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An Introduction to the Opera by Herman Klein
From Radio Times 22 March 1929
NONE of Arthur Sullivan's numerous biographers has quite done justice to his only 'grand opera.' Did they realize, I wonder, what it meant to him; what pride he took in it; what months of irksome labour and mental energy the sick man devoted to its writing and preparation between May, 1890, and the following January 31, when it was produced under his own baton at what is now called the Palace Theatre, in Shaftesbury Avenue? That was nearly thirty-eight years ago; and it is no easy task now for one who lived through it all to recapture the enthusiasm of that unique event, much less to depict the excitement, the fever of anticipation, which it aroused among English music-lovers of every grade and class.
Well, Ivanhoe was a huge success. It beat every record, British or otherwise, by playing to crowded houses for 160 consecutive performances. And, in achieving that unprecedented serious opera run, triumphant but quixotic in its accomplishment, the 'willing horse' was allowed to run itself to death. It was revived at Covent Garden as an experiment in 1910, but only for two nights. The moment was not yet propitious; for Sullivan's detractors were still alive and in the ascendant. The time for a renewal of fair and honest appreciation had not yet come. In dedicating his score to Queen Victoria, Sullivan declared his tribute to be not only 'in grateful acknowledgement of Her Majesty's kindly encouragement,' but to chronicle the fact that it was at her suggestion that the opera was written. How much the Queen was gratified by its success was evidenced by a letter written to the composer, three days after the production, by Princess Louise, Duchess of Argyll (still happily with us), in which, among other things, he Royal Highness said: 'It is a particular satisfaction to her, as she believes it is partly owing to her own instigation that you undertook this great work.' He himself wrote to a friend, 'I must say I look upon this opera as the most important work I have yet written. Not only from its magnitude, but also from the strength of the work I have put into it.'
It was my privilege to hear practically the same words from his own lips when, at his invitation, I went to his flat in Victoria Street two or three weeks before the production, to hear him play over some of the music for me. To tell in full the story of that delightful afternoon would take too long. Enough that Sir Arthur was in wonderful spirits, obviously relieved that his task was nearly finished and no less anxious that none of the fine points, the fresh dramatic touches and new effects in his elaborate score, should be missed by the critics or the public. 'But,' he said, 'you must promise not to print a word about the music until after the first night, or else there will be jealousy and consequent trouble for me.' I obeyed, of course, though the restraint was trying, because he played so much that sounded original and new — new, certainly, for Sullivan — and one or two numbers in particular that shed an altogether fresh light upon his genius.
I refer especially to the two fine airs in the second act, Woo thou thy snowflake and Lord of our chosen race, both quite unlike anything from the same pen. Only, after he had played and hummed the second — Rebecca's — song and I was admiring its Eastern character, he interrupted me in his humorous way: 'That's not altogether original, I must admit. The "Guard me" phrase I heard years ago in a synagogue in Leipzig, when I was studying there as the Mendelssohn scholar. I have borrowed it because it seems to fit the mood of the Jewish girl's prayer exactly. Don't you agree?' I did. He seemed less proud of the Friar's song, Ho! jolly Jenkin, probably because it was more redolent of his Savoy manner. Nevertheless, I ventured to predict that in a short time it would be whistled all over London; and it was!
THE story of Ivanhoe is familiar to every reader of Scott's novels. As condensed by Julian Sturgis, the poetic librettist of Goring Thomas's Nadeshda, it provided fitting material for a picturesque romantic opera, and Sullivan, fastidious though he was, fell in love with a libretto in which he found very little room for alterations. In the lyrics, too, he found genuine inspiration. The opening scenes are concerned with the meeting of the Templar, Sir Brian de Bois Guilbert, with Ivanhoe, disguised as a holy palmer, in the hall of Cedric the Saxon; the Lady Rowena's subsequent interview with Ivanhoe, to whom Isaac of York offers the loan of a horse and armour; then the tournament presided over by Prince John (who unconcernedly places Rebecca among the Saxon ladies), and the defeat of the Templar by Ivanhoe, who, when his helmet is removed to receive the victor's crown from Rowena, is instantly recognised as Cedric's long absent son.
