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There used to be current a very amusing parody of an Italian opera scene: someone has fallen into the water and is struggling for his life, while the chorus sings the words ‘Quick, to his rescue!’ with innumerable repeats ranging up and down its compass; any rescue action has to wait, of course, until this effective piece of music is over. Funny as this may seem, it is no more than a slight exaggeration of what we always experience in opera: namely, that the law of time in drama is not the same as that in music. The musical listener accepts this unresistingly, and nothing within him militates against the length of a revenge aria in which a baritone expresses, with considerable expenditure of voice, his fervent desire to stab his rival to death instantaneously, while being unable to take any action before the end of his musical offering. Nor is the listener’s consent to this mysterious timelessness of music — for that is the quality in
question here — restricted to works such as Verdi’s Il Trovatore where, surely, no one has ever taken exception to Manrico’s singing a stretta — and sometimes encoring it, too — before hurrying away to save his mother from the furious mob that is dragging her to the stake. Though it is usually less noticeable, every music drama and every opera is governed by this autonomous law of music — which may well be likened to the time-element of our dreams.

     For our consciousness of time is ‘benighted’ by music. Just as we may dream of lengthy and involved events, only to find on awakening that we have slept barely three minutes, and a short dream may seem to fill a whole night, so music has the magic power of unhinging, as it were, the time-dimension of brief events, pressing situations, and momentary outbursts of emotion. In the Arabian Nights, we meet a tailor who, by the power of magic, keeps a man who is falling out of a window suspended in mid-air until, having completed some urgent business, he is able to return and catch the falling man. Music is capable of exactly this: it can curb the urgency of dramatic situations, deflect the temporal demands of dramatic events into the realm of its dream-time, and subject the duration of dramatic events to its autonomous laws.

     This, then, is one of the most essential tasks in opera production, to see that the scenic events, as they are laid down by the book, are adapted to the timescale of music. The problem stems from the discrepancy between the effusiveness of the music and the sparseness of the stage-action; from this discrepancy can be deduced what I should like to call the ‘attenuated continuity’ of dramatic events on the operatic stage. We find here the reason why the operatic stage, however burning the passions, however violent the events that are enacted upon it, is a quieter sphere, all in all, than the stage of the playhouse, to which music’s tendencies to expansion are foreign. If one is to avoid giving an impression of vacuity, let alone complete cessation of action, it can only be done by deriving a purposeful artistic style-principle from the above-mentioned ‘attenuated continuity’ of operatic action. In simpler terms: action on the operatic stage —  dramatic climaxes apart — demands an unrealistic stillness and breadth which, in conjunction with the dramatic vitality of music, will have the same natural and legitimate effect as the more concise, realistic tempo of the action of a play without music.

     Without doubt, the production of the music dramas of Wagner or later works presents an easier task, in this respect at least; for Wagner and his successors made provision during the act of composing for a wealth of scenic details and their duration—let me instance the action of Sieglinde in the first act of Die Walküre before she leaves the hall — whereas the earlier masters were scarcely influenced at all, during composition, by considerations of a scenic nature. All the same, the problem of the time-element does exist in music drama as well; by way of example I should like to mention that, in Die Walküre, the words of the parting Wotan to Brünnhilde, from ‘Der Augen leuchtendes Paar’ to ‘so küsst er die Gottheit von dir’, when spoken with utmost intensity of feeling, occupy about seventy-five seconds, whereas Wagner’s sublime musical setting fills approximately three minutes. No smaller is the difference in time between the spoken and sung words at Elektra’s reunion with Orest in Strauss’s powerful work. To whatever period, therefore, the musico-dramatic work may belong, provided that a true composer has been at work, the stage-action will always have to adapt itself to the laws of time peculiar to music.

     But it is not only by way of expansion or compression of scenic events that the musical shape which a composer has given to a scene will affect its time-dimension. A single event, even a single gesture, must be adapted in duration, as well as in expression, of course — and more of this below — to the music. Every musically sensitive singer will strive, more or less unconsciously, to achieve external harmony between the rhythm of the music and that of the action: he will not often be tempted to carry out an energetic gesture demanded by the action without using an orchestral accent for it; for a change of facial expression he will almost always choose a moment where the mood of the music changes. It is one of the producer’s tasks to show the singer the way in which the timing of his actions may be consciously adapted to the progress of the music.

