Werther

Such as words could never utter.

Would you know how first he met her?

She was cutting bread and butter.

It is easy to make fun of Goethe’s epistolary novel Die Leiden des jungen Werthers (or “The Sorrows of Young Werther” as it has always been known in this country). Long before Thackeray’s little burlesque – which is fair enough in the opening lines quoted above but distinctly unfair by the end – there were all kinds of satires, pastiches and parodies in a variety of languages. First published in Leipzig in 1774, it was linked at an early stage with Nicolai’s Die Freuden des jungen Werthers (“The Joys of Young Werther”) and, while inspiring an extraordinary cult of sentimentality among the most susceptible of its readers, it attracted any amount of scornful comment from their more rational contemporaries.

Even so – unlikely though it might be that an educated young man with a promising career in the diplomatic service should kill himself for the love of a woman who prides herself on her skill in slicing bread for her younger brothers and sisters – Die Leiden des jungen Werthers is actually based on reality. Or rather, it is a conflation of two separate real-life episodes: one was Goethe’s own experience of falling in love with Charlotte Buff at a ball near Wetzlar in 1772 and having to accommodate himself to the fact that she was already engaged to a man he liked and admired; the other was the premature death of a secretary to an ambassador in Wetzlar, Karl Wilhelm Jerusalem, who in the same year shot himself in his frustrated passion for a married woman. Jerusalem’s note requesting the use of his friend’s pistols survives and is quoted word for word both in the novel and in the opera.

It was the real-life quality of the Werther story that inspired Massenet to complete what eventually became one of his two most successful operas. Although he had declared in 1880, shortly after he had finished Hérodiade, that his next opera would be Werther, he actually turned his attention first to Manon and then to Le Cid. The initial idea had presumably been put to him in 1879, when Georges Hartmann, his publisher, engaged Paul Milliet (later to be replaced by Edouard Blau) to collaborate with him on putting together a Werther libretto. But it was only in 1886 that Massenet began work on it in earnest. The composer and his publisher had been to see Parsifal in Bayreuth and on their way home Hartmann had the brilliant idea of taking Massenet to Wetzlar, showing him the house where Goethe had lived, producing one of the many French translations of the novel and insisting that he should read it at once.

“No sooner had I got the book in my hands,” the composer recalled, “than, eager to read it, we went into one of those vast beer halls that you see everywhere in Germany. Ordering mugs of beer as enormous as those of our companions, we sat down at a table… I don’t have to tell you what I had to suffer in that noxious atmosphere impregnated with the acrid smell of beer. But I couldn’t tear myself away from those ardent letters seething with the most intensely passionate feelings.” He was particularly moved by the scene where Werther reads to Charlotte his translation from Ossian, “Pourquoi me réveiller, ô souffle du printemps?” and they fall, briefly, into each other’s arms. “So much deliriously ecstatic passion brought tears to my eyes… There was my third act.”

It is just as easy to make fun of Massenet’s opera as it is of Goethe’s novel. It would be a sad mistake, on the other hand, to underestimate the quality of a score which contains scenes – including at least the first three of Werther’s encounters with Charlotte and not excluding the sisterly conversation between Charlotte and Sophie in Act III – as intimately truthful as any in opera before or since.

The problem with a Werther opera is that no libretto, unless it completely traduces Goethe’s original, can compensate for the obvious disadvantage that, because Charlotte is either engaged or married to Albert and is determined to give Werther no encouragement, there can be no mutual declaration of love, no full-scale duet for the two principal protagonists. Massenet’s compensatory inspiration is the tender melody he first introduces towards the end of Act I when Werther and Charlotte return from the ball at night. The missing duet element is incorporated in that melody which is always presented in two instrumental voices, one line echoing the other an octave above and a fraction of a beat behind, and which eloquently expresses what cannot actually be said in all of the scenes they have together until the very last.

There are other recurring themes, some of them of similar significance. In fact, there is a whole quasi-Wagnerian system of leimotifs, the principal characters being associated with at least one each. Wagner’s influence can be heard also in the orchestration from time to time and in the harmonies, particularly in the meeting between Werther and Charlotte “under the lime trees” in Act II. But Massenet’s score is remarkable less for its echoes than for its distinctive colouring, with particularly resourceful use of cor anglais and saxophone. It is no less remarkable too for its anticipations, above all of Puccini. The playful music for Sophie (a character almost entirely invented by the librettists) recalls Berlioz at one point but at another anticipates Verdi’s magical inventions for Nanetta in Falstaff. And if Tchaikovsky, a self-confessed Massenet admirer, knew nothing of Werther when he was writing his Pathétique Symphony in 1893 he was thinking on remarkably similar droopingly chromatic lines and in much the same suicidal orchestral colours.

