Wagner’s “Jesus of Nazareth”

The Musician (London), 12 May 1897, pages 8-9, 2,449 words

A stream of blue light flowed down from the moon through the window of a large bare room; it fell across the cradle, lighting the face and the hands of the infant. At the end of the moon-beam a fairy stood on a little cloud. She held in her left hand a wand, at the end of the wand there was a star, and on her face a happy smile. She stepped from the cloud to the moonbeam, and slid slowly and gracefully to the window-sill. She stepped into the room. She stood beside the cradle where the infant was sleeping, and, watching the moon-illumined face, she said:

"Thou shall be the greatest dramatist that the world has ever known. Thou shalt compose stories more wonderful and beautiful than Shakespeare's. Visions of the gods and the heroes of passion, prayer, and aspiration shall be thine."

The fairy paused a moment, and then, thinking she had said all, she waved her wand over the child, and, stepping on the moonbeam, passed through the window. But she was hardly gone when a loud wind was heard blowing, and a cloud of smoke was driven down the chimney and out of that cloud there stepped a black fairy. Her eyes glittered with hate, and a small snake writhed at the end of her wand. Darting toward the cradle she said in a sullen and hissing voice, —  

"I cannot withdraw the gifts the fairy has bestowed, but I can render her gifts sterile and vain. Instead of a blessing they shall be afflictions. Thou shall conceive," she said, "more wonderful stories than mortal man has yet conceived; but — fortunately there is a but — thou shall not have the genius to write them. They shall remain unwritten in prose or verse."

She waved her horrid wand above the infant, and, with a jeer, disappeared in a whiff of foul smoke up the chimney. But the wicked fairy should have withheld her curse till the good fairy was out of hearing; for soon after the good fairy stood at the window, her feet posed on the beam of light; and her eyes were very beautiful in their sadness. She stood straight and tall, both arms dropped by her side, looking at the sleeping child. Her voice was low and musical as the wind sighing in larch trees. "I cannot,” she said, "remove the curse. Ah, why did I not include among my gifts the gift of expression! My poor godchild, verily thou art cursed." Her eyes filled with grief. "I cannot remove the curse." But suddenly her eyes brightened; then they filled with triumphant joy, and smiling at the wickedness of the bad fairy, who she knew to be still in the chimney, she stepped to the edge of the cradle. "Thou shalt never write in the dramas that I fated thee to conceive." A devilish laugh was heard in the chimney, but the good fairy was in no way disconcerted. She looked toward the chimney, and, smiling, she said, "words, it is true, are denied to thee; thou shalt write thy dramas in music." A muffled cry of despair was heard in the chimney; the bad fairy was outwitted, and waving her wand over the sacred child the good fairy passed up the moonbeam.

That child was Richard Wagner.

This little allegory or parable was suggested by reading the Master's sketch of Jesus of Nazareth. And in view of the noble design the thought came to me of the pitiful failure his life would have been if Nature had not endowed him at the last moment with a prodigious gift of music (Wagner was sixteen before he decided that music was his vocation). To have given him speech sufficient for his conceptions would have been to create another Shakespeare, and Nature dislikes repetitions. So as if she suddenly, almost whimsically, determined to create something wholly new, she bestowed upon her latest dramatist such inexhaustible harmony and melody as would enable him to reveal himself. That such a thing should have happened compels us to believe in a providence.

Returning from such far speculation to the text of Jesus of Nazareth we say — there is only one thing to say — viz., that neither Shakespeare nor Sophocles could have contrived a nobler or a more dramatic telling of the story. Quite naturally every incident falls into its place, and advantage is taken of every hint. Barabbas is no vulgar robber; he is an insurgent leader, and we find him in the opening scene consulting with Judas. "He says that the Roman forces are unusually weak, and that success is certain if only the people can be stirred to a decisive rising; but, just now, all Jerusalem rings with the name of the Son of David, who has just proclaimed Himself in Galilee, and is held to be the Messiah. Barabbas has come to see for himself what he may expect from this Jesus. Judas gives an account of the dealings and manner of the life of Jesus; of His healing power and the numerous following He has among the people. He speaks of Him as the Saviour, but at present he (Judas) is uncertain what way Jesus thinks to fulfill His mission; he earnestly wishes that He should take the reins of popular government and, as the King of the Jews, work out the salvation of the chosen people."

