A Second Book of Operas — Story, Setting & Ideas

Word and Gesture in Pagliacci

Krehbiel’s analysis of Pagliacci centers on the tension between scripted comedy and erupting violence. He observes that the “mimic play ever and anon threatens to leave its grooves and plunge into the tragic vortex of reality.” The libretto’s repeated cries for “the name” escalate from a character’s demand to a primal howl, each repetition marked by a change in musical texture. Krehbiel notes that Canio’s line “Pagliaccio no more, but a man—a man seeking vengeance” is a turning point where the actor’s mask dissolves. The author also highlights the ironic framing: Tonio’s opening explanation and the final “La commedia è finita,” which Krehbiel connects to Beethoven’s deathbed words and a tradition about Rabelais. This layering of meta-theatrical references, he implies, is a deliberate authorial choice to blur fiction and reality.

Biblical Librettos and Censorship

Krehbiel devotes chapters to biblical operas, noting how composers navigated religious and political constraints. He points to the Lord Chamberlain’s censorship in England and the “transmigrations” of Verdi’s Un Ballo in Maschera as evidence that librettos were often reshaped to avoid offense. In discussing Saint-Saëns’s Samson et Dalila, he traces the opera’s journey from oratorio to staged work, emphasizing that the biblical source was filtered through Voltaire and Rameau. Krehbiel’s diction is precise: he describes Dalila’s character as shaped by “Milton on her wifehood and patriotism,” grounding his interpretation in literary precedent rather than speculation. The author’s method is to compare multiple versions of a story—Samson and Herakles, for instance—to show how composers select and emphasize certain traits.

Musical Borrowing and Self-Quotation

A recurring theme in Krehbiel’s editorial notes is composers’ reuse of their own music. He catalogs instances: Handel borrowing from Keiser, Mozart from Bertati, Beethoven’s “readaptations of his own works,” and Rossini’s recycling in The Barber of Seville. Krehbiel treats these not as deficiencies but as evidence of a compositional economy where musical ideas are repurposed for new dramatic contexts. He notes that Verdi’s Nebuchadnezzar and Rossini’s Moses share structural DNA with earlier works. The author’s observations are grounded in specific examples: a cadenza in one opera reappears in another, a ballet tune is lifted from a forgotten piece. This attention to musical genealogy reveals Krehbiel’s belief that operatic meaning is cumulative, built from a shared vocabulary of gestures.

The Role of the Orchestra in Dramatic Description

Krehbiel frequently points to orchestral passages as authorial commentary. In Pagliacci, he notes that the orchestra “shrieks” the phrase “Ridi Pagliaccio!” at the curtain’s fall, turning a verbal command into a sonic event. In discussing Samson et Dalila, he mentions the “Oriental ballet music” as a deliberate choice for local color, and in Die Königin von Saba, he praises Goldmark’s “Oriental luxury in scenic outfit” as integral to the drama. Krehbiel’s descriptions of musical excerpts—a “graceful minuet” giving way to “sinister mutterings”—show how he reads the score as a narrative text. He treats the orchestra as a character that “comments on the tragic emotions” and “foretells” pathos, a technique he traces from Wagner’s Parsifal to the verismo of Leoncavallo.

Krehbiel’s editorial voice is that of a connoisseur who trusts the evidence of text and score. He does not summarize plots or offer modern interpretations; instead, he points to the precise moments where a composer’s choice—a repeated word, a borrowed theme, a shift in meter—creates meaning. Readers interested in how opera librettos work as literature, and how music amplifies or undercuts their words, will find in these pages a model of attentive, evidence-based criticism.

I keep thinking how Krehbiel heard the stage whisper inside the score—the wordplay, the hesitations. It makes me miss the older volume on the shelf, where he listened to music the same way, patiently. There's a particular comfort in that consistency. My Musical Life — A Closer Reading feels like sitting down with him again, hearing the same quiet attentiveness, unhurried.