“The Masque of Janus”: Douglas Moore’s opera, The Wings of the Dove

 

Michael Halliwell

 

Surprisingly, there has been only one attempt since its publication in 1902 at an operatic adaptation of James’s novel, The Wings of the Dove. This opera, The Wings of the Dove, with libretto by Ethan Ayer and music by Douglas Moore, had its premiere at the New York City Opera on October 12, 1961, and received generally excellent reviews. While not the “The Great American Opera” desired by many, it was hailed by most critics as an important new work that would find a secure place in the repertoire. Alas, this was not to be, and the opera has not received any subsequent performances.

 

On the surface, the novel would seem to be a source richly suited to the demands of the lyric stage with strongly drawn female characters who make up two sides of the sexual triangle at the heart of the novel; one is a consumptive heroine who dies during the course of the action; several large set-piece scenes in evocative settings; and a plot which manoeuvres these characters effectively into often blatantly melodramatic situations. Put in simple terms, the novel is about sex and death, and what else is opera but an extended ‘song of love and death’?

 

The often pejorative terms, “operatic” and “melodramatic”, are virtually interchangeable, and usually imply some form of exaggeration and artificiality. Both opera and melodrama (in its various manifestations) have historically been regarded as enemies of realism. Like opera, melodrama frequently calls attention to its artificiality and self-consciousness. A work of fiction such as Wings in which melodramatically intensified emotion is present will obviously lend itself readily to operatic adaptation.

 

This combination of melodrama, often combined with rhetorically heightened dialogue, strongly drawn characters, as well as James’s ‘scenic’ method of construction, have been the major factors which have generated the enormous range of multi-media adaptations of James's fiction. However, the difficulty of adapting this novel for the stage was alluded to by Douglas Moore himself in his reference to a comment by James Thurber in The New Yorker. Thurber maintained that the novel was “a sort of Lorelei rock for dramatists who think they can make it work on stage.” Thurber, Moore remarks, “did, admit, perhaps jocosely, that the solution might lie in a soap opera or in a grand opera.”

 

A recent critic has noted the novel’s hybridity and remarked that it would be a mistake to “divide the elements of James’s novel into the vulgar and the refined, the melodramatic and the aesthetic, and to attribute the former to his desire for commercial success and the latter to his sense of himself as an artist.” Of course, opera is an unashamed hybrid art where compromise of all kinds is the name of the game! What then makes James, and this novel in particular, attractive to an operatic adaptor and, conversely, what can an operatic adaptation bring to a novel of such multi-layered complexity?

 

It has been noted that the “pathos of early death has been a peculiarly recurrent American theme” and that “the subject of The Wings of the Dove is precisely what Poe formulated as the greatest possible subject for poetry, the death of a beautiful woman”. This is, of course, the subject of many of the most famous and enduring operas. Considered in musical terms, the operatic version of Wings can be seen as a musically conservative and late flowering of the long tradition of Romantic opera, and it retains many of the musical and dramatic conventions associated with this tradition.

 

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Milly's origins in melodrama were acknowledged by James himself, in an 1894 entry in the Notebooks: “the situation of some young creature […]on the threshold of a life that has seemed boundless, is suddenly condemned to death […] she is terrified, she cries out in her anguish, her tragic young despair. She is in love with life, her dreams of it have been immense, and she clings to it with passion, with supplication. “I don’t want to die--I won’t, I won’t, oh, let me live; oh, save me!”[…] She is like a creature dragged shrieking to the guillotine”(169). Milly, it hardly needs to be said, can be seen as the quintessential operatic victim. Indeed, the tubercular victim was a staple of 19th century sentimental fiction. One can compare Milly with a “recurrent type of ‘beautiful victim’ [….] who wore the signs of her disease visibly, and they rendered her more beautiful, sexualized her very being. Although her death is not described, it is essentially ‘operatic’ in conception: the enduring image that remains of her in the novel is the vision of her in her tomb-like “gilded shell” in Venice.

 

Indeed, there is a stylisation in the novel in the way the scenes in Venice are depicted that has an almost exaggeratedly operatic flavour with Venice itself frequently being likened to a huge stage set. Even though Milly dies “off-stage” in both novel and opera, she reminds one of a long line of similar operatic victims: Violetta from Verdi’s La Traviata, and Mimi from Puccini’s La Boheme, to name but two of the most famous. Milly’s disease is not described in either novel or opera, but one would naturally assume that it is tuberculosis, like her two famous operatic predecessors (both, of course, based on characters from novels). This is a particularly operatic disease as “it involves the breath - as both inspiration and expiration, as both site of song and locus of disease.”