Shakespeare could have written this scene in verse, Wagner could not; but it is doubtful if Shakespeare would have conceived the opening scene with the massive purpose that mark the opening lines. Barabbas says the Roman forces are unusually weak, and that success is certain if the people can only be stirred to a decisive rising. This is the key of the dramatic action. In the fifth act Pilate questions Jesus. He declares Himself the Son of God. Caiaphas rends his priestly garments, and the people cry "Crucify Him!" Pilate receives a message from his wife, in which she warns him not to condemn Jesus, for a woman (Mary Magdalene might be herself the messenger — Jesus reproves her — she entreats for pardon) has come and convinced her that He is a righteous man. Whereupon Pilate declares that he will not condemn Jesus! He adds that, since to-day he must set a prisoner free, his choice shall fall on Jesus. The people cry with one voice, "Give us Barabbas!" The tumult increases, threatening shouts: "He is not Caesar's friend." (Barabbas is led out and given to the multitude; cries of joy.) Pilate's anxiety increases. (‘Is the Syrian legion at hand?’) He endeavors to postpone putting Jesus to death: but the Jews declare that after to-day no execution can take place for some time according to their law — wherefore Pilate asks for water, etc.

I know not how far the incident of Syrian legion is derived from history; I fancy it must be Wagner's own: or to express myself more accurately, I believe that in this incident Wagner has divined a lost fragment of the history of the time. But how exquisitely it fits with the known facts, how it completes and explains! For without the Syrian legion how can we reconcile Pilate's consent to the crucifixion, with his well-known repugnance to the condemnation? The washing of the hands is the symbol of a man's last horror of a deed of blood, which he would avert if he could. The washing of the hands is the act not of a weak but of a strong man who is overborne by circumstances.

The beauty of Wagner's music has shadowed his genius as a writer, for to be quite truthful, the curse of the wicked fairy was not conclusive. True, that without his music Wagner would have been a failure, but he would have been a sublime failure. Not in Shakespeare do we find a story more beautifully told than Parsifal, and it is not so dependent upon the music as many suppose. The dreadful English gibberish which is written under the music of the Ring has caused us who do not know German to doubt the judgment of friends who speak of the great poetry of the original. Amid a great deal of idleness there is an odd little diligence in me, and I have managed to peep behind and inform myself, insufficiently it is true, but enough to become suspicious, that perhaps after all the Ring would be a great work, even if no music had been written, and that perhaps it would be interesting to attempt a performance of the Ring without the aid of the music. Of this I am sure, that the great scene between Wotan and Brünnhilde, in the third act of the Valkyrie, is better written than any living dramatist, with the single exception of Ibsen, could have written it. One of these days I shall ferret the matter out, if only for my own amusement; meanwhile I return to the sketch. The most beautiful act, the one in which we hear his music the most distinctly, a something between a Lohengrin and Parsifal, is undoubtedly the second, and I give the entire text, as it would be shameful to break it.

ACT II.

The Lake ol Genesareth. Fishermen's huts cluster round the shore. Day dawns. Jesus is asleep under a tree. Mary Magdalen kneels at His feet and, kissing the hem of His raiment, tells her sorrow for sin and love for her Saviour. Mary, His Mother, approaches. Mary Magdalen shrinks away startled and throws herself at the Mother's feet, who questions her. Confusion of the Magdalen; she tells how she has sold all that she had and given the sum to Judas Iscariot, who keeps the bag for the little band of Jesus' followers; she beseeches the Mother to intercede with her Son for her, she wishes to serve Him as the lowliest of handmaidens. Mary comforts her and sends her away.

