Meyerbeer's Les Huguenots (Opera Journeys Mini Guide Series) [1 ed.] 9781433708022

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Les Huguenots

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Les Huguenots (The Huguenots)

Opera in French in five acts

Music by Giacomo Meyerbeer

Libretto by Eugène Scribe

Premiere: Paris Opéra, February 1836

Adapted from the Opera Journeys Lecture Series by Burton D. Fisher

Principal Characters in Les Huguenots Brief Story Synopsis Story Narrative with Music Examples Commentary and Analysis

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Opera Journeys™ Mini Guide Series Published © Copywritten by Opera Journeys www.operajourneys.com

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Principal Characters in Les Huguenots Count de Saint-Bris, a Catholic nobleman Bass Valentine, Saint-Bris’s daughter Soprano Count de Nevers, a Catholic nobleman Baritone Raoul de Nangis, a Huguenot nobleman Tenor Marcel, Raoul’s servant Bass Marguérite de Valois, the King’s sister, betrothed to Henry of Navarre Soprano Urbain, Marguérite’s page Mezzo-soprano Ladies and Gentlemen of the Court, both Catholic and Huguenot, Pages, Citizens, Soldiers, The Night Watch, Students, Monks, and the People. TIME: August 1572 PLACE: Touraine (Acts I and II) Paris (Acts III, IV, V)

Brief Story Synopsis In an attempt to reconcile the religious enmity between Catholics and Huguenots, a marriage has been planned between the Protestant nobleman Raoul and Valentine, daughter of the Catholic Count Saint-Bris. While Raoul and his retainer Marcel dine with Count de Nevers and other Catholics, Raoul is summoned before Marguerite de Valois, the King’s sister. He is introduced to Valentine, and he is urged to marry her; he recognizes her as the woman he had earlier fallen in love with after saving her from danger, and also the woman who he had seen visiting Count de Nevers the night before. Raoul is unaware that she had come to de Nevers to break their engagement; he believes that she was unfaithful and cancels the planned marriage. Valentine marries Count de Nevers. The outraged Catholics plan to kill Raoul, but Valentine warns him through Marcel. When Raoul comes to thank her, he overhears the Catholics planning the massacre of the Huguenots. Valentine confesses her love for him, and after de Nevers is killed, they exchange vows of fidelity. Later, both are killed in the massacre.

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Story Narrative with Music Highlights Prelude: A brief orchestral prelude captures the tensions emanating from the religious fanaticism that dominates the opera story: its music consists largely of the Lutheran chorale, “Ein’ Feste Burg” (“Lord, fortress and protector, shield those who adore you”), dated 1530, and presumably written by Luther; the melody reappears throughout the opera as a leitmotif symbolizing militant Protestantism.

Act I: The chateau of Count de Nevers Count Nevers, together with other Catholic noblemen — Cossé, Thoré, de Retz, and Méru — play games while they praise folly and pleasures. Nevers announces that they are awaiting a guest: a young gentleman who has just obtained a military appointment through the influence of Admiral Coligny; the mention of Coligny, a Huguenot, arouses the guest’s suspicion and disdain. Nevers appeals to them to refrain from prejudice, arguing that the King, as well as his mother, the Catholic Catharine de Médici, have solemnly vowed to implement initiatives to reconcile the enmity between the Catholics and Protestant Huguenots. The nobles respond cynically; the sects are irreconcilable, and peace between them is wishful thinking. Raoul de Nangis, a Huguenot nobleman, arrives, prompting the noblemen to sardonically delight in the possibility of educating and converting a disciple of Calvin to the true gods: love and pleasure. Raoul modestly expresses his appreciation for the honor of being invited to join such erudite company. The nobles find Raoul’s appearance and demeanor somewhat provincial, but express their confidence that he will improve, a benefit derived from observing their example. Servants serve delicacies, and all raise their glasses in praise of wine. Nevers toasts women, and then declares that he is engaged to marry, boastfully explaining that after he announced his imminent marriage to the court, his popularity among the ladies has embarrassingly increased; they have been pursuing him relentlessly. Nevers proposes that each man relate an adventure with the opposite sex, pointing to Raoul to begin.

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Raoul recounts an incident in which he rescued a lady from a band of students who were embarrassing her; after he drove them away, he became dazzled by the unknown woman’s beauty, and each vowed eternal love to the other. Raoul’s Romanza:”Plus blanche que la blanche hermine”

Raoul introduces his servant Marcel: a tough old soldier, whose demeanor reflects his impassioned and uncompromising Protestantism. Marcel reproaches Raoul for associating with Catholics, calling the assemblage a “camp of the Philistines,” his insolence embarrassing Raoul, who apologizes to the nobles for his servant’s rude behavior. He further explains that his grandfather educated Marcel with both sword and Bible, teaching him to loathe the Pope, as well as hell. Marcel tactlessly sings the noble Lutheran chorale, “Ein’ Feste Burg,” antagonizing the Catholics with its expressions of intolerance and hatred. Marcel: “Seigneur, rempart et seul soutien....”

Cossé recognizes Marcel as the soldier who wounded him during the recent fight at La Rochelle; he bears no malice toward the old warrior and invites him to drink with him, but Marcel refuses, horrified by the thought of associating with a Catholic. Nevers invites Marcel to sing again, the antagonistic soldier responding with the vigorous “chanson huguenote,” sung by the Protestants during the fight at La Rochelle; the song mimes gunshots, and at the same time spews the Huguenot’s implacable hatred of Catholics. Marcel - Chanson Huguenote: “Pour les couvents c’est fini”

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The Catholic noblemen have become irate from Marcel’s insolence. Just as they are about to castigate him, their attention turns to the sudden appearance of a servant conducting a veiled lady into the garden. The servant appears before Nevers and informs him that a young and beautiful woman wishes to speak with him, the fact that she is unknown kindling Nevers’ curiosity; he speculates that a new conquest awaits him and pompously reminds his guests that women have been relentlessly pursuing him. Nevers excuses himself and exits, prompting the noblemen to comment lightheartedly but enviously about their host’s good fortune. To satisfy their curiosity, each of the nobles goes to the window overlooking the garden to try to identify the woman; no one recognizes her, but each praises her beauty. Raoul is indifferent and refuses to join the voyeurs, prompting Tavannes to reason that his failure to join them is attributable to Protestant proscriptions about proper conduct with women. Their cynicism arouses Raoul, provoking him to go to the window to view Nevers and the woman in the garden. Suddenly, Raoul recoils angrily: the woman téte à téte with the libertine Nevers is the very woman he rescued at Ambroise; the woman with whom he swore eternal love. He immediately concludes that an intimate liaison exists between Nevers and the unknown woman; but Raoul is oblivious to the truth, unaware that the woman is Nevers’ fiancée, at this very moment pleading with Nevers to be released from her marriage vows because she is in love with Raoul. Nevertheless, Raoul concludes that he has been betrayed, his passion suddenly transforming into fury: he swears revenge, while the other men cynically mock his naïve earnestness. Nevers respectfully bids farewell to the woman, returns to his guests, and immediately announces that his marriage plans have been terminated. His friends savor the opportunity to taunt him, sarcastically reminding him that his boastful, self-proclaimed womanizing image has been tarnished. Urbain, Queen Marguérite’s page, unexpectedly appears, announcing that he bears a letter for one of the gentleman present. Urbain: “Une dame noble et sage”

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Nevers outstretches his hand to receive the letter, assuming that he is the recipient. However, the letter is addressed to Raoul de Nangis. Raoul becomes incredulous as he reads the letter: a request that he accompany the page to an unspecified destination; he is to be blindfolded and ask no questions. Raoul eagerly accepts the invitation, concluding that he is embarking on a wanton adventure. Raoul casually passes the letter to the other guests to read. Nevers notices that the letter bears the seal of Marguérite de Valois, the King’s sister, prompting speculation that perhaps Raoul is not the naïve boor, but rather, a royal protégé. The nobles’ sudden respect bewilders Raoul: they proceed to patronize and court him, promising eternal friendship and devotion. As Urbain leads Raoul away, the nobles celebrate his good fortune.