Unfortunately for Massenet, it was the masterfully sustained gloom of the score which led Léon Carvalho, director of the Opéra-Comique, to reject Werther shortly after it was completed in 1887. For Carvalho, who wanted another Manon, it was “too dismal.” Clearly, the librettists’ somewhat specious device of having children singing Christmas carols in July, in preparation for their tragically ironic recall at the end, was judged no more effective in lightening the atmosphere than their indulgence in the convivialities of Sophie’s neighbours Johann and Schmidt.

Massenet cannot have taken any comfort in the fact that shortly after Werther was rejected the Opéra-Comique was burned down, with considerable loss of life, and Carvalho was dismissed. The composer was free, however, to have his opera staged elsewhere. Werther was actually first performed, in German and with great success, at the more serious-minded Vienna Hofoper in February 1892. Its first performance in French was given a year later at the Théâtre Lyrique where, with Carvalho restored to his post, the Opéra-Comique had taken temporary refuge.

Anyone unwilling to read the end of Thackeray’s Werther burlesque should look away now:

Charlotta, having seen his body

Borne before her on a shutter,

Like a well-conducted person,

Went on cutting bread and butter.

Gerald Larner © 2009

a lyric drama in four acts and five tableaux (after Goethe)

libretto by Edouard Blau, Paul Milliet and Georges Hartmann

introduction

Werther had a love for Charlotta,

Such as words could never utter.

Would you know how first he met her?

She was cutting bread and butter.

It is easy to make fun of Goethe’s Die Leiden des jungen Werthers (or “The Sorrows of Young Werther” as it has always been known in this country). Long before Thackeray’s little burlesque - which is fair enough in the opening lines quoted above but distinctly unfair by the end - there were all kinds of satires, pastiches and parodies in a variety of languages. First published in Leipzig in 1774, it was linked at an early stage with Nicolai’s Die Freuden des jungen Werthers (“The Joys of Young Werther”) and, while inspiring an extraordinary cult of sentimentality among the most susceptible of its readers, it attracted any amount of scornful comment from their more rational contemporaries.

Even so - unlikely though it might be that an educated young man with a promising career in the diplomatic service should kill himself for the love of a woman who prides herself on her skill in slicing bread for her younger brothers and sisters - Die Leiden des jungen Werthers is actually based on reality. Or rather, it is a conflation of two separate real-life episodes: one was Goethe’s own experience of falling in love with Charlotte Buff at a ball near Wetzlar in 1772 and having to accommodate himself to the fact that she was already engaged to a man he liked and admired; the other was the premature death of a secretary to an ambassador in Wetzlar, Karl Wilhelm Jerusalem, who in the same year shot himself in his frustrated passion for a married woman.

It was the real-life quality of the Werther story that stimulated Massenet to complete what eventually became one of his two most successful operas. Although he had declared in 1880, shortly after he had finished Hérodiade, that his next opera would be Werther, he actually turned his attention first to Manon and then to Le Cid. The initial idea had presumably been put to him in 1879, when Georges Hartmann, his publisher, engaged Paul Milliet (later to be replaced by Edouard Blau) to collaborate with him on putting together a Werther libretto. But it was only in 1886 that Massenet began work on it in earnest. The composer and the publisher had been to see Parsifal in Bayreuth and on their way home Hartmann had had the brilliant idea of taking Massenet to Wetzlar, showing him the house where Goethe had lived and insisting that he should read the novel at once. The composer was particularly moved by the scene where Werther reads to Charlotte his translation from Ossian, “Pourquoi me réveiller, ô souffle du printemps?” and they fall (briefly) into each other’s arms. “There was my third act,” he recalled.

It is just as easy to make fun of Massenet’s opera as it is of Goethe’s novel. It would be a grave mistake, on the other hand, to underestimate the quality of a score which contains scenes - including at least the first three of Werther’s encounters with Charlotte and not excluding the sisterly conversation between Charlotte and Sophie in Act III - as intimately truthful as any in opera before or since.

The problem with a Werther opera is that no libretto, unless it completely traduces Goethe’s original, can compensate for the obvious disadvantage that, because Charlotte is either engaged or married to Albert and is determined to give Werther no encouragement, there can be no mutual declaration of love, no ecstatic duet for the two principal protagonists. Massenet’s compensatory inspiration is the tender melody he first introduces towards the end of Act I when Werther and Charlotte return from the ball at night. The missing duet element is incorporated in that melody which is always presented in two instrumental voices, one line echoing the other an octave above and a fraction of a beat behind, and which eloquently expresses what cannot actually be said in all of the scenes they have together until the very last.

