Richard Wagner
SIEGFRIED

THE LOVE PANACEA

We shall now find that at the point where The Ring changes from music drama into opera, it also ceases to be philosophic, and becomes didactic. The philosophic part is a dramatic symbol of the world as Wagner observed it. In the didactic part the philosophy degenerates into the prescription of a romantic nostrum for all human ills. Wagner, only mortal after all, succumbed to the panacea mania when his philosophy was exhausted, like any of the rest of us.

The panacea is by no means an original one. Wagner was anticipated in the year 1819 by a young country gentleman from Sussex named Shelley, in a work of extraordinary artistic power and splendor. Prometheus Unbound is an English attempt at a Ring; and when it is taken into account that the author was only 27 whereas Wagner was 40 when he completed the poem of The Ring, our vulgar patriotism may find an envious satisfaction in insisting upon the comparison. Both works set forth the same conflict between humanity and its gods and governments, issuing in the redemption of man from their tyranny by the growth of his will into perfect strength and self-confidence; and both finish by a lapse into panacea-mongering didacticism by the holding up of Love as the remedy for all evils and the solvent of all social difficulties.

The differences between Prometheus Unbound and The Ring are as interesting as the likenesses. Shelley, caught in the pugnacity of his youth and the first impetuosity of his prodigious artistic power by the first fierce attack of the New Reformation, gave no quarter to the antagonist of his hero. His Wotan, whom he calls Jupiter, is the almighty fiend into whom the Englishman's God had degenerated during two centuries of ignorant Bible worship and shameless commercialism. He is Alberic, Fafnir Loki and the ambitious side of Wotan all rolled into one melodramatic demon who is finally torn from his throne and hurled shrieking into the abyss by a spirit representing that conception of Eternal Law which has been replaced since by the conception of Evolution. Wagner, an older, more experienced man than the Shelley of 1819, understood Wotan and pardoned him, separating him tenderly from all the compromising alliances to which Shelley fiercely held him; making the truth and heroism which overthrow him the children of his inmost heart; and representing him as finally acquiescing in and working for his own supersession and annihilation. Shelley, in his later works, is seen progressing towards the same tolerance, justice, and humility of spirit, as he advanced towards the middle age he never reached. But there is no progress from Shelley to Wagner as regards the panacea, except that in Wagner there is a certain shadow of night and death come on it: nay, even a clear opinion that the supreme good of love is that it so completely satisfies the desire for life, that after it the Will to Live ceases to trouble us, and we are at last content to achieve the highest happiness of death. This reduction of the panacea to absurdity was not forced upon Shelley, because the love which acts as a universal solvent in his Prometheus Unbound is a sentiment of affectionate benevolence which has nothing to do with sexual passion. It might, and in fact does exist in the absence of any sexual interest whatever.

The words mercy and kindness connote it less ambiguously than the word love. But Wagner sought always for some point of contact between his ideas and the physical senses, so that people might not only think or imagine them in the eighteenth century fashion, but see them on the stage, hear them from the orchestra, and feel them through the infection of passionate emotion. Dr. Johnson kicking the stone to confute Berkeley is not more bent on common-sense concreteness than Wagner: on all occasions he insists on the need for sensuous apprehension to give reality to abstract comprehension, maintaining, in fact, that reality has no other meaning. Now he could apply this process to poetic love only by following it back to its alleged origin in sexual passion, the emotional phenomena of which he has expressed in music with a frankness and forcible naturalism which would possibly have scandalized Shelley. The love duet in the first act of The Valkyries is brought to a point at which the conventions of our society demand the precipitate fall of the curtain; whilst the prelude to Tristan and Isolde is such an astonishingly intense and faithful translation into music of the emotions which accompany the union of a pair of lovers, that it is questionable whether the great popularity of this piece at our orchestral concerts really means that our audiences are entirely catholic in their respect for life in all itits beneficently creative functions, or whether they simply enjoy the music without understanding it.

But however offensive and inhuman may be the superstition which brands such exaltations of natural passion as shameful and indecorous, there is at least as much common sense in disparaging love as in setting it up as a panacea. Even the mercy and lovingkindness of Shelley do not hold good as a universal law of conduct: Shelley himself makes extremely short work of Jupiter, just as Siegfried does of Fafnir, Mime, and Wotan; and the fact that Prometheus is saved from doing the destructive part of his work by the intervention of that very nebulous personification of Eternity called Demogorgon, does not in the least save the situation, because, flatly, there is no such person as Demogorgon, and if Prometheus does not pull down Jupiter himself, no one else will. It would be exasperating, if it were not so funny, to see these poets leading their heroes through blood and destruction to the conclusion that, as Browning's David puts it (David of all people!), "All's Love; yet all's Law."