Act II: The garden of Marguérite’s chateaux of Chenonçeaux, a few miles from Ambroise Adulating maids surround Marguérite de Valois, the King’s sister, and praise the serene beauty of the Touraine countryside, where love replaces the austerity and seriousness of the royal court. Marguérite: “O beau pays de la Touraine”

Valentine, Comte Saint-Bris’ daughter and Marguérite’s lady-in-waiting, informs her mistress that she met with Comte de Nevers last evening, and he consented to breaking their engagement. Marguérite has secured the approval of Comte Saint-Bris for his daughter to marry Raoul de Nangis: the marriage of a prominent Catholic to the scion of a leading Huguenot family would be a stepping stone to end the bitter enmity between Catholics and Huguenots. Marguérite and Valentine are unaware that Raoul, the man selected to marry Valentine, was the stranger who rescued Valentine at Amboise. In another step towards reconciliation of the rival faiths, Marguérite intends to marry Henri of Navarre, a Protestant. Marguérite watches admiringly as young girls indulge in their “toilette de bain” in the stream; young Urbain, watching the girls from behind a tree, is discovered by the ladies and his voyeurism is terminated.

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The blindfolded Raoul is led to Marguérite; she dismisses Valentine, the ladies, and Urbain. After the blindfold is removed, Raoul becomes dazzled by the surroundings, as well as the beauty of the woman before him; she is as yet unknown to him, but he makes no secret of the passion that has suddenly intoxicated him. Raoul: “Beauté divine”

In a friendly repartee, Marguérite points a roguish finger at Raoul while suggesting that then young man would be easy an easy conquest for her, but she has chosen Valentine Saint-Bris as his bride: she explains that Valentine is the young and beautiful daughter of Comte Saint-Bris, his family’s ancient enemy, their union intended to encourage reconciliation between Catholics and Huguenots. Gentlemen arrive to pay homage to Marguérite: SaintBris and Nevers stand with the Catholics on one side, the Protestants opposite. Raoul is introduced to Saint-Bris, their superficial and polite introduction obscuring the enmity between the rival sects. Marguérite demands that the Catholics and Protestants vow eternal peace; Marcel warns Raoul to beware of treachery while threatening everlasting war against Roman Catholicism. Nobles: “Par l’honneur”

Valentine, accompanied by her father, Saint-Bris, is presented to Raoul. After Raoul recognizes her, he recoils angrily: he rescued her at Ambroise, and afterwards, each vowed eternal love to the other, but he saw her with Nevers last night and believes that she betrayed their love and became Nevers’ mistress. Raoul condemns Valentine for betraying their vows, his wrath and abusiveness confounding the assemblage: Marguérite and Valentine are shocked and embarrassed; Saint-Bris and Nevers are furious at his insult to their honor and demand the Huguenot’s blood; and Marcel exults defiantly to the strains of “Ein’ feste Burg.”

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Catholics confront Huguenots menacingly, but bloodshed is averted by Marguérite, who commands Raoul to drop his sword. Saint-Bris and Nevers vilify Raoul as they carry the fainting Valentine away. Raoul tries to follow them, but he is restrained by Marguérite’s bodyguards. As Nevers swears revenge, any remote hopes of reconciling the warring religious factions seem to be doomed.

Act III: Paris. The Pré-aux-Clercs, the great meadow, running down to the banks of the Seine. It is six o’clock in the afternoon during August, 1572. Townspeople pass to and fro in the brilliant afternoon sunlight. A group of Catholic students have gathered at an inn near the entrance to a chapel. At another inn, Huguenot soldiers indulge in drink and dice games. The soldiers praise the glory of war with the spirited drumming of a rataplan. Rataplan

After Marguérite’s failed attempt to reconcile Catholics and Protestants through the marriage of Valentine and Raoul, Valentine and Comte Nevers became reengaged to be married. The strains of “Ave Maria” are heard as their nuptial procession arrives at the chapel. Marcel and Huguenot soldiers erupt into a defiant chorus of the “Rataplan,” their attempt to provoke the Catholic students into a fight, but a violent confrontation between the rival sects is averted by the sudden arrival of gypsies, who invite everyone to dance with them and have their fortunes told. As Saint-Bris, Nevers, Maurevert, and another gentleman exit the church, Nevers explains that Valentine vowed to remain in the church until evening; he departs, promising to return later to conduct her home. Marcel approaches Saint-Bris and hands him a letter; it is a challenge from Raoul to duel that evening at the deserted meadow of Pré-aux-Clercs. Saint-Bris does not want to expose his new son-in-law to danger on his wedding day and suggests to Maurevert that Nevers should not be told of the duel. Maurevert takes Saint-Bris into the chapel to discuss the details of a secret plan to destroy Raoul. They exit the chapel shortly thereafter, their conspiracy established: they will ambush and assassinate Raoul as he arrives for the duel.

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Valentine emerges from the chapel in great agitation: she had overheard the two men plotting to assassinate Raoul, and she must warn Raoul that his life is in jeopardy. Valentine not only wants to save Raoul’s life, but she also wants to redeem her father’s honor: avert his involvement in a sinister plot. She finds Marcel and explains the danger awaiting Raoul; Marcel rushes off to warn Raoul. Valentine:“Ah! l’ingrat d’une offense mortelle”

Shortly thereafter, Marcel returns, unable to find Raoul. He again converses with Valentine, declaring that he would die to save his master. Valentine, torn between love and duty, is pained by her helplessness. Valentine: “Tu ne peux éprouver”

Valentine takes refuge in the chapel. Raoul, Saint-Bris, and four seconds arrive. Marcel warns Raoul that there is impending treachery afoot, but Raoul ignores him; he turns to the seconds and orders them to arrange the details of the duel. Suddenly, Maurevert and two other armed men take positions beside Saint-Bris. Maurevert summons his men, claiming that Huguenots are attacking a lone Catholic. Catholic Soldiers emerge from hiding; they surround Raoul, his two seconds, and Marcel. Marcel breaks away and rushes to the inn to call his fellow Protestants to defend the faith against their Catholic enemies. Saint-Bris summons the Catholic students from the other inn. The rival sects pour out of the inns, hurl insults and threats at each other, and then begin fighting. The fighting ceases when Marguérite appears. Each of the warring sects accuses the other of violence and treachery, confounding Marguérite’s ability to determine the truth. A veiled woman emerges from the chapel; SaintBris lifts her veil, revealing his daughter Valentine. Raoul is astonished to learn that Valentine had acted to save his life, but he is still confounded by his belief that Valentine betrayed their love. Marguérite defends

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Valentine’s innocence, explaining that she met with Nevers at his chateau to break her engagement. Raoul becomes ecstatic, but Saint-Bris shatters his moment of joy by declaring that Valentine is now married to Nevers. A boat arrives on the Seine, gaily decorated, brightly lit, and filled with musicians, pages, and ladies of the court. Wedding cortège:

Nevers disembarks, salutes Valentine, and invites her to join him at a “banquet d’hymenée.” He conducts her to the boat as gypsies strew flowers before them, dance, and wave lighted torches. Marguérite appeals to the rival sects to bury their animosities and join the celebration; Valentine, Raoul, and Marcel remain pensive amid the gay festivities.

