I DON’T THINK OF MYSELF AS an ornithophile, but swans, Cygnus olor, seem to get pretty good coverage at SimanaitisSays. Tidbits here have related them to cars, opera props, Ogden Nash poetry, and a bunch of other references.
Why particularly today? Because my favorite classic radio station “Symphony Hall” on SiriusXM just played Jean Sibelius’s Swanwhite Suite, Op. 54. Composed in 1908 for a play of the same name written in 1902, the suite has fourteen movements accompanying the play.
Wikipedia describes Swanwhite: “It follows the tale of a princess, Swanwhite (that lives with her father, the Duke, and her evil stepmother), who is set to be married to a neighbouring king, but instead falls in love with his messenger, a prince. Although their relationship is approved by their late mothers, represented by swans, Swanwhite’s stepmother works to sabotage it.”
That is, the swans are the good folk. And, as usual, the stepmother is the baddy. Like other swan legends (“Swan Lake “ and “The Swan of Tuonela,” matters end in complexities of life, death, and worse.
A more placid view of the waterfowl. These are mute swans. Image by Marek Szczepanek.
Other (noisier) varieties are trumpeter swans (the heaviest living bird in North America) and whooper swans (its Eurasian counterpart).
A Versified Swan. Image from “Huzzahs for Perlman, Nash and Saint-Saëns!”
The Brooke Swan Car. An automotive variant is described in “Cars of the Raj” here at SimanaitisSays: Robert Nicholl Matthewson was “a wealthy and evidently eccentric Scots engineer living in Calcutta…. In 1909, Matthewson commissioned England’s J.W. Brooke and Company to provide him with a Swan Car. Brooke in turn depended upon Savage of Kings Lynn, a purveyor of British steam-powered fairground rides, for its fabrication.”
The 25/30 Brooke Swan Car, 1910, eventually in a (two-swan) collection of the Maharajah of Nabha. Image from www.conceptcarz.com.
I noted, “The swan’s head and body enclose the car’s radiator and hood. Its amber eyes glow in the dark, its eight-note Gabriel exhaust horn has a keyboard so chords and bugle calls can be played. Its beak sprays hot water to clear the path ahead of pedestrians.”
Gee, not a very placid swan at all.
Operatic Swans. Though it’s only seen croaked, a swan plays a pivotal role of redemption in Wagner’s Parsifal. Me, I’m never sure to root for the “pure fool” Parsifal, for the possibly pagan witch Kundry, or just lament the swan’s croaking.
A swan of a different sort entirely. Ellen DeGeneris in her swan dress. Image from “The Name’s the Thing.”
A sustaining swan role comes as operatic transportation in Act III Scene 2 of Wagner’s Lohengrin.
This is a model of what Wagner envisioned as a swan boat. For details, see Behind the Scenes of an Opera-House, by Gustav Kobbé, 1888.
Again, the tale is anything but straightforward. Wikipedia writes, “As Lohengrin sadly bids farewell to Elsa, the swan-boat reappears. Lohengrin tells Elsa that if she had kept her promise, she could have recovered her lost brother, and gives her his sword, horn and ring, for he is to become the future leader of Brabant. As Lohengrin tries to get in the boat, Ortrud appears. She tells Elsa that the swan is actually Gottfried, Elsa’s brother, whom she cursed to become a swan. The people consider Ortrud guilty of witchcraft. Lohengrin prays and the swan turns back into young Gottfried. Lohengrin declares him the Duke of Brabant. Ortrud sinks as she sees her plans thwarted.”
“A dove descends from heaven,” continues Wikipedia, “and, taking the place of the swan at the head of the boat, leads Lohengrin to the castle of the Holy Grail. A grief-stricken Elsa falls to the ground dead.”
Missed Swans. As described in “Opera Chaos, Act II” here at SimanaitisSays, “… at a Metropolitan Opera production in 1936, Lauritz Melchior sang his grand last note at the end of the opera. The swan boat arrived on cue amid orchestral richness—but pulled out before Melchior had a chance to get onboard. Melchior faced the audience and said, “Wann geht der nächste Schwann?” (‘When is the next swan?’).
Here I offer a swannin’ update: I’ve only recently read in an updated Wikipedia, “In 1913, the Moravian tenor Leo Slezak is reported to have missed hopping on the swan, afterwards turning to Elsa with the question: ‘Wann geht der nächste Schwan?’ (“When does the next swan leave?”). In 1936, at the Metropolitan Opera, the same thing happened to Danish tenor Lauritz Melchior.”
You just can’t keep a good swan—or heldentenor—down. ds
© Dennis Simanaitis, SimanaitisSays.com, 2024