Jesus wakes and remains seated under the tree. He converses with his Mother: she acknowledges his call and submits to His will, but she cannot but be anxious about His life. Then we learn that hastily He withdrew from Tiberias, because the people wished to make him king. Jesus relates the story of His youth, His baptism by John, His sojourn in the wilderness; it was there He realized His mission, which He traces not to His descent from David but to His being the Son of God. His revelation of Himself as a Healer in Galilee, His aim. His mother does Him reverence, full of humility and love. An account of the Magdalen; Jesus speaks of His own celibacy. His brothers, the sons of Joseph the carpenter, enter. They are jealous of Jesus, who has His Mother's undivided love. They urge Jesus to proclaim His mission in Jerusalem, rather than to address Himself to the people, who need no persuasion to follow after Him. Jesus’ grief at finding His teaching so misunderstood.

The disciples draw near from the direction of the huts. John leads his old father to Jesus. Simon Peter brings news of the multitude's approach. Jesus speaks to the disciples of His purpose, of His passion and death to come; they do not grasp His meaning, but hope He will take upon Himself the office of Messiah with much pomp in Jerusalem. Strife among the disciples for the first place in His kingdom.

Judas urges Jesus to hasten; He is afraid of Barabbas, who, when he had ceased to follow Jesus, had hurried to Jerusalem in order to avail himself of the favorable opportunity offered by the weakness of the Roman army of occupation. Messengers announce the approach of an innumerable multitude, who wish to make Jesus king. Jesus says a ship is to be made ready in order that He and His disciples may not fall in with the crowd on their way to Jerusalem. A young nobleman mounted on a mule and with a train or attendants comes and offers himself to Jesus, who questions him. The young man boasts of his strict keeping of the commandments. When it is demanded of him that he sell all he has and give it to the poor he retires discomforted with mule and men.

        Judas: Lord, remember he is very rich.

        Jesus: Verily, verily, I say unto you, &c. (of rich men).

Approach of the multitude. Jesus draws nigh the ship, committing the women to the care of the elder disciples, and enters the ship with those He has chosen; while they are setting the sails the crowd gathers; they cry out to Jesus and intreat Him not to leave them; they strive to lay hold of the ship, but Simon Peter thrusts them aside. Jesus calls them to delay spreading the sails. His heart grieves for the unhappy people, and He will not leave them comfortless. He bids them seat themselves upon the shore and give heed to His words.

(Mary Magdalen, Mary His Mother, and other women, distribute bread and wine.) Jesus stands up in the ship and teaches the people of comfort, of salvation, of the kingdom of God in man. His own mission to them as Healer, as Teacher. The rules of His kingdom, of the offence, the conflict to come: “I am not come, &c." He speaks of His death and resurrection for man's redemption.

The people are deeply moved and cry out. At Jesus' command the ship is set afloat. Farewell. The crowd scatters to follow Him to Jerusalem.

(End of Act.)

Wagner contemplated other operas, and a sketch exists on the subject of Buddah, but this project was certainly abandoned. The Buddha motive was used in Siegfried; it became one of the motives in the great duet in the third act, or, to speak more exactly. it became part of the music; as it is not repeated it cannot be called a motive. Wagner considered Barbarossa as a suitable subject for an opera; but it was soon laid aside; historical facts did not lend themselves to his genius as did the interpretation legend. So many think that if he had lived he would have written Jesus of Nazareth. I do not think so. His sketch of the Life of Christ exhibits his dramatic instinct, but his rejection of it as a possible subject vindicated it. Four-and-twenty hours would have been necessary to perform it; moreover, what music could he have written after Parsifal. l believe that Wagner had no further projects. I have heard that when questioned he answered — "I have said all." GEORGE MOORE.