Act IV: A room in the castle of Comte Nevers. It is August 24, 1572, the night of St. Bartholomew’s day. Valentine has become heartbroken: she reproaches herself, her father, who forced her to marry Nevers, and Raoul, whose misunderstandings led him to condemn her as a traitor, which ended their marriage plans. Valentine: “Parmi les pleurs”

Raoul has entered the Nevers’ chateau at the risk of his life and suddenly and unexpectedly appears before Valentine. He anticipated that he will be discovered and killed, and has come to bid her farewell before dying. Approaching steps are heard. Valentine appeals to Raoul to leave: that if his presence is discovered she will be shamed and disgraced; to protect her honor, he agrees to conceal himself behind the tapestry. Saint-Bris, Nevers, Tavannes, and other Catholic noblemen have assembled to organize a sinister plot to annihilate the Huguenots. Saint-Bris orders Valentine to leave, but Nevers persuades him to let her remain, her Catholic zeal placing her beyond suspicion.

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The nobles detail their ghastly plot to massacre the Huguenots. However, Nevers becomes horrified at the ignominy of their plot and refuses to be a party to the slaughter. Saint-Bris orders Nevers taken into custody: to be kept under guard until the following day, after the massacre has been completed. Valentine is sent to her room. Saint-Bris invokes the just cause of the Catholics: their duty to God and King to destroy the impious Huguenots. .

Saint-Bris: “Pour cette cause sainte”

Saint-Bris issues sinister orders to the conspirators: that all strategic posts are to be occupied by the faithful; Coligny is to be murdered; and that they will attack Protestants gathered at the celebration for Marguérite and the King of Navarre. The first bell of St. Germain will be the ready signal for the Catholics; at the second stroke, they are to overwhelm and slaughter the Huguenots. The men raise their swords and daggers, which are blessed by monks, who urge them to spare no one in their vengeance: “Glaives pieux, saintes épées” After all have departed, Raoul cautiously emerges from hiding; he is joined by Valentine. Raoul wants to warn his fellow Huguenots of the sinister Catholic assassination plot. Valentine attempts to dissuade him, fearing that he will be doomed if he joins the Huguenots, and that he might kill her father in battle. Raoul: “Le danger presse”

Valentine confesses her love for Raoul. He cries out ecstatically, “You have said it!”, the admission of her love rekindling his soul and transforming his agitation into joyous rapture.

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Raoul: “Tu l’adit”

Raoul and Valentine exchange ardent vows of love, which are interrupted by the tolling of the great bell of St. Germain: the signal for the Catholics to begin the massacre. Raoul:“Plus d’amour!”

The bell booms out again. Valentine struggles in vain to restrain Raoul, who rushes to the window; he becomes crazed by the carnage he witnesses. The dreadful clamor of the bell increases, as does the clash of arms. Valentine faints. Raoul blesses her, and then leaps from the balcony, disappearing in the street below.

Act V – Scene 1: The Hotel de Nesle A ball celebrates the recent wedding of Marguérite and Henry of Navarre. However, the dancers have become visibly perturbed by the sinister sound of the bells heard in the distance. Raoul rushes in, frenzied, haggard, and covered with blood. He immediately begins to describe the carnage he has just witnessed: Coligny dead, the streets saturated with the blood of murdered Huguenots, and women fleeing in terror. The men draw their swords and rush from the room. Act V – Scene 2: A cemetery beside a Protestant church, its windows shattered by bullets Huguenot men have constructed a barricade. Marcel, seriously wounded, directs women to take refuge in the church. Valentine has joined Raoul. They have just learned that they are surrounded and that their defeat is imminent. Valentine offers Raoul a white scarf, the insignia of the Catholics, which will enable him to pass through enemy ranks unharmed. She reveals that her husband Nevers died in the battle: if Raoul embraces the Catholic faith, his life will be spared, and their love will endure. Valentine’s plea causes Raoul to hesitate momentarily, but Marcel’s

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reproach awakens him to his duty to the Huguenots; he decides to remain with the Huguenots and perish honorably. Valentine declares her ardent love for Raoul: that she will convert to Protestantism, and that they will be united forever; either in Paradise or in hell. Marcel acts as a priest and unites them in marriage. Women sing the strains of the Lutheran “benediction nuptiale.” The Catholics break into the church and command the Protestants to recant or die. Valentine, Raoul, and Marcel, kneel in prayer. Suddenly, Marcel rises to his feet, overcome by the ecstasy of a vision of Paradise hovering before his eyes, his zealous inspiration echoed by Valentine and Raoul. Marcel:“Ah! voyez”

Catholic soldiers break in and offer white scarves to Valentine, Raoul, and Marcel, their last chance to recant. They refuse. The soldiers seize them and drag them through the streets.

Act V – Scene 3: A quay in Paris Raoul is mortally wounded, staggering and supported by Valentine and Marcel. Saint-Bris and Catholic soldiers appear before them, but do not recognize them. Valentine pleads with Raoul to be silent, but he defiantly identifies himself as a Huguenot. Saint-Bris orders his soldiers to kill the group. As Valentine falls on Raoul’s corpse, SaintBris realizes that he has ordered the shooting of his own daughter. Valentine prays for her father’s soul, and then dies. Marguérite appears, en route to the Louvre, expressing horror at the sight of the dead Valentine. She tries to quiet the soldiers, but they defiantly curse the heretics and vow extermination.

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Commentary and Analysis

I

n the aftermath of Napoleon’s defeat, the Congress of Vienna (1815) stabilized Europe’s balance of power through alliances between the victorious states, treaties that were primarily intended to alleviate fears of Russian and Prussian opportunism. Additionally, Austria’s Prince Klemens von Metternich established a peace settlement with France that reduced its borders: France remained a great European power, but the alliances of surrounding states represented a powerful deterrent against its reemergence as a threat to other European states. Ultimately, the victors became the unwanted guardians over most of the European states, foreign rulers of nations that were heedless of cultural or ethnic sensibilities in their rule of countries such as Greece, Czechoslovakia, Holland, Belgium, Poland, Hungary, and Italy. However, the tyranny of these foreign autocrats inspired the oppressed peoples they ruled toward romantic dreams of self-determination and nationalism: the idea of being kin, numerous and strong, would provide the wherewithal to achieve social, political, and economic progress. In effect, the failed French Revolution and the defeat of Napoleon did not suppress Enlightenment aspirations for social, political, and economic progress. On the contrary, in the aftermath, an impassioned clamor for democratic reform emerged that demanded liberation and self-determination for states ruled by foreign powers, the elimination of social injustices, the abolition of poverty, and the inauguration of economic freedoms. The ruling European monarchies promised social and democratic reforms, but failed to provide them, which translated into a heightened social unrest, frustration, and anxiety, fomenting revolutionary riots in virtually every major city of Europe during the years 1815 through 1848: armed revolts that were countered with fierce and oppressive repression by the ruling authoritarian powers. Nevertheless, the monarchies remained intransigent: the unwanted custodians of nations, crushing every domestic uprising with their armies, and where necessary, securing the aid of the military of their allies.

