"The Ring of the Nibelung"

Vienna, August 1897

Mahler's invitation to Vienna, for the performance of the Nibelung cycle that Richter had entrusted entirely to him, reached me in the wooded solitude of Knittelfeld, where I had been for three weeks, and it pleased me very much. He would perform the Tetralogy in five days, something that had not yet been seen in Vienna, with one evening of interruption and very few cuts.

I arrived in Vienna on the morning of August 24, for the series of performances that began on the 25th, and found Mahler in full activity on the musical front, but unfortunately also struggling on the organizational one. He worked at the Opera from nine to fourteen and from eighteen to twenty-two.

In Vienna, Mahler was free from artistic hassles, because the musical level, especially of the orchestra, filled him with joy, "although the orchestra does not do enough and at a closer look I catch many smudges and inaccuracies. These continuous portamenti of the cellos are horrible: they can’t even hold a single clean note! And instead of keeping the piano, which is their usual, natural tone, they always play loud, except when, from time to time, they want to achieve a particular effect with a pianissimo, regardless of the fact that I gesticulate trying to stop them. And if one of the strings has a solo, he thinks he is there only to show off by playing loud. They are also neglected in rhythm. But over time, I will manage to remove all these defects from them."

On the day of the performance of the Rhine Gold, Mahler could not wait for it to be seven. He was excited for the evening, like a child before Christmas. At his disposal, for the first time in Vienna, everything was performed in succession, without interruptions, as Wagner required, so that the tension for the audience never dropped. Moreover, under Mahler's direction, the elemental force of this poetic work deeply tied to nature emerged with the same effectiveness as when Wagner himself conducted it. Among other things, for the entire Tetralogy no rehearsals had been made, except for the restored passages, and to those sitting behind Mahler, this gave the impression of seeing the opera born before their own eyes. Like when a sculptor makes the stone live with his blows and imprints in it the form and content of his spirit, the Rhine Gold seemed to come to life thanks to Mahler’s movements. And it was precisely the absence of rehearsals that made this creative work, this creative gestuality, emerge so clearly. In fact, he had that unique moment to convey his musical will to the musicians and make sure they converted it into sound. And from his gestures, from his mimicry, I could also read what the musicians could not achieve. I saw and perceived (with the inner ear) what was no longer audible, but shimmered and trembled in the movements and in the tension of every single muscle of Mahler, whose entire being seemed dissolved in the sounds and rhythm. Time vibrates in every fiber of his body, and on his lips tremble the notes and the words that he sings and pronounces almost uninterruptedly with the singers. It is as if, with his gaze and his gestures, he mimed the expressions and movements he expects from them, so much so that after the Valkyrie, Mrs. Sedlmair, Brunhilde, went to him and wanted to kiss his hand in gratitude. She confessed to being indebted to him for the entire evening, because she had been able to read every note and every syllable on his face.

Yet, in his heart, as always, a harsh battle with imperfection raged on. The evening of the Valkyrie offered more grips to his anger and displeasure than that of the Rhine Gold. And on that occasion, the wrath and dissatisfaction were partly also poured onto the orchestra. The evening before, the first violin had assured him that everything was much more consolidated compared to the Rhine Gold, which was rarely performed. But what had been assimilated, Mahler did not like at all. "The negligence and inaccuracies have deposited a layer of dust on everything; it is much worse than in the Rhine Gold, where the rust has not yet penetrated so deeply!" Mahler exclaimed disheartened after the performance.

Despite the hitches and shortcomings on the part of the orchestra, although the first act was heavily penalized by the lack of Sigmund's voice and the scant talent of Sieglinde (to whom Mahler always had to remind not to shout the most intimate and delicate feelings in the face of the public), the Prelude was so grand and powerful, so elegant, and at the same time delicate, that since Wagner's time it had never seemed so important and engaging. Even in the first act, there were moments so wonderful and exciting that Hugo Wolf, present at all the performances, stated: "This evening - as indeed throughout this cycle of the Ring of the Nibelung - we managed to hear what we had never heard before and what we had resigned ourselves to seeing only in the score." Mahler worked miracles in the scene of the valkyries, which had always seemed very chaotic and incomprehensible both to see and to hear. Even before the show, he told me: "It must be like a mass of threatening clouds that approach rumbling and flutter in the sky. But it is very difficult to stage, it must be studied very well and to succeed you need to master the technique of scenography deeply." And he succeeded masterfully: the scene struck the stage like a real natural disaster, making the unfolding of the plot and the execution of complex musical attacks and alternations completely clear and transparent. All of this, even though Mahler had at his disposal for the roles of the valkyries, as often happens, only mediocre singers and choristers: "One day, however, I would like them to be interpreted by top-notch forces, and I will succeed, and then you will see what an incredible experience!"

After an evening like that, it was very sad to see Mahler deeply unhappy and upset for not having achieved what he wanted. "It's really unfortunate," he said in that state of mind, "that the greatest composers have written their works for a pigsty like the theater, which in itself does not know perfection

With "Siegfried", Mahler had more satisfaction and fewer obstacles to overcome. In the second act, especially in the "Murmur of the Forest", an indescribable magic was felt. The introduction to the awakening of Brunilde was permeated by a supernatural atmosphere and solemnity, irradiated by a divine light. And the quintessential love scene was finally spared the cut with which it had been disfigured in Vienna until then. Mahler spoke to me about it even before the show: "This omission was scandalous and made Brunilde appear as a prostitute, who resists Siegfried's advances only for an instant, before throwing herself at him. The whole transition was missing, in which she makes him understand what he is giving up for her, and all the intermediate stages leading to the final climax."

The following evening, "The Twilight of the Gods" greatly benefited from the restoration of the scene between Brunilde and Waltraute (magnificently performed by Sedlmair and Walker). On that occasion, however, Mahler had to give up the scene of the Norns because he did not have enough forces; but on the next occasion he would certainly manage to get them.

(Mahler had inherited from the previous direction some unpleasant situations: at the moment not only was there no first-rate singer in the prime of their career available, but the contracts were stipulated in such a way that the best elements had many days off and were traveling or on tour when they were urgently needed. Moreover, within a year all the contracts of the first male soloists would expire, while a whole series of "disasters" were hired until who knows when.)

Mahler's success on these evenings was extraordinary. Every time, at the end of the performance, his name was called among thunderous applause. Even his "bodyguards", conservatory students and young musicians, gathered in ever-increasing numbers at the artists' exit, where they waited tirelessly for him to come out after the show to greet him with more celebrations.