There are other recurring themes, some of them of similar significance. In fact, there is a whole quasi-Wagnerian system of leimotifs, the principal characters being associated with at least one each. Wagner’s influence can be heard also in the orchestration from time to time and in the harmonies, particularly in the meeting between Werther and Charlotte “under the lime trees” in Act II. But Massenet’s score is remarkable less for its echoes than for its anticipations, above all of Puccini. The playful music for Sophie (a character almost entirely invented by the librettists) recalls Berlioz at one point but at another it anticipates Verdi’s magical inventions for Nanetta in Falstaff. And if Tchaikovsky, a self-confessed Massenet admirer, knew nothing of Werther when he was writing his Pathétique Symphony in 1893 he was thinking on remarkably similar droopingly chromatic lines and in much the same suicidal orchestral colours.

Unfortunately for Massenet, it was the masterfully sustained gloom of the score which led Léon Carvalho, director of the Opéra-Comique, to reject Werther shortly after it was completed in 1897. Clearly, the librettists’ somewhat specious device of having children singing Christmas carols in July (in preparation for their ironic recall at the end) was judged no more effective in lightening the atmosphere than their indulgence in the convivialities of Johann and Schmidt. Werther was actually first performed in German at the more serious-minded Vienna Hofoper in February 1892 and, following its succes there, was staged in French at the Opéra-Comique in January 1893.

commentary

Prelude

The orchestral introduction begins with an anticipation of the dramatic D minor prelude to Act III. An important feature, representing the depressive side of Werther’s personality, is thePuccinian progression of chords descending quietly on woodwind and strings in semitonal steps and in a sobbing syncopated rhythm. The happy modulation to D major signals the entry on the strings of contrastingly lyrical music expressive of Werther’s love of nature.

Act I

The Bailli’s house (July 178…)

The Bailli (or Magistrate) is in the garden rehearsing a Christmas carol with his younger children - to the amusement of his companions Johann and Schmidt who make their entry to the accompaniment of a bucolic tune in the strings which later turns out to be their drinking song “Vivat Bacchus!” They greet Sophie, Charlotte’s younger sister, and in discussing the forthcoming ball give the orchestra the opportunity to introduce motifs associated with Werther (oboe) who will be escorting Charlotte to the ball, with Charlotte herself (strings rising on an arpeggio and turning back down again) and with her fiancé Albert (clarinet) who is away on business. Johann and Schmidt take their leave, singing “Vivat Bacchus!” in one of the very few examples of vocal counterpoint in the whole opera, and the Bailli goes indoors with the children.

To the ecstatic D-major nature music already familiar from the Prelude, Werther makes his first entry unobserved (“Je ne sais si je veille …O nature plein de grace”). Still unobserved when Charlotte makes her appearance in her ball gown, he is enchanted to see her going about her domestic duties, which include distributing bread and butter to her duly delighted little brothers and sisters. The Bailli introduces his daughter to Werther, explaining that since the death of his wife Charlotte now looks after the household. To the accompaniment of vigorously folky music in the orchestra, other people call in on their way to ball, including the young romantics Brühlmann and Kätchen who are clearly besotted by their poetic idol “the divine Klopstock.” As Charlotte hands over the care of the children to Sophie, Werther launches into another lyrical ecstasy (“O spectacle idéal d’amour”) and they depart with the others for the ball. Sophie understandingly encourages her father to join his friends in the Raisin d’or tavern. Left on her own, she is surprised to meet Albert who has just returned to Wetzlar and who, on being reassured that Charlotte has not forgotten him, gratefully sings his “Quelle prière de reconnaissance et d’amour.”

As Albert leaves for home to return in the morning, night falls on the garden in a moonlit orchestral interlude. By the time Charlotte and Werther return to the house from the ball, their tender love theme - their unspoken, unsung duet - is already poised in the orchestra. The first voice to coincide with its melodic line is Charlotte’s with the ominous words “Il faut nous séparer” (“It’s time for us to part”). She tells Werther of her love for her dead mother and her promise to look after the children in her place. He, on the other hand, tells Charlotte of his love for her (“Rêve! Extase!”) on a now rising chromatic line over a rippling harp accompaniment. But their conversation is rudely interrupted by the voice of the Bailli calling from the house, “Albert est de retour!” (“Albert is back!”). “Albert?” she asks as if she has forgottenwho he is and then tells Werther that Albert is the man she promised her dying mother she would marry. “Un autre son époux!” (“Another man her husband!”) cries Werther in desperation as she goes into the house.

Act II

The lime trees

The orchestral introduction to the second act is based on the drinking song of Johann and Schmidt who, on a fine Sunday in September, are sitting under the lime trees in the town square in Wetzlar, with the Raisin d’or tavern on one side and the Protestant Church on the other.