E

urope’s yearning for political, social, and economic reform ultimately gave birth to a new genre of artistic expression: Romanticism, a movement that was essentially a backlash against the failed optimism of the previous century’s Enlightenment; ideals of egalitarian progress that were now deemed illusions that had dissolved in the Reign of Terror and Napoleonic wars. In Post-Napoleonic Europe,

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despair replaced Enlightenment hope: autocratic tyranny and oppression, social injustices, and economic disparities, intensified rather than reduced. Romanticists sought alternatives to the Enlightenment’s failed notions of human progress by developing a growing nostalgia for the past: they sought exalted histories that recalled vanished glories; writers such as Sir Walter Scott, Alexandre Dumas, and Victor Hugo emerged to pen tributes to past values of heroism and virtue. Romanticists despaired about the decline of intellectual and moral values, perceiving their contemporary civilization as philistines: the ideals of refinement and polished manners had surrendered to a sinister coarseness and decadence. Those in power were considered incompetent and deficient in their ability to maintain order: instead of resisting the impending collapse of civilization and social degeneration, they were accused of feebly embracing its demise. Romanticists became preoccupied with nature and human nature. Industrialization and modern commerce were considered despoilers of the natural world: steam engines and smokestacks were viewed as dark manifestations of commerce and veritable images from hell. However, natural man was ennobled because he was uncorrupted by commercialism. By focusing on naturalism, the genre appealed to strong emotions, the bizarre and the irrational, instincts, self-gratification, and the search for pleasure and sensual delight. The philosopher Immanuel Kant (1724-1804) strongly influenced early German Romanticism by scrutinizing the relationship between Gods and man, ultimately concluding that man — not God — was at the center of the universe. Following Kant, David Friedrich Strauss wrote his iconoclastic “Life of Christ,” a deconstruction of the Gospel as divine scripture. And finally, Nietzsche pronounced the death of God. In effect, Romanticists were seeking an alternative to the Christian path to salvation; they were theists believing in the existence of God, but they were not turning to Christianity’s Heaven for salvation and redemption. Instead, their goal was to raise consciousness to profound emotions and aesthetic sensibilities: the ideal was that mad would be redeemed by the spiritual bliss of human love and compassion, The genre of grand opera evolved in the early nineteenth century in France against the background of the new Romantic movement in art, and Post-Napoleonic Europe’s yearning for a new world order promising social, political, and economic reform and progress.

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The Paris Opéra’s goal was to stimulate and titillate the imagination of its newly rich audiences with enormous productions: a total scenic illusion that would provide magnificently grandiose visual spectacle, in which the eye would become as important as the ear. The genre was called grand opera, the precursors of Hollywood escapist fantasies, particularly Cecil B. DeMille’s film epics. The genre evolved into a complex integration of many artistic elements that utilized virtually every musical, material, and theatrical resource, the scenic and structural elements becoming as prominent as the musical and artistic elements; quite often, spectacle and effects dominated all other elements. The Paris Opéra’s repertory during the first quarter of the nineteenth century was comprised largely of operas composed during pre-Revolutionary times of the previous century: those lyric tragedies of Lully and Rameau that portrayed mythological, historical, or medieval subjects, which were peopled with noble characters that the ancien régime readily identified with; they usually ended happily, with due reward for the hero’s rectitude and good deeds. However, by the second quarter of the nineteenth century, the Paris Opéra was poised for transformation, if not a renaissance: it was seeking to indulge its new bourgeoisie audience, but it also sought to upgrade the quality of its productions and performances; that glorification of French grand opera would convey a lofty cultural image of France throughout Europe and the world. In August 1821, a new theater was completed for the Opéra in the Rue Le Peletier: a huge building with immense auditorium and stage. (In 1822, gas lighting was installed in the theater, and in 1846, electric lighting was introduced.) There were ample resources at the Opéra to facilitate its lofty goals: fine leading performers, outstanding dramatic craftsman, remarkable scene painters, the finest ballet choreographers and dancers, and composers such as Auber, Halévy, and Meyerbeer.

G

rand opera was built on the philosophical foundation that one learns from history, rather than learn about history. As such, grand opera’s mission was to dramatize historic social and political events and conflicts that would represent allegories of contemporary social and political conflicts and tensions: theatrically, it was intended to integrate powerful passions of the heart with equally powerful historical events. The choral resources of the Paris Opéra put the “grand” into grand opera: they became the wherewithal for spectacular, massive crowd scenes that conveyed a sense

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of realism in its presentation of riots and insurrections, mass resolve, communal praying and religious rituals, social and civic celebrations, and processionals. In later incarnations of the genre — the Triumphal scene of Verdi’s Aida (1871), and the Coronation scene of Mussorgsky’s Boris Godunov (1873) — supernumeraries were integrated with the chorus, providing the illusion that an entire nation was appearing on stage; in a sense, opera’s inherent suspension of belief suggested reality. In seventeenth and eighteenth-century Baroque opera, ballet had been an important presence, but in grand opera, ballet became de rigeur, integrated into the plot to provide dramatic relevance: a ballet sequence might celebrate a battle victory, a masked ball, or a dance to evoke local color, but it would always rise naturally from the action. French and Italian vocal styles of the early nineteenth century were stylistically different: virtuosic singing, vocal agility, and the bel canto singing style were particularly associated with the Théâtre Italien, the Parisian venue for the very popular operas of Rossini and Donizetti. But the French lyric theater tradition sought a form of sung play, or sung speech: an integration of highly emotional words and music that closely resembled natural speech.

T

he huge casts and scenic elements that provided grand opera’s spectacle created an illusion of immensity and grandness: therefore, a suggestion of power. As such, grand opera’s underlying philosophy was realized: that powerful political, religious, and social forces control human history; and that man is impotent against that awesome power. Art shapes culture; art reflects culture. Grand opera blossomed between the heightened political and social tensions that began in 1830 after the French monarchy returned with the crowning of Louis-Philippe. Grand operas of the period presented contemporary conflicts and tensions in various historical disguises: romantic conflicts were integrated with topical subjects, which appealed to the tastes and sensibilities of the new bourgeoisie audiences; these were timeless dramatic conflicts— such as love in conflict with politics, and passions overcoming reason — in which individuals found themselves powerless against mighty political, social, and religious institutions. The revolutions occurring between 1830 and 1848 threatened Europe’s political and social order, as well as the bourgeoisie’s newly acquired wealth. Grand opera’s credible portrayal of revolutionary mobs, radicalism, extremism, and the chaos and anarchy of war, provided a frightening panorama to its audiences that served to awaken its fears and insecurities.