 

There is something inherently theatrical about Milly, who is constantly aware of ‘acting’ a part as she dazzles London society with her growing self-awareness of her role as the “spontaneous American”.. Her illness enhances her sexual attraction, and James in the preface emphasised these seductive qualities when he described her allure as something “one would see the persons subject to them drawn in as by some pool of a Lorelei - see them terrified and tempted and charmed.”

 

Kate, on the other hand, has many of the attributes of the melodrama villain. She has been described as “a simple or comprehensible character of whom James makes complex use”, and there is “something savage” in her beauty, strength of purpose and ruthless pursuit of her goals. One could find many famous operatic parallels. Michael Egan, insisting on Ibsen’s influence on James, has compared her to Hedda Gabbler, listing some of her qualities as “bright perversity, astounding frankness, ironic aggression and duplicity”, and, of course, the image associated with her is the panther, as opposed to the dove of Milly. She has a power and single-minded determination which suits the creation of effective operatic characters, yet also a vulnerability, which in operatic terms, often finds expression in the introspection of solo arias. Of course it is Kate who drives the narrative forward and gives the novel its momentum. While still a central figure in the opera, a subtle shift occurs in that the centre of gravity shifts towards the developing relationship between Milly and Miles rather than Kate, largely due to the fact that she disappears from the action for the two central scenes of the opera.

 

The other side of the triangle, Merton Densher (who becomes Miles Dunster in the opera), is perhaps less operatic in conception, but he provides the counterweight to Kate, and it is his point of view which increasingly dominates the novel as well as its operatic adaptation. The passive Densher is a male foil to two powerful women, a situation frequently found in opera. However, Densher develops during the course of the novel and opera, particularly in a strong moment of self-revelation and recognition at the end of his final meeting with Milly in Venice in the opera. His use of sexual power in his struggle with Kate which results in her agreeing to sleep with him, occurs much earlier in the action in the opera than in the novel. This depiction of a patriarchal structure finds expression in many Romantic operas of the 19th century, with Kate breaking free from her own father but submitting to a substitute

 

The triangle formed by the three main characters is reflected in many typical operatic situations: most typically the traditional nineteenth-century operatic love triangle: tenor, soprano, mezzo (Radames, Aida, Amneris; Pollione, Norma, Adalgisa; Don Carlos, Elisabetta, Eboli); which reverses the ‘usual’ structure of two males vying for a female. James himself remarked on the theatrical elements in this situation: “I get…a distinct and rather melodramatic action, don’t I?”

 

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W H Auden has aptly observed that a “good libretto plot is a melodrama in both the strict and the conventional sense of the word.” James’s distinction between ‘scene’ and ‘picture’ is well known, and it can be argued that it is the scenic aspect of James’s fiction which is the element that makes it so amenable to dramatic adaptation because the novelist has himself commenced the librettist’s task in isolating and intensifying the dramatic moments. However, operatic scenes are frequently also constructed from what must be regarded as “picture” elements in the novel. Of importance for the operatic adaptation is the fact that the “picture” element is often a vital means of access into the interior psychological state of a character which then provides the motivation for the exterior action which constitute the story of the drama. In operatic adaptation, this psychological state is frequently explored in the aria: rough equivalent of the dramatic soliloquy in spoken drama, but having the added advantage of a musical accompaniment which provides increased intensity, expressivity, and a commentary on what is being verbally expressed.

 

A good libretto has to do more with “dramatical dexterity rather than with exquisiteness of diction, metaphors, similes, and word-play.” Indeed, much of the novel’s linguistic complexity has been jettisoned, and the text taken from the novel frequently has a poetic resonance and the capacity to inspire a composer to set it to music. The language of a good libretto must be comprehensible for the audience yet rise above prosaicness, which this libretto frequently does.

 

The libretto skilfully isolates crucial events from the novel, often conflating lengthy sections from the novel into short, swiftly-moving scenes which capture much of the ‘spirit’ of the novel while greatly reducing its size. Moore described some of the difficulties in constructing the libretto himself:

 

The plot itself […] is strong theatrically, but much of the quality of the novel comes from James’s literary style. This style is definitely not of the theater. It is opaque and involved; points are suggested rather than stated. The reader is kept on pins and needles wondering what has really happened or is going to happen. Things seldom happen in the present. Apart from this cryptic quality of the storytelling, a great deal of the fascination lies in the Jamesian vocabulary and phrase, both of which are much admired. (1961: 12)

 

The libretto must allow for the development of character within a limited operatic sense, but it also must create suspense through the careful juxtaposition of contrasting scenes with a variety of character groupings, well paced action, and effective climaxes. Indeed, it is “that which is pure image, comprehensible in a pantomimic way - which is what every good opera libretto needs.” (65) In the end, the librettist’s task is to provide the composer with the inspiration for the music which will breathe life into the words and situations created. Moore himself made the comment that “[m]usic, although slowing up the pace, can provide many short cuts in characterization and description.”