     In dancing, music gives the orders, and the dancer obeys. But it is only the rhythm of his movements that obeys the bidding of musical rhythm. The choreographic interpretation of melodic forms, on the other hand, does not obey this command, but artistically follows certain choreographic impulses that are derived from the music as a whole. As far as the relationship of music and dance is concerned, it is the former that sets the tone; and to this rhythm, body-movements, and expression, conform. In miming, to be sure, first place is taken by the stage-action; it was to illustrate this that the music was written; but even so, in actual performance the rhythm and expression of the music dominate the movements and the stage-action almost as much as the bodily movements of dancing.

     Although in opera, too, we encounter the arts of dancing and miming in certain scenes—the third act of Die Meistersinger contains both — it is always live people that stand and act on the operatic stage, playing out amongst themselves scenes of great emotional import; in general, therefore, the relationship between music and action must never appear to be one in which the action is coerced by the music; we must be given the impression of co-ordination and harmony. Where, however, the composer intended his music to be illustrative, as for instance Mozart did in the unequivocal musical description of the fight between Don Giovanni and the Commendatore, or Wagner did in the scene of Beckmesser in Sachs’s workshop, the production has to ensure exact synchronization between music and stage.

     There are producers, however, who misunderstand this idea of creating the necessary harmony between music and stage; they strive for conspicuous synchronization of the kind described here, or for a precise mimic exposition of the music, even where the composer did not intend these. But to treat illustratively any music that was conceived spiritually and emotionally is to debase the concept of opera; if this is done, the concurrent stage-action will be given that admixture of mechanical elements which are an almost unavoidable feature of miming. Instead of this, I strongly advise producers to bring to the fore the psychological origin of every movement; even in the stage interpretation of pronouncedly illustrative music, such as Wagner wrote for the silent scene between Hunding, Sieglinde, and Siegmund in the first act of Die Walküre, and also for the Beckmesser scene in the cobbler’s workshop, the execution, however precise it may be, must be preserved from assuming a machine-like character. If Beckmesser fails to slam the window exactly on the second crotchet of the bar that is intended for this, it would seem to me a lesser evil than if his gesture fails to show the rage that overcomes him at this moment. In short, not even in scenes that touch on the realm of miming must the mechanically exact correspondence between illustrative music and movement, desirable as it is, conceal the spontaneous psychological origin of the gesture. The salient point is that producers should do justice to the dramatic significance of music in the scenic events of opera, while still securing for them a semblance of unforced naturalness, such as is in keeping with the characters and emotions of the acting personages.

     When Leonora says ‘Wie kalt ist es in diesem unterirdischen Gewölbe!’ Beethoven’s music illustrates her shivering — but only the most discreet suggestion of a trembling that is partly physical, partly mental in origin, will accord with the dignity and seriousness of Beethoven’s conception. The more convincing the emotional quality of events on the operatic stage is to be, the more care one must take to conceal the rhythmic correspondence of music and movement behind its psychological interpretation. An exemplary model of this is to be found in the opening scene of Die Walküre between Siegmund and Sieglinde with its passages of silent action. In Auber’s La muette de Portici, the actress playing Fenella has the difficult task of keeping to the music with choreographic precision while her acting is informed by the most heartfelt emotion. From personal experience, I may relate that the dancer Grete Wiesenthal — a most sensitive personality, of great musical as well as choreographic talent — succeeded, in the production of the work I directed at the Vienna Opera, in reconciling the musical and rhythmical demands of the role with its dramatic, emotional content; she expressed the latter most movingly. To achieve this, to be sure, she had to do justice to choreographic exactness while treating the dramatic side of her task as of prime importance. To achieve more drastic comic effects, however, one may stress the rhythmically exact convergence of music and gesture, even in opera. In my opinion, an exact rhythmical correspondence is fully legitimate and desirable in cases where the action is accompanied by distinct ‘visual’ suggestions in the music, such as are provided by Mozart in Susanna’s aria in the second act of Figaro, during which Cherubino is dressed up as a girl. Susanna orders him to kneel down, rebukes him for his roving glances at the Countess, and makes him get up and take some mincing steps. Mozart’s orchestra illustrated Cherubino’s play very clearly indeed; the singer is prompted, even, to put some variation into the page’s roving glances by the changes Mozart has worked into the use of that charming motive. Although, in the scores of these older works there are missing those verbal directions that were provided by Wagner and his successors for the stage interpretation of illustrative music, a musical producer will know how to shape such scenes so that they harmonize with the illustrative meaning of the music, while not robbing them of inner life by overemphasizing rhythmic precision or a certain approach to drastic comedy. The above-mentioned aria of Susanna is a touchstone for the sensitivity of producer and singer in the stage interpretation of scenic events contained in the music.