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Daniel-François-Esprit Auber’s La Muette de Portici (1828) (“The Mute Girl from Portici”) related the seventeenth-century Neapolitan revolt against Spanish oppressors, its idealization of revolution against tyrannical oppression providing a populist message that appealed to contemporary political sentiments. In 1829, Rossini’s Guillaume Tell (“William Tell”) presented an idealization of contemporary yearning for nationhood and self-determination with its historical account of the passions and events leading to the birth of the Swiss nation in the thirteenth century. Gaspare Spontini’s Fernand Cortez (1809) was an early example of the grand opera genre that portrayed an historical panorama of the Spanish conquest of Mexico, in which the more powerful Christians defeat and destroy the weaker Aztecs, the passions of a cross-cultural love story spicing the dramaturgy: that portrait of the crimes of colonialism provided a mirror for nineteenth-century Europeans, at the time engaged in ravishing Asian resources. The history of the Crusades and wars with the Ottoman Empire appealed to nineteenth-century Europeans’ vivid memories of conflict between East and West. During the 1820’s, Lord Byron aroused fervent European support for Greece and its War of Independence, which ultimately ended Turkish rule in 1827. There were two grand operas that also depicted the conflict between Christian and Muslim: Meyerbeer’s Il Crociato in Egitto (1824) (“The Crusader in Egypt”), and Rossini’s Le Siège de Corinthe (1826) (“The Siege of Corinth”). Auber composed Gustave III (1833), an historical account of the court intrigues and fears of Enlightenment liberalism that led to the assassination of Sweden’s King Gustavus III in 1794; Verdi would later borrow the story for Un Ballo in Maschera (1859) (“A Masked Ball”). François-Fromental Halévy’s La Juive (1835) (“The Jewess”), recounts a tragedy that unfolds after a Christian disguises himself as a Jew in order to pursue his beloved Rachel, a Jewess. Wagner’s Rienzi (1842) portrayed the undying power of demagoguery and political manipulation. Verdi’s Don Carlos (1867) and Aida (1871), together with Mussorgsky’s Boris Godunov (1873), are quintessential grand operas with unabashed spectacle that retain the genre’s underlying leitmotif of man’s impotence before the awesome power of state and religion; these operas are even grander than grand because their spectacle becomes secondary to their composer’s ingenious musical expression of towering human passions.

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iacomo Meyerbeer (1791-1865) was born in Berlin, nee Jakob Liebmann Beer. His maternal grandfather, Jakob Meyer Wulf, a wealthy Berlin banker, willed his talented young grandson a substantial income that enabled him to devote his life to music: that is, with the caveat that young Jakob add Meyer to his name. Jakob had also become consumed by his passion for the Italian lyric theater, the reason he changed his first name to Giacomo; with those name changes, he became known to the world as Giacomo Meyerbeer. Like Mendelssohn, Meyerbeer was a prodigy pianist, his parents unhesitant and totally committed to encouraging their son’s future musical development. He studied composition with Bernhard Anselm Weber, the Berlin Kapellmeister; piano under Muzio Clementi, and later with the noted Abbé Vogler in Darmstadt, where one of his fellow students was Carl Maria von Weber, who would achieve immortality with the opera Der Freischütz. Meyerbeer’s first love was not piano, but theater. The early operas he composed were dismal failures: in 1810, Jephtas Gelübde (“Jephtha’s Vow”) failed in Munich; and two years later, his second opera, the singspiel Wirth und Gast (“The Proprietor and the Guest”), was such a fiasco at its Stuttgart premiere that Meyerbeer seriously considered quitting composition. However, the influential Antonio Salieri re-inspired the young Meyerbeer, convincing him that he possessed exceptional creative talent, but that he required more study and development. Between 1817 and 1824, Meyerbeer tried his fortune in Italy, composing operas in the Italian tradition, his stage compositions bearing strong influences of Rossini. Nevertheless, after the overwhelming triumph of Romilda e Costanza in Padua in 1817, commissions from Italian opera houses began to pour in: Semiramide Riconosciuta (1819), Emma di Resburgo (1819), Eduardo e Cristina (1820), Margherita d’Anjou (1820), L’Esule di Granata (1821), and Il Crociato in Egitto (1824). In 1825, Carl Maria von Weber, relishing the triumph of Der Freischütz, which had premiered four years earlier, tried to persuade Meyerbeer to develop his style in the emerging German Romantic genre, which was highlighted by integrating stories from myth and legend with the fantastic and the mysterious. But Meyerbeer envisioned his operatic future in French opera and moved to Paris, at the time, the center of the European opera world. The Paris Opéra was in a state of depression, its productions shabby and depressing. The popular lyric tragedies of the eighteenth-century French masters — Gluck, Rameau, and Lully — were seldom produced, as well as the

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more recently popular works of Philidor, Monsigny, and Grétry. In fact, the Opéra’s quality level was so poor that the Odéon, not the Opéra, became the venue for productions of operas by Mozart, Weber, and Rossini.

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eyerbeer’s Il Crociato in Egitto (“The Crusader in Egypt”), had been acclaimed after its 1824 premiere in Venice, Italy; one year later, it was produced in Paris and achieved moderate success. Afterwards, Meyerbeer experienced his operatic epiphany: for a while, he stopped composing altogether, because he was dissatisfied with his Italian musical style. Then he made a great transformation and discarded his Italian identity with opera, and began composing works that totally assimilated all of the contemporary French operatic techniques and traditions. In 1830, Veron, head of the Paris Opéra, placed his faith in Meyerbeer by commissioning his first opera in his new French style: Roberto le Diable (“Robert the Devil”) (1831). The story is set in thirteenth-century Normandy. Duke Robert, of the opera’s title, is the son of a mortal woman and the Devil. The Devil masquerades as Bertram, consumed to possess Robert’s soul, but in the end, Robert frees himself from the Devil’s hold. The opera’s metaphysical theme was popular and topical in contemporary intellectual circles: the hero’s conflicts were considered synonymous with those of modern man, not merely caught in a tragic conflict of love and honor, love and patriotism, or just two loves, but struggling to understand his ambivalence about the essence of evil. Meyerbeer’s mellifluous score was composed with sophisticated harmonies, to some, a magnificent marriage of melodious Italian song with virtuoso German-style orchestration. Meyerbeer thrilled his audiences with the voluptuous third act Ballet of the Nuns: a full-scale ballet that invoked the spirits of nuns whose carnal sins caused their deaths; in the ballet sequence, they shed their shrouds and emerge as seductive women dancing a bacchanal. The “Church Scene” brought the organ to the lyric stage, later becoming a staple of all grand opera. Robert le Diable contains meticulously developed dramatic action, unprecedented scenic effects, and impressive crowd scenes and ensembles; it created such a sensation that it became one of the most popular operas of the nineteenth century.

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es Huguenots (1836) achieved even greater success than Robert the Devil, and is considered by many Meyerbeer’s singular opera: an epic historical panorama that relates the sixteenth-century feud between French Catholics and Huguenots (Protestants), and the ensuing St.

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Bartholemew’s Day massacre of the Huguenots by Catholics. The story represented a fervent attack on religious fanaticism and intolerance, which appealed to nineteenth-century intellectuals, who were striving to develop a philosophy of history: that history is made by societal and economic forces, not by heroes or individuals.