Their conversation reveals that after the service the Pastor will be celebrating his fiftieth wedding anniversary with a party in the presbytery. Charlotte and Albert reflect on their three months of marriage (“Voici trois mois que nous sommes unis”) and go into the Church - but not before Werther catches a painful sight of them apparently happy together. Once more he utters his despairing exclamation “Un autre est son époux!” and delivers a passionately jealous, somewhat Italianate aria “J’aurais sur ma poitrine.”

Albert comes out of the Church and, sensitive to Werther’s situation, more or less apologises for his part in it (“Mais celle qui devint ma femme”). After the delightfully light-hearted intervention of the teenage Sophie, Albert hints that she might be worthy of replacing Charlotte in Werther’s affections. Werther is unimpressed and, tortured by his less than entirely honourable feelings towards Charlotte, decides he must go away and leave her. But the entry of the Charlotte motif on clarinet and of Charlotte herself immediately softens his resolve. Once more the love theme emerges on cello and clarinet but it is only Werther who can give true expression to his feelings (“Ah qu’il est loin ce jour”); Charlotte must assert her fidelity to Albert and, though the voluptuously Wagnerian orchestration contradicts her, she demands that he should go away until Christmas.

Left alone with his depressive motif of descending semitones, Werther for the first time contemplates suicide, a course of action which he attempts to justify in his “Lorsque l’enfant revient d’un voyage.” Sophie’s dismay at being unable to prevent his departure - “for ever,” she tearfully tells Charlotte and Albert - contrasts sharply with the Pastor’s golden-wedding celebrations.

Act III

Charlotte and Werther (24 December 178…)

After a dramatic orchestral introduction recalling the events of the previous act, the curtain rises on Charlotte alone in her room reading and re-reading Werther’s letters with increasing sadness and alarm. Her conversation with Sophie, who sees that she needs to be cheered up, is peculiarly effective. Constructed like a rondo on an anachronistic but charming waltz tune, it incorporates both a brilliant episode of laughing coloratura for Sophie (“Ah! le rire est béni”) and Charlotte’s confession of her unhappiness (“Les larmes qu’on ne pleure pas”) with a mournful saxophone accompaniment. After getting Charlotte to promise to come to her father’s house, Sophie leaves her to her self.

In spite of its emphatic sincerity, Charlotte’s prayer for mercy (“Seigneur Dieu!”) is clearly not answered: heralded by two of his characteristic motifs in the orchestra, Werther bursts into her room. Explaining that he had to see her once more (“Oui!…c’est moi”), he engages Charlotte in nostalgic recollection of their happier moments together. The climax of the scene (and, indeed, of the whole opera) is his memory of his translation of a passage of romantic pathos from Ossian, “Pourquoi me réveiller, ô souffle du printemps?” - an aria so inspired that Charlotte finds herself unable to conceal her true feelings, briefly joins her voice to his and just as briefly falls into his arms. Summoning all her moral strength, she tells him he must never see her again and runs out of the room, leaving Werther to make his dread decision before he too departs from the scene.

Aware that Werther is back, Albert comes home in sombre mood, suspiciously interrogates his overwrought wife and, handed a note addressed to him by Werther - “I am going on a long journey … will you lend me your pistols?” - he grimly orders Charlotte to give the weapons to the messenger, screws up the note and walks angrily into his own room. Charlotte understands what Werther is about to do and rushes off in an effort to save him.

Act IV

1st Tableau: Christmas Night

The first tableau of the last act - which links the previous scene directly to the next, without a break - is a purely orchestral interlude intended to contrast orchestral images of Werther’s despair and Charlotte’s anguish with scenic images of moonlight on the snow-covered roofs of Wetzlar. Church bells can be heard in the distance.

2nd Tableau: Werther’s studio

Charlotte arrives too late to save Werther’s life - he has already shot himself - but not too late to for a reconciliation. Werther resists Charlotte’s instinct to call for help and, as their shared theme floats in on cello and clarinet for the last time, she confesess that she has always loved him (“Oui… du même jour où tu parus”). She kisses him, their voices join in a sighing unison and - in accordance with the structural plan - the long-rehearsed Christmas carol penetrates the night from the Bailli’s house. Charlotte understands the full irony of the childish voices intruding at this point; Werther takes them as a sign of deliverance. Having asked to be buried either under the the lime trees in the churchyard or, if that is forbidden him, in unhallowed ground where “some woman” will visit him and bless him, he dies. Charlotte’s cry of anguish mingles with the joyful sounds of celebration in her father’s house.

introduction and commentary by Gerald Larner©