Acclaimed by contemporaries, but scarcely noticed by later generations, the opera Jessonda and its composer Louis Spohr have shared comparable fates. Yet it is worth rediscovering both: after all, the opera offers a musically exemplary and beautiful story about tolerance and understanding between nations. 

An article in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung in 1825 expressed the opinion that “Next to Weber, Ludwig Spohr […] has succeeded in achieving attention and acclaim in high degree; indeed, through his opera Jessonda he has even competed successfully in northern Germany with the composer of Freyschütz for the palms of victory.” In contrast with Weber’s opera, Jessonda is seldom performed nowadays. Yet at the beginning of the 19th century, it was quite a different story. Louis Spohr had already made a major contribution to German romantic opera with Faust, composed in 1813 in Vienna. With Jessonda, completed in 1822, it was his declared intent to push ahead with its development. On a formal level, he made great progress in that he transformed the spoken dialogue into recitative and strove to combine the individual numbers of the opera with each other and to arrange them in larger scenic groupings.

After the Napoleonic occupation of Germany and the awakening feelings of nationhood, there was a corresponding search for “German masterworks” on the operatic stage. These were found above all amongst the works of Spohr, Weber and Marschner. However, Spohr’s operas were scarcely suitable as a foil to a guileless nationalism and, as a result, they fell into increasing obscurity after 1871. With their suppression of Jessonda, the Nazis brought about a temporary end to the reception history of Spohr’s operas. Now they more than deserve rediscovery precisely because of their dramaturgical intelligence and fundamental ideological-critical attitude.

Superficially, Jessonda presents at first a classic love story which is set in Goa in the 16th century. According to an Indian tradition, Jessonda, as the widow of a deceased rajah, is to be burned with the corpse of her husband. At first, she accepts the fate which is announced to her by the young Brahmin Nadori. In the meantime, however, the Portuguese general Tristan d’Acunha has landed on the coast and is approaching the city. In the belief that an innocent religious ceremony is taking place, he agrees to a ceasefire with the Indian high priest Dandau for the duration of the sacrifice. He recognises the true character of the ceremony too late and must also now recognise that the victim is the lost sweetheart of his youth, Jessonda. Rescue from the dilemma is brought by Nadori, who reports on a planned break in the ceasefire by Dandau, thus freeing Tristan from his word of honour.

Nadori at the same time embodies Kant’s definition of the enlightenment, for he fulfils the “emergence of man from his self-inflicted immaturity” in the course of the opera in exemplary fashion. This is hinted at musically even in his duet with Dandau at the beginning of the first act. In general, the music in this opera is not only extremely beautiful, but it is also highly intelligent. So, for example, although the Indians and the Portuguese are skilfully characterised musically in their respective scenes, when they face each other with drawn swords, the musical device used is a canon. In the clang of the weapons, the cultural differences fade away. The victory of good in this opera is because of a consistent enlightened attitude on both sides. A dramatisation, in other words, from which we can still learn a great deal today.

Wolfram Boder
(translation: Elisabeth Robinson)
from: [t]akte 1/2009