 

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There are several situations and events in the opera which do not have a direct and obvious source in the novel, but perhaps the most telling ‘original’ operatic moment is the performance of the “The Masque of Janus” in the Palazzo Leporelli in Venice. As mentioned, Venice is frequently likened in the novel to a giant stage set, and there is a melodramatic theatricality about the events that occur there. However, the decision of composer and librettist to offer a self-referential meta-operatic performance of a masque encapsulates many of the major themes of the novel. Similar to Milly’s song in scene two of the opera, a ‘performance’ within the greater performance often distils the essence of the work - a mise-en-abyme. It also alerts the audience to the artifice of the ‘performance’ - a performance which can, however, reveal authentic emotional ‘truth’ more effectively than more ‘realistic’ presentation. One can argue that through an artificial and stylised performance, essential ‘truth’ can be revealed.

 

Even the very title conveys something of the ambiguity surrounding this performance. The word “masque” is a variant spelling of the word, “mask”, with all the connotations that this implies. This performance is a miniature of the larger “masquerade” that is being performed in London and Venice. The masque as a deliberate evocation of early 17th Century Italian opera, also dramatises the continuity of an operatic tradition, Venice being the home of the first public opera house. The figure of the Minstrel is analogous with that of Orpheus, the ‘father’ of opera. Both represent music and one is reminded of Monteverdi’s Orfeo (1607), regarded as the first truly great opera. The ‘story’ of Janus is both sung and enacted visually, thus providing different levels of narration. Opera here reveals its own artifice by dramatising the fact that it is a combination of both text and music as well as visual elements. The juxtaposition of diverse forms of operatic discourse enables “the composer to reflect ironically on the particular notions that these forms are meant to embody”, and in this connection it is significant that the discourse of the masque is appropriate to an operatic ‘high style’, offset against the conventional discourse of the opera. There is a pervasive self-referentiality about the performance of this masque, a quality which epitomises operatic performance from its origins.

 

Of course, the masque does not occur in the novel but one could argue that the genesis for this ‘performance’ occurs in Book Eight. Susan says to Densher in regard to the preparations for the party in the palazzo: “Why we’re to have music-beautiful instruments and songs; and not Tasso declaimed as in the guide-books either” (298) During the party scene when Milly finally appears ‘in white’, Kate and Densher observe her, and the narrator describes Kate’s reactions:

 

Almost heedless of the danger of overt freedoms, she eyed Milly from where they stood, noted in her renewed talk, over her further wishes, with the members of her little orchestra, who had approached her with demonstrations of deference enlivened by native humours - things quite in the line of old Venetian comedy.[] The girl’s idea of music had been happy - a real solvent of shyness, yet not drastic, thanks to the intermissions, discretions, a general habit of mercy to gathered barbarians, that reflected the good manners of its interpreters, representatives though these might be but of the order in which taste was natural and melody rank. (303)

 

This scene is described by James in the Preface as containing the device of double “centers of consciousness” embodied by Kate and Densher which reveals a “represented community of vision” and also functions under the “weight of the double pressure”as a combination of scene and picture. This theatrical scene has been described as Milly’s greatest ‘performance’.

 

The masque is, of course, a typical English entertainment, but has its origins in Italy in the festivals, pageants and revels of the Renaissance, and arrived in England from Italy in the early 16th Century. There is an interesting tension created by the performance of what is a particularly English art form, the masque, in a setting which is central to the origins of opera, and one can speculate on what meta-operatic comments composer and librettist are making about the art form of opera itself.

 

 The subject of the masque is the mythological figure of Janus. The subject matter of early opera also lies in mythology, reflecting the belief of the group of Florentine noblemen credited with ‘inventing’ opera, the Camerata, that they were reviving ancient Greek drama which they believed was sung throughout. Indeed, it has often been argued that opera is the ideal marriage between myth and music. The music style of this masque initially evokes the music of 17th Baroque opera, such as the operas of Monteverdi. However, as the narrative progresses, the archaic quality of this music becomes absorbed into the contemporary idiom of the opera.