The second act introduced King Richard Cœur de Lion, secretly back in England, and enjoying a woodland meal in the company of Friar Tuck. From Torquilstone comes an urgent plea from Ivanhoe for help, whereto his friend the Black Knight (King Richard) at once responds. The plot is further developed in a scene at the castle between the Norman knight, Maurice de Bracy and the Lady Rowena, who he loves, and Cedric the Saxon. Next comes the great dramatic episode of the opera (and the novel) in the turret chamber at Torquilstone where the Templar appears to have Rebecca at his mercy and is only deterred by her threat to throw herself off the parapet to the abyss below. In this scene occur the two airs referred to and a magnificent duet which constitutes the finest musical moment of the work. Upon the latter Sullivan lavished a new wealth of resource, added to his accustomed master of technical means, culminating in a climax of remarkable dramatic power.
The happy ending devised by Sir Walter Scott is adhered to in the opera, but arrived at only through a series of effective incidents ingeniously contrived by the librettist. These include the abduction of Rebecca by the Templar, the narrow escape of Ivanhoe, the storming of Torquilstone Castle by King Richard, and the final scene at Templestowe, where the Knights Templars, after preparing to burn Rebecca at the stake, are cheated of their victim by King Richard and Ivanhoe, who comes to her rescue in the nick of time.
To all who admire and enjoy the melodic beauties of the Savoy opera, the music of Ivanhoe is bound to make a strong appeal. It may not be great music; it may not play deeply on the emotions; its texture may not intertwine with the warp and woof of the drama as does that of Wagner, the later Verdi, or Puccini. But one feels throughout its adequacy and strength, and that to the inevitable charm of the unmistakable touches which we call 'Sullivanesque,' there are allied a freshness and loftiness of outlook and purpose that no earlier score from the same gifted pen had revealed. As a matter of course, bright tunes and fascinating themes abound; the choral numbers and ensembles are broadly and solidly planned; the orchestration belongs to the composer's latest and best period. Again and again the masterful employment of strings and woodwind for the illustration of the underlying dramatic idea recalls the genius of Schubert. There reigns everywhere a sense of beauty and sincerity of expression that the modernist highbrow alone could resist.
Poor Sullivan's nerves were sorely tried on the first night of Ivanhoe. I shall never forget the scene. The new house was, of course, packed — over packed; and the cheers that greeted the Prince and Princess of Wales the Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh were renewed when the composer assumed the conductor's place. But the prelude had no sooner started when an unearthly din broke out — shouts from the gallery for programmes and howls from the pit because a centre gangway, ordered by the L.C.C., had become choked with 'standees,' who prevented the people behind from seeing. The music was stopped, and for some minutes pandemonium reigned. Then entered the police, headed by an inspector. Sir Arthur turned round to look, quietly adjusting his monocle, but really rather alarmed, while our future King Edward, half amused, half annoyed, leaned over the Royal box to watch the disturbers of the peace, making inaudible remarks and moving his right hand with significant little gestures. At length force majeure prevailed. The gangway was cleared by degrees of the offending intruders (though how they were disposed of deponent knoweth not) and the gallery supplied with programmes. Gradually the noise died down, whilst the curtain had been rung up and the opera begun; and by the time Isaac of York had sat down at the fireside of Cedric the Saxon (Ffrangeon Davies), peace was fairly restored. From that moment the fate of the opera was never in doubt.
Of the original cast (there were two distinct casts, appearing on alternate nights), I believe that only two or three artists who created leading characters survive, namely, Mr. Ben Davis, the Ivanhoe; Miss Margaret Macintyre, the Rebecca; and, possibly, Miss Ester Palliser, the Lady Rowena. So, again, of the London music critics of that day, there lives and labours only one now — the present writer.
HERMAN KLEIN
- Details of the broadcast.
Page updated September 27, 2021