     Zerlina’s first aria in Mozart’s Don Giovanni may serve as a further example: she begs Masetto to beat and maltreat her, but then to be friends again. Words and music give the singer an opportunity to depict graceful flattery, droll naïvety, and feminine seductiveness. The question must be asked whether the fortuitous employment of such expressive shades, provided it remained faithful to the text, would in itself do justice to Mozart’s music, or whether the thematic material and the succession of musical ideas contain more definite scenic indications. To a true musicality, however, it will be abundantly clear that the graceful melodic turns of this aria call for cajoling movements or caresses, while bolder nuances of acting should correspond to the chains of trills in the violins.

     If one excepts passages of such unequivocally illustrative force as the above-mentioned duel scene in Mozart’s Don Giovanni, and those where the composer’s express direction has related a musical phrase to a certain stage event, it still remains true that music never makes a definite demand for this or that gesture or action. Music merely contains scenic suggestions of a general kind; that is, it indicates the expressive realm within which the stage events have to remain; it demands, by a change in musical expression, a corresponding change in the emotional character of the action, and so on. If, however, this need for the general adaptation of the stage events to reflect the character of the music were to be ignored, it would become apparent that, in case of conflict, music would gain the upper hand. The expressive power of music is vastly superior to that of the stage; thus, in order to gain effectiveness, the stage action must accommodate itself to the musical meaning the composer has seen fit to provide.

     As to the question of gestures, I might add that, although music does not prescribe definite movements — the composer must provide written directions if he wants these — a natural-looking correspondence between gestures and musical accents or rhythmical groupings is to be recommended. If a singer has to carry out an energetic action, such as falling to the ground, or some other dramatically significant movement, this should happen with the orchestral accent or rhythm rather than against it. In the night-scene of Verdi’s Un Ballo in Maschera, Ricardo receives a solemn pledge from Renato: the sinister dramatic significance of the handclasp by which this is confirmed should be enhanced by the simultaneous, terrifying kettle-drum roll; otherwise, the scenic and the musical accents would contradict each other.

     To sum up: a gentle gesture is incompatible with an energetic musical passage; and a lyrical musical phrase does not harmonize with an energetic movement; contrasts of this sort should be avoided as far as possible. Concentration and sensitivity are needed in judging whether the extent and character of the external action harmonizes with the music; the important question whether the music gives its approbation to the scenic events should be present in the producer’s mind in all his dispositions.

     Harmony between stage representation and music constitutes the highest law of opera production. Every offence against this, any act of negligence, must needs have an adverse effect on the dramatic events on the stage. By this harmony I mean something immeasurably more essential, profound, and artistic than mere extrinsic correspondence between orchestral and scenic sequences. It is the intrinsic approximation of moods and emotions on the stage to the emotional content of the music that must, above all, be the foremost concern of producer, conductor and singers. As a model for the combination of extrinsic and intrinsic ‘musicalization’ of the stage, I should like to mention the scenic tasks that have to be undertaken by Tristan and Isolde in the first act, after they have drunk what they believe to be a deadly potion. The external gestures and the psychological events are noted down verbally by Wagner and translated into music with the utmost clarity — however, the two performers cannot do justice to the dramatic demands of the scene unless they give themselves fully to the psychological transition described here, the transition from deathly defiance to loving ardour, and make their actions fit the orchestral description of this change of emotions. If the primacy of the emotional events were denied, the exact correspondence between gestures and music, albeit demanded by Wagner, would be empty and meaningless; and that in spite of the decisive dramatic significance that is held by this mute scene.

     Apart from such exceptional cases of simultaneous ‘extrinsic and intrinsic rnusicalization’ of stage events, it is, in actual fact, the intrinsic harmony between stage event and music that determines the artistic significance and effect of an operatic performance. This harmony can only be achieved by the most intense empathy on the part of producer and singer with the dramatic meaning of the music. I should point out that in many cases no external movement or gesture is needed for creating harmony between representation and music: if, in Figaro, the singer of the Countess lets her heart be filled with the beauty of the orchestral prelude to her first aria; if her bearing is in accord with the pensiveness of this music, and she accompanies the changing patterns of the music with small changes in facial expression and posture, she will have acquitted herself of her task with far greater artistry and impressiveness than if she had employed those walks and changes of position with which a producer so often tries to ‘fill in’ the prelude. In general, I should advocate great economy of gesture and other body-movement, and I must stress once again that, because of the expressive power of music, it is in the nature of opera to demand less external movement than the spoken drama.