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e Prophète (1849) was another triumph, in which the individual is in conflict with powerful social and religious forces: in Holland, the Anabaptist John of Leyden (1509-1536) crowned himself prophet-king, and then led the Anabaptists in their capture of Münster; his radical ideas, such as communism and polygamy, withstand the attacks of his enemies until he is finally betrayed by his own confederates. The opera’s ballet was an unprecedented success; it simulated of ice skating by using the newly invented roller skates. In Act II, a sensational effect of the rising sun was achieved by the first use of electricity on the Paris Opéra’s stage. The Coronation scene, a highlight of the opera’s spectacle, set a new standard for the grandeur of nineteenthcentury opera: a magnificent processional march appropriate for a king, with a huge stage band and an enormous orchestra. Le Prophète’s story placed heavy demands on expressing human feelings, not one of Meyerbeer’s greatest assets. Nevertheless, there are powerful dramatic scenes, and Meyerbeer’s signature musical colors: pastoral music for rustic scenes, the simulation of the sound of windmills, military and religious processions, and the music characterizing the malevolent and sinister Anabaptist preachers. Revolution and demagoguery are the underlying themes of Le Prophète; ironically, Meyerbeer was completing the opera in Paris while the Revolution of 1848 was erupting around him.

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he King of Prussia appointed Meyerbeer kapellmeister (Director of Chorus and Orchestra) of the Berlin Opera. To celebrate the opening of its new opera house, Meyerbeer composed Ein Feldlager in Schlesien (1844), later revised and re-titled L’Étoile di Nord (1854) (“The Star of the North”), a story of Tsar Peter of Russia wooing Catherine in the disguise of a carpenter; for a time, Catherine loses her mind, but after regaining her sanity, she recognizes Peter in the Tsar’s Palace and becomes Tsarina. Dinorah (1859), or Le Pardon de Ploërmel, is a pastoral piece in which a magician reveals the location of a treasure to a goat-herder, warning that the first person to touch the treasure will die. Dinorah, his betrothed, goes mad after she believes he abandoned her, but after he saves

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her from drowning, the sight of him restores her sanity. Afterwards, he relinquishes his search for the treasure.

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’Africaine (“African Girl” or “African Maid”) was posthumously produced in 1865, its final alterations and completion supervised by François-Joseph Fétis. Meyerbeer now turned to colonialism, the preoccupation of all the major European powers since Columbus that was focused in the East during the nineteenth century. The libretto provides a fictional episode in the adventures of the Portuguese explorer and navigator, Vasco da Gama (1460-1524), as he sought the illusive sea route to the Indies to avoid the treacherous land route through the Middle East. Da Gama’s discovery of the first all water route between Europe and India transformed European commerce. The underlying story’s inherent exoticism provided Meyerbeer with a host of opportunities for musical effects and spectacle, which he manipulated into dramatic tableaux. The story contains much sensationalism and many inherently improbable plot possibilities, but there are extremely intense emotional situations and dramatic moments with heightened passions. Much of L’Africaine’s music suggests that Meyerbeer’s melodic language had matured, transformed into a refined, richly detailed, yet delicate style: his lyricism captures the ambience of both its Portuguese and Indian settings; its speech, recitatives, and dialogues, remarkable for their inherent dramatic touches. Vasco’s aria, “O paradis,” is the tour de force of the opera, a moment perhaps for Meyerbeer to sneer at his vociferous critics. The “africaine” of the title, Sélika, is the forerunner of those exotic, self-annihilating, non-European heroines, who captivated the operatic imagination of European composers: Massenet’s Thais, Delibes’s Lakme, and Puccini’s Madama Butterfly. L’Africaine became enormously popular throughout the second half of the nineteenth century, historically, the last great success of the French grand opera genre.

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eyerbeer’s French grand operas were melodramas, a blend of the romantic with the historical, in which larger-than-life heroic characters act out their conflicts within ambiences of epic scope. Meyerbeer had become a master of stunning and spectacular visual effects: overpowering dramatic and climactic crowd scenes, and of course, ballets. The Paris Opéra provided Meyerbeer with all the necessary resources to fulfill his requirements: literary figures like Scribe, a rich array of singers, fine orchestral players, and the best scenic decorators and stage directors.

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Opera at the Paris Opéra was a commercial business. Meyerbeer dutifully and shrewdly assessed his audience and fed their appetite for spectacle. His effectively packaged products provoked his critics: he was demeaned — if not condemned — as a traitor who compromised art to manipulated effects, rather than strive for the ideal of music drama; a blasphemy of the earlier ideals of opera’s Camerata founders, as well as those of Metastasio and Gluck. Nevertheless, Meyerbeer carefully and meticulously manipulated his formulae for success: arias had to be short in order to avoid boredom, the latter the worst of sins; melodrama and action superceded character development, the latter a talent better pursued by German composers; bel canto was a genre better for the Italians; orchestration had to be glittering with powerful climaxes, perorations that would be ear-shattering; choruses had to be large and imposing; and of course, the ballet was de rigeur. Meyerbeer demanded that excessive stage effects and spectacle supersede dramatic substance, and that characterization was always subordinate to plot: a reason that Meyerbeer’s characters often emerge as vacuous, weak, and inconsistent. Scribe, Meyerbeer’s librettist for most of his French grand operas, was a skilful dramatic craftsman, but he betrayed those talents to dutifully accommodate Meyerbeer’s requirements: a reason perhaps, that Scribe was unable to do justice to the complex and morally ambiguous figure of John of Leyden in Le Prophète. Meyerbeer’s primary musical-dramatic goal was to invent music for forms that were characteristic in themselves: therefore, he required librettos that provided plentiful opportunities for inventing specific musical stereotypes; military and patriotic marches, religious hymns, as well as orchestral colors to convey the sinister. In general, Meyerbeer’s music has been condemned as lacking emotion or compassion: he left visceral musical expression to Verdi and Wagner, the composer rarely inventing music of towering passions, or employing lofty, arching phrases that express his characters’ profound emotions or personal suffering. In general, Meyerbeer’s music uplifts and stirs, but fails to open the tear ducts. Yet, there are indeed moments of inspired lyricism in his operas: appealing melody, albeit limited in thematic development. Meyerbeer’s critics considered him a composite, rather than a composer, the metamorphosis of his name somewhat symbolic of his talents: cool, calculating, materialistic, and always ready for prudent adjustments to further his fame. Some have condemned his operas as nothing more than skillful aggregations and collages of successful effects that he plagiarized from other composers. Mendelssohn sneered at Meyerbeer, accusing him of manufacturing contrivances to satisfy every artistic taste:

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some melodies for whistling, some advanced harmony for the avant-garde, heavy instrumentation to satisfy the Germans, and ballet to appeal to the French. Nevertheless, the fact remains that Meyerbeer’s harmonic vocabulary was rich: a commendable harmonic adventurism. He was possessed a remarkable orchestral virtuosity, a master of brilliant and novel orchestral effects who demonstrated prowess in large ensembles and overtures. Meyerbeer worked slowly, provoking criticism that he lacked spontaneity and inspiration. But Meyerbeer was a meticulous and careful craftsman, unsure at times of the verisimilitude of his effects: time became the wherewithal for constant review and editing.