 

Milly suggests that the idea for the masque came from the servant, Giuliano, and during the performance he is described as “intently watching Miles” (105). The question arises whether Milly has actually had any part in the preparation of the performance. In the novel Susan explains the preparations to Densher, saying that Milly “has arranged it-or at least I have. That is Eugenio has.” (298) The performance of baroque masques frequently had ulterior political motives, and one has a sense that this performance within the opera is staged for much the same effect that Hamlet stages the performance of  “The Mousetrap”: to reveal the guilt of the King. This raises the question of Milly’s relationship with Guiliano in the opera. The confusion arising out of who has actually arranged the performance in the novel  provides the impetus for a similar ambiguity of motive in the opera. Here, even though Milly is described as being “much affected” and is “weeping”, it could be argued that hers is a reaction to Miles’s reaction to the implications of the masque. It is not made clear who is observing whom?

 

However, it is equally valid to argue that this performance is the catalyst that brings Miles and Milly closer together. They are left alone and Miles, still angry about the “implications of the masque”, warns Milly about Kate and himself: “Both sides of me are bad”. The conversation is elliptical and Milly’s response is ambiguous, “It’s funny that you look so young”. Their conversation is laden with ambiguity and there is a suspicion that Milly might be more aware of the situation than Miles thinks, or Kate, for that matter. Finally, Milly self-consciously dramatises her situation with the evocative image taken from the novel:

 

Oh, the impossible romance! To sit forever through all my days as in a fortress, to stay aloft in the dustless air where I can hear the splash of water against stone….Not go down the stair - never, never go down. (118-9)

 

The obvious unspoken implication is her realisation that Venice will be her tomb. The use of the water imagery, which is so prevalent in the novel, invokes the image of Milly as  Ariadne, alone on her island.

 

It is apparent that the emotion generated by the ‘performance’ has irrevocably changed the relationship between Miles and Milly with Kate seemingly forgotten. Milly’s comment about the “impossible romance”, with all its ambiguity, is actually addressed to Lord Mark in the novel. In the opera it is Miles who is the listener and it could be that Milly’s attitude to Miles at this point is ambivalent in that she is both attracted to him but also repelled by what she senses are complex motives, similar to the way she regards Mark in the novel. Thus the opera does convey some of the complexity of the novel.

 

The end of this scene, as Milly is stricken by the news from Lord Mark has a significance that becomes apparent later. Milly is devastated by Mark’s information and the stage directions describe Susan’s entry with a shawl which she places around Milly. This shawl is used to telling effect at the end of the opera when Miles brings it as a present from Milly to Kate. When Miles finally tells Kate he doesn’t love her, Kate is stricken, and  Maud places it around Kate who is described as ‘shrinking’ from it. It acts as a symbol of Milly’s ‘wings’ which cover both Miles and Kate.

 

The effects of the performance of the masque are complex and it is worth noting the significance of the use of the mythological figure, Janus. The fact that he was depicted with two faces obviously has implications for the theme of deception which is at the heart of the opera. However, the fact that he was also seen as the god of new beginnings perhaps also has significance as the relationship between Milly and Miles is seen in this scene as beginning to develop.

 

Naturally, there are many other situations and events in the opera which shed fascinating light on the way in which the composer and librettist have responded to this novel. A spare account like this does not do justice to what is, in my opinion, an unjustly neglected work. The complexity and richness of the novel has challenged the adaptors, and although they have, of necessity, simplified the original, they have captured something of the essence of the novel. Ultimately, the opera stands or falls as an opera and not as an adaptation of a literary work, and it is hard to articulate exactly why the opera has not been performed more often. There are changing musical and production fashions in the world of opera, as anywhere else, and Moore’s musical idiom is seen as rather conservative today, as, indeed, it was in 1961. However, tastes change and there is no reason why a sensitively staged  production of the opera would not be a success. It would be justice if this work could join Britten’s The Turn of the Screw and Argento’s The Aspern Papers in the current repertoire. Opera might be a dead art form, as many have argued, but it is a glamorous corpse!

 

 

References

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Auden, W. H. "Some Reflections on Music and Opera." The Essence of Opera. Ed. Ulrich Weisstein. London: Collier, 1964. (354-60).

 

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Perosa, Sergio. Henry James and the Experimental Novel. New York: New York University Press, 1987.

 

Said, Edward. Musical Elaborations. New York: Columbia University  Press, 1991

 

Schmidgall, Gary. 1983. "Some Observations on the Libretto". Opera America.  September, 1983

 

Stevens, Hugh. Henry James and Sexuality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998.

 

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