New-Yorker Stadt-Theater Opera: William Tell

“Never has the German mind in New York city given a greater proof of its adherence to opera above all other classification of amusements than at this house last evening. And never, it may be truthfully alleged, has opera been so well mounted as to suit the popular taste, and to draw, as if by an almost irresistible force, the entire Teutonic population to its performance. Rossini’s ‘Guillaume Tell’ has always been a favorite with theatrical managers and music masters, both drawing from its boundless resources matter for application to their professions, and which, even in a comparatively rude setting, seldom failed to find admirers. The character of the chief actor, and the nobility of the race from which sprang the present inhabitants of the little independent slip of territory, have given it a peculiar attraction; but with such a mode of application as the present and the presence on the boards of Wachtel, than whom there is to-day no better man in the profession, success has been complete. Fully half an hour before the curtain rose every seat in the capacious building was filled. Such appeared to be the hold that Wachtel had on the audience that repeated efforts were made to have the performances commenced before the prescribed time, by the stamping of feet, the clapping of hands, calls and the waving of handkerchiefs by the ladies. The following was the cast [lists cast]. The opening scene presents a mountain village in the canton of Unterwalden, surrounded by scenery the most picturesque and bewitching. In the background is a waterfall and in the foreground the cottage of William Tell. Away in the distance, as far as the eye can reach, are the summits of the snow-capped mountains of Switzerland, with here and there a little village, with their tiny houses scattered widely on the wild, steep-looking declivities. Werner Melchthal is the pastor of the village alluded to, and appears to have a strong hold upon the affections of the credulous in the community over which he exercises an influence. But he has a romantic son named Arnold, who does not feel inclined to bestow his time and affections upon a place so insignificant; but, like a love-stricken Alexander, seeks other worlds to conquer, and while he witnesses the old man joining in holy wedlock several rustic couples he deplores that a royal diadem is the barrier that prevents him from enjoying the same felicity outside of his hitherto joyous home. The Princess Matilda, a beautiful creature, had been carried away forcibly by ruffians, and Arnold, in rescuing her, discovered that she had entwined herself about his heart, and from the day he delivered her up to her friends her image had haunted him like a ghost. He refused to be comforted. Intervening, one of the soldiers of Gessler had stolen Lentoldo’s daughter, and the father, in the heat of passion, split the miscreant up with his axe, but the daughter was carried to the castle, where Gessler, a base despot, was residing. William Tell, accompanied by the outraged father, starts in a boat and rescues her. It is nightfall; the summit of the mountains of Rutli are perceptible, beneath a deep, melancholy valley. Here the lovely Matilda is found dressed in a gorgeous hunting dress, trimmed with white ermine. Her attitude is one of half hope, half despair. She soliloquizes:--‘Thou art my every thought, my every joy. For thee only do I fear. But oh, in my wild love, what bright castles do I build for thee, my Arnold!’

Arnold enters, and they pledge themselves to each other. In this act the true merits of the hero and heroine are brought forward. The song of ‘Matilda,’ by Mlle. P. Canissa, was one of those genuine, whole-souled expositions that is very seldom understood. Nothing could be more affecting than her rendering of the words ‘Nur dir vertraut mein brust,’ and her manner and voice seemed to harmonize so splendidly with the part. Arnold’s reply was also delightful. Although gradually led higher and higher in the scale until the higher C’s were reached, and with which one might associate the bursting of a blood vessel, or be willing to make every allowance for any slight defects, the notes came out clear, fresh and distinct, and apparently without an effort. When he was returning her plighted love, and had come to the part which commences, ‘Dein Herz erwiedert meine Liebe,’ the house was in an uproar of enthusiasm, and when he was in the act of embracing Matilda the whole audience seemed moved. Herr Vierling as Tell did well in carrying out the difficult part allotted to him. Neither Herr Steinecke, as Gessler the Governor, or Herr Lauterbach in the rôle of Rudolph, seemed unequal to their task. But Wachtel is certainly a wonder. The softest and most mellow notes, as well as the highest and most difficult, are alike brought forth without any of that unhappy contortion of the features or perceptible heaving of the chest peculiar to many operatic performers, but gracefully, and with the sweetness of the nightingale, they seem to warble and ascend from the stage. The remainder of the story, as to the shooting of the apple from the head of his son and Tell’s other exploits, are too well known to require repetition. The entire opera may be called an immense success in every respect, and bids fair to have an immense run.”