     To avoid misunderstanding I would say that music does not have a precision of expression that could command ‘kneel down’, ‘bend the fist’, ‘slam the door’. But it is certainly able to convey humility, rising indignation, and the outbreak of anger, all of which may find their various expressions in scenic events. The actor-singer is committed to the dramatic emotional content of the music, though free in his choice of expressive means.

     The producer’s task of turning the stream of music on to the wheels of his dramatic mill is, however, less problematic than it would appear to be. The dramatic content of operatic music is, after all, quite well known to him in a general way; for this music was in the first place inspired by the same scenic events which he has to represent; it will depend on the degree of his musical sensitivity whether his directions remain in accord with the music not only as regards the total character of his stage interpretation but also in its details.

     There are idiosyncratic, interesting, and inventive productions in which not only the music, but even the original significance of the drama have been ignored by the producer. Nothing easier than to achieve sensational stage successes by entirely unfounded innovations; by the introduction of ideas that have nothing to do with the work. But however talented and stage-worthy such ideas may be, however sensational the success of such neologisms, their lack of authenticity dooms them to failure in the near or distant future. Only the production which takes account of the basic dramatic intention behind the scenic event, and its musical setting, will give an authentic impression. Besides, music is capable of fighting back. The dramatic significance which it lends to the stage events triumphs effortlessly over inapposite audacities in the production by rendering them ineffective.

     I would like here to quote Nietzsche’s saying from The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music: ‘Music scatters the sparks of images’; that means to say, the art of music, whose realm lies beyond that of the visible world, has the power of calling forth visions in the listener. To be sure, these mysterious emanations of music are of a nature too vague, fleeting, and changeful to give rise to definite indications as to the shape of scenic events. And yet — to the true stage talent and to a true musical sensibility — these image-associations will lend valuable support; they will stimulate the theatrical imagination and save it from errors.

     It is true that the relationship between music and the visible cannot be understood or defined with complete clarity; yet the real artist will be instinctively aware of harmony or disharmony between music and the shapes and colours of what appears on the stage. Regarding the decorative aspect and lighting of the scene, too, we are bound to recognize an extrinsic and intrinsic relation between music and stage. Music controls the change of scene from the Venusberg to the purlieus of the Wartburg in Tannhäuser; it controls the moonrise at the end of the second act of Die Meistersinger, the flashes of lightning during the battle of Hunding and Siegmund, as well as those in the fourth act of Rigoletto. But more important than this unproblematic conformation of the stage events to the music is the ‘musicalization’ of the stage in those cases where music should exert its intrinsic influence on the tragic mood of a stage event, as for instance in the annunciation of Siegmund’s death in Die Walküre, or in the ghostly atmosphere of the graveyard-scene in Don Giovanni, or in the dewy morning-scene at the beginning of the second finale in the Magic Flute. Here, stage-lighting with its many uses becomes an effective ally of music; this alliance is less problematic than any other kind of combination between the audible and visible sphere of the operatic theatre, yet at the same time it is of great importance for the desired ‘musicalization’ of scenic events. An exemplary model for this is found at the beginning of the third act of Tristan und Isolde; the despondency of the orchestral introduction, the playing of the shepherd’s pipe, and the total emotional atmosphere of this scene, can combine to profound and significant effect with the forms and colours of the dilapidated castle, the view of the sea, and the character of the lighting. And how impressive can the right combination of landscape and light, and music be, in the ‘Elysian Fields’ of Gluck’s Orpheus! The producer has no better way of serving the stage representation of opera than by deriving his inspiration from the music, both for creating the drama and for establishing the work’s visual ambit. The sensationalism of productions that strive for novelty at all costs, will falsify them, however inventive they are; again, a work may wither away under the sober factualness of an over-simplified production; as I have indicated here, it is only the ‘musicalization’ of the stage that will give to the works performed their fully legitimate and lasting effect, and grant flourishing life to the operatic stage.