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any critics demonized and scorned Meyerbeer. German Romanticists, such as Weber, Schumann, and Wagner, condemned his apostasy of German music and his integration of French and Italian styles into his music. George Sand refused to attend Les Huguenots, an opera in which Catholics murder Protestants, composed by a Jew. She also declared that there was more music in Chopin’s short C-minor Prélude than in the four hours of the trumpeting in Les Huguenots. Debussy wrote of Les Huguenots: “The music is so strained that even the anxiety to massacre unfortunate Protestants does not altogether excuse it.” Robert Schumann considered Meyerbeer an archfiend of composers: the man who had perverted musical taste. Schumann aimed his most vilifying critical artillery at Les Huguenots, raging that Meyerbeer blasphemed and degraded the bloodiest drama in the entire history of his Protestant religion: the score was unmusical, the opera coarse and lacking refinement, and its story a misinterpretation of true history. Proponents of bel canto accused Meyerbeer of ruining the art of singing, his music inviting singers to scream rather than sing: his scores conveying a nervous, feverish excitement with over-refined declamation. Some critics doubted if Meyerbeer operas were even music, claiming that they were conventional, musically ineffective, and synthetic, over-weighted with calculated forms, and containing second rate melodic ideas. Nevertheless, in its time, criticism of Meyerbeer’s operas was like a hornet trying to sting an armored car. For most of the nineteenth century, Meyerbeer was the most popular opera composer in Europe; Verdi was the other. In the process, Meyerbeer became rich and famous, achieving phenomenal influence and respect in Europe’s music world; he was always a dignified presence while supervising performances of his operas whether in Berlin, London, or Paris. In the end, Meyerbeer was a non-royal who earned

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a host of decorations and orders from the nobility, as if he was a royal hero.

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uring the nineteenth century, the opera-going public demanded that composers express profound intellectual ideas and truths in their music. Although Meyerbeer was often attacked and demeaned as a composer of frivolous music, there were many who believed that he had truthfully captured the imagination of his own generation in musical and dramatic terms. The great Romantic lyric poet, Heinrich Heine, lauded Meyerbeer as a man of his age, the creator of opera themes that possessed profound social philosophy, a truthful reflection of the zeitgeist. Some musicians considered Meyerbeer a great thinker among musicians, his operas possessing a powerful revelation and interpretation of past and present history, as well as the essence of humanity. The hero of Robert the Devil was equated with contemporary man: a man vacillating restlessly and painfully between virtues and vice, who at times was impotent in the eternal struggle between good and evil. The religious conflicts portrayed in Les Huguenots mirrored the religious hostility that had once again emerged in Europe in the 1830s.

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eyerbeer was ready and willing to use his large personal fortune to advance his career, a policy that backfired because it provoked a host of accusations condemning him as immoral and unethical. The press molded public opinion, so he pandered to them, inviting critics to splendid dinners at lavish hotels before premieres; no critic is on record as ever having refused an invitation. He expressed his gratitude to the press by showering them with costly birthday presents, and in some instances, annual pensions. But Meyerbeer could never have acquired his enormous popularity by purchase. The public adored him not because of critical praise, but because he provided theatrical subjects that they related to, and clothed them in a variety of spectacular effects that were immensely entertaining. If anything, Meyerbeer possessed the unique skill to manipulate those effects, leaving rivals far behind. Nevertheless, those effects were condemned because they were created and calculated for their own sake, not for the sake of the opera’s artistic essence. Meyerbeer was a cunning craftsman, not a great musical dramatist. He had no illusions about his creative limitations: his strongest asset was not the extension and development of musical ideas, like Wagner, but a talent for short, musical expressions; music and melody that at

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times have been criticized as synthetic, second-rate, and unrelated to psychological or dramatic situations. From today’s perspective, Meyerbeer’s music seems extremely conventional; however, they are period pieces that were taken very seriously in their time. Bizet all but equated Meyerbeer with Beethoven and Mozart, calling him a “thundering dramatic genius”; Heine wrote that Meyerbeer’s mother was the second woman in history to see her son divined.

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lthough Meyerbeer was enthusiastically envied — and viciously criticized —a host of European composers imitated the Meyerbeerian formula: Wagner in Rienzi (1843), Verdi in Aida (1871), and Mussorgsky in Boris Godunov (1873). There were imitators, but no one could surpass or challenge his monopoly and talent for spectacle opera: his instincts were for grandeur, and he possessed an outstanding talent to provide impressions rather than deep spirituality in his music. Berlioz said that Meyerbeer not only had the luck to be talented, but also the talent to be lucky: he considered Les Huguenots a masterpiece. But no discussion of Giacomo Meyerbeer would be complete without addressing his relationship to Richard Wagner, his vituperative compatriot. Wagner hated Meyerbeer, his wealthy and successful rival. Meyerbeer’s Jewish roots fed Wagner’s virulent anti Semitism, even though it was the generous Meyerbeer who arranged for the premieres of Wagner ’s Rienzi and The Flying Dutchman, ultimately leading to Wagner’s appointment as kapellmeister at the Dresden Hoftheatre, and the launching of his career. Wagner, notorious for expressing vitriolic recriminations against those who helped him in his early career, reserved his most impassioned venom and vilification of Meyerbeer in his essay Judentom in der Musik (“Jewishness in Music” or “Judaism in Music”), published in 1850, and again in 1869. Wagner never mentions Meyerbeer by name, but his Judaeophobia explodes in his vitriol, his venom seemingly much more contemptible than Meyerbeer’s music and art that he is condemning. Wagner’s vituperations are seemingly those of a madman: a rare opportunity to question the sanity of his genius. Wagner argues that Meyerbeer was a music-maker without soul: a profiteer who duped the theater public through spectacle, or, what he termed effects without causes. Wagner extols song and music as speech of the highest passion: ideals which he condemns Meyerbeer’s inventions as incapable of expressing. Ironically, Wagner’s

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words of vilification seem to echo those in Friedrich Nietzsche’s Nietzsche Contra Wagner, a vociferous condemnation of Wagner’s pandering to the public. Yet, Wagner did concede that the fourth act love duet of Les Huguenots was among the finest moments in all opera. Wagner’s condemnation of Meyerbeer and the triumph of his own musico-dramatic techniques have contributed somewhat to the passing of Meyerbeer’s effects without causes from the repertory. But the fact remains that the primary reason that Meyerbeer’s operas are seldom performed is that they are complex and enormous in scale: massive undertakings that require the resources of a large opera company, as well as powerful dramatic voices; rarities in contemporary opera. Nevertheless, in the past, there have been heroic singers to trumpet forth Meyerbeer’s music: Caruso, the de Reszkes, Schumann-Heink, and Nordica. Giacomo Meyerbeer reigned over opera during much of the nineteenth century: musicians and intellectuals may have questioned the integrity of his art, but the public’s enthusiasm for his operas was insatiable. Every one of Meyerbeer’s “French” operas took Europe by storm and became the rage with audiences. No composer, not even Rossini, had ever achieved such incredible popularity during his lifetime. In its first eight years, Robert the Devil had thousands of performances, prompting a British magazine writer to comment that a library could be adequately filled with the thousands of arrangements composers had created from the opera’s melodies and airs. It was not until Verdi’s middle period successes, beginning with Rigoletto (1850), that an opera composer had emerged to rival Meyerbeer.

