthusiasm with which the Florentine public has rewarded their
efforts. The soprano music is much too high and too heavy for the
lady, and the tenor's success must be held to prove that, in spite
of the familiar talk about the "pure Italian style" of singing,
Italian audiences do not want purity of style. Signor Battistini
sings the music of Gianni effectively, but hardly ever grasps the
real nature of his part. By far the best artists of the company are
Signor Sottolana, a really admirable baritone, who plays the part of
the schoolmaster; and Signor Broglio, the Giacomo. Signor Paroli
(Lebel) and Signorina Occhini (Giulia) complete a not too efficient
cast. The opera is beautifully mounted, and conducted by Signor
Ferrari, who, though far too demonstrative in manner, is thoroughly
master of his work.