"Herr Wachtel assumed, last evening, the part of Arnold, in "William Tell," for the first time in this country. The story of the performance is the one often told in these columns. Its repetition records the usual vast audience, the usual applause, and more than the usual recalls. Herr Wachtel’s singing and acting in Rossini’s magnificent opera, are, without doubt, superior to the results, satisfying and often remarkable as they have been, of all his previous efforts at the Stadt. Had he not lessened the task set him, by the excision of two of the finest airs in the score, his work might have been declared the most legitimately effective ever done here by a tenore robusto. Herr Wachtel’s suppression of the delicious ‘O muto asil,’ and of the thrilling ‘Corriam! voliam!’ prevents, however, the award of the fullest praise. It is fortune that ‘William Tell’ is not to be beggared by even so great a loss. Two numbers of equal rank cut from ‘Il Trovatore’ would rob Herr Wachtel of his best opportunities. ‘William Tell,’ even shorn of the pieces mentioned, is not quite Shakespeare’s tragedy without the Prince. And the superb pages remaining, we are happy to say, were so dealt with as to make the entertainment an admirable one. Herr Wachtel, from first to last, was in a condition of voice, mind and physique which caused his recital to have, in its grandeur, an exceptional evenness. In the concerted passages where Herr Wachtel’s tones, last night, filled with a rare firmness and richness, predominated over soprani, contralti, bassi and musicians, and in the solos allotted to him, his delivery was equally telling. We should have liked a little more tenderness in the recitative in which Arnold confesses his love for Mathilde and upbraids himself for his disregard of his country’s suffering, if only as a contrast to the vigor of Herr Wachtel’s declamation—more conspicuous, be it remarked, for dynamic force than for breadth of phrasing. But this very characteristic was of the utmost value in his share of the duet with William, following, in which elegant cantabile phrases, replete with sentiment and delicacy, alternated with a series of high chest notes of choicest quality, and attained to with an ease and surety marvelous to behold. How stormy an outburst of delight this incident and its renewed occurrence, a few bars further on awakened, can hardly be imagined. Less mighty in its sway over the audience, because bearing a slighter resemblance to a series of feats, but even more commendable for variety of expression and execution was Arnold’s share in the duet with Mathilde at the outset of the second act. In the muscular writing of the famed trio, the tenor’s lines had the prominence over singers and orchestra already noticed. In the outburst of sorrow which greets the tidings of a father’s death, directly afterward, it was given the hearers of Herr Wachtel to discover that the organ which made the house ring with the ‘Di quella pira’ could also be attuned to pathos. From ‘Ah, che sento,’ sung in mezzo voce, to the wild accents, ‘Quell’empio,’ grief was eloquent in every utterance, the final union of the three voices rounding off the scene in as potently dramatic a fashion as could be wished. By the omissions above cited, Herr Wachtel’s participation in the subsequent events was not particularly striking. With two or three exceptions, the distribution of the other characters in ‘William Tell’ cannot be spoken of in complimentary terms. The exceptions it is fair to make are in favor of Miss Pauline Canissa, Miss Alma Krause and Herr Vierling. Miss Canissa is a very accomplished and intelligent musician, and a thoroughly experienced songstress; she sang ‘Selvi opaci’ with much feeling and taste, and her music in the trio in the last act with a fervor which had abundant acknowledgment. Miss Krause acquitted herself very creditably of the duties of Jemmy, and Herr Vierling was a painstaking William Tell. The choruses were very badly interpreted. As for the stage-costume of the opera, we never imagined so many anachronisms could be exhibited in a representation extending over three hours. Herr Wachtel’s notable picture of Arnold, to be shown again to-morrow evening, ought, meantime, to be supplied with worthier surroundings.”