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eyerbeer’s Les Huguenots provides an almost perfect account of the historic events leading to and including the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre that took place in France in 1572. Martin Luther began the Protestant Reformation in Germany about 1517, essentially a protest against the power and abuses of the Roman Catholic Church: Lutherans denied the universal authority of the Pope and denied the intercession of church hierarchy; the Bible was the only source of revealed truth and an individual possessed the right to interpret scripture; faith alone justified salvation. Protestantism spread rapidly in France, the Protestants known as Huguenots. The exact origin of the designation is unclear, but it is most probably rooted in a combination of the Flemish and German languages. One speculation is that the term evolved about the middle of the sixteenth century when the Protestants of Tours assembled under the

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protection of darkness near the gate of King Hugo, whom the people regarded as a spirit that appeared at night. A monk declared that the Protestants ought to be called Huguenots, kinsmen of King Hugo, who likewise would only go out at night. Protestants spread rapidly in France, especially among those with grievances against the autocratic monarchial government: it represented a backlash to royal absolutism and its disregard of the economic troubles of the times, most of which had evolved from the Hapsburg-Valois wars that had exhausted and bankrupted the treasury. By the midsixteenth century, the number and influence of Huguenots continued to increase, the reform Christianity practiced by many members of the French nobility and the social middleclass, which placed them in direct theological conflict with both the Catholic Church and the King of France, the prevailing theocracy. Hostility escalated between the French government, the Catholic Church, and the Huguenots, the latter accused of heresy against the government: in 1536, a General Edict was issued that urged their extermination. Nevertheless, under Henry II, French Protestantism continued to spread and grow rapidly, but generally, it had abandoned Lutheran doctrines and leaned toward new reforms based on the teachings of John Calvin, a reformer born and educated in France. In 1555, Calvin’s followers founded their first church in a Parisian home. Henry II found his power crumbling because of the rivalry between the Guise and Montmorency families; he was unable to control the inordinate power they had accumulated, and he had become weakened, unable to stifle the expansion of Calvinism across France. In response, Henry severely persecuted the Protestants, condemning many in inquisitions without trial: men were sentenced to be burned at the stakes on mere hearsay; and royal and petty local officials proved their orthodoxy by zealously rooting out heretics and terrifying them into submission. Henry’s death in a jousting accident in 1559 was interpreted by Calvinists as a sign of God’s favor: they abandoned secrecy and stealth, and began to hold services openly. By now, the new faith had infiltrated royal officialdom, and many prominent men espoused Calvinism, quashing the French government’s hope of crushing the new faith. After Henry’s death, the royal line was in jeopardy: his successor, his son Francis II, lived less than a year; Francis’ brother, Charles IX, was a mere youth, dominated by his mother. Essentially, for the next two decades, Henry’s widow, Queen Catherine de Médici, was the virtual ruler of France. She was strongly opposed by the Guise faction

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because she attempted to restore order by seeking a compromise with the Calvinists. Her able minister, Michel de l’Hôpital, issued her hopeful declaration seeking reconciliation between Catholics and Protestants: “Le cocteau vaut peu contre l’Esprit” (“The knife is worthless against the spirit”). Catherine forced rival theologians and princes to meet together and resolve their differences, but her efforts came to naught because she failed to penetrate the implacable enmity of both Catholics and Protestants. Guises and Montmorencys, as well as Protestants and Catholics, subverted her efforts at every turn. Amid confusion and unrest, Protestants swiftly increased their strength; by 1562, there were more than 2000 congregations in France. In that year, war broke out between the rival Guises and Montmorencys, Catherine becoming a virtual prisoner of the Guises. Guises launched a religious war, burning and jailing Protestants wherever they could apprehend them, scourging the countryside with killing and looting. On August 24, 1572, St. Bartholomew’s Day, with Catherine’s knowledge, the Guises prepared to massacre all the Protestants of France: they smashed into homes and stabbed heretics in their beds, in a matter of days killing 30,000 Calvinists, including Coligny, admiral of France.

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ueen Marguérite in the Meyerbeer/Scribe Les Huguenots story is Marguerite of Valois (1553-1615), the youngest daughter of Henry II of France and Catherine de Médici and the sister of King Charles IX. In 1572, just before the St. Bartholomew Day Massacre, Marguérite married Henry of Navarre, son of the Huguenot Queen of Navarre: a political marriage that was intended to alleviate the tensions between Protestants and Catholics. Henry of Navarre would later become Henry IV, after reconciling his Protestant faith with Rome; he signed the Edict of Nantes in April, 1598 that effectively ended the Wars of Religion, which allowed Huguenots some degree of religious freedom, including the freedom to exercise their religion in 20 specified towns of France. But in October 1685, Louis XIV signed the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, renewing the persecution of the Huguenots, and causing hundreds of thousands of Huguenots to flee France to other countries.T h e Promulgation of the Edict of Toleration in November 1787 partially restored the civil and religious rights of Huguenots in France.

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uring the first hundred years since its premiere, Les Huguenots was considered an ideal vehicle for a large opera company to proudly present both its stars and its

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capability for spectacular production. Meyerbeer’s score was enormously admired: arias were sung in concert, and there were many piano transcriptions of its set pieces. But in modern times, Les Huguenots is essentially out of fashion: a very expensive opera to produce for even a company with extensive resources, small companies obviously disqualified because they do not have the wherewithal to mount it adequately. Because of its excessive length and the lack of uniformity of its music, Les Huguenots has been excised according to the exigencies of each theater and the fancy of the producer; more often than not, Act V is omitted altogether, a practice that began even during Meyerbeer’s lifetime; the fourth act, containing perhaps Meyerbeer’s finest music, has always been the enemy of the fifth. Heine summed up the problem with a characteristically amusing but malicious explanation. He noted that Gouin, a minor postal official, managed Meyerbeer’s affairs with competence and showered him with devotion beyond praise. A joker circulated that speculation that Gouin not only looked after Meyerbeer’s business matters, but composed his music. Heine was asked it he thought it possible that Gouin might have written Les Huguenots. Heine’s reply: “Not all of it. I don’t believe Gouin wrote anything but the fourth act.” Nevertheless, the fifth act provides the essence of the opera’s dramatic interest: the bloody clash of the Huguenots and Catholics which represents the essence of the tragedy; the love of Raoul and Valentine, so brilliantly composed by Meyerbeer in Act IV, is less important than the forthcoming collective murder.

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es Huguenots demonstrates that Meyerbeer was a showman par excellence: an outstanding exponent of French grand opera, a master of historical and heroic operatic melodrama: spectacles that integrated excessive stage action, ballet, pomp, stunning visual effects, and overpowering climactic scenes. His blood and thunder romanticism combines at times with the splendor of pomp and ceremony, but also with towering dramatic moments that deliver profound feeling. Heine referred to the lofty subjects and ideas of Meyerbeer’s operas, calling the composer, “the man of his age,” his music possessing a more profound social agenda than a personal one. “Men in olden days had convictions; we moderns have only opinions,” Heine commented. Meyerbeer was one of the seminal forces of nineteenthcentury opera, idolized by an enthusiastic public as well as a host of intellectuals and artists. But posterity has yet to define Meyerbeer’s contribution to opera, or the reason

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generation upon generation adored his works, but contemporary operatic tastes have virtually condemned his works to obscurity.