Certainly it is clear enough that such love as that implied by Siegfried's first taste of fear as he cuts through the mailed coat of the sleeping figure on the mountain, and discovers that it is a woman; by her fierce revolt against being touched by him when his terror gives way to ardor; by his manly transports of victory; and by the womanly mixture of rapture and horror with which she abandons herself to the passion which has seized on them both, is an experience which it is much better, like the vast majority of us, never to have passed through, than to allow it to play more than a recreative holiday part in our lives. It did not play a very large part in Wagner's own laborious life, and does not occupy more than two scenes of The Ring. Tristan and Isolde, wholly devoted to it, is a poem of destruction and death. The Mastersingers, a work full of health, fun and happiness, contains not a single bar of love music that can be described as passionate: the hero of it is a widower who cobbles shoes, writes verses, and contents himself with looking on at the sweetheartings of his customers. Parsifal makes an end of it altogether. The truth is that the love panacea in Night Falls On The Gods and in the last act of Siegfried is a survival of the first crude operatic conception of the story, modified by an anticipation of Wagner's later, though not latest, conception of love as the fulfiller of our Will to Live and consequently our reconciler to night and death.

SIEGFRIED Act Three Scene Three SIEGFRIED: gedehnt mit gepreßtem, drängendem Ausdruck So saug' ich mir Leben aus süßesten Lippen, sollt' ich auch sterbend vergehn! Er sinkt, wie ersterbend, auf die Schlafende und heftet mit geschlossenen Augen seine Lippen auf ihren Mund. Brünnhilde schlägt die Augen auf. Siegfried fährt auf und bleibt vor ihr stehen. Brünnhilde richtet sich langsam zum Sitze auf. Sie begrüßt mit feierlichen Gebärden der erhobenen Arme ihre Rückkehr zur Wahrnehmung der Erde und des Himmels BRÜNNHILDE: Heil dir, Sonne! Heil dir, Licht! Heil dir, leuchtender Tag! Lang war mein Schlaf; ich bin erwacht. Wer ist der Held, der mich erweckt'? SIEGFRIED: von ihrem Blicke und ihrer Stimme feierlich ergriffen, steht wie festgebannt Durch das Feuer drang ich, das den Fels umbrann; ich erbrach dir den festen Helm: Siegfried bin ich, der dich erweckt'. BRÜNNHILDE: hoch aufgerichtet sitzend Heil euch, Götter! Heil dir, Welt! Heil dir, prangende Erde! Zu End' ist nun mein Schlaf; erwacht, seh' ich: Siegfried ist es, der mich erweckt! SIEGFRIED: in erhabenste Verzückung ausbrechend O Heil der Mutter, die mich gebar; Heil der Erde, die mich genährt! Daß ich das Aug' erschaut, das jetzt mir Seligem lacht! BRÜNNHILDE mit größter Bewegtheit O Heil der Mutter, die dich gebar! Heil der Erde, die dich genährt! Nur dein Blick durfte mich schau'n, erwachen durft' ich nur dir! Beide bleiben voll strahlenden Entzückens in ihren gegenseitigen Anblick verloren O Siegfried! Siegfried! Seliger Held! Du Wecker des Lebens, siegendes Licht! O wüßtest du, Lust der Welt, wie ich dich je geliebt! Du warst mein Sinnen, mein Sorgen du! Dich Zarten nährt' ich, noch eh' du gezeugt; noch eh' du geboren, barg dich mein Schild: so lang' lieb' ich dich, Siegfried! SIEGFRIED: leise und schüchtern So starb nicht meine Mutter? Schlief die minnige nur? BRÜNNHILDE: lächelnd, freundlich die Hand nach ihm ausstreckend Du wonniges Kind! Deine Mutter kehrt dir nicht wieder. Du selbst bin ich, wenn du mich Selige liebst. Was du nicht weißt, weiß ich für dich; doch wissend bin ich nur - weil ich dich liebe! O Siegfried! Siegfried! Siegendes Licht! Dich liebt' ich immer; denn mir allein erdünkte Wotans Gedanke. Der Gedanke, den ich nie nennen durfte; den ich nicht dachte, sondern nur fühlte; für den ich focht, kämpfte und stritt; für den ich trotzte dem, der ihn dachte; für den ich büßte, Strafe mich band, weil ich nicht ihn dachte und nur empfand! Denn der Gedanke - dürftest du's lösen! - mir war er nur Liebe zu dir! SIEGFRIED: Wie Wunder tönt, was wonnig du singst; doch dunkel dünkt mich der Sinn. Deines Auges Leuchten seh' ich licht; deines Atems Wehen fühl' ich warm; deiner Stimme Singen hör' ich süß: doch was du singend mir sagst, staunend versteh' ich's nicht. Nicht kann ich das Ferne sinnig erfassen, wenn alle Sinne dich nur sehen und fühlen! Mit banger Furcht fesselst du mich: du Einz'ge hast ihre Angst mich gelehrt. Den du gebunden in mächtigen Banden, birg meinen Mut mir nicht mehr! Er verweilt in großer Aufregung, sehnsuchtsvollen Blick auf sie heftend